If by some chance you've been following my maundering prose and have missed it these several weeks past, I apologize. I was going through one of those phases when the fact that I really don't know anything rose up and bit me. What, then, is the point of blathering away on the internet, a place that makes me think of Yeats' line about the 'bee-loud glade.' Is there anything more to it than the buzzing of bees, an inbred, introspective noise signifying nothing? After all, and here are the big questions, will anything we do or think matter a billion years from now, does anything we think or do matter in another galaxy, or even on our nearest inhabitable planetary neighbor? How about our non-human cohabitors on this earth. Does a Beethoven symphony mean anything to a garden snail?
According to certain shapers of modern opinion it doesn't. This is the lesson humanity has ultimately (wrongly, I think) gleaned from Galileo, a lesson that is expressed very succinctly in the phrase 'dead white males..' Because if there is no significance to the thoughts, beliefs or actions we leave behind, then life consists solely of the me and the now. That's it. But if that's the case why do we humans, all humans, have the nagging compulsion to bequeath a legacy to future generations? Even those who reject the contributions of those nefarious dead white males seem passionately committed to propagating that belief- but not children, who often turn out to be men. Personally, as a future dead white male, I am not so much offended by that bit of spitefulness as saddened by the paltry, dreary mentality that utters it.
Not only do we humans want our achievements to persevere after the death of the body, we also yearn to endow the products of our industry with beauty and grace be it as exalted as the Great Pyramid or as humble as a doily on the back of an easy chair. We are tireless composers of tunes and verses, we polish our cars, we clad our bodies with fashion statements, we populate our northern domiciles with captured tropical plants. The list of things we do to beautify ourselves and our surroundings is endless. And are we the only species that cares about beauty? Peacocks would beg to differ. Without a suitably colourful tail poor bachelor peacock hasn't a ghost of a chance with the discerning peahen. Darwinists twist themselves into pretzels trying vainly to fit such phenomena into their scheme of randomicity and determinism.
Scientists, philosophers and theologians argue endlessly over these issues trying to fit them into some grand scheme of things. I applaud these efforts, but when I need rescuing from the doldrums of insoluble questions I like to turn to music or poetry. Somehow the poets and composers perceive the big picture directly, not without the intellect, but the intellect illuminated by an interior kind of light without which Plato's light of pure reason is a pale and wan little candle sputtering in the dark. Sometimes I think reason operates in much the same way as natural selection. It doesn't create anything new, but it weeds out bad ideas and sorts things out into their proper places.
I've been struggling in the last few years with certain texts, especially the Semitic Bible and the Greek thinkers, both of which have molded our civilization beyond any reckoning. But we of the northern European races had a vital cultural life before the Roman law, legions and road-builders spread the cross and Plato into Gaul and Britain. There is something about the poor remnants of that older heritage which thrills me in ways that the new-fangled stuff doesn't. Introduced to us a mere 2000 years ago, the desert patriarchs and the Aegean poleis in many ways still seem as foreign and alien as ever. Indelible images abound in the few remaining muddled Celtic and Germanic texts which hint at a lost literature of vast proportions. Hard now to fit them with any context, our lives so much different now, and so all the more remarkable how striking those images are, even when translated into a language that didn't even exist when they were current.
Take for example the picture painted in "Pwyll Lord of Dyved" of the King, Pwyll, at a feast. (found in the Welsh Mabinogion) After the meal he decides to get away from the festivities and go for a walk to Gorsedd Arberth (a mound, possibly identified with Glastonbury) where he sits down with his retinue. He is in no way discouraged when he is informed that anyone who sits on the gorsedd will either be badly beaten or he will witness a Wonder. Spared the beating, the Wonder takes the form of a young woman clad in gold silk riding by on the road below. Curious about who this apparition might be, Pwyll orders a lackey to run after her and ask who she is. But although the lady is only traveling at a leisurely trot, and the lackey runs as fast as he can, she recedes further and further into the mist. The next night Pwyll comes back, bringing a lackey with a fast horse. Yet as fast as the lackey rides after her when she reappears, he cannot catch her in spite of her leisurely pace. The next night Pwyll decides to take on the job himself, bringing his fastest horse. And yet as fast as he rides, it is not enough. He cannot catch up with her. As the distance widens, he calls out to her: Lady, for the sake of the man you love the best, stop for me! I will gladly, she replied and it would have been better for your horse if you had asked me that sooner. I am doing my errands and I am glad to see you. I welcome you, said Pwyll, for it seemed to him that the beauty of every woman and girl he had ever seen was as nothing compared to the beauty of Rhiannon.
As the story progresses we become aware that Pwyll has entered another world. It may be he was originally sacrificed, as the prechristian celtic rituals were quite bloodthirsty, if the descriptions of Roman witnesses are to be believed. But I can't help comparing the Welsh vision of the other world with the sad view of Hades as depicted by Homer.
By comparison to the dreaminess of the Welsh stories, the Scandinavian counterparts seem blunter, coarser, more fatalistic. Heroism is a matter of stoic endurance, a defiance of death and suffering, but for all that, life is preferable. Hjalmar and his brother defeated twelve Goths in an island duel, but in the end:
"My armour is split, I have sixteen wounds,
I cannot see, my sight is darkened,
My heart was pierced by Angantyr's sword,
The steel-edge, steeped in venom.
"The farms I posessed were five in all,
But no joy have I known from these,
Bereft of life, I must lie down,
Sword-wounded on Samsey's shore.
