This year I may have set a record for number of books started but not read all the way through. Normally, it's rare for me to pick a book that I can't hang with to the end, but within the last month I've returned at least three to the library unfinished. One of them I started twice and even got most of the way through before deciding it was a bit too gloomy for a love story. A couple of others had mythological themes that seemed promising at first but lost me for one reason or another.
I seem to have more problems finishing books written within the last few years than I do with earlier ones. I perceive this to be a reflection of the unsettled times we're living in, which somehow find their way into even the most innocuous of stories, tales of romance, adventure, and suspense. It's not a reflection on the capabilities of the writers, but more a problem with my thinking I'm getting one kind of book and finding I've gotten another. It's also been the case that I didn't finish a book (Jake Arnott's The House of Rumour) because the theme, though adeptly handled, was rather dark. (This I consider to be my own judgment and not the fault of the author.)
It's one thing to be topical and another to be memorable. Occasionally, one stumbles upon a book that seems to reflect the tenor of the times unflinchingly, and one comes away the better for it. The author performs a kind of alchemical magic on contemporary themes so that they are recognizable but transmuted, a remarkable sea change akin to Heart of Darkness morphing into Apocalypse Now. I've seen it in authors like Jane Smiley, Donna Tartt, Mark Helprin, and Ian McEwan, as well as in writers previously unknown to me whose works came back to haunt me later, like Lorrie Moore, Amor Towles, and David Mitchell. (Bark, anyone? Rules of Civility? The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet?)
If I were to name a mythological idea that seems common to many of these authors' recent works, I would mention some darkness around issues of Eros. Is that surprising? You may ask what that has to do with contemporary American/world affairs, which seem on the evidence to be caught up in much drier and more prosaic issues of power and money. I agree, but for whatever reason, content connected to a disturbed Eros crops up in many of the recent works of fiction I've seen. Of course, surface content often obscures latent content, in both life and fiction, and never does a theme appear in isolation. Eros and power, and Eros and money, in particular, tend to be quite combustible combinations.
Thursday, June 4, 2015
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Iphigenia's Lament
Last week, I wrote about the theatrical quality of much of what passes for news these days. This week, events surrounding the debate in the U.S. Congress on the renewal of expiring Patriot Act provisions have been in the headlines. The episode itself, despite all the drama accompanying it, seems all too serious and real, without the need for anyone to inject rhetorical flourishes.
What bothers me is that the debate over Section 215, important as it, falls short of addressing privacy issues that are outside its scope (for example, Section 702 of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Amendments Act, which has been used to scoop up email content and Internet searches, among other things, is a separate law). I've seen assorted opinions expressed on the "USA Freedom Act," what will happen if Section 215 sunsets, and whether various provisions in the Patriot Act actually enhance security in any way. The more I learn, the more I see the need for serious reform. The gag orders associated with production of data, the secrecy of the FISA court's workings, the relative ease with which the government has been able to command vast amounts of personal information--all of these are troubling.
I know that the USA Freedom Act is considered a small but positive first step by many privacy advocates, but forgive me for saying that if the intelligence community and the Obama administration are OK with it, I assume it can't be strong enough. Some have argued that expiration of Section 215 might be the best thing that could happen, since it practically ensures a re-evaluation of the program, and I'm not sure that I don't agree. Certainly this seems preferable to trying to cobble together a compromise at the last minute on a deadline. The law is too complex, and the issues are too important, for that to be wise. Apparently, some lawmakers complained after 9/11 that they were railroaded into approving the Patriot Act without a complete understanding of what it entailed. There's no excuse for that to happen again.
The potential for abuse in the collection of personal data in the name of security is no mere fantasy. "Metadata" sounds so abstract but reveals more than you might think it could at first glance. (As one NSA official put it, "If you have enough metadata, you don't really need content." As it is, intelligence agencies have broad powers to obtain both.) With so much secrecy around the workings of the NSA and other agencies, how is it even possible to know what the information gathered is used for? How do we know that someone's concept of national security doesn't include spying on those who disagree with him or on people he wants to make trouble for? We don't, not at all.
For a mythic parallel, consider the Greeks on the eve of the Trojan War, desperate to sail from Aulis but unable to get favoring winds. To placate a goddess, Agamemnon sacrificed his own daughter, Iphigenia. Agamemnon, Clytemnestra, and Iphigenia may seem far removed from the workings of the U.S. federal government and the NSA, but what strikes me is the irrationality and ruthlessness of the action, the willingness to give up something precious that can't be replaced. It's not unlike the day the Patriot Act became law, Iphigenia standing in for our Fourth Amendment rights.
Stories say the weather did change after that, although those favorable winds, fickle things that they were, carried many of the Greeks to their deaths in Troy. And it's certain that Agamemnon brought about his own fall through his act, long delayed though it was. So much followed on the all-consuming desire to leave Aulis at any cost and get those war drums going. Beware the quick, unreasoned action.
What bothers me is that the debate over Section 215, important as it, falls short of addressing privacy issues that are outside its scope (for example, Section 702 of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Amendments Act, which has been used to scoop up email content and Internet searches, among other things, is a separate law). I've seen assorted opinions expressed on the "USA Freedom Act," what will happen if Section 215 sunsets, and whether various provisions in the Patriot Act actually enhance security in any way. The more I learn, the more I see the need for serious reform. The gag orders associated with production of data, the secrecy of the FISA court's workings, the relative ease with which the government has been able to command vast amounts of personal information--all of these are troubling.
