The great longing and why everyone, even the cynics, grinches, and scrooges want to celebrate Christmas (even if they won't admit it to themselves)

I was just perusing lists of 'best' and 'worst' Christmas songs, and strangely the same songs seemed to be on both lists, depending who the lister was!  Which put me in mind of an article a few weeks ago about Christmas music, which I can't now find otherwise I'd link to it, that was an intriguing reflection by the author on his former disgust of the secular world and their determination to make off with an obviously Christian holiday and the eventual softening of his heart towards the lost, wandering, and lonely.  Here's an article that beautifully captures that very longing felt by everyone born of woman.  Of course none of the songs on those lists were even remotely Christian and barely dealt with any of the 'religious' trappings of the season, but I find it fascinating that we'd put so much effort into creating a secular hymnal for this particular season.  Nobody does that for Easter.  Why Christmas?  What is it about this babe in the manger two millennia ago that has we moderns trying desperately to cook up something just as wonderful but centered in the materialistic world?

Ugly Christmas sweaters, Mariah Carrie, swanky office parties, Hallmark movie marathons, a pantheon of pop culture gods from the Grinch to Rudolph and Frosty, secular carols by the truckload, the school concerts brimming with tunes about snow and bells, over the top cooking, houses lit up like a runway, gifts galore, but nothing seems to satisfy.  Our hyped up secular version of 'peace on earth, goodwill towards men,' feels more like a dinner of cotton candy and Mountain Dew while having to force yourself to smile while putting up with your least favorite great aunt as she talks about her cat for three hours: fake, shallow, all glitz and no glory.  There's no room for grief, sorrow, frustration, impatience, depression, financial trouble, loneliness, physical or mental health issues, loss, disappointment, no wonder everybody sort of secretly loathes this season as well as longs for the fulfillment of all its promises.

But that's only the manmade monster that isn't anything near human, wherein you'll get fired if you don't force enough holiday cheer whilst out in public, rather the real story of Christmas is raw, brutal, cold, lonely, despairing, shameful, and dark, wherein finally a long sought light shineth and lo, there is hope upon the earth.  That's why I love the old hymns, they don't flirt with Santa or moan over an old fling but rather marvel at the wonder of God indwelling flesh, living amongst us, and bringing true Peace upon the earth.  There's room at the manger for death, sorrow, disease, fear, doubt, grief, poverty and every ill that mars creation and He is the cure to them all.  Christmas is big enough for your sorrow, for it hails the advent of the One Who has borne them.  One of my favorite choruses out of the Messiah is the passage out of Isaiah wherein in, 'surely he hath borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.'  Come real, come broken, no flash or glitter or false joy required, and He shall give you Peace.

The longing is real and so is the Answer, but not liking the answer, the world desires to brew its own cure, which only makes that longing worse, as we feel somehow guilty in not being frivolously jolly this time of year, but you don't have to drink that strange patent medicine or indulge in faux guilt, rather be real, be broken, and seek the wisdom and wonder and glory of ages past and those yet to come.  Have an O Holy Night instead of a Holly Jolly Christmas, celebrate a Silent Night rather than rock around the Christmas tree, instead of crooning Blue Christmas remember what happened in that Little Town of Bethlehem.  Hark the Herald Angels Sing instead of Mariah Carrie or Nat King Cole.  Chestnuts and silver bells and reindeer or the ideal fling aren't going to bring the peace they promise, only the Prince of Peace can do that

There's nothing wrong with all the secular seasonal fun, but it is like cold, hungry kids tired of playing in the snow looking in at the lamplit windows and pretending they are warm and fed and surrounded by love when still outside in the lonely dark and cold.  Open the door child, it isn't locked, step into the Light, truly find Home this Christmas and everyday thereafter!

Hopeless when it comes to Romantics?

 After being held captive by a villainous virus and confined to her comfy chair for weeks on end, the recumbent heroine sought refuge in her local library's ebook empire, and falling prey to extreme boredom and mental fatigue (pronounced fat-ti-gue), she finally gave in and perused a significant number of works vaguely classified as 'christian romance novels,' and her reaction can only be described as curious indeed.

I read a little Georgette Heyer some years back, complaining afterwards that they were all the same book, just with the hero having different colored hair and driving a different number of horses and the heroine having a variable number of siblings to differentiate them.  I also had several bad experiences with Jane Austen spin-off novels, expecting such sequels to be as chaste and classy as Miss Austen herself, oops!  But I had run out of things to read when influenza decided we go on whirlwind courtship, and being barely cognizant, wasn't up for my usual preference for tales like Les Mis, Tale of Two Cities, or anything Austen or Chesterton, I didn't have the mental energy to think so I thought a little Christian romance might be just the thing to wile away the hours, forget my discomfort, and explore a rather foreign genre.  Secular romance novels are downright trashy and nothing I even dare explore.  But apparently modern Christian romance, at least from the several authors I sampled, isn't all that different from Georgette Heyer or anything offered on a classic Hallmark playlist, save perhaps in the time it is set.

The books and stories weren't bad, they just weren't good, being rather boring, predictable, insipid, and had very little of either romance or true Christian faith.  Strangely, any of the classic novels listed above are far more romantic and Christian than anything of modern make I have yet waded through though hardly being classified as Christian romance!  C.S. Lewis and Tolkien are the most modern authors I have found to be both competent storytellers and truly Christian writers.  This modern fluff has all the theological depth of a Joel Olsteen greeting card and the stories all the intrigue of a Hallmark Christmas special or the nineteenth Spiderman movie in as many years.  Is that all modern Americans expect from either faith or literature or even romance?  I knew our country was in hot water but it seems to be willingly drowning in an inch deep pool of insipidity if what I sampled was considered 'good' reading or theology!  Just because something is 'clean' doesn't make it good.  And just because you throw in a few christian fortune cookie one-liners like 'God directs your path' and "He'll turn your problems into blessings,' doesn't a christian text make.  But I guess if you are living that sort of shallow faith or insipid interpersonal relationships or have never delved into serious literature, thinking anything more daunting than the latest Marvel remake is beyond your intellectual abilities, I shouldn't be surprised people love this sort of thing.

Nobody wants to think, especially about their own lives, relationships, and the true meaning of life, the universe and everything, that's why we have an answer (42) but we still can't comprehend what the question is.  It is so much easier to type something into google and accept the first line of text that pops up as the ultimate answer to the pertinent question rather than to ask is it true, is it from a reliable source, what does it actually mean, is it biased, or do I need to delve deeper into this issue?  You wouldn't believe all the people that walk into my office and tell me what is wrong with their pet and what treatment they expect, rather than letting me do my job and figure it out and do what the pet actually needs, everybody is an expert nowadays in everything except the actual experts!  They'd happily take my advice on rewiring their house or replacing the transmission in their car (things I know nothing about but I'm sure YouTube would love to advise me) but when I don't want to treat their dog for distemper (not that there is one) when it is obvious it has liver cancer, well what do I know?

C.S. Lewis got it right when he said, "the world does not need more Christian literature. What it needs is more Christians writing good literature."  A vibrant Christian faith will shine through any well written tale even if that book isn't overtly Christian, books like Pride and Prejudice, Lord of the Rings, Les Miserables, A Tale of Two Cities, never (or only rarely or in passing) mention "churchy" stuff but glimmer and gleam with a Christian worldview and doctrine, hope, faith, purpose, and love without ever being preachy or boring, which those modern romance novels tended to be even if they mentioned God a mere half dozen times in the whole tale.  Where is the unrelenting, unremitting, unconquerable Love that drove God to become Man and die in our stead?  Where is Darcy throwing pride to the wind to save the woman who may never return his affections?  Where is Jean val Jean, the hardened, bitter criminal cruelly wronged by society and fate, yet offering forgiveness and kindness though it may doom him?  Where is the faithful Sam that would follow his master into the fires of hell with no hope of rescue or return, but determined to do what is right?  Where is one man willing to die in place of another to spare the sorrow of the woman he loves but will never be his?