The Norse poems are also more concerned with everyday practical matters. In one of Gudrun's songs she is forced by family pressure and international diplomacy to marry Atli the Hun. Gifted with the ability to foresee the tragic outcome, as the daughter of one king and the widow of another she may not escape her duty. On her way from her home she crosses the continent to meet her new husband:
The brave ones mounted the backs of horses,
But the Gaulish women in wagons rode,
Seven days were carried through cold land,
Seven more sailed on the waves,
Rode seven more through mountain country.
(From Norse Poems, as rendered by W.H. Auden and Paul B. Taylor, Faber and Faber, 1983)
There is much in the Norse literature that is vivid and sharp. You can be reading along and then all of a sudden you can see in your mind's eye the scene portrayed as if you had witnessed it yourself. But rarely is there humour, or the imagery of love and beauty one finds in the celtic sources.
'The burial of the poet, dead for love' contains these sentiments: My bright shaped girl, with the brow like the lily, under your web of golden hair, I have loved you with a strong and enduring love... (From a Celtic Miscellany, Penguin Classics, 1971)
Gory scenes of battle are common in these stories, but there always seems to be at least a hint of mirth. A man's end is not so much a matter of inescapable fate as it is of his own foolish actions, and as often as not resembles a pratfall more than anything else. But what I love best about the celtic stories is the irrepressible sense of wonder they all convey. The world, whether this one or the other one, not so easily distinguished from each other, and the boundaries easily traversed, are marvels to be wondered at. Life in either realm has more to it than mere accumulation of goods- though the celts were well-known in the ancient world for their love of gold. In the story called Branwen, daughter of Llyr, Bran a champion of the Isle of the Mighty leads a host to an invasion of Ireland. They win the battle, but Bran, like Achilles before Troy, is fatally wounded in the foot. Homer fails to see the humour and very grimly lectures us on the topic of eternal fame vs a long but ordinary life. Before Bran dies he tells his men to cut off his head, take it to London and bury it facing France. But on the way they may stop for seven years of feasting in Harddlech, "...with the birds of Rhiannon singing for you, and my head will be as good a companion as it ever was. After that you will spend eighty years at Gwales in Penvro, and as long as you do not open the door to the Bristol Channel on the side facing Cornwall you may stay there and the head will not decay." The men do as he instructs but even the bravest warriors will get bored after eighty years of carousing. "One day Heilyn, son of Gwynn said, 'Shame on my beard if I do not open this door to see if what is said about it is true.'" As soon as he did he and all his companions "...became as conscious of every loss they had suffered, of every friend and relative they had lost, of every ill that had ever befallen them, as if it had just happened."
Strange. As I read this passage I'm reminded of the story of Adam and Eve. A door of knowledge instead of a tree of knowledge, but still an act of will that loses them paradise, and sends them down into a world of sorrows. But how much differently it is played out, without the moralizing and the punitiveness.
Of course there are similarities among the literary outputs of these different peoples, the Hebrews, the Hellenes, the Norse, the British, but at the same time there are clear distinctions, and the distinctions are important...vitally important. The misnamed multicultural crowd advocates a flattening of distinctions and would have us believe everyone is the same. But we are not. Multicultural theorists, most of whom are of North European descent, are not lovers of any culture, and in particular seem to hate their own. That's why they are so determined to suppress public symbols like crosses and Christmas trees. They are really statists who want to substitute the state in place of family, country, homeland, history. And what is this state they so assiduously serve? They have turned into an army of mice nibbling away at the store of wealth amassed in the chambers built by their ancestors, not comprehending the damage they do. There is an adage which says if you don't love yourself you can't love anybody else. I'm not sure if that's true when applied to an individual, but when applied to a heritage, I'm certain that if you don't love your own you can't possibly love another's. This is what they have in common with Islamists. But the Islamists are more fully aware that they are on a mission to destroy what they see.
But can the soul of a people really be destroyed? Or maybe it's the genius of place that accounts for the retention of characteristics by a people which predate a massive transformation of culture and language. For instance, the Persians. Islamic, yes, but Semitic definitely not. And how much of that literature we call Celtic originated from a preCeltic substratum in Britain? Very hard to know for sure, or at least to prove in a scientific sense. But when I respond in my heart the way I do to these ancient stories I believe it. My ancestry is American (in the broad sense) for hundreds of years and yet I still think I belong to certain parts of the Old Country in ways I don't belong in the Americas. Highly irrational.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Victoria Fire and Rescue Team
On Saturday at my construction site post I watched about a dozen fellows with backpacks march through the gate and up the steps to the catwalk. Who are these guys and what are they doing here I wondered. It seems they were members of Victoria's special rescue team, arrived for their yearly crane rescue drill. Its gratifying to me to see these young guys willing to take on such dangerous work. They are conscientious, take the the work seriously, and practice so they can do it right when it's for real. Here are a few pictures.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
The Goracle
So Al Gore was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. It just goes to show that not all of the quislings were run out of Norway after the war. I suppose it was like Canada's own Red Cross big boys who, having presided over a tainted blood scandal leading to the deaths of thousands, are quietly reabsorbed into the upper class fabric instead of sitting in jail where they belong. Gore joins an estimable fraternity. Kofi Annan, architect of the oil-for-food ripoff, and Yassar Arafat, inventor of the use of children for suicide bombers, are alumni. With company like that I suppose someday in the future Joseph Stalin and Adolph Hitler will be awarded the prize posthumously. But what has Gore done to deserve the honour? I can only speculate. So far, although the potential is clearly there, nothing he has done has led to mass murder or thieving on an industrial scale. (He is working hard on the latter with his carbon credit scheme) He is arguably the world's biggest ass, and that certainly deserves an award of some sort, but personally I think that Allmadinthehat fellow from Iran is the real Nobel material. Of course, I know Arafat had already done a lot of work toward extinguishing the only prosperous, functioning democracy in the Middle East, keeping his Palestinian constituency in a state of abject misery and poverty for all those years and so far Allmad has only started a small war or two with his good neighbor policy. Weasels like them are more Nobel-like than asses. Maybe Allmad's time is yet to come, especially if he succeeds in setting off a nuclear device somewhere in the middle of, say Antwerp. A worth attainment for an honour funded by the estate of the inventor of dynamite. Self flagelation seems to be the default setting of the European intellectual class these days so I'm sure it would shiver and squeal with pleasure.
