The Creature from the Black Lagoon

Watched this beauty on my phone, using something called an ‘app’. I previously saw it in my youth, I believe, in a theatre, certainly not a first-run film. I think even then I recognized the limitations of the movie, yet the power of the monster projected intense visceral response.

I somehow understood that there were a gazillion of these rubber-suited monstrosities on show somewhere serving the need for unexamined fear. Donald Trump now fills that role. Few of these movies were available to me in the darkness before VHS and Internet. This movie somehow exceeded the niche and became a classic. It’s not The Thing (50s version), which is both more primally scary, and also has a livelier script. Still, it’s an iconic sea monster until we can get Spielberg to present sharks as psychopathic killers.

The movie begins with an archaeologist whose team discovers a large, unprecedented clawed hand from, as repeatedly said, the Devonian Era. The archaeologist hacks it out of the earth to bring it home. He wants to return with a proper crew to excavate the site.

His two native workers were to remain at the site. Whilst they discussed the logistics of the archaeologist’s return, we see a living version of that hand reach out of the nearby river. It just feels the ground a bit then draws back into the water. That, my friends, is presaging. Use it wisely.

Scene change to somewhere else. The staff ingenue, yclept Kate, drives a speed boat to a larger one. Under the sea someone is scuba diving. The diver, David, emerges from the water and we get some exposition going. Kate brings the archaeologist to meet with the diver. David and Kate are an item, albeit unmarried

They gather with the rest of the cast, which includes Kate’s boss. He too is a scientist but, as belaboured, he thinks too much in terms of bottom line. His name is Mark as in the ill-fated King in the Tristan and Iseult cycle of stories. Just saying.

Meanwhile, the two natives back at the archaeological site are in their tent one night. A, but we know it is the, creature emerges from the water and heads for their tent. We see one native sleeping, the other a-fright and saying “No! No!” The big claw lands on the fellow’s head and then from outside we see the turmoil of his death. Similarly so for sleepyhead, who wakes just in time to see himself killed. Okay, monster fully checked in. Such a monster can easily get thru first floor windows, and find its way upstairs to bedrooms of overly-imaginative youngsters. Easily!

The scene changes to our scientific party as it starts its journey African Queen-style down the Amazon. The captain has been charged with overacting as the wise but eccentric master of the river who needs a shave. A couple of natives help him drive the boat while our science friends lounge on deck.

Kate has a remarkable facility to keep her hair well-fussed with pins and scarves. Her shorts don’t seem like Amazon ware. David seems to look older as the movie progresses but they remain fluttery in their moon eyes. Mark proves to be a bit grouchy. He never seems to have been in the game vis-a-vis Kate but jealous nonetheless. Also, he’s not idealistic like David is.

At the site they happen to notice that the two natives have been eviscerated. Everyone’s almost shocked, but then they get back to business. They dig at the site for a while until Mark becomes disgruntled about not discovering a fishy Piltdown Man. They decide they need to investigate the water, on the off chance that earthquakes and landslides had moved the rest of the bones. David and Mark do the diving.

I believe that every movie or television show featuring diving becomes an act of following random fish around with a camera then occasionally taking note of the divers. At least glimpses of the Creature sends some adrenalin into our bloodstream. He does a lot of lurking, kind of a wallflower.

After one dive, Kate decides the boys are having all the fun so she takes a dip herself. We see her swimming luxuriously. She even performs some synchronized swimming routines for our viewing pleasure. And the pleasure seems even more so for the Creature, who lurks below watching. At one point she swims backstroke and the Creature below her unbeknownst does the same thing. A curious mating dance.

Lucas, the Captain, espies Kate and tells her to come closer, it is dangerous out there. She complies. Despite webbed feet and hands, the Creature barely can keep up with her, outstretching his clawed paw but unable to grasp her.

Just after she is back on board, the boat is rocked. Something large has gotten into the net they have in the water. They try to reel the net in but whatever that was caught burst thru the net. Later that night, the Creature climbs aboard and kills a native, using his patented claw to the head maneuver. Kate gets to scream.

Mark and David argue what to do next. Mark wants to kill it, and bring it back as a lucrative trophy. David wants to capture it, and bring it back as a scientific trophy. In a hunt for the Creature, Mark wounds it with a spear gun. It may be that it is now that the Creature comes aboard to kill a native. Specific narrative doesn’t matter, we know what’s going to happen.

Lucas suggests using a powder the natives use to catch fish. When they get the dose right, the Creature becomes woozy. I think the boys chase it to its grotto or something.

Whatever narrative details I have missed, Mark still falls to the clutches of the Creature, tho David does his best to save him.

Since it would be silly to take defensive measures, Kate sits out somewhere dreamy-eyed. The Creature appears, and the last native runs to her defense and is killed. That guy in all the 50s movies (Whit Bissell by name) joins the affray and is wounded, David and Lucas coming in the nick of time shooting guns.

While discussing the next move in a cabin with Whit Bissell laying there with his head completely bandaged, the Creature’s hand appears at the porthole. David slaps at the hand and closes the porthole. What was the Creature planning anyway? Surprise attack thru the 10” porthole?

Well, time for denouement. Kate sits out in the open on the shore and the Creature scoops her up and takes her to his grotto. David follows with loaded spear gun. Finding Kate he drops his weapon and they enter full smooch-mode, At which time the Creature reappears. Before things go too far regarding David’s head in the grip of the Creatures clawed paw, Lucas and the archaeologist appear with firearms a-blaze. The Creature hightails it. David, out of some arcane definition of humane, prevents the coup-de-grace. They let the Creature return to the water, where death comes soon enough. The end.

Like in King Kong, the movie wants to suggest the Creature’s humanity, or humanness, at least. And he seems attracted to Kate, tho expressed in a muddy way. But this is a monster, and the trumped up logic is simple:

1. See monster (code word Other)
2. Kill it.
3. Revel in the thrill of fear.

Star Trek Beyond

Generic franchise title: beyond what? An uncrowded theatre welcomed us yesterday. We considered going Sunday but off day Monday worked well.

The upcoming films look downgoing. Tom Cruise again asserts an image of invincibility with an apparent rash, yes, rash of fight scenes of complete improbability. It keeps getting said that Cruise does all his stunts. Bullshit or not, it suggests an overweening self-concupiscence. Plus video game glory in murderous mayhem. Really, screw that! His name is mud.

That nugget was followed by Matt Damon likewise, as Jason Bourne. Previous Bourne movies have been pretty good, not for the fight scenes but the narrative tension. The highlights yesterday stressed fight scenes but maybe some narrative tension remains in the franchise.

There were two, yes, two films that were based on true stories. Snowden, and something about apparent frat boys as big time gun runners. Oliver Stone directs Snowden, so it will pretend to be journalistic while clearly taking a side. The frat boys looks like it was made for frat boys. Now Ben Hur… I never read the book or saw the Charlton Heston film, but it looks like Gladiator so I’m all in.

Beyond begins with Kirk looking restrained and official, like he got old on us. He’s on a diplomatic mission with some cgi creatures. The diplomacy immediately goes comically bad and ends with the creatures swarming him and him getting beamed out. No worries!

