Uncle John’s Log & Co.

Our friend Gruntled has a couple recent posts about one of my favorite movies of the year. Back in January, after I saw “The Squid and the Whale,” I made a personal pledge to avail myself of the great novels. I recently watched a lecture Tom Wolfe gave at Duke on my birthday (indispensable C-SPAN!), and his comments reinforced my conviction. As it turns out, I was already chest deep in Ralph Ellison’s “Invisible Man.” I finished it last night. The towering, soul-rattling masterpiece has shattered any vestigial reluctance I had for embracing major American fictional works.

Now I find myself dealing with a new state of indecision— What next?

“The mind that has conceived a plan of living must never lose sight of the chaos against which that pattern was conceived. That goes for societies as well as for individuals.”

— from Invisible Man

• This was one of those oddball days with wall-to-wall meetings and a string of outings into the community. Naturally, I tried to make the most of continuous contact with a wide variety of people, doing my best to avoid missing any opportunity to soft-sell our valuable capability.

Blow by quiet blow, I must pursue this steady defiance, in opposition to any prevailing trend of discontinuity in my commercial affairs. Resignation—to predispositions of temperament, or inevitabilities, or thought habits, or genes, or patterns of behavior, or personal psychology, or so-called karma, or perceptions of Fate—is not an option, as long as I have the power to invite change. Nothing is fixed in a world full of grace, in a world where I am receptive to the One Source of constructive change. As one would expect, the essayist provides even more keys:

But Fate has its lord; limitation its limits; is different seen from above and from below; from within and from without. For, though Fate is immense, so is power, which is the other fact in the dual world, immense. If Fate follows and limits power, power attends and antagonizes Fate. We must respect Fate as natural history, but there is more than natural history. For who and what is this criticism that pries into the matter? Man is not order of nature…But the lightning which explodes and fashions planets, maker of planets and suns, is in him…if you please to plant yourself on the side of Fate, and say, Fate is all; then we say, a part of Fate is the freedom of man. Forever wells up the impulse of choosing and acting in the soul. Intellect annuls Fate. So far as a man thinks, he is free…it is wholesome to man to look not at Fate, but the other way: the practical view is the other. His sound relation to these facts is to use and command, not to cringe to them…They who talk much of destiny, their birth-star, &c., are in a lower dangerous plane, and invite the evils they fear.

“Once a pirate, always a pirate.”

No…

And the Old Fisherman was not the only one who misunderstood.

The Ghost of Lice was wrong…

Follow not the path of destiny, but accept the freedom to understand and transcend it.

Act to empower oneself with a force of creative conduct.

… graybeard prospector …

I requested the newest book by Paul Watkins from the library, and they bought it for the collection. It looks like I’m about to complete The Ice Soldier in one week. It’s clear that this author has developed a following, which has scant meaning to any particular reader, and that he’s also earned heaps of critical praise, but so have writers I find unreadable. All I care to know is that I’ve found a novelist who consistently delivers the goods for me. That’s enormously satisfying, although I’m sure I’d require his remarkable verbal skills to adequately put my appreciation into words.

There seems to be two main reasons to own a copy of a novel. First of all, it provides the opportunity to reach out and connect at one’s own volition, like telephoning a good friend. And, of course, the other reason is to loan it to those same friends. I want to own this book, but it occurs to me that a measure of my fondness for my friends will be whether I convince myself to buy two copies…

I first encountered Paul Watkins as a memoirist, and then set out to investigate his novels, reading both a later and earlier one. But, because I’d discovered his prose as nonfiction—spoken in his own, highly personal voice—I just had to find a copy of his first autobiographical work, “Stand Before Your God,” an account of his coming of age at English boarding schools. Thank goodness for the Kentucky system of interlibrary loans!

“Stand” is a bit tough to settle into, due to its uncomfortable opening. As a boy, Paul was literally tricked into leaving home at the age of seven to get an education in the centuries-old manner of the English upper crust. Unfortunately, he was an American, and was made to feel the misfit from the first startling moments. Out of this inescapable loneliness his creativity is born, and by page 100, I’d grown so fond of the lad that I was already bemoaning the end of the book.

