Friday Five: hot3

Courtesy of Reverend Mother

1. What's the high temperature today where you are?
   It's currently 79°, at 8:20 a.m., CDT. The predicted high for today is 99°. Chance of precipitation is 33%. Temperatures have averaged between the high 90s to the low 100s for the past three weeks. Highest I'm aware of was 110.


2. Favorite way(s) to beat the heat.
   Staying inside, with the Vornado fan on. While watching TV. Or listening to music. Or, occasionally, playing with Ms. Furry Fury.


3. "It's not the heat, it's the humidity." Evaluate this statement.
   I reject such false dichotomies. I say it is time to think beyond heat and humidity. Might it not be both? Must we choose? This dichotomy tempts us to judge purely on human terms. This anthropocentric prejudice must be challenged!


4. Discuss one or more of the following: sauna, hot tub, sweat lodge, warm-stone massage.
   I have been in a sweat lodge. The man officiating noted that the Swiss sauna was borrowed from the Native tradition of the sweat lodge. The difference being, as he understands it, that the sauna is done purely for physical reasons, and the sweat lodge is a spiritual experience.
      Late add, in response to Reverend Mother's comment. My entry concerning the experience in the sweat lodge is here; in brief, yes, it was a spiritual experience.


5. Hottest you've ever been in your life
   That would be the afore-mentioned sweat lodge.  The remainder of that summer was tolerable by comparison.

Non-temperature related bonus: In your opinion... who's hot?
I was going to respond with the name(s) of one or two attractive women at church, but then I saw St. Casserole's response ("All the volunteers to come to the Hurricane Zone to help."), and I was properly humbled.

Cat Friday

Continuing the "cool cat" gag from last Friday, this historic image is from my 35mm archives. The "cool cats" in question are your lowly correspondent and the esteemed Dr Omed. I am the thin white dude; Dr. Omed is the mesomorph.

The year is 198*mumble*. We are in Denver, CO, both for the first time. We are donning our uniforms to serve in a friend's wedding. Julian and Jannette, both high school pals.

OK. Dr. Omed wasn't Dr. Omed yet. I'm not sure whether he had even come up with the name Dromedary Syndicate yet (cognizati will note the good doctor's name is hidden in that title). I wasn't Jonah yet. If anything, I was Jason. Or jac. Or, more often than not, my birth name.

We both fell in love with Denver. The architecture is astounding (compared to OKC, anyway). The mountains are young and tall (Oklahoma's mountains have shrunk with age). I don't remember who was driving, but we had to stop every so often to take pictures of the unique buildings. Like "Just Another Bar", on the edge of the city.

Dr. Omed did something about his affection for Denver. He moved there. He got a job as a baker. He flopped with the "J Unit" off & on. Seems like he was there a little over a decade. I stayed in Norman, OK, focusing on my (mind-altering) chemical studies. We wrote each other now & again, and Dr. Omed has an impressive collection of my scribblings.

He is blessed. He can read my handwriting. On good days, I can read his.

Anyway, it's possible some seeds were planted during that visit which helped form the current Dr. O. I'm sorry we're so hard to see because of the backlight. But these figures you are viewing are ghosts, after all.

The Election

I mentioned on Monday that I had distributed some reminder cards on Saturday for a friend running for the Oklahoma House in yesterday's Democratic primary. I am happy to report that Dana won.

Interestingly, her primary opponent mailed a flier late last week which claimed that Dana supported "any tax increases at any level of government (including hidden taxes, such as non-dedicated fees and deficit spending)", citing this survey.

Note that the survey question was "Do you support any tax increases at any level of government (including hidden taxes, such as non-dedicated fees and deficit spending)?"  The gist of the question is whether the candidate supports taxes, period; seeing as Libertarians oppose taxation in any form, the answer they are looking for is a simple "no." According to the posted survey results, this is the "Pro-Liberty" response.

I suspect Dana's Republican opponent will quote the accusation that she is a "tax-and-spend" liberal. I'll note that the primary difference between Republicans and Libertarians is that Libertarians are more philosophically consistent.

Somehow, the voting public has forgotten the connection between taxes and services. The equation is strikingly simple: to maintain a balanced budget, cutting taxes requires cutting services.

We would not expect to receive a service in the private sector for free. That's how the economy operates in a capitalist system. Most people understand that, at least at a very basic level.

The question then becomes: what services the Republicans have cut, or will cut, to keep taxes low. On a national level, the Republicans have cut programs such as Head Start; programs that benefit the poorest sector of our population. Meanwhile, farm subsidies are still paid to conglomerates. This same trend is reflected, to only a slightly lesser degree, on the local level.

Ideally, a representative's job is to see that their constituents get the best bang for their buck. Is the money supporting services that benefit people in her district? Is it being used in the most efficient way possible? Are there appropriate accounting measures and checks on how it is spent?

The job of a well-informed electorate is to monitor whether their representatives are putting the pooled resources (taxes) to the best use, in the best way feasible.

Idée d’jour

The way you treat yourself sets the standard for others.
— Sonya Friedman

---

Seems a fair restatement of the Golden Rule. Some will tell you that some form of this guideline is present in the tenets of every major world religion (see The World Bible, published by Penguin).

Idée d’jour

A living language is like a man suffering incessantly from small haemorrhages, and what it needs above all else is constant transactions of new blood from other tongues. The day the gates go up, that day it begins to die.
— H.L. Mencken, writer, editor, and critic (1880-1956)

Political Volunteer

This past Saturday, I distributed cards reminding people in my precinct of the up-coming primary (tomorrow, July 25, from 7 am 'til 6 pm). A friend is running for the State House, and I agreed to help her by distributing these cards.

My friend had given me a list of addresses within a quarter mile of my house. I presume she had limited the list to Democrats. I also assume there's a lot more Democrats in this precinct than the small number of addresses she gave me. I imagine she wanted to keep the task manageable.

Some addresses were on the east side of May (a major north-south street), others were on the west side.  Addresses ran from NW 34th through NW 36th, on both sides of May. My house is on the east side, so I started with other houses on that side.

I distributed cards in my neighborhood first. Then I drove to 34th, parked, and distributed cards in a rough circle. Then I walked to 36th; all the cards for that side went to a low-income apartment complex.

Then I drove to the west side of May and followed roughly the same pattern. As I started this process at 8 am, I did not expect to meet many people. In fact, I only met three. I handed each one a card, saying it was a reminder of the primary, and thanked each person.

I listened to my iPod while doing this - NPR: Movies and Wait ... Wait ... Don't Tell Me. It was pleasant time in the fresh air, and the most walking I've done in some time. I finished the task around 9:30, which meant I missed the heat of the day - although I was relatively moist by the time I got home.

My friend, Dana, faces only one person in the primary - Joe. Based on their  campaign literature, they favor many of the same things: better-funded education, improved job opportunities, and health care.

Dana's campaign literature emphasizes her maturity (she's at least 20 years older than Joe), and her community involvement. Joe's literature emphasizes the fact that he joined the reserves following 9/11.

Yes, a local campaign invokes the sacred date of 9/11. No doubt the subtext is "Support our troops! Vote for Joe!"

Bah.

That military connection also implies that he supports our current military adventure. Makes little difference at the local level, but enough reason for me to have some antipathy toward him.

Even if I did not know Dana, I could not vote for Joe on that basis alone.

Friday Five: RevGalBlogPal Anniversary Edition

This is the first anniversary of the RevGalBlogPals. A history of the webring is here.

1. What is your first memory of the RevGalBlogPals?
   Hmmm. Would you believe I can't remember? I suspect I discovered the ring through Reverend Mother. Or, possibly Reverend Mommy. In any case, it was relatively late last year.


2. Have you met any of the other ring members in real life?
   Does meeting the husband of one count? I'm not sure that Fr. D is aware his wife and I have this tenuous connection. But there you go.
      I've met a few in the RLP chatroom, if that counts. Ones who come immediately to mind include Reverend Mommy, Reverend Stacey, Rev. Sparks and Lorna.


3. Of those you haven't met, name a few you would love to know in person.
   I'd think it would be interesting to meet any of the people who have become part of this group (169 and growing). Since Emily and I live in the greater OKC metro area, it makes sense for us to meet. Like I say, I've met her husband, and I think it would be fun if the three of us met for lunch sometime.
      I'm also especially interested in meeting the gals I've visited with in the chatroom. I have this fantasy, for example, of Stacey and I performing for the troups.


