In new-fallen darkness, who first gains her sight?
She is wise. She is wise. She is wiser than I.
Who stands on the high ground, try though I might?
She is wiser, much wiser than I.
Wounded by insult, whom do I seek?
She is wise. She is wise. She is wiser than I.
When wavered by doubt, won't let me be weak?
She is wiser, much wiser than I.
Let me start by saying I have not seen (nor am I ever likely to see) John Aglialoro's new flick, Atlas Shrugged (Part I), which he intended to be the first installment of a trilogy of films dedicated to Ayn Rand's eponymous novel.
Sorry, John, but I've already read the book.
Right-wingers everywhere have been licking their chops in anticipation of this production. Remember how Tolkien geeks (I admit, I was one of them) piteously anticipated Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings series? It's like that, only worse.
Because, unlike Tolkien fans who were enthused and excited about seeing lifelong heroes brought to life with cinematic wizardry, Ayn Rand fans seemed to imagine that rendering Atlas Shrugged for the big screen would make the Rand philosophy, Objectivism, accessible to the masses. It is as if they somehow hoped that the movie might bring the Light of Truth to the hoi polloi, that it might usher in a bold new world where self-love is the only real love.
(Objectivism, of course, holds that the profit motive, the motive of attaining personal gain, is the only truly virtuous motive. According to Rand and her disciples, altruism, charity, and even love are sabotaging notions that diminish the individual.)
Well, too bad, so sad, Objectivists. After a respectable limited-release opening weekend, when emotionally-stunted Tea Party patriots rushed out to see it, the film's revenues dropped drastically. In its second weekend the film grossed a mere $900,000, even though the number of screens showing the film expanded to over 400. That is nearly a 50% fall off. And as box office numbers go, that spells "flop."
Having suffered through all 1000+ pages of Rand's monstrous magnum opus some 20 years ago, I can't say I'm surprised at the muted response to the film. I found the book to be repulsive and horrifying. It is a cold, nonsensical diatribe, delivered with an embarrassingly naive conviction. I find it difficult to believe that Objectivism can have much appeal to anyone who has ever --oh, I don't know --loved another human being, for example.
One right-wing blogger, who apparently drove an hour and a half to get his dose of Ayn Rand goodness, afterward urged his readers to go see the film or, if it was not showing near them, to call local theaters and demand that it be shown. He closed with an unintentionally hilarious plea, urging action from fellow Objectivists because, after all, "...it's not just for you."
Er --Mr. Rightwing Freak, crack open that book and have another look. I'm not sure you got it.
Any man who knows what is good for him will take note of days like these. They're little jewels that refract and magnify the light you must find inside you during dark times.
Today, the sky was dark, low, and heavy. It menaced all day, unpredictable as a surly drunk. But it held off while Dave Hauth and I made the climb up Tabor and back. We talked a lot about books, about religion and philosophy, about history.
The pregnant clouds grew darker as I drove out to Mall 205 where I picked up Maty from Target. She came out as I pulled up. She was pushing a cart full of supplies for the bathroom. Soap, shampoo, and the like.
A few raindrops hit the windshield as we drove homeward. She'd had a long day and didn't feel like cooking. We decided on pho.
We were safely seated in the corner booth of Pho Dalat, waiting for our soup when the sky finally broke. An audacious deluge of big, warm, sloppy drops spattering the pavements. Outside, on Cesar Chavez, the tires of passing cars hissed in the wetness. A mist rose up from the blacktop. "It's rainin' now, honey," I observed.
"I think so it's gonna rain more harder," she said. She peered out the glass, up toward the ponderous slate sky that hung over the city.
"We're fine right here, honey," I said. "We'll be nice and dry in here."
Just then, the young woman who waits the tables came. She had two big bowls of pho.
Eighteen months before the 2012 national election and one thing is perfectly clear: the Republican party is in a shambles. There are no leaders who can speak for the party on national issues. Contention within the party is causing it to take insane positions.
With economic conditions being what they are right now (8.9% unemployment, gas prices at the $4/gallon mark) one would think there would be a full clutch of Republicans lining up to run against the President. But the party is so fractured and divided within itself that no leader has yet managed to find the political sweet spot that appeals to the various warring factions. And apart from Mitt Romney, bless his heart, none seem eager to try. (Good ol' boy Haley Barbour just today eliminated himself from consideration.)
The party's lack of leadership is so glaring that a few weeks ago, when "The Donald" started fanning the nativist flames, he shot to the top of GOP polls. (Sarah, honey, you're just so yesterday.)