A few years ago, after finishing “Drawing Life: Surviving the Unabomber” by David Gelernter, I understood that it’s possible for one to develop such a deep affection for the mind of a writer that the life-span of an exceptional book triggers all the emotions associated with birth, maturation, separation, and, inevitably, the finality of mourning.

I think many dedicated readers would understand what I’m trying to describe. Although I’m a bit uneasy with this phenomenon, I’m not ashamed to admit that on rare occasions, I can actually fall in love with an artist’s creative personality. Maybe it’s even more than that—a non-physical soul union of some type that alters you for the better.

When it comes down to it, most art is basically stupid… but not when it reaches heights worthy of the word. To be able to produce a single significant, enduring work of art is a tremendous achievement, but to consistently connect with others at such an essential level—as Watkins is able to do—almost defies comprehension.

As Dana and I worked our way back toward Danville, we found ourselves near the Kentucky Theater, with the chance to catch a showing of “The Squid and the Whale” during its last week in Lexington. We hadn’t been in the adjacent State Theatre since the screening of Andrew’s movie last summer. Seeing this kind of film reminds me how much I appreciate the full spectrum of cinema, from the huge spectacles like “War of the Worlds,” to small literary pictures like “Squid.” I’m not enough of a groupie to outline any details, but I recognize the quality of the creative output coming from this particular circle of film makers, including Noah Baumbach, Wes Anderson, Jennifer Jason Leigh (Vic Morrow’s daughter), the Wilson brothers, and others. The nature of the circle’s connection to talents such as Bill Murray, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Kevin Kline are unknown to me, but serves as a clear reminder that the movie biz is a relatively “small world” at the nontechnical level. “Squid” has obvious parallels to “The Royal Tenenbaums,” but it also triggered some reflections on “The Anniversary Party.” Beyond the dynamics of the artistic circle (usually behind the camera, but occasionally in front as well), these kinds of low-budget, quasi-autobiographical pieces tend to fascinate me when well executed, not so much because of the typical, self-reflective focus on dysfunctional relationships, but the way in which the art affects me at an emotional level and stimulates personal objectives. For me, that’s what movie-going has always been about—the lingering internal ripples of the following day (and beyond, if I’m lucky, or did a decent bit of homework before making my choice of feature). For instance, in spite of all the attention to the unattractive snobbishness of intellectual elitism, I come away from “Squid” with the distinct desire to reverse my practice of keeping at arm’s length the major works of great novelists—Dickens, Melville, Proust, etc. It brings to mind the words of Michel Seuphor, which I copied in my journal a while back: “You can never see too many things in a work of art. Itself, the work is a means for discovering what is already within us. The true work of art is more than its creator; it is always behind him; soon it enters another orbit not his, because the artist changes, he dies, while the work lives in others.” Twyla Tharp takes it a step further, examining the potential power of sub-art, with her story about Jerome Robbins: He was “a true man of the theater, who made a point of going to see everything because he could find something useful in even the worst productions. He’d sit there, viewing the catastrophe onstage, and imagine how he would have done it differently. A bad evening at the theater for everyone else was a creative workout for him.” No bad art, only bad observers? I wouldn’t take it to that extreme…

I saw Joan’s mention of Aunt Carol’s game.

Beverages included? What about spices?

Ok, ok…

If I spend any more time, I’ll just keep fiddling around with them, so here are my picks—

Corn, tomatoes, spinach, almonds, eggs, cheese, avocados, vanilla ice cream, strawberries, and raspberries.

And we get to share, right?

How about if we add to the game?

I wasn’t there at the genesis, but what if we discovered a chest on Magic Island containing three books—a Holy Bible, the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, and Webster’s Dictionary of the English Language (unabridged)—and each of us could pick three additional books, which the chest would produce for our group library. There would be no other books on Magic Island—for the rest of our lives.

What three volumes would you choose?