4. What has Ring Membership added to your life?
   A little over a month ago, I wrote about circles of common interstests, and how they over-lap. The ring is one more circle of friends/acquaintances who share a common interest, that is, the spiritual life. More particularly, the spiritual life as expressed through primarily liberal Christian denominations. Almost goes without saying that the only denoms that ordain women tend to be on the liberal end of the spectrum.
      Even so, I've been enriched by the breadth of theology expressed around the ring. Much I agree with; much I don't. But each essay has helped me hone my own beliefs. Or, at least, what I think I believe.


5. Describe a hope for the future of the WebRing.
   A number of RevGals have mentioned the idea of a mass meet-up. One potential location that has been mentioned is Texas, since several of the ring's members live there. Since Texas is a little closer than the NE Coast or Georgia (for example), I'm definitely down with that. If they meet within a reasonable distance of Brother Dave, all the better. And since Real Live Preacher should be an honorary member, and serves near the Austin area, I think we ought to invite him as well.
      Various ring members have floated ideas for a third book. I'm especially anxious that the current book, Ordinary Time, be made available through Amazon. This anxiety is entirely self-serving, as my church bookstore seems reluctant to order multiple copies until it is offered at Amazon. This is a special concern because I may be leading a book study based on it, beginning next week.
      Once that minor detail has been resolved, I'm in favor of any of the ideas that have floated so far (in the Rev Gal blogs I've read),e.g., a "best of my blog" collection, or original essays concerning women in the ministry.

More Poetry Photos

Picking up from the picture of George & me in the previous entry, I want to direct you to more pictures from last Friday's poetry reading, now available here.


Above is the first picture in the series. I call it "Prayer Drum." You see, prior to the reading Susan explained that every event at the Jacobson House is preceded by a prayer. She explained that normally the prayer would be lead by young men sitting around the drum, singing in the traditional way. But, she said, the young men were out of town - mostly at the Sundance. "So you'll have to make do with me." Strikingly, the prayer she offered was within the Christian tradition (e.g., she invoked the name of Jesus).

I had no objection. I suppose those poets with non-traditional spiritual leanings (or none at all) accepted it as the cost of being Blue in a Red State. Such things are fairly much accepted as part of the landscape in Oklahoma, the buckle of the Bible Belt.

The poetry reading on Saturday did not include a prayer. Unless you count the music David played, or the words of Woody Guthrie (which George read). Perhaps my poem "Praising the Muse" would count as a prayer, but it wasn't read until near the end of the reading.

Cat Friday

Here's a couple of cool cats, at the poetry reading last Friday evening. I'm the guy imperceptibly smiling on the left; George Wallace (former poet laureate of Suffolk County, NY) is truly smiling on the right. You'd hardly know we only see each other for a few hours once a year. Well, we e-mail poetry back & forth, as the mood strikes.

I'm holding my fancy-dancy camera in my right hand. You can see the lens cap on top of my hat. I took several pics of poets at work. Imagine that. This particular shot was taken by Carol H—, one of the organizers (with George) of the readings.


In the event you prefer seeing an actual feline, here's the queen of the house. Taken by available light, just this morning.

We watched the American Masters program on Marilyn Monroe this Wednesday. You suppose our favorite furball's pose was influenced?

Advertisement

On Tuesday, I mentioned that the "Ramblin' With Woody" image would soon be available as a t-shirt.

If you are as savvy as Dr. Omed, you could create your own t-shirt. As he says at the link, all you need is an iron, some transfer paper, and a cotton t-shirt. The image I've posted is not at an ideal resolution or quality for this project, but maybe that's not vital to you.

"But Jonah," you say, "I don't have an iron!" I am sympathetic; I don't own an iron either. Therefore, I have chosen to put Cafe Press to work.


Pictured at left is just one of the short-sleeved shirts now available at my Cafe Press "shop". This particular model is 100% cotton, and Made in the USA. At least that's what the folk at Cafe Press claim.

I don't expect to make much money from this. In order to keep prices at a reasonable level, I don't have much of a mark-up. However, should I make any money from the sales of these short-sleeved shirts, a portion will go to the Huntington's Disease Society of America.

Keep in mind, I won't even receive a check until profits have reached $10. But if I ever get that $10 check, at least $1 (10%) will go to HDSA.

We now return you to regularly scheduled blogging.

Houses

Yesterday, I mentioned that, while I was in Norman on Friday, I visited a few places I once lived. And I promised you pictures.

I lived in campus dorms off and on for my first three years of academic life. I lived in a converted Navy barracks, called Worchester House, which was torn down over ten years ago.

My first non-campus apartment was located above a restaurant. Technically, this was illegal. I guess the slumlord greased the fire safety inspector in some fashion. Ron (good-fellow college chum) and I lived there one summer. When school re-started, we moved to an apartment complex.

We named the apartment "Channel 27". It was our first experience with cable access, and neither of us had a great deal of self-control when it came to tv. The movie channel was locally produced at the time, and they only had a few movies available. I've lost count of the number of times I watched Endless Summer and Gimme Shelter.

That was also the time when I started "dropping" LSD. By this point, the psychedelic was being cut with strychnine, which made the high a very interesting experience. I remember one time when I thought I was going into rigor. Or my muscles were petrifying.

Moved back into the dorms after this. Lived in Boyd House (also torn down). Had a dark year, which bled into the following summer when the future Very Rt Rev Dr. Omed and I rented an duplex from a notorious slum-lord. Dr. Omed worked for a pizza delivery place, and I began my employ at the Infernal Bookstore.

From that duplex, I moved to this apartment, on the NW corner of Sante Fe and Apache. This is where I wrote the first poem in what would become the Saturn Sequence, "I sleep under the sign." Here, my primary drug of choice was alcohol. Primarily beer, but also Windsor Canadian Whiskey (a preference I inherited from Padre).

The white arrow indicates one of my windows. Note there was no air conditioning unit in place when I was living there. I propped the window open with a thick stick. A different twisty branch became a keep-sake on the window sill, and eventually inspired the referenced poem.

From there, I moved to a house several blocks away. I rented the house with Dale, who was a co-worker at the Infernal Bookstore. It was a fair-sized house, with a defunct furnace in the living room. We each had our own bedroom. The living room and dining room were about equal in size.

After we had lived there for some time, a friend related a bit of the house's history. This information was incorporated into the poem The Green House. If you click on the link and scroll to the end of the poem, you'll see a before and after picture of the house. It was torn down within a year after Dale and I moved out.

Dale got a year-long scholarship to go to Germany. Rather than seek another roommate, I chose to move again. I moved just across the alley to another old house that had been broken into apartments. The house is on Jenkins Street, just a few yards north of Boyd.

The house faces east. I lived around the back. The fire escape was at my bathroom window; to the left of that is my bedroom window.

This is the house I lived in when Mary and I started dating. She eventually moved into an apartment on the first floor, near the front of the house. With her two teenage boys. A little over a year after she moved in, we got married. Then moved to a house on the south end of Norman, at Chautauqua and Sonia Dr.

We married in 1985. Mary went to Seoul, South Korea, to teach English as a Second Language in 1995. To the best of my knowledge, she is still there. We divorced in 2000.

Which may explain why I did not choose to take a picture of that particular house.

The Poetry Readings

As I have mentioned a couple of times, there were two poetry readings held this past weekend in connection with the Woody Guthrie Folk Festival. One reading (and chapbook collation party) was held Friday evening, at the Jacobson House in Norman. The other reading was held Saturday at 1:00 at the First [United] Methodist Church in Okemah, OK.

The chapbook collation party was scheduled to begin around 6 p.m. in Norman. Norman is a bedroom community for OKC. The trip is about 45 minutes, except during rush hour. Since temperatures are topping 100, I thought it wise to leave OKC around 4.

I still hit a bit of traffic congestion, but got to Norman about 4:45 or so. I decided to visit a few old haunts. First – Hastings, a book/cd/video chain that has yet to make it to OKC proper. I successfully avoided spending money. Second - places I used to live when I was attending college in Norman (I tell people my major was "mind-altering substances").

I took pictures of the place I lived when I wrote "I sleep under the sign". I took pictures of the plot the Green House once occupied. Then the place I lived between the Green House and my marriage. [Pictures of these places will be posted in the near future]

Then I went to the Jacobson House, a Swedish and Native American cultural center. It may seem an odd combination, but the Jacobsons were Swedes who had a great love and respect for Native American traditions. Their former house now has one of the premier collections of Native American arts and crafts not in a museum. It is also a venue for poetry readings, especially by Native Americans.

