Monthly Archives: October 2003

Prolegomena to the Influence of Japanese Film on America

First, a brief comment on other people’s comments. Yes, there are samurai and martial arts films which are bloodier than Kill Bill, Volume One. Yes, the infamous tentacle anime Urotsukidoji is also more violent and bloody than Kill Bill. But then, those who’ve seen it say there are entire regions of Hell less violent, bloody, nastyminded and laaaaame than Urotsukidoji. (That’s why it’s infamous.) This kind of film is just porn with a veneer of science fiction/fantasy, and has nothing to do with samurai or martial arts flicks, much less action anime. Please keep your genres straight to avoid such non sequiturs.

Now, I could talk about the superficial things, like cartoon shows made in America to look like they’re made in Japan. But that’s entirely superficial. Instead, I’ll begin with my thoughts on Japan’s influence on me and my generation.

The year was 1978. I had first seen Star Wars a month ago in a drive-in with my parents. At 6:30 in the morning on a station a hundred miles away, the new weekday morning cartoons had begun. We’d missed the first day and had gotten up late again today, but there was still at least half of this episode left of whatever this new Star Blazers show might be. My brothers and I flipped on the television, chunked the VHF knob to “19”…and found ourselves on Mars next to a small crashed spacecraft, kneeling beside an alien princess who’d died to give Earth a chance to survive. By the end of the episode, we’d seen the battleship Yamato raised from the now-dry seabed, now a starship serving all the Earth and rechristened the Argo. And at the end of the ep, the narrator warned, “Hurry, Star Blazers! There are 364 days left until Earth is destroyed!”

You better believe we woke up early the next morning.

People know kids love life-and-death, honor-and-betrayal sagas like Star Wars. Yet American kids then were given a consistent diet of healthy pabulum and poorly-written shows (live-action or animated made no difference), with a few of the old Looney Toons and Tom and Jerry shows to give us a taste of what could be. I had never known that a TV show not a soap could have a plot which continued from episode to episode without a reset button, or that a show for kids could include the deaths of characters we cared about. More than that, I’d never seen a show where the bad guy (Desslok of Gamilon, suave aesthete and sometimes-astute military dictator, though blind to certain important issues and prone to sudden disastrous rages) could have a sense of honor, be troubled by his own actions, and ultimately redeem himself. I’d definitely never been presented with a good guy (Derek Wildstar) who blamed his brother’s death on his commanding officer, alternated Achillean whining with suicidal bravery, couldn’t figure out how to treat the woman he loved, and finally had to face reality and become a responsible leader. It was heady stuff, even without beautiful art and a stunning score. It was also a tad bit distorted, since the American scripters had turned a show with some rather troubling Japanese Nationalist leanings and a lot of up-the-skirt shots into a Star Trek-like multinational crew led by a captain who drank vast quantities of “Earth mineral water”instead of sake. (I found out later that he drank a lot only to dull the pain of terminal radiation sickness and cancer. This made a lot more sense when you found out it was sake….) Still, the alterations were small, the American dub actors skillful, and the discovery that Japan was a real place where people told cool stories was important. That was what stuck with me, especially when anti-Japan sentiment hit my GM-heavy hometown in the eighties. I knew Japan wasn’t a perfect place, but I knew it wasn’t the home of faceless robot people, either.

Star Blazers taught me the virtues and drawbacks of basic Japanese values before I ever learned their names. Bushido: the way of the honorable warrior, always doing your duty, always ready to die, always respecting the honor of the opponent, never giving up unless all is lost and maybe not then. (And sometimes doing some stupid thing that gets yourself killed for no good reason, just because it makes you feel better about your honor.) The heart, which will lead you truly (but must often be denied for duty’s sake). The importance of family (which also places intolerable obligations on you). The importance of getting married and raising a family (whatever it does to the woman’s career or life). The importance of appreciating beauty (though beauty can be a trap) and g impermanence (though it can lead to despair). But really, all these things were not so different from the values of Western civilization. It was the proportions that were different, not the feelings themselves.

