Light On The Dark Materials

So I've just finished the "His Dark Materials" Trilogy. You know, the one that caused all the uproar during Christmas when the first of the books, The Golden Compass, was released as a movie. Inspired by the "christian" controversy I picked up the books to see for myself. And they are very much heretical if you ascribe to the Christian faith. Mind you, far less heretical than Friends, CSI and any other mainstream visual nonsense we escape with. But that is neither here nor there.

The books, themselves, are not very good. Better than the previous "christian" controversy and book, The Da Vinci Code, from a literature standpoint, be assured. But not that great. The first one, honestly, I thought was brilliant. Imaginative. Large. Challenging. It was good children's literature in the vein of Potter, Dahl, L'Engle, Tolkein in scope alone. But it's ending meandered in order to set the tone for the second book and the riverbed of creativity dried up after that as the books became more about an agenda than children's novels.

I was reminded, as I finished the final book today, of my father's take on a sci-fi movie a few years back, Trip to Mars or something like that (with Lt. Dan!). At the end of the movie they were all holding hands in a circle. He fully expected, in that moment, the characters to start singing Kum Ba Yah. I felt the same way finishing the novel. It held an awfully high opinion of itself as it concluded. And the characters were metaphorically standing around the campfire of their world-view, holding hands, and singing Kum Ba Yah.

A brief example: All the characters marvel at the inter-connectedness of worlds and beings and Dust and particles and life. How slight variations on one world go the opposite in another. They are astounded by the connectedness of life still. In the same breath they admonish the view that it could have all originated from a creator being. We are all connected by luck and chance! Let's sing and hold hands and bask in this view, for it is glorious!

But my curiosity is assuaged. Though, I suspect, the controversy will not be when the second movie debuts next year. But whatever, it'll make for an entertaining movie to escape with. I consistently remain amused by how "christian" controversy is stirred up over books that are not that good.

My I Hate Politics Manifesto

This is a far from a rational opinion. I have not sat down and thoroughly thought any of this through. Think less of me from shooting from the hip, but these are my thoughts. Some of them are tardy -- they would've been funny and relevant a month ago. Alas.

First of all, since when can political parties tell voters that your votes for whom you want to run for President don't count because your state decided to have their primary early? Do political parties wield more power than a state? More power than a voter? And yet people still voted? Equally unfathomable. (I'm planning, also, to have an equally meaningless vote: Band-Aids or Caramel Sauce. You pick. You decide. Those are your two options. 50 points to the winner. The loser must count to 1,000 and run a mile.)

Seriously, how did they get away with this? Why didn't the news media take them to task on it? Maybe they did. In the interest of full disclosure, I don't watch the news.

Secondly, why do I have to vote for one of two people in the end? GW thought little of a two-party system. So do I. I'm sure there's an argument to prove me wrong. To show me that the two-party system is glorious. Just know I will disagree. And probably not respectfully.

Tertiary: nuanced political promises. I tire of them. I am physically weary and cynical of them. I get angry and mean when I hear them. I offend people -- not with what I say, I'm not crass -- but towards whom I say it against, i.e. that I'm tipping some sort my figurative political hat by railing on what exactly "Change" means. I'm not. I despise all nuanced statements equally, almost. Ha!

Will I vote? Yes. For whom? Who knows. I don't care much for anyone in this candidate pool. Make your arguments. Rail against me for abusing a freedom, whatever. Just know I hold my vote very dearly. Not in whom I will cast it for, but that I can cast it. Just don't be upset when I cast it for a) a fictional character; b) a Democrat; c) a Republican; d) Ralph Nader; e) Isaac; f) myself; g) The Mrs.; h) The Red Sox.

Again, shooting from the proverbial hip here. And I did cut my head open last night, so take everything accordingly. Except that I very much do not like politics and that I do, actually, very much like government.

And You Didn't Care If It Came Back

I'm going to reopen Crackerjacks and Peanuts. Not that I closed it. But, whatever. I'm going to express some baseball thoughts as the season goes along over there. Probably about as often as I do over here.

On A Snow: Finally

We have lived here for three years now. This is the first time I have seen a true snow fall. A light and large and wet snow. One that comes down softly and quietly. One that when the wind blows streaks your vision to nothing more than a white wall, with it's impenetrable thickness that recedes only when the wind dies and there is nothing more than a soft snow falling.

