Saturday, March 10, 2018
Thursday, March 1, 2018
To write an effective blog post, one needs to narrow their focus into a wafer-thin slice of life, a neat little serving of five to eight hundred words that connect to the larger world while serving as a complete thing unto itself.
But I am having a harder and harder time of cutting things down. Even though I have a surfeit of personal and cultural dividing lines to choose from (and nothing serves as a better dividing line than the death, deliberate or not, of a parent), I am feeling less and less inclined to make those surgical slices. Everything happening in the world and everything happening in my life seems all too connected, and yet connections that are honest, faithful and true seem much too few in these declining days.
When I wake in the morning, the world presents itself in terms that are sharply reduced from any other time I have known; but I am in denial. I know now that no one I meet from here on will ever see me as anything but an “old man;” but I know the truth of it and see myself at all ages looking out on a world that swims by in a blur.
I find myself becoming less and less interested in the future; my personal time machine takes me most often to places where everyone I loved is still alive.
Saturday, February 17, 2018
Monday, January 15, 2018
I have been awfully, terribly remiss about posting here on the blog. I do have a couple of substantive (i.e., non-promotional) posts in the works that I hope to have ready sometime in the next few days (the appalling state of our culture has driven me to it at last)... but in the meantime, you'll have to settle for this notice that I should have put up over a month ago....
Two affordable editions.
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HALLOWEEN IS JUST A TURN OF THE CARD AWAY.
Monday, October 16, 2017
Outside of work, Sandy P______ and I were not close. Certainly we got on all right, and worked well together, for two people who were polar opposites in so many many ways. She was a married older woman with two sons coming of age, a real salt-of-the-earth working class Republican from south of the Mason-Dixon line, where I am a Northern Liberal writer and graphic artist, both childless and single. But we liked each other and had a good, strong working relationship, nothing more. Which makes the thing that happened that much stranger.
In time I moved on to a different job for a different employer. As far as I know, Sandy stayed on at the bookstore until she became too sick to work.
I believe that she must have been in her mid-fifties when she was diagnosed with cancer. I had not seen her in several years, but I heard about her illness through the so-called grapevine: Waterville, Maine is a small town.
She fought it hard. It went into remission — then it came back.
The last time I saw Sandy was in a local supermarket. I was heading to the checkout counter when I heard my name being called enthusiastically from the distance. I followed the sound into one of the aisles and there found Sandy in a wheelchair, being pushed by her loving husband, who had himself shed his normal appearance of vitality for that of the strained caregiver — a look I was myself to become too familiar with in later years.
She was wearing a turban to hide her baldness, but was smiling and seemed as full of energy as ever, despite the chair. She had taken on that contradictory aspect that one sometimes sees in very sick people: drained, yet full of life. We exchanged a few pleasant words, said our goodbyes and each moved on.
I did not see her or have any news of her for several months after that meeting. Life went on.
Then, early one morning, when I was in that middle-ground between sleeping and waking, she came to me in a dream.
In that dream, I was literally coming back from some Deeper Place, from a deeper dream that I do not remember, when she and I met in passing in a public park. I was surprised to see her. She greeted me as enthusiastically as she had in the supermarket. There was no sign of the turban or wheelchair. She looked her old self.
We sat down at a picnic table that sprang up out of nowhere to accommodate us. I remember being really glad to see her. I said, “How are you? You look great!”
And she did. She had her hair and her color and her vitality back, all at Full Strength.
She said, “I am great, I’m completely cured! They were ready to put me in a pine box, but I showed them!”
Which is just how she talked in real life. Emphatic. With just a hint of a southern accent.
We sat for just a bit and talked a little more; but then the time came when I had to go. I got up and left her there at the table. Suddenly, she looked quite sad.
I woke, remembering everything and feeling so strange. I understood immediately what had happened, yet I shrugged it off and thought, Wouldn’t that be odd if…
No more had I gotten dressed and made my way down to the kitchen when the telephone rang. It was Ellen R________, our former boss at the bookstore.
Sandy had died during the night.
