The Face of the Waters Saturday, February 26, 2005

A mixed bag tonight. I made myself a cup and a half of hot chocolate, so it'll be hours before I come down.

First, a note. Since I'm back, I'm making a conscious choice to be much more first-draftish about this blog. Believe it or not, there was a time when I used to pick over these items with some care. Now I'd rather bang out ideas as they come (which I think will also prevent me from writing ten-paragraph justifications of whatever consevative peccadillo is flying around my nose at the moment). Think of as the "Sonny & Cher Hour" version of the blog.

Here we go:

--I forgot to mention the most important point about Wrong Turn Jr.'s freakout the other evening. He was lying peacefully on the couch, so Daddy decided to head to the kitchen for a snack--which meant either an entire bag of fig bars or a goddamn stalk of celery. WTJ squeaked, so Daddy headed back out, with half the stalk hanging out of his mouth. One peep at the maw and sweet child o'mine goes sour. So, once again, it's all Daddy's fault. Like the name says, another Wrong Turn.

--Work is coming along on the revision of the Secret Thing. I think I'm over the hump, but I'm doing the usual and filling in lots of shorthand in anticipation of a major redethru/rewrite at the finish. Whether this will prove disastrous remains to be seen.

--Star Trek: the Original Series. I've been kicking around the idea of blowing a number of gift certificates on the DVDs, and in weighing it, I'm trying to figure out what I liked about the show that would make me watch it again and again. It definitely has some of the lovable goofiness of "Buck Rogers," but I think beyond that it's big-hearted. "Next Generation" is a much easier show to watch in many ways: It's naturalistic, the characters are nice and cozy and geek-friendly, and it's more sophisticated about certain things; the sorts of political and personal issues that will get you labeled "smart and sexy" by New York Times critics.

The Original Series, on the other hand, is much more theatrical, or even mythical, if I dare get a little artsy. There's no naturalism because the characters aren't supposed to be real. They're heroic. That style of storytelling is a hard fit with modern television, which has returned to the kitchen-sink dramas in many ways: All realism, all the time. (By "realism" I mean showing people at their nitpicky worst--something else that'll get you called "smart and sexy" in the Gray Lady.)

When I was working my way back to religion through Robert Anton Wilson and "the new sciences," there was a quote I loved: "Physicists are the only scientists who can say 'God' with a straight face." To ignore the larger point there, I feel the same way about the original "Trek": It could say "hope" and "peace" and even "God" without laughing. The new series--and just about any modern sci-fi shows--are so obsessed with being dark and gritty and sexy and "real" that they've forgotten the heroism and transcendence that made sci-fi fun in the first place (not to mention a haven for too-smart, hormone-heavy idealist teenagers). I realize too that my hero, Philip K. Dick, did as much as anyone to smash that notion of sci-fi. But a couple generations on, I think we've gone too far in the other direction.

--I've been trying to explain what religion means to me to someone I'm very close to. In the course of conversations, this person mentioned that going back to church, for her, was a washout: She didn't feel any community there, didn't like the people in her town, didn't like the pastors, for various reasons. For a long time, after I moved out to Jersey, I had trouble finding a church too. I had come from a pricey neighborhood in Brooklyn where you could count on a Sunday full of yuppies and a glorious rambling sermon about biblical archaeology and wistfulness about guilt and sin...and then on to Spanish omelet and hash browns.

Here, it's more bread-and-butter. The congregation is old, if not actually deceased, and not terribly lively. The homilies are by the book (as I've bitched consistently here), although a few have moved me to tears and at least one I still remember years after the fact. (Which included a haunting line about good old Simon Peter, as he witnessed that Christ was Lord: "How could a fisherman know this?")

At any rate, something that always kept me away from church here in Jersey were the people. Further from comfortable yuppies you could not get: elderly Italians and Poles (I was about to type "Jews," too--the third big contingent out here), a large minority of folks with conspicuous developmental problems and some who were just plain nerds--church nerds, there's a special type. (Turtlenecks and blazers; stiff movements as they approach the altar; and stony faces throughout the service.)

I spent Sunday after Sunday saying to myself: This is not me. These are not people who read G.K. Chesterton or Walker Percy. They can't possibly feel the same depth of faith as a suave aesthete like yours truly. They're here because they've been coming since they were kids and they don't know anything else. Or, even more sweeping: They're coming because they're old and afraid, or they're young and they're fuckups. Jesus is the only guy their parents didn't have to pay to come to their party.

I started fixating on a lady who was clearly challenged. She had little routines that she'd go through each week: smiling at the priest as he went past, following the procession out the end at grinning like she was part of a parade. Not being disruptive, just enjoying the service in her own way. And it drove me up a wall. Clearly, she didn't understand the solemnity and magnitude of what was going on here. How could the two of us be in the same church, maybe they could have special masses for aesthetes, etc.

Then one week she showed up with two other folks: an older lady who bore a striking resemblance and a dude in full biker leather. Mom and Dad. I had never seen her so pleased, and the parents were clearly sharing her joy: happy to be there with her, happy to see (for the first time?) how happy church made her.

