Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Fiends Only
Stratford-Upon-Avon, February 26th, 2007 [Reuters] -- Four-hundred-forty-three years after his birth, wordsmith William Shakespeare announced that, from now on, all of his plays, most of his poems ("Except maybe VENUS & ADONIS, which doesn't really reveal much about me") and definitely his will would be "Friends Only." The entire sonnet series "will be friends only from now on and that will never change."
"I never said people could read my will half a millenium after my death, did I?" said Mr. Shakespeare. "What do you care about the second-best bed? You trolls! And they post my picture above every drinking establishment in every Bohemian section of every half-assed burg in the Western World. I never said they could do that. All I can do is only let people who know me read HAMLET. HAMLET, KING LEAR and ROMEO & JULIET represent my personal vision and I don't think half the world should just be able to access them as if I didn't care who read them."
"Don't dare dig the dust enclosed here!" will be the warning at the top of any page touched by the playwright.
"Do you think I honed my words so carefully so that all of humanity for centuries could become intimate with them? From now on, any actor trying to read my lines will have to show himself to me first so I can be sure he's sincere. All the world's a stage in my everlasting humiliation! I have to be select in the future. My writing is my own and death shouldn't be an invitation for just anyone to peruse my every exclamation!" exclaimed the Bard.
"You're just looking over my shoulder," he added, looking over a shoulder.
"I never said people could read my will half a millenium after my death, did I?" said Mr. Shakespeare. "What do you care about the second-best bed? You trolls! And they post my picture above every drinking establishment in every Bohemian section of every half-assed burg in the Western World. I never said they could do that. All I can do is only let people who know me read HAMLET. HAMLET, KING LEAR and ROMEO & JULIET represent my personal vision and I don't think half the world should just be able to access them as if I didn't care who read them."
"Don't dare dig the dust enclosed here!" will be the warning at the top of any page touched by the playwright.
"Do you think I honed my words so carefully so that all of humanity for centuries could become intimate with them? From now on, any actor trying to read my lines will have to show himself to me first so I can be sure he's sincere. All the world's a stage in my everlasting humiliation! I have to be select in the future. My writing is my own and death shouldn't be an invitation for just anyone to peruse my every exclamation!" exclaimed the Bard.
"You're just looking over my shoulder," he added, looking over a shoulder.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Frog and Toad
Frog did all the singing. Toad was rhythm. He'd stand on the stool and leap, which gleaned him attention, but Frog, from the safety of the lily pad, created an aura of sound more visual than Toad's tableaux.
They toured all the big ponds, The Palm Frond, The Croc o' Dero, Platy's Puss, etcetera, and they even headlined Tadpole's on Lake Michigan, but hopping from one body of H2O to another took its toll on the act.
"Flies taste the same wherever you go," Frog said to an up and coming peeper once. "You can catch a firefly, but lightning disappears once it's in your mouth." Frog died last month, leaving a web much bigger than the spread of his toes.
Toad spoke to that peeper too, but it was only after Frog's passing: "You don't know whether to crawl or wriggle," he said to me, "But Frog jumped!"
They toured all the big ponds, The Palm Frond, The Croc o' Dero, Platy's Puss, etcetera, and they even headlined Tadpole's on Lake Michigan, but hopping from one body of H2O to another took its toll on the act.
"Flies taste the same wherever you go," Frog said to an up and coming peeper once. "You can catch a firefly, but lightning disappears once it's in your mouth." Frog died last month, leaving a web much bigger than the spread of his toes.
Toad spoke to that peeper too, but it was only after Frog's passing: "You don't know whether to crawl or wriggle," he said to me, "But Frog jumped!"
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Law Abiders
By Frederick Wemyss
This may not be important, but I remember it vividly. Henry and I were nine, ten or eleven years old. I'm not recalling merely one conversation, but a recurring one. I'm not comparing it to a recurring nightmare. I am acknowledging that I have never heard the word "recurring" occur in any context other than the description of a nightmare. "Recurring" is the only word I can think of to describe this conversation we kept falling into.
A song one of us didn't like would come on the radio. One of us would groan. "I hate this song," one of us would say. Most of the time, we agreed about the song. But when a song came on which only one of us didn't like (that one always being me) the conversation would become the sort of conversation I've always regretted.