I know that the USA Freedom Act is considered a small but positive first step by many privacy advocates, but forgive me for saying that if the intelligence community and the Obama administration are OK with it, I assume it can't be strong enough. Some have argued that expiration of Section 215 might be the best thing that could happen, since it practically ensures a re-evaluation of the program, and I'm not sure that I don't agree. Certainly this seems preferable to trying to cobble together a compromise at the last minute on a deadline. The law is too complex, and the issues are too important, for that to be wise. Apparently, some lawmakers complained after 9/11 that they were railroaded into approving the Patriot Act without a complete understanding of what it entailed. There's no excuse for that to happen again.
The potential for abuse in the collection of personal data in the name of security is no mere fantasy. "Metadata" sounds so abstract but reveals more than you might think it could at first glance. (As one NSA official put it, "If you have enough metadata, you don't really need content." As it is, intelligence agencies have broad powers to obtain both.) With so much secrecy around the workings of the NSA and other agencies, how is it even possible to know what the information gathered is used for? How do we know that someone's concept of national security doesn't include spying on those who disagree with him or on people he wants to make trouble for? We don't, not at all.
For a mythic parallel, consider the Greeks on the eve of the Trojan War, desperate to sail from Aulis but unable to get favoring winds. To placate a goddess, Agamemnon sacrificed his own daughter, Iphigenia. Agamemnon, Clytemnestra, and Iphigenia may seem far removed from the workings of the U.S. federal government and the NSA, but what strikes me is the irrationality and ruthlessness of the action, the willingness to give up something precious that can't be replaced. It's not unlike the day the Patriot Act became law, Iphigenia standing in for our Fourth Amendment rights.
Stories say the weather did change after that, although those favorable winds, fickle things that they were, carried many of the Greeks to their deaths in Troy. And it's certain that Agamemnon brought about his own fall through his act, long delayed though it was. So much followed on the all-consuming desire to leave Aulis at any cost and get those war drums going. Beware the quick, unreasoned action.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
'Only a Paper Moon' or 'Look This Way and Smile'
When watching the news, do you ever find yourself asking, "OK, but what's the REAL story?" (No? Wow! I'm coming over to your house--your reception must be different from mine!) Of course, by the way I've asked the question, it's obvious that I have had experiences of doubt, and I'm not saying it's just the fault of the media. Certainly, there's faulty and incomplete reporting, but sometimes I have the feeling that, no matter how accurately journalists record events, what's shown is little more than a badly written skit complete with props, flimsy backdrops, and bad actors. ("OK, Senator McConnell, you stand here and look mean, and I'll stand there, and it'll look like we're fighting. Meanwhile, Rand will be shaking his fist." "Sure, Mr. President, glad to help.")
This is especially true when the news emanates from the rarefied vicinity of Washington, D.C. There are exceptions, of course. I certainly don't believe everyone in Washington is a lying coxcomb, but I do believe a lot of them are. I won't put a percentage on it, but let's just say I think it's alarmingly high. There, I haven't said anything you would probably disagree with yourself, since it's a truism that politicians lie. My question is, why aren't we more upset about it? Why aren't we angry? Are we uninformed? Is it mere apathy (which may be understandable but is still, by the way, bad for democracy)? Or don't we care if someone lies as long as their lies coincide with the ones we tell ourselves? I've come very reluctantly to believe that the latter is often true, which certainly doesn't reflect well on us as a people.
This is how bad it is: Last week I read the article by investigative journalist Seymour Hersh alleging that the story told to the public about the killing of Osama bin Laden in 2011 is largely false. Shocking, right? Mr. Hersh alleges that the Obama administration not only lied to the public about what happened but also double-crossed the Pakistanis. I certainly have no trouble believing that the true version of events is different from what the public was told, but Mr. Hersh's whys and wherefores didn't convince me either. He suggests that Obama's version of events may have been politically motivated (which I have no trouble believing). What I don't believe is that Mr. Hersh's article gives an accurate account of what transpired any more than Obama's did.
I don't know what happened in Abbottabad, but, personally, I wouldn't be surprised if U.S. officials had always known where bin Laden was. It always seemed strange to me that despite all the apparently strenuous efforts to find him, he managed to elude detection. The United States can apparently do anything from bug Angela Merkel's cell phone to spy on the phone calls, emails, and who knows what else (library accounts? hotel records?) of its own citizens, but it couldn't seem to zoom in on the allegedly low-tech, out-numbered bin Laden.
I don't believe that all the connections between the Bush administration, the Saudi government, bin Laden, and other players in this game--including the current administration--have ever fully come to light. There's simply too much paranoia from the administration in its stance toward the media and its own citizens, too much willingness to disregard the Constitution (allegedly for our benefit, isn't that a neat trick), for me not to conclude that something's fundamentally wrong. Eleven years ago, I was reading Craig Unger's House of Bush, House of Saud on my lunch hour at work and noticed the way the atmosphere in the office turned perceptibly colder after I discussed it with someone else. Mr. Unger's book does nothing but document the (by now, I think) well-known closeness between the Bush family and the Saudi royal house. My life was never quite the same in the office after that, so from my own experience, I know what an unpopular topic this is with some people.
