Illumination

Anybody But The Current Guy

What a bizarre election we're having this time around.

The GOP candidate is easily out-fundraising his opponent because...his donors love his policies so much.  Right?

Except that he doesn't have any.  (Check it out.)

• On healthcare, he'll repeal Obamacare and replace it with...what?
• On financial regulation, he'll repeal Dodd-Frank (the new laws meant to prevent Wall Street meltdowns) and replace it with...what?
• On taxes, he'll fund his tax cuts for the wealthy by ending...which?...tax credits for the middle class
• On budgeting, he'll cut our deficit by slashing spending by hundreds of billions each year on...which?...programs

He does not say.  Resolutely.

So what exactly are his extremely well-heeled donors purchasing with all their cash?

The only thing I can see is that they are buying themselves an Anybody But the Current Guy candidate.  And he's letting them.

Wow.  What a way to get a circular office.

Budweiser Girls and Blue Angels

One of those laughable moments in relations between the genders is the Budweiser Girl phenomenon.  (At least that's what we term it at home.)

This is that moment in time when...

Take your most level-headed, rational guy and place him in front of a lifesize Budweiser Girl poster.

What happens?  He goes a bit gaga.  He gets that bug-eyed, dazed look.  He begins muttering in sub-vocal grunts as he takes in the voluptuous sight of...

• her large, curvaceous (yet almost miraculously perky) breasts
• her sumptuous cloud of brunette hair adorned with so many highlights he swears she's blonde (and fertile)

Those two things in particular.

Does he notice the shape of her elbows?  Hell, no.  The color of her eyes?  Nope.  That she might even be suffering from curvature of the spine?  Nada.

At this point, all the women in the room start snickering with contempt.

Right?  

Of course, what's forgotten is that so much of this is socialization.  After all, feed a group of boys over a series of decades - prepubescent through middle age - a steady diet of large (yet, oddly perky) breasts and clouds of blonde hair representing the ideal woman, and...

Flash them just such an image and they begin salivating without realizing it.

Well, what do we expect?  (It certainly happens to me.)

Which is why I always love it when the US Navy's Blue Angels come to town.  They do every year, as they are now, practicing their aerobatic stunts in the skies above us, preparing for SeaFair weekend in Seattle.

What's wonderful, and amusing, about the Blue Angels coming to town is that the Budweiser Girl phenom plays in reverse.

After all, what does your average guy think about Blue Angel pilots?  Oh, that's easy...

• They're short - just over five feet - to fit into the cockpit (which isn't really true) 
• They're exceptional at one thing - and probably nothing else - except...
• After their show, they screw their way through half the bars of Seattle because...

Well, take the most rational, practical, conservative businesswoman, such as Manya.  Show her the Blue Angels practicing one of their dives up there in the sky and she's suddenly screaming like a cheerleader ready to hop in the backseat.

Funny that.

The Mists of Consolation

Christianity continues to decline as a consoling, and guiding, force in modern American culture.

There is little hard data to document this trend.  (I've looked.)  Not that I have any particular axe to grind.  Far from it.

No, since childhood I've genuinely been interested in all the major faith traditions that cultures (ie people) have developed throughout time and place to make sense of their suffering.

How they developed.  What particular questions they addressed.  The varying answers crafted.  And, my most compelling interest:  The unique role artists play in crafting those answers.

Still, any comprehensive reading of history shows that when one faith tradition fades, another must spring up to take its place.

And, since I cannot help but ask thoughtful people I come across what they are doing about the problem, the general consensus appears to be...

• No longer believing in organized religion because of its hypocrisy (or, phrased more gently, the untenability of its mythology)
• Yet, not willing to give up on belief in a higher power by whatever name (God, Higher Self, Divine Power, Creator, The Universe, Chi, etc.)

Nevertheless, as we move forward, and we have no choice but, it often seems to me that we are grappling with murky mists of spirituality.  Phrased more prosaically, we struggle to precisely define just what it is that each of does believe these days.

At home, as we honestly grapple with this question, I've been noticing a pattern emerging between us.  Because of all that reading, as murky as the mists may grow, I find my mind sharpened enough to articulate with words of some precision wherever we currently stand...

So, I guess we don't believe in Hell anymore.

(later)

I suppose this means we no longer believe in Heaven.