Oh, and about Star Wars — I found out it had been modeled on Kurosawa’s The Hidden Fortress, a samurai movie. This data immediately convinced me and millions of other kids that a) Kurosawa was blessed by God and b) samurai movies must be really cool. It was a proud moment of my college career when we showed The Seven Samurai and Kagemusha in the video room at our gaming convention. By then, of course, it was the early nineties. So we were showing unsubtitled Japanese tapes of the RPG-inspired fantasy Record of Lodoss War as well as Vampire Hunter D and other fine productions of the Japanese imagination alongside some fairly pitiful low budget American movies like Beastmaster. I like an extremely loose Andre Norton adaptation as much as the next fan, but the comparison was not kind.

Especially since the Japanese stuff almost always looked better. The budget might be low — but look at that shot composition! Look at the blood on the snow — like a woodcut! Look at the costumes — like something out of a museum! Who cares if the animation itself has a low number of frames per minute, or the anime characters’ eyes never blink? Look at the gorgeous backgrounds, and the poetic story, and the silent shot of flowers, and the drawing on that still frame that saves them thirty seconds of animation! “Cheap, gorgeous and smart” beats “expensive, ugly, and stupid” every time. And so we began to wonder — why can’t American movies be more like that?

Another area in which Japanese shows of the day were far superior was in the area of music. While nobody could complain about the quality of American film scores (except if you didn’t like hearing huge orchestral marches or Boomer songs with everything), American TV shows were not all that well served. American animation music had fallen into the pit of despond, and its hugely fun opening theme songs were being turned into brief instrumentals so as to stuff in more commercials. By contrast, Japanese cartoon scores were used as showcases for every genre of music, and current Japanese pop bands did the usually-catchy opening and closing songs. Meanwhile, shows like the women-in-mecha-suits versus evil-megacorp epic Bubblegum Crisis (not to be confused with the pitiful remake Bubblegum Crisis 2040) integrated pretty good rock into the storyline by making one character a member of the band “Pris and the Replicants”. Naturally this was all a cynical moneymaking scheme, but it made money because the music was good. (The vocal album was the first anime import album I ever bought, and I still play it often.) When you contrasted this with well-meaning but lame shows like Jem and Kidd Video, I think the reason for J-Pop influence is pretty clear.

(And yes, I know Jem had award-winning writers and I like many of them; and I loved Kidd
at the time because it was one of the few watchable shows in a very boring season. But I always resented that they were what they were, instead of being really interested in good music and storylines that made sense. When an sf show like Bubblegum Crisis seems more realistic than a “real life” show like Jem, there’s a serious problem.)

Finally, there was the beauty and expressiveness of Japanese voice actors and singers, a thing which has not only challenged American voice actors to improve but showcased the Japanese language. Most anime fans can recognize certain expressions and kanji, though unfortunately most Japanese classes are oriented solely towards business language and thus make it difficult to bridge the gap between what you hear and what it all means. To be sure, many anime fans have a greater opinion of their language skills than is warranted and have thus irritated many teachers with their “fanboy/girl Japanese”. But my generation couldn’t expect others to understand us. The new generation is more numerous and thus has many friends who use their favorite Japanese expressions incessantly in email and speech. (Given the number of Japanese expressions picked up by the WWII generation, it may just be that Japanese has an inherent fascination for English speakers.) So Japanese slang, long heavily influenced by English, is now becoming part of American slang. Expect it from teenagers near you. (And so much for the idea that American kids don’t want to learn foreign languages.)

But let’s go back to back-in-the-day, before American anime distributors and Cartoon Network made anime
easy to obtain. Of course we fans were influenced. Of course we plotted how to get our hands on Chinese martial arts flicks like Terry Lawson was always recommending (he was our film critic in Dayton before he went to Detroit). Oriental movies were neat and original and had all kinds of cool cultural differences. They also had lame translations, unrealistic gushes of blood, and wire fu…But you know, there’s something likeable about those things, too — the charm of someone else’s conventions and problems. But we also liked the low budget American movies, of course. So, given what we liked, and that the fusion of American and Japanese cinema had already produced classics like Star Wars, Buckaroo Banzai and Big Trouble in Little China, we all eagerly awaited the day when bigger and better fusion films would come to us from the directors of our generation.