My knowledge of what's happening in the world comes from reading, watching current events, and trying to think things through. I have the same sources as other people but often seem to come to different conclusions. My distrust of President Obama (someone I voted for twice) is based on his own actions, including his administration's interference with the press, his attempt to slip such serious deals as the TPP past public scrutiny, and, quite frankly, his seemingly obsessive concern with being ubiquitous on the talk show circuit and any place else that'll take him. It's all polish and no substance, a bit too Big Brother-ish for me. Nobel Peace Prize? Are you kidding? I don't believe he's really that different from some of the biggest hawks and warmongers out there. Some of these highly publicized political spats are, in my opinion, mere disguises for a mutual agreement to present the "facts" in a certain way to the public while a vastly different story goes on behind closed doors.
You may say things have always been this way. Maybe, but I think we've come to a critical point in the life of our democratic experiment (and remember, it is an experiment; it's only as good as we make it) where we have to decide how serious we are about our founding principles. Do we still think taxation without representation is tyranny? Do we still believe in certain inalienable rights? (Chris Christie evidently thinks it's hard to enjoy them in a coffin. Whatever happened to "Give me liberty or give me death"?) Do we still believe in government of the people, by the people, and for the people? Do we still think the government is privileged to work for us and is obliged to tell us the truth about the things it does in our name?
Are we still Americans? Or are we now something else? Inquiring minds want to know.
This is especially true when the news emanates from the rarefied vicinity of Washington, D.C. There are exceptions, of course. I certainly don't believe everyone in Washington is a lying coxcomb, but I do believe a lot of them are. I won't put a percentage on it, but let's just say I think it's alarmingly high. There, I haven't said anything you would probably disagree with yourself, since it's a truism that politicians lie. My question is, why aren't we more upset about it? Why aren't we angry? Are we uninformed? Is it mere apathy (which may be understandable but is still, by the way, bad for democracy)? Or don't we care if someone lies as long as their lies coincide with the ones we tell ourselves? I've come very reluctantly to believe that the latter is often true, which certainly doesn't reflect well on us as a people.
This is how bad it is: Last week I read the article by investigative journalist Seymour Hersh alleging that the story told to the public about the killing of Osama bin Laden in 2011 is largely false. Shocking, right? Mr. Hersh alleges that the Obama administration not only lied to the public about what happened but also double-crossed the Pakistanis. I certainly have no trouble believing that the true version of events is different from what the public was told, but Mr. Hersh's whys and wherefores didn't convince me either. He suggests that Obama's version of events may have been politically motivated (which I have no trouble believing). What I don't believe is that Mr. Hersh's article gives an accurate account of what transpired any more than Obama's did.
I don't know what happened in Abbottabad, but, personally, I wouldn't be surprised if U.S. officials had always known where bin Laden was. It always seemed strange to me that despite all the apparently strenuous efforts to find him, he managed to elude detection. The United States can apparently do anything from bug Angela Merkel's cell phone to spy on the phone calls, emails, and who knows what else (library accounts? hotel records?) of its own citizens, but it couldn't seem to zoom in on the allegedly low-tech, out-numbered bin Laden.
I don't believe that all the connections between the Bush administration, the Saudi government, bin Laden, and other players in this game--including the current administration--have ever fully come to light. There's simply too much paranoia from the administration in its stance toward the media and its own citizens, too much willingness to disregard the Constitution (allegedly for our benefit, isn't that a neat trick), for me not to conclude that something's fundamentally wrong. Eleven years ago, I was reading Craig Unger's House of Bush, House of Saud on my lunch hour at work and noticed the way the atmosphere in the office turned perceptibly colder after I discussed it with someone else. Mr. Unger's book does nothing but document the (by now, I think) well-known closeness between the Bush family and the Saudi royal house. My life was never quite the same in the office after that, so from my own experience, I know what an unpopular topic this is with some people.
My knowledge of what's happening in the world comes from reading, watching current events, and trying to think things through. I have the same sources as other people but often seem to come to different conclusions. My distrust of President Obama (someone I voted for twice) is based on his own actions, including his administration's interference with the press, his attempt to slip such serious deals as the TPP past public scrutiny, and, quite frankly, his seemingly obsessive concern with being ubiquitous on the talk show circuit and any place else that'll take him. It's all polish and no substance, a bit too Big Brother-ish for me. Nobel Peace Prize? Are you kidding? I don't believe he's really that different from some of the biggest hawks and warmongers out there. Some of these highly publicized political spats are, in my opinion, mere disguises for a mutual agreement to present the "facts" in a certain way to the public while a vastly different story goes on behind closed doors.
You may say things have always been this way. Maybe, but I think we've come to a critical point in the life of our democratic experiment (and remember, it is an experiment; it's only as good as we make it) where we have to decide how serious we are about our founding principles. Do we still think taxation without representation is tyranny? Do we still believe in certain inalienable rights? (Chris Christie evidently thinks it's hard to enjoy them in a coffin. Whatever happened to "Give me liberty or give me death"?) Do we still believe in government of the people, by the people, and for the people? Do we still think the government is privileged to work for us and is obliged to tell us the truth about the things it does in our name?