We moderns define romance as merely romantic love, but we are as ridiculous as Eowyn riding off to war, seeking relief via death in battle over conquering her disappointment because Aragorn will not look on her with a tender eye.  That is my one complaint about Tolkien, most of his heroines are rather sulky, which I suppose is why Rings of Power needs to portray Galadriel as some sort of Xena wanna-be, which is odd since she is the one strong female character that isn't moping around in the books over thwarted expectations.  But romance is so much more that romantic love, or rather lust as most modern writers have it, it is the very adventure and poetry of life, the substance that makes existence worth enduring, that turns the mundane into the miraculous: sunsets, old jokes, fuzzy blankets, snowball fights, good friends, a crackling hearth, candlelight, spying your first moose, new life, long goodbyes, Spring, the call of geese on the wind, snow days, toddler commentary, good books, gooey cookies and steaming hot chocolate, hearty stew on a bitter night, starlight over snowy fields...none of that requires a love interest, only a child like heart and a sense of wonder, real humility and a readiness to embrace whatever the Author of your own personal romance is going to throw at you.

Don't settle for meek as milk toast modern theology or romance or literature, delve into the old classics, be they books or the songs of the season, forget Santa Baby and actually look at the lyrics of O Come O Come Emmanuel, What Child is This, or Hark the Herald!  Maybe the reason I find modern books so insipid is because Man himself has become so in this world of easy information wherein true wisdom has become scarce.  Nobody wants to be offensive, but the Gospel is offensive, it defies our natural selfishness and challenges us to be better, to live a life of meaning and adventure and purpose, but we'd rather just be a pointless ball of atoms and energy floating along a meaningless but pleasant course until we vanish into oblivion, of no more consequence than any of the numerous stories I just read, as soon forgot as finished, nothing memorable or significant about any of them.  Now is the time to choose your own adventure!  Now there's a genre I should go back and explore as an adult, they were kind of fun as a kid but that's a whole other post!

A metaphysical dilemma

 I tried to read an intriguing book (The Invisible Library) the other day, and while I did manage to finish it I'm afraid I'm not upset the library doesn't have the whole series.  It was a fun little story with an intriguing concept but it just seemed rather flat and two dimensional.  The plot was interesting, the characters well done, the setting curious but I was never thoroughly drawn in.  In "Pride and Prejudice," Elizabeth asks if general incivility is not a sure sign of being in love when the lover ignores all societal demands to focus solely upon the beloved, and my answer to that is a certain sure yes when it comes to literature, if I can't go to bed or make supper because I'm reading something, it must be love, right?  This one I could put down and went to bed at a decent hour.  It probably wasn't the fault of the writer or even the story, but rather a quirk about my own taste in literature.  I had the same problem with Harry Potter (still haven't finished the series) and Odd Thomas: the world doesn't make sense.  Reading an agnostic view of the cosmos for me is like baking a dessert recipe beloved by someone who doesn't like eggs or sugar or butter or chocolate: I'd rather chew rocks!

Books like "Pride and Prejudice" or "Les Mis" are set in a real, functioning cosmos (our own) so they don't have to worry about much world building and can focus on the story, but a book set in a new or variant cosmos requires a lot more in the way of world building to make it a place the reader can be comfortable, or thoroughly uncomfortable, depending on the genre, but not bored or incredulous.  "Wheel of Time" did a good job but I gave up on that series as the plot lost itself in a boundless quagmire.  Star Wars did a good job until they rewrote reality with the Disney purchase thereof.  Tolkien might take it a little too extreme.  Maybe the Invisible Library and Harry Potter and Odd Thomas work well for the majority of readers looking for a fun, intriguing story who haven't put much thought into their own cosmology, theology, philosophy, ethics, morals, and worldview, but for me, it feels like driving a car with a flat tire: it goes but the ride isn't smooth.  Some inner sense isn't happy with the philosophical dissonance within the book or world, but if you are used to that in your own life or not attuned to it therein, you probably don't even notice it in said stories.

I love the idea of other worlds, alternate realities, a Language that shapes reality, Victorian England, dragons and dirigibles (a so much cooler word than zeppelin), but there really aren't any immediate answers to the Big Questions, maybe more is revealed in later books but I came away little understanding the physics and metaphysics of the world, which to me are almost as interesting as the overarching story and characters.  What makes this world tick?  What are its ethical and moral standards?  How can a world based on a balance between order and chaos exist without Someone to introduce order?  Is the Library simply a mere bureaucratic entity run by utterly selfish individuals without doing any actual good in that reality, do I really want to read a fictional work about the federal government?  Lazy or ignorant spirituality/theology/cosmology really turns me off, but maybe it is fine for those without a highly developed philosophical side?  I demand a sensible explanation for our own reality and I see no reason not to demand the same of my literature, otherwise the story is pointless, how can I learn more about the 'human experience' from a story that isn't fully human, including a highly developed spiritual/theological/philosophical aspect?  It is sort of like modern psychology that only treats the physical aspects of mental health but pretends there isn't a spiritual aspect or people who try to treat their physical or mental ailment solely with spiritual practices.  Like it or not, humans are both spiritual and physical beings and both sides of our nature must be addressed, but addressing only one side or the other it throws the entire person, and even culture or nation, out of whack.  How else do you explain a society obsessed with denying the physical reality in hopes of appeasing their spiritual/emotional/mental dissatisfaction?  It is the same for books.  

I can't be happy with a tale unless it is nicely balanced, it doesn't need to be perfect or answer all the questions or even agree with my own theology but it must make sense within itself.  It needs to answer the Big Questions of where we came from, why are we here, and where are we going, otherwise it leaves me hungry, sort of like dining on rice cakes at a dinner party and nothing else because someone burned the steak.

A Merry Spirit

 I just wrote a ginormous little article over at my 'mommy blog' about laughing at the tragic irony of the narcissists in my life, and today I ran across this article about charitably using humor against foolish or evil ideals.  I'm a huge fan of G.K. Chesterton, Jane Austen, and the Babylon Bee/Not the Bee, as all of them have true wit, expose folly, and never use humor to attack or personally harm another living soul, rather they ridicule the runaway ideas of their day and encourage people to take a second look at the nonsense they are espousing.  I vaguely remembered a couple Proverbs about just that and thanks to the interweb, I can magically provide them: 15:13 and 17:22, but they can be summarize with a merry heart heals while a broken spirit shrivels.  I can't undo the wounds of the past, I can only laugh at the behavior and ideas of those inflicting them, that they take a less central part in my soul and history, allowing me to move on and heal rather than dwelling upon them ad infinitum.  Too many of those who are highly outspoken about their particular crusade, on whichever end of the spectrum, will not be reasoned with, will hear nothing a heretic will say, but perhaps they might be willing to laugh at themselves, if so there is hope, if not, I fear their cause and soul are doomed.

The Book of Jonah is one such example.  We all know it as a children's tale about a guy who gets eaten by a large aquatic organism.  But have you actually read it?  It is a wonderful example of satire warning against our presumptions about God's character and actions, modern day Trumpian Prophets would do well to take heed!  The Bible isn't a dry, repetitive book of impossible children's tales, rather it is as chockfull of one-liners, zingers, and pointed humor as Hamlet or Pride and Prejudice.  Job, Esther, and Proverbs all have their humorous or ironic parts to say nothing of scenes like David acting the madman, Mary Magdalene mistaking the newly risen Jesus for the gardener, Rhoda leaving Peter standing at the door while everybody else is praying for his release from prison, and angels asking the mystified disciples why they are standing there staring at the sky.  It is a very human book or rather The Human Book written specifically for our good and edification and dare I say amusement?

Many of our modern zealots (for whatever cause) have lost their sense of humor and thus their purpose, the Bible has not, neither should the church.  Humor and mirth are as much a part of life and your soul as sorrow and sin, and woe to the man or nation who forgets how to laugh, grieve or repent or believes himself above such paltry concerns.  Wit can be a powerful healing tool, but like any weapon or tool, it can also be used to inflict great harm, enjoy with caution! 