Here are my selections—

The I Ching (or Book of Changes), The Odyssey of Homer, and James Clavell’s SHÕGUN.

When faced with picking books with pictures or books with words, I chose words. When faced with making more universal choices or being selfish, I decided to be selfish.

What about you?

Would you pick a how-to book, a cookbook (not a bad idea), or a collection of reproductions? Literature? What about a book with blank pages—no other books on Magic Island means just that—or a work you’d want the other inhabitants to read?

Nobody knows how long the chest’s magic will last.

Hurry, but choose wisely…

This Paul Watkins novel simmered until page 256 and then boiled over inside me without warning.

How did he do that? It makes me want to wolf down the remaining 54 pages in one sitting, but I’m not sure I’m ready to release these characters just yet.

This is the third novel he wrote—at age 26. Third person rather than first, it has a slightly more unsettling tone than “The Forger,” but no less cinematic (even more so I’d say), and yet it’s clear the same creative force is present in this earlier work. Although perhaps a bit more eager to entertain at this stage, he applies a youthful energy to his story in a remarkably economical manner.

Dana and I decided to just go all the way with a “biopic grand slam,” and so we borrowed “Ray” from the library. Every so often I watch an Oscar-winner at work (Nicolas Cage in “Leaving Las Vegas” comes to mind) and I think, “Is this truly a performance that deserved an Academy Award?” This was definitely not one of those times. I’ll leave it to others more gifted than me to characterize Jamie Foxx’s phenomenal achievement.

As far as the movie goes, it makes “Beyond the Sea” look anemic by comparison—the difference between an obvious indie project and a big commercial picture with the highest production values. “Ray” is one of the best sounding Hollywood products in recent memory. The sound mixers deserved their awards every bit as much as the lead actor. Superbly directed, designed, and edited, the film is a technical masterpiece, but was it a better picture than “Million Dollar Baby?” No—because Clint delivers the full package that your heart is yearning for when you choose a movie like this. “Ray” has its moments—quite a few, and they’re exceptional—but failed to sustain a deep emotional connection for me. I cared more about whether Johnny Cash overcame his addiction in “Walk the Line,” and I really don’t think it was a function of who Ray Charles was or how good a job Jamie Foxx did.

I’ll continue to contemplate the similarities and contrasts of the four musical biographies I’ve discussed in my last two entries, and why one or another excelled in a particular area. In any case, each one of them is well worth the time, but now I plan to accept a couple new assignments in the spare-time department—the complete “Firefly” collection plus an early Paul Watkins novel…

I was mildly freaked out when Ian told me on Thanksgiving that he ordered “The Forger” based on my recommendation at this site. I hope he’s not disappointed. One never knows if another will have a response to a work of fiction similar to one’s own. I think he may find interesting the parallel between a young man living alone in Paris and his own solitary travel to an unfamiliar city.

But Halifax had it easy. He only had to deal with the Gestapo.

Today’s swim was as meditative as Tuesday’s was strenuous. Before I came home I walked over to the Jones Center and looked over the exhibition of sculptures. Standing in the painting studio among the half-finished canvases, I breathed in the vapors of turpentine and tried to get the Paul Watkins story out of my system (it made matters worse). Last night I listened to a 1993 radio interview that helped me gain a greater sense of the young man. The interviewer used the word “precocious,” but I must say I didn’t have that impression after having lived with David Halifax for a week. Well, I suppose most contemporary artists tend to squander youth before getting their act together, so any disciplined person who hits the ground running by the age of 20 is now considered prematurely developed.