Are we still Americans? Or are we now something else? Inquiring minds want to know.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Celestial Nights
For myself, I declare I don't know anything about it. But the sight of the stars always makes me dream . . . Vincent Van Gogh
This past winter, I noticed an unusual number of evenings on which stargazing was difficult. I like to spot Orion (and maybe one or two others) when I look up past the roofs and treetops, but there seemed to be few opportunities to do so. I wondered at first if we were just having a lot of haze or clouds, but then it dawned on me: there are so many more lights around here than there used to be.
Whether it's good news or bad news depends on how you look at it, I guess. A new, brightly illuminated parking lot, extra lights from a large construction project, a well lit and expanding medical facility . . . all of these are in my near vicinity, signs that I'm living in a dynamic area. Certainly, it's no backwater. There are as many as three road and utility projects ongoing in addition to the other construction. I haven't moved, but the world seems to be beating a path to my door. Once the road is finished, there will probably be even more lights, making the neighborhood safer (we presume), busier, and less shadowy, and yet . . there will probably be fewer stars.
One of the great compensations of winter has always been the brilliance of the stars on clear, frosty nights, and no matter what the time of year, there's usually something to see: a planet or two, the rising moon, or some passing clouds, faintly luminous against the blue darkness. We don't see nearly as many stars here as I remember observing as a kid in semi-rural Florida--there, the sky was awash in them, the Milky Way a familiar sight. And yet my current neighborhood used to be a nice enough place to watch the more limited number of constellations available to us here.
I even stood in line to see Mars through a telescope once, in the park, some years ago, when that planet was especially close to the Earth, a lovely evening when astronomy, neighborhood camaraderie, and whimsy coalesced (when I looked through the telescope, Mars was the exact color of an orange popsicle, the perfect tint for a warm summer night). I can't imagine another such occasion ever being repeated. It's hard for me to imagine now that it ever happened, but it did.
The last time I actually remember seeing the Milky Way was more than a dozen years ago, when I was visiting a friend in a rural Northern Kentucky county. The sky was glittering with stars that evening, much as I remembered it looking when I was young, and, yes, the environs were pitch dark, almost spooky. You actually wanted a streetlight or two just to show you where you were--we urban dwellers are accustomed to a baseline of illumination--but one or two would have been enough. Illumination shouldn't be blinding.
I was enchanted once by a painting I saw displayed in an exhibition of Latino artists, in which two young girls sat on the roof of a house gazing at the stars. Visible through a window inside was an older woman, presumably mom, going about her business in a quiet way. The scene depicted a perfect balance between the yearning and adventurousness of life yet to be lived and the anchoring security of family and home. I've often had something like that feeling, scanning the sky as I walked to my building from my car--or I used to, before these latter days of light pollution descended in a blaze upon us.
I've sometimes dreamed about having a house with a little viewing area for a telescope, so that I could look at whatever celestial wonders there were to see whenever I wanted, but being more of a town person than a country one, I know that this wish might be difficult to translate into reality (though you never know). I try to think about the changes in my current neighborhood as progress, but I have to admit . . . I miss the poetry of those evenings of pre-industrial strength lighting. I'm all for practicality, but it's always nice to leave a little room for enchantment. So are we really any better off, or is there just more "stuff" around us? Is trading glimpses of the night sky for parking lots and stadium seats a good trade or a bad one?
This past winter, I noticed an unusual number of evenings on which stargazing was difficult. I like to spot Orion (and maybe one or two others) when I look up past the roofs and treetops, but there seemed to be few opportunities to do so. I wondered at first if we were just having a lot of haze or clouds, but then it dawned on me: there are so many more lights around here than there used to be.
Whether it's good news or bad news depends on how you look at it, I guess. A new, brightly illuminated parking lot, extra lights from a large construction project, a well lit and expanding medical facility . . . all of these are in my near vicinity, signs that I'm living in a dynamic area. Certainly, it's no backwater. There are as many as three road and utility projects ongoing in addition to the other construction. I haven't moved, but the world seems to be beating a path to my door. Once the road is finished, there will probably be even more lights, making the neighborhood safer (we presume), busier, and less shadowy, and yet . . there will probably be fewer stars.
One of the great compensations of winter has always been the brilliance of the stars on clear, frosty nights, and no matter what the time of year, there's usually something to see: a planet or two, the rising moon, or some passing clouds, faintly luminous against the blue darkness. We don't see nearly as many stars here as I remember observing as a kid in semi-rural Florida--there, the sky was awash in them, the Milky Way a familiar sight. And yet my current neighborhood used to be a nice enough place to watch the more limited number of constellations available to us here.
I even stood in line to see Mars through a telescope once, in the park, some years ago, when that planet was especially close to the Earth, a lovely evening when astronomy, neighborhood camaraderie, and whimsy coalesced (when I looked through the telescope, Mars was the exact color of an orange popsicle, the perfect tint for a warm summer night). I can't imagine another such occasion ever being repeated. It's hard for me to imagine now that it ever happened, but it did.
The last time I actually remember seeing the Milky Way was more than a dozen years ago, when I was visiting a friend in a rural Northern Kentucky county. The sky was glittering with stars that evening, much as I remembered it looking when I was young, and, yes, the environs were pitch dark, almost spooky. You actually wanted a streetlight or two just to show you where you were--we urban dwellers are accustomed to a baseline of illumination--but one or two would have been enough. Illumination shouldn't be blinding.