Enter Kill Bill: bigger, better, and casting Uma as more than a pretty face. Tarantino uses music with skill and care to underline his points (and his critics think it’s all kitsch and irony, when it’s obviously serious love of music at work). He uses Japanese aesthetics and Chinese sword flicks’ spouting blood. He integrates live-action and anime, Eastern and Western action, and demonstrates in every frame that he loves all sorts of film with a whole heart. He clearly shows that the protagonist is not doing the right thing, but that she has little hope of getting justice through conventional methods, either. He questions bushido and honor, and underlines its importance. Then he leaves us wondering what will happen in Volume Two. Is the last sentence of the movie a sign of hope and redemption for the Bride, or an omen that revenge will take even more from her than her enemies did? Myself, I can’t wait to find out.

(And btw, it’s a fundamental mistake to think Tarentino loves “kitsch”. To the true fan, this is not even a category. There is only “good”, “bad”, “so bad it’s good”, and the other axis of “cool/lame”. Tarentino loves cool things, whether good or so bad it’s good, and he strives to make films which include those things he deems cool. He also loves genre conventions because he loves the many genres of film. He is a fan, he makes movies for other fans, and he uses his movies to invite new fans to explore the world of film. He is very simple to understand, really; only critics find it hard.)

The most important thing is that Tarantino’s Kill Bill is telling the story our generation knows all too well. When it comes down to the interests of kids vs. adults, adults will ruthlessly do whatever they please and leave kids to pick up the pieces — which leads to a repetition in adulthood of this behavior by the very kids who had it done to them. (I can only trust that Tarentino’s blinder critics will finally get this point when Kill Bill, Volume Two enters the theaters.)

Which leads us back to the comment which inspired this article. There’s a little Japanese film called Battle Royale which made the same point. It’s more violent than Kill Bill — far too violent for American filmgoers — and I hope fervently never to see it. The idea is that a class of Japanese children is put in a remote area and told that they must battle each other to the death. If they do not fight, they will be killed anyway. Naturally a Lord of the Flies scenario ensues, but that’s not the point. The point is that Japanese society is set up to make children use up their childhood in grinding study, so that they can compete in exams for a few college slots. Those who fail the exams often kill themselves. Those overcome by study do, too, since their parents give them the impression that they are only worthwhile if they can pass the tests. American film fans like the movie not so much for the teen-on-teen violence as for the more shocking point, which makes them wonder if American society does the same thing. And that is the real influence Japanese films and anime have on American culture; they let us look at ourselves from a foreign point of view that our fandom has made familiar and hard to dismiss.

I should mention at this point that I don’t much want certain influences creeping in. We aren’t Japanese and bathing together isn’t part of our culture, so we probably don’t need more scenes of nekkid people bathing in hot springs. Our society has a better attitude toward women, so we don’t need “panty shots”, female shower scenes which exactly fit the odd Japanese censorship rules, or submissive women who live to help their husband’s careers and make their children’s lives not worth living. We probably don’t need pretty homosexual male romance comics aimed at teenage girls (though I’m sure we’ll be getting them) or huge amounts of social bonding through drunken karaoke (we don’t have as strong of status boundaries to break, so what’s the point?). We certainly don’t need to pander to prejudice, as with anime’s general refusal to acknowledge even the existence of non-American Asian immigrants, Japanese of Korean descent, burakumin (“untouchables” descended from bad Buddhist karma professions, like gravedigging or slaughtering meat — discrimination is illegal but still goes on), the unemployed, and those born mentally or physically disabled. (Except blind people. That’s culturally acceptable for some reason.) Nor do we need racist (or at least ignorant) depictions of black people, or the odd touch of anti-everybody gaijin.

On these issues, we have something to teach the Japanese, or at least for them to learn something for themselves. The current popularity of anime outside Japan seems to have produced more consciousness of prejudice problems for anime producers. Also, the affection and understanding felt by foreigners for the very stories writers feel are most Japanese, most “in the family” — and thus thought to be least likely to please outsiders — has given anime professionals a good deal of pause. The Japanese tend to pride themselves on their unique aestheticism and sensitivity of heart. Discovering that non-Japanese share the same feelings, and may even appreciate some stories more because of their foreignness, has sometimes been a shock — though a lucrative one for them. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.