I can only guess at the reason for including Gore in this company, but maybe it's this: Arafat, a murderer, Annan, a thief, and Gore fraud... all three masters at their trades. A trifecta.
But seriously, folks, where is the absurdly wealthy patron who is willing to endow an anti- Nobel prize? Something is clearly needed to reward human beings of genuine courage, high purpose and integrity as opposed to the frauds and schemers so admired in Norway. And there is certainly one human being living on this planet right now who deserves elevation to sainthood, a modern day Joan of Arc. Her name is Ayaan Hirsi Ali, and she has been run out of Holland, which is a good sign in itself. Not only does she think with a rare clarity and express herself in plain, unvarnished truthful words, she is beautiful and endowed with a wonderful nobility. It's no wonder the religion of peace hates her: she seems to be hated by all the right people.
I can only guess at the reason for including Gore in this company, but maybe it's this: Arafat, a murderer, Annan, a thief, and Gore fraud... all three masters at their trades. A trifecta.
But seriously, folks, where is the absurdly wealthy patron who is willing to endow an anti- Nobel prize? Something is clearly needed to reward human beings of genuine courage, high purpose and integrity as opposed to the frauds and schemers so admired in Norway. And there is certainly one human being living on this planet right now who deserves elevation to sainthood, a modern day Joan of Arc. Her name is Ayaan Hirsi Ali, and she has been run out of Holland, which is a good sign in itself. Not only does she think with a rare clarity and express herself in plain, unvarnished truthful words, she is beautiful and endowed with a wonderful nobility. It's no wonder the religion of peace hates her: she seems to be hated by all the right people.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Autumn in Victoria
Some leaves are falling in Victoria but much of the city is still green. Methinks that means we have a pleasant Indian summer in store, my theory being that the trees are the best forecasters of upcoming weather patterns. Even the trees are wrong sometimes, so I tried my best to enjoy the sunshine. The days get shorter and shorter and at this time of the year and you never know for sure how long it will be before the next really gorgeous day comes, or if I'll still be here when it does.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Murder in the north
We haven't had much good weather in Victoria this year and so a lovely autumn day like this is precious. Some leaves are turning but most trees are still dressed in green. In places the ground is littered with horse chestnuts, acorns, and apples, and the wasps are ravenous for their last meal. A few weeks ago the hanging flower baskets were taken down from the light posts, and the light bulbs on the parliament building are being changed. But at Goodacre lake in Beacon Hill Park it still looks like summer.
It's too bad a certain young RCMP officer in the Northwest Territories can't enjoy these photos, but someone cut his life off last Saturday.
The article in the paper Monday made the front page but it didn't tell us much. Skim it quickly and you might be forgiven for thinking he had met with an unfortunate accident while raking the lawn. We were mostly told how his young wife felt, as if there were something unusual about her grieving for her murdered husband and their life together. In fact, I don't remember the word 'murder' being used. A few more specifics, not many, were furnished in a separate article inside the paper. Ho hum, another dead cop. Nothing to get angry about. That would be so uncool. I don't blame the reporters so much, they're probably young and haven't thought about these things very much. They've seen lots of murders in the movies, and when was the last time you took a movie seriously?
But I have thought about it and it does make me angry, very angry, that reporters, movie stars, and left wing politicians are more apt to sympathize with the murderer than the victim. And don't let me forget the criminal justice industry who profit from crime. The lawyers, judges, social workers, advocacy groups, they all have a stake in maintaining a high crime rate. The police are a part of the system, too, and it's a wonder most of them aren't corrupted by it. But I don't think they are as a rule. They are the ones who see every day the consequences of a justice system that refuses to enforce the laws. They are the ones who do the dirty work.
The name of the suspect in this case is Emrah Bulatci who came to Canada from Turkey when he was four years old. He doesn't seem to like his adopted country very much. In the last three years he has been up for 25 charges in four Alberta towns. People familiar with him say he is violent and aggressive. His father had an interesting response with regard to his son's whereabouts: "Even if I know I won't call the cops. Why should I? Maybe they are lying." Sounds like the father is part of the problem.
Today's Edmonton Journal gives us a look at Emrah's rap sheet. Assault, uttering threats, vehicle violations, possession of proceeds of crime, and many more. But aside from a few slap-on-the-wrist fines, and one 'intermittent' ten month sentence, almost no convictions. But lots of court time, I'll bet. Lots of counseling sessions, I'll bet. Lots of publicly funded defense lawyers, I'll bet. But what do I know? Maybe he's just a poor, misunderstood young man who is being unfairly persecuted.
One thing is sure: I wouldn't know anything about his rap sheet if the mountie hadn't been killed, just like I seldom hear about other rap sheets until some innocent person is killed. Then I wonder: why wasn't that person put in a cage? Why was he on the loose? A few months ago the Victoria police shot and killed a fugitive driver who rammed a police barricade. His rap sheet was right up there with the best. You would think the reaction would be to pin a medal on the chest of the cop who shot him and kept him from killing some innocent party who got in the fugitive's way. Writeups by a rational newspaper reporter would have questioned the judiciary on why this guy was on the loose in the first place. Nope. To the newspaper writers it was the cop who had to explain himself.