(later still)

What are we praying for, then?  I mean, we're not reducing God to some sort of Divine Vending Machine, right?

(yet later still)

Why are we even bothering to say Grace before meals, then?

(ultimately, even if some time past)

So, we don't believe in God, then?  Or, put more precisely, we believe that humankind dreamed up a God because we find it almost crushingly difficult to navigate the vagaries of life.

...Moreover, just as I am able to articulate where we currently stand, I am also able to see far enough ahead - through the mists - the contours of where we are going.

(I guess it stands to reason.  All that reading up on how the world's faith traditions have developed had to come in handy somehow.)

Still, and this is the most whimsical part:  Even if I am able to make out where we are headed, at least in theory, it is Manya who bounds ahead with glee to that new ground.  Just about every time.  

At which point, she looks back at me and shouts, "Hurry up!"

Patriarchy Boys

(The site's traffic stats show my Jig Saw Girl becoming one of the most popular pieces.  And, as if the literary gods decided I needed a followup this morning...)

Interesting how early life patterns set in - modes of thought, habits of thought, really.

A few years ago, on a whim, I bought a $17 football at Fred Meyer.  Yes, I know that I'm a novelist and playwright who owns an art gallery.  Nevertheless, I love playing football.  (Watching it, however, bores me to tears.)

I love the smell of the leather rubbing off on your hands.  I love the painful slap as the ball comes in for a hard landing.  I love the way the body feels after being stretched in all those directions after playing for a while.  I love the poetry of a graceful pass, spiraling slowly through the air, almost as if it is hanging there, like a thought too beautiful to contemplate all at once.

I also love running passing plays with Manya first thing in the morning.

Yes, I know.  It sounds odd.  However, that is what we do.  We run 5 yard, 8 yard, 10 yard, 15 yard, even 20 yard passing plays in the street out in front of our home.  Typically, Manya starts as quarterback (she has excellent placement up to 15 yards), I as running back.  After a set of four passing plays, we switch.

And the plays themselves?  Oh, 10 (or however many yards) and Outs, Breaks (left and right), Hooks, Crosses, Slides, Sweeps and whatever else we dream up.

Our neighbors, tis true, thought us a bit eccentric.  At least, at first.  Then, they began to notice how fit and trim we were growing, which inspired them to start exercising more themselves.  These days, they think we're cool, particularly in the heat of July and August when Manya is playing in her sassy short shorts and sports bra.  (Passing cars tend to slow around that time of year.  Can't imagine why.)  By that time, my winter pudginess has usually burnt off, so I play shirtless, enjoying those rare kisses of a cooling breeze on an otherwise blistering day.

All in all, such play paints the day in a whole new, happier light.

But not for everyone.

For I've long noticed that footballs tend to arouse strong emotions in others, either of squirmy discomfort or of withering contempt.  The problem?  For some reason, girls aren't supposed to play with footballs.

I know because people keep telling us that.  Yes, they will stop their cars and actually make some comment to that effect.  Typically, it's nothing more than a thumbs up or the exclamation, "You guys are great!"  But, that's just it.  People feel like they have to comment.   As if we are staging a protest or something.

Sometimes, I'm sorry to say, the comment is more of a sneer.  This morning, a Seattle Utilities worker slowly drove his massive truck all the way down the block, making us wait for him.  When he drew up near us, he actually stopped and jeered, "Pretty good pass for a girl."

From whence is such antipathy derived?

Well, also this morning, two recently arrived neighborhoods boys completed what must be their third inspection of this unsettling practice of a woman handling a football.  And from the sour expressions on their faces, it is quite clear they are not very happy about it.

They must be all of seven or eight years old, on their way to the bus stop for school.  As they draw near, I am amused to see them deliberately choose not to see Manya throw or catch.  It's as if seeing a woman handle a football with such casual command is best not acknowledged.

Then, as they continue ambling down the street and near to me, the older one especially, looks at me with a very suspicious glance as if I am betraying some fundamental order of the universe.  This morning, when I said, "Good morning!" he grunted in response.

Such ossified thinking in one so young.  I can only sigh.

But then Manya has just lofted her latest beautiful, spiraling pass, and I am running to catch it with a loopy grin on my face.

Jig Saw Girl

I'm not sure why but, for some reason this year, during Father's Day, I found myself following the advertising.  Almost as if it were a cultural statement about how we, as a people, think of our dads.