Over 30 poets were expected. Now - do the math - if 30 poets read for 5 minutes each, how late would we be going? Since the reading started at 8, it's probable the reading would not have ended until 10:30 at the earliest. Therefore, the organizer asked us to read only one poem each.

I decided to read "The Year of the Flood"; as what I call a "memory poem" it seemed to have the closest relationship to Woody (through his autobiographical novel Bound For Glory) of any of the poems I had planned on. I think, with my introduction, the poem still may have lasted five minutes.

One of the treats of the reading on Saturday was the fact that the poets would be accompanied by pianist David Amram. Mr. Amram once accompanied the Beat poets (e.g. Kerouac and Ginsburg), so I was really looking forward to that experience.

I read "Praising the Muse" and "Never Thunders in Hades". The latter was written in 1978, and I think of it as a performance piece. I was especially anxious to experience what Mr. Amram would create.

David picks up on subtle cues from the reader to create the musical background. One thing I noticed is that he quickly finds what key the poet is speaking in. He also finds a tempo that compliments the poet's speaking patterns. The music he played behind the second poem was almost as abstract as the poem itself. I thought it worked, and a friend commented afterwards that he thought David and I must have rehearsed.

So that was positive.

The downside, for both readings, was the fact that I read late in the program. I read shortly after a break Friday night, and over half the audience had left during the break. I read during the last third of the program on Saturday, and I think people were just a bit weary by that point. Although the music certainly helped maintain the interest throughout the afternoon (the reading was from 1-3).

Given this context, reading longish poems was possibly not the best choice. My choice on Friday really was determined by what I thought best fit a Woody Guthrie theme. I'll freely admit that my choice of the long poem on Saturday was somewhat self-serving. But I was willing to risk it.

It was a re-entry into the Oklahoma "poetry scene", and as such a positive experience.

One last thing - the chapbook cover I designed (above) will soon be available as a t-shirt. Stay tuned.

Tarot

You Are Death
You symbolize the end, which can be frightening.
But you also symbolize the immortality of the soul.
You represent transformation, rebirth of a new life.
Sweeping away the past is part of this card, as painful as it may be.

Your fortune:

Don't worry, this card does not predict death itself.
Instead it foreshadows the ending of an era of your life, one that is hard to let go of.
But with the future great new things will come, and it's time to embrace them.
Mourn for a while, but then face the future with humility and courage.

What Tarot Card Are You?

---

The response above was associated with my birth name. When I entered my blogonym, the response was:

You Are The Chariot
You represent a difficult battle, and a well-deserved victory.
You tend to struggle to get what you want, both internally and externally.
You excel at controlling opposing forces, getting down the same path.
In the end, you bring glory and success - using pure will to move forward.

Your fortune:

There is great conflict in your life right now, either with yourself or others.
You must find a solution to this conflict, which is likely to be a "middle road" between the two forces.
You posses the skills to triumph over these struggles, as long as your will is strong.
You are transforming your inner self, building a better foundation for future successes.

Hmmm. Struggles and battles. Endings and new beginnings.

I assume the cards come up at random, as they would if a Tarot reader were laying them out before me. I don't perceive the Tarot as a means of fortune-telling; I perceive it from a Jungian perspective: as a door to inner space. More is learned from my interpretation of the images (pictoral and verbal) set before me than any "prediction".

Any day may be the beginning of a struggle. Every step may begin a new journey. Every dawn is new birth; every fall of head on pillow may be a little death.

Thanks Sam (and Karen) for directing me to this door.

Belated Cat Friday

DJ, 3:00 pm July 4th.

I took this picture on the afternoon of July 4th. It's a fair representation of how the lady and I spent the afternoon. In the foreground is my ever expanding tummy, in the distance is a selection from DJ's toybox.

I don't know where the notion of cat naps being short started. DJ was about midway through a three hour marathon when this shot was taken. My cat nap lasted less than an hour.

This Past Weekend

Last week was odd. July 4^th fell on a Tuesday, which led many people on campus to take Monday off. Some even took the whole week off. Once I gave some thought to taking time off, the office was so short-staffed I knew the request would receive a sound "No."

All day last Tuesday felt like a Saturday; I kept thinking the next day would be a Sunday. I was constantly reminding myself that I had to work the next day, and felt slightly disgruntled.

I worked as a test proctor this past Saturday. The task is relatively undemanding, and pays well. Still, a 7 hour exam (with a 45 minute lunch break) is a chunk out of one's day.

One of my fellow proctors asked how one stays awake. My response was that one stays on one's feet as much as possible. Although the examinees do not require extremely close scrutiny, I do my best to create the impression they are being watched. I walk back and forth; I move to different areas of the room. I stand, and rock on my feet.

Another trick is to count things. For example, the same proctor counted the number of blue shirts in the room. Seeing as there were a number of blue shirts, and a wide variety of shades of blue, I imagine that was a fun exercise.

I like to count the number of women. The examinees are taking their Board exam for anesthesiology, a discipline that has historically been mostly male. The chief proctor explained that there had once been concern about how the gasses would affect child-bearing. However, the current anesthesia delivery system is so efficient that such concerns are no longer valid.

Even so, there were only 5 women registered for the exam, out of 60 total. In other words, if 60 is a representative sampling of the discipline, less than 10% are women.

Once shirt color had been mentioned (over lunch), I decided to informally sample the other clothing choices. Shades of blue was definitely the most popular color. Next in popularity were shades of red (from coral to pink, and beyond). There were a handful who wore yellow. And two or three who wore white.

Only two people wore any kind of head wear. Both were men, and both wore baseball caps (backwards). One of those caps was pretty tattered; perhaps the owner had actually played baseball while wearing it.

---

This coming weekend is dominated by the Woody Guthrie Festival, and the two poetry readings associated with it. The first reading is Friday, beginning at 8, in Norman (at the Jacobson House, if you're in the area). However, poets have been asked to be there about 6 p.m. for a pot-luck supper and chapbook construction. It will be a limited edition chapbook (70 copies) featuring Oklahoma poets.

The second reading begins at 1 p.m. Saturday in Okemah, at the United Methodist Church. The venue is slightly off the beaten path, but the event has received decent publicity, and I expect a number of folk will be in the audience.

I have been asked to be a featured reader on both occasions. I suspect I was asked primarily because I designed the chapbook cover and poster. I haven't read or published in some time, so I suspect I'm an unknown quantity in the mind of the organizers.

Here's a list of what I plan to read:

• Friday
• Fire on the East
• Never Thunders in Hades
• Saturday
• Praising the Muse
• The Year of the Flood

Speaking of Woody Guthrie, PBS stations will air a documentary on his life Wednesday, July 12, at 8 p.m.

Idée d'jour

One of my greatest pleasures in writing has come from the thought that perhaps my work might annoy someone of comfortably pretentious position. Then comes the saddening realization that such people rarely read.
— John Kenneth Galbraith, economist (1908-2006)

Idée d’jour

It does me no injury for my neighbor to say there are twenty gods or no God.
— Thomas Jefferson, third US president, architect and author (1743-1826)

Come Back, Shane

I watched the movie Shane for the first time this past Friday. For a movie released in 1953, it's somewhat perverse.

The American Film Institute recently judged Shane to be the 53rd most inspirational movie made in America. My reading of the film is undoubtably unorthodox, because I can't figure out quite what is inspiring about it.

The movie is a fine example of Westerns made during this period. The conflict between good and evil is clearly delineated. In fact, the symbols of each category are pretty common for the Western:

Good	Evil
Civilization	Wilderness
Settlers	Cattlemen
Women	Men
Law	Lawlessness
Diplomacy	Violence

There are three characters who stand outside of this dichotomy. One is Joey, the little boy. He is pre-sexual, and as such has soft "feminine" features, yet thrills to the romance of violence - although its reality frightens him. The boy combines features of both worlds, in the guise of Innocence.

The other two characters who are either outside this dichotomy, or straddle it, are the gunfighters - Shane and Jack. They combine features of both worlds, in the guise of Experience.

There's no question the gunfighter is masculine, for his resolves disputes with his (phalic) gun. On the other hand, he is very concerned with his appearance. He wears a fancy or elaborate costume; he has a pearl-handled pistol. His movements are deliberate, almost balletic.