Why are things like this in enlightened, modern Canada? The answer is that the people who have taken on the responsibility of enforcing the law do not believe in the punishment principle. That went out a long time ago and was replaced by the rehabilitation principle. However that was only a passing phase. Nowadays there is no longer any concept of 'criminal,' there is only the victim. Who is the victim, you might ask? Certainly not you or I who may have had a windshield smashed by vandals, or purse snatched, or tools stolen out of a truck. Oh, no. The victim is the person who did the crime...and it's all our fault because we have crated such an unjust society. If you work hard, have money in the bank, a regular job, a mortgage, that means you are an oppressor, you capitalist pig. If you are a heterosexual white male who supports a family, pays taxes, contributes time and money to your community, and maybe even (god forbid) attends church, you are the epitome of evil, the true criminal. It only follows that when law breakers are released on parole or given minimal sentences and while they are free to roam whatever violent acts they commit on you- why, it's all your fault.
I don't know when this slide into idiocy started exactly, but I think it must have been when we became too squeamish to use the noose. When murderers are allowed to walk away from their crimes, then what happens to lesser felons? It becomes like a devaluation of the currency. If a murderer only serves a year or two then what do you do with someone who steals? Why, it's catch and release. What about someone who scribbles graffiti on the side of your grocery store? In Victoria you, the proprietor, are the one who gets fined. The scribbler, often one of the "homeless," is one of your victims. That's why he breaks into your dumpster to stash his drugs and leaves his government supplied needles strewn in your back alley.
The same people, philosophy, advocacy groups, whatever, that have brought us to this sorry state are currently working openly to 'decriminalize' drugs altogether, and in the background are quietly working to legitimize what they call 'intergenerational sex,' or what you or I would call child abuse.
I have no idea what to do about it, but I get angrier by the day. Not to excuse the murderer of the young Mountie, whether or not it was Emrah Bulatci, but he is a victim all right. He is a victim of the prevailing unwisdom that there is no absolute right or wrong, and its companion unwisdom that our actions are predetermined and so we can not really be held accountable for them.
But the fate of the murderer when he is apprehended is easily foreseen. There will be endless hearings, depositions, court appointed lawyers, counseling sessions, all subject to a court ordered information ban. Because we wouldn't want to violate his rights, would we?
Meanwhile Christopher Worden's widow is left with an urn of ashes. Yes, I get very angry sometimes. My condolences to her and their child.
It's too bad a certain young RCMP officer in the Northwest Territories can't enjoy these photos, but someone cut his life off last Saturday.
The article in the paper Monday made the front page but it didn't tell us much. Skim it quickly and you might be forgiven for thinking he had met with an unfortunate accident while raking the lawn. We were mostly told how his young wife felt, as if there were something unusual about her grieving for her murdered husband and their life together. In fact, I don't remember the word 'murder' being used. A few more specifics, not many, were furnished in a separate article inside the paper. Ho hum, another dead cop. Nothing to get angry about. That would be so uncool. I don't blame the reporters so much, they're probably young and haven't thought about these things very much. They've seen lots of murders in the movies, and when was the last time you took a movie seriously?
But I have thought about it and it does make me angry, very angry, that reporters, movie stars, and left wing politicians are more apt to sympathize with the murderer than the victim. And don't let me forget the criminal justice industry who profit from crime. The lawyers, judges, social workers, advocacy groups, they all have a stake in maintaining a high crime rate. The police are a part of the system, too, and it's a wonder most of them aren't corrupted by it. But I don't think they are as a rule. They are the ones who see every day the consequences of a justice system that refuses to enforce the laws. They are the ones who do the dirty work.
The name of the suspect in this case is Emrah Bulatci who came to Canada from Turkey when he was four years old. He doesn't seem to like his adopted country very much. In the last three years he has been up for 25 charges in four Alberta towns. People familiar with him say he is violent and aggressive. His father had an interesting response with regard to his son's whereabouts: "Even if I know I won't call the cops. Why should I? Maybe they are lying." Sounds like the father is part of the problem.
Today's Edmonton Journal gives us a look at Emrah's rap sheet. Assault, uttering threats, vehicle violations, possession of proceeds of crime, and many more. But aside from a few slap-on-the-wrist fines, and one 'intermittent' ten month sentence, almost no convictions. But lots of court time, I'll bet. Lots of counseling sessions, I'll bet. Lots of publicly funded defense lawyers, I'll bet. But what do I know? Maybe he's just a poor, misunderstood young man who is being unfairly persecuted.
One thing is sure: I wouldn't know anything about his rap sheet if the mountie hadn't been killed, just like I seldom hear about other rap sheets until some innocent person is killed. Then I wonder: why wasn't that person put in a cage? Why was he on the loose? A few months ago the Victoria police shot and killed a fugitive driver who rammed a police barricade. His rap sheet was right up there with the best. You would think the reaction would be to pin a medal on the chest of the cop who shot him and kept him from killing some innocent party who got in the fugitive's way. Writeups by a rational newspaper reporter would have questioned the judiciary on why this guy was on the loose in the first place. Nope. To the newspaper writers it was the cop who had to explain himself.