So, for example, page idly through the weekly flyers from SEARS, Target, Kmart and other large chains and you find pictures of smiling dads standing with their happy kids next to barbecues, sporting goods and tools.

I found myself thinking, "What if I don't want a barbecue?"

Okay, so perhaps my hope that advertisements featuring dads smiling next to sketching pencils, french copper sauciers, and knitting yarn is a little naive.  Nevertheless, on this day that celebrates manhood like no other, apparently, as a man I should prefer barbecues.  Why?

SEARS says so?  Maybe...

I cannot believe that large corporations with marketing budgets for polling would be pushing products that their customers do not want to buy.  What, then, does this say about us as a people?

I am reminded of something I saw last fall.  I was directing a play at a local high school, and it was set construction day.  No one had ever used a jig saw, so (typical of me) I asked boys and girls alike whether they wanted to learn.  All the boys volunteered.  None of the girls did, save one.

This girl was quite possibly the gentlest soul of the company.  Moreover, high school students tend to talk about each other.  A lot.  And while I never heard anyone describe her using the word "fragile,"  I remember  a few conversations that seemed headed that way.  Clearly not the type you would expect to pick up a noisy, scary jig saw.

As for me, this was my third show working with her, director to actor, and I had long grown used to her inner toughness.  It was always there when she needed it most.  So, I wasn't surprised in the slightest when she volunteered to learn to operate a jig saw.

Of course, she handled it quite well.  Better than quite a few of the boys, as I recall.  And where was I?  Right next to her, holding the wood down so it didn't jump as she cut it, my fingers following along with the cut, about 2 to 3 inches from the noisily rasping blade.

(Honestly, is there a better way to show how much you trust someone to do well than that?)

At any rate, there we were, cutting out the arch to an entrance when I saw it happen.  All the senior boys, then the junior boys, one by one, put down whatever they were working on and, instead, began gathering around, watching this girl handle the jig saw.

Did they say anything?  No.  Were they proud of her?  I don't think so.  If anything, they looked like they were expecting her to chop off my hand.

Now, these are some of the hardest working dramatists I've ever known.  We achieved some extraordinary theatre working together.  Yet, from their expressions, I couldn't help but wonder if these boys hadn't been trained to find a girl successfully operating a jig saw an unwelcome thing in our world.

After all, haven't we all created such gilded cages for our loved ones, at some point or other, just to make us feel better?  When will we stop?

PS.  What happened to the jig saw girl?  She finished her job of cutting out the arch and, with a nervous smile of pride in her achievement, went on her way.

Last Iris

Today sees the final rise, peak and (toward evening) the fall of this season's last iris.

It's been a glorious run these last weeks.  Some years we get the occasional violet flowering.  This year, they were all a lovely, buttery yellow.  I am sorry to see this last one go.

Yet, the Buddhist within has long learned to respect this.  Everything worth living for is transient: happiness, beauty, meaning.  Even irises.

So, do we make the mistake of trying to hold on too tightly to this last iris?  Of course not.  That would be silly.  Indeed, we cannot hold back the forces of life.  Instead, the inner Taoist works with them.

Lately, we've been talking at home quite a lot about living creatively.  (Which, of course, is working its way into my new novel.)  That once we realize how transient life is, the importance of each moment takes on new meaning.

Will the moments of my life take on a dreary sameness, or will I consciously apply them toward the distinctive, the fresh, the brief?

Trying to answer this profound question has had a prosaic effect on our garden, for example.  What do we plant and why?  Should our garden take on a pretty (at first) then (later) stale sameness all year round?  Some nearby neighbors have made that choice.  Whenever I look at their garden, no matter the month, it looks the same.

On the other hand, what if we consciously planted flowers, say, to bloom in different corners of the yard at different times?  Having committed ourselves artistically in this fashion, we then get to enjoy the blooms of that choice.

Today we take those quiet moments to say goodbye to the last of the irises, knowing that yesterday saw the first day lily bloom and the latest rose blooms.  And that tomorrow will bring its fresh joys, too.

Bring on the Juvies

This morning brought our first sight of a "juvie" as we call 'em.  The spring's new-born, fluffy wings and all, brought out of the nest and forth into our world.

For good or ill.

