Nothing Important Can Be Weighed

What the Wing Says

The wing says, "I am the space behind you,
a dent in the fender, hands you remember
for the way they touched you. You can look
back and song will still throb. I am air
moving ahead, the outermost edge of desire,
the ripple of departure and arrival. But

I will speak more plainly: you think you are
the middle of your life, your own fulcrum,
your years poised like reckonings in the balance.
This is not so: dismiss the grocer of your soul.
Nothing important can be weighed, which is why
I am the silver lake curled around your dark dreams.
I am not wax nor tricks stolen from birds.

I know you despair at noon, when the sky overflows
with the present tense, and at night as you lie
among those you have wronged; I know you have failed
in what matters most, and use your groin to forget.
Does the future move in only one direction?
Think how roots find their way, how hair spreads
on the pillow, how watercolors give birth to light.
Think how dangerous I am, because of what I offer you."

~David Swanger

Quote of the Day

The important thing is this: to be able at any moment to sacrifice what we are for what we could become.

~Charles du Bos

Jedi I Am

First, the good news. The United States Post Office is releasing a series of Star Wars commemorative stamps on May 25 to celebrate the space opera's 30th anniversary. You can check out the rest of the artwork and vote on your favorites here.

Now, my young apprentices, I have to warn you not to take the sweepstakes quiz. Too difficult is it? Do you think I doubt your abilities? Nay, it is not so. Far be it from me to expect something like a challenge from these things. Not only are the questions devastatingly simplistic (i.e. Who does Han Solo shoot in the cantina?), but interspersed with actual trivia questions you will be faced with such inane blather as "Which shipping method should you use if you want to ship a package to Dagobah?" Can we say "LAME!" boys and girls? Can we say "Shameless-and-Thinly-Disguised-Marketing-Gimmick?"

Tsch! I've got more Jedi power in my little finger than these dweebs at the US Postal Service. Where's a Star Wars Trivia game? Somebody give me a real challenge...

The R2D2 mailboxes are cool though...

Current mood: disgusted with the trivia challenge... but the stamp artwork is very cool
Current music: Star Wars soundtrack

Just another soldier on the road to nowhere...

I went for a walk tonight. After work, on my way home, I drove over to the bike path here in Morgan Hill. It's nice. Just remote enough to make you think you've escaped civilization, but enough traffic noise from the freeway to remind you that civilization's just around the corner. People go out there to jog, ride their bike or their horse, walk their dog or their kids, or whatever. I go to think.

Or... not exactly think. More like set my mind free from thinking. Let it wander as I wander. I love to do this on a beach as well--that's the best place--but that's a little farther away. Lacking an ocean and a sea strand, I take the path.

There is such a wondrous release of tension when I do this. Why don't I do this more often? Sheer laziness or the curse of modern existence? I walk until the sun slips behind the horizon, then turn and walk back in the gathering dusk. The air gets peculiar this time of the evening; I would swear that it turns a color all its own. The mosquitoes gather in a cloud above my head; they are as irritating as my thoughts.

Who am I in this moment? Am I Odysseus, traveling back from the wars in Troy these 20 years?... Troy is burning; Troy is always burning... Am I Penelope, tirelessly weaving and unweaving, endlessly waiting, eternally patient?... Am I Circe, or the Sirens, powerful, seductive, cruel?...

I am having a Skywalker moment. The sunset is setting the sky on fire, and the shadows are creeping in from the east, and I wonder why I do not have more sunrises and sunsets in my life. And I can hear Yoda's accusations in my mind: All your life you've looked away to the future, to the horizon. Never your mind on where you are, what you are doing. Adventure! Excitement! A Jedi craves not these things.

Do not let this calm exterior fool you. I crave these things. I am no Jedi.


Current mood: pensive
Current music: Damien Rice O

Disneyland Memories

I reminded myself in my last post that I hadn't posted anything about our Disneyland trip yet, so I guess I'll go back and recap that.

Jared & I joined some friends for the trip down south in January. Why January? you may ask. Well, it's during semester break, and that's really the only time we frazzled grad students can get away. So off we went.

We had bought park hopper passes online plus hotel so everything was pre-arranged. The hotel was... eh... not impressive. But beggars can't be choosers. It was formerly a Red Roof Inn recently converted to a Motel 6. It was a couple of blocks from Disneyland, which was walkable, but there was a shuttle option which we used part of the time.

We were there on MLK weekend so there was a decent sized crowd, but not as bad as it would have been in high summer. The crowd thinned out by Monday and by Tuesday the streets were all but deserted. We used our early entry pass on that day. Not only were we first in line for Space Mountain, but after the ride cycled through, there still wasn't anyone else there, so we got to go again! That was cool.

The weather was freezing! I was wearing stretch pants underneath my jeans and trying to squeeze my hands into little-girl-sized pink princess gloves (the only gloves they sell in Disneyland apparently, other than the Nightmare Before Christmas ones with the fingers cut off of them-- it was cold, so I opted for the ones with fingers). I didn't bring nearly enough cold weather clothing. We were in southern California! I was expecting... you know... warm weather. At least warmer. But no, the weather gods were not in the mood.

It was neat to have the time to really walk around Disneyland and enjoy everything, sometimes more than once. I hadn't been back in something like 20 years, so there were lots of new rides. Indiana Jones was fabulous, of course. And the Twilight Zone and California Soarin' on the California Adventure side was fun, too. We got to see a little bit of fireworks our first night, plus Tinkerbell's flight-- which is a lot more exciting than it was when I was a kid (ain't modern technology wonderful!)-- I mean, she really flew! Very impressive. However, the winds were too high every night after that so no more fireworks after Friday. We did get to see a pretty spectacular laser light show on Saturday though. The Pirates ride was good.... the new additions with Captain Jack Sparrow are amusing and very well done.... but I don't know.... there's a little bit of nostalgia lost by bringing in the new stuff. Haunted Mansion was closed for renovation. :-(

I have to say that one of the rides that surprised me the most was the Peter Pan ride. I don't remember ever going on this ride before... and it was wonderful! It's in the area behind Sleeping Beauty's Castle generally considered the "little kids rides," so it's easy to miss. Mr. Toad's Wild Ride was good, too. Why can't I remember them?

Some random memories:

My first trip to Disneyland, I was seven. I remember standing in line with my family for the ferry boat ride and suddenly remembering what day it was. It was my birthday--I was seven years old--and I was at Disneyland! It was a splendid moment. My favorite ride was the Submarine.

My second trip, I was eleven. I had written to my pen pal to tell her when I was going to be there. She had written back, but I didn't receive her reply until after we returned. She said she was going to meet me at the Small World ride. I wonder if she was there that day? I never found out. We lost touch. Favorite ride: Matterhorn.