Really, Chris Pine completely out-shatners Shatner. Bemused yet heroic, and comfortably so, he wears the role well while remaining an actor, not an icon. Shatner was never more than Hollywood okay.

From there, things go dim for me, narrative-wise. The problem is that much of the expositionary parts explaining why things are happening are shouted in the midst of action scenes. I couldn’t track it all. Especially as the screen is so visually active with stuff going on, and noises. Much of it exceeded my processor speed. Your mileage may vary.

For the most part, my lack of understanding didn’t matter. The ensemble is really good together, with lots of wry, dry comments of hearty yet likely humour. The action scenes certainly are active.

So the Enterprise sets out on a rescue mission at the behest of some captain or something. They encounter an alien ship that pulverizes the Enterprise with pokeballs, I believe. It looks like 99% of the crew dies, except for a handful of captives and our headliners. There’s even a point where it looks like Kirk will have to sacrifice himself to save the crew, just like his father did. In the event, the headliners all escape using pods. They land scattered on the planet below.

Spock and Bones land near each other. Spock is injured. They spend a while bantering, then head off knowingly to somewhere. Sulu and Uhura end up together, I forget how. Scotty lands on a cliff edge, we see him hanging by one hand. Later it appears he has made it to the bottom of the cliff without utilizing the falling protocol. Must have been a considerable hike. Here he is met by some aliens (natives, actually) who are about to kill him. Then appears a warrior woman, almost deus ex machina. Some sort of flashing business makes her difficult to fight, so she vanquishes the aliens. She befriends Scotty, or the other way around. They go back to her place. Her name is Jayla.

Her place turns out to be a long lost federation ship. Alone, she’s trying to defeat the perp who attacked the Enterprise earlier. Gad, it is confusing. She joins the good guys, when they finally, and somehow, get back together.

I didn’t mench that the captain who sought Federation help turned out to be traitorous. I think the Enterprise crashed on top of her. Her crew had been captured by Kraal, the same who attacked the Enterprise, and she was trying to save them, even while selling out the Enterprise crew. Oh well.

Kraal has been doggedly seeking a thing-a-ma-jig that I dunno who originally found. Turns out the thing is a key part to a super-destructive thing. Kraal wants that thing, so he can destroy everything, something like that.

After much battling, our heroes defeat Kraal’s forces. Kraal escapes, heading towards the space station whence the story began, bearing his Destructo-thing.

The gang manage to get the ancient ship into the air and back to the mondo space station. Kraal unleashes his remaining forces and his pokeballs at the station. By broadcasting the song “Sabotage” by the Beastie Boys (redux from the first reboot), the good guys jam the ships and pokeballs. That leaves a last battle between Kirk and Kraal. I was thinking maybe Kirk would lose...

I never made out how the leap was made that Kraal, who I was thinking might be a Klingon, was actually the captain of the ancient ship. And he had the ability to change his appearance radically. Everything rushes by.

So narratively, I think the movie was messy. It doesn’t matter to me, really. I’m not much interested in the development of the canon. Some of the fight scenes are exaggerated but somehow don’t seem so woefully stupid as the Cruise vehicle. It’s Cruise’s self-satisfaction that annoys me. He likes the imagery too much. Kind of Donald Trumpish, don’t you know.

As a villain, this Kraal falls well below the level of those in the first two reboots. He’s just a crazy angry guy. The evocation of the space station, well, that’s what I’m here for. And the dialogue.

Jayla, who was a pretty good character, ends up a space cadet. Tho alien in appearance, she didn’t have to wear a football helmet to indicate her alien heritage. Likely she will appear in the next blockbuster. Better start worrying what the next one will be about.

In, Out, and About

I was awake betimes and coincidentally so was the cat. He has discovered that staring at me not only wakes me but causes me to feed him. I then broke fast, then settled into a Coursera course: Buddhism and Modern Psychology. I listened to the first lecture, all three parts and the addedum. Made a fruit salad and juiced some greens, apples, and carrots. That was much the morning. Okay, I am also up to speed concerning the Red Sox.

Beth had an inspection to do so I rode shot gun, all the way to the exploding Arlington market. I remained in the car as Beth did that. The Alewife Brook itself flowed nearby tho I suspect sans alewives now. Being smartphone-empowered, I sat in the car and practiced some very simple Spanish lessons. This is completely different from the runner who crossed busy Alewife Brook Parkway while textually confronting her phone.

Beth had a list of comps to take pictures of, so we hunted around for them, occasionally noting the happy fact of street signs and house numbers to, like, clarify where we were.

The excitement didn’t stop there. Beth had neglected breakfast, which I am constitutionally, and even morally, unable to do, so we stopped at Panera for something more like lunch. It was after two, I guess.

We went next door for catfood then headed for Wegman’s for replenishment of juicing ingredients. A side street in this industrial hi-tech mess near the Burlington Mall and Wegman’s passes thru wetlands. Make way for goslings occurred here. A car widdershins awaited as the gang sashayed across the street. Mother bird made a point of standing there eying the car as the young ones crossed to the wetlands. She did the same for us.

This was my big camera-ready moment. I had my phone in my hand the other day when we saw a little puppy-like fox casually take in the summer rays. I completely blew that opportunity. With the geese, I should have telephoto’d. Beyond that, I haven’t quite got the right grip for the phone to steady it. If interested in these blurry relicts, lemme know. Erin, I learned last night, got notice that he was on the Dean’s List his last semester. Given the nadir—totally wrong major—this zenith is macro awesome. I shall soon zealously boil pasta for tonight’s dinner offering.

Out and About, Again

Erin joined us as Beth and I went for a walk at Punkatasset Hill. Talk and thought. A moody day of some clouds and much wind. We arrived late morning, and a goodly collection of cars were parked along the road. One car had a sulky teen, by herself, preferring the comfort of her phone.

A woman with leashed brown lab stood at the entrance to the path. The lab was ecstatic to have more new friends, not just us but other people and dogs. This is called a good attitude.

We found two twined snakes by the pond. Clouds and a peppy wind modified the day’s warmer beginning. The smaller snake was I gather a male. They remained motionless, as we tried to be.

Eventually the female stirred. She opened her jaws wide in a way I have never witnessed. Tasting the world? She slithered and the male rode along. You could sense the imperative.

We headed to the bakery after, just for coffee. Among the free books: selected letters of Emily D and an account of the Mayflower crossing by Nathaniel Philbrick. Total score! I just recently finished his account of the sinking of the whale ship Essex. Random grubby detail: capturing sea turtles as additional provender. Because they could survive foodless for two years, they were allowed to. Callousness completes the human experience. At hashtag Trump Anger.

I am some backward about the history of those doughty Puritans Not so pure, I’m sure.Andit is my history, if that records means a thing.

I have read Emily’s letters some but not enough. Her intense and personal vocabulary was a strange and eager possession. Beth said (not verbatim), Had ED not been comfortably positioned in the world, she would have been not have been. A factory drudge or crazy secret. The world hasn‘t changed much in the ensuing years. Outside is even more outside.