In this case, it was a father sparrow (all dads, take note) feeding his three babies from one of the backyard feeders.  He would flutter down to the feeder, grab a grain or two, flutter back up to the three balls of fluff waiting, impatiently, for him to drop the grain in one of their mouths.  Then, he'd flutter back down to the feeder, repeating the process for the second.  Then, the third.  On and on it went.

There is something really quite reassuring about this.  In the midst of this spring's struggles - and I've heard of many, this year in particular - nevertheless, life does go on.

Not callously.  Of course not.  It's just that the world keeps on rotating, life continues unfolding.  The Grand Mosaic - as one of my characters calls it - forms and reforms each day, endlessly.

And that helps.  When it comes to life's disappointments, I believe that it is precisely in the watching of the world's continuing rhythms that we are able to, initially, accept and, finally, release our pain.

So, bring on the juvies, I say.  Their excitement for life reminds us all that our lives, too, are beginning anew.

Special Relationship

As I keep pondering special relativity to help my second novel (which is coming along well enough that I haven't been posting lately), I can't help but wonder at our seemingly insurmountable differences.

They appear, from a cosmic perspective, so insignificant.

Consider...

I'm standing in my kitchen sipping coffee and watching the neighboring squirrel play tag with a Stellar jay (ie a blue jay with a black head) for five minutes.  I appear not to be moving, right?

However, we all know that I am.  For the planet is rotating, west to east (making the sun appear to "rise" each morning).  That means that even though I haven't moved a step in the kitchen (their game of tag really is kind of fun to watch), I have moved five minutes along the direction of the earth's rotation.  As if someone had grabbed a marker and traced it out on the surface of a beach ball.

Then, too, during those same five minutes, the earth is revolving around the sun, counterclockwise.  So, it has gone its five minutes worth of travel.  That means I've been rotating as well as revolving without even realizing it.

The solar system, itself?  Yes, that, too, is slowly rotating, along with the sun, counter-clockwise.   (Why?  It's an artifact of how the solar system originally formed.  It's still going in the same direction as the earliest gases that spun off.)

And, of course, our solar system is orbiting around the entire Milky Way galaxy.  In fact, the guessing goes that the last time we were where we are now, in the galaxy, dinosaurs were roaming the planet and us, nary a twinkle in their eye.

(Begs the question, doesn't it?  Who will be roaming around the earth the next time we are at this same position in the galaxy?)

Beyond that, the entire Milky Way rotates as well.  Though, being rather flat, which direction - clockwise or counter - depends on which side you're looking at.  And, the galaxy, too, is moving...

All this said, with all this movement occurring in those same five minutes that I am sipping coffee (and most definitely not working on my novel), doesn't it make me feel small?  Sure does.

So small that I can't help but wonder at the differences that supposedly exist between us - those supposedly insurmountable ones between family, neighbors, colleagues, nations, even religions - that all too often separate us irreconcilably for a lifetime or more.

The differences seem so puny compared to all this movement.  Makes you wonder why we put so much effort into them.

But maybe that's just a matter of perspective...

Just A Speck (I)

Here's a background sketch from my new character Zeb... 

Zeb stared up at the dark sky.  And began shrinking.

As far as he could see, the pinpricks of stars radiated across the far-flung heavens.  Heaven.  He smiled at the thought, wondering just where God's Mansion was supposed to be - somewhere in one of the radial arms of the Milky Way?  Or maybe in the Andromeda Galaxy, our near neighbor?  He kept looking up, toying with this idea and that, finding himself growing smaller and smaller as a result.  Well, shoot, he thought.  Aren't there over fifty galaxies in our little backwater block of the universe?  At least from what we can see of the universe, anyway.

Then, a fun thought:  What if Heaven is inside Sagittarius A*, that massive black hole at the center of our galaxy?

On and on he thought, staring at that impossibly huge sky, knowing that the longer he stared, the smaller he would get.  So small, that he began to feel like no more than a jot.  A speck of dust.  Completely crowded out in significance by all the galaxies, super-clusters, planets, comets - and whatever the hell dark matter was - that combine into making up the universe as we know it.  Just a speck.  Nothing more.

And that's when Zeb had his Cosmic Moment.  He realized that he may be just a speck, but that's still something.  Which is better than nothing.  That means that in this universe with its teeming billions of components, he numbered among them.  He belonged.

© Jeff Stilwell 2012