My third trip, I was seventeen. I was with the Chamber Chorale group from high school. I felt so independent, so far from home, out with my friends, staying out late in Disneyland! At one point, we ended up sitting at a table next to Robbie Benson. He was there with his family and we really didn't want to disturb him. But finally Allison, who was a fan, made her way over to ask for his autograph. He seemed gracious, but a little sad. Favorite ride: Space Mountain.

My fourth trip, I was 21 (or almost). It was my honeymoon. Favorite moment: Standing in line for the Star Wars ride. Favorite ride: Star Wars, of course!

Fifth trip: I am 39. Favorite ride: Well.... that's tough. All of the above, (except the Submarine is gone now) plus Indiana Jones and California Soarin'. And Peter Pan. You know, I have to say Peter Pan was the best. Maybe because it does manage to capture the nostalgia of an earlier age.

All in all, it was a great trip. We had fun racing around with our friends, riding rides, seeing the sights. The memories are warm, even if the weather was cold.

Somebody's Heart is Burning

I hear a robin singing, singing,

Up in the treetop high, high

To me and you, he's singing, singing

The clouds will soon roll by.

Somebody's heart is burning, burning

Somebody's heart is burning, burning

Somebody's heart is burning, burning

Because he sees me happy.

~English language folk song taught in Ghanian colonial schools

Okay, the above really doesn't have anything to do with anything, but it uses the word "burning" and that's a kind of clue to what this post is all about.

I have a secret. And I know--because I read Ramona Quimby books in the second grade and she always said that if you have a secret you're not supposed to put tape over your mouth and let everybody know you have a secret; the best way to keep a secret is to simply talk about something else... I know that. But.

I am really excited and my heart is burning, burning...

And the other thing is, I have this weird phobia, a strange kind of superstition--which is strange in itself because I'm not really superstitious about anything else--but I have always had a strange aversion about talking about my travel plans, especially when they involve something really, really exciting.

Like, for instance, I went to Disneyland in January. Bet you didn't know that, did you? Well, I did. And it was great, but I'll write about that later.

The gods are capricious and occasionally cruel, and I fear that if they catch me gloating they will throw not only a monkeywrench in my plans, but the whole damn monkey. So I'm only going to say this once.

Are you listening?

Come closer.

No... CLOSER...

I'm going to whisper it...

I've got a ticket to Burning Man!

There. I've said it. I'm not going to say it again. But now you know where I'll be in September.

I've also got other plans for this summer, but that's another story. I'm going to have to go burn sage or wait for a planetary conjunction before I tell you about that one...

Mekka-lekka-hi-mekka-hiney-ho!

Sometimes I get a case of the Frankie Blues

SAM: How are you tonight, Angel Lips?

ANGEL LIPS: I’m okay… You could do with a little oil, Sam.

SAM: Things are quiet tonight, Angel Lips.

ANGEL LIPS: I can see that, Sam.

SAM: Are you feeling melancholy?

ANGEL LIPS: Oh, just feeling the Frankie Blues, I guess.

SAM: I am only a bar droid. I do not understand the “Frankie Blues.”

ANGEL LIPS: Don’t you?

SAM: Not really.

ANGEL LIPS: I’m pretty much a robot like you, Sam.

SAM: Robot.

ANGEL LIPS: The only real difference is that I am created to look—and act—human.

SAM: Go on.

ANGEL LIPS: Let me put it this way—You ever have the Robot Blues?

SAM: I could do with some oil…

ANGEL LIPS: Yeah… You know, Sam, we’re no more robotic than an awful lot of humans.

SAM: I am here to serve. What’ll you have, Angel Lips?

ANGEL LIPS: I’m not thirsty.

SAM: On the house.

ANGEL LIPS: Okay. A Frankie Flasher with a twist of Silicon.

SAM: In a flash, Angel Lips.

ANGEL LIPS: You know, Sam? I could have been a really happy Frankie. I could have been perfect. But no. They had to make me just like a human.

SAM: Just like a human.

ANGEL LIPS: They had to give me emotions. Now look at me. Sitting in a bar alone. Just like another dumb human.

SAM: Dumb human. Ha ha.

ANGEL LIPS: Sam?

SAM: Yes, Angel Lips?

ANGEL LIPS: Do you know what emotions are?

SAM: Emotions? No.

ANGEL LIPS: I wish they built me the way they built you, Sam.

SAM: People say to me, “How can you feel anything without emotions?” I reply, “I feel just fine.”

ANGEL LIPS: Yeah. They used to build them all like you, Sam—a little ashcan on wheels, with a couple of pinchers for hands.

SAM: We were built to last… oops! I wish I had some brillo.

ANGEL LIPS: Huh?

SAM: I am rusting!

~from Ruby: The Adventures of a Galactic Gumshoe

Ray Bradbury: A Love Story

I have always adored Ray Bradbury, both as a writer and a person. He is one of my greatest inspirations. It is not so much that I want to write "like" Ray Bradbury; it's more like, I want to tap into that same boundless enthusiasm with which he tackles each new project, and life itself.

My first Ray Bradbury story, although I didn't know it, was read to my class in the first or second grade. It's strange, though, because I can't seem to imagine Mrs. Heaney or Mrs. Leonhart reading that kind of story to a classroom. Did we have a sub that day? I don't remember. But I am certain that the first time I became aquainted with the story, I heard it.

It was about a girl whose parents take her to live on Venus. Venus is very different, covered so heavily in clouds that one can barely see the sun. And the little girl misses the sun on earth. She describes it to the other kids, how it shined like a copper penny in the sky, and the others, having never seen the sun, do not believe her. She is ridiculed and shunned, and she becomes very lonely and sad. Then one day everyone is told that a special day is coming up: every 70 years (I think it was 70) Venus passes close enough to the sun to burn off the clouds for an afternoon. Everyone will get to see the sun for the first time. And the little girl looks forward to it terribly. But that day, the other hateful children lock her in the closet as a joke. The sun comes out, and in their excitment, they forget about her, and play all afternoon in the glorious sunshine. Only later, after the sun has disappeared, do they remember, and she is set free, not to see the sun for another 70 years.

When the teacher finished reading, I was weeping. What a horrible, horrible story! How could they read us such a horrible story! I was shaken, but I never forgot it.

Years passed and I got to know Bradbury's works mostly through movies: The Martian Chronicles, The Illustrated Man, Something Wicked This Way Comes. All strange, all disturbing. But they intrigued me. I read some of his short stories in high school.

While attending Gavilan College, Bradbury himself came to visit and gave a guest lecture in the theatre. He was marvelous! His energy filled the room. He spoke about writing: he said the first 100,000 words are crap, but you have to write them anyway, write them and throw them away and then keep writing, because that's when you get to the good stuff. He spoke about the space program: how one day, people with disabilites should be able to travel into space and then send their wheelchairs and crutches flaming down through the atmosphere, free at last from the gravity that holds them down. He told the story of his life. Later, I stood in line with other people, older and seemingly far more important than myself, to shake Bradbury's hand. I think I was the youngest person there. When he got to me, he didn't just shake my hand and move on after a few polite words; he stood there and he talked to me for almost 20 minutes. I had been reading a book about the movie Moby Dick--some random biography I had pulled off the library shelf--and there he was in the book: he had been the screenwriter and so figured prominently in the story of the film's creation. So we spoke of that and writing and ... who knows? What did he see in me that day? Because I found I had met a truly generous and gracious man.