When Shane enters the picture, he is wearing buckskins. The movie takes place after the Civil War, and I wonder whether buckskins wouldn't be archaic. But this unique garb sets him apart from both the ranchers and the cattlemen. If the buckskins are indeed anachronistic, they mark Shane as one outside time.

This element of being outside of time marks Shane as a type of hero. The character remains nameless for the first ten minutes or so of the movie; he does not share his name until after the conflict between the cattlemen and the ranchers is introduced. He is also super-humanly strong: he helps remove a stump (which also gives Alan Ladd a chance to display his well-defined musculature); he wins a barfight single-handed when he is incredibly out-numbered; and he wins the final gun fight, when the odds are four to one.

There is clearly a sexual tension between Shane and the wife. She notices his toned body. She is aware of his strength, and the thrilling danger just below the surface of that strength. There is a moment when their faces are very close, and there is a look in their eyes which would lead to a kiss in a romantic movie. When Joey, the son, says he loves Shane, we know he is speaking for his mother as much as himself.

I claimed in the first paragraph that this movie is perverse. I make that claim primarily because of the relationship between Shane and Joey. It's clear there is a level of hero worship here, and that Joey begins to see Shane as a surrogate - or even replacement - for his father. Since the boy is presexual, it may be stretching the bounds to read too much into this relationship, but ....

There is a scene near the end, at the dance, of tenderness between Shane and Joey. Shane is standing tall and noble, and Joey is standing next to him with his had cradled near Shane's lap. Vince Packard and Freud both would have field day with the subtext of that image.

Although it's clear that Shane is attracted to the mother, it is a chilvaric affection. In fact, the barfight I mentioned earlier erupts when one of the cattlemen sees the affection as sexual and a form of adultery. Like any good knight, Shane fights to defend the mother's honor.

When the conflict is introduced in the first few minutes of the film, it's clear the settlers are the good guys because they want to resolve disputes through the rule of law and diplomacy. The cattlemen are the bad guys because they lack respect for the law, and seek to resolve their dispute through violence and intimidation.

Shane, the hero beyond time, chooses to lend his strength to the good guys. He enters the civilized world, and human time, by adopting the clothes of the time. But, especially in the context of this type of myth, his entry must be balanced by his dark other.

In order to go into battle, Shane must re-enter the realm of the mythic heroes by adopting his ritual armor (the buckskins). He must renounce the ideal of diplomacy, and resolve the dispute by adopting evil's violent methods.

He wins the gunfight, as he must, against impossible odds. Civilization is maintained, but at a great cost: not only is good preserved by adopting evil's means, but the good guy is mortally wounded. There is a hint, in the final sequence, that Shane is either riding to his death, or to Valhalla.

This is inspirational? Shouldn't the good guy survive?

The movie may be read as a re-telling of the Jesus myth, in which case Shane is the hero/god who sacrifices himself for the good of humanity/civilization. In which case, the message would be inspirational, and we would assume that Shane survives or resurrects in the former of future heroes (e.g., John Wayne).

There is sufficient ambiguity in the movie to read it as an existentialist fable. In a key scene, Shane tells Joey that a gun is not intrinsically good or bad; it is a tool, and the person using it determines whether it is put to a good or bad use. But the primary use of a gun is to kill people. It's primary use is violent, which within the black-and-white morality of the story is evil.

So, again, there is some perversity in the fact that civilization and order are preserved by "evil" means - that is, by violently taking the law into one's own hands. In this reading, the existential hero stands beyond good and evil (to use Nietzsche's phrase) and creates his own ethics.

Self Portrait, 9July06

Self Portrait, 9July06 .

This began in response to the question, "What would I look like bald?" It then morphed (over the course of a half hour) into this sketchy representation.

Post #1610

Cactus Rose

Mystery Plant

I'm trying to write a poem worthy of this photograph. The working title is either "How the Rose Lost Its Teeth" or "How the Rose Got Its Thorns"

I know this isn't really a cactus rose, but I don't know its proper name. All I'm fairly certain of is that it is some kind of succulent. I found this plant in the Whirlwind Mission Cemetary, a little south of Faye, OK.

Opening lines of that poem in progress:

Before the turtle was born
Before the stars learned their names
Before yes, before no
Before the alphabet was formed
Before lightening dreamed of the mason jar
Before snow found its dance
We were waiting for the rose.

When the moon was boiling
When the sun was drowning
When the whirlwind
built a ladder into the abyss
We were waiting on the rose

Short Friday Five

Courtesy of Songbird

• Short People
  Are folks "height challenged" or am I "height advantaged"? Are children smaller versions of adults, or adults in training?
     Often, when I hear a very young child crying in a public place, I think "It's hard when you're under three foot tall, and you have limited means of communication." This charitable thought helps make the noise somewhat more tolerable.
• Short Hops
  There are few destinations within walking distance of my house. I live in what is called Venice Neighborhood (one of the major north-south streets is Venice Blvd). There is a sort of park area about two blocks south of my house, with a charming gazebo and some trees. It's not really much of a park, as the space consists of a two-block long median which is just a few yards wide.
• Short Stories
  The most recent short story I've read is "The Diary of Adam and Eve" by Mark Twain. Guetenberg has a lovely illustrated version of Eve's Diary, and the text of Adam's Diary.
     Serious students of Twain know that he wrote several "translations" of diaries puportedly by figures from Genesis, including Adam, Eve, Seth, and Methuslah. The collection Letters from Earth includes several of these translations, including a slightly different version of Eve's Diary.
     The diary is not laugh out-loud funny, but it is charming. Twain's view of the relation of the sexes is fairly stereotypical (for example, Adam thinks Eve talks too much), but he was a man of his times.
     A couple of things especially caught my attention. First, shortly after she arrives on the scene, Eve starts putting up signs like "Keep Off the Grass." In effect, Twain is saying that women are resposible for the Law.
     Secondly, Adam is annoyed by Eve before the Fall, but comes to accept her afterward. The final line of the story, which I thought was sentimental, is "Wheresoever she was, THERE was Eden." It's a dramatic change for the person who was profoundly annoyed by the "new creature" at the beginning of the diary, and I'm not sure the story fully explains how that change occurs.
• Short Lists
  As a bachelor who is basically too lazy to cook, I tend to live out of boxes. And I generally go grocery shopping once a week. So my grocery list tends to be rather short — three or four items.
• Short Stops
  If I were a baseball fan, I would name my favorite short stops. Can't think of a one. Typically, a journey to the hardware store is a "shortstop". At least it is in comparison to a trip to the bookstore.

Cat Friday

The U.S. may have declared its independence on July 4^th, but I became subject to her ladyship on that date. That is to say, we adopted each other on July 4.

Here, her royal catness, Dame Julian, is seen in action on her throne.

DJ objects to closed doors. I have no doubt closed doors are a form of heresy in feline theology. She is ever vigilant to find ways beyond most closed doors. With the striking exception of the door to the great outdoors. Having been an indoor cat from the time of adoption, she appears to be slightly overwhelmed by the large space on the other side of that door.

In any event, I find I must be vigilant in order to keep her out of places I don't want her. Last night, I was not sufficiently vigilant. Well, I was tired - but that's no excuse. Her ladyship was closed up in my study all night.

I did hear a "meow" and a crash within an hour after I went to sleep, but I thought it was coming from the living room. But when I went into the study to turn on my computer, a cat-sized streak of grey fur sped past my left leg.

I keep the study closed because I store "stuff" I don't want mangled in there. I've been worried about her chewing on the wiring - when she was a kitten, she would chew on anything. I worried about her knocking things over.

Perhaps I worry too much. Which will not be a news flash to those who know me well.

The study was remarkably undisturbed this morning. The keyboard was knocked out of alignment, but that was it. Though I know she can see much better than I in the dark, I suspect there was much she wasn't aware of because it wasn't sparkling. Or moving. Or appearing to be moving, by sparkling.

One thing's for sure. I'm not leaving the study door open to test my theory.

As I say, the fourth was DJ's adoption day. You may leave your belated well-wishes in the comments. I'll be proud to relay them.

Self Portrait, 06July04

Self Portrait, 06July04

Perhaps too late for the Self Portrait Marathon. I took this today, a little after 3 pm local time (which was less than 90 minutes ago.

One reason I took this picture was to document the latest decoration I've added to my guitar head:

Detail from Self Portrait
This is one of two "God's Eyes" I made while at the Watonga Vacation Bible School two weeks ago. I had first heard of a "God's Eye" in elementary school, in fifth or sixth grade. The one I made then was with thick twigs and black-and-white yarn.