Beth had comparison pix to take in Waltham, after we et. Waltham was a working class town in one of its days, factories beside the helpfully rushing Charles River. It has upped its class rating with economic appeal but still has a diverse aspect. Maybe the onward crowd of bathroom protectors will season down to capture. I have no answer to the Trump pit of fear, and fifty dead at a night club, except to say how small the world people are. Where is the music of anger? Oh, right, there aint none.

The Early Prophets by Everett Fox

Some fine person keeps putting publisher galleys of recently published books on the give-and-take shelf at the bakery. This book is the latest score. It is a translation of the books of Joshua, Judges, Samuel, and Kings. You know, from The Bible, the big important nonsense.

The Bible, incorporated as it is, represents a declining resource for me. I never met a catechism or otherwise had to read or even believe the thing. I felt the point of a moral or spiritual compass, however, and tried to find the flint and tinder supposedly in the book. I mean in the way of a drifty teenager with willing reach. I read most of this bestseller but wow, when Paul shows up in Acts, I am done. You can have your swarthy New Testament. The darkness is of unobserved ignorance, blinders to the heart.

I’ve only started meddling with this new translation. It seems fresh and different. So many ancient texts exist, to explain or at least comfort our sense of existence. The Bible seems to have endured a steroid kiss that makes it perfect in its rebuke.

The compelling stories have been co-opted by the rules committee. We can read The Epic of Gilgamesh as if it came from a curious intent. The Bible has been blown into a correctional institute. The mythic texture has been abandoned for Donald Trump certainty. Just as Donald Trump, the terrible tv show, shouldn’t be alive, neither should this bulwark of fear called King James Version, Ltd.

Fox seems to be on a rescue mission, and I’m for it. He has done his home work, if notes and commentary galore make the case. I aint finished the book but I got the sense that someone was thinking in the process of making it.

I say that because I hate The Bible by the weight it is wielded. Incontrovertible, my ass. At some point, thinking of the Trump horizon, we will need to respond to thinking. Emotion is a distracting gusset, enabling the lizard to pull the plough. We need a more thoughtful response to an ephemeral world. Anger hides fear. Behemoths called stranger, resource, death, worry our daily day. An angry trumpeting brings no cure. True word, it brings no cure.

Bible baby brings nothing if no mind attaches thought. Fearmonger Incorporated has attached his graded face to the scared kid who can’t explain. Maybe this Joshua cat was just another pogrom. Pogroms don’t work because survivours remember. I don’t care about a people, I care about the world. That is to say, we are crowded together, beings of purpose, on a momentary world, and we don’t need the fluffy designs of a ruling committee. The indications of the ancients aren’t cut and dried, they were wondering too. Wonder more, explain less, and look at the fear again.

In the Heart of the Sea by Nathaniel Philbrick

This is an account of the sinking of the Essex, an event that inspired Melville to write Moby Dick. Long ago I read the narrative of Owen Chace (that’s the spelling I remember), one of the few survivours. I recall it fondly, tho the starvation, dehydration, and eventual cannibalism among the survivours doesn’t make for happy thoughts. Philbrick had access to an additional account by a participant, a cabin boy whose account did not come to light till years later. This second voice gives a wider, less defensive view of events.

Philbrick usefully describes the Nantucket whaling industry. I remember how exciting it was to learn about whaling in elementary school. The subject was anything but dry. Nantucket sleighrides, capsized whale boats, peppy shanties, oh my gosh! I always felt kindly towards whales, especially sperm whales in the deep, battling giant squid. These wild exploits amazed me, even as I rooted for the whale.

Criminy, tho, it was an industry. For half a century, these creatures were hunted with growing efficiency. Mostly for the oil that can be extracted from their blubber, to light the human life, with the purer bonanza of spermaceti from sperm whales, for well-oiled watches. Baleen, I believe, went to corsets, and other uses were made. I don’t know if the meat was much used then. Redux would come in the shape of buffaloes. I remember film of modern whalers, with cannons for killing, and some well-tuned factory for the rendering.

And give OSHA a call: rowing out in whaleboats to poke a harpoon into a whale, causing it to wear itself out trying to escape. At which point the mate jabs the lance into the secret portions of life. Cruel is the grip of our economic hosts, that push us to these lengths.

One thin supposition was brought out: that the whale that attacked the Essex may have responded to a noise from the ship. During a hunt, Chace’s whaleboat needed repair. It was brought back to the ship and hammering ensued. Some thought the hammering might have sounded like a male whale to the perp, so the territorial whale attacked. No question whales are smart enough to have reasons for their actions, so I don’t know.

I’m not so keen to read the grisly parts, tho worry not, I’ve read accounts of the Donner party. I would not want to cast a moral shadow because I don’t know my own strength.

I saw ads for a movie version of the book last year. It looked like Hollywood express: vertiginous and suffocating. I’m sure it was one more glistening botch for Ron Howard. Just blitz us shining things of alchemical adrenalin.

When I read William Manchester’s book about the Krupp weapons-making dynasty, I kept thinking of the gouging machines (and people) ripping ore from Alsace-Lorraine, for all those masterful and masterless guns and ordnance and wolfish war.s The invigourated slaughter of the whales brings a similar feeling. The needs that we consider needs, right down to the latest Justin Bieber, dig bigger holes of nothing, this North Atlantic turbine.

Grad

Erin graduated UMass Lowell today. It has been a long yet fruitful road.

The morning began with the typical rush to get ready betimes, which was steadfastly not accomplished, at least not on the schedule we had in mind. Out the door imagining there will be no (general admission) seats left. We picked up our friend Truus and got onto busy Rt. 3.

Beth had asked me to print out the tickets, but I didn’t print them all, so we wondered how we would get everyone in. We had a chance to think about this while waiting in traffic in Lowell centre. It was not really bad traffic, police details were in force, so it moved well enough, given the mass of vehicles.

Within sight of the Paul Tsongas Centre we saw a parking lot still inviting patronage. As far as we were concerned, it was a bargain at twenty bucks, at least since I had twenty one in my wallet. The parking was all cash, a detail not widely bruited. I didn’t mench that it was a summery spring day.

Paul Tsongas story. Years ago, after my grandmother died, my mother, brother and I drove up to Townsend to clear her place out. On the way, we saw Paul Tsongas walking along the road. He was running for representative at the time. Just him and a couple of other people, trudging along, greeting who he may. On our way back, he was still walking. Something real and warm about that, or the memory.

Erin enrobed himself in the parking lot—I know that you can read that (weirdly) in two ways—and bustled off. Beth stuck the coathanger in a bush for later retrieval.

A nervous but organized mob scene at the Tsongas. We went up to the information booth to see what can be done about the lack of tix. The man said, You can come back next year. He quickly added that they can scan Beth’s phone. So that was much easier than expected. Truus and I found contiguous seats while Beth awaited friend Melinda. Melinda helped start the homeschool cooperative where Erin went and has been a mentor to him, and to us as well.

A collection of brass instruments played pleasantly. “Simple Gifts” was a friendly sound. Energy in the place was skyrocket.

I never walked for any of my graduations, and neither did Beth. It was circs for Beth. For me, more like an obtrusive social anxiety. I was psyched to see Erin walk again (previously, his AA).