Big Story and the Death of an Artform

 American media is always abuzz about 'Big' whatever be it pharmacy, business, oil or whatever the trendy cause of the day, I'd also like to add media and medicine to that, but obviously that won't play well in our 'democratic' media outlets so I'll refrain and talk only about 'Big Story.'  Story is an art as old as language, as young as childhood, as immortal as life and it too has been coopted into a multi-trillion dollar corporate enterprise.  While 'indie e-books' are certainly thriving and YouTube has its niche successes, the overall popular and successful 'stories' of our day are all produced by big business and/or big media and they back each other up as necessary to continue the farce that they actually produce great tales people flock to see, rather than offering tasteless pablum we eat only because we've been starved of all other options.

I first discovered I was racist when it took me over a year to admit that I didn't like Star Wars VII.  I went, as a good and faithful acolyte, to the altar with the rest of the faithful, paid my tithe, and hoped to enjoy the show.  I had read all the books (now banned and non-canonical) and had even sort of liked the prequels and was hopeful for the next addition to the tale.  Visually it was lovely but the plot and characters left me flat, sort of like leftover room temperature soda but with no sugar or caffeine to ease the misery.  I left stunned, not at how great it was, but at how great it wasn't, but unable to admit, even to myself, that in that moment I had become a heretic.  Then the next one came out and I hoped it would make up for things and maybe absolve my heresy, but it was even worse and no, I haven't seen number nine.  And yes, it is because I am racist that I didn't like either new movie.

If that last sentence makes sense to you, please indulge in binging either The Babylon Bee or Jane Austen immediately, for your own sake as well as those that must put up with you!  The latest travesty to strike is obviously Amazon's Lord of the Rings spin-off.  I hardly survived the Hobbit in triplicate so I'm not planning on seeing how someone could make Tolkien even worse, but what really gets my goat is that nobody is allowed to not like it or else they are racist.  I don't care if they have black elves or pink hobbits or winged cats, and yes, there are some of Peter Jackson's elves that might qualify as transgender, but I really don't care, I care about the quality of the tale, the believability of the characters, the cohesiveness of the plot, not the diversity quotients required by modern film execs.  The whole venture was panned by Tolkien fans immediately and Amazon and its flying monkey media friends immediately labeled the whole kit and caboodle racist without even listening to their concerns.  Are there some racist weirdos out there, certainly, but painting everyone with that brush because they don't like your show seems a little egregious to me, but what do I know, I'm racist as anybody!

How does Big Story plan to keep people interested in paying money to see or read stuff if they must lie, manipulate, and coerce them into 'liking' it?  This is why it took me a year to admit I didn't like the new Star Wars!  Turning out pretty but pointless spinoffs, remakes, sequels, and prequels of a onetime hit and ruining favorite 'brands' just to momentarily attract new eyes seems like longterm suicide to me and then ignoring your would-be audience when they offer suggestions on how to actually improve the experience and insulting them in process is even worse.  I'm still hoarding my old Star Wars books and occasionally rereading them, even if I'm now a heretic; the same with Tolkien.  But then I'm racist, why should that surprise anyone?  I especially love the criticism bestowed on pretty much everybody that they are homophobic if they didn't go see the new gay romcom on opening night!  I don't like heterosexual romcoms, why one earth would I go see one of any sort, but what do you expect of a racist?

Bullying me into paying you money to see pointless drivel really isn't my idea of entertainment and I'm guessing won't breed longterm success, hence the success of indie content producers and alternative media outlets.  Netflix is already starting to crumble, take heed Disney, Amazon, and everybody else that thinks we're all just mindless sheep willing to huddle in a corner and pretend the danger will just go away, there are enough rascally goats in the mix that the whole herd may just bolt in a direction you hadn't anticipated.  It is not racist to call a story out for being lame, pedantic, boring, uncreative, preachy, incomprehensible, or whatever the case may be.  Refusing to see something because it has a diverse cast is one thing; refusing to see something that is poorly written, acted, produced or whatever is not.  And what are you going to do when actual racism rears its head if you cry wolf so often in defense of everything else?

Story thrives when it is free, uncoerced, isn't overtly pushing a certain agenda but still has a point, where it grapples with immortal truths, where the characters are real people with all their flaws and beauties, where magic and wonder and mystery can exist, where surprises can happen.  If it is merely a matter of taste or fashion or money or political trends or enforced or imitation, the result will fall flat on its face, no matter how the gods over at Big Story spin the fallout.  The only thing worse than writing a bad story is blaming the poor quality on the listeners, who will then never listen to you again.  You can spend your billions to produce eye catching splendors but my worn paperback is by far more satisfying on every other level because at heart a good story is really human which is the race we all share, the tale in which we are all enmeshed, and if you forget that, you'll never tell a truly good tale!

The Uses of Diversity: 1920

 I was replenishing my G.K. Chesterton collection off project Gutenberg, as iBooks seems to forget previous volumes after a while or perhaps it was an incident peculiar to my device, but I came across another volume of his essays of which I was previously unaware, title in the title of this post.  I'm only halfway through, but rather enjoying it, if mostly baffled and highly amused, as ever I am reading his works, but it really strikes me that he is both prophet and clown and his writing is strangely cognizant of an age he would never live to see, but then that is probably unsurprising as he writes about Man, the human condition and heart, even if clothing some of his suppositions in the color and fashion of his day, which is why his metaphors and analogies often elude me, a hundred years later and in a different empire entirely, if not the timeless meaning of his words.  While the political, literary, and historical references he uses means little to me, his eternal truths echo down through the ages as clear as ever they have for they echo the words of the Word Himself.  And no matter your time or place or culture, those are Truths and Realities with which we must wrestle, not against spirits or powers or principalities but rather against the human heart, wild, unfettered, untamed, like a wolf at the door, ready to rend at will rather than a trusty dog on the hearth rug, courageous, unflappable, and true.

It is interesting to note that in Chesterton's day they had all sorts of fads, fettishes, and fashions just as we have today, and apparently so has it been since civilization began and will be until something better comes along to replace it.  I wish he were still around today to write a jolly retort to the untenable quirks of our day or perhaps Miss Austen might be inclined to write a novel thereupon?  But perhaps it is better that they are not, for it seems we have forgotten, or are afraid, to laugh, most especially at our own foibles.  There was a day when a man in woman's clothing was a joke, now this sort of person seriously demands a routine medical examination of anatomy they don't possess by a neutral-faced medical practitioner who daren't tell the emperor he's naked, and a man at that!  I used to joke about being in such a predicament professionally, never imaging there would be a day when sane and licensed physicians would be ordered by ethics boards and lawyers to give prostate exams to those possessed of XX chromosomes but nary a hint of a prostate!

I thought the realm of animal medicine would be safe from such insanity, I used to think transgenderism would never gain a credible foothold in the public purview, oops!, and now I do not doubt the 'otherkin' will soon be equally legitimate, but where does that leave the medical community, human and not?  Human physicians are not licensed or trained to treat animals; veterinarians are not licensed or trained to treat people.  Human physicians have had to treat biological males as if they possessed XX chromosomes, do you really think there won't come a day when a man who thinks himself a dog will not demand to be treated by a vet or that the dog-man will sue a human physician for trying to treat him as if he were a human patient?  I really want to submit this conundrum to the powers that be in the veterinary community, who are gladly embracing all the other tenets of wokism.  What is my moral, ethical, medical, and professional responsibility here?  They won't tell a man he isn't a woman, can I tell him he isn't a dog?

Will I lose my license for treating a biological human or will I get sued for not treating him?  Our profession is based on the physical reality of the world around us but we want to be trendy and not hurt anybody's feelings but it only causes chaos!  Cancer has no trouble interrupting someone's vapid reality and oncologists don't usually pretend it isn't there because obviously that would be everyone's preference; you can't pretend not to have cancer and make it a reality any more than a man can be a woman or a dog just because he thinks he should be and forcing physicians and everybody else to sing the same refrain doesn't make it any more of a reality: the emperor is still naked even if everybody but one little boy pretends otherwise.  Do I vaccinate him for canine distemper and leave him vulnerable to measles and tetanus or am I allowed to say he should see a doctor who specializes in his biological species?  Where do you draw the line?  We jumped off that slippery slope and nobody seems to want to answer the tough questions that are cropping up because of it, we just pretend the cancer isn't there and villainize anybody who says differently while it wreaks havoc as we play pretend.  O Chesterton where art thou?