I will not tell you that what I experienced was anything other than a dream. And yet I remember it vividly all these years later, and wonder why, of all the people in her life, she came to see me.
Monday, September 18, 2017
Blue Horror: the thoughts that come to us in the middle of the night, serving no purpose other than to steal our sleep.
If the same thoughts come to us by day, we can always push them aside, pound them into submission, even laugh at them until exposure to the sun dwindles them to ash like the vampiric things that they are. But in the dead of night they leave us staring wide-eyed into our past or future (or both). Not even having the nicest pussyquat in the world to snuggle up to can help us cast these thoughts aside: for especially when we are in the grip of our Blue Horrors, we become aware of how very very temporary everything is.
Apologies up front. This is going to be a startlingly disorganized post, although it all sort of comes into focus at the end. Sort of.
I’m typing this from inside a gigantic fishbowl. The humidity has never been below 87 percent for the last three days, and just now it is up to 100 percent. It’s not raining — yet — but the skies are a desperate gray-green. I would not be surprised (although it would brighten my day considerably with wonder) if fishes were to fly past my windows, in the manner of the flying fishes in Yellow Submarine, which in turn evoke the kind of animations Terry Gilliam used to do for Monty Python.
It’s been the worst year for weather that I can remember; which I suppose is only fair since 2016 was a genuine weather wonder and delight, the kindest weather year I can remember since I was a young person and everything was new (See paragraph one above).
On the other hand, it’s been a great year for media. Modern technology has put all of film and television history at my fingertips, including bits of it that I presumed were lost forever, looking in most cases better than it ever did back in the day. Last night I sat in the dark of my library, tears streaming down my cheeks as I watched a collection of vintage TV commercials. It certainly wasn’t the commercials themselves that made me so sad, although some have taken on some sad and even horrifying aspects with time. As you’ve likely guessed, it was more about the Lost World that they took me back to, the people, places, pets and things that are gone forever.
Among other things, I have spent some considerable time in the past year almost obsessively tracking down and watching the TV shows that aired when I was a child too young to stay up and watch them. You know — the shows I was well aware of, but never had the chance to see what they were about.
It’s been a lot of fun, but it does leave me (living alone with just my pussyquats, and in no sense feeling any degree of self-pity about that) identifying just a little bit with Doug and Tony, the two scientists lost in Time in Irwin Allen’s 1966 series The Time Tunnel.
It’s a way of making Old Things New, and in that department, this is the year that I finally made the connection between three or four of Britain’s great Comedy and Musical Super-Groups. Of course I could have gone to the Wikipedia pages and found it all out much sooner, but it’s more fun the way it happened to me.
My friend Dave [Naybor], who for more than a decade has been with some dedication turning out an epic comics adventure called Walking Christendom, introduced me to The Bonzo Dog Band back in the eighties when he brought a two-LP set called History of the Bonzos over to my house. That’s what friends do best, I think: introduce us to New Things we would never have discovered on our own.
The Bonzos are a British art band whose style wanders delightfully all over the map, connected only by the kind of worldview that takes nothing seriously… my kind of worldview. I was never able to lay my hands on a copy of that album, but this year a three-CD set called Cornology dropped virtually into my lap. The cover art, done all in delightful Gilliamesque collage, makes it quite evident that the Bonzos rose out of the same vein of British Humor that gave us Monty Python. More on that in a moment.
A few years earlier, I became a big fan of The Goodies during the five minutes that it aired on U.S. Public Television stations. Here was a comedic venture way ahead of its time, which at its best delved deeply into the surreal and used “off the wall” as its starting point. Graham Garden, Bill Oddie and Tim Brooke-Taylor played three inventively silly types whose motto was “We Will Do Anything, Anytime.” This credo usually resulted in things like runaway houses, or flying bicycles and mouse costumes being used to reduce a giant kitten down its proper size. After literally decades of wanting to see the show again, it finally came back to me this year: still not available in the U.S.A., nonetheless it’s out there to be torrented if you know where to look. I learned that The Goodies, much like The Three Stooges, represent a kind of humor that requires a genuinely child-like frame of mind in order to be appreciated. Grown-ups need to leave that whole adulting thing at the door.
