Author: Thomas James Martin
Published on: July 15, 2002
During the first week of December in 1979, I decided to photograph Ocracoke Island on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. I chose the dead of winter because I wanted to visit the Islands when there would likely be few tourists attempting to camp in the chill, 40-50 mile an hour gales that swept that part of the coast at that time of the year.
I decided to take the scenic route on this expedition and planned to catch the toll ferry to Ocracoke at Cedar Island in Carteret County (See map). I noted at the time that the route would take me through an area of which I knew little, a small cone of land jutting out into Pamlico Sound known as the "Down East" peninsula. Yet, visiting those piney woods and saltwater wetlands on the Peninsula near Cedar Island, which is across Pamlico Sound from the Ocracoke, I found a place where I crossed over into that twilit border between past and present, self and other, being and nonbeing.
The area is also famous for the Cedar Island National Wildlife Refuge, a well-preserved tidewater ecosystem, encompassing thousands of acres of marshlands and pine hammocks, as well as hundreds of species of wildlife, especially birds. This land is a birding dream. Herons, egrets and ibis are abundant, though you will also see, willets, oystercatchers, black skimmers, plovers and sandpipers and many other species.
Awed with the area I spent some time there exploring and photographing the region before I caught the ferry to Ocracoke. Time seemed to have stopped; the old South seemed to peek out of the countryside like a quick glimpse of a grand lady's petticoats. The area abounded with Spanish moss, old colonial period homes, as well as thousands of acres of longleaf pines, from which North Carolina gets its nickname, the Tarheel State, as pitch and lumber from the trees were used for naval stores and ship construction in the early days of the colony.
Cedar Island, where only 350 or so people live, is a land isolated by its remoteness and ties to a past that goes back to settlements in the early 18th century. The older residents there still speak a variation of Elizabethan English known as the "High Tider" dialect.
As I explored and photographed that secluded land, the landscape seemed held in some dusky mystery, as if some little-known, ancient god had rubbed the earth with salt from humid air and swampy marshes; perhaps, seeking to preserve the teeming wetlands and obscure, crumbling manses out of time.
On that ageless island, time seemed to pass so slowly that stillness seemed the only conclusion to time itself. It was a place where to listen to the cry of a tern or haunting echo of a wintering loon, or to gaze on the dark needle grass in evening, was to experience the profundity of an unwavering world held fast in the sentience of sound and water and wind.
I wish I could pour that moody countryside and friendly people into your heart, but the atmosphere, being beyond words, I offer these few images...
There were many water lilies (Lotus) in fresh water ponds. The print you see to the left is a color slide printed on black and white paper.
As one approached the village of Cedar Islandfrom the South on NC Highway 12, I noticed this abandoned storefront. The print has been sepia toned.
"Jigs" was passing through also, staying at the same campground. He played a great guitar.
This railroad crossing is on the "Down East" peninsula before crossing over to Cedar Island intrigued me with its hint of magic and mystery. I kept waiting for a unicorn or other mythical animal to appear in the distant haze.
Eventually, I caught the ferry and rode for for almost three hours to Ocracoke Island where I pitched my tent that night on a small dune on the Atlantic Ocean in a near Arctic gale that seemed almost hurricane force in its intensity.
Somehow, the tent and I survived the night. The next day I straightened out the tent, and trying to keep my hands from freezing, began photographing in black and white the startling tones and shadings of the Outer Banks.
But that's another story. . .
Editor's Note: Not the least of the reasons that these barrier islands, known as the Outer Banks, are famous is that the Wright Brothers chose those high, windy dunes for the first flight of a self-propelled airplane. The Outer Banks are also famous for the Lost Colony, the first English settlement in the New World, as well as the lair and legendary burial place of the infamous eighteenth century pirate, Blackbeard.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
An Offering of Seasons
Author: Thomas James Martin
Published on: February 1, 2001
One of my favorite books is "The October Country," by Science Fiction/Fantasy writer Ray Bradbury; One of my favorite poems is "To Autumn" by the English Romantic poet John Keats; and Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. I suppose there is an inescapable logic here which means that my favorite season is Fall.
Actually, all the seasons are such a gift to us. There is nothing so pleasing as the delicate flowers of early Spring and the perennially exciting discovery that Nature has authored yet another shade of green. But then there is Summer: All that lush growth; so much beauty, so little time to appreciate it.
Of course, I cannot ignore Winter: I love those quiet shades of white and those wet blacks and subtle undertones of gray. How I cherish the breadth and quality of the sunlight as I view it through bare branches!
Yes, but Autumn! The magic of the leaves of summer turning into a myriad shades of red and gold. Walking with pale mists along the stream banks. Chill mornings and sudden frosts. The harvest has been gathered and is safely distributed or stored. Corn stalks gray in the lonely fields. Leftover apples turn to vinegar in the musty orchards of Fall. Pumpkins, squashes and gourds decorate the fallow earth. When the sky is blue and a little wind spins by, uplifting your spirits along with a swirl of leaves, I feel I meet the immortal part.
For Fall is a dance to the beat of mortality. Maybe that is why so many people like Autumn. With the plants of the earth dying and animals responding in their various ways to the temperatures and a lessening of the hours of light, perhaps, we catch a glimpse of our own immortality in all this transition. Maybe whatever powers may be are sending us a message that in the midst of the mortal throes of the earth, there is something powerful within us that is immortal and beautiful beyond beauty.
Only poets or other artists can really illuminate these metaphors that are perhaps inherent in the change of seasons, for while prose is a language that can at best offer reflections of the Eternal, the artist presses the raw perception of truth upon us as best he or she can. When I think of the essence of a season, I often remember these lines from To Autumn by the English Romantic poet, John Keats:
“. . .While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies. . .”
Copyright 2001-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Published on: February 1, 2001
One of my favorite books is "The October Country," by Science Fiction/Fantasy writer Ray Bradbury; One of my favorite poems is "To Autumn" by the English Romantic poet John Keats; and Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. I suppose there is an inescapable logic here which means that my favorite season is Fall.
Actually, all the seasons are such a gift to us. There is nothing so pleasing as the delicate flowers of early Spring and the perennially exciting discovery that Nature has authored yet another shade of green. But then there is Summer: All that lush growth; so much beauty, so little time to appreciate it.
Of course, I cannot ignore Winter: I love those quiet shades of white and those wet blacks and subtle undertones of gray. How I cherish the breadth and quality of the sunlight as I view it through bare branches!
Yes, but Autumn! The magic of the leaves of summer turning into a myriad shades of red and gold. Walking with pale mists along the stream banks. Chill mornings and sudden frosts. The harvest has been gathered and is safely distributed or stored. Corn stalks gray in the lonely fields. Leftover apples turn to vinegar in the musty orchards of Fall. Pumpkins, squashes and gourds decorate the fallow earth. When the sky is blue and a little wind spins by, uplifting your spirits along with a swirl of leaves, I feel I meet the immortal part.
For Fall is a dance to the beat of mortality. Maybe that is why so many people like Autumn. With the plants of the earth dying and animals responding in their various ways to the temperatures and a lessening of the hours of light, perhaps, we catch a glimpse of our own immortality in all this transition. Maybe whatever powers may be are sending us a message that in the midst of the mortal throes of the earth, there is something powerful within us that is immortal and beautiful beyond beauty.
Only poets or other artists can really illuminate these metaphors that are perhaps inherent in the change of seasons, for while prose is a language that can at best offer reflections of the Eternal, the artist presses the raw perception of truth upon us as best he or she can. When I think of the essence of a season, I often remember these lines from To Autumn by the English Romantic poet, John Keats:
“. . .While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies. . .”
Copyright 2001-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
A Human of Crows
Author: Thomas James Martin
Published on: March 6, 2001
My neighbors consider the crows that hang out on our street in Beaverton, Oregon as pests and certainly must wonder at my sanity as I try to photograph them while they are foraging on the lawn.
However, I wonder and appreciate any wildlife that appears in our neighborhood. My spouse, Joyce, marvels that the first words that I sometimes speak to my elderly mother (who lives in the rural South where I was raised) is often about the wildlife that we have seen close to our house or on trips into the wilderness.
Many farmers also consider the Corvids (family name for crows, ravens, magpies, etc.) a pest because they feed on corn and other grains. Like the famous, cartoon magpies, Heckle and Jeckle, crows may eat the farmer's grain but they usually more than make up for what grain is taken by feeding on insects, worms and other crop pests. Crows are omnivorous and, in addition to previously mentioned critters, feed on seeds, nuts, and small rodents and amphibians as well as carrion.
As I head to work in the morning, I often see the crows roaming my side of the street with abandon. These are smart creatures, and have, in fact, been observed using automobiles to crush nuts. They drop the nuts on streets where cars pass and then pick up the meats after the cars have "cracked" the nuts.
Crows have also been observed using two distinctly different kinds of tools to forage for invertebrates such as insects, centipedes, and larvae. A biologist in the New Caledonian islands observed "both manufacture and use of a hooked tool made by plucking and stripping a barbed twig. He also observed the use, but not manufacture, of what he described as a "stepped cut tool" with serrated edges." (See the article at http://www.jcrows.com/crow.html .
Quite often Corvids are considered magical creatures and at least one culture, the Tibetan, has developed a tradition of divination using crows. Telling the future by means of the appearances and behavior of birds,especially their calls, is called "auspicy." For a complete look at fortune telling by use of crows, see William L. Cassidy's excellent article at http://www.jcrows.com/crolang.html .
I suppose one cannot write an article about the Corvids without including at least one anecdote about their legendary attraction to shiny objects. A Lakota woman of my acquaintance related to me that she and her famiiy nursed an injured crow back to health a few years ago. The bird apparently "adopted" her family. The crow made a nest high in the eaves of a barn and so lived on the farm near the Native American family for years.
Finally, there came a time when the family had to move from the farm. All was packed and they were ready to go except they could not find the crow. Finally, a teenage son climbed up into the rafters of the barn and found the crow's nest. When the teenager looked in the nest, he found simply dozens of objects "lost" by the family through the years. He found entire sets of earrings, various coins, assorted silverware, various stockings, socks and other small articles of clothing. Among the objects were candy bar wrappers, dish cloths, aluminum foil of various shapes, and finally an expensive dress watch that she had been looking for ages. And, yes, the bird chose to move with them, and is as far as I know, still living.
I have read that crows sometimes flock in groups of as much as ten thousand birds though they separate into smaller groups of 10 to 50 birds when foraging. A flock is called a "murder," because in legend the birds held tribunals for wrongdoers and meted out punishment by sentencing the guilty crow to death; that is "murdering" the offender. I suppose the fact that they are black and are scavengers as well as predators contributes to this tale.
Somehow, I seriously doubt that crows play the justice game. This bit anthropomorphism is most likely human beings projecting their own ideas of blood and justice off on some guileless though intelligent birds. If we are going to indulge in a bit of anthropomorphic projection, let us be more appropriate. Since crows with their manufacture and use of tools and problem solving capacities exhibit traits of intelligence usually associated with humans, I propose that we dignify flocks of crows with the appellation, "a human of crows."
Moreover, since we humans are the real murderers among animals, killing not only animals, but plants and each other deliberately and carelessly, I propose that we denote a gathering of human beings by a true and terrifying, but oh so apt moniker, a "murder of humans."
Copyright Thomas James Martin, 2002-2010, all rights reserved.
Published on: March 6, 2001
My neighbors consider the crows that hang out on our street in Beaverton, Oregon as pests and certainly must wonder at my sanity as I try to photograph them while they are foraging on the lawn.
However, I wonder and appreciate any wildlife that appears in our neighborhood. My spouse, Joyce, marvels that the first words that I sometimes speak to my elderly mother (who lives in the rural South where I was raised) is often about the wildlife that we have seen close to our house or on trips into the wilderness.
Many farmers also consider the Corvids (family name for crows, ravens, magpies, etc.) a pest because they feed on corn and other grains. Like the famous, cartoon magpies, Heckle and Jeckle, crows may eat the farmer's grain but they usually more than make up for what grain is taken by feeding on insects, worms and other crop pests. Crows are omnivorous and, in addition to previously mentioned critters, feed on seeds, nuts, and small rodents and amphibians as well as carrion.
As I head to work in the morning, I often see the crows roaming my side of the street with abandon. These are smart creatures, and have, in fact, been observed using automobiles to crush nuts. They drop the nuts on streets where cars pass and then pick up the meats after the cars have "cracked" the nuts.
Crows have also been observed using two distinctly different kinds of tools to forage for invertebrates such as insects, centipedes, and larvae. A biologist in the New Caledonian islands observed "both manufacture and use of a hooked tool made by plucking and stripping a barbed twig. He also observed the use, but not manufacture, of what he described as a "stepped cut tool" with serrated edges." (See the article at http://www.jcrows.com/crow.html .
Quite often Corvids are considered magical creatures and at least one culture, the Tibetan, has developed a tradition of divination using crows. Telling the future by means of the appearances and behavior of birds,especially their calls, is called "auspicy." For a complete look at fortune telling by use of crows, see William L. Cassidy's excellent article at http://www.jcrows.com/crolang.html .
I suppose one cannot write an article about the Corvids without including at least one anecdote about their legendary attraction to shiny objects. A Lakota woman of my acquaintance related to me that she and her famiiy nursed an injured crow back to health a few years ago. The bird apparently "adopted" her family. The crow made a nest high in the eaves of a barn and so lived on the farm near the Native American family for years.
Finally, there came a time when the family had to move from the farm. All was packed and they were ready to go except they could not find the crow. Finally, a teenage son climbed up into the rafters of the barn and found the crow's nest. When the teenager looked in the nest, he found simply dozens of objects "lost" by the family through the years. He found entire sets of earrings, various coins, assorted silverware, various stockings, socks and other small articles of clothing. Among the objects were candy bar wrappers, dish cloths, aluminum foil of various shapes, and finally an expensive dress watch that she had been looking for ages. And, yes, the bird chose to move with them, and is as far as I know, still living.
I have read that crows sometimes flock in groups of as much as ten thousand birds though they separate into smaller groups of 10 to 50 birds when foraging. A flock is called a "murder," because in legend the birds held tribunals for wrongdoers and meted out punishment by sentencing the guilty crow to death; that is "murdering" the offender. I suppose the fact that they are black and are scavengers as well as predators contributes to this tale.
Somehow, I seriously doubt that crows play the justice game. This bit anthropomorphism is most likely human beings projecting their own ideas of blood and justice off on some guileless though intelligent birds. If we are going to indulge in a bit of anthropomorphic projection, let us be more appropriate. Since crows with their manufacture and use of tools and problem solving capacities exhibit traits of intelligence usually associated with humans, I propose that we dignify flocks of crows with the appellation, "a human of crows."
Moreover, since we humans are the real murderers among animals, killing not only animals, but plants and each other deliberately and carelessly, I propose that we denote a gathering of human beings by a true and terrifying, but oh so apt moniker, a "murder of humans."
Copyright Thomas James Martin, 2002-2010, all rights reserved.
A Morning of Crows
Author: Thomas James Martin
Published on: February 19, 2001
Though the chill is severe sometimes, I love clear winter mornings. Here in western Oregon, cold, clear mornings are rare during February, as often the rains begin in November and do not cease until April. But this morning I marvel at the small, red star rising in the cloudless dawn.
On this winter morning, I hear no bird song in the small orchard meadow that is our backyard, though I have seen a few robins and blue jays in the past month. All is quiet except for the staccato caws of ever-present crows that seem to feed in our area in the morning, especially in late fall and winter.
Crows and their larger Corvid family cousins, the ravens, are among the most complex beings in legend and mythology. The crow is often thought of as a trickster and "shapeshifter." In the lore of some Northwest Indians, a raven is depicted holding a disk of the sun in its beak, for the raven placed the stars, moon and sun in the sky.
On the other hand, ravens and crows are sometimes found around battlefields, execution sites, cemeteries, and other places of the dead where they scavenge human as well as animal flesh. This observation has fed the dark tales of the Corvid family. Even today, I understand, a gravestone in the British Isles is sometimes called a "ravenstone." I am sure that their black color and rather shrill cry has contributed to this identification.
Seeing numerous crows in suburbia is a fairly recent phenomenon. Ornithologists speculate that they are attracted by the lights to roost in urban areas because they offer protection against their main predator, the Great Horned Owl.
Watching the crows on a winter morning, I make a note to myself to ask a favorite uncle about the family legend of his pet crow. I remember hearing this tale in childhood, but in the throes of growing up never quite learned all the details. Now that I am in middle age, such things assume more urgent importance than before. Many friends and relatives have died the past few years: I find that with each passing I lose a connection in the living fabric of my life, as that person passes into what I now call My Personal Mythology.
t occurs to me that my mythologies--like more elaborate mythologies from ancient or modern cultures--are usually black and white, like bleached bones in an earthen grave. Rather like a historian or cultural anthropologist restoring an ancient city from a few remains of foundations, bones and pottery, I am only able to reconstruct what was living and breathing with a pitifully few remembered words and gestures.
Often I remember what they did for a living; whether they were kind or harsh; occasionally an interesting turn of phrase comes to mind. Sad as it may be, only concepts of how I viewed them in the past inhabit my memory rather than the actual living persons.
Watching the crows so prominent in myth and legend, and at this moment in my back yard, I do not doubt the intelligence and even extraordinary perception that has struck storytellers since the dawn of recorded history. I also remember that some native peoples believe that whatever animals appear in your consciousness are trying to teach you lessons important to your life and spiritual growth. They are viewed as messengers from God or whatever Great Spirit exists.
I am inclined toward this belief and muse on the messages the crows are trying to impart. I realize that they could be impressing on me the importance of adaptability, as they are among the most adaptable of creatures. Some other messages could be: Take care of my relations; Make at least a little effort not to take our world and its inhabitants for granted.
Perhaps, one day I shall truly recognize and translate the enigmatic soul urges imparted by observing crows or any other creatures into words. In the meantime, I am grateful just for the miracle of their life, and that some birds celebrated in fable and fact have helped me to understand some small truths about living.
Some excellent web sites referencing crows and ravens are: The American Society of Crows and Ravens and The Raven Archive.
Copyright 2001-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Published on: February 19, 2001
Though the chill is severe sometimes, I love clear winter mornings. Here in western Oregon, cold, clear mornings are rare during February, as often the rains begin in November and do not cease until April. But this morning I marvel at the small, red star rising in the cloudless dawn.
On this winter morning, I hear no bird song in the small orchard meadow that is our backyard, though I have seen a few robins and blue jays in the past month. All is quiet except for the staccato caws of ever-present crows that seem to feed in our area in the morning, especially in late fall and winter.
Crows and their larger Corvid family cousins, the ravens, are among the most complex beings in legend and mythology. The crow is often thought of as a trickster and "shapeshifter." In the lore of some Northwest Indians, a raven is depicted holding a disk of the sun in its beak, for the raven placed the stars, moon and sun in the sky.
On the other hand, ravens and crows are sometimes found around battlefields, execution sites, cemeteries, and other places of the dead where they scavenge human as well as animal flesh. This observation has fed the dark tales of the Corvid family. Even today, I understand, a gravestone in the British Isles is sometimes called a "ravenstone." I am sure that their black color and rather shrill cry has contributed to this identification.
Seeing numerous crows in suburbia is a fairly recent phenomenon. Ornithologists speculate that they are attracted by the lights to roost in urban areas because they offer protection against their main predator, the Great Horned Owl.