This God's Eye was made with varigated yarn. That's why it's multicolored.

My paternal grandfather also put things on the headstock of his guitar. I still have the small guitar, "Made in Mexico", that he strapped on with a rubber band. I suppose I am continuing his tradition.

Independence Day

This past Saturday, July 1, my elderly neighbor offered me a flag. It seemed he had at least two too many flags. I have no doubt he thought he was offering me a great gift, and would have expected to see the flag flying from the notch on my porch today, July 4.

I said no thanks. When he looked sad, and expressed surprise, I said that appreciated the thought. But I really didn't want the flag.

If I had accepted the flag, I would have flown it upside down. Our country is in distress. The grand Declaration we claim to celebrate this day has largely been forgotten. The Constitution is largely a fiction we claim to uphold while various governmental agencies chip away at its foundations.

I knew if I flew the flag upside down, I would have offended everyone in my neighborhood, especially the person who had given it to me. Perhaps I place to much value in laying low or not offending others. But in this instance, it was clear the gift carried certain strings: "If you accept this, you will display it as I would. And if you display it as I do, then you must believe as I believe."

I was not willing to make that bargain. It was more honest to say no as politely as possible. It was not necessary to detail why I declined his charity.

Those documents, the Declaration and the Constitution, avow radical ideals. In writing the Constitution, the Framers hoped to provide a practical framework that would make the ideals expressed in the Declaration possible. We've often fallen short of those ideals. As fallible human beings, it is almost impossible to achieve those ideals.

But we must strive for those ideals, nevertheless. We must never give up on those ideals. We always try to think of ways humans are somehow "superior" to animals. I suggest this as foundational difference between humans and the remainder of the animal kingdom: humans have the capacity to change. Humans have the capacity to strive to be better than the previous generation, or even better than their current state.

Once we give up those ideals, we become an average animal. The same is true if we trade our ideals, a bit at a time, for the porridge of comfort and security.

"All [people] are created equal." As Huitzil points out, the people who wrote that document were thinking of men, and only men who owned property at that. We may think we have progressed since then, but it's so easy to think we are better than someone else. It's so easy to believe we among the forces of good and they are among the axis of evil.

Questing Parson expresses those ideals as a form of prayer. It is a prayer I commend to all other idealists.

---

So, how have I spent my day off?

I declared it a day of liberation. A personal day of independence. It may seem odd, but I declared this to be a day to liberate myself from my darkness. Or laziness.

I cleaned house. This may seem a small thing, but I am both lazy and a slob. So, thoroughly vacuuming the house is a major project.

Somehow the dirt I've allowed to accumulate in the house had a connection with an inner ennui. It related, somehow, to feeling increasingly oppressed by my worst instincts.

So I declared my independence from those instincts. I cleaned house. I tidied up. I washed clothes.

I didn't think about politics or the chimp in chief at all.

I may have little control over national politics, but I can affect the politics of my own heart, and the hearth that I sit beside.

Poetry For Woody

Art and design by Jonah

Woody Guthrie's birthday is July 14. For more than the past decade, a music festival has been held in his hometown of Okemah, OK. Last year, an additional event was added: a poetry reading. Not only did Woody's songs have a poetic quality, but he also wrote poetry.

This year, there will be two poetry readings - one in Norman, OK, Friday 14, and one in Okemah on Saturday the 15th. There will also be a home-made chapbook of poetry by Oklahoma poets. Above, you see the cover I designed for that chapbook. If you click on the image, you'll see the (pdf) poster for the poetry readings. Oklahoma residents are encouraged to print the poster and paper your favorite coffee houses with it.

More about the Woody Guthrie Folk Festival

Watonga VBS: III

Parting Gestures
When I wrote about our dinner presentation on Wednesday night, I didn't tell the full story. Mr. Clark's presentation on Cheyenne cosmology was only half. Rev. Jim was the other half.

As I've mentioned, Jim is a deacon who has served this small community since 1992. A deacon in the Episcopal church is an ordained ministry. Some think of the order as a mini-priest, or a sub priest, but it is a respected order all its own distinct from the priesthood. Prior to this ministry, Jim was a licensed drug and alcohol counselor.

For his presentation, Jim shared a variety of objects that have been given to him during his time in Watonga. These objects included a variety of eagle feathers, a bandelero (a sort of sash worn cross-ways across the upper torso), a beaded cross, and even a cap from the local funeral parlor.

Of special note was a box of items from a man Jim had sponsored in a Sundance some years back. I wrote at length last year about the Sundance, and won't repeat that background now. In this box was an eagle-bone whistle, which the Sundancer had blown during the ceremony. The whistle was given to Jim with the understanding that he would only blow it on special occasions. He told us he had only blown it four times since he had gotten it (which I understand to be more than four years previous), and he intended to blow it again when we left.

That was Wednesday night.

It rained again Friday. We called the pool, and confirmed that it was closed. The pool is open to the weather, and not a place one wants to be if there is a lightening storm. We had to reluctantly tell the kids we would not be taking them swimming.

The VBS kids left around one. We spent a little over an hour thoroughly cleaning the building. A little after two, we all sat down so Jim could debrief us and give us our grade.

It's been a running joke that Jim never gives the VBS organizers better than an A-. This year, he didn't even mention a letter grade. He expressed the wish that more young people from our church could have joined us; beyond that, he invited us to grade ourselves.

He brought in his box, and an eagle feather. Perhaps you picture something small. But remember that the eagle is not a small bird. This feather was at least as long as my arm, and more than two hands wide. He had a small bowl filled with cedar chips and sage smoldering.

He blew the eagle bone whistle. Three times to each direction. It was not a melodious sound. It was piercing and serated. It cut through the heart. It echoed into the sinews.

There is a native tradition we call "smudging". The smoldering bowl is brought before you, and the smoke is wafted in your direction. Many native peoples cup their hands, and bathe themselves with the smoke, then pat themselves over the heart with an open palm.

Jim first smudged one of the young people in our group, Emma. I had been calling Emma princess all week, because she was the sort who would have complained about a pea under her matress. Jim asked her to carry the bowl as he smudged the rest of us. She carried that bowl with regal dignity.

After he wafted the smoke at each person, he then patted them done with the eagle feather. Head, right side, then left side.

A blessing for the road.  

Final Thoughts
This is a craft one of the town's children made. It reads, "You were mad and sometimes sad but at the end it is happy." Amazing how many emotions are described in those few words. And the colorful beads below the words may reflect happiness, but I'd like to think they reflect something more — joy.

We too often think happiness can be bought. Or that it may be contingent on our friends or loved ones. If happiness were a commodity to be bought, it is likely beyond the means of most of these children. Many asked if they could take craft supplies (like construction paper) home. We had bought these supplies on sale, and they were a small part of our budget for the Vacation Bible School. We gave the left-overs gladly.

But each time one of us said "Yes," a child's eyes would sparkle.

I suppose we had come to share joy. Yes, we had some good news about how God is expressed through Jesus. But that was embodied by each volunteer. Ideally, our coming from so far away, and sharing ourselves with them, let these children know how worthy they are. Not that we are so special. But any time an adult can praise a child, that child grows a bit more.

That's why I came. I pray love was expressed in each song. I pray hope was experience in each affirmation. I pray their natural faith was strengthened.

I pray you may find a place to share these gifts as well.

I'm Spidey, Too

You are Spider-Man

Spider-Man 70% Batman 65% Green Lantern 60% Catwoman 60% Superman 55% Iron Man 45% The Flash 45% Hulk 45% Robin 44% Supergirl 40% Wonder Woman 35%

You are intelligent, witty, a bit geeky and have great power and responsibility.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Test

My favorite Spidey Girl made me aware of this test. It's interesting we both rated as "Spidey". I guess I should be a little worried that I scored as 60% Catwoman, but I believe in the androgyny of the soul.

Interesting story about Supergirl. After the success of Richard Donner's Superman, the same company released a film of Supergirl (1984). The main thing that impressed me about the trailers was the title character's bosom. Still, I chose to watch it when I came on cable (which I subscribed to at the time).

I soon discovered that appreciating a woman's clothed chest has limited appeal. Certainly not enough to hold my interest for a little over two hours.

I had coincidentally just finished reading Robert Johnson's book She, a study of a woman's journey based on the myth of Amor and Psyche. It's not a great book, but it's good (also short - about 70 pages). Once I got bored with the lead actress' bosom (her name is Helen Slater), I started comparing the narrative to Johnson's book.