Speaker Boehner, the most powerful Republican in the country, is acutely aware of the bitter divide within his party. He's the poor sap who has to deal with the Tea Party caucus. You know? The same folks who threatened to shut down the federal government unless funding for Planned Parenthood and National Public Radio was halted? So tenuous is Boehner's leadership that no one is certain he will be able to rein in the radicals enough to allow Congress to extend the federal debt ceiling in July. (Go here to read how the thieving bastards at Standard & Poor's issued a "negative" outlook on the long-term U.S. bond rating.) Boehner has to thread the needle. The big budget deal only happened due to his Herculean efforts.
But with none of its potential presidential candidates catching fire, and its leaders in Congress expending all their energy trying to hold the party together, the GOP finds itself promoting policies that are insanely unpopular. Defending tax cuts for upper incomes. Advocating to abolish popular entitlement programs.
It sure would suck to be a Republican right now.
But, if you like your humor black as coffee, it is amusing to watch.
In the evening, I planted lettuce and spinach, and laid two short rows of carrot seeds in the vegetable planter. The garden is four paces deep and four and a half wide. Three blueberry shrubs show much promise, adorned with bell-shaped white blossoms. Raspberry canes, with sharp minty leaves, sprout everywhere, but mostly thrive along the south edge of the yard. They make forays into the neighbors' rose beds. Two pots grow strawberries.
Springtime rain shower, mischievous imp, insists on a laugh at my expense, catching me hat-less and coat-less in my hotfoot to the market where I meet Maty to help her carry groceries.
It has been difficult to find words of late. For anything. I only know to keep trying.
One day, the whisper of her broom on the linoleum or the menthol scent of heat balm rubbed into an aching shoulder may seem miraculous. Why not?
Watching the world rise in springtime. Dazzled by that old familiar light.
If it is possible that phylogeny recapitulates ontogeny, as Ernst Haeckel proposed, might also the eternal cadence of the seasons of the year recapitulate the emotional life of a human being?
We all recognize the tragedy of summer which, like glorious youth, is a pinnacle from which one must inevitably fall. Autumn resembles the solace of middle age, when we learn that glory diminished is still heart-breaking and worthwhile. And winter, of course, is the ultimate peace that awaits us all; the Triumph (as the Christians call it) that we will all come to know. It is resignation and acceptance.
If these are true, then spring is hope and aspiration. Spring symbolizes not only birth, but rebirth and, perhaps even more, the human penchant to have faith in what is to come.
Saint Philip-Neri, early Mass
Well, after all, comparing human emotional development to the cyclic patterns of the year is rather trite, is it not? Poets have been making such comparisons for as long as there have been poets. The Wiccans have always seen things that way, and the Catholics, opportunistic though they may have been, chose springtime to mark the occasion of their Resurrection.
So, begging your pardon, I hope this springtime, this rebirth, might give life to those hopes and aspirations you have for your own future and for our collective future. And since I did attend early Mass this morning, I'll go ahead and say it the Catholic way:
A bright haze hung over Southeast Portland this afternoon when I set out on my daily constitutional. I usually let my feet take me where they will when I go on these rambles and, often as not, they have me climbing on up that extinct little volcano about a mile to the east of my house. It's a magical place, after all.
Up on top of Tabor
Today, as I reached the intersection of 55th and Hawthorne, where the Seminary interrupts Hawthorne's straight run from the river, I was hailed by a passing driver. "Hey, brother, how do I get up to the top of the mountain from here?" he called. He was a few years younger than me, maybe 40. He had the look of a hippie about him, with his John Lennon sunglasses and his gawdy gold earring dangling from his left lobe. He was bald as a priest, tanned like a farmer, and grinning like a fool. I liked him.
I pointed to the east. "Straight on. Right on 60th, left on Lincoln. Follow 'er on up," I said.
"Thanks, brother," he called, waving as he drove off. "And happy holiday to you!"
Celebrating the cannabis culture
His remark puzzled me. Happy holiday? What could he have meant? Easter is still a few days off...
I rambled on.
As I got into the park and started climbing to the summit I noticed that there were a lot of people about. More than usual for a Wednesday afternoon. They were mostly younger folks: skateboarders, dread-locked Rastafarians, hacky-sackers, and well-tatted roustabouts. In a word, hippies. Some people were toting bongos or djembes. Others had guitars slung over their shoulders. Everyone seemed to be climbing for Tabor's crown.
Stoners admire the view
I was making the final push up the steep northern shoulder when it dawned on me. It's April 20th! Four-twenty! I could hear people cheering and shouting above me. I pulled out my cell phone and checked the time as I climbed. 4:18 pm! Two minutes!
I hurried up the last bit of slope and finally saw what was going on. People were gathered at Tabor's summit. They were laughing and cheering and smiling and greeting each other with calls of "Happy 420!" I had to smile.
And to give the story an unambiguously happy ending, it just so happened that I was serendipitously prepared to join in the celebration!
You never know what you're going to see up on Tabor. Happy 420 everybody!