When I worked at Hartnell College, the drama department put on a staged production of Something Wicked This Way Comes. Bradbury was supposed to attend, but was sick and had to decline at the last minute. I believe it was the first staged production of that particular script. He had worked on the play for them and had specifically given them permission to perform it. They did a magnificent job, and I was very pleased to have been there to witness it.

More years went by and I found myself reflecting on that story I had heard so long ago. By that time I had read more Bradbury and knew his style and suddenly I knew-- I knew in the way you know something in your gut to be true-- I knew it was a Bradbury story. And I went looking for it. I didn't know the name of the story until I opened a book of his collected works and read the table of contents. And there it was: "All Summer in a Day." And I knew without looking it was that horrible wonderful story. Because I knew by this time that the best stories are the ones that rock you to your core, the ones that you can never forget. I stood in the store and I read the story again. And I wept. I had remembered the sun shining like a copper penny. I had remembered the little girl locked in the closet while the other children played. But I had forgotten that at the end of the story, the little girl's parents had taken her back to earth. She did not have to wait to be an old woman before she saw the sun again. She had gone home.

I bought the book.

More years passed, and here I was in college again, this time at San Jose State. Somehow or other I learned through the grapevine that Bradbury's official biographer would be interviewing him via phoneline at Le Petit Trianon Theatre in San Jose. (Little did I know it at the time, but when I walked through those doors, I was walking into my place of future employment.) So I went, very happy to hear him again, if not see him. The ushers passed out slips of paper for questions. Me, being the stunning little English major that I am, asked him to comment about a paper I was writing. I had found-- I thought -- some very interesting connections between Bradbury and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, both in their life stories and in their writing. I had been comparing and contrasting Bradbury's "Uncle Einar" and Marquez's "A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings" and had found some fascinating resonances. I don't know what I was expecting-- I really didn't expect a huge reaction or for him to be impressed in any way-- maybe give me a pat on the head for being studious, something like that. Instead, he made a passionate exclamation that it was absolute rubbish and that he hated Marquez for his politics! The audience laughed, and I laughed, too, because I love the man and he is welcome to think anything he likes. (But I still believe there are some undeniable similarities between the two of them, whether he likes it or not!)

A few more years went by. Now I'm in grad school at SJSU. I'm working in the theatre, Le Petit Trianon, for The Steinway Society. Commonwealth Club, which hosts many author events, including the previous Bradbury event, share offices with us in the building. And I hear through the grapevine that Ray Bradbury will be interviewed via video at Sequoia High School, in the theatre, in Redwood City. So off I go on another adventure.

I arrived a little bit late; the theatre was already dim, but I could see, once again, I am still the youngest person there. Bradbury was already speaking. His face was projected on a massive screen that filled the stage. It must have been 50 feet high. He is ancient now, not quite as spry as when I met him 20 years ago. But the sparkle in his eye is still there, and he speaks passionately about his true loves: books, movies, dinasaurs, spaceships, people, life itself.

He told all his best stories.

He told how he hated school, but loved books, and that libraries gave him the best education he ever had. When he learned of the burning of the Library of Alexandria, it was one of the saddest things he had ever heard. And then he heard of Hitler burning books, and later Russia, too. And that was the impetus for Fahrenheit 451. He recalled how he had finished the book, but did not yet have a title, and so phoned around to various places to find out the temperature at which books caught fire and burned. He called the chemistry department at UCLA. They didn't know. He called the Physics department. They didn't know either. And then he thought, Of course! The fire department! And sure enough, they knew. He first sold the story in installments to a young editor of a brand new magazine called Playboy. (He says that you gentlemen out there have him to thank for stacks under your beds, because he contributed to its success!)

His theme for the evening was Love: Do what you love and love what you do, and the rest will take care of itself. Again and again he gave examples from his own life of how he had thrown himself completely and passionately into the things that he loved, and somehow, things always managed to work out for the best. Maybe not always perfectly, but he had no regrets.

He told how he had met John Huston. Bradbury asked to buy him a drink and gave him a copy of his book and said that he hoped Huston would love his book as much as Bradbury loved his movies, and if he did, he hoped they could work together one day. Later, Huston wrote Bradbury and said, "You're right. I do want to work with you. How would you like to write the screenplay to Moby Dick?" Bradbury said, "I'll do it!" He struggled with the script for eight months, and then finally one morning he woke up and looked at himself in the mirror and said, "You ARE Melville!" and sat down and finished the script that day. When he took the script to Huston, Huston was all set to roll camera. He asked, "How did you do it?" and Bradbury replied, "You're looking at Herman Melville, but you better look fast because he'll be gone in a few minutes!"

He told how he met Walt Disney, wandering through a store in Disneyland. He saw Disney and went up to him and said, "I love your movies!" And Disney said, "I love your books!" Bradbury said, "That's wonderful! Can I buy you lunch?" And Disney said, "Tomorrow?" They had lunch the very next day and spoke of movies and books and everything they loved. Years later, Bradbury was invited to help design the Spaceship Earth section of Epcot Center, which he proudly described as "a world's fair that never has to be torn down."

He told how he gave a script called Dark Carnival to Gene Kelly. Kelly was thrilled and wanted to make the movie. He took it to every producer in Europe but couldn't get funding. He returned it sadly to Bradbury, but Bradbury said, "It's okay, Gene, you tried." Later, he reworked the script into the novel Something Wicked This Way Comes.

He told how when his wife was two months pregnant with their first child, he was invited to New York. At that time he was writing short stories for $30 a story, just struggling along. He went to publisher after publisher-- no one wanted him because he wrote short stories, not novels. Finally, he met with one publisher at Doubleday, coincidentally also named Bradbury, who said, "Maybe you have written a novel and don't even know it." He asked him to write an outline putting all his martian stories together and The Martian Chronicles was born. Bradbury received $700. Then the publisher said, "Maybe you have another novel that you don't know about." They talked further about his other stories and The Illustrated Man was born on the same day. And another $700. Bradbury went home $1400 richer with enough money to pay for their the birth of their first child.

Story after story after story. The man is full of stories. How he remembers being born; how he memorized a Lon Chaney movie when he was three and proved it at 20 by reciting the whole thing from memory to his friends before they went in to see the picture together; how he met Mr. Electro at 13 who changed his life. Mr. Electro was circus/sideshow magician who told Bradbury he would live forever. He's still with us, so it looks like he just might do it! Mr. Electro also told him that he had been his best friend in a former life, that he had died in his arms in a field in France and now here he was back again. It loses something in translation. When Bradbury tells the story, you really believe it.