Same thing here. But in the end, it may be that Japanese influence on American culture is strongest
where it can least be seen. Big eyes don’t make something anime, any more than gushing blood makes Kill Bill a surgery. But in subtle ways — determination, aesthetics, international understanding, feelings of the heart — there are an awful lot of gaijin who are a little bit Japanese.


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“Ten-sion, Apprehen-sion, and Dissen-sion Have Be-gun.” (RIFF!)

An article about “earworms”, those songs that get stuck in your head. The Demolished Man by Alfred Bester not only used them as shields against telepaths, it included a very formidable one composed by the likeable Ms. Duffy. (Okay, so she wasn’t a Ms. in the book. She would have been one, though.) The beauty of the lyrics in the book is that the tune is indeed made obvious, and it STICKS IN YOUR HEAD! But of course I will share this lovely experience with those of you who have not read this classic novel…. *evil grin*

Seven, sir, six, sir, five, sir, four, sir, three, sir, two, sir, ONE!

Tenser, says the tensor,
Tenser, says the tensor,
And dissension have begun!

Tenser, says the tensor….

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Symmetry in Silver

Here’s an award-winning photo to cheer you up, also from the Dayton Daily News.

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Burglar Turns Himself In — To Testify about a Pedophile

This Dayton Daily News story is stranger than fiction. Allegedly, a Piqua, Ohio burglar broke into an apartment to steal electronics and instead found a toolbox full of pictures of victimized children — including his little sister. Horrified, the burglar went to the building’s maintenance man and then to police about his find. The apartment’s tenant, Richard Yearsley, was a registered sex offender. He’s being charged with raping a four-year-old little girl, among other things. The burglar’s fate is still to be decided by the city prosecutor, but according to the article, he was quoted as knowing what he did was wrong, “The man said he knew what he had done was wrong, but “he knew that Yearsley was involved in something much worse and had to be stopped,” according to the police report.

For once, a real case of honor among thieves.

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The Church, The State, and the Kid

A very good post on civic virtue, returning to the Catholic Church, and the responsibilities of childrearing. Obviously a little more mystical reason for returning would be nice to have, but I find this purely intellectual and pragmatic explanation pretty moving in itself. Welcome back, sir, and congratulations.

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Mom Hasn’t Lost a Son; She’s Gained a Wolfhound

My mom and dad got the call from Irish Wolfhound Rescue on Friday. The owner of a puppy mill in Delaware, Ohio had died, and those of his dogs which were still alive were rescued and brought under veterinary care. (There were dogs of many breeds living under these horrible conditions, but Irish Wolfhound Rescue took over the responsibility for all the Irish Wolfhounds.) Almost all the dogs had heartworm and other sicknesses, so this was no joke. Many have died even after being rescued. Some which seemed healthy enough to be adopted died shortly after getting home. So my parents’ new dog has to stay at the vet’s until he’s absolutely sure she’s strong enough to leave.

We don’t know much about her yet. She is a three-year-old wheaten bitch and loves people. In fact, like our previous rescue dog Cormac, she’s so lonesome for company that she sticks to people’s sides like a “leech”. However, she also is anxious to exercise her new freedom to run and apparently does so with great speed! (Note to self: hold tight to leash and keep balance at all times….) She has been so unsocialized by other dogs that she doesn’t even know how to eat food properly. But Rory and Cormac were pretty bad off when they came to us, too, and they ended up being pretty good dogs. I still miss them both.

Name suggestions will be eagerly accepted. Of course, we’ll have to see her first before we decide….

Anyway, in case you can’t guess, I encourage people to adopt rescue dogs as well as looking to shelters or buying pets from reputable breeders. (And donate money to shelters, rescue, and the ASPCA!) There are a lot of good dogs out there who have had bad luck with people. They would love to find someone who will treat them well and love them back. It does mean investing extra time and patience, and maybe even extra money for food (neglected dogs tend to throw up normal dogfood, since their systems never developed right, so they have to eat the lamb-and-rice kind) and vet bills. But for the person who has that time and patience, watching a bedraggled, shy piece of skin and bones turn into a merry, bold normal dog is an unforgettable experience.

(If only God had such eager cooperation from us, we could probably be dramatically transformed, too….)