Sure enough, the movie could be interpreted through the same lens. Male figure (played by Peter O'Toole) gives her guidance. Older woman (played by Faye Dunaway) seems like a villain, but actually helps the heroine discover her power.

Faye Dunaway and Brenda Vaccaro both seem to have a great deal of fun chewing the scenery. I vaguely recall a scene in which they conjure some huge electrical monster that bears an uncanny resemblance to the unrestrained Id in the pseudo-Freudian classic Forbidden Planet.

I haven't seen the movie Supergirl since then. I don't know if it would still scan so mythically.

Watonga VBS: Part II

The Vacation Bible School portion of each day only occupies a few hours. Preparations begin around 9:00. Volunteers drive around town to pick up the kids (with parent or guardian permission) at 9:30 am. The kids arrive between 9:30 and 10. Volunteers then take the kids home around 1:00, after which we clean up the church.

The Episcopal mission does not currently have its own building in Watonga — although one is (finally) under construction. The mission's services are held in the Indian Baptist Church, which is also where the Vacation Bible School has been held for at least the past three years.

Jim, the deacon serving the mission, is very intentional about sharing Native American traditions and culture with the volunteers. Every year, he takes us on a tour of sites relating to the ministry of St. Oakerhater. He arranges for dinner speakers who share their knowledge or experience of Native American customs.

I wrote at length about the historical tour in this entry from two years ago. In re-reading the entry, I note how many things I got wrong: for example, I say the place where St. Oakerhater is buried is south of Faye, OK; as it turns out, it's actually in Watonga.

Cheyenne Cosmology
On Wednesday evening, Blu Clark gave a presentation on Cheyenne Cosmology. He began by comparing the Cheyenne mythos with the traditional Western mythos. "When we think of the sky, or the heavens, we think of positive things," he said, "the same is true of the Cheyenne. They believed the sky was the place of the Father God, who provided the rain and sun which planted the seeds for food."

"When we think of the area below the earth, we think of a negative place, which many call Hell. Although the Cheyenne would not have a word (or concept) equivalent to the tradtional Christian image of Hell, they did think of the underworld as a chaotic negative area."

"The disk we walk upon, which many Cheyenne tribes believed was supported by a turtle, was considered feminine — just as we often talk of Mother Earth. This brought forth the abundance which Father Sky had planted."

Blu continued with a discussion of the Cheyenne sense of direction. According to him, the Cheyenne are distinct in observing what we might call "cross-quarter" directions. In other words, most other American Indigenous Peoples understand the cardinal directions in the same way most westerners do. The Cheyenne understand "north" to be where we point for north-east.

Last year, I wrote at length about the animal spirits which reside in each of these cross-quarter directions. The directions are also related to seasons, and times in human development, and also represent colors.

• NE = Red = Birth
• SE = Yellow = Youth
• SW = Black = Adult
• SE = White = Old Age / Sage

Bugs found at the Whirlwind Mission Cemetary

A Choctaw's Life
Wednesday's presentation was by LaDonna, who, as I recall, is a Choctaw.

LaDonna shared that growing up she had been warned of the white man's ways and the white man's religion. Considering how most Native American nations where treated by our government and missionaries, one can hardly wonder why she was raised this way.

LaDonna has always been a spiritual seeker. In addition to attending ceremonies of the Native American Church (a product of the late 19th or early 20th century), she has also followed the Buddhist tradition. In fact, she helped build a Buddhist meditation center in Oklahoma City.

LaDonna's partner invited her to our church. The partner asked LaDonna to at least give it a try, since the church was the partner's home. Once there, LaDonna discovered a welcoming community that she has become increasingly engaged in.

The Choctaw are one of the "Five Civilized Tribes", so called because early Spanish exporers thought their villages seemed resembled European settlements. The Choctaw were primarily farmers, so they tended to stay in one place — unlike the Plains Indians, who were primarily nomadic.

The Choctaw are also known for their strong sense of charity. For example, during the Irish Famine of 1847 they collected $710, which was sent to aid those starving in Ireland. The Irish still honor this gesture; when LaDonna recently visited Ireland, she was treated as a visiting dignitary.

LaDonna has a beautiful singing voice, and shared a pair of songs from a Choctaw Hymnal. This hymnal was a gift from her grandmother. As Pam noted, one could hear LaDonna's deep spirituality expressed through her singing.

Next: Parting gestures and final thoughts

Watonga Vacation Bible School

This is the third year I have been involved in the Vacation Bible School our church offers to the mission church in Watonga, OK. Watonga is a little over an hour west of Oklahoma City. The town's economy is primarily supported by farming and a near-by prison.

The main crop is wheat. Since there has been little rain since late 2005, there is not much wheat crop to harvest. So, Watonga is even more depressed right now than normal.

There are now three churches that offer three different Vacation Bible Schools in Watonga: ours, one from Norman, and one from Duncan. We go because Watonga is the historic home of St. David Pendleton Oakerhater, a Cheyenne warrior who became a deacon in the Episcopal Church.

He founded an Indian Mission and Boarding school a few miles south of Watonga. Sometime in the early 1900s, he was forced to close that mission, and opened a new one closer to Watonga.

As I see it, our Vacation Bible School is one way we continue St. Oakerhater's ministry to the people in this area, especially the Native Americans.

There are not many places for our "missioners" to stay in Watonga: a couple of bed & breakfasts, two or three motels, and a lodge about 6 miles north of town. The current deacon for the mission, Rev. Jim, always selects the least expensive motel in town. This is in consideration of the fact that our church covers the cost of the motel for the missioners.

The motel we stayed in last year was especially bad: bugs, suspicious plastic covering on the bed, generally unhealthy atmosphere in the rooms. One day, we chose to put quarters in the drier in order to have clean towels. That motel burned sometime in the past few months. I walked by the motel, and my immediate suspicion was "insurance fire".

The place we stayed this year was much better, by comparison. The primary down-side was initial haggling about the number of rooms we had reserved, and the loss of hot water on Thursday and Friday. Regarding that latter point, it turned out that a water line had broken.

Ten adults (some for only a day), and five young people from our church were volunteered. About thirty youth from the town attended, from toddler to teen-age; the town's teen-agers also helped looked after the youngest children.

It rained Wednesday night, and some Thursday morning, and our voluteers chose to keep the kids inside. That meant a lot of pent-up energy in a relatively small space. The noise level was rather maddening.

I was worried we'd have the same situation on Friday, when it rained even more. Normally, we take the VBS kids swimming on Friday; it's something we promise them every day. It's an out-door pool, which means it's not safe during a thunderstorm. So, once again, we had to keep the kids inside and reluctantly disappoint them with the loss of the promised swimming. But they were better behaved on Friday. Pam, the official storyteller for the VBS, suspected barometric pressure was a factor in the kids' wildness on Thursday.

Next: Tours and presentations
Post #1600

Idée d’jour

It's hard to be religious when certain people are never incinerated by bolts of lightning.
— Bill Watterson, comic strip artist (1958- ), in his comic strip Calvin & Hobbes

Idée d’jour

If we would have new knowledge, we must get a whole world of new questions.
— Susanne K. Langer, professor of philosophy

Why I've Been Gone

I've been out of town since Tuesday afternoon. I had a pressing project on Tuesday, so didn't have time to notify you, faithful reader, that I would be out of pocket for three days. Sans computer, sans internet access.

I went with a group of other people from my church to offer Vacation Bible School in Watonga, OK, a barely-there community about an hour west of OKC (as the raven flies). This is the third year I've made this "mission trip," and I've posted somewhat obsessively detailed reports in the past. Compared to past years, this VBS was rather low key in some respects. The report may turn out to be more brief than in the past.

In any case, I'm back. I have some pictures to share. One in particular, of a craft created by one of the children attending our VBS, may prove to be of special interest. Especially to Pam.

Self Portrait, 19June06

Self Portrait, 19June06


Today's entry in the self portrait marathon. I took the picture of me yesterday morning, when I was charmed by how the dawning sun illuminated one side of my face. I took a back-up shot of the bookshelf this morning. Look closely, and you'll note a difference in angle and lighting.

As to part of my face being transparent, we'll leave that to the arm-chair psychologists and closet mystics to discern.

I don't really intend this self-portrait thing to be a daily practice. I'm not that enamored of my face. Believe it or don't.