The Muppets Doing Dickens, an apt metaphor for modern life: a holiday review

 The "holidays" are coming, whichever you happen to celebrate, at least as far as retailers are concerned. You barely have time to buy your pencils in July and sip your pumpkin spice latte thing the first week of August while avoiding the gallery of horrors that is the Halloween display the week after before the Christmas stuff comes out the same morning you put your kids on the school bus for the first day.  But Christmas bugs people, it really makes them sad or annoyed or they actually hate it.  And that is important.  Why?  Because it is a window into reality!  Dig deep into that bitterness or pain or anger and discover why.  It will hurt, like digging out a splinter in your foot, but it will put you on the road to healing, not just your Christmas loathing but your whole wounded person.  Marx once quipped that religion was the opium of the masses, but I disagree, rather I know it is pop culture and mass consumerism, including social media, who promise happiness if only you buy, think, or say the right stuff, but even their most successful prophets and priests are unhappy, but too distracted to notice.  So take hold of that biting pang at Christmas (or Mother's Day or whatever), and like an aching tooth or an upset stomach, look deeper into the symptom it is, find the root of the problem and deal with it, instead of putting a bandaid on it and hoping it goes away, it won't.

Christmas has always haunted me, its beauty, its mystery, its hope and peace, and even its innate sorrow.  No, not Santa or Frosty or the Muppets or Mickey doing Dickens, but rather a shivering little trio of poverty stricken, outcast humans huddling around a feed trough in the dark of night, one newly born, their only visitors a bunch of raggedy shepherds, perhaps even more socially unacceptable than the terrified parents.  That is the real Christmas, not the snowflake encrusted windows, treacly songs about Home and Chestnuts or snarky songs about hooking up, astonishing banquets and sweet treats, and everywhere lights and candles and being surrounded by a perfectly behaved array of choice family and friends.  That stuff is nice, but it isn't any more real than Dickens's famed novel being acted by every animated character known to man.  But we are all supposed to believe it is how things are supposed to be.  Only the gospels, and many a forgotten hymn based thereupon, get it right, only the Gospels ring true to the real human condition.  Modern commercialism and celebrity preach that all you need is the right pill or diet or ideas or clothes or whatever and your life will be great, but it isn't, for anybody, but they don't care and you shouldn't either, just keep following and spending blindly along soldier, don't you dare notice your aching feet and that vast empty darkness that is supposed to be your heart.

But the gospels get it, the Christ didn't rise from His manger bed to become 'King of the Jews' or to become a triumphant warrior king over the Romans as the impatient Hebrew children insisted, rather he lived a quiet, unassuming life before spending about three years ministering to the poor, women, children, slaves, the outcasts and disabled.  The talking heads of the day were appalled and sent Him to the cross, the hideous death that coined the term excruciating.  Now comes Easter, with its fluffy bunnies and colored eggs, happy children in bright clothes, forgetting how dark was the night in the shadow of Golgotha, how unfathomable the despair of that Saturday, the confusion and fear come Sunday morning when no body was found in the tomb.  The Messiah was dead and so was God, or so thought His friends and followers and the leaders alike, but they were as wrong as Nietzesche.  For God had not conquered the mere political powers of the day, rather He had conquered death itself, sin had found its remedy, and man his hope.  No more was man doomed to die in darkness, but rather the Light itself had come and conquered, and His Church has outlived Rome and all the powers of Hell since thrown against it.

The gospel is messy, sad, ugly, hard, confusing, beautiful, joyous, offensive and foolish (of its own admission!) but it is real, whereas all our smarmy holidays are not.  No other religion, worldview, government, philosophy, or creed has yielded anything close that speaks truly to the mess that is the human condition, no matter what age or land or culture you inhabit, and also offers a solution thereto.  It spoke as plainly to the slaves of Rome as it does to the billionaires of our day, but the slaves at least were wise enough to listen and respond, whereas the rich man insists ever on saving himself, gilding life with his vast means but still finding himself discontent and not knowing why.  Dig into that ache, dig into the pain, dig into the wound, and there find the root of the problem and let the Great Physician attend to it.

But beware, the Gospel itself has not escaped the saccharine gilding of the age, beware any gospel that comes to you preaching prosperity and plenty, unalloyed peace and happiness in exchange for a little faith and financial remuneration.  We are told quite clearly that daily we must take up our cross, die to self, and that in this world we will have trouble.  He won't be used as a means to an end, He didn't die to get you a nice car or a dream job or to heal your diabetes; rather He calls His people to be slaves and servants, to one another and the disbelieving world, to conquer sin and eternal death, and that He has done, no matter our physical or emotional condition, that too will one day be redeemed, but not yet, not yet.  As the Jews at His first coming, who demanded a conquering king to overthrow the Romans, so too do we demand a vengeful God who will overthrow our political enemies and establish his kingdom upon our most deeply held ideas, with ourselves at the helm, but again we are blind, as blind as the zealots of the first century.  He is coming, but His kingdom will overthrow all human institutions and ideals and He will reign supreme, and if we can't handle that, will we then cry for His blood or overthrow as the disappointed political aspirants of old, and to as little avail?  Or shall we be good and faithful servants, as humble and patient as our true Master, abiding by His words, rather than forcing our own into His mouth, and found faithful when He comes?  

A modern tale with classic flavor

 I haven't accomplished the impossible, but it almost happened.  I'm still looking for a favorite living author, who may or may not be British, but someone who can capture my imagination without grossly offending my very Austenian sensibilities and keep things humorous, light, and very-non-Steinbeck no matter how grim or serious the tale or the topic.  I've been reading the 'Odd Thomas' series by Dean Koontz, though I did a bit of reading about the series before I delved into it; I also have not read the entire series.  I plunged through the three first books and then the last, as that's what my library had available and apparently you don't have to read the previous books to understand or enjoy the later ones.  I'm not sure I'll read the others, aside for the 4 week waitlist, I'm not intrigued by or addicted to these books like I have been to other series: needing to stay up well past bedtime to finish one more chapter, or half the next book!  They also tend to keep me up at night, not in fright or wondering what happens, but rather my writerly brain is convinced it has to finish the tale and my brain won't shut off, sort of like taking caffeine after 2pm, I never had that problem two decades ago but alas I am getting old!

Overall, these are pretty good books, the writing is excellent, his vocabulary is wonderful (darkle?!), the humor is perfect, the supporting characters are charming, the mythos is intriguing, and the third book wrestled with the Laws of Thermodynamics, a personal geek-dream come true, and an excellent use of metaphor.  These are not light and fluffy books, there is violence and death, and the rancid heart of men (and worse) is not merely hinted at, but they don't delight in darkness, revel in sordid glory, nor despair thereat, rather, they fight against it and make timely wisecracks along the way.  Sex, language, and graphic descriptions of violence are fairly modest, most especially by modern standards.  The 'great topics and mysteries' of life and everything beyond it are hinted at, probed at, mused upon, mulled over without being preachy, making them far more interesting that your average thriller.  These are not overtly Christian books, though there are some Catholic undertones and cosmology, perhaps I might describe them as 'That Hideous Strength' for the secular crowd: such topics as eternity, the origins and intricacies of life, the nature of evil, death, the meaning of life, good versus evil, heaven and hell, redemption, free will and other such things are hinted at or mused upon, something to get you started, whet your appetite, but nothing preachy but much to intrigue.