I was enchanted once by a painting I saw displayed in an exhibition of Latino artists, in which two young girls sat on the roof of a house gazing at the stars. Visible through a window inside was an older woman, presumably mom, going about her business in a quiet way. The scene depicted a perfect balance between the yearning and adventurousness of life yet to be lived and the anchoring security of family and home. I've often had something like that feeling, scanning the sky as I walked to my building from my car--or I used to, before these latter days of light pollution descended in a blaze upon us.
I've sometimes dreamed about having a house with a little viewing area for a telescope, so that I could look at whatever celestial wonders there were to see whenever I wanted, but being more of a town person than a country one, I know that this wish might be difficult to translate into reality (though you never know). I try to think about the changes in my current neighborhood as progress, but I have to admit . . . I miss the poetry of those evenings of pre-industrial strength lighting. I'm all for practicality, but it's always nice to leave a little room for enchantment. So are we really any better off, or is there just more "stuff" around us? Is trading glimpses of the night sky for parking lots and stadium seats a good trade or a bad one?
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Libation for the Green Man
I saw a picture of the Green Man on someone's website yesterday, and that got me looking up images of this popular, virile, but somewhat mysterious nature spirit; you know, the one with the face wreathed in greenery and vines. Some renderings make him look jolly, sort of like a Santa Claus with vines growing out of his mouth, but many images depict him more ambiguously, so that you're not really sure you'd want to see him peering at you from out the foliage. Some are downright scary (look up the Bamberg Green Man for one of the less friendly-looking nature spirits you'll ever see).
I think B and C above are closer to the truth where the Green Man is concerned; a nature spirit should seem remote and inhuman, because he is. He's not your pal, and he wants you to know that; hence the inscrutable expression. If he's smiling about something, be assured it's not necessarily something you yourself would find amusing.
The joke's all on you where he's concerned. For instance, the Green Man seems just the type who would think up a concept like pollen. While it's lovely to see all those butterflies and bees spreading the stuff all over everything (and thank goodness they do), it's not so lovely in the form of allergens. Whatever it is that bothers me in the spring is fairly mild in the scheme of things but enough of a nuisance some years to be annoying. So why can't we just enjoy the flowers and the trees without all this sinus congestion and sneezing? Because the Green Man is a trickster, that's why. It's kind of a reminder that nature isn't a show put on for our amusement. Tornadoes and spring floods are other reminders of the same type, and of course there are many others.
In one mythology class I took, there was some discussion of the ancient concept of sacrificing to the gods as a way of showing respect for the powers and forces that surround us. It sounds old-fashioned and superfluous today, but I think it's the spirit of humility and the recognition that there are larger forces at work (larger than us), not the burnt offering or the fatted calf itself, that's beneficial. The spirit of our age tends toward bending nature to suit our purposes. I don't say this is always bad, but it does seem that an acknowledgement that there might be other laws at work other than just what suits us could be a sane and healthy thing at times.
The ancient Greeks were always pouring libations on the ground; the Wiley Encyclopedia of Ancient History defines a libation as a "ritual outpouring of liquid"--wine or something similar--done to honor a god. I haven't done any laying on of spiritous liquors, but I have been spring cleaning, which is less lyrical but possibly more practical. Instead of spilling wine on the earth, I've been lavishing baking soda, vinegar, and bleach on every surface I can lay my hands on, and dusting, mopping, and running the vacuum like it's going out of style.
Really, I'm just trying to keep ahead of allergens, but it's a ritual cleansing, too, if you like to think of it that way. It's a tip of the hat to the Green Man, a way to let him know that I got his message about nature not being a tame thing (just like Aslan wasn't a tame lion, I guess), that I know I'm just a minute speck in the universe at large (and I'm OK with that, too: in fact, I'm glad of it), but that I do like to be able to breathe through my nose and to smell all those lovely flowers he's been spreading around. Call it a libation with a purpose.
I think B and C above are closer to the truth where the Green Man is concerned; a nature spirit should seem remote and inhuman, because he is. He's not your pal, and he wants you to know that; hence the inscrutable expression. If he's smiling about something, be assured it's not necessarily something you yourself would find amusing.
The joke's all on you where he's concerned. For instance, the Green Man seems just the type who would think up a concept like pollen. While it's lovely to see all those butterflies and bees spreading the stuff all over everything (and thank goodness they do), it's not so lovely in the form of allergens. Whatever it is that bothers me in the spring is fairly mild in the scheme of things but enough of a nuisance some years to be annoying. So why can't we just enjoy the flowers and the trees without all this sinus congestion and sneezing? Because the Green Man is a trickster, that's why. It's kind of a reminder that nature isn't a show put on for our amusement. Tornadoes and spring floods are other reminders of the same type, and of course there are many others.
In one mythology class I took, there was some discussion of the ancient concept of sacrificing to the gods as a way of showing respect for the powers and forces that surround us. It sounds old-fashioned and superfluous today, but I think it's the spirit of humility and the recognition that there are larger forces at work (larger than us), not the burnt offering or the fatted calf itself, that's beneficial. The spirit of our age tends toward bending nature to suit our purposes. I don't say this is always bad, but it does seem that an acknowledgement that there might be other laws at work other than just what suits us could be a sane and healthy thing at times.