"You should buy a radio station when you grow up," Henry would say.
As he spoke, we'd be passing one or another Northeastern mountain range. We'd be in the back of a station wagon, a model called the Country Squire, driven by Henry's father. We'd be looking out the back window, watching the swaying of the trailer which was hitched to the back, and we'd be talking above the voices of Henry's brother and sister, who'd be singing the song on the radio in earnest, honest voices. Henry's other two siblings, the eldest and the youngest, would be asleep. Henry's mother would be in the front passenger seat, speaking to Henry's father in a practical voice which, every so often, broke into laughter. Every now and then, Henry's father would shout at a driver, "Use your signal!"
The song on the radio would continue, and I'd say, "You always say I should buy a radio station when I say I hate a song."
"I'd listen to it, Chambliss," Henry would say.
"But only because you'd know me," I'd say.
"Wouldn't you want me listening to your radio station?" Henry would ask.
"Yes, but if you were only listening to it because I was your friend you'd be missing songs on a station playing songs you liked."
"But I'd want to hear it because it was your station."
"But then I'd feel guilty about not playing your song."
"But I wouldn't want you to play a song which you didn't like on your radio station just because I liked the song."
Our conversations about hypothetical situations never turned into arguments. Instead, they'd end with one of us (always Henry) becoming silent. He'd stare at the beige carpet on the floor of the station wagon. "Why do you have to sing?" he'd shout at Randy and Ellen. "You drown out all the good songs."
Henry was unforgiving toward his brother and sisters, just as they were unforgiving toward him, but all of them treated me as if I were innocence embodied. Whenever Henry found I disagreed with him, a look of confusion would get in his eyes. He'd get the look in his eyes and then look away.
But one conversation on one trip upstate meant more to him than I thought. I'm sure he's forgotten it now. But I remember it because, like my friendship with Henry, its memory has meaning for me still.
I think we were twelve. Again, we were in the Country Squire, which, I'm certain, was packed with camping equipment, food and Henry's family. The radio was on, Randy and Ellen were singing the song on the radio, Henry's mother and father were talking, Henry's eldest sister and his youngest sister were sleeping and Henry was looking right at me.
"If I murdered someone, would you hide me?" he said.
"What?" I said.
"If I killed someone and the police were after me, would you protect me?"
"Alone Again, Naturally," Randy and Ellen's favorite song that summer, was playing, but they weren't singing along. They were listening to us.
"I don't think you would murder anyone," I said.
Henry looked away. He looked at passing station wagons with camping equipment tied to the roofs.
"But what if I did?"
"It would depend on what kind of murder it was," I said.
"No," said Henry. "I asked you if you would hide me if the police wanted to arrest me for murder."
"Well, if you killed someone in self-defense I wouldn't turn you in."
"So you'd shelter me."
"If it were for something innocent, like self-defense, yes."
"But if I killed somebody deliberately, you would turn me in?" Henry's voice had become urgent.
"If you deliberately killed the person in self-defense, I probably would not turn you in."
"Alone Again, Naturally" had ended and Randy and Ellen didn't even start to sing the next song. Henry's mother had stopped talking and Henry's eldest sister had woken up, as had the youngest. We were passing a clip joint called "The Trading Post," and Henry's father wasn't even sticking his head out the window and shouting "Witch," the way he always did when we passed "The Trading Post."
They hadn't been listening earlier, when we were crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge and Henry and I were talking about my hatred of STAR TREK. I'd said that, even though I couldn't stand STAR TREK, a show Henry loved, I would not ban it from a TV station I'd own in the future. I had reasoned that, STAR TREK, being a popular show today, would be a popular show at the time I took over the TV station and that it would be mean of me, not to mention financially foolish, to stop showing it.
"But you hate it so much. Why would you show it?"
"Well, just because I hate it, it doesn't mean it's bad for people. If they like it and I had the rights to it, there would be nothing wrong with showing it."
"But wouldn't you want the station to only show shows you liked?"
"Yes, but shows I like don't get high ratings. So I'd show high-rated shows."
"But it would be your station."
"Yes, but other people would have to watch it, so I'd try to put on shows they'd want to see."