Watching the crows on a winter morning, I make a note to myself to ask a favorite uncle about the family legend of his pet crow. I remember hearing this tale in childhood, but in the throes of growing up never quite learned all the details. Now that I am in middle age, such things assume more urgent importance than before. Many friends and relatives have died the past few years: I find that with each passing I lose a connection in the living fabric of my life, as that person passes into what I now call My Personal Mythology.
t occurs to me that my mythologies--like more elaborate mythologies from ancient or modern cultures--are usually black and white, like bleached bones in an earthen grave. Rather like a historian or cultural anthropologist restoring an ancient city from a few remains of foundations, bones and pottery, I am only able to reconstruct what was living and breathing with a pitifully few remembered words and gestures.
Often I remember what they did for a living; whether they were kind or harsh; occasionally an interesting turn of phrase comes to mind. Sad as it may be, only concepts of how I viewed them in the past inhabit my memory rather than the actual living persons.
Watching the crows so prominent in myth and legend, and at this moment in my back yard, I do not doubt the intelligence and even extraordinary perception that has struck storytellers since the dawn of recorded history. I also remember that some native peoples believe that whatever animals appear in your consciousness are trying to teach you lessons important to your life and spiritual growth. They are viewed as messengers from God or whatever Great Spirit exists.
I am inclined toward this belief and muse on the messages the crows are trying to impart. I realize that they could be impressing on me the importance of adaptability, as they are among the most adaptable of creatures. Some other messages could be: Take care of my relations; Make at least a little effort not to take our world and its inhabitants for granted.
Perhaps, one day I shall truly recognize and translate the enigmatic soul urges imparted by observing crows or any other creatures into words. In the meantime, I am grateful just for the miracle of their life, and that some birds celebrated in fable and fact have helped me to understand some small truths about living.
Some excellent web sites referencing crows and ravens are: The American Society of Crows and Ravens and The Raven Archive.
Copyright 2001-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Sawdust Memories
Author: Thomas James Martin
Published on: July 15, 2003
Love is now the stardust of yesterday
The music of the years gone by.
~Stardust by Hoagy Carmichael and Mitchell Parish
It's evening at the Sawdust Theatre in Coquille, Oregon, and Darling Dearheart, a heroine dressed all in white, enters stage left; the audience Oohs and Ahs as she puts her hands together, starts to say her line, and then sneezes for what seems like the "twenty-third" time in the play. No one minds; everyone just laughs and smiles for the twenty-third time.
"Boo!" cries the audience as the dastardly villain appears dressed in black, sporting a V-shaped moustache and, screaming, "Curses, foiled again!" No one minds; they laugh and yell at Hadrian Heartless, once again for the twenty-third time.
The players who come from Coquille, Bandon, Coos Bay and other cities of the South Coast and refer to themselves as "Sawdusters," take the stage every year from May to September to act, sing and dance their hearts out. They continue a city tradition that goes back 37 years.
They are ordinary people from the South Coast area; a few have professional experience; a few more maybe acted in a high school play or appeared in other local theater. Mostly though, they are people from all walks of life: Title clerks and social workers, bus drivers and school superintendents; fathers and grandfathers, mothers and daughters.
They come in all shapes and sizes, just like ordinary people, from svelte to chubby, from blonde and brunette to gray and balding. Some are players who act in the comic melodramas; some are olios.
A bit slow on the uptake, I finally figure out that an olio is a performer who sings and dances or participates in sketches before the curtain during set changes. Later, I discover that the heyday of the olio was in Vaudeville. Examples of the olios (sketches and performers) are seen in the movies Hello Dolly and The Seven Little Foys.
A lady olio, in skimpy dress and fishnet stockings, lifts her long legs and braving male catcalls and other taunts, dances from stage left holding a sign that says These Cinderellas. When she reaches center stage, she flips the sign over and it reads, Sure Get The Fellas as she dances off stage right.
Sitting between my wife and her aunt, I try-- unsuccessfully I fear--to avoid staring at those shapely "be-stockinged" legs. Joyce good naturedly punches me in the side with her elbow, and I stare straight ahead for a while. Finally, I look at her smirking face and pretend to hang my head.
This season the melodrama that the "Sawdusters" are putting on is called Dire Doings At the Dusty Saw Theatre and Saloon or There Will Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight. The company puts on a different melodrama every season, and they are very entertaining. Be sure to check out the website of the Sawdust Theatre for some excellent pictures of the performance, the players and the olios.
Audience participation (Boo, Hiss, Ahhh, catcalls) is one of the elements that makes the theatre unique and contributes to making it one of the finest and oldest melodrama traditions in the western United States. Other attributes of their success are the sheer energy and skill with which they perform in offering their audience such viewing pleasure. The fact that the cast stands outside the theatre shaking hands and thanking members of the audience for attending their performance is still another element in the Sawdust's success and quite a pleasant touch also.
Besides, unbeknownst to Joyce I got to shake hands with the lady olio whose legs I admired.
You can tell they have rehearsed long and hard to produce such a fine evening. The sets are great, the music from the lone piano enthralling, but the costumes are simply wonderful and really evoke those days of gas lamps and horse-drawn carriages. You cannot help but admire and appreciate the effort of this community and the pride the all-volunteer cast and staff take in establishing successful theatre in their city.
Before the curtain goes up on Act Two in which the heroine will most likely sneeze several more times and be saved from the dastardly clutches of the evil villain by the young, dashing hero, an olio dances out cradling a sign that says These Insects Don't Bite. At mid-stage she turns it over where we see, They're Beauty in Flight.
Then, the other olios materialize in front of the curtain with the men dressed in Victorian casual clothes looking like butterfly collectors out of a Gary Larson cartoon (The Far Side) chasing fair damsels dressed as butterflies around the stage as the piano plays a bright, sparkling tune from olden days.
The original Roxy Theatre—home for the Sawdusters for 28 years—burned in 1994. The new Sawdust Theatre is the result of many hours of volunteer labor and hundreds of thousands of dollars. Locals say the ambience of the "Gay 90s" that was so much a part of the old Roxy is slowly coming alive in the new theatre as volunteers finish the interior.
The Sawdusters put on their shows from Memorial Day to Labor Day, every Friday and Saturday. The curtain rises at 8 PM, but the "Gay 90's" ambience starts before the curtain goes up with a sing-along featuring old favorites from the American songbook of the era, such as < Old Good the>and By the Light of the Silvery Moon. Prior to the play, the lady olios perform the French dance famous from 19th century music halls, the Can-Can, with lots of attractive, high-kicking legs and rustling petticoats.
Oh yes. . .I forgot to mention that the popcorn is free and plentiful. They also sell beverages and snacks in the "saloon."
Two separate casts alternate performances so each performance may be slightly different from any other. Many members of the audience come several times during the season and find the production fresh eveery time.
The Sawdust Theatre is located at the corner of 1st and Adams in Coquille, which is 15 miles from Coos Bay. The entire area is accessible from Interstate 5; take the exit for Highway 42 at Roseburg.
Reservations are taken only from Tuesday through Saturday from 10am until 6pm. Please contact:
River Bend Floral & Gifts
38 E. First Street
Coquille, OR 97423
541-396-4563
Oh yes, a final word. . .please remember that "Gentlemen are asked to use receptacles for chewing tobacco juices. . ."
Editor's Notes: Melodrama--literally a blend of music (melody) and drama evolved from the early 1800's and survived through the 1920's. In accord with the artistic sensibilities of many in the Victorian Age, most melodramas involved simple, often sentimental plots, stock characters that appealed to the audience's emotions. Men were men, women were women, heroes were usually bright and brave while villains were usually dark and dastardly.
Melodrama developed hand in hand with a type of acting developed by Francois Delsarte, a Frenchman. Delsarte developed theatrical aesthetics that coordinated actors' expressions of their characters with a near scientific application of appropriate gestures to help define character and acting situations. Many famous actors and singers of the day studied with Delsarte, including Jenny Lind.
Modern melodrama--such as presented at the Sawdust Theatre--often pokes fun at many of the standard plots and characters of the Gilded Age. According to Dictionary.Com, modern usage of the term, melodrama, now usually refers to plays, movie and television dramas "characterized by exaggerated emotions, stereotypical characters, and interpersonal conflicts."
Copyright 2003-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Published on: July 15, 2003
Love is now the stardust of yesterday
The music of the years gone by.
~Stardust by Hoagy Carmichael and Mitchell Parish
It's evening at the Sawdust Theatre in Coquille, Oregon, and Darling Dearheart, a heroine dressed all in white, enters stage left; the audience Oohs and Ahs as she puts her hands together, starts to say her line, and then sneezes for what seems like the "twenty-third" time in the play. No one minds; everyone just laughs and smiles for the twenty-third time.
"Boo!" cries the audience as the dastardly villain appears dressed in black, sporting a V-shaped moustache and, screaming, "Curses, foiled again!" No one minds; they laugh and yell at Hadrian Heartless, once again for the twenty-third time.
The players who come from Coquille, Bandon, Coos Bay and other cities of the South Coast and refer to themselves as "Sawdusters," take the stage every year from May to September to act, sing and dance their hearts out. They continue a city tradition that goes back 37 years.
They are ordinary people from the South Coast area; a few have professional experience; a few more maybe acted in a high school play or appeared in other local theater. Mostly though, they are people from all walks of life: Title clerks and social workers, bus drivers and school superintendents; fathers and grandfathers, mothers and daughters.
They come in all shapes and sizes, just like ordinary people, from svelte to chubby, from blonde and brunette to gray and balding. Some are players who act in the comic melodramas; some are olios.
A bit slow on the uptake, I finally figure out that an olio is a performer who sings and dances or participates in sketches before the curtain during set changes. Later, I discover that the heyday of the olio was in Vaudeville. Examples of the olios (sketches and performers) are seen in the movies Hello Dolly and The Seven Little Foys.
A lady olio, in skimpy dress and fishnet stockings, lifts her long legs and braving male catcalls and other taunts, dances from stage left holding a sign that says These Cinderellas. When she reaches center stage, she flips the sign over and it reads, Sure Get The Fellas as she dances off stage right.
Sitting between my wife and her aunt, I try-- unsuccessfully I fear--to avoid staring at those shapely "be-stockinged" legs. Joyce good naturedly punches me in the side with her elbow, and I stare straight ahead for a while. Finally, I look at her smirking face and pretend to hang my head.
This season the melodrama that the "Sawdusters" are putting on is called Dire Doings At the Dusty Saw Theatre and Saloon or There Will Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight. The company puts on a different melodrama every season, and they are very entertaining. Be sure to check out the website of the Sawdust Theatre for some excellent pictures of the performance, the players and the olios.
Audience participation (Boo, Hiss, Ahhh, catcalls) is one of the elements that makes the theatre unique and contributes to making it one of the finest and oldest melodrama traditions in the western United States. Other attributes of their success are the sheer energy and skill with which they perform in offering their audience such viewing pleasure. The fact that the cast stands outside the theatre shaking hands and thanking members of the audience for attending their performance is still another element in the Sawdust's success and quite a pleasant touch also.
Besides, unbeknownst to Joyce I got to shake hands with the lady olio whose legs I admired.
You can tell they have rehearsed long and hard to produce such a fine evening. The sets are great, the music from the lone piano enthralling, but the costumes are simply wonderful and really evoke those days of gas lamps and horse-drawn carriages. You cannot help but admire and appreciate the effort of this community and the pride the all-volunteer cast and staff take in establishing successful theatre in their city.
Before the curtain goes up on Act Two in which the heroine will most likely sneeze several more times and be saved from the dastardly clutches of the evil villain by the young, dashing hero, an olio dances out cradling a sign that says These Insects Don't Bite. At mid-stage she turns it over where we see, They're Beauty in Flight.
Then, the other olios materialize in front of the curtain with the men dressed in Victorian casual clothes looking like butterfly collectors out of a Gary Larson cartoon (The Far Side) chasing fair damsels dressed as butterflies around the stage as the piano plays a bright, sparkling tune from olden days.
The original Roxy Theatre—home for the Sawdusters for 28 years—burned in 1994. The new Sawdust Theatre is the result of many hours of volunteer labor and hundreds of thousands of dollars. Locals say the ambience of the "Gay 90s" that was so much a part of the old Roxy is slowly coming alive in the new theatre as volunteers finish the interior.
The Sawdusters put on their shows from Memorial Day to Labor Day, every Friday and Saturday. The curtain rises at 8 PM, but the "Gay 90's" ambience starts before the curtain goes up with a sing-along featuring old favorites from the American songbook of the era, such as < Old Good the>and By the Light of the Silvery Moon. Prior to the play, the lady olios perform the French dance famous from 19th century music halls, the Can-Can, with lots of attractive, high-kicking legs and rustling petticoats.
Oh yes. . .I forgot to mention that the popcorn is free and plentiful. They also sell beverages and snacks in the "saloon."
Two separate casts alternate performances so each performance may be slightly different from any other. Many members of the audience come several times during the season and find the production fresh eveery time.
The Sawdust Theatre is located at the corner of 1st and Adams in Coquille, which is 15 miles from Coos Bay. The entire area is accessible from Interstate 5; take the exit for Highway 42 at Roseburg.
Reservations are taken only from Tuesday through Saturday from 10am until 6pm. Please contact:
River Bend Floral & Gifts
38 E. First Street
Coquille, OR 97423
541-396-4563
Oh yes, a final word. . .please remember that "Gentlemen are asked to use receptacles for chewing tobacco juices. . ."
Editor's Notes: Melodrama--literally a blend of music (melody) and drama evolved from the early 1800's and survived through the 1920's. In accord with the artistic sensibilities of many in the Victorian Age, most melodramas involved simple, often sentimental plots, stock characters that appealed to the audience's emotions. Men were men, women were women, heroes were usually bright and brave while villains were usually dark and dastardly.
Melodrama developed hand in hand with a type of acting developed by Francois Delsarte, a Frenchman. Delsarte developed theatrical aesthetics that coordinated actors' expressions of their characters with a near scientific application of appropriate gestures to help define character and acting situations. Many famous actors and singers of the day studied with Delsarte, including Jenny Lind.
Modern melodrama--such as presented at the Sawdust Theatre--often pokes fun at many of the standard plots and characters of the Gilded Age. According to Dictionary.Com, modern usage of the term, melodrama, now usually refers to plays, movie and television dramas "characterized by exaggerated emotions, stereotypical characters, and interpersonal conflicts."
Copyright 2003-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Peace Pilgrim
Author: Thomas James Martin
Published on: June 12, 2002
Living to give rather than to get. ~Peace Pilgrim
I should like to have met the Peace Pilgrim while she was alive. She was within 200 miles of me once, but what with the comings and goings, ups and downs of a young man’s life, I never quite made enough effort.
Rest assured that it was my loss.
Peace Pilgrim, otherwise known as Mildred Norman Ryder, died in 1981. She had spent the previous 28 years walking the highways and byways of the United States on a personal pilgrimage for peace.
This great soul journeyed from 1953 to 1981, vowing to "remain a wanderer until mankind has learned the way of peace, walking until given shelter and fasting until given food." In all she walked more than 25,000 miles during her journey, touching the lives of thousands with her simple way to peace:
This is the way of peace.
Overcome evil with good,
Falsehood with truth,
And hatred with love.
Peace, who always emphasized "the message not the messenger," dressed in a navy blue shirt (monogrammed with "Peace Pilgrim") and slacks and a short tunic on her pilgrimages. In her pockets she carried her only worldly possessions: a comb, a folding toothbrush, a ballpoint pen, copies of her message and the latest correspondence.
This silver-haired lady, an inspiration to the thousands with whom she met or heard her speak, was born on a small farm in 1908 in New Jersey of parents of modest means. As with many of us she grew upand lived a life that revolved around making money and buying things.
However, she came to look upon her life as self-centered and meaningless, feeling that worldly goods were burdens rather than blessings. She took a long walk through some woods all of one night (around 1938) until I felt "a complete willingness, without any reservations, to give my life to God and service."
According to her writings, conversations and speeches collected by five of her friends in Peace Pilgrim: Her Life and Work in Her Own Words , she gradually adopted a life of voluntary simplicity and began what was to become a fifteen-year period of preparation. While not knowing just what it was she was preparing for, she did volunteer work for peace groups and also worked with people who had physical, emotional and mental problems.
During this preparation period and in the midst of some spiritual turmoil, she found inner peace--and her calling. The inspiration for the pilgrimage came in 1952 after she had become the first woman to walk the entire 2,050-mile length of the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to northern Maine. She writes of that time:
< />I sat high upon a hill overlooking rural New England. The day before I had slipped out of harmony, and the evening before I had thought to God, It seems to me that if I could always remain in harmony I could be of greater usefulness--for every time I slip out of harmony it impairs my usefulness.
Shortly thereafter on the morning of January 1, 1953 she began her pilgrimage for peace. She walked alone and without money or any ties to charities, churches or other organizations. She walked "as a prayer" and as a chance to inspire others to pray and work for peace
She actually finished the first 25,000 miles in 1964. Though increased demands for speaking eventually led her to accept rides in order to make her schedule, she still continued to walk.
Peace said so many beautiful, poignant words as she walked into eternity, touching all with whom she came into contact with her gentle ways and simple, profound message. I like the following very much:
We who work for peace must not falter. We must continue to pray for peace and to act for peace in whatever way we can, we must continue to speak for peace and to live the way of peace; to inspire others, we must continue to think of peace and to know that peace is possible.
The Pilgrim believed deeply that the road to world peace lay in each human being finding inner peace. Perhaps her simple message bears repeating one more time:
This is the way of peace.
Overcome evil with good,
Falsehood with truth,
And hatred with love.
On November 19, 2000 a new statue of Peace Pilgrim by Costa Rican sculptor, Fernando Calvo, was dedicated at the United Nations University of Peace in Colon, Costa Rica. The life size statue joins busts of other world peace makers such as Gandhi and Tolstoy on the grounds of the University.
Searching for an ending to this story of an extraordinary and inspiring life, I find myself gently remembering that Peace Pilgrim would have kept it simple and emphasized the message not herself. I see, perhaps, that her own words say it best:
I never want people to remember me except in connection with peace. . .
Editor's Note: I wish to acknowledge the wonderful web site, Peace Pilgrim Website devoted to the works of Peace, and from which I learned much of her life and times. I urge you to visit this place of beauty and spirit on the Web to learn more about Peace, her pilgramage and above all her message. There, you may dowload freely her beautifully written and inspiring booklet, Steps Toward Inner Peace as well as the book compiled and written by her friends after death, Peace Pilgrim: Her Life and Work in Her Own Words .
Copyright 2002-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Published on: June 12, 2002
Living to give rather than to get. ~Peace Pilgrim
I should like to have met the Peace Pilgrim while she was alive. She was within 200 miles of me once, but what with the comings and goings, ups and downs of a young man’s life, I never quite made enough effort.
Rest assured that it was my loss.
Peace Pilgrim, otherwise known as Mildred Norman Ryder, died in 1981. She had spent the previous 28 years walking the highways and byways of the United States on a personal pilgrimage for peace.
This great soul journeyed from 1953 to 1981, vowing to "remain a wanderer until mankind has learned the way of peace, walking until given shelter and fasting until given food." In all she walked more than 25,000 miles during her journey, touching the lives of thousands with her simple way to peace:
This is the way of peace.
Overcome evil with good,
Falsehood with truth,
And hatred with love.
Peace, who always emphasized "the message not the messenger," dressed in a navy blue shirt (monogrammed with "Peace Pilgrim") and slacks and a short tunic on her pilgrimages. In her pockets she carried her only worldly possessions: a comb, a folding toothbrush, a ballpoint pen, copies of her message and the latest correspondence.