The ancient Greeks were always pouring libations on the ground; the Wiley Encyclopedia of Ancient History defines a libation as a "ritual outpouring of liquid"--wine or something similar--done to honor a god. I haven't done any laying on of spiritous liquors, but I have been spring cleaning, which is less lyrical but possibly more practical. Instead of spilling wine on the earth, I've been lavishing baking soda, vinegar, and bleach on every surface I can lay my hands on, and dusting, mopping, and running the vacuum like it's going out of style.
Really, I'm just trying to keep ahead of allergens, but it's a ritual cleansing, too, if you like to think of it that way. It's a tip of the hat to the Green Man, a way to let him know that I got his message about nature not being a tame thing (just like Aslan wasn't a tame lion, I guess), that I know I'm just a minute speck in the universe at large (and I'm OK with that, too: in fact, I'm glad of it), but that I do like to be able to breathe through my nose and to smell all those lovely flowers he's been spreading around. Call it a libation with a purpose.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Scene II: A Tempest
My brother, who lives in a sparsely populated state, once said he'd like the place even better if it had fewer people than it did. That may sound misanthropic, but I can sympathize. Where I live, it's nearly impossible to walk out the door without falling over someone or getting an earful of overheard chatter from people you don't even know. One expects occasional inconveniences such as these as part of the price of living in society, which is why rules of courtesy are necessary. Of course, that only works if people follow them, while my observation is that people seem not to have heard of them. Whose idea was it to do away with the Golden Rule?
People talk about feeling alone in a crowd, but in my experience that would be a rare thing these days; others are all too apt to enter my personal space, whether I'm drinking coffee, reading, walking through the park, or shopping for groceries. If someone isn't blocking my light in the cafe, he's talking too loudly on his cell phone, pulling out in front of me on the street, or failing to keep his dog under control so that I can walk in peace.
Were all of these people raised in a barn? Are they exhibitionists? Are they merely addled? Are they trying out for reality TV? Who told them being obnoxious is a good idea? Am I less forgiving than I used to be? (Any and all of these could possibly be true.)
This afternoon, I was sitting in a corner chair in the coffeehouse, minding my own business, as usual. I had been sitting outside, though it was a shade too cool for that, and I moved indoors when it looked like I could find a seat. I had, unfortunately, forgotten my earplugs, which is a real no-no if you plan to spend any time at all in Starbucks, but I was engrossed in my book, and things seemed to be going fairly well until other people started filling up the corner where I was sitting.
Now, don't get me wrong, I get it that Starbucks is a public place and that they're in business to keep the seats filled. But this particular Starbucks has a number of segregated seating areas, designed, I'm told, to create quiet places for people who want to read or study. I was sitting in a screened-off area near a large table where people usually congregate with books and laptops, but for some reason, everyone who entered that space was incapable of doing so without creating a scene, a not uncommon thing in Starbucks. People in line near the pastry case seemed intent on projecting their voices to the farthest corner; a large woman flounced in front of me, noisily taking the adjacent chair with a bit more ado than was really required; another patron walked back and forth in front of me several times, talking loudly on a cell and (quite unnecessarily) bumping my footrest; someone else camped out in my peripheral vision, apparently to read his text messages--not quite in my space but just close enough to be annoying.
Any one of these would have been irritating by itself; in the aggregate, it was just plain ridiculous. I got up and left.
Well, this story ends a little better than it begins. Rather than going home mad, I decided to take a short drive. I checked out the site of the future branch of the public library on Richmond Road and stopped to get gas. While I was doing that, I noticed some very dark clouds massing in the northwest: really Old Testament, Wrath of God thunderheads. I thought I could get home before they arrived, but since I was on a side of town I rarely visit any more, I drove around for a while, marveling at how little I remembered of the streets, though I used to be out there quite a bit.
Over here lived someone I interviewed when I worked at the newspaper; back there somewhere is a church I've been in, though I couldn't begin to find it now; my brother used to live on that street; I used to know someone who lived down that hill. It was almost as if I'd driven into a time warp, and I wandered around for a while, pleasantly lost. The leafy suburban streets looked both familiar and unfamiliar in the altered light of the approaching storm; it felt a bit like Van Gogh's Starry Night, a little town drowsing under a tumultuous sky. I seemed to be reclaiming something that belonged to me in the process of driving around.
When it started to rain, I was still in the wilds of suburbia. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, and small bits of hail hit my windshield. I decided I should be getting home, in case the weather got worse, so I started in that direction. I kept remembering people I'd known who lived in this house or that one--where are they now? The church steeples on Tates Creek Road stood up dramatically against the thunderheads, water was ponding by the side of the road, the wipers could barely keep up with the rain, and I . . . was feeling much better.
A spring thunderstorm doesn't sound calculated to be calming, but somehow it had that effect. Actually, I think it was just catharsis. Just when I was feeling like a thundercloud myself, here came a real one, washing everything clean. When I pulled out onto the road I live on, the changed light (aided, maybe, by my feeling of having revisited the past) made the street look subdued and elegant, like an old black and white photograph. I almost expected to see a Model T drive by.
It was still raining when I pulled into our parking lot, and I still had a little coffee left in my cup, so I sat for a few minutes and read some more of my book until the downpour eased a little. It's ironic that driving around in a thunderstorm could be more relaxing than sitting in a dry, well-lighted coffeehouse, but those are the facts. Sometimes a little solitude is better than a crowd.