So besides for writerly insomnia, why aren't these my new favorites, a modern C.S. Lewis perhaps?  Why can I rest easily not finishing the series?  Most of this will be personal taste and opinion, for the average reader, especially one without any deeply held and researched philosophical tastes, there is much to intrigue, but for me, I feel like I'm reading Tolkien light.  This exploration of the deeper things in and beyond life give these books a worldview and depth little rivaled by many other modern tales, making them seem deep, almost mystical, at times, but compared to other overtly Christian and/or classic works, it leaves me feeling underfed, as if I went to a party expecting dinner only to realize the bowl of peanuts on the end table was the entirety of the food options.  It makes you thirsty but there's nothing to drink, no spring of living water to slake my thirst, you sip and want to drink deeply but there's a hole in your cup.  As a means of inspiring spiritual/philosophical intrigue in an otherwise oblivious readership, it is marvelous, but to someone who is well acquainted with the Well itself, it isn't much more than a shot in a communion cup, as I said, this is a personal issue and has nothing to do with the quality of the work itself.

I also had hoped for a little continuity between tales, but apparently it was a happy thing for me (and my sleep) that I could read the end as well first as last.  While the supporting cast is colorful and fun, I really didn't get all that attached to the main character and didn't have a lot of interest in the lost love, which he spends most of the series fretting over, as we don't know her very well and must take his word for it (written in first person).  The action and story also seems to be the same in each book, just with slightly different surroundings, especially in the last book which seems to spend half its time quoting the first.  I want to delve more deeply into all these concepts that are hinted at or created for the story but we only get to skim the surface and it is rather frustrating to my curiosity but perhaps necessary to the vast majority of modern readers.  I have the same problem with G.K. Chesterton, I have so many more questions after I read some of his stuff than before and there never seems to be an answer anywhere, but at least Chesterton writes from an overtly Christian perspective so I can make some educated guesses at the deeps of his mysteries but I have no idea what to make of this quasi-catholic unitarianism in Odd Thomas, but again, perhaps the average Joe can't handle getting in over his metaphysical head, so I'm left with the 'Tale of Despereaux" when I'm really hungry for Lord of the Rings, and so might Joe's curiosity be piqued rather than him tossing away the novel in despair as too tedious and confounding to be worth reading, which is my opinion of 'Ulysses.'

I also love that we don't dwell in darkness and death and despair, as too many modern works are prone to. I hated reading in school because that's all we ever read: Animal Farm, Hamlet, Steinbeck.  They are ever present in the books, but between the humor and the strangely undying hope, we never forget the stars shine still far above the shrouding fumes veiling Moria.  The other characters are as charming and fun as ever Samwise or Aragorn or Gandalf, but Odd and his lady friend are rather dull, even if he sees dead people.  Sadly (for me) it was sort of like 'The Hobbit' movies: so much undeveloped potential but mostly we run around after the main character trying not to get dizzy while people try to kill him or vice versa.  I spent four books with the kid (in the first person!) and while I love his sense of humor and big heart, I found him rather tedious when there are a dozen more interesting characters I would love to spend a few more pages with.  Nope, we'll just throw in another midnight chase scene trying to evade zombies or the mafia or aliens or whatever through a creepy hotel, the sewer, a blizzard, a terrible thunderstorm, or the dead of night...zzzzzz.

The one thing that really bugged me through the whole thing, not that it surprised me however, but it sort of throws a damper over your reading experience when you are repeatedly yelling at the poor oblivious kid that 'you don't have to, can't, earn your own redemption!'  I found it as distracting and annoying as "A Wrinkle in Time's" lumping of Jesus amongst the other great men of history rather than as something far greater, but again, perhaps that is just my personal worldview taking offense, when you consider this is a quasi-Catholic work with a definite purgatory sub theme and throw in the American mentality to 'pull yourself up by your own bootstraps' it really shouldn't surprise me.  This is not an overtly Christian novel, so of course I can't expect orthodox theology (though a Wrinkle in Time is touted as such so I do take offense there!) but in a world where the kid seems to acknowledge a Higher Power and Source of all things, including his special senses, he seems determined to think that he must somehow personally save the world and himself and by his own cunning, power, or whatever, though repeatedly salvation is sent and miracles happen that can't be otherwise explained.  If you are depending on miracles and miraculous gifts to save the day, how is it you can take any claim for what is accomplished or even believe you can accomplish it without divine help? Why does the Creator even need your help to govern or save His creation?  How can a mere creature save the world, let alone himself?  The books hit well on the idea of humility but they stumble when it comes to faith and obedience, mostly because the poor kid doesn't know what he must do to save the world/himself from one moment to the next and wisely doesn't think he is capable of doing it.  This illogicity proved a rather annoying subtext to me but perhaps you won't care or overanalyze it as I am prone to do.   But overall it was a good read and much better than anything else of modern origin I've read in the last few decades!

 

Snarky Heroines: a symptom of an ancient delusion thought only a modern trend

 I've been eyeing the new Persuasion movie with both curiosity and dread, fearing it would be to Jane Austen what the new Star Wars trilogy is to the old cannon: complete and utter destruction, sadly even the worst of the old books (and there were some decidedly awful ones) was far better than any of the new movies.  I have nothing against spunky, snarky heroines per se, which now seems to be the requirement for any modern remake of an old classic.  Snarky heroines are not a new trend, as some might think, certainly Jane Austen herself employed them and the Bard seems undoubtedly fond of them, but my beef comes in making a classic character something other than what she is, a complete opposite to what the character is written to be.  I was unhappy with a snarky, sassy, selfish Elizabeth Bennet portrayed by Kiera Knightley, the character is witty, lively, and vibrant, but she isn't unkind, impolite, uncharitable, or rude, even when enduring the horrible advances of the odious Mr. Collins (who was rather more creepy than not in that particular variation).  Then there's the Fanny Price in one of the more recent Mansfield Park movies who is far more bold and intrepid than the simpering little mouse of Austen's imagining, but the actress does an excellent job making her kind, usually gentle, and only secretly possessed of a witty streak to rival Austen herself, of which only Edmund and the audience are aware.  Of the two, I rather like the portrayal of Fanny (minding one of the narrator of Northanger Abbey) but rather despise that of the unfortunate Miss Bennet.  I can believe Fanny secretly lively and witty far better than Elizabeth so openly rude to her mother.

But of all characters to make snarky, Anne Elliot should never be on that list!  You might as well make Jane Bennet snarky!  Why make a movie about a character that is nothing like the character you wish to portray?  Miss Crawford or the Merry Wives of Windsor would be far more worth your time.  Fanny refused to act in the play but you have no trouble thinking Anne Elliot would?  Fanny has all of Anne's morals but none of her spunk, however quiet and unseen by the rest of the world.  Fanny runs off weeping while Anne goes on placidly on the outside about her duty while wretched within.  Fanny couldn't be bullied into participating but Anne is going to yield without a thought?  Why not choose another story, if you want a snarky wino as the heroine rather than ruin one of the most complex and estimable characters of classic literature?  I have no problem with snarky Austen heroines, the recent Emma and Love and Friendship are superb examples, but Emma and Lady Susan are snarky characters, Anne Elliot is not therefore the snarky, intoxicated lead of the new Persuasion cannot be our dear Miss Anne.  Maybe Mrs. Clay got her desired promotion in society after all?  Or perhaps Mrs. Smith actually does have a role in the movie, just with the wrong name?

There are plenty of snarky characters in classic literature and even the Bible (hello Jonah and Job!), to say nothing of recent books or even an original script, to choose from.  Slapping an Austen title on a movie does not a classic make.  But all detractors of the movie are going to be called racist or something worse, because apparently in our woke world, you can only have one opinion about the flotsam and jetsam turned out by our media overlords for our very particular entertainment and delight, no matter how bad it is, if it has a diverse cast, you'd better love it or else.  Star Wars fans who don't like the new movies or spinoffs have already been thus accused, as have Lord of the Rings fanatics who think Amazon's new rendition looks doubtful, just wait Austen lovers, our turn too has come.  Which is rather ironic because this is exactly the sort of thing Austen, Tolkien, and Lucas (those great cultural geniuses) were writing against!  Austen's satire, Tolkien's beauty, and Lucas's sense of daring fun were all aimed against the institutionalized drudgery that holds creativity and human flourishing captive, shaping it into a hideous, unnatural thing, a mere means to an end wherein nobody is happy.  Now the media giants have got hold of our little rebellious flirtations and diversions and have remade them in their own image and we MUST like it or we are innately bad not their product, but the very reason we such things is that it is anything but cookie-cutter propaganda vomited from an entertainment charnel house, mass produced vitriol with a classic label.