This silver-haired lady, an inspiration to the thousands with whom she met or heard her speak, was born on a small farm in 1908 in New Jersey of parents of modest means. As with many of us she grew upand lived a life that revolved around making money and buying things.
However, she came to look upon her life as self-centered and meaningless, feeling that worldly goods were burdens rather than blessings. She took a long walk through some woods all of one night (around 1938) until I felt "a complete willingness, without any reservations, to give my life to God and service."
According to her writings, conversations and speeches collected by five of her friends in Peace Pilgrim: Her Life and Work in Her Own Words , she gradually adopted a life of voluntary simplicity and began what was to become a fifteen-year period of preparation. While not knowing just what it was she was preparing for, she did volunteer work for peace groups and also worked with people who had physical, emotional and mental problems.
During this preparation period and in the midst of some spiritual turmoil, she found inner peace--and her calling. The inspiration for the pilgrimage came in 1952 after she had become the first woman to walk the entire 2,050-mile length of the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to northern Maine. She writes of that time:
< />I sat high upon a hill overlooking rural New England. The day before I had slipped out of harmony, and the evening before I had thought to God, It seems to me that if I could always remain in harmony I could be of greater usefulness--for every time I slip out of harmony it impairs my usefulness.
Shortly thereafter on the morning of January 1, 1953 she began her pilgrimage for peace. She walked alone and without money or any ties to charities, churches or other organizations. She walked "as a prayer" and as a chance to inspire others to pray and work for peace
She actually finished the first 25,000 miles in 1964. Though increased demands for speaking eventually led her to accept rides in order to make her schedule, she still continued to walk.
Peace said so many beautiful, poignant words as she walked into eternity, touching all with whom she came into contact with her gentle ways and simple, profound message. I like the following very much:
We who work for peace must not falter. We must continue to pray for peace and to act for peace in whatever way we can, we must continue to speak for peace and to live the way of peace; to inspire others, we must continue to think of peace and to know that peace is possible.
The Pilgrim believed deeply that the road to world peace lay in each human being finding inner peace. Perhaps her simple message bears repeating one more time:
This is the way of peace.
Overcome evil with good,
Falsehood with truth,
And hatred with love.
On November 19, 2000 a new statue of Peace Pilgrim by Costa Rican sculptor, Fernando Calvo, was dedicated at the United Nations University of Peace in Colon, Costa Rica. The life size statue joins busts of other world peace makers such as Gandhi and Tolstoy on the grounds of the University.
Searching for an ending to this story of an extraordinary and inspiring life, I find myself gently remembering that Peace Pilgrim would have kept it simple and emphasized the message not herself. I see, perhaps, that her own words say it best:
I never want people to remember me except in connection with peace. . .
Editor's Note: I wish to acknowledge the wonderful web site, Peace Pilgrim Website devoted to the works of Peace, and from which I learned much of her life and times. I urge you to visit this place of beauty and spirit on the Web to learn more about Peace, her pilgramage and above all her message. There, you may dowload freely her beautifully written and inspiring booklet, Steps Toward Inner Peace as well as the book compiled and written by her friends after death, Peace Pilgrim: Her Life and Work in Her Own Words .
Copyright 2002-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Friday, August 20, 2010
I've Got a Little List
Author: Thomas James Martin
Published on: July 11, 2003
As an admirer of the light operettas of the 19th century British artists, Gilbert and Sullivan, I recently viewed The Mikado, one of their most famous and admired plays. Sir W.S. Gilbert, who wrote the lyrics and libretto of the plays is certainly one of the outstanding satirical poets to write in English. Likewise, Sir Arthur Sullivan's spirited music, alternately saucy and lyrical, beautifully complements Gilbert's splendid verses.
Anyway, I am amazed at how well some of Gilbert's observations of the Gilded Age relate to 21st century society. So, with apologies to W.S. Gilbert, here is my take on one of his more celebrated songs. Yes, it is yet another parody of the famous song sung by Ko-Ko, the Lord High Executioner of the city of Titipu (set in Japan), with a chorus of men and is called I've Got a Little List. You can find the original lyrics at Rice University. (You can also find links to other parodies of the verse as well, such as the one by Eric Idle of Monty Python fame.)
For those of you not familiar with the Mikado, in the speech immediately before the song, Ko-Ko relates the following about finding offenders to behead:
If I should ever be called upon to act professionally, I am happy to think that there will be no difficulty in finding plenty of people whose loss will be a distinct gain to society at large.
Again, Sir William, my apologies. I hope you will take my humble efforts in the spirit of the satirical verse forms that you so magnificently developed for later generations to enjoy, build upon and (of course)imitate. Here's my own modest example of a Little List with Gilbert's chorus left intact:
As some day it may happen that a victim must be found,
I've got a little list--I've got a little list.
Of society offenders who might well be underground,
And who never would be missed--who
never would be missed!
There's the pestilential pundits who write without a clue—
All men with bloated bellies who hang out guzzling brew—
All children who play computer games and beat you just like that—
All people who like a glutton eat but keep their tummies flat—
The terrifying boss you've only just met, who on first names insists—
They'd none of 'em be missed--they'd none of 'em be missed!
CHORUS. He's got 'em on the list--he's got 'em on the list;
And they'll none of 'em be missed--
they'll none of 'em be missed.
There's the Metallica lead guitarist and the others of his race,
And Material Girl, Madonna—I 've got them on the list!
And the fearful ladies who serve spaghetti on their finest lace,
They never would be missed--they never would be missed!
Then the millionaire ball players who smirk and snort cocaine,
And unfailingly prove that even with money you cannot buy a brain;
Then there's the homophobes in the closet who curse but mostly lie,
They'd rather stay where the sun don't shine than admit they like a guy;
And that shallowest of arrogant, back-stabbing pr--ks, the corporate ladder climber-ist--
I don't think he'd be missed--I'm sure he'd not he missed!
CHORUS. He's got them on the list--he's got them on the list;
And I don't think they'll be missed--I'm sure they'll not be missed!
And the self-righteous jurists, who free the high and mightier,
Overbearing, moralistic judges—I've got them on the list!
All afternoon talk show hosts—nah, not Oprah —but especially Jerry Springer;
They'd none of 'em be missed—they'd none of 'em be missed.
And the slick politician who about corporate influences never lies,
"What, never?" Well, hardly ever when even their socks Enron buys
But it really doesn't matter whom you put upon the list,
For they'd none of 'em be missed--they'd none of 'em be missed!
CHORUS. You may put 'em on the list--you may put 'em on the list;
And they'll none of 'em be missed--they'll none of 'em be missed!
The music to The Mikado by Sir Arthur Sullivan, who was the leading English composer of his day, is glorious also; he really caught the spirit of Gilbert's lyrics. You can learn more about these two incomparable artists, study the libretto of the Mikado and other plays and hear the songs at the Gilbert and Sullivan Archives
As 19th century British gentlemen(and women) said when they thought a thing "first-rate, I say, "Capital, Sir Wiliam! Capital Sir Arthur!"
Copyright 2003-10, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved
Published on: July 11, 2003
As an admirer of the light operettas of the 19th century British artists, Gilbert and Sullivan, I recently viewed The Mikado, one of their most famous and admired plays. Sir W.S. Gilbert, who wrote the lyrics and libretto of the plays is certainly one of the outstanding satirical poets to write in English. Likewise, Sir Arthur Sullivan's spirited music, alternately saucy and lyrical, beautifully complements Gilbert's splendid verses.
Anyway, I am amazed at how well some of Gilbert's observations of the Gilded Age relate to 21st century society. So, with apologies to W.S. Gilbert, here is my take on one of his more celebrated songs. Yes, it is yet another parody of the famous song sung by Ko-Ko, the Lord High Executioner of the city of Titipu (set in Japan), with a chorus of men and is called I've Got a Little List. You can find the original lyrics at Rice University. (You can also find links to other parodies of the verse as well, such as the one by Eric Idle of Monty Python fame.)
For those of you not familiar with the Mikado, in the speech immediately before the song, Ko-Ko relates the following about finding offenders to behead:
If I should ever be called upon to act professionally, I am happy to think that there will be no difficulty in finding plenty of people whose loss will be a distinct gain to society at large.
Again, Sir William, my apologies. I hope you will take my humble efforts in the spirit of the satirical verse forms that you so magnificently developed for later generations to enjoy, build upon and (of course)imitate. Here's my own modest example of a Little List with Gilbert's chorus left intact:
As some day it may happen that a victim must be found,
I've got a little list--I've got a little list.
Of society offenders who might well be underground,
And who never would be missed--who
never would be missed!
There's the pestilential pundits who write without a clue—
All men with bloated bellies who hang out guzzling brew—
All children who play computer games and beat you just like that—
All people who like a glutton eat but keep their tummies flat—
The terrifying boss you've only just met, who on first names insists—
They'd none of 'em be missed--they'd none of 'em be missed!
CHORUS. He's got 'em on the list--he's got 'em on the list;
And they'll none of 'em be missed--
they'll none of 'em be missed.
There's the Metallica lead guitarist and the others of his race,
And Material Girl, Madonna—I 've got them on the list!
And the fearful ladies who serve spaghetti on their finest lace,
They never would be missed--they never would be missed!
Then the millionaire ball players who smirk and snort cocaine,
And unfailingly prove that even with money you cannot buy a brain;
Then there's the homophobes in the closet who curse but mostly lie,
They'd rather stay where the sun don't shine than admit they like a guy;
And that shallowest of arrogant, back-stabbing pr--ks, the corporate ladder climber-ist--
I don't think he'd be missed--I'm sure he'd not he missed!
CHORUS. He's got them on the list--he's got them on the list;
And I don't think they'll be missed--I'm sure they'll not be missed!
And the self-righteous jurists, who free the high and mightier,
Overbearing, moralistic judges—I've got them on the list!
All afternoon talk show hosts—nah, not Oprah —but especially Jerry Springer;
They'd none of 'em be missed—they'd none of 'em be missed.
And the slick politician who about corporate influences never lies,
"What, never?" Well, hardly ever when even their socks Enron buys
But it really doesn't matter whom you put upon the list,
For they'd none of 'em be missed--they'd none of 'em be missed!
CHORUS. You may put 'em on the list--you may put 'em on the list;
And they'll none of 'em be missed--they'll none of 'em be missed!
The music to The Mikado by Sir Arthur Sullivan, who was the leading English composer of his day, is glorious also; he really caught the spirit of Gilbert's lyrics. You can learn more about these two incomparable artists, study the libretto of the Mikado and other plays and hear the songs at the Gilbert and Sullivan Archives
As 19th century British gentlemen(and women) said when they thought a thing "first-rate, I say, "Capital, Sir Wiliam! Capital Sir Arthur!"
Copyright 2003-10, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved
Thursday, August 19, 2010
The Terminator
Published by Thomas James Martin - Suite101 -2001
March 20, 2001
Science fiction writer, Kurt Vonnegut, wrote a comic novel back in the '70's called "Galapagos." As I remember the theme of the book is that a kind of scientifically manipulated isotope of water called "Ice 9" is gradually taking over the world, rendering ordinary water completely useless. In the novel the human race perishes for want of water except for a small remnant of souls surviving on the Galapagos Islands. Vonnegut drips irony here, as Darwin drew broadly upon his observations of flora and fauna on these south Pacific islands to formulate much of his theory of evolution.
As I recall the narrator of the novel muses that perhaps the intellect ultimately does not insure the survival of the species, and, may, in fact have put humankind at a disadvantage. The point Vonnegut makes is that reason by itself is too linear and limited; unable to deal with the real world which is most assuredly quite curvilinear and unpredictable.
Every time I read another article about genetic engineering, I remember Vonnegut's novel and shudder. Never have I shivered more than when I read yet another article about the so called "Terminator" seed. For those of you who have not heard about the "Terminator," you have a real "treat" in store. The development and patenting of the Terminator definitely and horribly shows that science fiction cannot keep up with reality in the new millennium.
A few years ago an American cotton seed company announced that, jointly with the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA), it had received a patent on a technique that genetically disables the capacity of plants to produce seeds that will germinate. The patent, US Patent No. 5,723,765, is entitled "Control of Plant Gene Expression." One news report described this patent in the following way:
"The patent broadly covers plants and seed, both transgenic and conventional, of all species for a system designed to allow control of progeny seed viability without harming the crop. The principal application of the technology will be to control unauthorized planting of seed of proprietary varieties. . ."
In other words, it is a patent for a method of biogenetic engineering that turns off the reproductive processes of plants so that the seed produced by the plant is sterile. Farmers who use this seed would not be able to collect seed from their own crops for the following year's planting. Thus, they would have to buy new seed every season.
Since the beginnings of agriculture, farmers have saved the seed from their best plants, those proven hardy and fruitful, for planting the next season's crops. Using this low-tech, but highly efficacious method, the plant genome also benefits from cross-pollination from wild species which often introduce genes that improve the quality of cultivated crops. In other words, this interaction between cultivated crops and their wild relatives ,and the simple process of conserving and planting the best seed has been part of the process through which the food we eat not only has evolved, but has endured through the ages.
The large seed companies (such as Novartis and Monsanto) disagree, but many, if not most, biologists believe the Terminator seeds will cross-pollinate with wild and domestic plants with the result that natural selection ceases. Instead of the natural processes of Nature, corporate scientists and executives as well as government bureaucracies will select the characteristics of our plant genome.
For a more rigorous discussion of the Terminator technology and its ramifications for world wide agriculture, please see the extensive articles available at The Ark Institute. This wonderful organization also makes non-hybrid seeds available free, and is a leader in the fight against genetic manipulation of our precious flora.
Biogenetic technology tinkers with the most intrinsic elements of life and nobody can predict all its ecological and agricultural consequences. In my opinion our precious biosphere and indeed life itself should not be entrusted to those who wish to play with life as a God, but who through their own lacking in the most important attribute of godhead, humility, reveal neither the superiority of intelligence nor depth of wisdom necessary to play with worlds.
--------------------------------
Update 2010: Since writing this article, among other tragedies, known and only partially reported, thousands of indigent farmers on the Indian subcontinent have committed suicide as bioengineered cops have failed and they were locked into buying hybrid seed they could not afford.
Copyright, 2003-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
March 20, 2001
Science fiction writer, Kurt Vonnegut, wrote a comic novel back in the '70's called "Galapagos." As I remember the theme of the book is that a kind of scientifically manipulated isotope of water called "Ice 9" is gradually taking over the world, rendering ordinary water completely useless. In the novel the human race perishes for want of water except for a small remnant of souls surviving on the Galapagos Islands. Vonnegut drips irony here, as Darwin drew broadly upon his observations of flora and fauna on these south Pacific islands to formulate much of his theory of evolution.
As I recall the narrator of the novel muses that perhaps the intellect ultimately does not insure the survival of the species, and, may, in fact have put humankind at a disadvantage. The point Vonnegut makes is that reason by itself is too linear and limited; unable to deal with the real world which is most assuredly quite curvilinear and unpredictable.
Every time I read another article about genetic engineering, I remember Vonnegut's novel and shudder. Never have I shivered more than when I read yet another article about the so called "Terminator" seed. For those of you who have not heard about the "Terminator," you have a real "treat" in store. The development and patenting of the Terminator definitely and horribly shows that science fiction cannot keep up with reality in the new millennium.
A few years ago an American cotton seed company announced that, jointly with the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA), it had received a patent on a technique that genetically disables the capacity of plants to produce seeds that will germinate. The patent, US Patent No. 5,723,765, is entitled "Control of Plant Gene Expression." One news report described this patent in the following way:
"The patent broadly covers plants and seed, both transgenic and conventional, of all species for a system designed to allow control of progeny seed viability without harming the crop. The principal application of the technology will be to control unauthorized planting of seed of proprietary varieties. . ."
In other words, it is a patent for a method of biogenetic engineering that turns off the reproductive processes of plants so that the seed produced by the plant is sterile. Farmers who use this seed would not be able to collect seed from their own crops for the following year's planting. Thus, they would have to buy new seed every season.
Since the beginnings of agriculture, farmers have saved the seed from their best plants, those proven hardy and fruitful, for planting the next season's crops. Using this low-tech, but highly efficacious method, the plant genome also benefits from cross-pollination from wild species which often introduce genes that improve the quality of cultivated crops. In other words, this interaction between cultivated crops and their wild relatives ,and the simple process of conserving and planting the best seed has been part of the process through which the food we eat not only has evolved, but has endured through the ages.
The large seed companies (such as Novartis and Monsanto) disagree, but many, if not most, biologists believe the Terminator seeds will cross-pollinate with wild and domestic plants with the result that natural selection ceases. Instead of the natural processes of Nature, corporate scientists and executives as well as government bureaucracies will select the characteristics of our plant genome.
For a more rigorous discussion of the Terminator technology and its ramifications for world wide agriculture, please see the extensive articles available at The Ark Institute. This wonderful organization also makes non-hybrid seeds available free, and is a leader in the fight against genetic manipulation of our precious flora.
Biogenetic technology tinkers with the most intrinsic elements of life and nobody can predict all its ecological and agricultural consequences. In my opinion our precious biosphere and indeed life itself should not be entrusted to those who wish to play with life as a God, but who through their own lacking in the most important attribute of godhead, humility, reveal neither the superiority of intelligence nor depth of wisdom necessary to play with worlds.
--------------------------------
Update 2010: Since writing this article, among other tragedies, known and only partially reported, thousands of indigent farmers on the Indian subcontinent have committed suicide as bioengineered cops have failed and they were locked into buying hybrid seed they could not afford.
Copyright, 2003-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
The Thanksgiving Cat - Part 2 - The Leavening
Well, dear readers it has been a couple of years since I wrote about, The Thanksgiving Cat, also known as Ram, our mischievous male black cat.
A friend in western North Carolina found Ram playing in the median of an interstate highway. She already had so many animals on her farm that she asked if Joyce and I would give the six-week old kitten a home, and we agreed.
I picked up Ram at Portland (Oregon) International Airport and brought him to our suburban home in Beaverton. When I reached inside his travel container to take him out, he immediately started purring.
This quick and wondrous purring is the story of how he came by his name.
The name is taken from the Ramayana, the great Indian epic about the life and times of the enlightened king, Ram, and his consort, Sita. Thus, Ram is one of the names of the gods in Hindi; Gandhi exclaimed it as he died.
To me, the purr of a happy cat reminds me of this name of god; thus, this is the derivation of his name. However much Rambo may be more suitable as a name for this rambunctious, mischievous cat, I still think of him as the "Thanksgiving Cat."
He gets that moniker because Joyce and I consider his presence a blessing. . .albeit often hidden and sometimes infuriating! I mean, why do modern day humans keep cats at all? There are no granaries to guard from marauding mice which was one of the principle reasons for domesticating Felis domesticus in the first place.
Many would argue that humankind's friendly relationship with such an independent animal is probably based on masochism. Why else would humans put up with a so-called "pet," who only deigns to answer to his name when in need of food or due to some mysterious, arcane feline agenda?
The ancient Egyptians even worshiped cats, especially admiring their strength, grace and unfathomable poise. (Except around water, I suppose.)
Unfortunately, when I look around our house, I see much evidence for the masochistic theory. Our speaker covers are still in shreds from his kitten hood (and teenager hood) as is the back of the couch. He would continue to shred the furniture were it not for his fear of the spray bottle (considered a humane way of disciplining the little fur balls).