People talk about feeling alone in a crowd, but in my experience that would be a rare thing these days; others are all too apt to enter my personal space, whether I'm drinking coffee, reading, walking through the park, or shopping for groceries. If someone isn't blocking my light in the cafe, he's talking too loudly on his cell phone, pulling out in front of me on the street, or failing to keep his dog under control so that I can walk in peace.
Were all of these people raised in a barn? Are they exhibitionists? Are they merely addled? Are they trying out for reality TV? Who told them being obnoxious is a good idea? Am I less forgiving than I used to be? (Any and all of these could possibly be true.)
This afternoon, I was sitting in a corner chair in the coffeehouse, minding my own business, as usual. I had been sitting outside, though it was a shade too cool for that, and I moved indoors when it looked like I could find a seat. I had, unfortunately, forgotten my earplugs, which is a real no-no if you plan to spend any time at all in Starbucks, but I was engrossed in my book, and things seemed to be going fairly well until other people started filling up the corner where I was sitting.
Now, don't get me wrong, I get it that Starbucks is a public place and that they're in business to keep the seats filled. But this particular Starbucks has a number of segregated seating areas, designed, I'm told, to create quiet places for people who want to read or study. I was sitting in a screened-off area near a large table where people usually congregate with books and laptops, but for some reason, everyone who entered that space was incapable of doing so without creating a scene, a not uncommon thing in Starbucks. People in line near the pastry case seemed intent on projecting their voices to the farthest corner; a large woman flounced in front of me, noisily taking the adjacent chair with a bit more ado than was really required; another patron walked back and forth in front of me several times, talking loudly on a cell and (quite unnecessarily) bumping my footrest; someone else camped out in my peripheral vision, apparently to read his text messages--not quite in my space but just close enough to be annoying.
Any one of these would have been irritating by itself; in the aggregate, it was just plain ridiculous. I got up and left.
Well, this story ends a little better than it begins. Rather than going home mad, I decided to take a short drive. I checked out the site of the future branch of the public library on Richmond Road and stopped to get gas. While I was doing that, I noticed some very dark clouds massing in the northwest: really Old Testament, Wrath of God thunderheads. I thought I could get home before they arrived, but since I was on a side of town I rarely visit any more, I drove around for a while, marveling at how little I remembered of the streets, though I used to be out there quite a bit.
Over here lived someone I interviewed when I worked at the newspaper; back there somewhere is a church I've been in, though I couldn't begin to find it now; my brother used to live on that street; I used to know someone who lived down that hill. It was almost as if I'd driven into a time warp, and I wandered around for a while, pleasantly lost. The leafy suburban streets looked both familiar and unfamiliar in the altered light of the approaching storm; it felt a bit like Van Gogh's Starry Night, a little town drowsing under a tumultuous sky. I seemed to be reclaiming something that belonged to me in the process of driving around.
When it started to rain, I was still in the wilds of suburbia. Lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, and small bits of hail hit my windshield. I decided I should be getting home, in case the weather got worse, so I started in that direction. I kept remembering people I'd known who lived in this house or that one--where are they now? The church steeples on Tates Creek Road stood up dramatically against the thunderheads, water was ponding by the side of the road, the wipers could barely keep up with the rain, and I . . . was feeling much better.
A spring thunderstorm doesn't sound calculated to be calming, but somehow it had that effect. Actually, I think it was just catharsis. Just when I was feeling like a thundercloud myself, here came a real one, washing everything clean. When I pulled out onto the road I live on, the changed light (aided, maybe, by my feeling of having revisited the past) made the street look subdued and elegant, like an old black and white photograph. I almost expected to see a Model T drive by.
It was still raining when I pulled into our parking lot, and I still had a little coffee left in my cup, so I sat for a few minutes and read some more of my book until the downpour eased a little. It's ironic that driving around in a thunderstorm could be more relaxing than sitting in a dry, well-lighted coffeehouse, but those are the facts. Sometimes a little solitude is better than a crowd.
Friday, April 24, 2015
Shadows and Mirrors
I saw an article online a while ago that, in honor of Shakespeare's birthday, listed his Top Ten insults. Apparently, there's a tradition of doing this every year, since I found similar lists in various publications from years past. That started me thinking about what Shakespeare means to me and whether I could compile a list of my own--Favorite Shakespearean Moments, or something like that.
I remember someone saying to me once that she wondered if people pretended to like Shakespeare more than they do because it seemed to be expected of them. Maybe that happens sometimes, but I think the Shakespearean allure is very real and due to a variety of factors, including the fun of costume drama, the power of his language (which sometimes catches people unaware), and the appeal of his sense of humor.
I can recall many hours spent in a local park on warm summer nights as the annual Shakespeare festival played to a large audience of people of all ages. Gathered together in the humid dark, with trees framing the stage and crickets trilling in the background, everyone seemed to fall into the spirit of things, willingly entering Shakespeare's world for an evening, despite the time, distance, and nuances of language separating us from him. These evenings were always festive; even children seemed to respond to the pratfalls and physical comedy though they may not necessarily have understood the plots.
As with many people, the first Shakespeare play I ever read was Romeo and Juliet, which I still enjoy. Of the other tragedies, I like Hamlet best; of the comedies, it's hard to pick just one, but maybe A Midsummer Night's Dream would do for a favorite. In high school, I once had to memorize and recite Hamlet's soliloquy, and, on another occasion, enact the witches' scene from Macbeth, along with three other students and a cooking pot borrowed from my mother (dressed in black crepe to stand in for the cauldron).