Why are things like this in enlightened, modern Canada? The answer is that the people who have taken on the responsibility of enforcing the law do not believe in the punishment principle. That went out a long time ago and was replaced by the rehabilitation principle. However that was only a passing phase. Nowadays there is no longer any concept of 'criminal,' there is only the victim. Who is the victim, you might ask? Certainly not you or I who may have had a windshield smashed by vandals, or purse snatched, or tools stolen out of a truck. Oh, no. The victim is the person who did the crime...and it's all our fault because we have crated such an unjust society. If you work hard, have money in the bank, a regular job, a mortgage, that means you are an oppressor, you capitalist pig. If you are a heterosexual white male who supports a family, pays taxes, contributes time and money to your community, and maybe even (god forbid) attends church, you are the epitome of evil, the true criminal. It only follows that when law breakers are released on parole or given minimal sentences and while they are free to roam whatever violent acts they commit on you- why, it's all your fault.
I don't know when this slide into idiocy started exactly, but I think it must have been when we became too squeamish to use the noose. When murderers are allowed to walk away from their crimes, then what happens to lesser felons? It becomes like a devaluation of the currency. If a murderer only serves a year or two then what do you do with someone who steals? Why, it's catch and release. What about someone who scribbles graffiti on the side of your grocery store? In Victoria you, the proprietor, are the one who gets fined. The scribbler, often one of the "homeless," is one of your victims. That's why he breaks into your dumpster to stash his drugs and leaves his government supplied needles strewn in your back alley.
The same people, philosophy, advocacy groups, whatever, that have brought us to this sorry state are currently working openly to 'decriminalize' drugs altogether, and in the background are quietly working to legitimize what they call 'intergenerational sex,' or what you or I would call child abuse.
I have no idea what to do about it, but I get angrier by the day. Not to excuse the murderer of the young Mountie, whether or not it was Emrah Bulatci, but he is a victim all right. He is a victim of the prevailing unwisdom that there is no absolute right or wrong, and its companion unwisdom that our actions are predetermined and so we can not really be held accountable for them.
But the fate of the murderer when he is apprehended is easily foreseen. There will be endless hearings, depositions, court appointed lawyers, counseling sessions, all subject to a court ordered information ban. Because we wouldn't want to violate his rights, would we?
Meanwhile Christopher Worden's widow is left with an urn of ashes. Yes, I get very angry sometimes. My condolences to her and their child.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
The meaning of miracles
An interesting piece on the First Things blog last week by Matthew J. Milliner recounts an experience he had while visiting a church in Crete that dated from the period of Venetian rule. Catholic Venetians and Orthodox Cretans had divergent liturgies, a problem that was resolved by building churches with naves on opposite ends of the structure so that services from each rite could be celebrated in the same space. I was unfamiliar with this bit of historic lore and so it caught my imagination at once. I like stuff like this.
Milliner was there in his capacity as an art historian, and while there he encountered an English speaking Cretan who was well-versed in the iconography on display. In response to an inquiry about a depiction of Mary consoling the infant Christ, the Cretan explained the story behind it.
"Mary was permitted, due to her wisdom, to study in the Temple from an early age. Because of her access to Solomon's mysteries, she knew what was to happen to her son. And so, as Gabriel confronts Christ in this icon with the instruments of the Passion, Mary comforts her son."
Milliner, not believing the historicity of this legend, launches into a meditation on how these mythic tales could be true and untrue at the same time. The story contains a code, the Cretan elaborated, something that needs interpretation to be intelligible. Because, how could it be literally true? He tells us about other legends that require similar readings, like the Turin shroud. Never fear. They do not contradict the gospels but amplify them.
This is familiar territory for me, a long time enthusiast for poetry in general and mythic literature in particular. The challenge for a poet is to transcend the limitations of language itself, just as a painter is challenged by the two dimensional limitations of his medium. This is somewhat easier to do when poetry is transmitted by a blind harper like Homer, a mythic character himself. He used gesture and vocal expressiveness to augment his words. Verse itself has no literal meaning but without verse the meaning of the words in the poem are diminished, even neutralized or altered to an entirely different meaning. A great poet, as opposed to a hobbyist versifier, turns these limitations into opportunities. The limitations amount to a kind of traction. Robert Graves' "The White Goddess" is an eye opening introduction to reading myth, if you can figure out what he's talking about while trying to separate out all his misdirections. But I'm convinced he understood myth better than anyone else I have ever read.
The specific problem Milliner mentions in the reading of that icon is Mary's presence in the temple. The story is new to me, and surprising. Were women taught religious doctrine in the Temple? Wasn't the Judaism of that date as patriarchal as Mosquism of today? Milliner doesn't say anything at all about the angel Gabriel. Does that mean he believes that part, or is he avoiding that question? I don't know.
But these are important questions in the context of Christian belief since the authenticity of the religion itself depends on the literal truth of supernatural events occurring in real, literal, historic time. IE, the Son of God, come to earth, suffering torture and death, only to come to life again for a few days before returning to heaven. Stories in the gospels of miracles he performed are important only if they actually happened.
A school of thought among Christian believers doesn't care for these tricks and would prefer to forget about them. As for me, I have never seen a miracle performed. I have never seen an angel. I have never seen or heard of a documented case of a dead man coming back to life. To the skeptical mind that seems preposterous, and I have a skeptical habit of mind. I always subject ideas and theories to critical assessment. For someone like me claims of a virgin birth, a resurrection, visitations by angels and so on are hard to accept.
At the same time dogmatic skepticism is a trap that unimaginative minds often fall into. The classic example is the case of the museum curator who didn't believe there could be such an animal as a platypus even after examining a preserved specimen. Skepticism shouldn't be a closing of the mind to unfamiliar phenomena. Often skepticism is a mask for the kind of intellectual laziness that doesn't want to go to the terrifying trouble of reexamining all previous premises.