Furthermore, I may grow old and die before he comes in when called after letting him out into the backyard. Usually I have to go outside and chase down the little villain. I must admit though that he does not complain too much when I pick him up.
Most appalling, I suspect that he is trying to murder me when he insists upon entwining himself around my feet when I am puttering around the kitchen.
Why do we put up with punishment like this? I'm not so starved for affection that I must stroke his silky, black fur and listen to his "basso profundo" of a purr.
The other day though, I believe that I figured out this whole cat and human thing.
This illumination occurred while I was making one of my infrequent loaves of homemade bread. Just as I was adding yeast to a batch of flour and water, it occurred to me what the importance of the common house cat is to human beings or at least to Joyce and myself.
"The Leavening! He's the leavening," I shouted as the cat snaked around my feet for the millionth time, distracting me so much that in avoiding his sacred tail, the whole bowlful of batter wound up on the floor.
I almost ran out the door shrieking "leavening" in a pale imitation of the ancient Greek mathematician, Archimedes, who according to legend jumped up from his bath after figuring out how to determine the purity of gold and ran through the streets of Syracuse, exclaiming "Eureka!"
Well, I am sure that my discovery is not as important to the history of the race as discovering how to measure the volume of an irregular solid through hydrostatic displacement. Still, it explains much.
In addition to being an agent like yeast that causes bread to rise, leavening is also according to Dictionary.com, "an element, influence, or agent that works subtly to lighten, enliven, or modify a whole."
Ram(bo) helps me to take this world more lightly, not to be so attached to things or concepts. Though he can be infuriating, I find myself smiling or even laughing sometimes when I look at him or watch his antics.
He's so stubborn and independent, it is quite funny. I have come to admire the way he sits on his haunches and stares at me while I call his name. . .perhaps the occasional yell as well, I must confess.
Ram knows he should not get up on the kitchen counters or the stove though he persists in this behavior no matter how much I squirt him with the water bottle. Since he knows all the best places to hide and is about a thousand times quicker than I
I am, he usually evades discipline. He is especially adept at hiding under the bed where squirt guns are most ineffective.
Even when I corner him, he knows how to handle me; he just surrenders, laying on his back and stretching out into a little black crescent. He knows I love him too much to hurt him. I have to squirt him sometimes because it is dangerous for him to get up on the counters much less the stove. After a while though, I usually just wind up rubbing his belly while he purrs away.
Thus, Ram magically turns my anger into love. Even his neurotic compulsion to stick his head in the freezer section of our refrigerator and leave me tapping my toes while he noses around is so amusing. He helps me to stop and appreciate the value of a free spirit and seemingly boundless curiosity.
I may be in middle age but I still worship at altar of the god of play. Ram must be that god's right-hand creature. At any moment he waits in readiness for the games to begin. I have to chuckle as he chases his ball across the floor or tests his reflexes with the shredded remains of the shiny belt that goes with Joyce's pure silk housecoat. Mere baubles and folderol. . .
How I admire his athleticism. When he makes one of his patented broad jumps from the arm of my easy chair to the back of the sofa (at least five feet), I smile with pride just like a father watching a child.
So what if we have lost a couple of stereo covers, sit on a tattered couch and will have to replace the drapes where he climbs soon. Heh, heh. . .hey look, Ma! No attachment to material things here!
Sigh! At least, since he's grown up, he has at least stopped dancing on the word processor's keys, but then I may have written more succinctly when I had to guard those keys and perhaps edit more often thanks to his additional keystrokes.
So, thanks Ram(bo) for making me smile and laugh and increase my enjoyment of simple things. Thanks also for the ongoing anger management seminar.
You raise up my life whenever it starts to become dull or complacent. You are our wondrous creature who has come under our stewardship. You are so intelligent; you are so curious. Your sleep is inspiring. Your tail is is not only sacred, but also draws us mere humans within the boundaries of your esoteric feline universe as you curl it around yourself.
In the unknown corners
of the unleavened worlds
the sacred cat
draws us into infinite
power and love
with curious
grace and silence
risen
Yes, Ram, In the Divine Comedy that is sometimes life, you are the leavening!
Article and poem copyright 2003, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
A friend in western North Carolina found Ram playing in the median of an interstate highway. She already had so many animals on her farm that she asked if Joyce and I would give the six-week old kitten a home, and we agreed.
I picked up Ram at Portland (Oregon) International Airport and brought him to our suburban home in Beaverton. When I reached inside his travel container to take him out, he immediately started purring.
This quick and wondrous purring is the story of how he came by his name.
The name is taken from the Ramayana, the great Indian epic about the life and times of the enlightened king, Ram, and his consort, Sita. Thus, Ram is one of the names of the gods in Hindi; Gandhi exclaimed it as he died.
To me, the purr of a happy cat reminds me of this name of god; thus, this is the derivation of his name. However much Rambo may be more suitable as a name for this rambunctious, mischievous cat, I still think of him as the "Thanksgiving Cat."
He gets that moniker because Joyce and I consider his presence a blessing. . .albeit often hidden and sometimes infuriating! I mean, why do modern day humans keep cats at all? There are no granaries to guard from marauding mice which was one of the principle reasons for domesticating Felis domesticus in the first place.
Many would argue that humankind's friendly relationship with such an independent animal is probably based on masochism. Why else would humans put up with a so-called "pet," who only deigns to answer to his name when in need of food or due to some mysterious, arcane feline agenda?
The ancient Egyptians even worshiped cats, especially admiring their strength, grace and unfathomable poise. (Except around water, I suppose.)
Unfortunately, when I look around our house, I see much evidence for the masochistic theory. Our speaker covers are still in shreds from his kitten hood (and teenager hood) as is the back of the couch. He would continue to shred the furniture were it not for his fear of the spray bottle (considered a humane way of disciplining the little fur balls).
Furthermore, I may grow old and die before he comes in when called after letting him out into the backyard. Usually I have to go outside and chase down the little villain. I must admit though that he does not complain too much when I pick him up.
Most appalling, I suspect that he is trying to murder me when he insists upon entwining himself around my feet when I am puttering around the kitchen.
Why do we put up with punishment like this? I'm not so starved for affection that I must stroke his silky, black fur and listen to his "basso profundo" of a purr.
The other day though, I believe that I figured out this whole cat and human thing.
This illumination occurred while I was making one of my infrequent loaves of homemade bread. Just as I was adding yeast to a batch of flour and water, it occurred to me what the importance of the common house cat is to human beings or at least to Joyce and myself.
"The Leavening! He's the leavening," I shouted as the cat snaked around my feet for the millionth time, distracting me so much that in avoiding his sacred tail, the whole bowlful of batter wound up on the floor.
I almost ran out the door shrieking "leavening" in a pale imitation of the ancient Greek mathematician, Archimedes, who according to legend jumped up from his bath after figuring out how to determine the purity of gold and ran through the streets of Syracuse, exclaiming "Eureka!"
Well, I am sure that my discovery is not as important to the history of the race as discovering how to measure the volume of an irregular solid through hydrostatic displacement. Still, it explains much.
In addition to being an agent like yeast that causes bread to rise, leavening is also according to Dictionary.com, "an element, influence, or agent that works subtly to lighten, enliven, or modify a whole."
Ram(bo) helps me to take this world more lightly, not to be so attached to things or concepts. Though he can be infuriating, I find myself smiling or even laughing sometimes when I look at him or watch his antics.
He's so stubborn and independent, it is quite funny. I have come to admire the way he sits on his haunches and stares at me while I call his name. . .perhaps the occasional yell as well, I must confess.
Ram knows he should not get up on the kitchen counters or the stove though he persists in this behavior no matter how much I squirt him with the water bottle. Since he knows all the best places to hide and is about a thousand times quicker than I
I am, he usually evades discipline. He is especially adept at hiding under the bed where squirt guns are most ineffective.
Even when I corner him, he knows how to handle me; he just surrenders, laying on his back and stretching out into a little black crescent. He knows I love him too much to hurt him. I have to squirt him sometimes because it is dangerous for him to get up on the counters much less the stove. After a while though, I usually just wind up rubbing his belly while he purrs away.
Thus, Ram magically turns my anger into love. Even his neurotic compulsion to stick his head in the freezer section of our refrigerator and leave me tapping my toes while he noses around is so amusing. He helps me to stop and appreciate the value of a free spirit and seemingly boundless curiosity.
I may be in middle age but I still worship at altar of the god of play. Ram must be that god's right-hand creature. At any moment he waits in readiness for the games to begin. I have to chuckle as he chases his ball across the floor or tests his reflexes with the shredded remains of the shiny belt that goes with Joyce's pure silk housecoat. Mere baubles and folderol. . .
How I admire his athleticism. When he makes one of his patented broad jumps from the arm of my easy chair to the back of the sofa (at least five feet), I smile with pride just like a father watching a child.
So what if we have lost a couple of stereo covers, sit on a tattered couch and will have to replace the drapes where he climbs soon. Heh, heh. . .hey look, Ma! No attachment to material things here!
Sigh! At least, since he's grown up, he has at least stopped dancing on the word processor's keys, but then I may have written more succinctly when I had to guard those keys and perhaps edit more often thanks to his additional keystrokes.
So, thanks Ram(bo) for making me smile and laugh and increase my enjoyment of simple things. Thanks also for the ongoing anger management seminar.
You raise up my life whenever it starts to become dull or complacent. You are our wondrous creature who has come under our stewardship. You are so intelligent; you are so curious. Your sleep is inspiring. Your tail is is not only sacred, but also draws us mere humans within the boundaries of your esoteric feline universe as you curl it around yourself.
In the unknown corners
of the unleavened worlds
the sacred cat
draws us into infinite
power and love
with curious
grace and silence
risen
Yes, Ram, In the Divine Comedy that is sometimes life, you are the leavening!
Article and poem copyright 2003, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
The Thanksgiving Cat - Part 1
A happy arrangement: many people prefer cats to other people, and many cats prefer people to other cats. ~Mason Cooley, US Aphorist
As I write this weekly essay, I am watching our male, black cat, Ram, all curled up in a ball high up on the arm of the sofa. (Tap, tap, tap. . sounds of typing on keyboard), trying to write something profound about Thanksgiving, reaching inward, trying to go into the deep recesses of the soul, searching out original concepts, well-wrought phrases.
Tap. . .tap. . .how can he sleep so peacefully with such total relaxation. . .tap...tap. . .and yet wake up, stretch and destroy another vase so quickly, I muse, for the thousandth time. Tap. . tap. . .How did we wind up with this cat who is so adoringly beautiful and loving and so maddeningly independent and stubborn.
Tap. . .Oh let's just write an article about "that darn cat." He 's probably controlling me anyway in his catty dreams. Besides, he's convinced that if he's not God, he is at least the emissary of godhead on the planet.
I actually wanted another dog (having had many cats in the past), and Joyce did not want another animal at all, much less a cat. Being blessed and cursed with a world-class sniffer, she hates litter boxes and abhors feline aromas.
Then our friend, Patty, called from western North Carolina. Seems she had been driving back from Asheville to her home high in the Great Smokies when she saw a tiny black blur out of the corner of her eye playing in the median of the freeway. She pulled off the road and walking back along the highway, discovered, as she suspected, a black kitten playing merrily with twigs and shrubs as cars and tractor trailers swept by at 65 or 70 miles an hour.
To make a long story short, she rescued the cat, checked with animal shelters to try to locate the kitten's family. Unable to find its family and having a full household of adult cats and dogs herself and with a husband threatening divorce if she took in any more creatures, she called us.
Tap. . .tap. . .Why us?
"You only have a dog," she told us. And she added so very sweetly, "I know that you guys will give him a good home. Besides, you're such good people," she added in what I now realize was a shameless attempt to get us to adopt the rescued kitten and soothe her feline-threatened marriage.
Well, blush my cheeks, shut my mouth and kiss my grits. "Aw, shucks," I said (I'm a Leo and flattery will get you everywhere!). After consulting with Joyce, we said yes to Patty, after what probably should have been more consideration. . .a lot more consideration.
Our fate sealed, we picked up the kitten at the Portland airport. Yes, he jetted 3,000 miles from Asheville, N.C. in the southeastern USA to Portland Oregon in the Pacific Northwest. After peering in his travel cage to make sure that he had survived the flight, we drove him home to Beaverton.
Tap. . .tap . .Placing his container in our utility room, I opened the door and placed my hand inside and pulled him out. Poor little thing, I thought. Here he's traveled all these miles. He must be scared to death.
But what's this! He's purring! Loudly! A three thousand mile flight, a twenty mile ride by auto, and a strange hand picking him up and an eight-week old kitten is purring so happily!
As a student of comparative religion and literature, right then and there I decided his name should be Ram, which is the name of a mythical Indian King and the subject of the Indian masterpiece, the Ramayana. Ram, who led an army of animals against a demon to rescue his queen, Sita, is also one of the many names of God on the Indian subcontinent. Purring is a kind of special sound, like a "name of god" for a cat. Some devotees meditate on the name of god. Since Ram was so centered and fearless as to purr while being held by a complete stranger after such an awesome journey, we felt that he was a special creature indeed.
Tap. . tap. . .tap. . .Indeed, he is! Now that we have survived his "kittenhood" and adolescence, our attitude toward him has mellowed somewhat as he has mellowed into "cathood."
Yay, verily, yay! With a blowing of ancient horns and beating of sacred gongs (probably from Egypt where his Cattiness was worshipped), we offer sincere thanks to all Powers and Dominions and calling all angels to witness our testimonials of gratitude for this remarkable cat, who so richly changed the lives that we thought we deserved before he came into our lives. (Whew!!!)
Tap. . .tap. . .Rambo. You see, Ram did not hold up too long-as a name, I mean. After his
his first broad jump from the arm of a chair with a bounce off the back of the dog to the sofa, we knew that we actually had been entrusted with "Rambo," after the Sylvester Stallone character with the superhuman muscles and reflexes.
Tap. . .tap. . .Sorry, I digress. Here is a list of the things about Rambo for which we are grateful to God (or whomever). Note that I have included the good and bad. . .O shut my mouth again. . .I mean the positive and negative and, Oh yes, it's all good in the end (crossing my fingers).
We thank you, O lord that:
Rambo has finally grown up and no longer climbs on my shoulder with claws extended fully in order to play with the hanging planter. Oh, and thank you for taking care of the spirit of the plant that died shredded and partially eaten. I know also that it was You helping me sweep up the pieces of expensive, enameled pottery; many thanks.
He does not actually play in traffic though on one shameful night we did contemplate leaving all the doors and windows open (because it was so hot, of course).
He manages to play so gracefully and easily with almost any object in our house. Thanks to Ram our creativity has increased many times over. He has taught us, for example, that drapes not only afford us privacy but also make excellent swings. Those swings may need to be replaced soon, but, hey, it was time for new ones anyway.
Ram has helped us with our material attachments. I mean, who cares about a Waterford crystal goblet anyway. They're overpriced and Aunt Betty has passed on now and will never know that we no longer have a complete set. I guess it was one of a kind, but that's life. You cannot expect delicate glasses to survive for very long anyway in this catastrophic world much less the gentle pull of a playful kitty on a linen tablecloth.
He has helped us so very much with our emotional problems, especially anger management. God, I used to really get upset when he jumped down on my chest from the head of the bed at 3 o'clock in the morning. But, I have settled down now and no longer require tranquilizers in order to get back to sleep. Now, I get up and go to work without dozing all day long; My My boss has really been quite understanding.
He supervises us so closely in the kitchen. Really, I don't know how he manages it since he has never had his tail stepped on while stepping gracefully betwen my feet with every step that I take. He seemed so glad to see me when I returned home with splints and knee braces. Tap. . .tap. . .Well, I suppose it's time to go now. Rambo is st4art3ing to wa9lk oTn the k0eys and is purrY7ing as h7e does so. Rubb9Ying his fa(ce ag(&Yainst my haAnds.
There, he's gone now. Thank you, Rambo. I really did need to rewrite. . .tap. . .tap. . .
--------------------------
In researching this article, I came cross this excellent site in the United Kingdom, Cats Online.
If you enjoyed this article, you may also wish to read the sequel, The Thanksgiving Cat: Part II - The Leavening.
As I write this weekly essay, I am watching our male, black cat, Ram, all curled up in a ball high up on the arm of the sofa. (Tap, tap, tap. . sounds of typing on keyboard), trying to write something profound about Thanksgiving, reaching inward, trying to go into the deep recesses of the soul, searching out original concepts, well-wrought phrases.
Tap. . .tap. . .how can he sleep so peacefully with such total relaxation. . .tap...tap. . .and yet wake up, stretch and destroy another vase so quickly, I muse, for the thousandth time. Tap. . tap. . .How did we wind up with this cat who is so adoringly beautiful and loving and so maddeningly independent and stubborn.
Tap. . .Oh let's just write an article about "that darn cat." He 's probably controlling me anyway in his catty dreams. Besides, he's convinced that if he's not God, he is at least the emissary of godhead on the planet.
I actually wanted another dog (having had many cats in the past), and Joyce did not want another animal at all, much less a cat. Being blessed and cursed with a world-class sniffer, she hates litter boxes and abhors feline aromas.
Then our friend, Patty, called from western North Carolina. Seems she had been driving back from Asheville to her home high in the Great Smokies when she saw a tiny black blur out of the corner of her eye playing in the median of the freeway. She pulled off the road and walking back along the highway, discovered, as she suspected, a black kitten playing merrily with twigs and shrubs as cars and tractor trailers swept by at 65 or 70 miles an hour.
To make a long story short, she rescued the cat, checked with animal shelters to try to locate the kitten's family. Unable to find its family and having a full household of adult cats and dogs herself and with a husband threatening divorce if she took in any more creatures, she called us.
Tap. . .tap. . .Why us?
"You only have a dog," she told us. And she added so very sweetly, "I know that you guys will give him a good home. Besides, you're such good people," she added in what I now realize was a shameless attempt to get us to adopt the rescued kitten and soothe her feline-threatened marriage.
Well, blush my cheeks, shut my mouth and kiss my grits. "Aw, shucks," I said (I'm a Leo and flattery will get you everywhere!). After consulting with Joyce, we said yes to Patty, after what probably should have been more consideration. . .a lot more consideration.
Our fate sealed, we picked up the kitten at the Portland airport. Yes, he jetted 3,000 miles from Asheville, N.C. in the southeastern USA to Portland Oregon in the Pacific Northwest. After peering in his travel cage to make sure that he had survived the flight, we drove him home to Beaverton.
Tap. . .tap . .Placing his container in our utility room, I opened the door and placed my hand inside and pulled him out. Poor little thing, I thought. Here he's traveled all these miles. He must be scared to death.
But what's this! He's purring! Loudly! A three thousand mile flight, a twenty mile ride by auto, and a strange hand picking him up and an eight-week old kitten is purring so happily!
As a student of comparative religion and literature, right then and there I decided his name should be Ram, which is the name of a mythical Indian King and the subject of the Indian masterpiece, the Ramayana. Ram, who led an army of animals against a demon to rescue his queen, Sita, is also one of the many names of God on the Indian subcontinent. Purring is a kind of special sound, like a "name of god" for a cat. Some devotees meditate on the name of god. Since Ram was so centered and fearless as to purr while being held by a complete stranger after such an awesome journey, we felt that he was a special creature indeed.
Tap. . tap. . .tap. . .Indeed, he is! Now that we have survived his "kittenhood" and adolescence, our attitude toward him has mellowed somewhat as he has mellowed into "cathood."