I was talking to Marty about the novel and immediately he thought it would translate well as a motion picture. He chose Tobey Maguire as Halifax and Sean Connery as Pankratov. Not bad. I’d go with Michael Gambon or Brian Cox as the gruff, mysterious Russian myself (but who besides Cox could be Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring?). The character of Guillaume Fleury is trickier. John Turturro could have played him early in his career (maybe a bit too tall). Perhaps Jason Schwartzman would be a good match today, but I’m not familiar enough with his work. The likeness of Fluery that I picture in my mind is similar to a self-portrait by Pierre Bonnard. Marty suggested Adrien Brody—not bad again. He asked me how one gets to be a casting director in Hollywood, and I’m ashamed to admit that I came back with a snide reply inappropriate for a fourteen-year-old lad. Needless to say, it doesn’t please me when I witness a pocket of cynicism erupt from below the surface, like looking in the mirror to discover a conspicuous pimple.

Speaking of Marty, I had to pick him up from school yesterday when he was feeling too sick to wait for a bus ride home. I told him to stay warm, rest, take some vitamin C, and, so he wouldn’t miss any class time today, not to be “outside playing football after your friends get home.” When I talked to Terie later she said that he was fine. “Really?” I asked. “Yeah, he’s playing football,” she said.

Thoughts—more than that—expansive, deep-breathing celestial amalgamations inspired by a magnificent story of smoldering suspense, defying containment by mere intellect, taking possession of my imagination, filling it and spilling over like Champagne poured too quickly, and I’m wondering who happens to control the film rights to The Forger, and whether he is a typical Hollywood son of a bitch, and I’m certain that I could design the production, fixated on the idea that Brendan would play David Halifax, and totally convinced that Andrew was born to make this movie…

Yes, I know—these are the outrageously soaring notions one has after finishing a Paul Watkins novel.

I’m not sure why, but I have this notion that reading a very good novel is a lot like my ideal bike ride. I only feel the effort when I start out, until I hit a smooth rhythm, and then I become oblivious to the process, taking in all the pleasurable sensory details, pausing now and then to rest. There’s always the clear sense of a turning point, usually after a satisfying exertion, and then all I want to do is speed onward, with no desire to stop—not to reach the end, but to experience the pure enjoyment of moving fast.

My admiration for Charlton Heston is enormous—the actor, the activist, the man—and so I find it almost impossible to watch the last few of his movies I haven’t yet seen, such as The President’s Lady, Antony and Cleopatra, The War Lord, and Khartoum. Thinking about why this might be so brings to mind a conversation I had several months back with a librarian. I was lamenting the premature demise of James Clavell, and that there were no more of his novels left to read for the first time. She suggested I find an author who wrote in a similar manner, but that struck me as an unappealing solution. I wasn’t searching for a substitute. Instead, I yearned for a contemporary writer with an entirely different style to enjoy every bit as much, who would connect with me in a compelling and exceptional way. Have I now found that person? As I get deeper into
The Forger by Paul Watkins, I find myself wanting to read everything he’s written. I suppose that’s a reasonably good sign I have…

Someday it would be fun to draw—no—I SHALL create a comic strip version of Bridget, and I’ll begin now if you agree to buy it. Metal frame or wood? Next Day Air or standard ground?

I can’t get “Gates of Fire” off the front of my mind today. It’s at times like this I could use a basic intellect boost (remember that Krell device in “Forbidden Planet?”) and coalesce all my fragments of thought to produce a single, coherent insight. To be more specific, I keep thinking of Thermopylae, and what it meant, and, beyond that, the place it holds in our history. How many times has it inspired those who faced impossible odds, or given meaning to sacrifices that would serve no immediate purpose other than to lay the groundwork for a subsequent overcoming, or compelled strivers to place the welfare of the many over life itself? And if so, it must be true that knowledge of the heroic feat was present in the mental quiver of an educated person. Is that still true today? If you asked a hundred Americans old enough to vote, how many of them would recognize the word “Thermopylae?” And of those, how many would know what it meant? And of those, how many could explain its significance to Western Civilization? And of those, how many would believe it was a positive contribution to the world that followed? And who among them might speculate with me about how the event had perhaps influenced Wallace and his Scots? Washington and his Rabble? Houston and his Texicans? Churchill, Roosevelt, and Eisenhower and the ordinary men they motivated to storm death’s sanctum on both sides of the planet?