Meanwhile, the gestation of Monty Python is vividly laid out in two DVD sets from Tango Entertainment, and here’s where it all gets tied up in a neat bow. At Last The 1948 Show was written by John Cleese, Graham Chapman and Marty Feldman, and starred Cleese, Chapman, Feldman, Tim-Brooke Taylor, Aimee MacDonald and sometimes Eric Idle. Watching it today, we see that it is very, very much the brain or sensibility of Monty Python — but something is missing, something dreadfully important.
As we’ve seen, Tim Brooke-Taylor went on to become the third member of The Goodies. Marty Feldman had his own — very funny — show for a while, where it became evident that he worked best as a solo performer. He died much too young.
Produced by the same company as Cleese and Chapman’s 1948 Show, Do Not Adjust Your Set was a children’s show written by Terry Jones, Eric Idle and Michael Palin, and starring them plus David Jason, Denise Coffey … and The Bonzo Dog Band (in later years, when the Pythons went on tour, Neil Innes — a founding member of The Bonzos — became a de facto Python, touring with them and performing musical bits between sketches). Terry Gilliam did some minor animations for them in their second series. Again, the show possesses the charming, childlike heart of Monty Python… but it’s missing Python’s cutting edge. When the creators of the two shows finally got together — that was when the real magic happened.
So anyway. This was the year that I learned how Monty Python, The Goodies, The Bonzo Dog Band (and although I haven’t gotten into it, The Beatles) are all connected to each other in delightful ways. And again, yes, I could have found all this out much sooner if I’d just studied the Wikipedia pages on all those groups. But it was a heckova lot more fun seeing it happen first-hand, for myself.
Sunday, July 9, 2017
It’s helped me to realize an important truth about life: most of us really are just pretending to know what in the heck we’re doing.
When we’re children, our parents seem godlike creatures whose power and abilities stop just short of shaping the weather or determining the rising and setting of the sun. Even when we reach our teen years, they have a controlling say in our lives that sometimes causes resentment. That resentment can topple over into something more hurtful if we see our parents behaving in ways that we know they shouldn’t… and if we can see it, we ask ourselves, why can’t they?
Beings that powerful are supposed to be faultless. At the very least, they are supposed to know what they are doing. The realization that my parents were only human just seemed to deepen my anger, especially towards my father, who persisted in behaving in ways that brought damage and hurt to the family, and who seemed to be utterly indifferent to the impact that his actions had on my mother, and on the rest of us.
It wasn’t until I got considerably along into my fifties, and got there knowing that I was still inept, still awkward, still ignorant about such things as how to get along in my own life, that I was able to look back and think, Good God. Mom and Dad were a decade younger than I am now when they were blundering along cluelessly, focussing on their own problems to the detriment of their children’s lives, doing the things that slowly drove the family apart. Here I am, ten years older than they were at the time, and it’s all still a Mystery to me. I’m only (perhaps) just now beginning to grow up. A little. What must it have been like for them, when they were thirty years old with two kids and other stresses that I have never had to face?
I think: thank goodness I never had kids. I’d have been even more inept at parenting than my own Mom and Dad. My kids would hate me; and like as not I would spend much of my time staring uncomprehendingly at them as if they were Space Aliens.
Somewhere in the realm of adulting, you start to realize that you’re not the only insensible cretin in the world, and that everyone, just like you, is making it up as they go along. Some more successfully than others, ’tis true, but then all people are not made equal.
Playing games is to some extent a way of reassuring ourselves that we’re not Completely Incompetent under the facade, that we can handle a challenge when it’s thrown down at us. Life does teach us in a roundabout way to expect drama and mystery; but when Drama arrives in real life, it’s never in the way that we’ve been led to imagine. It arrives when we aren’t looking and strikes down the towering pillars of our lives that we always assumed would be immutable and immune. Dragons and Devils, we know how to fight those things. Give us a Quest and we know what to do with it. But what of the losses that leave us standing alone in the night, without a weapon, without a windmill?