Yay, verily, yay! With a blowing of ancient horns and beating of sacred gongs (probably from Egypt where his Cattiness was worshipped), we offer sincere thanks to all Powers and Dominions and calling all angels to witness our testimonials of gratitude for this remarkable cat, who so richly changed the lives that we thought we deserved before he came into our lives. (Whew!!!)
Tap. . .tap. . .Rambo. You see, Ram did not hold up too long-as a name, I mean. After his
his first broad jump from the arm of a chair with a bounce off the back of the dog to the sofa, we knew that we actually had been entrusted with "Rambo," after the Sylvester Stallone character with the superhuman muscles and reflexes.
Tap. . .tap. . .Sorry, I digress. Here is a list of the things about Rambo for which we are grateful to God (or whomever). Note that I have included the good and bad. . .O shut my mouth again. . .I mean the positive and negative and, Oh yes, it's all good in the end (crossing my fingers).
We thank you, O lord that:
Rambo has finally grown up and no longer climbs on my shoulder with claws extended fully in order to play with the hanging planter. Oh, and thank you for taking care of the spirit of the plant that died shredded and partially eaten. I know also that it was You helping me sweep up the pieces of expensive, enameled pottery; many thanks.
He does not actually play in traffic though on one shameful night we did contemplate leaving all the doors and windows open (because it was so hot, of course).
He manages to play so gracefully and easily with almost any object in our house. Thanks to Ram our creativity has increased many times over. He has taught us, for example, that drapes not only afford us privacy but also make excellent swings. Those swings may need to be replaced soon, but, hey, it was time for new ones anyway.
Ram has helped us with our material attachments. I mean, who cares about a Waterford crystal goblet anyway. They're overpriced and Aunt Betty has passed on now and will never know that we no longer have a complete set. I guess it was one of a kind, but that's life. You cannot expect delicate glasses to survive for very long anyway in this catastrophic world much less the gentle pull of a playful kitty on a linen tablecloth.
He has helped us so very much with our emotional problems, especially anger management. God, I used to really get upset when he jumped down on my chest from the head of the bed at 3 o'clock in the morning. But, I have settled down now and no longer require tranquilizers in order to get back to sleep. Now, I get up and go to work without dozing all day long; My My boss has really been quite understanding.
He supervises us so closely in the kitchen. Really, I don't know how he manages it since he has never had his tail stepped on while stepping gracefully betwen my feet with every step that I take. He seemed so glad to see me when I returned home with splints and knee braces. Tap. . .tap. . .Well, I suppose it's time to go now. Rambo is st4art3ing to wa9lk oTn the k0eys and is purrY7ing as h7e does so. Rubb9Ying his fa(ce ag(&Yainst my haAnds.
There, he's gone now. Thank you, Rambo. I really did need to rewrite. . .tap. . .tap. . .
--------------------------
In researching this article, I came cross this excellent site in the United Kingdom, Cats Online.
If you enjoyed this article, you may also wish to read the sequel, The Thanksgiving Cat: Part II - The Leavening.
Another Country
By Thomas James Martin - Published Suite101 - 2004
Listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go --e.e. cummings
Walking the woods in October, held helpless before the unimaginable beauty, like looking in the old Queen's Looking Glass.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who's the fairest one of all.
Why we are, all walking on the other side of the mirror, fairer than any fey princesses, paused on the woodland paths, held breathless in the chill breath of autumn, riding the misty winds, our red and gold cloaks billowing.
Looking with all my heart for the fairest in the mirrored lands, I find no fabulous day-glow princess ponies or pumpkin-colored SUVs or beautiful, coiffed celebrities or handsome, olive drab action figures.
I find hickory leaves still clinging to the tossing trees, etching the sky with their pale, golden lattice. I see the grasses still greening before the first frosts, a few golden apples still hanging from some bare boughs. I also see the brown remains of a few rotting pears underneath our Bartlett tree and tatters of decaying Damson plums, still slightly purple on the damp ground near the Lutheran church.
Why does Nature even in its moments of violence and decay seem so much purer to me than the manmade world of computers and ice cream?
I remember the question of what actually constitutes the "natural order" coming up several times in those endless "bull" sessions over cigarettes and beer (smuggled in those days). Some bright but shallow intellectual upperclassman would always point out that everything is really part of Nature. Thus, the argument would go that the very cigarettes that we were smoking and beer we were drinking were also "natural."
According to these "wags," a '65 Chevy Impala Convertible should be looked upon with the same reverence and awe as Niagara Falls or the Grand Canyon or the stately oaks that bordered my grandparents' farm and which I dearly missed sitting on my bunk, a little country boy lost in the cold glitter of first year at the state university.
Yes, I have come to understand that in this paradoxical world, supersized fries, SUVs, CEO salaries and politiicians' egos have some kind of place in the universe. Silicon chips implanted in my noggins, hoisting a glass with my bespectacled clone--All part of the Natural Order.
So, you see, I cede the point.
Yet, I have come to value the heart over the mind, as I have put some time and perspective between those impressionable years and myself. And, yes, Nature wins the argument.
That is the Nature of: Waterfalls, the Paper Birch, Goldfinches in sunlight, scurrying squirrels, passing shades of cloud light on green meadows, the shake of a loved one's rainy hair--even the sights and smells of a flower dump at high noon
One of the first poets to touch me was e.e. cummings, the American poet quoted in the epigram. I still value many of his poems after all the years that have passed since I first read him. Among the many lines of his that I remember are these from the same poem:
A world of made
is not a world of born. . .
Walking the woods in October, gray in looks and ways, I feel as if I am walking in another country, not just one more lovely but a land so much grander, so much deeper than that inchoate, flickering land where I also must live.
-----------------------------------------------
Author's Notes: The poem quoted is e.e. cummings poem entitled with the first line: pity this busy monster manunkind. You can read the entire poem at Bartleby's.
Copyright 2004, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Read more at Suite101: Another Country http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/caring_soul/111890#ixzz0wPujScHo
Listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go --e.e. cummings
Walking the woods in October, held helpless before the unimaginable beauty, like looking in the old Queen's Looking Glass.
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who's the fairest one of all.
Why we are, all walking on the other side of the mirror, fairer than any fey princesses, paused on the woodland paths, held breathless in the chill breath of autumn, riding the misty winds, our red and gold cloaks billowing.
Looking with all my heart for the fairest in the mirrored lands, I find no fabulous day-glow princess ponies or pumpkin-colored SUVs or beautiful, coiffed celebrities or handsome, olive drab action figures.
I find hickory leaves still clinging to the tossing trees, etching the sky with their pale, golden lattice. I see the grasses still greening before the first frosts, a few golden apples still hanging from some bare boughs. I also see the brown remains of a few rotting pears underneath our Bartlett tree and tatters of decaying Damson plums, still slightly purple on the damp ground near the Lutheran church.
Why does Nature even in its moments of violence and decay seem so much purer to me than the manmade world of computers and ice cream?
I remember the question of what actually constitutes the "natural order" coming up several times in those endless "bull" sessions over cigarettes and beer (smuggled in those days). Some bright but shallow intellectual upperclassman would always point out that everything is really part of Nature. Thus, the argument would go that the very cigarettes that we were smoking and beer we were drinking were also "natural."
According to these "wags," a '65 Chevy Impala Convertible should be looked upon with the same reverence and awe as Niagara Falls or the Grand Canyon or the stately oaks that bordered my grandparents' farm and which I dearly missed sitting on my bunk, a little country boy lost in the cold glitter of first year at the state university.
Yes, I have come to understand that in this paradoxical world, supersized fries, SUVs, CEO salaries and politiicians' egos have some kind of place in the universe. Silicon chips implanted in my noggins, hoisting a glass with my bespectacled clone--All part of the Natural Order.
So, you see, I cede the point.
Yet, I have come to value the heart over the mind, as I have put some time and perspective between those impressionable years and myself. And, yes, Nature wins the argument.
That is the Nature of: Waterfalls, the Paper Birch, Goldfinches in sunlight, scurrying squirrels, passing shades of cloud light on green meadows, the shake of a loved one's rainy hair--even the sights and smells of a flower dump at high noon
One of the first poets to touch me was e.e. cummings, the American poet quoted in the epigram. I still value many of his poems after all the years that have passed since I first read him. Among the many lines of his that I remember are these from the same poem:
A world of made
is not a world of born. . .
Walking the woods in October, gray in looks and ways, I feel as if I am walking in another country, not just one more lovely but a land so much grander, so much deeper than that inchoate, flickering land where I also must live.
-----------------------------------------------
Author's Notes: The poem quoted is e.e. cummings poem entitled with the first line: pity this busy monster manunkind. You can read the entire poem at Bartleby's.
Copyright 2004, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Read more at Suite101: Another Country http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/caring_soul/111890#ixzz0wPujScHo
Monday, August 9, 2010
The Gourd from which I Drink
By Thomas James Martin
Published - Suite101 - 2001
Are you not the oasis where I dream, and the gourd from which I drink in long draughts the wine of memory? --Charles Badelaire, French poet and critic
Toward the end of October every year, my wife, Joyce, and I make our annual pilgrimage to a local "pumpkin patch." There, we join with other adults and children in a ritual ride down a muddy country lane at a local farm in the back of a tractor-pulled wagon to an even muddier field to pick a pumpkin for Halloween.
While waiting our turn to ride to the field, we enjoyed cups of warm apple cider and tried to keep warm in the chill, Autumn afternoon. The shelves of farm buildings and small open-air stands set up for the event were filled with various types of squash, Indian Corn in shades of red and blue and also gourds of every shape and color.
As I looked over the gourds this year, I was suddenly flooded with childhood memories. They were sweet, soulful memories of simpler times, of cleaning springs and drinking pure water from gourd dippers, of nesting birds and kindly ladies. The whole episode started with memories of my grandmother hollowing out gourds with a "crook neck" and leaving the dippers in the sun to season and toughen up before using them. One such dipper hung from a sapling near a remote spring that my grandfather cleaned every year.
Sometimes I would go with my paternal grandfather in late March or April to help him clean the spring of leaves and tree limbs that had fallen into the water over the fall and winter. Looking down that long path into my memory, I still see clearly the tall, oak tree that marked the site. Other than the water we carried in Mason jars, the spring was our only source of water while working in the fields and around the barns, so clearing it of brush and insuring its purity was very important to my family.
My job as a boy of six or seven was to check the gourd dipper for spider webs (and spiders), insects and small twigs and leaves. The spring was bounded by sunken boards to make a square watering place. After my grandfather had raked the spring clean, I would shake the dipper out and clean it by splashing it around in the water.
I so enjoyed watching that spring clear after it was cleaned. Water bubbled from the depths up to the surface, and if I waited long enough I would see “crawdads” and once in a while a salamander. The presence of these creatures indicated that the water was clean and pure. This is why I have always admired Robert Frost’s poem, "The Pasture," because I have lived it:
I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may:
I shan't be gone long. -- You come too."
Another gourd dipper hung near a spigot from which ran well water that we drank as well as used to water farm animals. It’s probably all imagination and nostalgia for a simpler life, but somehow there was nothing quite so sweet as water drunk from a gourd dipper. Of course, usually when we drank that water we were hot and tired from hard farm work. Surely, any liquid would have tasted like the nectar of the gods.
On trips to Durham to visit my grandmother, we first took a country road to Chapel Hill through the rolling, red clay hills of the North Carolina Piedmont, and sometimes we stopped at a meeting house founded by the Society of Friends in 1787. Among the ancient oak and elm trees on the grounds of the old Quaker church stands a “spring house” where yet another aging, parchment-colored gourd dipper hung.
The water from this public spring was also very pure, as evidenced by the great numbers of wasps and yellow jackets flying around the pipe from which the water continually poured. I remember my father filling the dipper with water for us, and my brother and I carefully eyeing those flying “bombers.” Even today, I always stop by that spring and taste that wonderful water when I visit the university in Chapel Hill.
I also associate gourds with a childhood neighbor. She was very much into conservation (at a time in the late ‘50’s when it was not so fashionable as now) and nature and loved birds. Tall poles from which hung rows of long-necked gourds stood in her backyard. When I visited her, she delighted in showing me all the birds living on her property in her many birdhouses. Purple Martins mostly filled the gourd aviary during the spring and summer. This lady, who had lost a son during World War II, was so kindly and thoughtful, always remembering the birthdays of the children in our country neighborhood and often baking us delicious, lemon meringue pies.
Well, we did eventually ride down a muddy country path and pick out a large orange pumpkin which Joyce turned into a smiling but still scary Jack-o'-Lantern. We also bought a rather large Butternut squash, and "to "to drink in long draughts of the wine of [childhood memories]," we also took home a rather beautiful and soulful hand-carved, gourd dipper.
Copyright 2001-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Published - Suite101 - 2001
Are you not the oasis where I dream, and the gourd from which I drink in long draughts the wine of memory? --Charles Badelaire, French poet and critic
Toward the end of October every year, my wife, Joyce, and I make our annual pilgrimage to a local "pumpkin patch." There, we join with other adults and children in a ritual ride down a muddy country lane at a local farm in the back of a tractor-pulled wagon to an even muddier field to pick a pumpkin for Halloween.
While waiting our turn to ride to the field, we enjoyed cups of warm apple cider and tried to keep warm in the chill, Autumn afternoon. The shelves of farm buildings and small open-air stands set up for the event were filled with various types of squash, Indian Corn in shades of red and blue and also gourds of every shape and color.
As I looked over the gourds this year, I was suddenly flooded with childhood memories. They were sweet, soulful memories of simpler times, of cleaning springs and drinking pure water from gourd dippers, of nesting birds and kindly ladies. The whole episode started with memories of my grandmother hollowing out gourds with a "crook neck" and leaving the dippers in the sun to season and toughen up before using them. One such dipper hung from a sapling near a remote spring that my grandfather cleaned every year.
Sometimes I would go with my paternal grandfather in late March or April to help him clean the spring of leaves and tree limbs that had fallen into the water over the fall and winter. Looking down that long path into my memory, I still see clearly the tall, oak tree that marked the site. Other than the water we carried in Mason jars, the spring was our only source of water while working in the fields and around the barns, so clearing it of brush and insuring its purity was very important to my family.
My job as a boy of six or seven was to check the gourd dipper for spider webs (and spiders), insects and small twigs and leaves. The spring was bounded by sunken boards to make a square watering place. After my grandfather had raked the spring clean, I would shake the dipper out and clean it by splashing it around in the water.
I so enjoyed watching that spring clear after it was cleaned. Water bubbled from the depths up to the surface, and if I waited long enough I would see “crawdads” and once in a while a salamander. The presence of these creatures indicated that the water was clean and pure. This is why I have always admired Robert Frost’s poem, "The Pasture," because I have lived it:
I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may:
I shan't be gone long. -- You come too."
Another gourd dipper hung near a spigot from which ran well water that we drank as well as used to water farm animals. It’s probably all imagination and nostalgia for a simpler life, but somehow there was nothing quite so sweet as water drunk from a gourd dipper. Of course, usually when we drank that water we were hot and tired from hard farm work. Surely, any liquid would have tasted like the nectar of the gods.
On trips to Durham to visit my grandmother, we first took a country road to Chapel Hill through the rolling, red clay hills of the North Carolina Piedmont, and sometimes we stopped at a meeting house founded by the Society of Friends in 1787. Among the ancient oak and elm trees on the grounds of the old Quaker church stands a “spring house” where yet another aging, parchment-colored gourd dipper hung.
The water from this public spring was also very pure, as evidenced by the great numbers of wasps and yellow jackets flying around the pipe from which the water continually poured. I remember my father filling the dipper with water for us, and my brother and I carefully eyeing those flying “bombers.” Even today, I always stop by that spring and taste that wonderful water when I visit the university in Chapel Hill.
I also associate gourds with a childhood neighbor. She was very much into conservation (at a time in the late ‘50’s when it was not so fashionable as now) and nature and loved birds. Tall poles from which hung rows of long-necked gourds stood in her backyard. When I visited her, she delighted in showing me all the birds living on her property in her many birdhouses. Purple Martins mostly filled the gourd aviary during the spring and summer. This lady, who had lost a son during World War II, was so kindly and thoughtful, always remembering the birthdays of the children in our country neighborhood and often baking us delicious, lemon meringue pies.
Well, we did eventually ride down a muddy country path and pick out a large orange pumpkin which Joyce turned into a smiling but still scary Jack-o'-Lantern. We also bought a rather large Butternut squash, and "to "to drink in long draughts of the wine of [childhood memories]," we also took home a rather beautiful and soulful hand-carved, gourd dipper.
Copyright 2001-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Another Autumn with My Mother
By Thomas James Martin - Published - Suite101 - October, 2005
My Mother loved the Fall. I suppose that is why my thoughts turn to her this October, the first one since her death.
Many years she sent me some fallen leaves in her letters; red and gold treasures from times and places that have now moved on and now exist mostly in my memory.
She loved the crisp air and smoky mists; the leaves falling in shallow circles, the glory of the colors, especially the maples and oaks that graced our yard. She loved making pumpkin pies and persimmon puddings for her two boys.
Perhaps one reason she liked autumn so much was that it was the season of her birth. She was born on a farm on November 6, 1921 near Liberty, North Carolina.
Her father, Hassell James, named her after one of the movie stars from the twenties and thirties, Ina Claire. Hence, her maiden name, Ina Claire James.
Ina Claire, the actress, was funny and ebullient, a person who one reviewer called the "queen of high comedy." Ina Claire, the mother, was a dark-haired brunette, serious, even grave at times. She was nothing like her namesake, a favorite of Flo Ziegfield and his Follies, and one of the few actresses to make the transition from the "Silents" to the "Talkies."
She died the evening of December 12, 2004 of complications of leukemia in Raleigh, N.C. She was 83. My brother, Bob, and his wife, Linda tended her lovingly and faithfully for almost a year prior to her passing.
She had a hard life. She knew tragedy as a teenager. Her father died when she was fourteen; they were very close. I do not believe that she ever got over her loss.
She always spoke with such love and reverence of following him around on the farm, going fishing with him in the small creek on their property. She admired his love of the Classics and facility with Latin even though he was not educated beyond high school (in an era when mostly the wealthy were able to take advantage of higher education).
She worked day after day for minimal wages in a hosiery mill in Liberty to provide for her two sons. Sometimes, she went in on second shift in the summer after working in the tobacco harvest during the day. Thinking of how hard she worked and sacrificed for her family, I feel a deep sense of appreciation but also much sorrow for her sometimes bitter struggles to help raise her family.
She was very active in the First Baptist Church of Liberty, especially with the mission group and other charitable activities. Her deep spirituality also led her into the study of Edgar Cayce, the "sleeping prophet," and other spiritual figures. She enjoyed meditation and studied correspondence lessons from the Self-Realization Fellowship in California, founded by Paramahansa Yogananda.
My mother was one of the most sincere, most intelligent people that I have ever known. She also expressed herself phenomenonly well in her letters.
My roomate happened to read (quite by accident) one of her letters to me while I was in college. He was so impressed with her insight and sincerity that he remarked"
"Your Mother seems like a wonderful person, an incredible woman."
That she was, that she was:
In the clearing springs of April,
In the grasshopper blur of midsummer,
I thought of you
And of the quail's calling "bob, bob white"
in early autumn
And the leaves covering the graves of Macedonia
In November.
I do not believe that you went away anywhere except in brightness.
My Mother loved the Fall. I suppose that is why my thoughts turn to her this October, the first one since her death.