   —may contain spoilers—

I wish I had the capacity to take Pressfield’s premise—that Leonidas hand-picked the 300 Spartan warriors, not for their own character, but for the character of their wives, mothers, and daughters, knowing that the ultimate victory would come to pass when the embattled Greeks took heart from the conduct of the Spartan people, which would in turn be based on the Spartans observing the conduct of the women who would survive their slain husbands, sons, and fathers—and apply it to the national dilemma we face today. I wish I had the ability to write cogently about our collective response to the public posture of American women such as Cindy Sheehan, Evelyn Husband, and Shannon Spann, and what it may indicate for our future as a society, and the longevity of the institutions we inherit from the ancients—from that time when the very survival of human freedom as a concept balanced on a spear point called Thermopylae.

There now. If you managed to wade all the way through that swirling, whiny muck above to reach this point, dear reader, all I can do is kiss you lightly on the forehead and say, “Thank you. Now, please go hose yourself off…”

We were with Bruce on his birthday today. Delivered a package of cards, my Cosmosaic (the fourteenth), and a memory-foam pad for when he gets to go home. Perhaps that will be soon; he looked good. Brandon caught his flight to NC, wrapping up his Indiana summer. On the way home, Dana and I finished listening to “Gates of Fire.” I hope there’s truth to the rumor that Michael Mann has signed to develop the novel as a screenplay. It would make an incredible motion picture under his meticulous leadership. (Armand Assante as Leonidas?)

After yesterday’s race, I had lunch with David in Lexington and hit the gun show, where we bought supplies for our deer ammo project and I bought a soft case for my Marlin. Dana and I made a connection, drove to Indy, and visited with Bruce until late. Today he mostly wanted to sleep, so we headed to Ohio. I read the conclusion of “The Sparrow” aloud, and the two of us discussed its themes for quite a while. When we got to Sydne’s marriage celebration in Bellbrook, it was a surprise to see her in a wheelchair She’d almost lost a big toe in a freak picture-hanging accident (that’s our Sydne!).

At the reception I struck up a conversation with a local couple, and found it hard to believe that they were of the World War II generation, since they looked younger than that. After about an hour, Ruth got Barney to open up a bit and I found out that he was personally decorated by President Truman. He’d been wounded three times—once by a sniper—and had successfully stormed a Japanese pillbox with a flame-thrower before being captured and sent to a POW camp on the Malay Peninsula, where he’d been tortured for information. I could see that his fingers were permanently disabled. I felt honored to have met him and he just averted his eyes when I expressed my appreciation for his service and the sacrifices he made. His attitude was made clear when he reminded me that he’d lost a lot of buddies and then told me this story: When he met Truman he said, “Mr. President, I don’t think I deserve this.” According to Barney, Truman replied. “I don’t give a damn what you think. Your commander says you deserve this.”

Before we left, Ruth said to me, “He’s been through a lot.”

Bruce… Barney… What have I ever been through?

Earlier in the day I’d read in the newspaper about a staff sergeant from Indiana who’d been injured in Iraq during the invasion and was now on his second tour, having just single-handedly taken out a suicide car bomber before his convoy could be harmed. He was recovering from shrapnel wounds to his face and head.

My Lord… may this nation continue to deserve such men.

(Josh is due to arrive home today for his two-week leave.)

I guess I was somewhat familiar with the actor Derek Jacobi, but it took listening to the audio version of “Gates of Fire” (Steven Pressfield’s riveting story of life among the Spartans), for me to recognize the supreme awesomeness of his abilities. Since I liked “The Islands of Unwisdom” so much, the time is right to finally partake of the 1976 mini-series I, Claudius, which brings Graves and Sir Derek together.

• “Derek Jacobi is brilliant—his soldiers are terrifyingly gruff, and his breathless account of the fighting is so vivid that one can almost smell blood. With a lesser reader, the novel’s structure might have been confusing, but Jacobi’s ability to subtly alter the timbre of his voice and the style of his delivery to differentiate narrators makes it perfectly clear.”