Bunches of robed people walked in and sat. A sort of drum major with derby and staff commenced the proceedings. Then a trio of bagpipers with drums marched in. Nice!

A chorale group sang the National Anthem. I don’t know who arranged it but it was quite lovely. It began with just women’s voices. The men came in, I think with the bursting bombs, but gently. F. S. Key could see something fragile and beautiful from his vantage, but in the Trumpian, Tea Party present, the answer to Key’s question in the first verse is no. Sorry, but craven and enclosed is the answer now.

Anyway, we could see Erin in the entering mass, he held his hands behind his back as the walked. Provosts, chancellors, presidents, and trustees spoke positively and encouragingly. Marty Meehan had been a US representative for years till be became chancellor then president of the school. I guess he done a good job because UML has grown rapidly in recent years. Likewise, it must be said, tuition. It is a vital school.

Honourary degrees were presented to Chris Cooper, Marianne Leone Cooper, and Judy Woodruff. I don’t argue with any of them, but couldn’t they have selected someone who hasn’t a television show or movie in their cv?

As to the walk, it took some time. Two people were calling out the names, with two lines of recipients. We were admonished not to applaud till the end, which held true for a while. Eventually claques started erupting, and finally everyone got a yelp. Beth and I whooped for Erin.

Three big screens showed the grads as they stepped onto the stage. Beth was locked and loaded for the picture, but neglected to have the camera on at the vital moment. C’est la vie and it don’t make no never mind.

The Centre slowly drained, and we were out in the warm sunlight. We took a bunch of the usual pictures along with everyone else. It was neat seeing all these family nodes gathering around their grad. The chancellor said that the class of 1400 had students from 96 countries. I didn’t think there were that many countries. Education is hope, no matter what comes out of conservative mouths.

Despite the crowd, Lowell released us rather quickly. We will celebrate Erin’s graduation tonight at an Indian restaurant. Erin persevered, and that’s saying a lot. Beth’s strength made this happen.

The Jungle Book

We saw The Jungle Book Sunday. The movie choice stacked up this way. Of the cinemaplex’s offerings, only the Batman-Superman conflict attracted me. Beth would rather The Jungle Book. For Erin, it would have been a tie between the two, except that reviews have been largely murderous concerning the contentious superheroes. Those same reviews made me rather eager for the experience, but it was not to be.

So we arrived betimes, settled into our comfy chairs, and saw the previews. Since an audience of youngsters was expected, the previews completely lacked explosions and all the rumbling assault that the previews I usually see revel in. Two offerings were animated sequels that you’ll have to take your kids to, and later they can stream it in the backseat of your car. Tother was a live action tra la featuring the dusty suburban perfection of ageless Jennifer Anniston, along with Hollywood’s most burnished situations and comedy. For example, apparent running joke of child peeing on park bench, HILARITY!

Then to the feature.

Only one human appears live on the screen, Mowgli. The youngster is comfortable in the role. The movie begins with him running with wolf cubs while Mowgli’s step-panther pursues. I thought the panther, Bagheera, was voiced by Patrick Stewart, but it was Ben Kingsley, as if there’s a difference. The animals talk, that is, speak English—talk and speak English are synonymous locutions—but I don’t think much bother went to making animal lips move. Most, but not all, the animals spoke English.

The jungle seemed more like a garden, lush green and prettily filmed. The animals are rendered lifelike in appearance but lifeless in action. Like animatronics, as Beth said. There’s plenty of kid-sized banter between the animals.

The crux comes during the dry season. When the Peace Rock is exposed in the pool of water, a truce occurs. During it, all animals may partake the water without fearing survival of the fittest.

And then Shere Khan arrives. This big slinky tiger don’t like no man, reasonably enough. All evil, he means to hunt down Mowgli, once the Peace Rock has been submerged again with the rains. Plot, tension, OMG!

Mowgli decides he must leave, to protect the pack. Bagheera offers to take him to man. Well then.

Off they go. Shere Khan appears and attacks. Mowgli runs. Bagheera fights the tiger and gets smacked down. Oh dear. Mowgli gets carried away by a running herd of wildebeest or whatever. Later, a rain-induced landslide throws the herd and Mowgli into a rushing river. Mowgli gets to shore, never mind the others.

Meanwhile Shere Khan comes threateningly to the pack, kills Akila, the alpha male, and maintains a solid threat. Standard evil incarnate.

Mowgli wanders thru the jungle, heading for the place of People. He encounters Kaa, the huge snake. She—voiced by Scarlett Johannsson—helpfully fills in the backstory of how Shere Khan killed Mowgli’s father. Mowgli’s father wounds the tiger with fire to save the boy. While the tale is told she slowly ensnares him. Then he is saved.

Mowgli wakes to find himself with a bear. Yclept Baloo, and voiced by Bill Murray, the bear saved Mowgli, tho I don’t know how or why. This is the most laidback and unthreatening bear ever. He’s just as realistic as the other animals in appearance yet somehow carries a cartoonish aspect.

Baloo wants Mowgli to collect honeycombs from a precarious cliff in recompense for being saved. Mowgli uses “tricks”, human ingenuity, to do so. As part of the pack, he was disallowed from doing such things.

Bagheera appears, not dead, to bring Mowgli home. He scorns Mowgli’s use of human ingenuity until Mowgli saves a young elephant. They plus Baloo head for the pack.

On the way, monkeys and apes abduct Mowgli. Oddly, these primates don’t speak English. They bring him to an abandoned temple atop a cliff. Within, amidst a mob of primates, is a King Kong-sized orangutan (my guess), who oddly does speak English. Voiced by Christopher Walken, of all the. Despite Walken’s unmatched cadence, this is a ridiculous scene. Especially because one of a couple of musical numbers has been squeezed in here. King Louie (sic) is too big for the temple and his chase thru walls to catch the escaped Mowgli is plain stupid. I should mench that Bagheera and Baloo helped Mowgli escape. The two battle the myriad primates, which somehow don’t pile up. King Louie manages to cause the temple to fall on himself.

King Louie wanted Mowgli to give him the red flower, i.e. fire. With fire, reasoned the big ape, he could rule the world. Mowgli didn’t know from fire.

I think when finally informed that Shere Khan killed Akila Mowgli went to the human village and horked a torch. Now to face the evil tiger. Shere Khan mocks the boy, who then discards the fire. Then the battle royal with the pack and the others fighting the tiger. The battles seemed unpackish, mostly one on one.

Eventually Mowgli runs, with Shere Khan in pursuit. Mowgli had already stated that he would no longer run from Shere Khan but okay. Mowgli had prepared a trap. Earlier there was something about dead trees. Mowgli heads into the trees and onto a branch. Shere Khan follows. The branch breaks. Mowgli catches hold of the swing he had set up earlier. Shere Khan falls to a flaming death. The shot resembled Gollum’s tumble into Mount Doom.

I read the book years ago. I don’t remember it well. I think Kipling’s animals had more gumption as animals than Disney’s aesthetic allows. Anyway, underlying the movie is an awe of movie magic. The technical aspect of all this verisimilitude is impressive. It simply plays without much emotion. I know the target audience is the young for whom emotion plays lively but still.