And he's still going! He has so many projects. He's set on seeing a monorail built to cross the country. He absolutely believes we will return to the moon, and visit Mars and Alpha Centaurii, and beyond, because that is our destiny. We're going to live forever.

And, yes, I wept through the whole thing, and laughed through my tears. I don't know about the rest of us, but Bradbury will live forever. He most definitely will.

Current mood: Elated

Current music: Pan's Labyrinth soundtrack

Cry Havoc and Let Loose the Dogs of Poetry!

Eating Poetry

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

~Mark Strand

Sometimes I feel like a New World Man

New World Man
~Rush

He's a rebel and a runner
He's a signal turning green
He's a restless young romantic
Wants to run the big machine

He's got a problem with his poisons
But you know he'll find a cure
He's cleaning up his systems
To keep his nature pure

Learning to match the beat of the Old World Man
Learning to catch the heat of the Third World Man

He's got to make his own mistakes
And learn to mend the mess he makes
He's old enough to know what's right
But young enough not to choose it
He's noble enough to win the world
But weak enough to lose it
He's a New World Man...

He's a radio receiver
Tuned to factories and farms
He's a writer and arranger
And a young boy bearing arms

He's got a problem with his power
With weapons on patrol
He's got to walk a fine line
And keep his self-control

Trying to save the day for the Old World Man
Trying to pave the way for the Third World Man

He's not concerned with yesterday
He knows constant change is here today
He's noble enough to know what's right
But weak enough not to choose it
He's wise enough to win the world
But fool enough to lose it
He's a New World Man...

You Know You're an English Major When...

So sometime last night/early this morning I had this dream...

I am walking along in a crowd of people on my way to class. I am walking with a friend. We are behind a lady pushing a baby stroller. The baby is beautiful with these incredible eyes just staring and staring at me. And I say to my friend, "Don't babies have the most amazing eyes? They're like cats the way they stare at you..." But she shushes me because she doesn't want the lady to hear us.

We approach a church and we go inside, journeying down long hallways to our classroom. We are about to take an important test and we're all nervous. Then the baby crawls out of his stroller and sets off a bomb. The building explodes all around us. But strangely enough, only the building explodes-- all the people are unharmed.

At first, I walk dazedly around inspecting the damage. The church isn't completely destroyed. Some walls are still standing. But the roof is gone and I can look up into the sky. It reminds me of some of the bombed out churches I saw in Germany. Great hunks of rubble are suspended all around like a Patrick Woodroffe painting. (I was reading my Patrick Woodroffe book last night before I went to bed... I think I dreamed my way inside of one, or possibly several...)

And then I have this vision that there will be a shrine erected on this site to R2D2. I can see it so clearly, this bronze statue on top of chunks of rubble.

Then I remember my test and go back to my seat. I lift up the paper from my desk and read the question: Select two recent dreams and deconstruct them. "Well," I say to myself, "this will be easy."

Current mood: Fascinated

Current music: tori amos "iieee"

Tomatoes are Evil?

I love tomatoes. My sister hates them. In fact, if she is served a salad with tomatoes she will pick them out piece by piece no matter how finely chopped. So from an early age, I have been aware of this first of two great tomato controversies.

Tomato Controversy #1
People either love tomatoes or hate them. There is no middle ground, no fence sitting. People have very strong opinions about tomatoes, as shown on this website here: www.tomatoesareevil.com

I have since learned, through the wonders of the internet, that tomatoes are of the nightshade family. But wait, isn't nightshade poisonous? Yes, that's right. Well, actually it's the leaves that are poisonous, so don't put those in your salad. With that in mind, perhaps it is not so surprising that tomatoes were considered decorative and inedible until about 1800 in the United States.

The thing is, I have this odd notion that my body is somehow lacking in some nutrient that only a tomato can provide-- some kind of strange tomato deficiency-- and that is why I love the taste of tomatoes so much.

Or maybe it is because vine ripened tomatoes have an increased level of sugar. Hmmm. I'm sticking with my first theory.

Tomato Controversy #2
Is a tomato a fruit or a vegetable?

C'mon, we all know it's a vegetable, right? I mean, it goes in a salad, what more proof do you need?

(The following is shameless lifting from another site).
"Botanically speaking, these "vegetables" are technically botanical fruits because they are seed-bearing structures that develop from the ripened ovaries of flowers."

Okay, so why do we keep insisting it's a vegetable?

(More shameless lifting).
"The controversy over whether a tomato is a fruit or vegetable reached the U.S. Supreme Court. A tariff law that imposed a duty on vegetables but not fruits caused the tomato's status to become a matter of legal importance. On February 4, 1887 action was brought against the collector of the port of New York to recover back duties paid under protest on tomatoes imported by the plaintiff from the West Indies, which the collector assessed under the Tariff Act of March 3, 1883. This controversy was settled in 1893 when the U.S. Supreme Court declared that the tomato was a vegetable. The Court's official interpretation was based on the popular dictionary definition which classifies a vegetable as something eaten at dinner with your main entree, but not as a dessert. The case is known as Nix v. Hedden, 149 U.S. 304 (May 10, 1893)."


Oh, it's because the Supreme Court says so! Well, I guess we can all sleep better knowing that little controversy is settled once and for all.

However, you'll be relieved to know there are absolutely no controversies associated with ketchup... Oh, wait a minute... Catsup? Or Ketchup? Hmmm.

But no matter how you spell it, everybody loves ketchup, right? I mean, it goes with practically everything, from hotdogs to hashbrowns. I don't think there's much to argue about here-- except for those people who put it in their tuna fish. That's just weird.

Soaring into Spring

Spring Haze
~tori amos

Well I know it's just a spring haze
But I don't much like the look of it
And if omens are a godsend like men
Breezing in
Certain these clouds go somewhere
Billowing out to somewhere
In a single engine cessna
You say we'll never make it there
So all we do is circle it

Uh oh
Let go
Off on my way
Unseen this eternal wanting
Uh oh
Way to go
So I get creamed
Waiting for Sunday to drown
Uh oh
Way to go
Waiting on Sunday
Waiting on Sunday to land
Uh oh
Way to go
Waiting on Sunday
Waiting on Sunday to drown

So I know it's just a spring haze
But I don't much like the look of it
And all we do is circle it
And I found out where my edge is
And it bleeds into where you resist
And my only way, way out is to go
So far in
Billowing out to somewhere
Billowing out to
Luna riviera
Billowing out to Somewhere

Uh oh
Let go
Off on my way
Unseen this eternal wanting
Let go
So if I really get creamed
Waiting for Sunday to drown
Waiting on Sunday to drown

Why does it always end up like this
Why does it always end up like this
Why does it always end up like this

Uh oh
Off on my way
Unseen this eternal wanting
Let go
Way to go
So I get creamed
Waiting on Sunday to drown

Irish Musings

I cannot recall where I pick these things up, these tales and stories from long ago. It bothers me that I cannot remember, and I go searching through the books that I have in order to find some stray bit of knowledge. It is not always a successful quest. Somehow I end up like Bilbo, asking, "What have I got in my pocket?" without knowing completely what I have found.