The reason I can take the gospels seriously is not just because they are great literary works written by intelligent and honest men of serious purpose who set them down because of something utterly momentuous they had witnessed. The reason I am open to ideas of the miraculous events they recorded is that I already know life is an astonishing miracle. Nevertheless, I am still troubled over the built in limitations of my ability to know what it all means. These limitations are not transcended by means of reason or through an accumulation of information or an amplification of my sensory faculties. They are inherent. All I know is that there has to be something more to it.
That's where the 'tricks' in the gospels enter into the discussion. We do see people who set themselves up as gurus and prophets and anyone with half a brain can tell they are crackpots. Presumably things weren't much different in the Roman province of Judea, a place literally crawling with preachers and prophets. Mystery religions were a shekel a dozen. Can Pontius Pilate really be blamed for not wanting to get caught between warring factions in his own consulship? It would look bad on his resume, and interfere with the Roman penchant for accumulating plunder.
The problem for the gospel writers was to distinguish Jesus from all the other preachers, and the miracles were the proof. The kinds of miracles Jesus performed were contrary to the natural order. In the natural order of things corpses do not come back to life. In the natural order of things cripples do not throw their crutches away and leap in the air. In the natural order of things the blind remain blind. In the natural order of things loaves and fishes do not proliferate in baskets. According to the scriptures all these miracles occurred in the presence of witnesses. If a man was blind, he was known to all in the vicinity as a blind man. There would be no faking it. Even in the Temple in front of the most hostile of skeptics Jesus was said to perform miracles.
We are told Jesus' reasons for performing miracles. He was backing up his claim to be the Son of God. He was proving that he was not bound by the rules of the world. He was proving he was not as others so that when he submitted to the same sufferings as thieves and murderers the world would know that it was through his choice. Even more it was to prove to the descendants of Abraham that he was the Messiah and that he was therefore entitled to change the terms of the Covenant made with Moses. Through the miracles he left the skeptics with no option but to reexamine their doctrines.
We moderns don't have the evidence of plain vision before us. We only have the words of the gospel writers and in spite of my own habitual skepticism I find them convincing...though not quite enough to salve all qualms.
As for the icon in the Venetian church on Crete, I wish I could see it for myself, and I wish I knew more about the legend that goes with it. The gospels are the bedrock of Christian belief, but that doesn't mean the gospels were the only accounts recorded or memorized by the early congregations. The gospels were accorded privileged status by the early Church Fathers as a preemptive strike against promulgators of mainly gnostic cults that would have been fatal to the Church. For an excellent discussion on why heresies are so important to counteract I refer the interested reader to a website- The Great Heresies, by Hilaire Belloc. These issues never fade, but we have been disarmed by philosophical trends that trivialize their importance.
I would think feminist researchers into Christian history would be very interested in this icon...if their minds weren't so closed to anything but the blather preached by the sorority.
Milliner was there in his capacity as an art historian, and while there he encountered an English speaking Cretan who was well-versed in the iconography on display. In response to an inquiry about a depiction of Mary consoling the infant Christ, the Cretan explained the story behind it.
"Mary was permitted, due to her wisdom, to study in the Temple from an early age. Because of her access to Solomon's mysteries, she knew what was to happen to her son. And so, as Gabriel confronts Christ in this icon with the instruments of the Passion, Mary comforts her son."
Milliner, not believing the historicity of this legend, launches into a meditation on how these mythic tales could be true and untrue at the same time. The story contains a code, the Cretan elaborated, something that needs interpretation to be intelligible. Because, how could it be literally true? He tells us about other legends that require similar readings, like the Turin shroud. Never fear. They do not contradict the gospels but amplify them.
This is familiar territory for me, a long time enthusiast for poetry in general and mythic literature in particular. The challenge for a poet is to transcend the limitations of language itself, just as a painter is challenged by the two dimensional limitations of his medium. This is somewhat easier to do when poetry is transmitted by a blind harper like Homer, a mythic character himself. He used gesture and vocal expressiveness to augment his words. Verse itself has no literal meaning but without verse the meaning of the words in the poem are diminished, even neutralized or altered to an entirely different meaning. A great poet, as opposed to a hobbyist versifier, turns these limitations into opportunities. The limitations amount to a kind of traction. Robert Graves' "The White Goddess" is an eye opening introduction to reading myth, if you can figure out what he's talking about while trying to separate out all his misdirections. But I'm convinced he understood myth better than anyone else I have ever read.
The specific problem Milliner mentions in the reading of that icon is Mary's presence in the temple. The story is new to me, and surprising. Were women taught religious doctrine in the Temple? Wasn't the Judaism of that date as patriarchal as Mosquism of today? Milliner doesn't say anything at all about the angel Gabriel. Does that mean he believes that part, or is he avoiding that question? I don't know.
But these are important questions in the context of Christian belief since the authenticity of the religion itself depends on the literal truth of supernatural events occurring in real, literal, historic time. IE, the Son of God, come to earth, suffering torture and death, only to come to life again for a few days before returning to heaven. Stories in the gospels of miracles he performed are important only if they actually happened.
A school of thought among Christian believers doesn't care for these tricks and would prefer to forget about them. As for me, I have never seen a miracle performed. I have never seen an angel. I have never seen or heard of a documented case of a dead man coming back to life. To the skeptical mind that seems preposterous, and I have a skeptical habit of mind. I always subject ideas and theories to critical assessment. For someone like me claims of a virgin birth, a resurrection, visitations by angels and so on are hard to accept.