I will say that the credits had some charming effects. We see an open book, with apparent pop-up scenes. The figures tumble about in brief tableaux. The glimpse of the Jennifer Anniston movie—it should be titled A History of Hollywood Cliches—didn’t even want movie magic. Just the sense of salve for a populous needing entertainment as the ship nears the iceberg.

Drive About, Spring 2016

Another drive about as Beth collected appraisal pictures and I went along. It looked like the first day of spring, burgeoning and lovely. My father died on the last day of winter in 05, which seemed appropriate.

Down Rt 3 to I-95, which is still Rt 128 to me. Took the exit onto Rt 2A/Marrett Rd, heading towards East Lexington. Passing close to where I grew up.

For instance, the Old Res (for reservoir), Threw a lot of rocks into that thing. It represented semi-wildness in my cultivated childhood. It became a town swimming hole at some point but that usage seemed wrong to me. Too civilized. Passed the store where I used to get comic books and the usual oddlots of candy. Now a paint store. There are now also places where I can get a fresh BMW or have a laser scrape my face potentially fresh face. Progress.

Further on, the busy intersection of gas stations, convenience stores (not called that in the day), and so forth. Considerable so forth, in fact. A daunting number of large houses have been squeezed in behind the Dunkin' Donuts. My goodness. My former home just visible above thru the winter trees.

Somebody left coupons at our store to a Sports Barber Shop here. There used to be a pharmacy at the location. Free haircut, were I inclined. Beth thinks I’m absurd for abstaining, but see: it’s gonna be talkative stylists hepped up on local sports, and there’s something about a towel on my head and a scalp massage. Sitting in front of a mirror whilst hirsute machinations occur is travail enough, don’t add to the list.

So anyway. On to Mass Ave, within sight of the convent where I worked thru high school. It was a French-Canadian order, they were just enduring modernization (younger nuns opting for less tonnage in regards to their habits), and Catholicism was mystery to me then. Unlike now. The place now serves the assisted-living community, of which I am not, to the depth of Republican soullessness, a part.

Got pix of a comp near the bike path. The path is a stretch of paved intent running from Bedford to Cambridge. Formerly, trains ran all the way to Concord, with a northern spur to Billerica. Such modicum of individualism has been displaced by the three car garage.

Next we took the contrary route back 2A. Past, for instance, the site of an ice cream stand of much enjoyment, as the lad I was. Now part of the Minuteman National Park, the stand has been removed, and more emphasis has been placed on the fact that Paul Revere was captured at the site, on the fateful night (hardly a man is now alive). Pix taken.

Then on to Rt 2, the vital artery to Cambridge/Boston and the palooka world of valid employment. Route 2 has been receiving a quick, perhaps vicious, update from the country road that wandered to the western end of the state to a sluice that pours workers of the world to and fro, poor sods. Where quaint Concord and Lincoln meet, a swath of hillside has been transformed into condo heaven, a hillside sliced free from consideration and replaced by bonded construction of delirious intent. Irony Inc decreed this must happen maybe one mile from the vapid sanctity of Walden Pond. You know, where the guy wrote “Amplify! Amplify! Amplify!”

Past Walden, and over the culverted Sudbury River, Emerson Hospital, where I was born, and my mother died (not the same day). Dad died across the street. Looping around the famous rotary in front of the Mass Correctional Facility, we bended toward West Concord. Formerly the working class side of Concord, but real estate prices make that a memory.

Heading to Maynard on Rt 62. Maynard remains a working class town, but shows earnest in upgrading. It nestles around the Assabet River which, with the Sudbury, joins the Concord, eventually. Found all necessary comps.

Homeward, oh. A gas station in West Concord was removed for the flowering of a new bank. Next to old bank. Thru Concord. Bang left past the Colonial Inn, once owned by Thoreau’s father. Monument St past the Old Manse of Hawthorne’s mundane writing career (mundane, of the world). Past the real estate prices and horses swathed in blankets. Some real world, no doubt, exists beyond the palaver. I mean, we saw crocus and daffodils.

Dropping her report off meant we could side trip to Wegmans. Nothing egregious about the store but the crowd overwhelms me. Where should I put my piddling cart amidst the thronging? We escaped with provender and victuals. I hear the cat snore behind me as I write.

Black Mountain College at Institute for Contemporary Art

Beth and I took a rare jaunt into the city to see an exhibit about Black Mountain College. We haven't been to ICA. It sits on Boston's busy waterfront.

Beautiful late autumn day. Recent winds and rain have denuded the trees (oaks excluded), so the landscape is bright and open and electric. Chilly with the wind, down on the water.

We parked in a garage near the museum. No means of identifying where in the garage one left one's car, like numbered spaces. Could be challenges later.

Short walk to the place itself. A patch of grass that children can run upon sat near the building and decorative grasses waved lushly in the wind. Boston's waterfront is always windy.

The building is eye-catching modern, if there is such a thing (modern, I mean). Lots of straight lines and glass. A hallway oceanside allows you to sit on benches and watch the waterfront. Boston's most exclusive neighbourhood coming soon, said a sign.

First floor is dedicated to the gift shop and the restaurant. We investigated neither. The restaurant was in brunch mode. Only the fourth floor houses exhibits. I forget what's on the second floor, the third has a theatre. Up we went to the fourth floor in a large glass elevator.

I will write in more detail about the exhibit elsewhere/elsetime.  [Late edit: here is the review: Black Mountain at ICA]

The show featured work from the school community, that is to say teachers as well as student, famous and not sos. The school was never flush. Josef Albers had a couple of works featuring tree leaves, more expensive material being hard to come by.

Albers came to Black Mountain by way of the Bauhaus, when Nazi unrest produced an uncomfortable atmosphere. I wonder if William Morris' design work influenced Bauhaus? I saw no mention but it seems a commonality exists.

The poets of the school were under-represented. It doesn't seem like the artists of BMC were lumped together in a school, but the Black Mountain School remains a thing even now, however usefully. Why not include a reading?

While scribbling notes as I toured, I was interrupted by a guide. She asked if I had a pen. I offered it to her. Tho she was dressed in black like the rest of the guides I didn't recognize her as such. She handed me a pencil and said pens aren't allowed. I could keep my pen. Were I in desecrating mood, I could have got the job done with a pencil, or just my hands. And I still had the lethal pen in my pocket.

There was a dance performance of a Merce Cunningham piece. An archival b&w film of the same piece played on the wall. An ex-Cunningham dancer dressed in red danced to the concerted piano plinking of a John Cage score. The dancer was a real dancer, you could tell from his posture and movement. Visibility proved problematic with the crowd so we moved on.

The exhibit floor is a mazy hive but we made it thru all the exhibits. A small theatre offered computers where you could read brief bios and and hear interviews or readings from BMC people. Olson's reading from Maximus was animated and fulfilling, tho I have seen it elsewhere. We rather thought we would spend longer but 90 minutes seemed to be enough to see all the work. We went thru a second time, willing to follow a guided tour. Things had gotten loud however, and it proved difficult to hear the guide.