"But you hate so many shows, wouldn't you want a station that showed only good shows?"
"Well, just because I like something, that doesn't mean it's good. If STAR TREK isn't hurting anybody, why wouldn't I show it?"
"But you hate it."
"But that's not the point."
All through this conversation, Rand and Ellen were singing over "Betcha By Golly Wah" at the top of their lungs, Henry's mother was talking practicalities and laughing on and off, Henry's father was shouting at the traffic and Henry's eldest and youngest sisters were asleep.
But, without looking at us, they listened, loudly, somehow, as Henry said, "What if it wasn't self-defense?"
"If it were just an accident," I said, carefully, "I'd still hide you."
"But what if I just went up to someone on the street and shot him in the head?"
"Well, then, that would be a real murder."
"Would you hide me?"
"If I killed someone out of the blue," I said, "I'd want you to turn me in."
"But what if I didn't want to be turned in?" said Henry.
"I'd ask you to turn yourself in."
"But what if I wasn't going to turn myself in and I was at your house when the cops knocked at the door?"
"Before letting them in I'd ask you one more time to turn yourself in."
"So, you wouldn't turn me in?"
"I'd shoot you and then let the cops in."
"What?"
Granite boulders rose up on both sides of the road.
"We're halfway there!" Henry's mother shouted.
This may not be important, but I remember it vividly. Henry and I were nine, ten or eleven years old. I'm not recalling merely one conversation, but a recurring one. I'm not comparing it to a recurring nightmare. I am acknowledging that I have never heard the word "recurring" occur in any context other than the description of a nightmare. "Recurring" is the only word I can think of to describe this conversation we kept falling into.
A song one of us didn't like would come on the radio. One of us would groan. "I hate this song," one of us would say. Most of the time, we agreed about the song. But when a song came on which only one of us didn't like (that one always being me) the conversation would become the sort of conversation I've always regretted.
"You should buy a radio station when you grow up," Henry would say.
As he spoke, we'd be passing one or another Northeastern mountain range. We'd be in the back of a station wagon, a model called the Country Squire, driven by Henry's father. We'd be looking out the back window, watching the swaying of the trailer which was hitched to the back, and we'd be talking above the voices of Henry's brother and sister, who'd be singing the song on the radio in earnest, honest voices. Henry's other two siblings, the eldest and the youngest, would be asleep. Henry's mother would be in the front passenger seat, speaking to Henry's father in a practical voice which, every so often, broke into laughter. Every now and then, Henry's father would shout at a driver, "Use your signal!"
The song on the radio would continue, and I'd say, "You always say I should buy a radio station when I say I hate a song."
"I'd listen to it, Chambliss," Henry would say.
"But only because you'd know me," I'd say.
"Wouldn't you want me listening to your radio station?" Henry would ask.
"Yes, but if you were only listening to it because I was your friend you'd be missing songs on a station playing songs you liked."
"But I'd want to hear it because it was your station."
"But then I'd feel guilty about not playing your song."
"But I wouldn't want you to play a song which you didn't like on your radio station just because I liked the song."
Our conversations about hypothetical situations never turned into arguments. Instead, they'd end with one of us (always Henry) becoming silent. He'd stare at the beige carpet on the floor of the station wagon. "Why do you have to sing?" he'd shout at Randy and Ellen. "You drown out all the good songs."
Henry was unforgiving toward his brother and sisters, just as they were unforgiving toward him, but all of them treated me as if I were innocence embodied. Whenever Henry found I disagreed with him, a look of confusion would get in his eyes. He'd get the look in his eyes and then look away.
But one conversation on one trip upstate meant more to him than I thought. I'm sure he's forgotten it now. But I remember it because, like my friendship with Henry, its memory has meaning for me still.
I think we were twelve. Again, we were in the Country Squire, which, I'm certain, was packed with camping equipment, food and Henry's family. The radio was on, Randy and Ellen were singing the song on the radio, Henry's mother and father were talking, Henry's eldest sister and his youngest sister were sleeping and Henry was looking right at me.
"If I murdered someone, would you hide me?" he said.
"What?" I said.
"If I killed someone and the police were after me, would you protect me?"
"Alone Again, Naturally," Randy and Ellen's favorite song that summer, was playing, but they weren't singing along. They were listening to us.