Two thoughts occurred to me. First: You are a small-minded son of a bitch. You want to see somebody who doesn't understand church? Who doesn't get what it's all about? Look in the mirror. Second: My irritation at the congregation was just as much of a "routine" as the challenged lady's schtick each week. I was the fuckup; I was the one acting on autopilot.

I'm not saying things are perfect now, but the community in the pews doesn't get on my nerves each week. I find myself looking more closely now, and marveling at the kinds of people the church has touched. Shy new mothers prim as nuns, linebacker-size Samoans, guys with pepper-and-salt ponytails, yentas, guys with tubes up their nose that do God knows what. The kind of church a fisherman might start.

I've been at it an hour; that's enough for anyone. We hope you've enjoyed this installment of First Draft Theater.

@ 9:34:00 PM, ,

What Is This, a Freakout? Friday, February 25, 2005

O Wrong Turn Jr.! O poor baby!

Wednesdays and Fridays Mrs. WTJ heads off to work, and I'm in charge of making sure the plump little fellow doesn't pull the knife rack down on himself or start swigging Clorox. Generally, he and I have worked well together. He fusses, Daddy fusses--we've got a rhythm going. Tonight was his first major "episode": twenty minutes of uncontrollable, gagging, gasping screaming. He calmed down within seconds of seeing Mommy; Daddy is still working on his own nerves.

A long week, a weird week. I feel like I've been awake the whole time, and my decisions have been getting worse as the days drag on.

And I'm out of ideas. A bit of a downer this time, sorry.

@ 9:22:00 PM, ,

How Many Dicks Is That? Thursday, February 24, 2005

A quick-hit theory.

I remember reading in Salon years ago that The Matrix was the first movie whose style was cribbed from TV commercials: those Gap ads with people dancing in khakis. (Christ, those seem like dinosaur times, don't they?) Here's a similar idea: Quentin Tarantino's style is entirely cribbed from Seinfeld.

Apart from the tough-guy faux-noir thing, what is Tarantino known for? The nihilist pop-culture dialogue and the loopy, everything-collapses-on-itself plotting. And that's precisely what Jerry and Co. were doing, just before QT hit it big. For all the "show about nothing" reputation, Seinfeld at its best was one of the most intricately plotted shows around, with multiple storylines that all came together and paid off at the end. The "didja ever notice" back-and-forth was always set in the context of a fairly dense plot.

QT can't even manage that: The diner scene at the beginning of "Reservoir Dogs" was cute, but doesn't inform the characters in the least and has basically nothing to do with the rest of the movie (except to establish the QT fantasy that crooks think like video-store clerks). Really, aside from the violence, what does QT add to the Seinfeld style? Hipper music?

Anyhow, just a first-draft thought.

@ 8:19:00 PM, ,

Who's Got Trouble? Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Hello again. A lot has happened that needs catching up on, so I'll try my best...

I don't pay much mind to Robert Anton Wilson anymore, but once upon a time I read everything he put out and to a certain extent used it as a yardstick for living. Wilson, if you don't know, coauthored the "Illuminatus!" trilogy--imagine "Foucault's Pendulum" written by the guys who did "Hair"--and wrote a number of self-help libertarian/socio-mystic hippie manifestoes in the Tim Leary vein. He was smarter than most of the Aquarian Conspiracy crowd, and funnier to boot.

For my money, Wilson--an amateur Joyce scholar--had the best assessment of Arthur Miller I've ever read anywhere. Set aside the arguments about Communism; forget the Death of the American Dream. Wilson said that he hated "Death of a Salesman" because every damn person in the audience knew that Willy Loman was doomed as soon as they walked in the theater and there was no force in heaven or Earth that would change that.

Wilson was arguing from a psychedelic self-help perspective, but it resonates with my RC sensibilities. Miller rigged the game so that Willy has no soul, and no autonomy. The only reason he exists is to prove a point: to suffer and die so Miller can preach to the choir. Miller can't imagine the possibility that Willy would wake up in the middle of the night and think the old Walker Percy thought: "What if it's all true? What if the universe has a creator, and omniscent as he is he loves me as an individual, no matter how much of a fuckup I am?"

I exaggerate; nobody's that articulate. But you get my point? There's no way Willy will ever have a thought that takes him outside himself. And that is nonsense of the highest order.

Likewise Dr. Gonzo. I read the "Hell's Angels" book and liked it fine, but not enough to read anything else. The movie of "Fear and Loathing" was the occasion of a legendary tirade by my friend and editor, who saw it as a primo example of how baby boomers wrecked other people's lives then walked away whistling. Frankly, I don't have much to say about him. I understood the point, but I didn't care for the schtick. If we're going to talk about writers who lost themselves in a persona, give me Philip K. Dick, or (to stretch a little) Whittaker Chambers.

Wrong Turn Jr. is five months old today! Everybody give me a nice big Awwwww. He's doing fine despite the fact that his father spends about ten hours a day figuring out rules for how laser guns work.

Save another prayer for our friends' baby, who has surgery tomorrow. Like her parents, she's a sweetie and deserves all the best.

@ 9:35:00 PM, ,