We like such things because they are rebelling against the tyranny of the Empire, Mordor, and polite Society, whatever its guise in our current age; they are the little boy telling a stupefied world that the Emperor truly doesn't have any clothes, a voice crying in the wilderness 'make straight the paths of the Lord.'  We are strangely drawn to this wild-haired social outcast in his camel hair apron who dines upon locusts and honey and calls the religious leaders of the day such terrible things.  Are we going to accept this modern day phariseeism like the pablum it is, like good little children whom their parents expect to eat broccoli and kale without complaint, never more to touch a cookie?  Or will we ignore the media giants and their pet critics who cannot fathom that someone's opinion might be different from their own, that a work of art is not excellent just because it is woke or diverse or because some elite says it is?  Will we continue to fling the pablum back in our dread 'mother's' face and demand real food, quality entertainment, determined that art means something, as does reality itself, or will we go quietly into the cloudy and endless night of dull, tedious, insipid media, cowed by big media's name calling and imperious manners?  Will Amazon's billion dollar baby flop because they've strayed so far from Tolkien's vision that no one can recognize it and the would-be fans turn away in droves or will it succeed because they stayed true to the vision (no matter how terrifying the previews) and delighted a whole new generation or will it succeed because we accept it because we must (no matter how bad) for fear of being thought racist or worse?  Will we allow big media to remake our own souls in their image even as they have reimagined poor Anne's?  

Strange bedfellows upon the narrow way

 So what do Larry the Cucumber in Veggitales Sampson's Hairbrush, Indiana Jones from the Last Crusade, and Becky Sharpe from Vanity Fair, a nearly 200 year old, ten thousand page book, have in common (besides being works of imaginitive fiction)?  They are all rather misguided in their search for the meaning of life, yes I know it is commonly held to be 42, but that is also a work of fantastical imagination, but then so is our own reality so I guess that argument won't hold water, but as that is a completely separate blog post, let's stay on target and not go chasing down rabbit trails, no matter how charming!  I've recently been reading the latter while my husband thought the family should watch the classic Indie flick the other day, which triggered memories of the former, thus this mutant hybrid blog post was born, very much like my college English/history class that had us comparing the travails of Rosie the cow from Giants in the Earth to some other minor character in Hamlet or the Odyssey, as you can see, I am well worthy of a BS degree and capable of writing such delightful travesties of prose.

Larry is after Sampson's Hairbrush, thinking it will give the bearer amazing strength, Indie is after the Grail in theory to keep it out of evil hands but probably because it would be a huge archeological find to say nothing of the rumors of eternal life, and Miss Becky thinks pomp and circumstance are the very stuff of life.  All are deluded into thinking some specific thing or goal or achievement will make them happy, pretty much like the rest of us, none of them knowing how close is the Answer, we merely have to reach out and take hold of it.  It isn't the cup of Christ or the brush of Sampson or the adulation of the rich and powerful that give us meaning, hope, strength, and truly eternal life, it is the Author of this tale we call reality, not some cheap gimmick from within our own story.  Our own adventures, strength, luck, charms, and efforts will avail nothing and those who strive after it in their own way reap their own destruction and misery.  The moral of each tale is to grasp at the Thing itself, take the narrow gate and walk upon that scant but faithful trail by which a humble Pilgrim might bypass Vanity Fair and come to Glory Himself, nothing else will avail if you truly wish for peace, hope, comfort, and meaning.

A timely tale, because some things never change!

 I just finished reading Dicken's "A Tale of Two Cities."  I read it a decade or so ago and thought it an excellent book, and upon perusing it anew, must thoroughly agree with my previous self.  I know modern humanity thinks itself the epitome of virtue and wisdom, so much more enlightened than all that came before, but in reading a book over a hundred years old, I find that humanity hasn't changed at all, much as an even more ancient book proclaims that it won't.  Our tools and toys and notions and fads may change, but the human heart never does, save by divine intervention.  I've often wondered what the two cities are, much as many Tolkien fans wonder about the two towers.  The simple answer would be London and Paris, but this is not a simple book, instead I wonder if it is not the City of Man and the City of God.  While we do not have the social and cultural chaos that enlivened the French Revolution, we certainly have the moral chaos in our so-called enlightened modern lives, in both extreme right and left thinking, and like those bloody revolutionaries of Dicken's tale, very few seem to realize that one can indeed be a real, thinking human person without falling off either extreme end of the spectrum, for both place their hope in the City of Man, this broken, wretched world, and think that somehow their antics can make it a paradise, when in fact we're only going from one sort of deplorable to another, much as the Revolution was just as bad as the abuses of the monarchy and aristocracy it replaced.

What is the answer then?  It isn't more rampant individualism, more 'rights,' more 'woke,' it isn't in the courts or the president or any governmental body or in more of anything of the hash of a banquet we've been imbibing non-stop since at least the 1970s, rather it is the complete opposite.  Our only hope is in reason, virtue, truth, self control and discipline, humility and sacrifice, instead of making our own happiness the ultimate goal, and the goal of our government and culture and relationships, a goal we will never achieve thereby, rather we must seek the good, the right, the true, that which is the foundation of reality and the human soul, we must seek outside ourselves, look to the good of others, and be willing to serve rather than being served.  Instead we throw a cultural temper tantrum, uprooting the very reality we inhabit, denying and mutilating it to fit our transitory and theoretical needs and demanding everyone do likewise.  Like the naked emperor in the old tale, is there even one little peasant child who can boldly proclaim the truth to an entirely deceived world?  We can't overcome evil with more evil or selfishness, rather we can overcome it with good, with real love, and therein and only thereby, will we ever truly be happy.  Only by losing our lives can we find them, only in giving it up, can we gain the whole world! 

That which involves a duck and True Love

 We were at camp the other week, and got a first hand lesson in True Love and God's provision for the least of His creatures, but it wasn't a sparrow, rather it was a duckling.  One thing we love about camp is it is located near a huge lake in a forested part of the state, meaning we get a chance to see all sorts of birds we don't have at home.  Cavity nesting waterfowl are particularly common this time of year because there are all sorts of drowned out trees near a quiet marshy area.  My son is as geeky as me, loving to both photograph and watch wildlife, and we've spent many great hours doing just that in that particularly marsh.  So when he called me over, all excited to look at something, I was all curiosity at his discovery.  It was a duckling, crouched under the front tire of a parked van.  We were still in the main campground area, a good quarter mile from the nearest water and there wasn't another duck in sight, but there were dogs and kids and a cat all within easy view, to say nothing of the vehicle he had taken shelter under.

Usually the rule with wildlife, particularly young wildlife, is leave it where you found it because mom will be back shortly, but in this case, that wasn't going to happen.  Mom had obviously lost track of the little bugger, bad counters as ducks tend to be, and he was on his own, and he wasn't a boring old mallard either.  He was about half the size of a newly hatched mallard, had a pointy bill, and a crest, my guess was a hooded merganser, a cavity nester we had seen in previous years, but what were we supposed to do with the little fellow?  It was getting dark and chilly, he wasn't more than a day old, and he was completely lost and alone, he wouldn't survive the night.  It was too late in the day to call any federal or state wildlife agencies and get the name and number of a licensed wildlife rehabilitator and I wasn't about to just turn him loose in the marsh without someone to keep him warm and safe from predators.  We found a cardboard box and put a t-shirt in it, he snuggled down and went to sleep, once he was secure we went scouting in the marsh, while we saw a bufflehead and a common goldeneye with their broods, there was no sign of any mergansers.  I then checked in the camp office just to see if anyone knew any local wildlife rehabilitators and was referred to a certain pastor's wife and veterinarian who might know someone, the only problem was that was me!  I didn't bother giving the lady a call as I was pretty sure I was clueless.  We went to bed and wondered what to do with the silly little thing come morning!