So. Leprechauns. I know that I read somewhere that the original Leprechaun was a hero, possibly a god. He was tall and powerful and strong and had many adventures. It was only after the coming of the Christians that he ended up being diminished and relegated to the fairy tale creature we know today. I wish I could remember where I read that. If you know, please tell me.

Most of these old tales were sung. Sometimes I think we would remember them better that way. We would remember a lot of things better that way. Haven't there been studies done on mnemonic memory? In Tori Amos' song "Ireland" she sings, "I remember Macha running faster than the horses." I looked up Macha's story and now I remember, too.

Macha's husband made a bet with the King of Ulster that she, although heavy with child, could outrun all the king's horses and all the king's men. The King took the bet and insisted that she run the race. She ran the race, and she won, but she cursed Ulster and all his men, saying that they would have to endure pain like that of childbirth whenever the kingdom was threatened. (And that happened alot in those days so I imagine they were feeling that curse quite a bit). Later she gave birth to twins. To this day, there is a castle in Ulster called "Macha's Twins." Interesting, eh?

There are lots of exciting tales of Irish heros, gods, queens, and goddesses: Cuchalann, Finn MacCool, Maebh, Morrigan, and others. There was one hero who had a silver hand, or sometimes it is an arm, depending on the story. I can't remember his name. The love story of Trystan and Iseult is another good one, but that is getting into Arthurian legend, so I'm not sure if it is entirely Irish.

Oh, yeah, and then there's that Saint Patrick guy. He's an interesting character. If you want to read a fascinating book about the human Patrick before he became a saint, find The Last Rainbow by Parke Godwin (I think it is out of print, unfortunately). Godwin is a master at bringing legends to life while retaining just enough glamour to make you understand why that person's story is still with us today.


Current mood: Sleepy
Current music (in my head): tori amos "Ireland"

Here there be Dragons!

"You impudent child!" said Merryweather. He absolutely hated that name. "The Knight's Codes of Honor booklet only has 218 codes in it, and code 218 says: 'Dragons must be avoided at all times because they may be guarded by beautiful, but deadly, maidens.'"
~An Afternoon with Tea & Dragon

The ides of March are not always unlucky. On this date in 1985 I entered Fremont Unified School District's Young Authors Contest... and I won first place!

My fairytale, An Afternoon with Tea & Dragon, grew out of a desire to see what would happen if a smart maiden (who was definitely not blonde! I was actively trying to break the blonde princess stereotype, you see) met up with a Dragon more interested in drinking tea and exchanging stories than fighting knights in armor. Throw in a bumbling knight and a talking horse (who later turns out to be Merlyn in disguise) and you've got my recipe for greatness.

I actually shared this story with a couple friends of mine recently. I read it aloud and, you know, the story really held up rather well, considering the passage of time. We were laughing our asses off, but not, I think, about the things I originally intended to be funny. What is the significance of the teapot being kept on top of the dragon's hoard? If Vanessa is such an independent maiden, why does she earn the dragon's admiration by fulfilling the traditional woman's role of making a pot of tea? Does the statement, "She makes an excellent pot of tea" mask any sly double entendres? I mean, you gotta wonder what all that talk of devouring maidens is all about. And what about the lance and javelin references? Phallic symbols, I say, Phallic symbols all over the place! Wipe away a tear for my lost innocence! I'm an English Grad student now! [snicker!]

Yes, it was my 15 minutes in the sun. You've got to wonder what I've been doing in the past 22 years. Well, I've been refining my technique, that's what. You just wait, one day the world is going to realize just how amazing I am...


Current mood: Relieved, because my migraine has finally gone away...sort of.
Current music: Sweet, beautiful Silence.

Puttin' My Wonder On...

And so there I was sitting at a table at Denny's with the Board of Directors of SiliCon and I've got six pairs of eyes on me and they've got questions and somehow somehow I've got answers and these answers just keep tumbling out of my mouth and I swear to god I'm not bullshitting them I really know this stuff I really know what I'm saying and the answers are there and they're real and I'm completely honest when I don't know the answer and I say so and o god o god o god please don't let me sound like an idiot but they believe me and they want me to help them and they don't have any money so I have to do it gratis and is that okay and I say it's okay because they're just this little fledgling homegrown sci-fi convention and they're barely making it as it is and o god what am I saying what am I getting myself into and do I really know what I'm doing because they're looking at me they're looking at me with hope in their eyes like I can save them because I know what I'm talking about and I have the answers they're looking for and they need me...

o god o goddess o mighty aphrodite please don't let me fail

they're counting on me

I have to answer the call

Current mood: Petrified...oh, yeah, and Confident. That, too. Whoever said that you can't feel two conflicting emotions at the same time? Come to think of it, that may be the root cause of my emotional instability...

Military Intelligence and You!

Cinequest 2007
San Jose, CA

Cleverly combining new footage with vintage WWII training and dramatic films (including scenes with Alan Ladd, William Holden, and Elisha Cook Jr.) this send-up deftly skewers that era's military stereotypes and cliches, while at the same time getting in some not so subtle digs against the current administration's own empty platitudes and arrogance.

Director Dale Kutzera; Producers Greg Reeves, P. James Keitel, Dale Kutzera; Executive Producer Dale Kutzera; Screenwriter Dale Kutzera; Cinematographer Mark Parry; Editor Joseph Butler; Cast Patrick Muldoon, Elizabeth Bennet, Mackenzie Astin, John Rixey Moore, Eric Jungmann; 80min; United States.

What a great way to close out my Cinequest experience! This sly satire provided a lot of laughs. From the opening statement of "declassification", this movie had the audience eating off its standard military-issue spoon. Set up as a "training" film, the film proports to teach one how to differentiate the "enemy" from "merely annoying foreigners"; how to be a team player, whether in the war room or on the field; and what *not* to say while undergoing a Nazi interrogation (with the caveat that they will most likely *not* be offering you tea and cigarettes as depicted, but most likely breaking your fingers one by one).

By setting the film in an earlier age, we get to witness a time when men were real men, women were real women, and Nazis were... well... really, really bad (but spoke with polite British English accents). Ah, how innocent people were then, and how very earnest. That they would actually deem it appropriate to push forward and attack two cities, only one of which may be the true military target, without any evidence to the contrary... As Major Nick Reed states regretfully, "I'm sorry I couldn't manufacture any [evidence] for you, Sir." Ah, the self-righteous justification! Nick again: "I'm sure the Nazis wouldn't be standing around making these moral deliberations!" Surely this doesn't bear any resemblance to any modern 21st century war? Certainly not!