"I don't think you would murder anyone," I said.
Henry looked away. He looked at passing station wagons with camping equipment tied to the roofs.
"But what if I did?"
"It would depend on what kind of murder it was," I said.
"No," said Henry. "I asked you if you would hide me if the police wanted to arrest me for murder."
"Well, if you killed someone in self-defense I wouldn't turn you in."
"So you'd shelter me."
"If it were for something innocent, like self-defense, yes."
"But if I killed somebody deliberately, you would turn me in?" Henry's voice had become urgent.
"If you deliberately killed the person in self-defense, I probably would not turn you in."
"Alone Again, Naturally" had ended and Randy and Ellen didn't even start to sing the next song. Henry's mother had stopped talking and Henry's eldest sister had woken up, as had the youngest. We were passing a clip joint called "The Trading Post," and Henry's father wasn't even sticking his head out the window and shouting "Witch," the way he always did when we passed "The Trading Post."
They hadn't been listening earlier, when we were crossing the Tappan Zee Bridge and Henry and I were talking about my hatred of STAR TREK. I'd said that, even though I couldn't stand STAR TREK, a show Henry loved, I would not ban it from a TV station I'd own in the future. I had reasoned that, STAR TREK, being a popular show today, would be a popular show at the time I took over the TV station and that it would be mean of me, not to mention financially foolish, to stop showing it.
"But you hate it so much. Why would you show it?"
"Well, just because I hate it, it doesn't mean it's bad for people. If they like it and I had the rights to it, there would be nothing wrong with showing it."
"But wouldn't you want the station to only show shows you liked?"
"Yes, but shows I like don't get high ratings. So I'd show high-rated shows."
"But it would be your station."
"Yes, but other people would have to watch it, so I'd try to put on shows they'd want to see."
"But you hate so many shows, wouldn't you want a station that showed only good shows?"
"Well, just because I like something, that doesn't mean it's good. If STAR TREK isn't hurting anybody, why wouldn't I show it?"
"But you hate it."
"But that's not the point."
All through this conversation, Rand and Ellen were singing over "Betcha By Golly Wah" at the top of their lungs, Henry's mother was talking practicalities and laughing on and off, Henry's father was shouting at the traffic and Henry's eldest and youngest sisters were asleep.
But, without looking at us, they listened, loudly, somehow, as Henry said, "What if it wasn't self-defense?"
"If it were just an accident," I said, carefully, "I'd still hide you."
"But what if I just went up to someone on the street and shot him in the head?"
"Well, then, that would be a real murder."
"Would you hide me?"
"If I killed someone out of the blue," I said, "I'd want you to turn me in."
"But what if I didn't want to be turned in?" said Henry.
"I'd ask you to turn yourself in."
"But what if I wasn't going to turn myself in and I was at your house when the cops knocked at the door?"
"Before letting them in I'd ask you one more time to turn yourself in."
"So, you wouldn't turn me in?"
"I'd shoot you and then let the cops in."
"What?"
Granite boulders rose up on both sides of the road.
"We're halfway there!" Henry's mother shouted.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Sheet 444 of the Big Roll
There were two carved derrieres on the wall. They must have been plastic, actually, because plaster would have been too heavy and they'd have fallen and shattered. In any case, one was on the left and the other was on the right and we were all facing them. A fat bald man with thinning hair stood at a podium in between.
"It's all right," he was saying. "This is the place to dump."
A middle-aged woman in the corner cracked, "Just be sure you wipe after."
Eruptions of laughter followed.
"Thank you," said a tearful young college man who'd been describing his irregularities. He was standing.
The man at the podium said easily, "Sit down. You can if you can."
Everybody said at once: "You can if you can!"
There was applause when the young man seated himself.
"These twelve sheets," said the gentleman at the podium, pointing to the stream of paper descending from the right-hand butt, "Are the ten commandments of absorbency." He pointed to his right, at the scroll streaming from the left-hand butt. "It's a two-ply program!" he said.
There was a pause and then a smattering of grunts. "Ah," said the man, "You had your hand up."
"Who, me," said a truck driver.
"Who else, asshole?" said a businessman.