All the books and movies and stories concerning such occurrences always imply that the kid should keep the orphan and have a cool pet, that wasn't an option in this case.  For one it is a violation of federal law.  And for another, a wild duckling, particularly a fish eating diving duck, just isn't going to be happy in captivity.  I already felt bad for the little guy, he was obviously frightened, confused, and unhappy, and while we were doing everything we could for him, it just wasn't enough.  I also felt bad that he might spend the rest of his life in a wildlife park or get eaten the minute they released him into the wild, never having learned anything about survival from his mother, but there didn't seem to be any other options.  We got up early and hiked out to the swamp again, hopeful we might find the mother or at least a few bugs for breakfast.  The interweb said baby hooded mergansers like live mealworms and duck tartar, though I believe the last was a typo and they meant duck starter, a grain mix formulated for young ducks, rather than gourmet raw duck!

We trekked out to the swamp, bug net in hand (I said we were geeks!).  We saw the bufflehead and the goldeneye again, there was a male gadwall and pair of blue winged teal, and then, on the far edge of a reedy inlet, we saw a female hooded merganser with eleven young ducklings, this was probably our girl!  No wonder she had lost track of one in their convoy from the nest hole to the water.  I ran back to our room to get the box while my son kept an eye on the brood.  He took off his sock and shoes, duckling in hand, and waded out through the rocks and weeds into the open water on the far side of the inlet from the hen.  The duckling was a new creature the minute he hit the water, his crest was up and he swam around peeping like the king of the lake, he was the scared, cringing pathetic little thing no longer.  We withdrew so as not to scare the female and hopefully allow the reunion to take place.  My son was really sad he couldn't keep the cute little guy, but beneath his tears, his great big heart was glowing with joy, knowing he had done what was best for his little friend.

And that's what True Love is: doing what is best for the beloved, no matter the cost to oneself.  Leaving the ninety and nine on the mountain to go in pursuit of the one lost sheep.  And when Jesus says that God is aware even of a sparrow's fall, He isn't kidding.  What are the chances that the one kid on the entire campground who can tell a loon from a cormorant happens upon the lost little guy and can help him find his way home?  Who would care about the fate of one duckling out of a dozen?  How much more is His love for each of us?  

Go and do likewise?

 Have you been feeling lately (the last fifty years mayhap?) that art, literature, media, culture, politics is all one?  You can't pick up a modern novel or watch a modern show or go to a movie or hop online or visit a modern art gallery without hearing the same message over and over and over, whatever the vogue message of the moment may be?  Yawn, we filter it out and stare dazedly at the blank wall, finding the random pattern of dust and fly specks somehow innovative and soothing by comparison.  Here's a short article on kids' books that points out that exact problem.  I've actually tossed out or donated books people have given us because they are so vapid, dull, and insulting to everyone's intelligence; many of the books my daughter brings home from preschool go unread in her backpack.  Who writes this stuff?  Kids aren't idiots, and then again, neither are the people raising them.  Even if you aren't a kids' book afficiando, you have probably noticed the dearth of even decent movies in the last two decades, nothing but bad remakes, poor prequels, and obscure superheroes; I didn't even watch the last Star Wars movie, and I was the kid that read ALL the books, had the original trilogy pretty much memorized, and owns several themed lego sets.  I know the originals aren't great, but compared to the new ones, they are phenomenal when it comes to acting, plot, and characters, the new ones are just CGI and nothing more.

Art and literature were made to celebrate beauty, expose evil, and expand the soul, not to be just another mouthpiece for the cultural vogue.  No wonder it is so easy for we moderns to forget we have souls!  Get outside, peruse old books and paintings, reawaken your sense of wonder and unplug your moral outrage for a wee bit!  Then maybe get inspired to write or paint or add something beautiful to the world to inspire others to do likewise!

Sanditon...the mini mini series?

 I was not impressed with the second season debut of Sanditon, and after watching the second episode, while I am more resigned to the series, it still doesn't spark of Jane Austen.  Rather than following one main character (and a colorful cast of secondary characters) and a major story arc, rather we follow about 27 minor characters, none of whom are who they were last season, and 42 minor subplots.  It is more a 'who's who' of Sanditon than a Jane Austen novel.  I'm glad our gay love story is taking off (totally Austen!), as no other romance is even in view.  I don't like Miss Lambe, in this day and age I suppose that makes me racist, but it has nothing to do with race and everything to do with personality, personally I don't care if she's human, martian, or a fairy, she's a spoiled, immature, sulky, pessimistic, strong willed, impudent, cynical and selfish little beast, sadly I like Lydia Bennet out of the 1995 BBC classic Pride and Prejudice far more, at least she wasn't mean and was a little bit of fun, vulgar though it be, and added energy and zest to the story, even if her strident whining and eternal 'poor mes' drove one to distraction.  And apparently it is 'raining men' as every eligible female has a bevy of beaus when everyone knows that in classic Austen style, 'more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner.'

We've already strayed into Jane Eyre, now we are adding a bit of Frances Burney (an author Austen was rather fond of and probably was a major inspiration to her own writing), as apparently Tom Parker is developing a gambling addiction and the somewhat intriguing Colonel is now encouraging it, ugh!  All the characters have no character, they have become mere caricatures of themselves, devolving into mere vices or habits rather than complex and deep individuals.  Poor Arthur (who I rather liked, along with his sister Diana, hypochondriacs though they be) is merely the token gay man, his burgeoning personality lost to stereotype.  I never liked the Hankins, as they've never been anything but stereotype: nice but bumbling people who are behind the times and in the way of progress and happiness to all comers, at least Mr. Collins was amusing if odious, they are only annoying with just enough heart that you can really dislike them but there's not enough there to attract or keep your interest, sort of like ecru walls and beige carpet: universally acceptable but nobody really likes it or even looks twice at it.

The former main character, Charlotte, is no longer audacious, outspoken, bold, caring, sweet, fun loving, tries to do the right thing even when she makes mistakes, she's just a bland, quiet little mouse that has decided life isn't worth living any longer and she's just going to exist through the next few seasons?  And then we have Clara reappearing, perhaps a nod to Sense and Sensibility, except the abandoned and pregnant mistress never shows up to add yet another unneeded subplot.  Edward is a less than stellar Wickham stand-in, he's so stiff and boring and tedious and dour and one dimensional, at least you sort of liked Wickham, even after he was absolutely disgraced, I join Mr. Bennet in rejoicing that he has found himself a son-in-law even more absurdly baffling than Mr. Collins!

Lady Denham pretty much carries the show, which is a pretty heavy load for the poor old girl.  Lord Byron (or whatever the artist's name is) parades around lauding France just to irk people, courting Miss Lambe's fortune and providing a love interest for Arthur?  Yeah, I don't get it either, at least in a good Austen novel if one was after someone's fortune, one didn't spend half one's time courting someone else, at least until Miss King's uncle whisked her off to Liverpool.  But apparently everyone is taking Elizabeth's courtship of Mr. Darcy and turning it into an object lesson: disdain his every word, insult him, and if he persists, marry him?  This seems to be the case for both Miss Lambe and Lady Babbington and is rather aggravating while Charlotte's sister is off making eyes at everybody and willing to fall in love with a rock if it would but ask her to dance and spout a little Cowper, Byron and Arthur have the deepest relationship of the whole bunch and I'm worried about Arthur getting hurt, what a strange show!

The sad reality is, I really don't like or care for any of the new versions of the characters.  The scenery and costumes are gorgeous, the music is great, but I really don't care if Miss Lambe flies off with Peter Pan or shacks up with Byron at this point, while the brooding Charlotte/Jane Eyre has yet to discover the mad wife in the attic, but maybe Rev. Hankins will ask her to marry him and go to India as a missionary and save us all the nuisance of both, and then Colonel what's his bucket will follow in vengeful pursuit?  That sounds like a far more interesting story than anything brewing at the moment.  This is more cheap regency romance with woke undertones than it is Jane Austen spin-off, and that's too bad, because it was starting off as a deep, thoughtful, colorful story and characters, now all I can do is listen to the music and take in the local color and wish the characters were equally as vibrant, instead of two dimension, faded cartoons of themselves.  But maybe it is a good cautionary moral tale for our age, wherein we pride ourselves on our extreme individualism only to let our tribe, race, gender, economic status, interests, politics, whatever define our character, rather than to be the unique individuals we are, we slip quietly and gently into the stereotypical box defined for us, we have no individuality save what mere statistics grants us.  Even the renegade Lord Byron is a stereotype.  Austen was a master of character, the writes of Sanditon, mere caricature.  