It falls light and large. It has covered the ground and left me longing for days gone by. When school would be cancelled and I would jump off of roofs into drifts deeper than my imagination. Today it was a quick shovel and off to work, stuck in the amalgam of inept drivers and white precipitation turned a muddy brown. Black roads and salted cars. And a white wall moving alongside me in a mocking blur.

Isaac played in the snow today. Crawled around the swingset in the backyard. Scoffed at the snow that fell in and around his mouth. His imagination is still young and light. Though I have no doubt it is large. That beyond his sight, his imagination was able to penetrate the white wall of swirling and tumbling whiteness. That, perhaps, he saw into an ancient past that, when laid out before him, showed him the eras of children and adults playing much like he was. Scoffing and cold, laughing and crawling. But perhaps, in his youth, he merely understood that before him was something very special, and something very much for him to enjoy. Something very simple.

We have lived here for three years now. This is the first time I have seen a true snow fall. A light and large and wet snow. One that comes down softly and quietly. One that when the wind blows streaks your vision to nothing more than a white wall, with it's impenetrable thickness that may never recede for me.

But out there, in my large and amalgamated world, I know where there is a simple, soft snow falling.

A New Perspective on Eden

Having just completed Steinbeck's East of Eden late last evening, there hangs over me still the rush. One thing about finishing a book that is forever exciting is the prospect that finishing it is just around the corner, especially when said book pushes 600-pages. During such times, in the waning moments of the book, a new fury takes over and I read at a ridiculuous rate. It is a fault at times because I read almost impatiently, pining more to "complete" than for the story to complete itself on its own terms -- not on my own. Still, it's a furious urge to resist. For this particular novel, the exercise caught up with me and has left me unutterably winded this morning.

It seems that this particular novel is not considered his greatest. I can grant that argument. It is more refined, more particular and inevitably less a commentary than an actual story. Where Grapes of Wrath was an effort to summarize a movement, a situation, a profound hope in the human spirit -- this novel is about the human spirit itself. What it is and what makes it. How it is formed and molded and changed and yet somehow immutable since the days of Adam and Eve. It contains characters as old as time, as human as all of us; as close and familiar as a look in the mirror. Laughter and love is at its core. The sing-song of the Irish Samuel Hamilton. The cold and menace of Cathy Trask. The wisdom and strength of Lee. The naked and cold and ever human Cal Trask. And the undeniable choice before all of them.

This novel is about characters. It is about a story. It is an old story. One we are all familiar with. Yet one that seems strangely new and fresh and ancient all at once. Like a warm rain in December.

It will now sit on my bookshelf. I will walk by it often and remember it.

I will read it again. Thou mayest, at the very least.

A Few Small Steps

So the day, hour, moment has arrived. Isaac has taken his first steps. As you can see by the video, he's clearly proud. Mom and Dad are proud as well. Quitely and confidently and exstatically proud. Crawling and rolling over were significant moments; standing up was also a special moment. But walking, venturing out from point A to point B, has been our favorite. Of course we realize that the adventuresome spirit Isaac has will manifest itself ten-fold with this new talent he possesses. That more things will be reached for. More things will be knocked over. More tears and more crying from falls and slips and collisions. But there will also be inevitable moments of accomplishment. Of adventure. Of opportunity for laughter. Of "look-what-I-can-do Mom"s and "Try-and-catch-me Dad"s.

So in the few small steps he took last night, there lies giant footprints of happiness.

On Your Condolences

This has happened before. Only it was much, much worse; though this is still pretty bad. That's the brighter side to my current melancholy; rather, the excuse. It's not abject depression like in 2003 with the Red Sox. It's a more like a numbness. We've suddenly been forced to look up and see how large the universe actually is. That the immortality of perfection and a win tonight was never as close as we thought it was, no matter what we tell ourselves -- or how Russell Crowe makes us feel. We have always been small after all. And in that lies the numbness and melancholy of a reality we thought we could transcend for a moment, for a game.

So if you feel like feeling this feeling I have, if you care to offer to me a "Sorry, man. That hurts!" Well, you can "Stuff your sorry's in a sack." Because here's the deal with losing: it also makes no sense. And don't tell me it's just a game. Because it most conveniently, and undoubtedly is. There is no debate there. Yet losing is always also losing.  

The universe is a large, large place. I have just now had my head lifted.