—AudioFile

By adolescence, our collection of evolving characters and plot-lines had detached itself from playtime notions or other childhood limitations. We made an effort to shed not only elements of fantasy, but anything out of conformity to the “historical accuracy” of our invented world—the land of “The Pirates.” We used the term in its broadest sense. The band of half-brothers central to our story were not the classic “Howard Pyle types,” but true corsairs from the standpoint of their disregard for societal constraints or prevailing authority. Their adventurous conduct was governed by a common code of mutual survival and respect for each other’s keen abilities. That our story had no fixed beginning or end was well accepted by us all, and we felt free to add new personalities, ethnicities, and anecdotes, as long as they seemed to fit within a narrative continuum that was constantly pushing forward and backward in time. Revisions in service to coherence would pass muster and shape the new legacy. It’s hard to describe the shared excitement and the satisfaction of knowing that we could never be bored if we were together, because the joy of adding to our open-ended chronicles was just a collective daydream away. A mere suggestion could trigger a new layer of creative integration. I’m not sure when it happened, but we started to document a few things here and there, and before long it was apparent that there was no end to the depth and richness of the mosaic. I can’t say it was clear to us at the time that it would prove to be a lifelong pursuit, but we did appreciate its staying power and understood that it was certain to continuously improve. It’s no surprise to any imaginative individual that youth is often fertile ground for an enduring artistic vision. I just recently listened to Ron Howard explain that the premise of how he’d create his motion picture about the Great Depression derived from ideas he had in high school. By the time the oldest of us were settled into college life, we had quite a head of steam with our own story project, but we didn’t anticipate the explosion of development that was about to take place in “The Legend.”

Olden…

Something Brendan said yesterday really got me fixated on a line of thought. For some reason I don’t consider myself a writer (perhaps a diarist or “journal-ist” at best), and yet telling stories has been a part of my imaginative side for as long as I can remember— whether illustrative, oral, or written. The Iliad and Odyssey of Homer may have been the first nonlinear story, but I didn’t read Homer (just the condensed juvenile versions) until long after my brothers and I had begun to create a rich oral/written tradition that’s almost 50 years old now. It’s nonlinear nature is one of its strongest suits. It’s been called various things over the years, but now we generally refer to it as “The Legend.” If I keep thinking about this I’ll have the ingredients for another Oldenday segment.

As every reader knows, there’s a turning point in each good novel when the author has you hooked. We’ve just reached it with
The Sparrow. I say “we” because Dana and I are taking turns reading it to each other aloud. Bob and Carol gave us this idea a while back. Cold Mountain was perfect for it, and A Man in Full was a hoot. Not every work lends itself to the practice, so we’ve had a few false starts. Inevitably we “cast” the main characters like a motion picture, so we can concur on physical appearance and general persona. Ethan Hawke as Inman and Ashley Judd as Ruby were engraved in the imagination before Hollywood made its own choices, and now I’m certain that only Salma Hayek could portray Sofia Mendes. Brendan recommended The Sparrow to his mom (my sister Joan), and she enjoyed it so much we borrowed it next. Bruce will want to read it when we finish. I already know that I’ll immediately want to start again from the beginning, but we’ll probably go find a copy of Mary Doria Russell’s sequel instead—Children of God.

There is perhaps nothing more subjective than taste in music, which can shift and evolve throughout the life of an individual. This has certainly been true for me. It would be pointless to attempt any explanation of my improvised excursion from Burton Cummings to Stanley Turrentine to Jackson Browne to Herbie Mann to Claude Debussy to Alexander Glazunov to JS Bach.

Lately I’ve had an unquenchable thirst for various “greatest hits” of a Scandinavian nationalistic flavor, primarily those by Edvard Grieg and Jan Sibelius. I’m finding much pleasure in pieces that others have judged to be bombastically second rate. And I love how a personal connection with music can trigger new areas of interest and investigation on the Web, such as Nordic dramatists of the late nineteenth century (Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson), Finnish folklore (Lemminkäinen), or medieval Norwegian history (Heimskringla).