Many years she sent me some fallen leaves in her letters; red and gold treasures from times and places that have now moved on and now exist mostly in my memory.
She loved the crisp air and smoky mists; the leaves falling in shallow circles, the glory of the colors, especially the maples and oaks that graced our yard. She loved making pumpkin pies and persimmon puddings for her two boys.
Perhaps one reason she liked autumn so much was that it was the season of her birth. She was born on a farm on November 6, 1921 near Liberty, North Carolina.
Her father, Hassell James, named her after one of the movie stars from the twenties and thirties, Ina Claire. Hence, her maiden name, Ina Claire James.
Ina Claire, the actress, was funny and ebullient, a person who one reviewer called the "queen of high comedy." Ina Claire, the mother, was a dark-haired brunette, serious, even grave at times. She was nothing like her namesake, a favorite of Flo Ziegfield and his Follies, and one of the few actresses to make the transition from the "Silents" to the "Talkies."
She died the evening of December 12, 2004 of complications of leukemia in Raleigh, N.C. She was 83. My brother, Bob, and his wife, Linda tended her lovingly and faithfully for almost a year prior to her passing.
She had a hard life. She knew tragedy as a teenager. Her father died when she was fourteen; they were very close. I do not believe that she ever got over her loss.
She always spoke with such love and reverence of following him around on the farm, going fishing with him in the small creek on their property. She admired his love of the Classics and facility with Latin even though he was not educated beyond high school (in an era when mostly the wealthy were able to take advantage of higher education).
She worked day after day for minimal wages in a hosiery mill in Liberty to provide for her two sons. Sometimes, she went in on second shift in the summer after working in the tobacco harvest during the day. Thinking of how hard she worked and sacrificed for her family, I feel a deep sense of appreciation but also much sorrow for her sometimes bitter struggles to help raise her family.
She was very active in the First Baptist Church of Liberty, especially with the mission group and other charitable activities. Her deep spirituality also led her into the study of Edgar Cayce, the "sleeping prophet," and other spiritual figures. She enjoyed meditation and studied correspondence lessons from the Self-Realization Fellowship in California, founded by Paramahansa Yogananda.
My mother was one of the most sincere, most intelligent people that I have ever known. She also expressed herself phenomenonly well in her letters.
My roomate happened to read (quite by accident) one of her letters to me while I was in college. He was so impressed with her insight and sincerity that he remarked"
"Your Mother seems like a wonderful person, an incredible woman."
That she was, that she was:
In the clearing springs of April,
In the grasshopper blur of midsummer,
I thought of you
And of the quail's calling "bob, bob white"
in early autumn
And the leaves covering the graves of Macedonia
In November.
I do not believe that you went away anywhere except in brightness.
Schreiner's Iris Gardens: A Spring Tradition
By Thomas James Martin
Published - Suite101 - June 8, 2003
Family rituals offer so much anticipation and togetherness for my wife Joyce and me. For example, every year we look forward to the opening of the Farmer's Market in the small city of Beaverton, Oregon where we live.
We also look forward to driving through the Columbia River Gorge in the Fall to gaze at the changing colors of the forests and look upon the mist-shrouded mountains and perhaps stop along the way to purchase fruit or nuts—especially Oregon apples and filberts.
However, I believe that our annual spring visit to Schreiner's Iris Gardens may be the most anticipated of our annual rites. In northern Oregon Iris bloom each year on the cusp of late, spring and early summer, during May and early June.
Recently on a balmy Sunday in late May, Joyce, and I drove the thirty miles or so to Schreiner's, the largest retail grower of Iris in the United States and one of the largest in the world. It is located near Salem off Interstate 5 (Precise directions are at the end of the article in the editor's notes.)
Ostensibly, our journey from the Portland metropolitan area to the Gardens is to buy a dozen or two Iris cuttings and perhaps a few of Schreiner's renowned bulbs at bargain prices. While we plant a few new bulbs every year, what we really enjoy is filling the house with the beauty and astonishing scent of the cut flowers that we purchase from Schreiner's.
Every spring we return from the iris farm with enough cuttings to fill every vase and jar that we own with the intricate though delicate blooms shaded in amazingly variegated hues, from the deepest black to fairest white, blazing red to pale blue. I sometimes favor radiant yellow varieties while Joyce loves the velvety purple ones.
We are not the only ones to make a pilgrimage to Schreiner's today; cars and trucks fill the parking lot. Looking at the license plates, I notice vehicles not only from Oregon but also from Washington, Idaho, California, and even a plate from British Columbia.
The gardens hold hundreds of varieties of Iris (over 500 this year). The gardens are so romantic this spring afternoon. I recall that in Greek mythology, Iris was the messenger of the god of love. In fact, a Greek man would sometimes plant an iris on the grave of his beloved as a tribute to the goddess Iris, whose duty it was to take the souls of women to the heaven (the Elysian Fields).
Holding hands, Joyce and I stroll through the gardens filled not only with Iris, but also with other flowers, such as poppies and pansies bordering the Iris, and tall lupine. We breathe deeply the fragrance of thousands of Iris in bloom, growing on hundreds of cultivated acres in the fertile Willamette Valley. Ten acres of gardens are open to the public.
A small sign near each group of flowers tells us the name of a variety. The names of the Iris are delightful and sound magically on the tongue: Gypsy Romance, New Moon, Merlot, Dark Passion, Indigo Princess, and my personal favorite, the light blue Pacific Mist.
We see couples and families eating at shaded picnic tables, and Joyce mentions that next year we should bring a picnic basket. Eventually we wind up in their garden shop looking for unusual gardening items and studying cards and pictures imprinted with the many varieties of irises, many of which have been developed at Schreiner's or by growers associated with the nursery..
I leave Joyce in the shop and wander outside where I look over the extensive fields where the family and workers of Schreiner's grow the flowers. I am struck by the layering of the fields with all the blue ones in one area; all the yellow in another; still another band filled with a "coppery" golden color. I feel as if I am in the Low Countries of Europe, in the Netherlands where I once visited and enjoyed seeing bulbs in flower for as far as the could see.
I take a close look at a purple specimen at my feet; idly I wish I knew the variety. I cannot help but reflect that irises are not a simple, straightforward design. The flowers are more complex than a daisy or a tulip; they are intricate and curvilinear with uplifted petals and downward sweeping sepals.
They remind me of Victorian times. In a sudden reverie I see an anteroom in a charming manse (with dormers and arches of course) where the first thing you see as you enter the house is a small wooden table in the middle of which on a white, crocheted doily is a golden vase holding an enormous bouquet of the elaborate multi-colored blooms.
I feel someone take my arm, and realize it is Joyce. She shows me her treasures: Some cards with finely drawn prints of different varieties of Iris and a small watering can. We put our purchases in the car and walk over to the area of the farm where the cut flowers are for sale.
Picking our flowers is always a wonderful exercise in marital cooperation, as we take pains to allow each other to select personal favorites. Joyce picks them out and then hands them to me where I hold the rapidly growing bunch first in my hands, and then as the bulk becomes too much, I cradle them against my shoulder.
As we walk to the car, the afternoon sun goes behind the clouds, and we are suddenly bathed in a light shower that stops even as we reach our car. As we pull out of the parking lot, I see a rainbow, one of those magnificent ones that run across the sky from horizon to horizon and in which you can easily make out all seven spectral colors.
Something flashes through my mind as I gaze up at the rainbow, and suddenly I am glad that I did suffer through that rather pedantic class in Greek Mythology in college. I remember that in addition to being the Messenger of the God of Love, Iris is also the Goddess of the Rainbow.
Ah! Now I see why the profusely colored flower is so named: Truly the Iris is the Rainbow Goddess of the Earth.
Editor's Notes: Thousands of people from the Portland Metro area and the Pacific Northwest as well as from all over the United States and the world flock to Schreiner's Iris Gardens each year, and the Nursery ships bulbs all over the world. Many growers associated with Schreiner's have won awards for new varieties developed.
The display gardens are open to the public from dawn until dusk, seven days a week during the time of blooming. The garden gift shop and cut flower show are open from 9 a.m. until 6 p.m. during that time.
While a complete catalogue of their bulb inventory is available from their store or online, here is a link to a free Mini-Catalog.
Each May, Schreiner's Gardens hosts a few events. For example, on Mother's Day each mom gets a free Iris stem. Check out the Schreiner's Website for more information on the Keizer Iris Festival and other festivities.
Some readers have commented that the bearded iris has no scent. It is true that some varieties have had the scent "hybridized out." However, many other varieties are bred to retain the natural fragrance of the Iris.
The farm and gardens are located 32 miles south of Portland and 5 miles north of downtown Salem. Schreiner's is located at 3625 Quinaby Road NE in Salem, Oregon.
From Portland, take I-5 south to the Brooks exit 263. Go west on Brooklake Road, turn left on River Road for 1 mile, then turn left on Quinaby Road.
From Salem, and points South, take I-5 north to the Chemawa exit 260. Go west on Chemawa Road, turn right just west of I-5 following signs to Volcano Stadium. Continue heading north past stadium and turn right on Quinaby.
Copyright 2003, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Published - Suite101 - June 8, 2003
Family rituals offer so much anticipation and togetherness for my wife Joyce and me. For example, every year we look forward to the opening of the Farmer's Market in the small city of Beaverton, Oregon where we live.
We also look forward to driving through the Columbia River Gorge in the Fall to gaze at the changing colors of the forests and look upon the mist-shrouded mountains and perhaps stop along the way to purchase fruit or nuts—especially Oregon apples and filberts.
However, I believe that our annual spring visit to Schreiner's Iris Gardens may be the most anticipated of our annual rites. In northern Oregon Iris bloom each year on the cusp of late, spring and early summer, during May and early June.
Recently on a balmy Sunday in late May, Joyce, and I drove the thirty miles or so to Schreiner's, the largest retail grower of Iris in the United States and one of the largest in the world. It is located near Salem off Interstate 5 (Precise directions are at the end of the article in the editor's notes.)
Ostensibly, our journey from the Portland metropolitan area to the Gardens is to buy a dozen or two Iris cuttings and perhaps a few of Schreiner's renowned bulbs at bargain prices. While we plant a few new bulbs every year, what we really enjoy is filling the house with the beauty and astonishing scent of the cut flowers that we purchase from Schreiner's.
Every spring we return from the iris farm with enough cuttings to fill every vase and jar that we own with the intricate though delicate blooms shaded in amazingly variegated hues, from the deepest black to fairest white, blazing red to pale blue. I sometimes favor radiant yellow varieties while Joyce loves the velvety purple ones.
We are not the only ones to make a pilgrimage to Schreiner's today; cars and trucks fill the parking lot. Looking at the license plates, I notice vehicles not only from Oregon but also from Washington, Idaho, California, and even a plate from British Columbia.
The gardens hold hundreds of varieties of Iris (over 500 this year). The gardens are so romantic this spring afternoon. I recall that in Greek mythology, Iris was the messenger of the god of love. In fact, a Greek man would sometimes plant an iris on the grave of his beloved as a tribute to the goddess Iris, whose duty it was to take the souls of women to the heaven (the Elysian Fields).
Holding hands, Joyce and I stroll through the gardens filled not only with Iris, but also with other flowers, such as poppies and pansies bordering the Iris, and tall lupine. We breathe deeply the fragrance of thousands of Iris in bloom, growing on hundreds of cultivated acres in the fertile Willamette Valley. Ten acres of gardens are open to the public.
A small sign near each group of flowers tells us the name of a variety. The names of the Iris are delightful and sound magically on the tongue: Gypsy Romance, New Moon, Merlot, Dark Passion, Indigo Princess, and my personal favorite, the light blue Pacific Mist.
We see couples and families eating at shaded picnic tables, and Joyce mentions that next year we should bring a picnic basket. Eventually we wind up in their garden shop looking for unusual gardening items and studying cards and pictures imprinted with the many varieties of irises, many of which have been developed at Schreiner's or by growers associated with the nursery..
I leave Joyce in the shop and wander outside where I look over the extensive fields where the family and workers of Schreiner's grow the flowers. I am struck by the layering of the fields with all the blue ones in one area; all the yellow in another; still another band filled with a "coppery" golden color. I feel as if I am in the Low Countries of Europe, in the Netherlands where I once visited and enjoyed seeing bulbs in flower for as far as the could see.
I take a close look at a purple specimen at my feet; idly I wish I knew the variety. I cannot help but reflect that irises are not a simple, straightforward design. The flowers are more complex than a daisy or a tulip; they are intricate and curvilinear with uplifted petals and downward sweeping sepals.
They remind me of Victorian times. In a sudden reverie I see an anteroom in a charming manse (with dormers and arches of course) where the first thing you see as you enter the house is a small wooden table in the middle of which on a white, crocheted doily is a golden vase holding an enormous bouquet of the elaborate multi-colored blooms.
I feel someone take my arm, and realize it is Joyce. She shows me her treasures: Some cards with finely drawn prints of different varieties of Iris and a small watering can. We put our purchases in the car and walk over to the area of the farm where the cut flowers are for sale.
Picking our flowers is always a wonderful exercise in marital cooperation, as we take pains to allow each other to select personal favorites. Joyce picks them out and then hands them to me where I hold the rapidly growing bunch first in my hands, and then as the bulk becomes too much, I cradle them against my shoulder.
As we walk to the car, the afternoon sun goes behind the clouds, and we are suddenly bathed in a light shower that stops even as we reach our car. As we pull out of the parking lot, I see a rainbow, one of those magnificent ones that run across the sky from horizon to horizon and in which you can easily make out all seven spectral colors.
Something flashes through my mind as I gaze up at the rainbow, and suddenly I am glad that I did suffer through that rather pedantic class in Greek Mythology in college. I remember that in addition to being the Messenger of the God of Love, Iris is also the Goddess of the Rainbow.
Ah! Now I see why the profusely colored flower is so named: Truly the Iris is the Rainbow Goddess of the Earth.
Editor's Notes: Thousands of people from the Portland Metro area and the Pacific Northwest as well as from all over the United States and the world flock to Schreiner's Iris Gardens each year, and the Nursery ships bulbs all over the world. Many growers associated with Schreiner's have won awards for new varieties developed.
The display gardens are open to the public from dawn until dusk, seven days a week during the time of blooming. The garden gift shop and cut flower show are open from 9 a.m. until 6 p.m. during that time.
While a complete catalogue of their bulb inventory is available from their store or online, here is a link to a free Mini-Catalog.
Each May, Schreiner's Gardens hosts a few events. For example, on Mother's Day each mom gets a free Iris stem. Check out the Schreiner's Website for more information on the Keizer Iris Festival and other festivities.
Some readers have commented that the bearded iris has no scent. It is true that some varieties have had the scent "hybridized out." However, many other varieties are bred to retain the natural fragrance of the Iris.
The farm and gardens are located 32 miles south of Portland and 5 miles north of downtown Salem. Schreiner's is located at 3625 Quinaby Road NE in Salem, Oregon.
From Portland, take I-5 south to the Brooks exit 263. Go west on Brooklake Road, turn left on River Road for 1 mile, then turn left on Quinaby Road.
From Salem, and points South, take I-5 north to the Chemawa exit 260. Go west on Chemawa Road, turn right just west of I-5 following signs to Volcano Stadium. Continue heading north past stadium and turn right on Quinaby.
Copyright 2003, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Friday, August 6, 2010
The Effect of Chaotic Collards on Organically Cute Iquanas
By Thomas James Martin
Published - Suite101 - 2004
Author's Note: Lo, what is this I find in some lost, little viewed directory of my hard drive? Why it's an old unpublished column from my days of writing for an organic foods company!
Hmm. . .It does make some feeble attempts at humor, and it's most certainly not your usual take on the wild and wonderful world of fruits and vegetables.
Well, I am desperate to publish an an article to meet an editor's deadline this month. I wonder. . .
Searching for inspiration at 3 o'clock in the morning a columnist trying desperately to meet his editor's deadline but punchy from lack of sleep still hopes for a fortuitous swell of the Internet surf.
Gesturing hypnotically (like Mandrake the Magician, he of cartoon fame of old) and rising above all inhibitions, he types c-o-l-l-a-r-d-s into the Google search engine.
I feel as if I have entered a new dimension of awareness as I scan the search results. Talk about "nowhere Zen" information! I ponder the intricate networking of the paths of my life that have led me to the fourth choice on the page. If I had never taken that "right turn in Albuquerque" would I be reading about "The National Iguana Awareness Day Web Page."
Hoo. . .Hah. . .Undoubtedly madness lies in this direction. But I'm game. I click the link and arrive at "niad.org" where a flashing sign reminds weary web travelers that September 9, 2000 is the famous day (See note at end of article.).
Good grief! From what little I know of Chaos Theory, I understand that its mathematics (in part) helps us to find connections in the real world that are not apparent. But, how in the world do "iguanas" relate to "collards?"
Turns out that collards are on the short list of the best foods to feed one's iguana, as it is a dark green leafy vegetable, and 70% of the lizard's diet should be composed of greens. In addition to collards, Iguanas thrive on dandelion greens, endive, mustard greens and turnip greens.
In fact, I learn that Iguanas also like parsnips, butternut squash, figs, green beans, peas, grapes and raspberries. Rhubarb, however, is poisonous to the cute critters.
I hope no offense has been taken by Iguana lovers of which I am one-though, admittedly, I will probably not own one in this lifetime (too many cats and dogs flitting around my place).
Now I was about to call the collard the "Millard Filmore" of vegetables, after the 19th century president whose accomplishments like his name are seldom remembered today. I don't watch much television but I'm pretty sure collards are not often prepared by famous cable TV chefs. And, I seriously doubt "Oprah" or any other afternoon talk show host has pursued experts on collards.
The name, collard, just seems humble-like something some hayseed would give his beloved. "Here. . .uh. . .Maybelle, I thought maybe you'd like this here "mess of collards."
However, for too long this nourishing and delicious vegetable has been considered just an ethnic dish, a "pot green" of the South, traditionally boiled with "ham hock" or other meat.
Like most dark green, leafy vegetables, collards are a nutritional bonanza and are especially valuable sources of calcium, Vitamins A and C, and iron and other minerals.
See, you just can't beat a collard. . .or a nice green iguana either for that matter.
By the way, collards do keep well, especially if wrapped in plastic. Kept too long though and they turn as yucky as old mustard stains turning a puky yellow on neglected acid-washed jeans.
Collards are closely related to kale, as both are derived from Brassica olearceae. Collards have a round, smooth leaf while kale has a curly leaf.
You know what kale is, right? It's that stiff, green stuff on which they serve cheap French Fries and onion rings in the better chain restaurants.
Cheers if you like your collards boiled with a fatty meat. That's the way I had them growing up in the South.
However, in tribute to free-flowing arteries, I now much prefer my greens cooked without "fatback." I actually prefer just to steam the leaves until tender and serve with some balsamic or apple cider vinegar.
I suppose the morals of this little article are threefold:
Never presuppose that (as some elements of Chaos Theory expound) a connection cannot be found between seemingly unrelated objects or events.
Never understimate the power of green, leafy vegetables, especially when your mother harped on eating them for some 18 years.
A seemingly impossible timelines can often be met--especially with a DSL connection and a little faith in the serendipity of the Internet surf.
Good Grief, Tommy!
Published - Suite101 - 2004
Author's Note: Lo, what is this I find in some lost, little viewed directory of my hard drive? Why it's an old unpublished column from my days of writing for an organic foods company!
Hmm. . .It does make some feeble attempts at humor, and it's most certainly not your usual take on the wild and wonderful world of fruits and vegetables.