"Oh, I'm such an asshole," said the truck driver. "Such an asshole. Today I was sitting, stuck in --"
"Who are you?" said a malnourished blonde.
"Yeah, I'm Joe and I'm an asshole."
"Hi, Joe!" everybody said.
"I've been circling Uranus in search of Klingons."
Everybody poured forth mirth at this.
"So, so, I was sitting in traffic, stuck."
"Stuck," someone said.
"Stuck, going around in circles."
The lady in the corner cracked "Can't wipe if you don't dump."
The leader interrupted. "God sets up his rotaries whether we like it or n
"But I was going around and around! But I'm not blaming anyone. I opted to drive
[Folks, the above was something I was writing the other day. I don't make drafts, I simply write in the space Livejournal.com provides (I've swiped this from my other blog) and then post, but while I was in the middle of writing the entry I hit some sombination of keys which appeared to erase everything. So, I thought I'd lost what you've read. Certainly, I have lost the desire to finish it, but, indeed, the above was all of what I thought had been lost the other day...Fred Wemyss. 02/14/2007.]
"It's all right," he was saying. "This is the place to dump."
A middle-aged woman in the corner cracked, "Just be sure you wipe after."
Eruptions of laughter followed.
"Thank you," said a tearful young college man who'd been describing his irregularities. He was standing.
The man at the podium said easily, "Sit down. You can if you can."
Everybody said at once: "You can if you can!"
There was applause when the young man seated himself.
"These twelve sheets," said the gentleman at the podium, pointing to the stream of paper descending from the right-hand butt, "Are the ten commandments of absorbency." He pointed to his right, at the scroll streaming from the left-hand butt. "It's a two-ply program!" he said.
There was a pause and then a smattering of grunts. "Ah," said the man, "You had your hand up."
"Who, me," said a truck driver.
"Who else, asshole?" said a businessman.
"Oh, I'm such an asshole," said the truck driver. "Such an asshole. Today I was sitting, stuck in --"
"Who are you?" said a malnourished blonde.
"Yeah, I'm Joe and I'm an asshole."
"Hi, Joe!" everybody said.
"I've been circling Uranus in search of Klingons."
Everybody poured forth mirth at this.
"So, so, I was sitting in traffic, stuck."
"Stuck," someone said.
"Stuck, going around in circles."
The lady in the corner cracked "Can't wipe if you don't dump."
The leader interrupted. "God sets up his rotaries whether we like it or n
"But I was going around and around! But I'm not blaming anyone. I opted to drive
[Folks, the above was something I was writing the other day. I don't make drafts, I simply write in the space Livejournal.com provides (I've swiped this from my other blog) and then post, but while I was in the middle of writing the entry I hit some sombination of keys which appeared to erase everything. So, I thought I'd lost what you've read. Certainly, I have lost the desire to finish it, but, indeed, the above was all of what I thought had been lost the other day...Fred Wemyss. 02/14/2007.]
Sunday, February 11, 2007
The Woman In the Window
Now that's a good title. Some day I'll write something based on it.
Should "some day" be two words?
"Someday I'll write something" looks wrong to me. But there is a word which goes by the name "someday." When does it apply?
I refuse to use Spellcheck. I won't use "Spell check" if it exists. I can spell "cheque." But I won't sign one. Maybe I will someday. That's when you can spell "some day" as one word.
I'd better check, though.
Should "some day" be two words?
"Someday I'll write something" looks wrong to me. But there is a word which goes by the name "someday." When does it apply?
I refuse to use Spellcheck. I won't use "Spell check" if it exists. I can spell "cheque." But I won't sign one. Maybe I will someday. That's when you can spell "some day" as one word.
I'd better check, though.
Why Is the Blogger Screen Scrambled?
Thursday, February 08, 2007
A Christian, A Sinner, and a Homosexual
A Christian, a Sinner, and a Homosexual
By Fred Wemyss
[I wrote this in the spring of 2000, posted it on my website of the moment and, two days later, feeling I had been harsh on the parishioners of my church, took it down. A few weeks later, on a trip to San Francisco, I went into an internet cafe, searched my name and was astonished to find someone had copied my essay and preserved it in cyberspace. I made a copy of it on the internet cafe's printer (even though I had it on a folder in my personal computer) and am now posting it on the net again. A few years after I wrote it I did take up my priest's offer to become a reader.]