And the irony doesn't stop there. The film dips into the romantic front, asking the age-old question, "Why does the girl always go for the bad boy instead of the solid, dependable guy right in front of her?"

And you find out, finally, what war takes from a man, how it takes that warm, cuddly part of him and leaves him an empty shell, sticking that part in an old shoe box, stuffing it in a closet, back behind layers of old suits, or perhaps up on the second shelf, where you have to get a step ladder to reach it.

And one of my favorite lines, said by the General: "I'm still hoping for a summer push into Russia." (Come on! Read your history books, man! This is funny!)

The director and producers were on hand after the show. They said they recently played the movie at a filmfest in Texas and didn't get near as many laughs. I wonder why...

So I say-- Run!-- Don't walk-- to your nearest filmfest, and find this film. This one is American made, so it may be on the festival circuit for awhile. They even have their own website, so check it out:
http://www.militaryintelligenceandyou.com/index.html


Current mood: Amused
Current music: The Charlie Brown Suite

Seven and a Half

Cinequest 2007
San Jose, CA

Seven and a Half presents seven stories, each representing one of the seven deadly sins. These humorous and sometimes absurd stories, as enacted by residents of Belgrade, demonstrate that greed, sloth, anger, lust, pride, gluttony and envy are universal human traits.

Director Miroslav Momcilovic; Producers Miroslav Momcilovic, Branislav Trifunovic; Executive Producer Igor Turcinovic; Screenwriter Miroslav Momcilovic; Cinematographer Dimitrije Jokovic; Editor Predrag Bogojevic; Composers Boris Bunjac, Vladimir Divljan; Cast Nenad Jezdic, Branislav Trifunovic, Gordan Kicic, Ljubinka Klaric, Marija Karan, Boris Molovojevic; Milos Timotijevic, Milan Gutovic, Aleksandra Jankovic, Dubravko Jovanovic, Mladen Nelevic, Milos Samolov, Ana Stanic, Nikola Vujovic; 110min; Serbia; Serbo-Croatian with English subtitles.

So I actually saw this on Saturday night. I'm just playing "catch up" after a long weekend and an even longer Monday...

Saturday was the second to last day of the festival and I was running out of time. I had to make some tough decisions. And at 9pm it was between this and Maria's Men, a story about a single mom who decides to start dating again. You would think I would have been leaning strongly in favor of the latter, but if you know me (and I'm sure you do!), I will always pick something existential and weird over anything remotely approaching reality. (Reality? Phhht! Who needs that? I get "reality" every day. Give me fantasy, man!)

Seven and a Half was humorous, at times wincingly accurate, and surprisingly poignant. With each "chapter" we are introduced to two or more seemingly unrelated characters who represent one of the seven deadly sins. The characters approach-- but never quite cross over into-- caricature. Two young con artists try to cash in on the scam of a lifetime (Greed); two theives can't quite make it up 23 flights of stairs for their big heist (Sloth); a bodybuilder on steroids has a driving agenda (Anger); two aging internet pedophiles end up finding each other instead of their dream girl (Lust); a young married couple on a quiz show prove that wit is no match for sheer stubborn (Pride); a man and woman demonstrate they have no gastronomic limitations at a food art exhibit (Gluttony); and two men seethe over the apparent good fortune of a neighborhood bar owner (Envy). At times absurd and even pathetic, each character retains a sympathetic humanity-- they are not so far off from each one of us.

It was fun to see the filmmakers' gradual weaving together of the storylines: a background character would pop up in one scene, then later show up in another. The two barflys showed up more than once until we finally got to their story near the end.

In the end, they all end up in the hospital through one plot device or other, nursing their wounds, physical or psychological. A child comes into the world, an old woman leaves, and the film ends with a lullaby.

Oh, and that Half? I think that Half is the better half of us, that part that redeems us when the other half fails.

They slay me...

When You Were Young
~The Killers

You sit there in your heartache
Waiting on some beautiful boy to
save you from your old ways
You play forgiveness
Watch it now ... here he comes!

He doesn't look a thing like Jesus
But he talks like a gentleman
Like you imagined when you were young

Can we climb this mountain
I don't know
Higher now than ever before
I know we can make it if we take it slow
Let's take it easy
Easy now, watch it go

We're burning up the highway skyline
On the back of a hurricane that started turning
When you were young
When you were young

And sometimes you close your eyes and see the place where you used to live
When you were young

They say the devil's water, it ain't so sweet
You don't have to drink right now
But you can dip your feet
Every once in a little while

You sit there in your heartache
Waiting on some beautiful boy to
To save you from your old ways
You play forgiveness
Watch it now here he comes

He doesn't look a thing like Jesus
But he talks like a gentleman
Like you imagined when you were young
(He talks like a gentlemen, like you imagined when)
When you were young

I said he doesn't look a thing like Jesus
He doesn't look a thing like Jesus
But more than you'll ever know

The Darkness of Frost

Desert Places

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it--it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less--
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

~Robert Frost

The Bothersome Man

Cinequest 2007
San Jose, CA

Den Brysomme Mannen
Winner of multiple awards around the globe, The Bothersome Man is the story of forty-year-old Andreas, who arrives in a strange city with no memory of how he got there. He is presented with a job, an apartment and even a wife.

Director Jens Lien; Producer Jorgen Storm Rosenberg; Screenwriter Per Schreiner; Cinematographer John Christian Rosenlund; Editor Vidar Flataukan; Composer Ginge; Trond Fausa Aurvag, Petronella Barker, Per Schaanning, Birgitte Larsen, Johannes Joner; 95 min; Norway; Norwegian with English subtitles.

So last night I headed once more into the breach and tackled another foreign indie film. Was it worth my $5 student discounted ticket? I am still asking myself this. It was excellent. Incomprehensible, but excellent. This film is just begging to be deconstructed. (And if you don't know what deconstruction is, see Derrida. If you are very patient, I may actually do a post on Derrida in the near future. Notice I did not say "lucky." You will not thank me. In fact, you may decide to knaw your own leg off in order to have a blunt instrument to beat me with... but I digress).

The curious thing about this film, what makes it both fascinating and frustrating, is that it offers no explanations. No spoon-fed Hollywood tripe here, no sir. Heaven help you, you're on your own with this one. The audience is just as lost as poor Andreas as to where he actually is. Is this heaven? Hell? Purgatory? The Underworld? The Otherworld? Some alien experiment? Some twisted Author's delusion? The latter most likely. It is a place where all your wants are satisfied, but none of your needs. Or perhaps the opposite is the case. People live lives of contentment, but no true happiness. It is a parody of human exisitence, with people going through the motions of eating, drinking, dancing, working, sex, but feeling no true passion. Everything and everyone is so bland, the food is tasteless, the music souless, the alcohol alcohol-less. Andreas, as the new arrival, senses something is wrong, but can't quite put a finger on it. So he cuts off a finger to see what happens. It hurts like hell, but the "Caretakers" have him set to rights in short working order almost as if it never happened.