Well, I am desperate to publish an an article to meet an editor's deadline this month. I wonder. . .
Searching for inspiration at 3 o'clock in the morning a columnist trying desperately to meet his editor's deadline but punchy from lack of sleep still hopes for a fortuitous swell of the Internet surf.
Gesturing hypnotically (like Mandrake the Magician, he of cartoon fame of old) and rising above all inhibitions, he types c-o-l-l-a-r-d-s into the Google search engine.
I feel as if I have entered a new dimension of awareness as I scan the search results. Talk about "nowhere Zen" information! I ponder the intricate networking of the paths of my life that have led me to the fourth choice on the page. If I had never taken that "right turn in Albuquerque" would I be reading about "The National Iguana Awareness Day Web Page."
Hoo. . .Hah. . .Undoubtedly madness lies in this direction. But I'm game. I click the link and arrive at "niad.org" where a flashing sign reminds weary web travelers that September 9, 2000 is the famous day (See note at end of article.).
Good grief! From what little I know of Chaos Theory, I understand that its mathematics (in part) helps us to find connections in the real world that are not apparent. But, how in the world do "iguanas" relate to "collards?"
Turns out that collards are on the short list of the best foods to feed one's iguana, as it is a dark green leafy vegetable, and 70% of the lizard's diet should be composed of greens. In addition to collards, Iguanas thrive on dandelion greens, endive, mustard greens and turnip greens.
In fact, I learn that Iguanas also like parsnips, butternut squash, figs, green beans, peas, grapes and raspberries. Rhubarb, however, is poisonous to the cute critters.
I hope no offense has been taken by Iguana lovers of which I am one-though, admittedly, I will probably not own one in this lifetime (too many cats and dogs flitting around my place).
Now I was about to call the collard the "Millard Filmore" of vegetables, after the 19th century president whose accomplishments like his name are seldom remembered today. I don't watch much television but I'm pretty sure collards are not often prepared by famous cable TV chefs. And, I seriously doubt "Oprah" or any other afternoon talk show host has pursued experts on collards.
The name, collard, just seems humble-like something some hayseed would give his beloved. "Here. . .uh. . .Maybelle, I thought maybe you'd like this here "mess of collards."
However, for too long this nourishing and delicious vegetable has been considered just an ethnic dish, a "pot green" of the South, traditionally boiled with "ham hock" or other meat.
Like most dark green, leafy vegetables, collards are a nutritional bonanza and are especially valuable sources of calcium, Vitamins A and C, and iron and other minerals.
See, you just can't beat a collard. . .or a nice green iguana either for that matter.
By the way, collards do keep well, especially if wrapped in plastic. Kept too long though and they turn as yucky as old mustard stains turning a puky yellow on neglected acid-washed jeans.
Collards are closely related to kale, as both are derived from Brassica olearceae. Collards have a round, smooth leaf while kale has a curly leaf.
You know what kale is, right? It's that stiff, green stuff on which they serve cheap French Fries and onion rings in the better chain restaurants.
Cheers if you like your collards boiled with a fatty meat. That's the way I had them growing up in the South.
However, in tribute to free-flowing arteries, I now much prefer my greens cooked without "fatback." I actually prefer just to steam the leaves until tender and serve with some balsamic or apple cider vinegar.
I suppose the morals of this little article are threefold:
Never presuppose that (as some elements of Chaos Theory expound) a connection cannot be found between seemingly unrelated objects or events.
Never understimate the power of green, leafy vegetables, especially when your mother harped on eating them for some 18 years.
A seemingly impossible timelines can often be met--especially with a DSL connection and a little faith in the serendipity of the Internet surf.
Good Grief, Tommy!
Places of the Soul
Published 2001 - Suite101 - By Thomas James Martin
[In cultivating the soul] we have to live that spiritual life which is ours -- somehow find some way to contemplate, to pray, perhaps, to find some imagery, poetry, paintings, sculptures, or some architecture that takes you to a place that is so much beyond yourself that it is part of your spiritual life.--Care of the Soul, by Thomas Moore
I have places that take me out of myself, that show me the spiritual side of my life. In my case many are natural places that inspire me or raise my spirit when I cannot by ordinary effort and my own attempts at love or reconciliation with my life and relationships reach the extraordinary, feel that oneness and joy with all life. They are special places, my places, places that hold beauty for me, places where wonder enchants my spirit and my heart leaps toward the infinite.
While many of my special places, like my grandparents’ farm in the Piedmont of North Carolina or the small park near our house in Beaverton, Oregon, are not of worldly renown, others are natural treasures celebrated in poem, song and essay. I certainly count the Muir Woods National Monument and other redwood groves that I have visited some of the many treasures of nature that never fail to uplift my spirit. Nearly every time that I visit the redwoods, I find myself dwelling in joy, drawn upwards and held speechless in the presence of their majesty.
When I first stood among the redwood trees (the taller, coastal variety), I remarked to my life partner, Joyce, that I felt as if I were in a cathedral. Later in the park’s gift shop, I was thrilled to read that the great western naturalist, John Muir, actually described the presence of the trees as a cathedral.
Anyone who has visited the great European cathedrals, such as Notre Dame or Chartres, is struck by the power of the sacred space created by the light filtered through the incredible stained glass windows and towering, vaulted ceilings. The ego recedes, the spirit quickens, and the gaze is naturally drawn upward.
In similar fashion the long trunks of the redwoods draw the visitor up into an incredible experience of light and majesty in a sanctuary vaulted by green and blue. One is pulled deeply into a silence that seems the essence of the soul. Quite powerfully, one not just understands but experiences deeply the adage, “Be still and know that I am God.”
When I camp in the redwoods, I always feel cleansed. My sleep is always deep and mellow, full of wonderful lights and seemingly enlightening conversations, which I seldom recall upon awakening. No matter, I probably wouldn’t understand anyway. Joyce and I always feel as if we have merged with various divas and nature spirits during our stays among the trees.
After returning from a weekend in the redwoods or other places of the soul’s joy, I usually have trouble readjusting to urban life. I often go outside into my backyard at night, and looking up into the white-washed, city sky with its pitifully few stars. That's when wish I could simplify my life such that I could live closer to nature, experiencing the grandeur of living among the redwoods everyday.
Yet, in these sentiments, I am reminded of this saying by an unknown Zen master:
Before a person studies Zen, mountains are mountains, trees are trees, and stars are stars;
after the first glimpse into the truth of Zen, mountains are no longer mountains and trees are not trees;
after enlightenment, mountains are once again mountains and trees once again trees and starts once again stars.
I am glad to at least have my life with all the chances it offers to appreciate the Creator and his/her creation and cherish the simple love that happens between human beings. Alas, at this stage of my life, I cannot always find the luminous in the ordinary world, and must seek those places of inspiration where I can renew my soul with the extraordinary. So, I suppose I will just have to commit a heresy (much admired by Zen practitioners) and rewrite the ancient dictum:
Before I saw the Redwoods, they were just trees in a picture;
upon seeing the Redwoods, they seemed more than just trees;
now that I have experienced the Redwoods, I realize they are just trees.
Thankfully, the joy and wonder are all mine!
Copyright 2002-2010 Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
[In cultivating the soul] we have to live that spiritual life which is ours -- somehow find some way to contemplate, to pray, perhaps, to find some imagery, poetry, paintings, sculptures, or some architecture that takes you to a place that is so much beyond yourself that it is part of your spiritual life.--Care of the Soul, by Thomas Moore
I have places that take me out of myself, that show me the spiritual side of my life. In my case many are natural places that inspire me or raise my spirit when I cannot by ordinary effort and my own attempts at love or reconciliation with my life and relationships reach the extraordinary, feel that oneness and joy with all life. They are special places, my places, places that hold beauty for me, places where wonder enchants my spirit and my heart leaps toward the infinite.
While many of my special places, like my grandparents’ farm in the Piedmont of North Carolina or the small park near our house in Beaverton, Oregon, are not of worldly renown, others are natural treasures celebrated in poem, song and essay. I certainly count the Muir Woods National Monument and other redwood groves that I have visited some of the many treasures of nature that never fail to uplift my spirit. Nearly every time that I visit the redwoods, I find myself dwelling in joy, drawn upwards and held speechless in the presence of their majesty.
When I first stood among the redwood trees (the taller, coastal variety), I remarked to my life partner, Joyce, that I felt as if I were in a cathedral. Later in the park’s gift shop, I was thrilled to read that the great western naturalist, John Muir, actually described the presence of the trees as a cathedral.
Anyone who has visited the great European cathedrals, such as Notre Dame or Chartres, is struck by the power of the sacred space created by the light filtered through the incredible stained glass windows and towering, vaulted ceilings. The ego recedes, the spirit quickens, and the gaze is naturally drawn upward.
In similar fashion the long trunks of the redwoods draw the visitor up into an incredible experience of light and majesty in a sanctuary vaulted by green and blue. One is pulled deeply into a silence that seems the essence of the soul. Quite powerfully, one not just understands but experiences deeply the adage, “Be still and know that I am God.”
When I camp in the redwoods, I always feel cleansed. My sleep is always deep and mellow, full of wonderful lights and seemingly enlightening conversations, which I seldom recall upon awakening. No matter, I probably wouldn’t understand anyway. Joyce and I always feel as if we have merged with various divas and nature spirits during our stays among the trees.
After returning from a weekend in the redwoods or other places of the soul’s joy, I usually have trouble readjusting to urban life. I often go outside into my backyard at night, and looking up into the white-washed, city sky with its pitifully few stars. That's when wish I could simplify my life such that I could live closer to nature, experiencing the grandeur of living among the redwoods everyday.
Yet, in these sentiments, I am reminded of this saying by an unknown Zen master:
Before a person studies Zen, mountains are mountains, trees are trees, and stars are stars;
after the first glimpse into the truth of Zen, mountains are no longer mountains and trees are not trees;
after enlightenment, mountains are once again mountains and trees once again trees and starts once again stars.
I am glad to at least have my life with all the chances it offers to appreciate the Creator and his/her creation and cherish the simple love that happens between human beings. Alas, at this stage of my life, I cannot always find the luminous in the ordinary world, and must seek those places of inspiration where I can renew my soul with the extraordinary. So, I suppose I will just have to commit a heresy (much admired by Zen practitioners) and rewrite the ancient dictum:
Before I saw the Redwoods, they were just trees in a picture;
upon seeing the Redwoods, they seemed more than just trees;
now that I have experienced the Redwoods, I realize they are just trees.
Thankfully, the joy and wonder are all mine!
Copyright 2002-2010 Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Bored With The Rings or Frodo Lives Or The Graffiti of Middle Earth
By Thomas James Martin
Published - August 2003 - Suite101
Glancing around to make sure that no one saw me, especially renowned hawk eye, Mrs. Helen King, my chemistry teacher, who was sitting nearby, I surreptitiously scribbled Frodo Lives! on the inside, back cover of the Broadman Hymnal as I sat in the back row of the First Baptist Church of Liberty, North Carolina.
Holding the volume up a little, I pretended to look over the hymns. Then taking one more look around, I quickly put the hymnal in its holder on the back of the wooden pew in front of me. I felt sure that no one had noticed. Glancing around the auditorium I saw that a few members of the congregation were absorbed in Dr. English's lengthy sermon on the Beatitudes while the rest were struggling with varying stages of wakefulness.
"I live!" I mumbled to myself. "I live!"
Such is the power of J.R.R. Tolkien—even in those days before appalling media hype, DVDs with director's cuts, targeted merchandise, computer modeling and fantastic special effects.
Such is the energy and vitality of Lord of the Rings that I, a shy, quiet, small-town teenager and scholastic overachiever initiated my rebellion against the narrow moralistic confines and shallow intellectualism of small town life with those two words.
Later, I learned that some nameless artist first wrote the same words on subway walls in New York City in 1967. Those scribbles essentially started the graffiti movement in the 60's and 70's to write, paint, on chalk on every available surface in the western world that the heroic hobbit had survived the armies of Mordor, the lava pits of Mt. Doom and Sauron, the Dark Lord, himself.
I have always been something of an admirer of good graffiti, as sometimes people truly reveal themselves in this "art form." Anthropologists study quite earnestly the graffiti of ancient cultures, as the writing tells them so much about daily life.
For example, in ancient Rome, lost in the dust of history is the name of the young man who posted this message: Helena amatur a Claudius (Helen is loved by Claudius). Some things about civilization never change, as one famous bit of writing from the walls of ancient Pompeii translates: Cornelius made me pregnant. The Romans also left jokes, laundry lists, stories, and even a few advertisements on the walls.
I hasten to add that with the exception of the Frodo incident and maybe one other minor indiscretion having to do with a jilting by a certain girlfriend; I am neither a graffiti artist nor have any ambitions to write such trash.
. . .Ok, well, maybe just a little. . .
You see, I did come across some ancient writings from various walls, tables, lavatories and, yes, pissoirs of Middle-Earth. I suspect the Dark Lord himself, knowing that I would not be able to resist publishing these mad scribblings, sent this muckraking journalism to me to spite arrogant wizards, self-righteous warriors, dour dwarves, goody-goody elves, small-minded men and other fops and fools over which he hoped to hold dominion. However, I must say they do offer some fascinating insights (and reality bites) into the diverse folk of The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and the Silmarillion.
For your convenience and possible amusement I have translated the inscriptions from the various languages—Elvish (Quenya and Sindarin), Khuzdul (language of the dwarves), Orkish, Westron (the common tongue) and even the Black Speech and Entish.
Carved into a tree in Mirkwood:
Watch out for Treebeard, girls. He's fast!
On a restroom wall in the Shire:
Hoo boy! that Bilbo Baggins,
I'm so tired of His Naggins.
Scribbled on the pink walls of a Mordor Pissoir in black ichor:
Sauron sucks Galadriel's toes!
Do Nazguls really need to go?
Free Gollum!
Scrawled on the poker table in the Orc's Recreation Room:
Those Nazguls are such creeps
They've been dead so long
They actually think DVDs
Are really BVDs.
Once every millennia or so Galadriel's Mirror fogs up. . .
Elrond's mother was a brunette!
Arwen rocks!
The Grey Havens suck.
Who's your Daddy?
Attributed to Orcs in the Mines of Moria:
Elves, schmelves
They think their ichor don't stink.
More from Moria:
Mordor!
I'll give you Mordor,
You two-timing dwarf!
Attributed to a bright Olog-hai at Isengard:
How many dwarves does it take to change a light bulb in the caves of Moria?
Answer - At least fifty: One to change the bulb, one to twiddle his beard while wondering what a light bulb is, and 48 to feed the cave troll!
Lipstick (from wild berries of course) smeared on the mirror in the Rivendell Ladies Room
He's so pretty, he's so cool
I can't help it, Legolas rules!
Stencilled on an inner wall at Minas Tirith:
Gandalf rides a whisk broom!
Thimk, you Hobbits!
Boromir slept here with Hobbits.
Gimli did too!
Carved on the White Tree:
Isildur did it!
Bored with the Rings (Initials below are almost illegible but may be JRRT.)
While not technically graffiti, the items that follow were sent to me by another clandestine source. Though he did not request anonymity, I am still loathe to attribute these materials to someone known to me only as that "Fool of a Took."
A small collection of Middle-Earth bumper stickers:
Orcs do it in the dark!
Wizards do it with will!
Balrogs fire it up!
Elves do it lightly!
Rangers do it with elves!
Merry changed his name and did it!
Nazguls used to do it!
Trolls still wonder. . .
Recent headlines in The Gondor World News:
Treebeard Is the Father of My Child!
I Was a Balrog Love Slave
Samwise Gamgee Separates from Mr. Frodo
Merry and Pip. . .Together Again
Eowyn Breaks Up Aragorn and Arwen's Love Nest
Amphibian Rescued from Flames. . .
The rest of the sentence. . .
Frodo lives. . . and though sick and tired of elves, is hiding from Samwise in the Grey Havens
Author's Note:If you are a fan of the Lord of the Rings and other works by JRR, check out the outstanding articles entered in the 2003 Tolkien Event.
Copyright 2003-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved
Published - August 2003 - Suite101
Glancing around to make sure that no one saw me, especially renowned hawk eye, Mrs. Helen King, my chemistry teacher, who was sitting nearby, I surreptitiously scribbled Frodo Lives! on the inside, back cover of the Broadman Hymnal as I sat in the back row of the First Baptist Church of Liberty, North Carolina.
Holding the volume up a little, I pretended to look over the hymns. Then taking one more look around, I quickly put the hymnal in its holder on the back of the wooden pew in front of me. I felt sure that no one had noticed. Glancing around the auditorium I saw that a few members of the congregation were absorbed in Dr. English's lengthy sermon on the Beatitudes while the rest were struggling with varying stages of wakefulness.
"I live!" I mumbled to myself. "I live!"
Such is the power of J.R.R. Tolkien—even in those days before appalling media hype, DVDs with director's cuts, targeted merchandise, computer modeling and fantastic special effects.
Such is the energy and vitality of Lord of the Rings that I, a shy, quiet, small-town teenager and scholastic overachiever initiated my rebellion against the narrow moralistic confines and shallow intellectualism of small town life with those two words.
Later, I learned that some nameless artist first wrote the same words on subway walls in New York City in 1967. Those scribbles essentially started the graffiti movement in the 60's and 70's to write, paint, on chalk on every available surface in the western world that the heroic hobbit had survived the armies of Mordor, the lava pits of Mt. Doom and Sauron, the Dark Lord, himself.
I have always been something of an admirer of good graffiti, as sometimes people truly reveal themselves in this "art form." Anthropologists study quite earnestly the graffiti of ancient cultures, as the writing tells them so much about daily life.
For example, in ancient Rome, lost in the dust of history is the name of the young man who posted this message: Helena amatur a Claudius (Helen is loved by Claudius). Some things about civilization never change, as one famous bit of writing from the walls of ancient Pompeii translates: Cornelius made me pregnant. The Romans also left jokes, laundry lists, stories, and even a few advertisements on the walls.
I hasten to add that with the exception of the Frodo incident and maybe one other minor indiscretion having to do with a jilting by a certain girlfriend; I am neither a graffiti artist nor have any ambitions to write such trash.
. . .Ok, well, maybe just a little. . .
You see, I did come across some ancient writings from various walls, tables, lavatories and, yes, pissoirs of Middle-Earth. I suspect the Dark Lord himself, knowing that I would not be able to resist publishing these mad scribblings, sent this muckraking journalism to me to spite arrogant wizards, self-righteous warriors, dour dwarves, goody-goody elves, small-minded men and other fops and fools over which he hoped to hold dominion. However, I must say they do offer some fascinating insights (and reality bites) into the diverse folk of The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit and the Silmarillion.
For your convenience and possible amusement I have translated the inscriptions from the various languages—Elvish (Quenya and Sindarin), Khuzdul (language of the dwarves), Orkish, Westron (the common tongue) and even the Black Speech and Entish.
Carved into a tree in Mirkwood:
Watch out for Treebeard, girls. He's fast!
On a restroom wall in the Shire:
Hoo boy! that Bilbo Baggins,
I'm so tired of His Naggins.
Scribbled on the pink walls of a Mordor Pissoir in black ichor:
Sauron sucks Galadriel's toes!
Do Nazguls really need to go?
Free Gollum!
Scrawled on the poker table in the Orc's Recreation Room:
Those Nazguls are such creeps
They've been dead so long
They actually think DVDs
Are really BVDs.