It was around three and a little early to eat, tho I was ready to. A nearby restaurant intrigued Beth so we went in. The restaurant would not open till five but a woman there chatted with us. Beth was eager to try the place because it featured Greek food. Could we but manage the wait.

We joined Satan in hating on Christmas by getting a cup of coffee at Starbuck's. Beth looked up reviews for the restaurant we just left. Loved it or hated it was the consensus. One reviewer said the bartender yelled at them. Another customer wrote that a dish arrived in error yet the restaurant required that the patrons pay for it. A few more poor service and left hungry convinced us to go elsewhere. In fact we decided to go somewhere closer to home.

Lack of signs in the parking garage left us wandering a bit till we found the car. We were om the Zakim Bridge just as golden sunset painted the hills of Charlestown. The sunset was gorgeous with high clouds and dazzling red and gold. We stopped at a Mexican restaurant at the mall for enchiladas. Disappointed with the museum but otherwise fun day with Beth.

The Hunt Club by John Lescroart, and Possibly More

I don't know if I hadn't ought to teach novel writing because I discover so many critical issues in the novels that I read. I understand that we read for various reasons and different levels of attention. Still, I think I can make valid points.

I'm not even speaking of such ambitious projects as The Great American Novel (which I'm satisfied that Melville wrote more than a century and a half ago, tho the concept seems still to be alive), but just functional novels that you can wrap some brain cells around. And it's not like I'm such a perspicacious reader. Hand me an Agatha Christie story that I have already read, and I will still need to wait till the denouement for Poirot to meticulously explain who killed Lord Fluffernutter. That has more to do with my ability to work puzzles than my insight into novels. No, really!!! I'm quite the critical juggernaut regarding works of fiction. BTW, fiction is the same as poetry, only we call it fiction. Something about how language transfers to the brain...

Anyway, my current test case is The Hunt Club by John Lescroart (never heard of him before picking up this book). By page 121 (out of 405), we've got a murder, and a protagonist. More like two protagonists, but maybe plot turns and red herrings will settle things more clearly.

The book, and presumably the story, begins in 1992. Wyatt Hunt works for Child Protection Service. That's an unusual occupation for someone we expect to solve a murder mystery. Sensitively written, too. I thought this was quite intriguing. It's a bit of a red herring, as it happens.

Jump four years forward, Hunt manages to remove some children from a bad home scene. In the course of which, he meets up with a long lost old friend, who seems to be the second protagonist, Devin Juhle. Juhle is a cop.

Hunt loses his job by not playing along with his corrupt boss. He and Juhle and Hunt's platonic lawyer girlfriend contrive to bring the boss down. The boss was collecting worker's comp for a fake injury. This caper—they catch the supposed invalid at physical labour—was fun so Hunt decides to become a private eye. Not my first self-query here as to where this all heads.

This brings us to chapter five and the present day. That's a lengthy set up. Hunt has a successful agency with several employees including the now adult children he saved early on. A cluttered scene introduces the “Hunt Club”, friends and associates of the agency. Note how “Hunt Club” has two meanings. It would make a great title for a book.

Most of the main characters sit in on this scene, set at a restaurant, where the repartee flies. Actors, with facial nuances, vocal intonation, and such, could probably say these lines with some liveliness and conviction, but this jazzy dialogue just seems forced to me as I read it, and not as funny as somebody thinks it is. Maybe S. J. Perelman could come in for a rewrite.

I have here identified one problem pertaining to novelists, the belief that what they heard in their head transferred to the page. Okay, all writers, including the one at the keyboard now, wrestle with that one. This scene proposes, I gather, to introduce many of the players in the story. As I discover, these characters appear in most of Lescroart's books, with varying levels of importance. The low-grade snarkiness of everyone's dialogue in this scene does little to help bring these characters to life. Furthermore, Lescroart confusingly unleashes quite a few characters here. I'm having trouble keeping track of them. In this crowd, they don't distinguish themselves. Lescroartt assumes that you've already met these characters in other of his books.

New scene. A young waitress meets a federal judge at her restaurant and eventually they have an affair. They further eventually are found by the judge's wife at the judge's home, shot to death. Saying the wife found them should not suggest that she didn't shoot them herself. That's still to be determined.

A guest at the frothy restaurant scene is a lawyer who appears on a Court TV-like show. She gets sick drunk at the restaurant, ending with her slapping the show's producer who accompanied her to this gathering. Hunt gentlemanly brings her home.

Next day, when she's sober, she makes the world's best spaghetti carbonara (before or after, I forget which, the de rigueur rumpty bumpty). This is a chance for the author to show off, and it gets a bit weird. Lescroart describes her process in detail, as if it were some culinary miracle. You must know the miracle as well as I do: fry bacon, boil spaghetti, smush some eggs, grate cheese, mix together. There's room for genius there, I suppose, but I am sure that I had basic ability in those skills by age eleven. Andrea, the character, calls it her patented recipe. The author's just showing off.

There, I have identified a second problem with novelists: they can find themselves showing off. Scheming to make an impression, that is. Lescroart does some name-checking, for instance. I think Ian Fleming may have invented this sort of thing, to illustrate James Bond's hipness. At any rate, there's some product placement here: Jordan cabernet, Hendricks gin. Doing so seems more about the author than the character.

Presumably, Lescroart knows his San Francisco. I don't have a San Francisco, but I can see enjoying the references if I did. Local settings have a tingle, no doubt.

Juhle, until further notice, seems to have a happy marriage. Hunt lost his wife and child in childbirth. One of those looming pasts to bring up at odd moments in the storytelling. This sort of thing savours of two-bit pop psychology. That's right, not just plain pop psychology, I wrote two-bit. Too neat, and really just superfluous.

I really liked the essentially unneeded beginning of the book with Hunt as child protection agent. The story has devolved to police and lawyer procedural. Early on, I thought maybe there might be a dark side to Hunt and/or Juhle but now I realize that they are two poles in the investigation, assuming investigations have poles, and basically two pals of the author, both of which points I here do assert. Juhle takes the by-the-book route while Hunt can be loose with the rules.

What the story has come down to, then, is a lot of scene changes that instigate a lot of questions. Not very lifelike, if that's a goal, and quite stodgy in its narrative movement. We're just rooting for the good guys, at this point. Come on, denouement!

Which bring the question: What does Dear Reader want from a novel? Is it just catching the perp, in this case, and in general, the feelgood plot? I think everyone responds positively to the notion of good or at least okay endings for the protagonists. Frodo destroyed the Ring, tho with a grey tinge to the happily ever after. Etc. Justice served.

I like that shit as much as anyone, but I also like the journey . Or I should say, I want to. (Tolkien managed his journey with intricate depth: it can happen!) I don't want to notice the writer's art so much. I don't want to realize that characters are machines, automatons acting out the writer's schemes. I do notice that stuff. The stuff between the periods interests me. I regard the scheming overlay as distraction.

Keats noted it two centuries ago, the Egotistical Sublime. The author gets in the way of the words. Blake noted it, the Authors are in Heaven (and the corollary implication that the author is on earth, mere earth). Author as essential hero. I say no. The author is a sieve, here to collect some interesting bits.