At the same time dogmatic skepticism is a trap that unimaginative minds often fall into. The classic example is the case of the museum curator who didn't believe there could be such an animal as a platypus even after examining a preserved specimen. Skepticism shouldn't be a closing of the mind to unfamiliar phenomena. Often skepticism is a mask for the kind of intellectual laziness that doesn't want to go to the terrifying trouble of reexamining all previous premises.
The reason I can take the gospels seriously is not just because they are great literary works written by intelligent and honest men of serious purpose who set them down because of something utterly momentuous they had witnessed. The reason I am open to ideas of the miraculous events they recorded is that I already know life is an astonishing miracle. Nevertheless, I am still troubled over the built in limitations of my ability to know what it all means. These limitations are not transcended by means of reason or through an accumulation of information or an amplification of my sensory faculties. They are inherent. All I know is that there has to be something more to it.
That's where the 'tricks' in the gospels enter into the discussion. We do see people who set themselves up as gurus and prophets and anyone with half a brain can tell they are crackpots. Presumably things weren't much different in the Roman province of Judea, a place literally crawling with preachers and prophets. Mystery religions were a shekel a dozen. Can Pontius Pilate really be blamed for not wanting to get caught between warring factions in his own consulship? It would look bad on his resume, and interfere with the Roman penchant for accumulating plunder.
The problem for the gospel writers was to distinguish Jesus from all the other preachers, and the miracles were the proof. The kinds of miracles Jesus performed were contrary to the natural order. In the natural order of things corpses do not come back to life. In the natural order of things cripples do not throw their crutches away and leap in the air. In the natural order of things the blind remain blind. In the natural order of things loaves and fishes do not proliferate in baskets. According to the scriptures all these miracles occurred in the presence of witnesses. If a man was blind, he was known to all in the vicinity as a blind man. There would be no faking it. Even in the Temple in front of the most hostile of skeptics Jesus was said to perform miracles.
We are told Jesus' reasons for performing miracles. He was backing up his claim to be the Son of God. He was proving that he was not bound by the rules of the world. He was proving he was not as others so that when he submitted to the same sufferings as thieves and murderers the world would know that it was through his choice. Even more it was to prove to the descendants of Abraham that he was the Messiah and that he was therefore entitled to change the terms of the Covenant made with Moses. Through the miracles he left the skeptics with no option but to reexamine their doctrines.
We moderns don't have the evidence of plain vision before us. We only have the words of the gospel writers and in spite of my own habitual skepticism I find them convincing...though not quite enough to salve all qualms.
As for the icon in the Venetian church on Crete, I wish I could see it for myself, and I wish I knew more about the legend that goes with it. The gospels are the bedrock of Christian belief, but that doesn't mean the gospels were the only accounts recorded or memorized by the early congregations. The gospels were accorded privileged status by the early Church Fathers as a preemptive strike against promulgators of mainly gnostic cults that would have been fatal to the Church. For an excellent discussion on why heresies are so important to counteract I refer the interested reader to a website- The Great Heresies, by Hilaire Belloc. These issues never fade, but we have been disarmed by philosophical trends that trivialize their importance.
I would think feminist researchers into Christian history would be very interested in this icon...if their minds weren't so closed to anything but the blather preached by the sorority.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Mickey Rooney
I had despaired ever again of finding any new issues of Hollywood Golden Age musicals in A&B Sound. Since being bought out by a computer maker, Victoria's best source of good music and DVDs has drastically downsized. And they wonder why customers have been turning to online sources. I wouldn't go in there that often anymore if it wasn't just across the street from my bus stop.
But on Sunday I hit the jackpot. They had a nice boxed set of Judy Garland/Mickey Rooney musicals at under 50 bucks. I only hesitated a minute before running down to the bank to refresh my wallet. Didn't even miss my bus.
I have only watched two of them so far, "Babes in Arms," and "Girl Crazy." Bookends, the first and the last of that collaboration. Early on in the first film, Mickey is sitting at the piano while Judy sings "Good morning, good morning...it's great to be out late...good morning, good morning, to you." It's a cheerful, upbeat ditty written by Arthur Freed, producer of the movie, and his song writing partner Nacio Herb Brown. I think Judy was seventeen when she made the movie. Standing by the piano she is dressed demurely, looking perky, neat and stylish, with a wicked little sparkle in her eye. She and Mickey are in a music publisher's office trying to sell this, Mickey's latest song. Toward the end of the song Mickey sees he has caught the interest of the music publisher and he looks at Judy and says, "Hit it, mama!" And boy, does she hit it. Judy Garland could deliver more smoldering sexuality by just arching an eyebrow than Paris Hilton can dream of by spreading her legs.
The plot sounds corny. Judy and Mickey are both children of vaudeville parents who have been put out of work by 'talking pictures.' A social worker threatens to put the children of all the out of work performers into reform school so they can learn honest trades. While all the adults are on the road trying to restart their careers, Mickey decides to organize a show using the talents of all the kids left behind and put it on in a local barn.
It isn't so corny when you know that both Mickey and Judy were children of vaudeville performers, and that when Mickey became MGM's top star he persuaded Louis B. Mayer to hire his father, who was playing in a run down L.A. burlesque house, for the studio. One of the threads of the movie plot duplicates this real life experience of the real Mickey Rooney.