Once every millennia or so Galadriel's Mirror fogs up. . .
Elrond's mother was a brunette!
Arwen rocks!
The Grey Havens suck.
Who's your Daddy?
Attributed to Orcs in the Mines of Moria:
Elves, schmelves
They think their ichor don't stink.
More from Moria:
Mordor!
I'll give you Mordor,
You two-timing dwarf!
Attributed to a bright Olog-hai at Isengard:
How many dwarves does it take to change a light bulb in the caves of Moria?
Answer - At least fifty: One to change the bulb, one to twiddle his beard while wondering what a light bulb is, and 48 to feed the cave troll!
Lipstick (from wild berries of course) smeared on the mirror in the Rivendell Ladies Room
He's so pretty, he's so cool
I can't help it, Legolas rules!
Stencilled on an inner wall at Minas Tirith:
Gandalf rides a whisk broom!
Thimk, you Hobbits!
Boromir slept here with Hobbits.
Gimli did too!
Carved on the White Tree:
Isildur did it!
Bored with the Rings (Initials below are almost illegible but may be JRRT.)
While not technically graffiti, the items that follow were sent to me by another clandestine source. Though he did not request anonymity, I am still loathe to attribute these materials to someone known to me only as that "Fool of a Took."
A small collection of Middle-Earth bumper stickers:
Orcs do it in the dark!
Wizards do it with will!
Balrogs fire it up!
Elves do it lightly!
Rangers do it with elves!
Merry changed his name and did it!
Nazguls used to do it!
Trolls still wonder. . .
Recent headlines in The Gondor World News:
Treebeard Is the Father of My Child!
I Was a Balrog Love Slave
Samwise Gamgee Separates from Mr. Frodo
Merry and Pip. . .Together Again
Eowyn Breaks Up Aragorn and Arwen's Love Nest
Amphibian Rescued from Flames. . .
The rest of the sentence. . .
Frodo lives. . . and though sick and tired of elves, is hiding from Samwise in the Grey Havens
Author's Note:If you are a fan of the Lord of the Rings and other works by JRR, check out the outstanding articles entered in the 2003 Tolkien Event.
Copyright 2003-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved
Beethoven's Revenge
By Thomas James Martin
Published - Suite101 - April 18, 2003
The haunting beauty of the melody played by the solo violinist from Vilvaldi's The Four Seasons literally pierced my basically liberal, ex-hippy, mostly vegetarian soul as I stopped for the red light at the corner of Broadway and Hall in the City of Trees, Beaverton, Oregon.
My whole body swayed to the music; who cared if the people in the cars behind or ahead of me thought I was crazy. Then, a rusty-looking ancient Pontiac Trans AM pulled up beside me, its juiced-up amplifiers spewing some god-awful heavy metal through the huge speakers that I could see lurking in the back seat.
That this "jump car" was playing music loud enough to drown out the screaming decibels of a landing jet was bad enough, but that it drowned out my violin solo was just too much. Caught between the twin vises of the sanctimoniousness of the lover of harmony and classical music and the cantankerousness of a balding, heavyset man near fifty, something in me snapped!
Deliberately I lowered all the windows that I could reach from the driver's seat. My hand snaked out, found the volume knob and with a sudden, violent twist turned the knob all the way to the right.
For one glorious moment I could not hear the pounding of the bass of Guns and Roses or Ozzy or whoever was putting out that noise. Then, I saw the windows in the jump car lowering and the violence of their music began assaulting my eardrums.
You don't mess with a guy who grew up on assorted Warner Brothers cartoons.
"Of course," I thought to myself a la childhood chum, Bugs Bunny, "You know this means war!"
Opening up the glove compartment I reached for my CD case and with a flourish withdrew Alexander Scrabin's Ninth Piano Sonata, also known as the Black Mass. "Let's try a little Russian justice!" I muttered to myself.
"Let's just see who knows more about darkness—Ozzy or Alexander!" I thought to myself as I ejected the Vivaldi and put in the Scriabin! Quickly, I adjusted the tone until the treble from my small speakers challenged the raw bass emanating from the Pontiac.
The effect of the" Devil's own music" was unnerving to many of the people in the cars around me. Those who had their windows down enjoying the cool spring temperatures quickly rolled them up.
The rather large, hulking fellow sitting in the passenger seat of the Pontiac with a gold earring dangling from his ear, smiled sickeningly and stuck his hand out the window with a single middle digit showing. Somehow, they found some more volume and drowned out the demonic but lucid notes of the Scriabin.
Madly, I dove into the glove compartment again and rummaged again through my CDs. I quickly discarded a Chopin, dropped Mozart's 40th to the floor, brushed aside a Bach 3rd Brandenburg.
Pawing through Tchaikowsy's, Brahms, Bartok—even a little Gershwin—until I finally found what I was searching for. With a mad gleam of triumph in my eye, I looked over at the grinning barbarian in the Pontiac, ejected the Scriabin and threw in Beehoven's Ninth Symphony, and hit the button until I found the final track.
I fired this salvo of Ole Ludwig at them point blank.
I turned up all the tone controls clockwise as far as I could. I made sure the volume was turned up as far as it would go. Slowly the music built, and I could see it was having an effect on the guys in the jump car.
As evil spirits caught in the headlights of God, they were cowering before this masterpiece of western music. "Take that!" I thought, as the baritone began singing the eloquent, opening lines of Schiller's Ode to Joy stirred by Beethoven's masterful music:
Freude, schöne Gotterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuer-trunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!
The stoplight turned green, and I watched in amazement as they writhed and screamed in torment. God help me, but I love the sound of heavy metal tearing in the afternoon. . .
I thought sure that horns would start honking, people yelling, and motorcycle cops would arrive and take me away in chains, but, no, as far as my eye could see, people were getting out of their cars and heading toward me.
Oh God, Martin, I thought, you're going to get it now! I closed my eyes, knowing that I would probably next awaken with every limb of my body in heavy traction or be peering down at my body in the local morgue.
When I opened my eyes, I beheld in profound wonderment that dozens of people from the stopped cars had formed a circle around my small Honda. They were cheering and applauding, and holding their thumbs up. They didn't care that the stoplight circled through several more cycles of red, yellow and green.
Flaxen-haired girls and dark-skinned maidens alike were blowing kisses and showering me with rose petals. A smile started from one ear toward the other. . .then the stoplight changed to green, and I shook my head a couple of times and drove off with Vivaldi into the spring afternoon. . .
Editor's Notes: Ode to Joy is the English title given to the poem An die Freude by the German classical poet Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller (1759-1805). The poem is famous because of its setting in the fourth (and final) movement of Symphony Number 9 in D Minor, the "Choral Symphony", by Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827).
The verse that I include translates:
Joy, fair spark of the gods
Daughter of Elysium,
Drunk with fiery rapture, Goddess,
We approach thy shrine!
A full translation of the poem is available at Beethoven.
Alexander Scriabin (1872-1915) is often said to be the first "modern" composer. You may find out more about this enigmatic Russian figure at Scriabin Society
Copyright 2003-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Published - Suite101 - April 18, 2003
The haunting beauty of the melody played by the solo violinist from Vilvaldi's The Four Seasons literally pierced my basically liberal, ex-hippy, mostly vegetarian soul as I stopped for the red light at the corner of Broadway and Hall in the City of Trees, Beaverton, Oregon.
My whole body swayed to the music; who cared if the people in the cars behind or ahead of me thought I was crazy. Then, a rusty-looking ancient Pontiac Trans AM pulled up beside me, its juiced-up amplifiers spewing some god-awful heavy metal through the huge speakers that I could see lurking in the back seat.
That this "jump car" was playing music loud enough to drown out the screaming decibels of a landing jet was bad enough, but that it drowned out my violin solo was just too much. Caught between the twin vises of the sanctimoniousness of the lover of harmony and classical music and the cantankerousness of a balding, heavyset man near fifty, something in me snapped!
Deliberately I lowered all the windows that I could reach from the driver's seat. My hand snaked out, found the volume knob and with a sudden, violent twist turned the knob all the way to the right.
For one glorious moment I could not hear the pounding of the bass of Guns and Roses or Ozzy or whoever was putting out that noise. Then, I saw the windows in the jump car lowering and the violence of their music began assaulting my eardrums.
You don't mess with a guy who grew up on assorted Warner Brothers cartoons.
"Of course," I thought to myself a la childhood chum, Bugs Bunny, "You know this means war!"
Opening up the glove compartment I reached for my CD case and with a flourish withdrew Alexander Scrabin's Ninth Piano Sonata, also known as the Black Mass. "Let's try a little Russian justice!" I muttered to myself.
"Let's just see who knows more about darkness—Ozzy or Alexander!" I thought to myself as I ejected the Vivaldi and put in the Scriabin! Quickly, I adjusted the tone until the treble from my small speakers challenged the raw bass emanating from the Pontiac.
The effect of the" Devil's own music" was unnerving to many of the people in the cars around me. Those who had their windows down enjoying the cool spring temperatures quickly rolled them up.
The rather large, hulking fellow sitting in the passenger seat of the Pontiac with a gold earring dangling from his ear, smiled sickeningly and stuck his hand out the window with a single middle digit showing. Somehow, they found some more volume and drowned out the demonic but lucid notes of the Scriabin.
Madly, I dove into the glove compartment again and rummaged again through my CDs. I quickly discarded a Chopin, dropped Mozart's 40th to the floor, brushed aside a Bach 3rd Brandenburg.
Pawing through Tchaikowsy's, Brahms, Bartok—even a little Gershwin—until I finally found what I was searching for. With a mad gleam of triumph in my eye, I looked over at the grinning barbarian in the Pontiac, ejected the Scriabin and threw in Beehoven's Ninth Symphony, and hit the button until I found the final track.
I fired this salvo of Ole Ludwig at them point blank.
I turned up all the tone controls clockwise as far as I could. I made sure the volume was turned up as far as it would go. Slowly the music built, and I could see it was having an effect on the guys in the jump car.
As evil spirits caught in the headlights of God, they were cowering before this masterpiece of western music. "Take that!" I thought, as the baritone began singing the eloquent, opening lines of Schiller's Ode to Joy stirred by Beethoven's masterful music:
Freude, schöne Gotterfunken,
Tochter aus Elysium,
Wir betreten feuer-trunken,
Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!
The stoplight turned green, and I watched in amazement as they writhed and screamed in torment. God help me, but I love the sound of heavy metal tearing in the afternoon. . .
I thought sure that horns would start honking, people yelling, and motorcycle cops would arrive and take me away in chains, but, no, as far as my eye could see, people were getting out of their cars and heading toward me.
Oh God, Martin, I thought, you're going to get it now! I closed my eyes, knowing that I would probably next awaken with every limb of my body in heavy traction or be peering down at my body in the local morgue.
When I opened my eyes, I beheld in profound wonderment that dozens of people from the stopped cars had formed a circle around my small Honda. They were cheering and applauding, and holding their thumbs up. They didn't care that the stoplight circled through several more cycles of red, yellow and green.
Flaxen-haired girls and dark-skinned maidens alike were blowing kisses and showering me with rose petals. A smile started from one ear toward the other. . .then the stoplight changed to green, and I shook my head a couple of times and drove off with Vivaldi into the spring afternoon. . .
Editor's Notes: Ode to Joy is the English title given to the poem An die Freude by the German classical poet Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller (1759-1805). The poem is famous because of its setting in the fourth (and final) movement of Symphony Number 9 in D Minor, the "Choral Symphony", by Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827).
The verse that I include translates:
Joy, fair spark of the gods
Daughter of Elysium,
Drunk with fiery rapture, Goddess,
We approach thy shrine!
A full translation of the poem is available at Beethoven.
Alexander Scriabin (1872-1915) is often said to be the first "modern" composer. You may find out more about this enigmatic Russian figure at Scriabin Society
Copyright 2003-2010, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Truer than True Romance
A Book Review
by Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101 - March 17, 2002
I am probably walking through a minefield in taking on this review of Jeanne Martinet’s brilliant send-up of the romance comics of the 1940s, 50s and 60s and 70s. I noticed Truer Than True Romance while foraging among the new books in the local library and figured my spouse, Joyce, would get a kick out of it.
Now I probably would not have reviewed this book (perhaps barely on topic for Caring for the Soul), had I not heard hysterical howls of mirth emanating from the side of the couch where Joyce curls up with her favorite books and pots of Earl Grey tea.
(Even while reading the comics and laughing herself senselessly, Joyce has just told me that I am a chauvinist by definition merely by suggesting that she--just because she is female--would naturally read such magazines. See, I am already blown to smithereens.)
But wait! Martinet says that the original comics, which began in 1947 and lasted through the mid 70s, (when the genre was mercifully killed off) were in fact written by men! She claims that this explains the “sexist sensibilities,” and why all the women have perfect bodies, the men are never bald and always taller than the women.
In Truer Than True Romance Martinet rewrites ten episodes of the old True Romances. The drawings are from the original classic comics, but written from the point of view of a modern, early 21st century woman. You know you are in for a satiric tornado when you peruse the front cover. A handsome young couple embraces with the woman looking up love struck into the man’s eyes. Yes, she is blond and blue-eyed and he is. . .what else. . .tall, dark and handsome with that fabled “blue-black” hair of comic book fame.
In the word balloon, the guy is saying to the girl, “Wow, you really are clingy and filled with self-loathing. No wonder I find you so attractive!”
Perhaps because I do not have a great deal of hair on top, I particularly liked “I Hate My Hair,” an episode originally called “Stolen Dreams.” This is the story of a hairdo gone bad enough to turn not only the poor girl’s day but most of her young life into a bad hair day. She simply wants that fabled "different look" and winds up looking like Sinead O’Connor while falling for a guy that she is convinced hates short hair.
In another episode that I thought was quite clever, a young woman, who usually winds up hurt from dating married men, finds herself dating the shrink from hell, as she lives though “My Heart Said Yes, But My Therapist Said No.”
I do not want to give too much of the book away. Here is a sampling of some episodes:
Too Dumb for Love
My Heart of Darkness
The Narcissist Heart!
What Are You Saying?
If It’s Raining, It Must Be Love
The old comics carried columns full of advice for the lovelorn also. Martinet does not miss a trick here either, and we read such columnists as “Ask Dr. Mary, Licensed Therapist” or “Dee Pressen, Love Counselor.” You cannot fool these pundits; they know what is going on and are ready to rescue the innocent from the wages of sin or at the very least lay a really good guilt trip on the unassuming.
There is even a modern columnist for “The Male Point of View.” "Hank Hanson" (a self-proclaimed hunk) advises women that want to "get over" with men to "dress like you love them, but act like you hate them. . .So show your cleavage and your claws, kitten.” Well, I suppose a bonafide "hunkarama" would know. . .
One of my favorite inclusions is the “test” Martinet includes. “A Test of True Love” tries to help lonely women to recognize their true love, but it is probably decidedly more tongue-in-cheek than the original. Here’s a sample from the True/False Quiz:
True/False - [You Will know he is your one, true love if]some of his hair is blue.
Answer: True. If he has dark hair, and he probably does if he is your true love, you will notice a distinctive, royal blue sheen on parts of his head.
Anyway, I felt that I would be remiss as a columnist if I did not recommend this screamingly funny satire of American pop culture. After all, in caring for the soul, one must always stand vigilant and strong against the wages of cultural mythology and stereotypical thinking.
Hmmm. . .I dunno. . .You think the chicks would really go for that blue-black hair, a narcissistic, "god's-gift-to-women" attitude, and perhaps a withering sneer?
Truer Than True Romance was published in 2001 and is available at bookstores everywhere. More information is available from the publisher, Watson-Guptill Publications.
Copyright 2002, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
by Thomas James Martin
Published Suite101 - March 17, 2002
I am probably walking through a minefield in taking on this review of Jeanne Martinet’s brilliant send-up of the romance comics of the 1940s, 50s and 60s and 70s. I noticed Truer Than True Romance while foraging among the new books in the local library and figured my spouse, Joyce, would get a kick out of it.
Now I probably would not have reviewed this book (perhaps barely on topic for Caring for the Soul), had I not heard hysterical howls of mirth emanating from the side of the couch where Joyce curls up with her favorite books and pots of Earl Grey tea.
(Even while reading the comics and laughing herself senselessly, Joyce has just told me that I am a chauvinist by definition merely by suggesting that she--just because she is female--would naturally read such magazines. See, I am already blown to smithereens.)
But wait! Martinet says that the original comics, which began in 1947 and lasted through the mid 70s, (when the genre was mercifully killed off) were in fact written by men! She claims that this explains the “sexist sensibilities,” and why all the women have perfect bodies, the men are never bald and always taller than the women.
In Truer Than True Romance Martinet rewrites ten episodes of the old True Romances. The drawings are from the original classic comics, but written from the point of view of a modern, early 21st century woman. You know you are in for a satiric tornado when you peruse the front cover. A handsome young couple embraces with the woman looking up love struck into the man’s eyes. Yes, she is blond and blue-eyed and he is. . .what else. . .tall, dark and handsome with that fabled “blue-black” hair of comic book fame.
In the word balloon, the guy is saying to the girl, “Wow, you really are clingy and filled with self-loathing. No wonder I find you so attractive!”
Perhaps because I do not have a great deal of hair on top, I particularly liked “I Hate My Hair,” an episode originally called “Stolen Dreams.” This is the story of a hairdo gone bad enough to turn not only the poor girl’s day but most of her young life into a bad hair day. She simply wants that fabled "different look" and winds up looking like Sinead O’Connor while falling for a guy that she is convinced hates short hair.
In another episode that I thought was quite clever, a young woman, who usually winds up hurt from dating married men, finds herself dating the shrink from hell, as she lives though “My Heart Said Yes, But My Therapist Said No.”
I do not want to give too much of the book away. Here is a sampling of some episodes:
Too Dumb for Love
My Heart of Darkness
The Narcissist Heart!
What Are You Saying?
If It’s Raining, It Must Be Love
The old comics carried columns full of advice for the lovelorn also. Martinet does not miss a trick here either, and we read such columnists as “Ask Dr. Mary, Licensed Therapist” or “Dee Pressen, Love Counselor.” You cannot fool these pundits; they know what is going on and are ready to rescue the innocent from the wages of sin or at the very least lay a really good guilt trip on the unassuming.
There is even a modern columnist for “The Male Point of View.” "Hank Hanson" (a self-proclaimed hunk) advises women that want to "get over" with men to "dress like you love them, but act like you hate them. . .So show your cleavage and your claws, kitten.” Well, I suppose a bonafide "hunkarama" would know. . .
One of my favorite inclusions is the “test” Martinet includes. “A Test of True Love” tries to help lonely women to recognize their true love, but it is probably decidedly more tongue-in-cheek than the original. Here’s a sample from the True/False Quiz:
True/False - [You Will know he is your one, true love if]some of his hair is blue.
Answer: True. If he has dark hair, and he probably does if he is your true love, you will notice a distinctive, royal blue sheen on parts of his head.
Anyway, I felt that I would be remiss as a columnist if I did not recommend this screamingly funny satire of American pop culture. After all, in caring for the soul, one must always stand vigilant and strong against the wages of cultural mythology and stereotypical thinking.
Hmmm. . .I dunno. . .You think the chicks would really go for that blue-black hair, a narcissistic, "god's-gift-to-women" attitude, and perhaps a withering sneer?
Truer Than True Romance was published in 2001 and is available at bookstores everywhere. More information is available from the publisher, Watson-Guptill Publications.
Copyright 2002, Thomas James Martin, all rights reserved.
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