Idée d’jour

...you can't observe life as you're living it.
— Alynda Wheat, in review of Carolyn Parkhurst's novel, Lost and Found; Entertainment Weekly, June 18, 2006, pg 78

Praising the Muse

We praise the Muse who calls us to hide in plain site, like Poe's lost letter.
We praise the Muse who flips the card picturing the Pale Rider.
We praise the Muse who kisses our pencil.
We praise the Muse who sleeps beside our words.
We praise the Muse who leads us to our subterranean river.

The Muse may treat us like a one-night stand, yet we praise her.
The Muse may sell our dreams with an ice cream jingle, yet we praise her.
The Muse may bind our hearts with adamantine chains, yet we praise her.
The Muse may be as fleeting as the wind, as faithful as a cat,
yet we praise her.

The Muse has a snake twining up her arm.
We praise her.
The Muse dances naked in our living room.
We praise her.
The Muse drinks our fantasies.
We praise her.
The Muse demands, she does not deign to tempt.
We praise her.

I bring my lonely army of empty words,
I bring my blank calendar pages,
I bring my half-filled notebooks,
I bring my darkening voice,
I bring my first words and my last,
I bring them all to the altar of the muse.

---

This started as a comment in response to this post by the lovely Ms. Candide. These words are for you, Sam.

Self Portrait 06June17

Self Portrait 06June17.

This is my first entry in the "self portrait marathon" initiated by Augustine and Sparky. The image on the left was captured in May (remember my "Miami Mice" shot?). The image of the lady, on the right, was captured yesterday morning. There is some slight background distortion.

Idée d’jour

For $10,000 I'd endorse an opium pipe.
— Fanny Brice, comic and chanteuse; famously fictionalized in Funny Girl and Funny Lady

Neighbor's Flowering Bush

Neighbor's Flowering Bush 06June16.

As I was taking pictures of my fledgling butterfly garden yesterday morning, I also took this shot of a bush in my neighbor's yard. The bush grows at the southeast corner of the neighbor's house. The house is to the west of me.

The woman who lived in this house passed away a year ago. Her son in-law, and a young man I presume is his son, have been slowly redoing the interior of the house. Their yard work has been spotty at best. I doubt they've bothered to water this bush.

Considering the heat and lack of rain for the past two to three months, this must be a very hardy breed of bush.

Wild Flower

This is actually a Rose of Sharon. The flash over-exposed the flower, so I took the shot into my cyber dark room and started to play. It may not be art, but it's interesting. (Click the image for full-sized view)
Post #1590

Friday Five: Catching Some zzzzzzz

This week's questions regarding blessed sleep come courtesy of Reverend Mother.

1. In what kind of environment do you sleep best?
   As little light as possible. Mild temperature (around 70°). Two pillows. In the summer, I either sleep in the buff, or in my undies. In the winter, I wear pajama top, but only boxer shorts below.


2. How much sleep do you need to feel consistently well-rested?
   Around 8 hours is ideal. If I get less than six hours, I can be pretty grouchy.


3. Night owl or morning person?
   Morning person. I wake up 6 whether the alarm is set or not. Sleeping late means I slept until 8.


4. Favorite cure for insomnia
   Favorite cause of insomnia — drinking caffeine any time after about 1 pm. Second most likely suspect are times of stress, when I feel like there are not enough hours in the day to complete my appointed tasks. In the second instance, I do my best to release those anxieties before I go to sleep. When I hit my limit of restless or sleepless nights (~3-4 in a row), I take a Benedril and three ibuprofen.


5. To snooze or not to snooze? Why or why not?
   I took the occasional nap before DJ & I adopted each other. Under DJ's tutelage and encouragement, I have become a fan of the power nap. My naps typically last about a half hour. DJ still has me beat though - her naps can last as long as three hours.

Cat Friday

The lady poses. This shot was taken a little after 6 o'clock this morning.

We very nearly did not have a feline shot today. The photographer was a gardener last night. I totally broke up the ground in the little plot on the south side of the house last night. I started around 6 pm, and didn't quit until around 8. I had no trouble getting to sleep. In fact, I drifted off a bit after 9, as I lay on the couch.

Did have a struggle getting out of bed this morning. But here I am.

If you'll scroll down to my "New Moon Planting" post, you'll note that I've corrected the plant names. After a fashion. I tested the flowers on the taller plant, and sure enough, it's dill (as Sam suggested in her comment on the previous post). All I know about the other, at this point, is that it is not basil. The fronds have no discernable aroma, so no clues there.

Through it all, her royal catness has been very tolerant.

Idée d’jour

One of the best ways to get yourself a reputation as a dangerous citizen these days is to go about repeating the very phrases which our founding fathers used in the great struggle for independence.
— Charles A. Beard, historian (1874-1948)

Bon Jour!

Your Inner European is French!

Smart and sophisticated. You have the best of everything - at least, you think so.

Who's Your Inner European?

New Moon Planting

Dill 06May13 .


Unknown 06May13.

After visiting Brother Dave's estates, I was inspired to attempt some planting. Linda is a member of the local Master Gardener society, and has done some lovely landscaping. I was especially impressed with plants that drew butterflies (such as lantana), and vowed to do something similar when I got home.

Linda strongly advised I look at local nurseries rather than box stores, such as Home Despot. She had recommended several plants, and I settled on lantana and dill. I went to a farmer's market sponsored by a local vo-tech. I bought lantana and dill (about $3 total). The lady who sold me the dill said basil would draw butterflies as well.

My cyber friend, Sam, had blogged that the new moon was an excellent time to plant things. She suggested they would come to fruition by the full moon.

By the time I got the plants home, it was too hot to think about planting. I set them on a shaded window sill. It was a windy afternoon, and the lantana blew off. It looked pretty sad when I got around to planting it, and it has subsequently wilted away.

Ironically, my neighbor (who is also quite a gardener) pointed out that some lantana had volunteered itself on the east side of my house. Well, I'm not so obsessive that I need to have all my "butterfly plants" in one place. It can stay where it's happy.



Dill 06June11 .


Unknown 06June11

The full moon is tonight. As you can see from these photographs, Sam was right.

Friday Five: Rain

Today's conversation starters are offered by Songbird. She is experiencing a surfeit of percipitation. Here in the home of the dustbowl, on the other hand, we are experiencing a derth of wet stuff.

1. Favorite way to spend a rainy day
   With a good book. Or a romantic movie. Or watching the rain.
2. Favorite song about rain
   "It's Raining, It's Pouring", or the Beatles song ("Rain")
3. Favorite movie featuring rain
   Say Anything. The obvious Gene Kelly movie shall not be mentioned.
4. Favorite piece of raingear, past or present
   Poncho purchased in Winfield, KS, as response to torrential downpour during music festival. That poncho is now a permanent ficture in my suitcase.
5. Favorite word for rain
   Cloudburst. Least favorite image is the whole "God or angels crying" thing.

Friday's Cat

Idée d’jour

We may not return the affection of those who like us, but we always respect their good judgment.
— Lillian Carter, mother of President Jimmy Carter

Skeleton of Words

Morning makes its appointed rounds.
I see a rainbow
painted on eastern clouds
with a dry brush.

I've bound your song
to my arm,
where my heart beats.

Your smile scampers
up your cheeks,
and sparkles your noon-tide eyes.

Your honey lingers through twilight,
through branching streets,
through dancing shadows.
Your honey is a rainbow song
I wrap myself in like a blanket.

This thin skeleton of words
is the fragile shell
I've constructed for your dream.

Idée d’jour

Sit down and put down everything that comes into your head and then you're a writer. But an author is one who can judge his own stuff's worth, without pity, and destroy most of it.
— Colette (1873-1954)
Post #1580

Blockbuster Friday Five

As suggested by Reverend Mother. As a bonus, we are invited to guess which movies inspired these questions.

1. If you were a mutant, what ability would you like to have? (think superpower)
   Funny, this came up in the RLP chatroom a couple of weeks back. Only then we were considering superpowers based on talents we already have. Mine was a superior knowledge of basically useless trivia.
   The question is inspired by the movie X-Men III: The Last Stand. In the movie, the government discovers a drug which will make mutants "normal." Having been born with a very visible birth defect, this is a question that speaks to me. From birth through high school I went under the knife several times for plastic surgery intended to make me look more normal. Sometime during my college years — or perhaps slightly after — I learned to accept that my current appearance is as close to normal as I'm going to ever be. I learned to live with my face as it is.
   