Judy Garland I have always been in love with, but I have never known that much about Mickey Rooney. The more I know about him, though, the more I like him. He made his stage debut at the age of 17 months, and he worked constantly from then on. It was work he loved, not really distinguishing his life from his work. He could do everything: dance, sing, play piano, play drums, write songs. Many of the big stars who knew him said he was the most talented movie actor ever. A bonus disc in the set replays an interview he did as an old man for TV that really helps to give a sense of what it was like to be Mickey Rooney, and I envy him. All that exuberant youth erodes inexorably into old age and death, but what a life to look back on. I'm absolutely certain he was in love with Judy, has been in love with her all his long life, and not even Ava Gardner, to whom he was married for three years, was a satisfactory substitute. Mickey Rooney was definitely a guy with little man's syndrome who punched above his weight! Everyone was above his weight! Even Frank Sinatra had trouble handling Ava. Now that I do know more about what kind of a person he was, I have developed a real fondness for him, and the more I see of his work, the more respect I have for him. Singing and dancing,and kissing some of the most beautiful women who have ever lived...it was a tough job, but somebody had to do it. And what a gift to the world these performances are. When you watch his movies you can see that Mickey was often better than his scripts. By the way, Mickey did his duty and went to war when his country called, earning a few medals in the process.
"Girl Crazy" was an an adaptation of a Gershwin Broadway production and has a lot of great songs. As with all Hollywood adaptations it's a mixture of good and bad. Hollywood had trouble just leaving things alone without adding overblown spectacle. Sometimes it works and you just have to accept it on its own terms, like Busby Berkeley's infatuation with Art Deco effects. But when Gershwin's music is involved any embellishment amounts to gilding the lily, and we have just a little too much embellishment in this production. At least Arthur Freed didn't try to shoehorn one of his own songs into it. He wrote good songs but he was no Gershwin. However, many of the songs were over orchestrated, and some good songs were removed from the score. But believe me, Mickey and Judy could rescue any song from maltreatment and they make the movie a delight all the way through.
For anyone who loves music and great singing and dancing, this set is highly recommended. I know I'm going to be able to enjoy watching these movies over and over again.
But on Sunday I hit the jackpot. They had a nice boxed set of Judy Garland/Mickey Rooney musicals at under 50 bucks. I only hesitated a minute before running down to the bank to refresh my wallet. Didn't even miss my bus.
I have only watched two of them so far, "Babes in Arms," and "Girl Crazy." Bookends, the first and the last of that collaboration. Early on in the first film, Mickey is sitting at the piano while Judy sings "Good morning, good morning...it's great to be out late...good morning, good morning, to you." It's a cheerful, upbeat ditty written by Arthur Freed, producer of the movie, and his song writing partner Nacio Herb Brown. I think Judy was seventeen when she made the movie. Standing by the piano she is dressed demurely, looking perky, neat and stylish, with a wicked little sparkle in her eye. She and Mickey are in a music publisher's office trying to sell this, Mickey's latest song. Toward the end of the song Mickey sees he has caught the interest of the music publisher and he looks at Judy and says, "Hit it, mama!" And boy, does she hit it. Judy Garland could deliver more smoldering sexuality by just arching an eyebrow than Paris Hilton can dream of by spreading her legs.
The plot sounds corny. Judy and Mickey are both children of vaudeville parents who have been put out of work by 'talking pictures.' A social worker threatens to put the children of all the out of work performers into reform school so they can learn honest trades. While all the adults are on the road trying to restart their careers, Mickey decides to organize a show using the talents of all the kids left behind and put it on in a local barn.
It isn't so corny when you know that both Mickey and Judy were children of vaudeville performers, and that when Mickey became MGM's top star he persuaded Louis B. Mayer to hire his father, who was playing in a run down L.A. burlesque house, for the studio. One of the threads of the movie plot duplicates this real life experience of the real Mickey Rooney.
Judy Garland I have always been in love with, but I have never known that much about Mickey Rooney. The more I know about him, though, the more I like him. He made his stage debut at the age of 17 months, and he worked constantly from then on. It was work he loved, not really distinguishing his life from his work. He could do everything: dance, sing, play piano, play drums, write songs. Many of the big stars who knew him said he was the most talented movie actor ever. A bonus disc in the set replays an interview he did as an old man for TV that really helps to give a sense of what it was like to be Mickey Rooney, and I envy him. All that exuberant youth erodes inexorably into old age and death, but what a life to look back on. I'm absolutely certain he was in love with Judy, has been in love with her all his long life, and not even Ava Gardner, to whom he was married for three years, was a satisfactory substitute. Mickey Rooney was definitely a guy with little man's syndrome who punched above his weight! Everyone was above his weight! Even Frank Sinatra had trouble handling Ava. Now that I do know more about what kind of a person he was, I have developed a real fondness for him, and the more I see of his work, the more respect I have for him. Singing and dancing,and kissing some of the most beautiful women who have ever lived...it was a tough job, but somebody had to do it. And what a gift to the world these performances are. When you watch his movies you can see that Mickey was often better than his scripts. By the way, Mickey did his duty and went to war when his country called, earning a few medals in the process.
"Girl Crazy" was an an adaptation of a Gershwin Broadway production and has a lot of great songs. As with all Hollywood adaptations it's a mixture of good and bad. Hollywood had trouble just leaving things alone without adding overblown spectacle. Sometimes it works and you just have to accept it on its own terms, like Busby Berkeley's infatuation with Art Deco effects. But when Gershwin's music is involved any embellishment amounts to gilding the lily, and we have just a little too much embellishment in this production. At least Arthur Freed didn't try to shoehorn one of his own songs into it. He wrote good songs but he was no Gershwin. However, many of the songs were over orchestrated, and some good songs were removed from the score. But believe me, Mickey and Judy could rescue any song from maltreatment and they make the movie a delight all the way through.
For anyone who loves music and great singing and dancing, this set is highly recommended. I know I'm going to be able to enjoy watching these movies over and over again.
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