Here’s a page of photos of some rescued hounds in Florida. Looks like some of these guys were shy like Rory was, or my brother’s saluki Nicky (who was the runt of a badly managed litter, and got beat up by his brothers and sisters). You can see how love and routine makes them confident. (Don’t you love how strange IW puppies look at various stages?) Also, you can visit Coesoig’s Moor, the homepage of another rescued IW.

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The Uses of Graffiti

Lemme get this straight. Graffiti on Boston river bridges is a tradition, part of the school and team spirit of the rowers on the Charles River. It’s part of Boston’s ambience, a little touch of authentic (and free!) civic folk art in an impersonal urban world.

So of course some Grinches say it has to go. In the name of beautification. I roll my eyes in their general direction.

I remember as a kid the joy of seeing the newest graffiti high schooler inscriptions on the railroad bridge right before you got to 35 and the boulder near one entrance to Wright State. There was always something new (that rock must have had more layers of paint than a samurai sword has layers of steel), and it was cheerful and alive. Now the railroad bridges are the standard ugly concrete and there’s an ugly, expensive brick wall “work of art” at Wright State, instead. Says it all.

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What Good Management Looks Like

Everybody’s already blogged about the leaked Rumsfeld memo, but here’s my two cents. This memo is nothing to be ashamed of. It is exactly the kind of thing a good executive sends out to his people every once in a while. Amazingly enough, if you want to keep getting good ideas and focus from folks, you might want to ask the basic questions more than once and see if better answers have emerged. It’s the management version of an examination of conscience. Are we really doing the job? The best way we can? What aren’t we doing that we should? As long as people know the management really wants to hear the answers to those questions and will act upon them, it’s entirely healthy and helpful to ask.

The memo has been spun as damaging, but actually is highly reassuring — one more piece of proof that TPTB know what they’re doing and are good at it. Typically, the media don’t see it that way — which is one more proof that the media are out of touch with normal life. Ignore ’em.

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“De Vermis”

There’s a new sonnet by John Ford (the sf writer) over on Electrolite. Check it out.

The worm drives helically through the wood
And does not know the dust left in the bore
Once made the table integral and good;
And suddenly the crystal hits the floor.
Electrons find their paths in subtle ways,
A massless eddy in a trail of smoke;
The names of lovers, light of other days —
Perhaps you will not miss them. That’s the joke.
The universe winds down. That’s how it’s made.
But memory is everything to lose;
Although some of the colors have to fade,
Do not believe you’ll get the chance to choose.
Regret, by definition, comes too late;
Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate.

(Though to be totally nitpicky, the Lovecraft imaginary book title they’re referencing was “De Vermiis”, IIRC.)

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Terri Lives!

I’ll admit I didn’t have enough faith on this one. I kept praying, but frankly, I was sure the bill wouldn’t pass the Florida Senate. I didn’t turn on the computer last night after my tutoring was done, because I didn’t want to know.

The bill passed last afternoon! Terri was moved to a hospital. Initially her food and water were obstructed by Mr. Schiavo’s threats of a lawsuit, but the wily Florida legislature had anticipated that and given everyone involved in putting the stay into place a free pass on getting sued. Terri is bound to be a very sick puppy right now, with all the kidney and system damage from being starved, cut off from water, and drugged. But keep praying. God has already performed one miracle through Governor Jeb Bush and the Florida House and Senate, and He’s kept Terri alive for thirteen years. I’m betting He’s not going to take Terri just yet. She’s got more work to do.

Mark Shea suggested we write Mr. Bush and thank him. I did so. Here’s what I wrote:

Dear Governor,

Not to clog your email boxes or anything, but I just _had_ to drop you a line. You did the right thing! I appreciate the problem you had with not using your power in a way which would put the government’s nose into the tent and establish a bad precedent. But you and the Florida legislature came through, balancing a bad judicial decision in exactly the way our founding fathers intended. It was a textbook in civics, practical politics and compassion, and a class act by all. You rock.

Today I feel just that little bit safer. If I should get knocked on the head tomorrow (God forbid), maybe people will put a little thought into not killing me for not being my old self. Maybe they’ll take a moment to see what I can do and how I can live instead of just thinking of what I’m not. And as a person with many disabled friends and acquaintances — some physically, some mentally, some both — I feel a little more confident that some perceived lack of “quality of life” will not become their death sentence.