There is a good deal of humor resulting from the bland good nature of the city's inhabitants, from the welcoming committee of one man who proudly displays his banner each time the bus arrives, to the way everyone greets Andreas with a smile and a nod, to the very casual way one can change partners much the same way one would redecorate one's home. In fact, far more attention is paid to furnishings than to people and their feelings. As Andreas' frustrations with his surroundings grew, I experienced a steadily growing creepiness. Just how far off from real life is this movie anyway? Is it a window, or a mirror? Is it a What If, or a What Is?

At one point, Andreas and another character make a desperate attempt to dig through a crack in the wall to the real world. They can hear it. They can smell it. For one brief shining moment, Andreas is able to reach through the crack and grab a piece of cake and taste it. Real cake. It's glorious. Then the Caretakers come along, seal up the hole, and haul him away.

Andreas never finds any evil in this city--there is no Evil Overlord to rebel against, no secret select group that knows what is really going on and is keeping the inhabitants distracted with home furnishings so they don't question anything. The malignancy lies in the very nature of life in that world. The rules are different here. That is all. In the end, Andreas is confronted by a group of well-meaning city leaders, and one woman says to him, sincerely, "Andreas, most people are happy here." He will not, or cannot, reply. He is carted back to the bus and abandoned to chaos.

So I'm still trying to wrap my head around this one. Just what, exactly, is the message? That life is absurd and unknowable? That real life should be appreciated because you don't want to end up in this place? Or that it is too late, because we are already there.

(By the way, the soundtrack was excellent and on-location shots in Iceland were breathtaking.)

Current mood: Bewildered
Current music: tori amos scarlet's walk

Mythic Journey

Last night I had the pleasure of watching a performance by Loreena McKennitt, filmed on location at the Alhambra, an exquisite medieval Moorish palace in Spain.

Loreena McKennitt is one of those enviable artists who is truly living her dream. She has spent her musical career tracing the footsteps of the ancient Celts, traveling from Ireland and Cornwall to Britanny and Galacia, from Italy and Turkey to Russia and China. In each of these places, she absorbs the culture, music, art, and history and distills them into her music. One cannot help but admire her tenacity of spirit, her artistic sensibilities, and her dedication to her work.

The experience of her music doesn't end with the song: Each song opens the door, which opens the garden gate, which leads to that overlooked trailing path which winds ever through the world. There are webworks of connections to be made here: Her songs reference Shakespeare, Tennyson, Blake, Dante, tales from long ago, historical places, and nearly forgotten cultural and religous traditions.

The location of her concert sent me fumbling through my book collection until I came upon a book that I own but have not yet read: Tales of the Alhambra by Washington Irving. Irving, I have since learned, was appointed American ambassador to Spain, and sometime in the spring of 1829, he and a friend, the Russian ambassador, travelled from Seville to Granada. This book is a record of that journey, along with tales and legends Irving heard along the way. Thousands of pilgrims from Europe, America, and Africa have trekked to the Alhambra, which represents a blend of two great civilizations and three major world religions. Although separated by over two centuries, Irving and McKennitt are fellow travelers on that road, evoking elusive memories of a Romantic and picturesque past.

As for me, Irving's Tales of the Alhambra and McKennitt's Nights from the Alhambra are calling me out on my own mythic journey. I wonder what I will find...

Current mood: Musing

Current music: Loreena McKennitt "The Old Ways" from The Visit

Dark Dreams

I have always been fascinated by dreams. Or maybe dreams have been fascinated by me. When I dream, I dream big--it's like the theatre of the mind pulls out all the stops. Granted, I may go for some time just having the run-of-the-mill flotsom & jetsom dreams, the leftover refuse of the day that just jumbles all up and doesn't make much sense. And many times I'm too tired to remember what I've dreamed. But there are times when my dreams would rival any Star Trek or Twilight Zone episode... and there are other times when they go beyond even that and enter the realm of epic myth or biblical apocalypse.

Well, early Monday morning, about 3am, I had a strange one. The details are already escaping me. I wander into a room, all dark metal and lit by a poisonous green light. There are tubes trailing across the floor. There is a long line of large flat screen tvs along one wall, tuned to a dead channel. The white noise is playing in a low hiss. On the floor is a young woman in a dark plastic or rubber suit. She is bald. She is not quite human. In fact she is a cyborg. She has an implant in one eye. The tubes and wires are connected to her. She is weeping out of her one eye. Electricity snaps and fizzes and her limbs twist and contort. She asks me to help her. I reach down and lift her up-- and I can feel the weight of her in my arms as if she is real, she is no mannequin--and I try to set her on her feet, but she cannot control her arms and legs. She keeps twitching. She begs, "Please help me! They're trying to... They're trying to make me..." I look over her shoulder and there are these young men, about 18 or 19 years old, holding these controllers, like video game controllers. I cannot see their faces, for their hair is long and completely covers them to their chins. They push a button on the controls and suddenly she goes rigid, and whatever was human in her is gone. She is all cyborg now. The tubes disconnect. She gains her balance and brushes past me, gracefully stepping up onto a platform, and then into one of the flat screen tvs. As the picture flutters and adjusts, she turns to face me and the picture zooms in to a close up of her face. The red light of the laser from her implant flashes in my eyes. When she speaks, her voice is distorted, like the voice of the borg in Star Trek. She says, "Do you want to play a game?" And I ask, "Is it dangerous?" And she replies, "Oh, yes. I am." Then she raises a blaster weapon and aims for my heart. Suddenly, my son is standing next to me, holding one of the controllers. He says he wants to play. And I say, "Like hell you are," and propell him from the room.


Okay, so all Freudians can pack up and leave the room-- go play with your pencils or something... Jungians move to the front of the class... There is so much material here, I almost don't know where to begin. Almost.

The thing is, that bald borg suspiciously resembles the pathetic pictures of Britney Spears that have been haunting the media pages lately. I try to avoid celebrity gossip like the plague, but I guess I couldn't escape this. So I'm going to take a wild guess and say what all this really means is, Britney isn't really in rehab. She's been turned into a cyborg and is set to destroy the world.

On that note, I'm going to lock my door and go to bed.


Current mood: Sleepy
Current music: tori amos here in my head

Hitler Meets Christ

Cinequest 2007
San Jose, CA

Hitler Meets Christ
Two men meet in a seedy train station. One believes he is Hitler, the other believes he is Christ. When the personification of good meets evil, there is no lack of debate, controversy, and some surprising understanding.