The lift of novels, according to me, is not from plot development and character realization but in the telling language. Yes, novels that go the way they should offer a pleasing sensation. I read (am reading) that way now. The real scene of interest, however, occurs in the sentences beckoning meaning. Language is poetry when we get to that point, even in novels. Otherwise, a novel becomes just more messages from Our Sponsor.

I'm still reading The Hunt Club so I can give nothing away. It wouldn't matter if I could. It represents a gesture towards completion that doesn't really apply to anyone. It is the sort of book, finally, that you'd like, if you like that sort of stuff. That's not a condemnation, but it does suggest the insular park we are content to stroll in.

Bad Lit

I am reading a book called Dean Koontz' Frankenstein. I thunk it would be a retelling in modern day, that sort of thing. It is set modern day (the modern day of 2005, remember then?), but it is more complicated. It's a marketing job, for one thing.

A closer look at the book cover reveals that Koontz teamed with Ed Gorman on this epic. Further closer looking finds that this is Book Two, “City of Night”. Argh, trilogy! The word trilogy has become code for Commercial Horseshit. Trilogies are now the effort of an author to extend pitilessly the primordial awesomesauce to the thinnest of reward. I HATE IT! Douglas Adams was honest enough, and clever enough, to produce Books Four and Five of his Hitchhiker Trilogy, but for the most part, trilogy means diminishing returns. Okay, that editorial is over.

The Koontz Machine teaming with Ed Gorman is another marketing knee jerk. Book One, you see, joins Koontz with Kevin J. Anderson. Who knows who guest stars in Book Three? I believe I have read Gorman, gritty thriller. I think I have read Anderson as well, Star Trek universe hack. So, okay, we're just gonna potter about with this epic.

I'm catching this in media res, but it seems some characters might already have a history with Gorman. It reads that way. Invite the author and his characters into your lucrative literary world. I think I have set the scene. I would likely not bother, but it is Frankenstein.

A friend in eighth grade urged me to read Frankenstein, which I did. The soliloquizing monster hardly matched the iconic omg of the Karloff expression. Past that, and read again with more adult eyes, it's a goodly chunk of story, and worth siphoning off of, for sure.

The Koontz cartel headed pragmatically towards the bottom line with this thing. I have read Koontz previously. I retain only a sense that of moderate competence trying to excite some interest in me, and not quite hitting the marker.

 Competence.

If you string sentences in a somewhat logical manner, and produce a plot that heads towards something, you've got readership's attention. I don't read a lot of this sort of entertainment, and tend to do so merely as a look-see, but I am willing to enjoy myself if given a chance. Tho this book paces well I'm really just reading to see how it manages because it is not held together well. Especially so because I know a Book Three lurks out there to further attenuate the story.

What we learn from the start: the book does concern Doktor Frankenstein and his creation. Victor has survived to modern day thru his scientific know how. He's Victor Helios now. I see a red flag…

The monster, now called Deucalion—Dave or Benny wouldn't do—also lives to this day. Further red flag.

So Victor has been busy. Fabulously wealthy, he's busy making a new race of humans. Replicants, they are all genetically modified to be more physically powerful, as well as fully adapted to accepting his orders. A genetic hierarchy exists amongst the replicants, Alpha, Beta, Gamma. Victor has been dispatching key people in New Orleans and replacing them with replicants. Reboot of humanity, with Victor Helios in charge. Sounds fun!

A pair of cops are on to this exploit and mean to put an end to Victor. It sounds hopeless but what do I know? These two characters seem like they might have existed prior to emigrating to the Koontz world. Just a guess. 

They are a wise-cracking couple, man and woman. Their snappy dialogue seems forced. The man is a softie while the woman is hardboiled. Her father, deceased, was wrongly accused of being a dirty cop. Oh, and they are sweet on each other, tho the woman is too hardboiled to let that get too icky.

Deucalion we aint seen much of. He's angry and revenge-minded but mostly been brooding offscreen. There's a lovely couple, super attractive, who are modified to be assassins. They're looking for the cute cop couple. Uh oh. Replicants can't give birth but the lady assassin has been showing signs of wanting children.

The lady cop has an autistic brother. An older woman that she befriended takes cares of him while she's off settling the score with Helios. The assassins are heading towards the lady cop's home.

Victor's wife Erika, several versions after the first, has been modified to Stepford Wife. She's been acting too curious however. Other replicants are also proving problematic, like they are coming to realize their enslavement by time, or perhaps just not as well devised genetically as Victor might have wanted.

At the dump where Victor stashes all the dead bodies, seemingly millions of them, some sort of evil life force apparently seeks to become a plot point.

A replicant that Victor modified to be autistic—I didn't quite catch why Victor did that—has escaped home base and seeks the cop's autistic brother. And that's where I am at with this book, about halfway thru Book Two.

The scale of Victor's venture is typically vast. I have no idea how two wisecracking coppers will settle the score. I do not look forward to any attacks on the autistic boy or the woman caring for him. Victor's friendship with and assistance to Joseph Stalin is just another stain on plausible. There's at least one more volume to this thing. I think I have done all the thinking I need to do on this book.

Lowell and the Way

No one is asking me, but I feel urged to write on the towns hereabout—Know Your Towns!!!—what with Beth zipping hither and yon appraising, and me sometimes along for the ride. We betook ourselves to Dracut, Mass, today. Dracut borders Lowell, as well as the conservative mysteries of New Hampshire.

From my lean experience, I thought of Dracut as the boil on Lowell's ass. Then, too, Lowell has seemed like a decrepit remake of colonized Boston. Both viewpoints are right enough, and wrong. People + Socio-economics = People. No left, right, or u-turns around that proposition. Memo to the collective running for office.

To reach Lowell by car—trains and buses also work—you can take Rt. 3 and then the quaintly-named Lowell Connector. The Lowell Connector is a spur directly into the cauldron of Lowell. Where we turn off onto Dutton, there's an embankment with a large Welcome to Lowell message in white pebbles. There's also a sign mentioning Lowell Pride. We'll just assume that both statements are sincere.

Thru out the city are banners sponsored by and for UMass Lowell. These banners indicate how ready you shall be for work and life with a UMass Lowell education. Pictures on these banners showing good, normal kids, no evident piercings or tats, fosters the dream.

Our route needn't've wended thru Lowell's central clutter but we had a minor emergency meet up with Erin at the school. Thence we rode along the busy thoroughfare parallel to the Merrimack River. It's really a lovely setting, with an esplanade, and perhaps a junkie or two. I don't know about the junkies, but as lovely and fascinating as Lowell is, seedy if not decayed never seems far away. Still, there's a grand house on this busy roadway with a wrought iron fence painted a beaming gold, or gilded for all I know. Like architecture? Come to Lowell.

Beth's first stop was at a condo complex, a small enclave of townhouses on a busy road. Thick vegetation surrounded the complex on three sides, with a marshy pond visible thru the trees on one side. So close to the urban miasma!