Obviously, this is not the end of Terri’s road; and equally obviously, we all have a long way to go in fighting the culture of death that is sapping the strength of our country. But this was a truly important step, particularly for Terri and her family. She is alive today because of what you and your honorable colleagues did yesterday. You have done what government is supposed to do — protect life and liberty.

You are like the old story of the man walking along the beach after a storm, putting live seashells back into the sea. Somebody told him what he was doing was silly, since he couldn’t save every creature out there. The man stopped, looked at the little shell in his hand, tossed it into the ocean, and said, “I saved this one.”

I’m sure you’ll get a lot of criticism for this, but frankly, it’ll be mostly from the kinds of folks you’d rather have as enemies than friends. (Especially friends at your bedside when you’re helpless. Yuugh.) Keep you chin up and know you have earned the respect of decent people throughout Florida, the US
and the world. We will not forget this in the years to come.

God bless and keep you, and your staff (who probably did a lot of work over this!) too.

Maureen O’Brien
Dayton, Ohio

Democracy works. God answers prayers. What a wonderful world this is.

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Almost on National Radio….

Thanks to my dentist’s compressor breaking, I found myself unexpectedly home in time to listen to Sean Hannity on the radio. (My computer at work puts out a signal which blocks exactly the wrong part of the AM band. D’oh!) He was talking to Terri’s dad today, so I called in. Unfortunately, they didn’t put me on the air, though I was on hold for an hour and fifteen minutes listening to the show. Oh, well. Since my local station doesn’t carry the show past 5 PM, I suppose the extra hour was worth the wait.

Felos the oh-so-sweet lawyer for Terri’s scum husband also called in. I have two words: “passive-aggressive”. Personally, I wouldn’t trust him further than I can throw a stretcher. (And believe me, this is the toned-down version of my feelings.) He claims that the court found Michael Schiavo a “loving husband”. All I can say is that I wouldn’t do something like this to Adolf Hitler or Joseph Stalin. If this is a husband’s love, give me good honest hate every time.

The whole thing stinks like a fish. There are kids a lot worse off than Terri, both mentally and physically, who go to school and lead happy lives. Terri is an adult woman (ie, less developmentally flexible) trapped in a Florida nursing home, who received no rehab other than what her parents could sneak in by hook or crook. And yet, she’s still maintained a fairly high level of health and mental functioning! Just imagine what she might be like today if she’d received decent rehab, been allowed mental stimulation and a decent number of visitors, and occasionally gotten to go outside. (Yes, you can wheel a stretcher outside…duh. Heck, I don’t see why she couldn’t live at home, especially if they got a nurse to help. Oh, but that might be inconvenient for Terri’s “loving husband”.)

The state of Florida should have stepped in long ago to give Terri the care she deserves — that any human being deserves. Protecting the weak from the strong is why we have government at all! But instead of helping and saving Terri, the courts order her death. What a mockery they make of justice. What a sham they make of the protection of the law.

Speak up. Go to the Terri Schindler-Schiavo website. And pray for Terri. Pray for a sharp decisive act by Jeb Bush to save Terri. Pray for her judges’ and husband’s souls. Pray for all of us who live in a world where alert, alive women who can’t speak for themselves can be murdered in cold blood.

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Today They Start to Kill Her

Terri Schiavo‘s feeding tube will be removed today. She will begin to starve to death. She is not in a coma. She is not a vegetable. She will be fully conscious through all the pangs of hunger and starvation.

Her nurses are forbidden to feed her by any other means.

In ancient Ireland, someone could go sit on a man’s doorstep and fast against the injustice he’d done. If the man wished to retain his legal status as a free person, he had to fast as well, each proving their determination to be right. I would like to see Terri’s judges have to starve right along with her. They could obviously outlast her — but at least they’d be forced to share some of the pain and suffering they are inflicting on this innocent woman.

On this feast day of St. Teresa de Avila, I feel the same frustration she felt with the evils of the world. Why doesn’t Governor Bush step in, or her husband’s heart soften, or…or something! We need a miracle — now, today!

