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.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
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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