A Christian, a sinner and a homosexual walked into a bar one day and discovered they were the same person.
I told my parish priest I was gay and he said this: "Here is the Episcopal Church's view: There are mortal sins and there are venal sins. Being gay is a sin. But it is not as bad a sin as false pride or genuine lack of charity." He then reiterated an offer he'd made about six months before. Would I like to be a reader at Sunday services?
If the parish were made up of people like my priest I might have taken up the offer to read. The reality is that I'm not certain the members of the parish would be particularly happy with an openly gay man reading scripture to them.
Do I feel compromised in this? Yes, I do, most of the time.
You're going to want to know what runs through my head when I think about being both Christian and gay:
First of all, my being a Christian does not mean I'm without sin. Society certainly accepts heterosexuality far more easily than it does homosexuality. Nevertheless, the heterosexual person's concept of God is no different from the homosexual person's concept of God. God is pure. No human being is pure.
Each of us, praying in church, is asking for God's help.
Anybody, praying in a church, is also wondering how he or she measures up to the other people who are praying there. 99 per cent of people who stay away from church are doing so because they feel that the other parishioners do not or will not accept them. Of that 99%, the same percentage are gay as make up the gay population of the world. Gay people are not alone in feeling that organised religion has abandoned them. Furthermore, by no means have all gay people rejected organised religion.
My duty as a Christian is to follow Jesus and tell others about Him. In a house of worship, people express their common faith in God. I choose the phrase, "common faith," because that which is common is disdained in our Darwinian culture. What I have in common with the other people in my parish is my belief in God. I do not go to church in order to chastise my fellow church-goers for their views. I am not there to persuade them of the justice of any cause. I am there to join with them in prayer.
Are they intolerant of gay people? Yes, most of them are.
A church can influence society. Through much of history, churches have been agents of oppression. It is obvious that at this point, the church has little sway in American political matters, despite the tremendous noise it makes. At the same time, it is clear that the church has more sway than it did twenty years ago. George W. Bush talks about Jesus as often as he can. He knows the voters. I don't want him in office. Nevertheless, a unified, polically conservative church is preferable to a liberal, divided one. When a church collapses, freedom is virtually impossible.
It is a profoundly conservative institution, and a human one, susceptible to apathy, zealotry and corruption. I would do little to change it by walking away from it.
My priest said, "Being gay is a sin." I disagree with that. He offered me a place of visibility, and I did not take him up on that. Nevertheless, I haven't left, and God has something to do with that. So did my parish priest.
By Fred Wemyss
[I wrote this in the spring of 2000, posted it on my website of the moment and, two days later, feeling I had been harsh on the parishioners of my church, took it down. A few weeks later, on a trip to San Francisco, I went into an internet cafe, searched my name and was astonished to find someone had copied my essay and preserved it in cyberspace. I made a copy of it on the internet cafe's printer (even though I had it on a folder in my personal computer) and am now posting it on the net again. A few years after I wrote it I did take up my priest's offer to become a reader.]
A Christian, a sinner and a homosexual walked into a bar one day and discovered they were the same person.
I told my parish priest I was gay and he said this: "Here is the Episcopal Church's view: There are mortal sins and there are venal sins. Being gay is a sin. But it is not as bad a sin as false pride or genuine lack of charity." He then reiterated an offer he'd made about six months before. Would I like to be a reader at Sunday services?
If the parish were made up of people like my priest I might have taken up the offer to read. The reality is that I'm not certain the members of the parish would be particularly happy with an openly gay man reading scripture to them.
Do I feel compromised in this? Yes, I do, most of the time.
You're going to want to know what runs through my head when I think about being both Christian and gay:
First of all, my being a Christian does not mean I'm without sin. Society certainly accepts heterosexuality far more easily than it does homosexuality. Nevertheless, the heterosexual person's concept of God is no different from the homosexual person's concept of God. God is pure. No human being is pure.
Each of us, praying in church, is asking for God's help.