But I’m not sure it’s really for Terri’s sake that I’m praying her life is saved. Terri Schiavo, from what we’ve seen of her, seems to have God always with her. Whenever she dies, she will go to Heaven like a bird to its nest. No, I pray that Terri lives because I’m scared of a world where a woman can be murdered with the connivance of the state, just because she has brain damage and a greedy husband.

Please pray for Terri Schiavo. Pray for her persecutors as well, for someday they will face a just judge who cannot be paid off.

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Arts Week

I’ve spent the week after my brother Sean’s wedding going to a lot of art things. I don’t know why it’s worked out this way; certainly this is no slur on all the quality baseball games being played. It just seems to be my week for appreciating beauty.

It isn’t fair, of course. Terri Schiavo is days away from having her murder sanctioned by the state. My best friend’s mother has had a stroke. The anniversary of my maternal grandfather’s death is next week. But after I’ve done what you can to help and pray, there’s no point brooding (as I’d usually do). Beauty helps remind me that there is more to the world than horror, depression, despair, and the autumn fading of the world. I need that.

So: last Monday I went to the Vatican art exhibition currently at the University of Dayton’s Marian Library. “The Mother of God: Art Celebrates Mary” is well worth seeing, but I have to say it’s a good thing it’s free. All the pieces are good, and demonstrating the diversity of Marian imagery is good, but none of the pieces were really great in that “I wish I could take this home” way. On the other hand, the two Roman sarcophagi bits were really nice. How often do you get to see the Magi presenting the gifts the way they drew ’em back in the fourth century? However, since you not only get to see the Vatican stuff but also the Marian Library’s normal collection of prints (including some Durers), a new display of Rosaries from around the world, a stray icon triptych leaning against the wall near someone’s office, and the library’s seasonal display of Nativity scenes (including the incredibly stunning one that incorporates all of salvation history into one diorama),
you can’t lose.

Thursday I could have gone to a Marian art history lecture at UD. (They’re having one every week till the Vatican exhibit leaves.) Instead I went to see Lois McMaster Bujold, who would make a rather elegant model for a portrait of Mary, now that I think of it. Our Lady, Queen of SF. (Or is that Andre Norton, notre grande dame de SF?) Perhaps I’m overly influenced by all the cool pictures of Mary reading, being taught to read, or teaching Jesus to read which you find in the Marian Library. ANyway, Lois continued to be one of the classier writers ever, answering as many questions as we wanted and talking a bit about her intent in exploring religion, prayer, doing the will of God, sainthood, miracles, and other interesting but currently underdiscussed topics through her Chalion alternate-world fantasy novels The Curse of Chalion and Paladin of Souls. She hesitated, stammered, and once seemed to blush. This was a bit comforting to me, as it suggested I’m not the only one who finds belief something almost too intimate to be exposed in public.

Saturday was my day to watch movies. Kill Bill, Volume One finally gives Uma Thurman a role which allows her to be more than just beautiful — something only dimly heralded by her work as Maid Marion in the Patrick Bergin Robin Hood. It is fun, beautiful, wrenching and a must-see for anyone who likes action and martial arts movies.

Anyone over a certain age, that is. I still can’t believe somebody brought their cute little five-year-old daughter to watch Kill Bill. Just for the record, I actually broke etiquette enough to ask the adults with the kid if in fact they realized this was going to be an exceptionally violent and gory movie. “Yes,” they huffed at me. Well, I’d tried. I went back to my seat and left them in peace. But it haunted me, because this movie does have a theme in which people see their parents being killed. Bambi had this theme. As a child, that movie disturbed me so profoundly that as an adult, I found great comfort in an episode of Tiny Toons which showed the toon deer actress alive, well and old in a toon trailer park. And ya know, Kill Bill is just a tad bit more graphic than Bambi, friends.

So there we are, in the middle of a scene in which a mom gets killed in a very domestic setting…and I hear the little girl asking her mommy why this is happening. Why is this happening, Mommy? Why are you giving your kid nightmares? It’s not Quentin Tarentino’s fault; he’d never take a five-year-old to a hard R movie. He supports Ain’t It Cool News’ Saturday morning matinees in Austin of kids’ movies for kids. No, Mommy and Daddy, every nightmare and trauma your munchkin has this week is all courtesy of you. Next time, try something like School of Rock.