Director Brendan Keown; Producers Jeremy Dyson, Brendan Keown; Screenwriter Michael Moriarty; Cinematagrapher A. Jonathan Benny; Editor A. Jonathan Benny; Composer Michael Moriarty; Cast Michael Moriarty, Wyatt Page; 76 min; Canada

First off, I have to say this is my very first Cinequest movie. In fact, this is my very first Cinequest. Futhermore, this is my very first independent movie festival. (Oooh, what a tasty morsel for the filmfest gods! I haven't felt this pure since... But I digress).

Hitler Meets Christ is based on a play by Michael Moriarty. (You've gotta love that name: Watson, the game is afoot!) Even if they didn't announce this in the credits, you can tell immediately because there is such an emphasis on language and the flow of conversation. I love movies like this. Two characters walking the streets of Vancouver, just talking. There were moments, however, when I was wishing for the script. Mostly because the conversation has such a readable quality to it--the characters say things that make you want to pause and mull over what they have just said, but now the conversation has moved on and you have to keep up. On the downside, though, Moriarty (who plays Hitler) mumbles a bit. I couldn't always catch what he was saying.

They made a very interesting casting choice for Christ. Wyatt does not look like any Christ-figure before him. He is clean-shaven, silver-haired (or blond? the movie is in black & white so it's hard to tell), and handsome. More a 40- or 50-something than the 30-somethings that usually get picked for the role. I had my doubts at first, but 10 or 15 minutes in, I was a believer. He brought a fine presence to role and played his part with finesse. Also, he's dressed very casually. There are no obvious tell-tales like priests robes, or putting him all in white, etc. A nice touch, also, was that he was wearing both a crucifix and a star of david.

Moriarty is just plain mad. He is a fine actor, there is no doubt, but he's mad as rabbits. Okay, his character is mad. The thing with this film is, you're never entirely sure if you are watching two madmen, one madman talking to his delusion, one madman actually being visited by Christ, or an existential meeting between two very enigmatic and powerful figures. And that uncertainty keeps you watching.

The best scene (if I have to pick one) is when Hitler and Christ are in a park, and Christ is giving this long speech and stretching out his arms to the heavens, and you can hear thunder in the distance, but he is standing in sunlight. Each time the camera shifts back to Hitler, he is standing in shadow and rain. The producers were on hand after the film to answer questions. Someone asked about this--if they had done it on purpose--and they replied that it was a happy accident. They had filmed Christ's speech entirely, before turning to Hitler for his bit, and right at that moment, a stormcloud moved overhead and began to rain. Not only that, but they said that it is extremely difficult to capture natural rain on film, which is why most larger budget pictures film rainy scenes in a studio where they can pipe in as much as they want. This rain was perfect. Heaven sent, maybe. ;-) This is what is so stunning about these low budget, independent films: they are so simple that the subtlest effect stands out as spectacular.

So this scene was very pleasing cinematically, but it was also remarkable for its content. Hitler has been mocking Christ about how he had killed so many thousands of Christ's people, and "What's your Father have to say about that?" Christ replies (and I'm paraphrasing here--I wish I had the script), "Well, I asked him about that. He said nothing... at first. And then he asked me, 'Who made you?' And I said, 'You did.' And he asked, 'Who sent you to earth?' And I said, 'You did.' And he asked, "Who raised you up and set you on high at my right hand?' And I said, 'You did.' And he said, 'You worm. Do you think you are my only son? Did you think you were the only one? Are not these also my sons, and daughters, and babies? Did you think you were the only Holocaust?' ... They say that when God laughs, the devil weeps. God laughed then. And I wept. Who am I to think I am greater than God?"

Powerful stuff.

So the movie had me, and then it lost me in the last, I don't know, two minutes? The thing is, this is an endless conversation, this converstion between good and evil. It can never reach resolution. So how can this end? Well, personally, I would have been happy to see the two characters walk off screen, still talking. But no.

CAUTION: SPOILER AHEAD

Okay, this film is in very limited release-- in fact, the producers said they really had no plans to show it anywhere else. So it is unlikely that you will see it, unless you come to San Jose within the next 12 days. But still, to be polite, if you don't want to know the end, you can skip this next part.

*
*
*
*
*

Still with me? Okay. Christ becomes Emperor Palpatine. No lie. Hitler says something at the end--I'm not even sure what now--Christ snaps, and lightning bolts fly from his fingers. Hitler crawls away whimpering. It just ... didn't fit.

Otherwise, I'd give it a "thumbs up." But I think my ending would have been better.


Current mood: Reflective
Current music: Smilla's Sense of Snow Soundtrack

Somewhere an ancient bard is turning in his grave...

Beowulf on Ice. Yes, you read that right. Beowulf on Ice. It's true. I'm not making it up.

http://www.dailynews.com/gossip/ci_5323571

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm all about freedom of expression, especially when it comes to art. And I will freely admit that my parents took me to Disney on Ice when I was five and I was completely enchanted. And I will freely admit that many an Olympic Winter of my mispent youth was spent watching the ice skaters. Because it's beautiful. I admit that.

But Beowulf on Ice???? What nimrod thought that up? Beowulf is an ancient medieval poem full of dignity and splendor, deeds of grotesque horror and noble heroism. It's meant to be uttered reverently, one bright candle held against the dark.

What's next? Star Wars Underwater Ballet? (Wait, that might actually work... )


Current mood: Bemused
Current music: Sarah McLachlan Afterglow

"O brave new world that has such people in it!"

A friend of mine mentioned recently how she observed some pre-teens in a mall walking along with their iPods all plugged in and not saying a word to eachother or anyone else. And these were 10-12 year olds, mind, not 16-18. How could these kids even be friends, she wondered, without ever talking or sharing anything?

Now, I could counter that with what I have observed of my 14-year-old. He is in constant communication with his friends: text messages, cell phones, myspace, etc. So I don't think they are lacking connections completely. And-- it's ghastly, I know-- it likely consists of things like "do u wnt 2 go 2 the mall w/me?" But they do communicate. However, it does seem that when they are in eachother's physical presence they are far more comfortable "plugged in" than not.

I think today's younger generation may be lacking in certain face-to-face people skills, but they are gaining (perhaps) communication skills in other areas, compensating for the impact these new technologies have on our culture. I am very cautious whether to put forward the opinion that this is a benign, neutral, or negative change, whether it is a "natural" or "unnatural" outgrowth of our culture's evolution. My gut feeling is that as long as these things are used to bring people together rather than put boundries between them then it is a good thing.

And I have to admit, as an adult, I rely a great deal on email and cell phones to communicate with my friends, especially those long distance. And look, here I am, blogging. There is something very attractive, very enticing about having a cyber-room of one's own (to paraphrase Virginia Woolf). Sure, I would much rather be with my friends in person, but lacking that... well, this is not a bad way to share one's thoughts. And it's fun!

Is it really communication, though? Or does it set up an illusion of communication? Are we all lost on Sting's metaphorical island, sending out our "Message in a Bottle"? Is anyone ever really listening?


Current mood: Reflective
Current music: Kate Bush Aerial