Anybody, praying in a church, is also wondering how he or she measures up to the other people who are praying there. 99 per cent of people who stay away from church are doing so because they feel that the other parishioners do not or will not accept them. Of that 99%, the same percentage are gay as make up the gay population of the world. Gay people are not alone in feeling that organised religion has abandoned them. Furthermore, by no means have all gay people rejected organised religion.
My duty as a Christian is to follow Jesus and tell others about Him. In a house of worship, people express their common faith in God. I choose the phrase, "common faith," because that which is common is disdained in our Darwinian culture. What I have in common with the other people in my parish is my belief in God. I do not go to church in order to chastise my fellow church-goers for their views. I am not there to persuade them of the justice of any cause. I am there to join with them in prayer.
Are they intolerant of gay people? Yes, most of them are.
A church can influence society. Through much of history, churches have been agents of oppression. It is obvious that at this point, the church has little sway in American political matters, despite the tremendous noise it makes. At the same time, it is clear that the church has more sway than it did twenty years ago. George W. Bush talks about Jesus as often as he can. He knows the voters. I don't want him in office. Nevertheless, a unified, polically conservative church is preferable to a liberal, divided one. When a church collapses, freedom is virtually impossible.
It is a profoundly conservative institution, and a human one, susceptible to apathy, zealotry and corruption. I would do little to change it by walking away from it.
My priest said, "Being gay is a sin." I disagree with that. He offered me a place of visibility, and I did not take him up on that. Nevertheless, I haven't left, and God has something to do with that. So did my parish priest.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Nobody
I notice nobody's updating his journal lately.
It's too bloody cold to update a journal. It's about 10 degrees outside on Long Island (which is EAST of New York City, and stretches NORTH of it as well.) The people I know who write journals are based within a seventy-five mile radius of Manhattan. Their apartments are cold. Exposing their fingers long enough to press the keys on their computers is too much for them to take. Their journal entries are more than a week old, dating back to the genuinely tropical last week of January.
Polar bears are standing on little slivers of ice, but New York bloggers are frozen solid.
I'm crying ice cubes!
It's too bloody cold to update a journal. It's about 10 degrees outside on Long Island (which is EAST of New York City, and stretches NORTH of it as well.) The people I know who write journals are based within a seventy-five mile radius of Manhattan. Their apartments are cold. Exposing their fingers long enough to press the keys on their computers is too much for them to take. Their journal entries are more than a week old, dating back to the genuinely tropical last week of January.
Polar bears are standing on little slivers of ice, but New York bloggers are frozen solid.
I'm crying ice cubes!
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Blunder Capricorn
Last night I watched Image Entertainment's DVD of UNDER CAPRICORN.
UNDER CAPRICORN is a movie released in 1949 by a production company called Transatlantic. This company was founded by Alfred Hitchcock and UNDER CAPRICORN was Transatlantic's first project. The movie was directed by Hitchcock. It bombed. Transatlantic ceased operations.
I've seen UNDER CAPRICORN twice before, but on a worn VHS tape from the nineties or earlier. Image Entertainment released a DVD in 2003 and the restoration job is great. The lines can be heard clearly. The music can be heard clearly. The colors are fine.
The script remains too long.
The music still has no relation to the dialogue. It's marvelous music. It's good dialogue. But they do not work together.
This movie would have had a slightly larger audience if the music had been shut off during the talking.
UNDER CAPRICORN has two big-name stars who turn in great performances. These two stars are Joseph Cotton and Ingrid Bergman. The actress who plays their housekeeper acts her role perfectly.
There are shots rivalling the crane shot in THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS. Another Welles film, TOUCH OF EVIL, goes to a place Hitchcock's PSYCHO goes to. PSYCO came after TOUCH OF EVIL and UNDER CAPRICORN came after THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS. AMBERSONS had Joseph Cotton. TOUCH OF EVIL had Janet Leigh. So did PSYCHO.
Hitchcock makes serious tribute to Welles in UNDER CAPRICORN. It's got a big house, as do so many Welles movies. It's got incredible crane shots. (It has that thing ROPE has: The camera closes in on someone's back and then backs up, simply so the camera can be shut off when the back fills the screen and Hitchcock can put new film in the camera. It was sort of cute in ROPE, a stunt of a movie which calls attention to its lack of cuts. It's not very noticeable in UNDER CAPRICORN, but if you do notice it you'll be thinking of the fact that HITCHCOCK went to town with the continuous take in ROPE. You'll stop paying attention to the plot of UNDER CAPRICORN while you're thinking about ROPE.