I was entranced by Kenneth Branagh's film of Henry V and captivated by a filmed version of The Tempest from Stratford, Ontario, that starred Christopher Plummer. (To date, I haven't seen a version of The Tempest that I didn't like.) I finally appreciated Othello when Mr. Branagh's Iago reminded me of some Machiavellian workplace politics I had experienced, and A Midsummer Night's Dream ended up in my dissertation when I remembered that mazes are mentioned in the play, giving my fourth chapter a welcome buoyancy.
But my favorite Shakespearean moment is the evening I spent watching a production of Much Ado About Nothing on a London stage years ago. I'd probably read the play but had never seen it performed, and that production remains for me the most magical Shakespearean experience of all. The play starred Derek Jacobi, and, I believe, Sinead Cusack, as Benedick and Beatrice. What made the production memorable was the staging, the brilliant use of a deceptively simple set of angled mirrors on a dark stage, lit from the front, so that all the action took place in a circumscribed area, a pool of light in a sea of black. The characters appeared out of darkness, enacted their scenes in front of the mirrors, and disappeared into shadows, so that the entire proceeding seemed to take place at night, giving an urgency, intimacy, and hectic, dreamlike quality to the quarrels, jests, complications, and ultimate reconciliation of the lovers. The acting was outstanding, and the characters, in contrast to the dimness and confusion of their reflected images, seemed very much alive.
If I could recommend only one Shakespearean production, this would be it. I see myself, wide-eyed and probably open-mouthed, 25 years old, sitting in that darkened theater, the same girl who had recited "To be or not to be" word for word and played a somewhat clueless Macbeth (my main dramatic contribution to that scene being, quite honestly, the soup pot). This may have been the first time I actually got it, the first time I entered Shakespeare emotionally. Every now and then, I can still see Beatrice, still feel the sadness beneath her witty one-liners and her yearning for authenticity in the midst of so much surface show. The happy ending was all the more poignant for complications narrowly averted, and I feel certain everyone left the theater happy that night.
Happy Birthday, William Shakespeare, and thanks for the memories.
I remember someone saying to me once that she wondered if people pretended to like Shakespeare more than they do because it seemed to be expected of them. Maybe that happens sometimes, but I think the Shakespearean allure is very real and due to a variety of factors, including the fun of costume drama, the power of his language (which sometimes catches people unaware), and the appeal of his sense of humor.
I can recall many hours spent in a local park on warm summer nights as the annual Shakespeare festival played to a large audience of people of all ages. Gathered together in the humid dark, with trees framing the stage and crickets trilling in the background, everyone seemed to fall into the spirit of things, willingly entering Shakespeare's world for an evening, despite the time, distance, and nuances of language separating us from him. These evenings were always festive; even children seemed to respond to the pratfalls and physical comedy though they may not necessarily have understood the plots.
As with many people, the first Shakespeare play I ever read was Romeo and Juliet, which I still enjoy. Of the other tragedies, I like Hamlet best; of the comedies, it's hard to pick just one, but maybe A Midsummer Night's Dream would do for a favorite. In high school, I once had to memorize and recite Hamlet's soliloquy, and, on another occasion, enact the witches' scene from Macbeth, along with three other students and a cooking pot borrowed from my mother (dressed in black crepe to stand in for the cauldron).
I was entranced by Kenneth Branagh's film of Henry V and captivated by a filmed version of The Tempest from Stratford, Ontario, that starred Christopher Plummer. (To date, I haven't seen a version of The Tempest that I didn't like.) I finally appreciated Othello when Mr. Branagh's Iago reminded me of some Machiavellian workplace politics I had experienced, and A Midsummer Night's Dream ended up in my dissertation when I remembered that mazes are mentioned in the play, giving my fourth chapter a welcome buoyancy.
But my favorite Shakespearean moment is the evening I spent watching a production of Much Ado About Nothing on a London stage years ago. I'd probably read the play but had never seen it performed, and that production remains for me the most magical Shakespearean experience of all. The play starred Derek Jacobi, and, I believe, Sinead Cusack, as Benedick and Beatrice. What made the production memorable was the staging, the brilliant use of a deceptively simple set of angled mirrors on a dark stage, lit from the front, so that all the action took place in a circumscribed area, a pool of light in a sea of black. The characters appeared out of darkness, enacted their scenes in front of the mirrors, and disappeared into shadows, so that the entire proceeding seemed to take place at night, giving an urgency, intimacy, and hectic, dreamlike quality to the quarrels, jests, complications, and ultimate reconciliation of the lovers. The acting was outstanding, and the characters, in contrast to the dimness and confusion of their reflected images, seemed very much alive.
If I could recommend only one Shakespearean production, this would be it. I see myself, wide-eyed and probably open-mouthed, 25 years old, sitting in that darkened theater, the same girl who had recited "To be or not to be" word for word and played a somewhat clueless Macbeth (my main dramatic contribution to that scene being, quite honestly, the soup pot). This may have been the first time I actually got it, the first time I entered Shakespeare emotionally. Every now and then, I can still see Beatrice, still feel the sadness beneath her witty one-liners and her yearning for authenticity in the midst of so much surface show. The happy ending was all the more poignant for complications narrowly averted, and I feel certain everyone left the theater happy that night.
Happy Birthday, William Shakespeare, and thanks for the memories.
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