Jane Austen's Spiderman 3 II?

 I watched 'Sanditon' a year or two ago when it was live streaming on PBS online, more out of curiosity than for anything else.  Then when Jane Austen's unfinished novel became an unfinished mini-series, I thought it rather ironic and moved on with my life.  Then my husband left for a two week trip legally requiring me to binge watch Jane Austen or other movies based on classic novels: Jane Eyre, Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, all those shows he only watches when forced, but one of the kids is currently going through a 'has an anxiety attack the minute I go downstairs to watch anything' phase, I hope it's a phase, so much for that idea.  Being stuck upstairs with a computer, my choices were rather limited since we don't subscribe to any streaming services, but I happened by PBS's website just to see what might be interesting, perhaps Father Brown was still being produced?  Only to find that Sanditon had been renewed for two seasons and the premier was coming up and you could livestream the first season the whole week, binge watching it was!

The first season, upon second viewing, was actually pretty good, especially when I reviewed the source material they had to work with.  So I was rather looking forward to the new season, so much so that I threw a Jane Austen party in anticipation, it was only me and the kids and some stuff we had around the house, but it was fun and gave us something to do while daddy's gone.  And last night it premiered, and all I can say is I feel like I've been run over by a freight train composed of every classic novel ever written with a hearty dose of progressive agenda to make it even more painful.  Just a note to the BBC, people don't watch period dramas to get yet another taste of 'wokeism,' they like the stories, the characters, the settings and costumes and music, don't we get enough liberal approved worldview lectures from every other form of media every other minute of the day?  Do you have to ruin Jane Austen too?  I guess Amazon is doing the same thing with Tolkien so why should this surprise me?  This wasn't quite as bad as the transgender ball featured in an episode of the Netflix Anne of Green Gables remake but it is only the first episode.  Also, don't pull a Spiderman 3 and have 27 plot lines going on at once which might take 50 separate episodes to resolve or The Hobbit and make an epic out of a children's novel.

Basically, every character now has their own modern socially approved plot to pursue while also following a plot line stolen from other Austen works or classic novels.  There is no more cohesive story, no more character growth or interaction, the whole thing seems to be devolving into an infomercial for various modern causes and concerns: a modern sitcom in period clothing.  So here's the plot thus far along with the characters' alter egos from other classic movies/books, obviously there are spoilers ahead:

We start with a soap opera-esque murder of Mr. Sydney Parker in Antigua and slip briefly into Mansfield Park mode with a dash of Father Brown.  It was bad enough when he basically married for money last season and was going away forever, now you have to kill the guy too, definitely a soap opera!  Now we have Charlotte and her sister Allison going back to visit Sanditon, but instead of mourning her lost lover, Charlotte has decided to renounce marriage altogether and become a governess after about two days back in town, uh huh?  So Jane Eyre/Charlotte goes off to hang with Mr. Rochester and his trans-daughter and early feminist niece while Allison stays in town and somehow manages to be both a Lydia Bennett (a whole camp full of soldiers!) and a Charlotte Lucas (mercenary marriage here we come) and later even shows her Marianne side by having an accident only to rescued by a cute guy, but Elenor/Charlotte is off at Thornfield Hall hoping there aren't any mad wives lurking about.

Meanwhile, Miss Lambe is going all Amazing Grace and boycotting the sugar trade to oppose slavery, which at least is a realistic subplot for the era, but sadly I must agree with Lady Denham and wonder what good it will do for this jumped up fishing village to protest thus, sort of like modern activists thinking their social media posts actually do something productive!  Just go watch Amazing Grace instead, it is a far better movie and exploration of the subject.

Then we have Edward turned soldier who has brought his whole regiment to Sanditon for the summer, not telling them that his real name is Wickham and he doesn't have any money and wants to get revenge on the evil rich people that ruined his life.  While his stepsister is apparently doing a horrible job trying to make us all feel sorry for the plight of women at the time whose only value is as baby machines or maybe it's a nod to the 'infertility community' or something, but whatever it is supposed to be, it is dreadful.  Esther was an interesting character last season, warm hearted but wounded, manipulated and desperate but fierce and strong willed but suddenly she's all 'I want to give my husband a baby' even if she dies for it, deciding she has no value whatsoever without a child?  Maybe we're just wandering into the Soap Opera weeds again as apparently everybody needs a plot line.

Then we have Lady Denham complaining that she isn't invested enough in Sanditon when she couldn't be bothered to help out during last season's various disasters and set backs which makes no sense, not that anything does at the moment, but apparently if she's that concerned about it, why doesn't she just repay a little bit of that owed to Mrs. Campion?  They shipped off Mr. Stringer and Lord Babbington apparently, some of the best characters in the batch.  Tom Parker seems to be a minor character this season, another interesting character benched.  His other brother, who is so memorable I can't think of his name at the moment, is probably going to be the token gay character.  Lord Byron is also in town, guised as an eccentric and temperamental artist.  Dr. Fuchs is back but I don't know if it is a different actor or just a poor scene, but he is hardly the bold, polite, quirky little German dude of last season, he's bland as lukewarm tea and about as interesting as a chorus member in a greek tragedy.  The pedantic reverend now has a strident sister, apparently we need not one but two bumbling, backwards, retrogressive token christians.  Anybody else feel like this season is full of 'token' representatives instead of actual unique characters?  And there certainly isn't any unique or interesting plot going on.  I guess they'll get a black out on their progressive agenda bingo card but as far as making a good story, I'm afraid they should have left it at one season and leave the rest to our imaginations.  There's just too much going on, the characters are taking a backseat to agenda, and I'm starting to feel like the entire show is a Mr. Collins for the progressive movement's Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and we all know how much people like to hang out with him for any length of time: desperation makes people do funny things but anything short of that and they'll flee the room in droves!

Hope Floats!

 The lazy blogger returns, here's a great article for anyone and everyone who is wallowing in the Swamp of Despair, look up O Pilgrim, you aren't alone and hope is not dead!

The Problem with the Modern West, solved?

 I'm a professional, I have too much education and worked my tail off to prove it, but then life happened and I ended up at home raising a family, helping keep a church alive and thriving, writing too much, and baking too many desserts.  When I was a kid in daycare, daycare was weird and a last resort and socially questionable.  When I have kids, not having your kids in daycare is looked at askance, as if I'm socially depriving them or shipwrecking my own personal life.  I get questioned by people who never utilize my services, save perhaps once in five years, why I'm not working full time and depriving them of the convenience of interrupting Christmas or so they can get something minor done when it is convenient to them.  Then the pandemic happened and everyone is bemoaning all these poor women 'trapped' at home with their own children, how dreadful!  Congratulations are due to the Great Enemy of Humanity for his propaganda campaign that has transformed the heart of human society and culture into drudgery, toil and tedium.  But this gal says it much better, and far more graciously. 

I worked so hard at my career, but it failed, it left me in debt and burned out with no knowledge of myself and no social life, just a phone that might ring at any hour and nothing else.  I don't get paid now, at least not much, but my kids, my husband, and I, have a life, a happy, peaceful, fun life.  It's nice to set my own hours, not to start when the phone rings, and be my own boss.  And to be able to be there for other people when they need someone.  This is freedom, not slavery.  And the lives that I am touching will touch countless others for years to come.  That's a better legacy I can leave my kids than just money in the bank, though that's nice too!  So for most of the problems in our modern west, reestablishing stable, happy, healthy homes is vital, if only we will embrace it.  We all set off into the world looking for the one place we leave behind: Home.