Marty loaned me his DVD of
Troy, so I watched it late Saturday night while Dana was out of town. Although it kept my interest, it didn’t have much to offer. The workmanlike performances, clumsily directed, were squandered on a bastardized plot that should leave even a lukewarm admirer of the legend unsettled. When a screenwriter “fornicates” with one of the most exquisite stories ever produced by human culture, the punitive amputation of keyboard fingers should be given serious consideration. I’ll begrudge some credit to a talented cast who approached the script as if it did justice to its classic source. As I said, not much to offer, except for a few scenes of brilliant action choreography, which makes the motion picture worthy of attention by all but the most discriminating fans of stylized movie combat. Watch it for the craftsmanship in the fights, and then reward yourself by viewing
The House of Flying Daggers (Shi mian mai fu) or Hero (which Brendan found superior, but I haven’t seen).

Anyone who accepts the legitimacy of yet another chain email and passes it along without first checking for accuracy is like a person who wants to believe that professional wrestling isn’t phony. And this is coming from somebody who has an admitted weakness for trivial entertainment. Hey, I just like to know the difference between what’s real and what’s fake, but what do I know? Maybe if Homer was alive today he’d be having fun creating goofy chain emails.

Today’s Anacrusis story makes me think of Kethan Mortice. I guess you have to be a “Benedict’s 9er” to know what I mean.

At the same time, Kristi sends me the salvaged interactive stories, including the one that I thought had been lost! She’s thinking about starting up a new gathering spot to resurrect the activity. I know I’m not that good a writer, but is that any reason I shouldn’t compose fiction? Like I shouldn’t shoot baskets because I’ll never dunk the ball, or give up entering footraces because I’ll never break a seven-minute-mile pace, or (perhaps more to the point) refrain from playing my recorder because I’ll never be able to play a Telemann sonata?

I’m reading what seems to me to be a jewel of a book by the poet and writing scholar Robert Graves. It’s called “The Islands of Unwisdom,” a novel of Spanish colonization in the South Pacific that takes place roughly in the same time period as Clavel’s “Shogun.” I don’t know very much about Graves other than he was a contemporary at Oxford of Tolkien and Lewis, but apparently had a less than admirable private life. He supposedly dismissed his historical novels as mere thrillers, but I find “Islands” quite captivating. I have no appetite for sentimentality in historical fiction, prefer it to be based on actual characters who lived, and enjoy insights into the clash of cultures, especially East and West. This work fits nicely into that niche, and I may also investigate his “Count Belisarius.”

That Arthur Miller was a great artist, there is no doubt. Great artists have the ability to touch countless lives far removed from their own circle. Miller’s enduring gift to me was creating the role of Abigail Williams when I was one year old, so that nearly 20 years later I would have my peak experience with live theater, as I watched my sister deliver her astonishing portrayal of the seventeen year-old Puritan girl on stage in Evanston, Illinois. Even now, I’m still thrilled by the memory.

Captive elephants from 1990 to 2003 killed 65 people and injured 130, according to Circuses.com. Moral of the story: don’t mess with Republicans. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t recommend cornering a guy from PeTA.org either. Where’s Tarzan to sort out all of this?

Mario at Anacrusis reminds me of when my niece Kristi sponsored an interactive story at a defunct site called boards2go.com. I started an SF tale that lasted only 3 segments, without anyone else taking interest, before the whole thing imploded. Somehow I never mangaged to save any of it, but the directory still loads from the Wayback Machine, in case there’s a wizard out there who knows how to get deeper into the archive (if it even exists). I still remember that an embryonic plot idea involved the conflict between the commander of a secret brigade and a pompous Dr. Wesnick, the lead physicist on a government project to perfect the “Quantum Coil,” which could inject a paramilitary team into “the Outer Zone.” Wesnick presumed the Brigadier was being paranoid when he questioned the randomness of the energy profile captured by the coil’s “wave discriminator.” Why of course, reader, the signature was being proffered by sinister lifestreams, and the fun was about to begin…