2. Tell us about a memorable road trip you've experienced.
   The bus ride to Princeton, NJ, would count. I went with a high school friend, Gary S. Seems like the trip took at least three days and two nights. We arrived at Grand Central Station sleep deprived. I don't think I ever recovered during the three months I stayed in the four-person artists' colony. Four dudes in a two-bedroom apartment.
   I assume this question was inspired by RV, by all accounts a Robin Williams movie worth avoiding.
   


3. Do you enjoy solving riddles and working on puzzles? If so, what kinds?
   I work crossword puzzles on-line every day. I used to be quite adept at cryptoquotes, but seem to have lost the knack. I'll confess that when I read a mystery novel — one of my favorite genres — I rarely try to solve that puzzle. I'm happy to follow the main character, and let him or her do all the work.
   This question was inspired by The Da Vinci Code. I have not seen it, but suspect I will.


4. Take two of your phobias and combine them to make a campy horror/disaster flick. What would it be called?
   The main phobia I'm aware of is a fear of heights. Related to that is a mild fear of flying. These might fit into the next Final Destination sequel (God forfend), but I can't imagine a whole movie built around them.
   There are a couple of horror movies out at present, See No Evil and Silent Hill. This question was possibly inspired by one or both of these.


5. Just how batsh*t crazy is Tom Cruise, anyway?
   He's a Scientologist, a "religion" essentially created by the writer of mediocre pulp science fiction (L. Ron Hubbard). 'Nuff said. Mr. Cruise may be slightly crazier than John Travolta, who is also a Scientologist. I suspect we enjoy taking pot shots at Tom because he has been on such a high pedastel of popularity until his couch-jumping and anti-psychiatrist antics of the past year.
   Oh yeah, Mr. Cruise has a bang-bang boom-boom movie out this summer based on a TV spy show of the 1960s.

Friday's Cat

DJ and I got a good nap when I got home from work yesterday. As soon as I had changed, I became one with the couch. Shortly after, DJ became one with my chest. It was a quite homey scene. I slept for an hour, she slept at least a half hour longer.

Of course, this provided DJ with considerable energy for running back and forth the remainder of the evening. I was lucky to catch this shot with minimal blur. It was taken with my high-powered Digital SLR; f-stop 5.6, don't recall what the shutter speed was. I was also playing with an ISO of 1000. Not sure how much influence those ISO settings play with a digital camera, so I indulged in an experiment.

Behind and to the right of our lady is a guitar case Elsie brought back from Bolivia. It's too small for any of my guitars - I suspect it was made for a parlor-sized guitar. But it does add some color to my living space.

Thinking 'bout Salvation

One of the things one rarely talks about at work is religion. It’s part of that triad of topics traditionally considered to be taboo at the table (the other two being sex and politics), and that same triad is typically avoided at work. Given the demographics of this particular office and state (the latter being the buckle of the Bible Belt), it’s safe to assume most of my co-workers are Christian. But only two have talked about it to any degree.

One is Dianne, who is an African American and a member of a Baptist Church. I mention Dianne’s cultural heritage only because the African American Baptists are very distinct in their traditions and beliefs than Caucasian Baptists.

I’ll admit I am prejudiced – against Baptists. When I learned Dianne was a Baptist, I feared she would try to proselytize me. I feared we would argue about some arcane of theology. I learned over time that Dianne was a reasonable person, and wasn’t concerned with proselytizing her co-workers. In fact, she was involved in her church in ways similar to how I was involved in mine.

The first Christmas after I joined the office, I gave Dianne a card in which I wrote how glad I was to work in an area with a fellow Christian. Since then, she has approached me as a friend and sibling in the faith.

Yesterday, she told me about an incident that happened when she and team of missionaries went to witness to a relatively rough neighborhood. After she knocked, a man came to the door, and she asked him if he had thought about his salvation.

He responded that he hadn’t, and he didn’t care about it.

She was shocked by his response, and seemed to hope that I would be shocked as well.

I assume the man just didn’t want to be bothered, and had chosen a rude method of communicating that message. I also pointed out that it was possible he was trying to get a rise out of her. There are people who enjoy getting other peoples’ goat.

If she was disappointed that I didn’t share her shock, she didn’t let on. But she just couldn’t understand how someone could be so cavalier about their eternal state.

Episcopalians don’t talk about salvation very much. Even a recovering Baptist who has transferred her membership to the Episcopal church is not likely to ask: "Have you been saved," even though that was once part of her tradition. An Episcopalian is more likely to give you a dissertation on the root meaning of the word (root of salvation is salve, which means to be healed or whole).

What question would I have posed to the man, if I had been part of Dianne’s team?

When I ask myself this, I immediately remember a scene from the musical version of The Cottonpatch Gospel. The musical, by Harry Chapin, translates the traditional story of Jesus’ life to the deep South during segregation. In one scene, Jesus meets Matthew (the tax collector) for the first time. Jesus sits across the table and asks, "Do you like what you’re doing?"

I think that might be a more meaningful question to many people. There’s more concern about current needs and pleasures than the future. And one of the most common criticisms of Christianity is that it’s all pie in the sky in the great by and by. What might the response be if I asked person if they were pleased with how their life is right now?

How would I respond? I may not seem happy, but I am joyous. And I take solace in the belief that I do not walk my road alone.

Circles

Some time a little over a month ago, I received an e-mail invitation to attend a retirement party. The name of the retiree was unfamiliar to me, but that's not unusual; I'm infamously poor at remembering names. As I mentioned to a church friend last Sunday, if I don't repeat the name at least once a week, it gets lost. In this instance, I could not recall the face that belonged to Carol K–.

There were a number of addresses in the e-mail's header, many of which belonged to names I associate with Oklahoma City's poetry community. I'm at the far periphery of this community, but consider it to be filled with kindred spirits. I took it for granted I would recognize the honoree once I saw her. I also took it for granted that I would see at least one or two other familiar faces.

The retirement reception was Tuesday. It was held at a local church; people had been asked to arrive no later than 6:15. The church is close to where I work, so I would have some time to kill. Happily, there is a cafeteria across the street from the church, and I had dinner prior to the reception.

I ambled the block from the cafeteria to the church. The reception was in the meeting hall, which is on the southwest side of the church building. I walked in and looked around, hoping to see at least one familiar face.

For a moment, I feared I was in the wrong place. I almost asked. Then I saw Frank. Frank is a mentor of the Norman Poetry community. He founded an organization called Independent Artists of Oklahoma (IAO), which still exists today. I recall the original as being relatively avant-garde ; the current incarnation is slightly more mainstream.

I was on the way to say hello to Frank when Sandy came up to me, and started sharing her affection for Carol. It turned out Sandy remembered me from days when I was more actively involved with the poetry scene. We had a lovely chat, which included Sandy complimenting my voice. She has experience in radio and voice-overs, and naturally has an ear for such things. So we compared notes on our radio experience.

I visited with Frank for a while. I visited with his companion, Sarah, for several minutes. A bit after 6:15, Carol K– came in.

I recognized her immediately. We have more communities in common than just poetry.

I probably first met her through her church, which is Unitarian. I have sung at that church a few times, as half of a folk duo. In many ways I consider myself Unitarian by adoption.

I've also seen her at several poetry events. I think she's heard me read at least once.

I've also seen her at folk music events, such as the annual Woody Guthrie Festival in Okemah (coming July 13-15 this year).

Carol K– and I have at least three circles that intersect. It turned out Carol was retiring from teaching. There was opportunity for folk to share favored memories of Carol — so she got a well-rounded Tom Sawyer experience — and many of those memories had to do with how her teaching had touched their lives or the lives of their children. Her active support of poetry led people to refer to her as both doyen and grand dam.

Pictured: Butterfly decoration on digitally-generated background

Hearing stories of how one person has touched so many lives is inspirational. It was clear, from the affection of the group, that Carol didn't help people so they would say nice things about her when she was gone, or for ego strokes, but because that's who she is. She is clearly a person who knows that helping others is part of what it means to be human.

I came to the reception in hopes of widening my social circle. One reason I hope to widen my social circle is to counteract an undertone of loneliness I'm currently experiencing. Another reason is the suspicion that I'm more likely to meet that special someone if I get out more often.

These are, admittedly, rather selfish reasons. But I was rewarded with more than I sought. I saw how once person, who gave of her time and talents simply because it was the right thing to do, touched lives in every circle she was a part of.

Carol K– has clearly been a light to the people she's met. I have no doubt she will continue to teach through example, and continue to be a light.

Discovering the intersection of our circles shed light in my world.