Someone on Internet Movie Database says ROPE came before UNDER CAPRICORN. I think it came right afterward.
Very few Hitchcock fans have seen UNDER CAPRICORN. I was completely unaware it was on an Image DVD before I stumbled on it last week at a local CD shop. I don't sympathize with Image's decision not to provide a commentary track. Image charges a lot for their DVDs. People who buy Image's restorations are film buffs. It is film buffs who select the Commentary Track option. UNDER CAPRICORN has value as an heroic miscalculation. PSYCHO, a movie many people revere, has less need of a commentary track than this extremely obscure Hitchcock effort. But PSYCHO, because it's a Universal DVD, is about two-thirds the price of Image's UNDER CAPRICORN, and PSYCHO includes a Commentary Track, a storyboard, a PSYCHO trailer featuring Hitchcock, and a study of the music of PSYCHO which features the shower scene with the music removed to reveal the gruesome sound effects created by a knife plunging into a cantaloupe. UNDER CAPRICORN has nothing but UNDER CAPRICORN itself.
The print is superb, though.
UNDER CAPRICORN is a movie released in 1949 by a production company called Transatlantic. This company was founded by Alfred Hitchcock and UNDER CAPRICORN was Transatlantic's first project. The movie was directed by Hitchcock. It bombed. Transatlantic ceased operations.
I've seen UNDER CAPRICORN twice before, but on a worn VHS tape from the nineties or earlier. Image Entertainment released a DVD in 2003 and the restoration job is great. The lines can be heard clearly. The music can be heard clearly. The colors are fine.
The script remains too long.
The music still has no relation to the dialogue. It's marvelous music. It's good dialogue. But they do not work together.
This movie would have had a slightly larger audience if the music had been shut off during the talking.
UNDER CAPRICORN has two big-name stars who turn in great performances. These two stars are Joseph Cotton and Ingrid Bergman. The actress who plays their housekeeper acts her role perfectly.
There are shots rivalling the crane shot in THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS. Another Welles film, TOUCH OF EVIL, goes to a place Hitchcock's PSYCHO goes to. PSYCO came after TOUCH OF EVIL and UNDER CAPRICORN came after THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS. AMBERSONS had Joseph Cotton. TOUCH OF EVIL had Janet Leigh. So did PSYCHO.
Hitchcock makes serious tribute to Welles in UNDER CAPRICORN. It's got a big house, as do so many Welles movies. It's got incredible crane shots. (It has that thing ROPE has: The camera closes in on someone's back and then backs up, simply so the camera can be shut off when the back fills the screen and Hitchcock can put new film in the camera. It was sort of cute in ROPE, a stunt of a movie which calls attention to its lack of cuts. It's not very noticeable in UNDER CAPRICORN, but if you do notice it you'll be thinking of the fact that HITCHCOCK went to town with the continuous take in ROPE. You'll stop paying attention to the plot of UNDER CAPRICORN while you're thinking about ROPE.
Someone on Internet Movie Database says ROPE came before UNDER CAPRICORN. I think it came right afterward.
Very few Hitchcock fans have seen UNDER CAPRICORN. I was completely unaware it was on an Image DVD before I stumbled on it last week at a local CD shop. I don't sympathize with Image's decision not to provide a commentary track. Image charges a lot for their DVDs. People who buy Image's restorations are film buffs. It is film buffs who select the Commentary Track option. UNDER CAPRICORN has value as an heroic miscalculation. PSYCHO, a movie many people revere, has less need of a commentary track than this extremely obscure Hitchcock effort. But PSYCHO, because it's a Universal DVD, is about two-thirds the price of Image's UNDER CAPRICORN, and PSYCHO includes a Commentary Track, a storyboard, a PSYCHO trailer featuring Hitchcock, and a study of the music of PSYCHO which features the shower scene with the music removed to reveal the gruesome sound effects created by a knife plunging into a cantaloupe. UNDER CAPRICORN has nothing but UNDER CAPRICORN itself.
The print is superb, though.