Awesome movie, by the way. The first movie I’ve ever seen which actually conveyed the experience of forming a band and playing out, as well as writing songs and fighting for self-confidence enough to perform music. Jack Black was born to be in this movie, singing these songs with these kids. It reminded me right before OVFF that music is not only fun and communal, but important. Almost nobody left before the credits ended. Afterwards, I saw two little girls in the lobby enthusiastically entering a contest to win an electric guitar. It warmed the cockles of my heart.

The morning after this double feature, I was supposed to help cantor at Mass as well as sing in the choir. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember this until I was already going to be late for practice. I didn’t manage to run up the hill quickly enough, either. I had remembered to eat before the fasting hour kicked in, but unfortunately all the jogging made my full stomach feel sickish. Oh, and did I mention I was not really awake? And that I didn’t really have the psalm verse down yet, but we were going to go over it again at practice? Yeah, it was a wonderful job I did. Bah. At least nobody but the choir folks and I noticed. Needless to say, not all the reminiscences of the lessons of School of Rock could keep me from going into deep depression right in the middle of Mass. The new music director must now be certain I’m a flake. Sigh. And he wouldn’t be far off, either.

I love being able to sing well and beautifully, but as with all my talents, it also makes me feel miserable. There will never be a time when I will really be convinced that I do well enough, because I will always expect better of myself. Perfection wouldn’t be enough, and of course I’m far from that. The best that I can do is ignore my true feelings and keep going.

Sunday was pretty much a total waste, then, until Big O came on. It was a sad episode this week. Roger finally realized something of his feelings for the robot R. Dorothy, but only after it was too late. People’s memories are being revealed as untrue — or perhaps they’re just being deceived by a memory control device? We found out what happens if a Megadeus giant robot doesn’t like its Dominus (pilot), and it’s not pretty. Yes, there’s an invasion in Paradigm City, and the world will never be the same. Just two more episodes to go. (But if you’ve never watched Big O, Cartoon Network will be showing it from the beginning, Monday to Thursday, beginning November 3rd. Forget that Matrix and watch this noir nature-of-reality sf series, ne?

Finally, this Monday I attended a concert at St. Mary’s by Archiglas, a Russian a capella group. Half the program was sacred music, the other half Russian folk. (Here’s the set list.) Their encore was “God Bless America”, which made me cry. It was very good and very beautiful, and its setting was, too. If they come to your town, be sure to go see them.

Well, I’m off to bed. Probably I’d be less depressed if I got more sleep….

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Sean and Jennifer Got Married

And they looked very cute doing it.

The bride and groom
Mom and Dad

After the wedding - Me in lower left corner
Cutting the cake

All that sturm und drang beforehand, and it all worked out fine on the day.

Also, my cantoring went well. I sang the current version of “The Apple Tree” (yes, I changed the words again), then Schubert’s “Ave Maria”. (I had to do three verses; the guys hadn’t really registered that me singing “The Apple Tree” meant they’d better get everybody seated, since the mothers were to be seated during the “Ave Maria”.) We did service music chosen by the bride, groom and organist: some kind of Gelineau Psalm 148, “Celtic Alleluia” (which actually sounds somewhat Celtic in the arrangement for parts, I discovered recently, but still not really. I like it, though.), “Love Is the Sunlight” (ttto “Morning Is Broken”, not Haas’ “Shade”), service music from the “Mass of Creation”, and the Moore “Taste and See” for Communion. The opening and closing marches were by the organist on the extremely cool and old pipe organ at St. John the Evangelist’s in Frederick, Maryland. (I think the first one was the Trumpet Voluntary and the ending one was “Hornpipes” from Handel.) I sang “The Apple Tree” a capella, but the other ones with microphone assistance (well, heck, there was a pipe organ playing over my head!). Excellent choir loft and acoustics, btw.

I got to sit at the “geek table” with Sean’s astronomy buddies from the planetarium at the Smithsonian Museum of Air and Space. Very cool folks all.

I’d say more, because I did enjoy myself; but I’m also still very tired, even a week later.

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