Further down the road we saw homes of better upkeep than the Lowell standard. The land itself started to sing with rolling hills. The second condo complex was nestled into the slope of what I am pretty sure is a dell. There's a working farm next door. The third comp felt warm and inviting. I mean the land still remembered that life grew from the earth, back in the day.

Heading back towards Lowell we saw a church with large and ornate stained glass windows. Alas the dirt. I think one showed some chick holding a baby. The largest one featured this guy and a large boat with animals. I wonder if it was a scene from The Epic of Gilgamesh.

Just to keep things in perspective, across the street from the church was a corner packie. And next to it: a graveyard the size of a vacant lot. Old one too, but the chain link fence was probably newer.

The school is in growth spurt all over the place. The school is a pretense of fulfilling success given the closeby destitution of actual people in a rainbow of languages. And I think again of William Blake and songs specifically of Innocence:

And we are put on earth a little space,

That we may learn to bear the beams of love

Those are not easy beams to bear, in the rising intolerance of sanctified greed. Pope Francis recently said to the churches, Feed the poor or pay taxes. Good start.

Out and About, Part 73.715

Fun is fun, once again joining Beth on an appraisal ramble. She needs pictures of recently-sold comparatives of subject appraisals. Destination: Natick, Mass. Have heard on radio ads: na-TICK. Pronounce it NAY-tick, like the locals do. Locals are always right.

Back in the good old days, Natick was, according to peerless Wikipedia, an early praying Indian settlement. As in, Our munificent God says Stay here, don't make waves. Colonialism = bulldozer, but gee, opiates are great!

We engaged Rt 3 to I-95 South, thence to Rt 20, aka Boston Post Rd. In elder days, the artery to the city, now the busy pass thru to all the yonders we learn to imagine. We slid thru Weston first. It is the moneyest town in the state and Boston bedroom community supreme. It is green and populated by houses of this and that extent. We were just passing thru.

Wayland next. More of the same, perhaps with rolling-er landscape. I mean the crust is lovely almost as the dirt. You can see the bones of farms, but farming is such an antique idea. Lawns = imagination, since I am so math-oriented. No McMansions, tho.

Thence to Natick. My aunt and uncle lived there, until they winterized and expanded the Cape Cod cottage and shifted there. Lake Cochituate was within walking distance of their Natick house, and Carling had a brewery nearby (assuming memory works). File under auld lang syne.
So much of New England is green, a fact I often forget. Big deciduous trees are our neighbours and friends. Beth grew up in the desert spareness of Nevada.

Natick centre is a fine bustle this side of gentrification. It has some lovely brick factories now housing emporia for the rising crest. I saw what must have been a retired brick school or municipal building now yceplt Cochituate Village. An apartment building. O marketing, you make the people weep. Village is now an embracing term for all that we no longer have. Developers of condos and developments love such comforting words as village or farm. “Come out from the grove my love & care,” wrote Childe William.

But anyway. At one house, the owner noted the suspicious car. Beth explained the wherefore and whereof of her enterprise. He was not nonplussed, and Beth says she has yet to encounter anyone fussed by her picture taking.

The final comp was on Pumpkin Pine Rd. Let that sink in: it makes no sense. Perhaps as a new craft beer. We live in dreams.

Saugus Massachuswtts for Some Reason

I accompanied Beth again as she went to take pictures of houses for a real estate appraisal. We went to Saugus, which is not far away. I hardly know the place. I am moved to write of Saugus.

It is an old town. In Cub Scouts, we went to the Saugus Iron Works on the goddamn hottest day of the year. Didn't get a great impression of the place.

We passed thru Wakefield on the way. Wakefield centre boasts a sparkly New England green and an amazing amount of landscaped flowers and shrubs. Just outside the centre is a lake full of sailboats and surrounded by people briskly afoot. Nice!

Saugus, on the other hand, is the Corner Liquor Store Capitol of the World. Saugus also ties for second in the Neighbourhood Pizza Joint competition. I saw quite a few grandly invasive churches, including some that probably have bomb shelters for riding out the Apocalypse. That's just a guess. I'm talking the Bible as read thru crazy, which is a pretty normal state of affairs, sadly.

On the plus side of Saugus, they don't chop down trees unnecessarily. On one side of the road you see houses cramped together. On tother, a hillside of vegetation, permanently empowered.

Speaking of which, Saugus has more than its share of hillside. I swan to John, West Virginia would be envious of the ups and downs of Saugus. Furthermore, roads in Saugus shimmy side to side by a good sum. Really, you don't see more the 20' ahead on the road, and these roads are often thin.

We went off a main road onto your best guess of a back road, which wriggled here and there then gave way to a coven of normalesque suburban homes. I added the -esque because several of these houses had pedestaled lions at the driveway's mouth. Whoa, grandeur! One grand house had a wrought iron fence surrounding the property. Chez Citadel for the Coming Economic Downfall.

Beth and I both shifted between thinking Not Bad and Armpit. It is a weird half rapture. I mean, the aforementioned Saugus Iron Works, a 17^th century work of plucky colonists and a national historic site, sits amidst an ordinary clutch of suburban normal. I thought you would like to know about Saugus. It resides in all of us.

Against Misanthropy by Eileen Tabios

I have started a new blog, Mandala Web. a patch of thought about mindfulness and creativity. I hope this one will be a more grown up one than my various Blogger accounts, i.e.: neatness counts! With the link that follows, I give more attention to Against Misanthropy by Eileen Tabios than I gave in my last post here. Still some sloppiness apparent, but please go here.

New Books by Eileen Tabios

I Forgot Light Burns (Moria Books)

Against Misanthropy (BlazeVOX[books]

Two new books by Eileen Tabios. One is a collection of poetry, the other a collection of interviews with and statements by Eileen. I think Eileen makes little distinction between the genres, and first name basis seems the only basis with her.

I Forgot Light Burns is the poetry collection. Eileen used a poetry generator to create this work. The generator randomly selects material from a database of 1146 lines. Each block of text begins with the words I forgot. Pages consist of one to many such blocks. Each block could be considered a sentence, simple or complex. In the first section the blocks end sans period, elsewhere with an em-dash (my favourite punctuation mark!). You could consider each block a poem, or each page, or each titled section, or the whole book. The door is kept open that way.

So there we are.

The first section (of three, not counting afterword) bears the title “I Forgot the Flamenco Red”. Inspired by if not an ode to red toilet paper that Eileen managed to discover in Spain and is pictured on the book cover. The lines here generated all begin with “I forgot Red”. Here are some random selections:

I forgot Red for the slithering snake freezing to S in Espana [from this I see this weird ass tp pulled sinuously from the roll]

I forgot Red of black heels stamping concrete

I forgot Red of Guernica

I forgot Red as the roses sacrificed to the spiders by the winemaker

This section strikes me as more thematic than the other two.

Many lines carry a sad, surreal quality. There’s an intimacy in these lines:

I forgot a child crayon to form a heart—

I forgot instructing saliva to wait—

I forgot minarets growing within muddy pools—

A few lines seem directed, as if the author were trying to say something. These satisfy me less than the oracular ones that seem to arrive from who knows where. I should add that within the context of random origination—math types always say there is no such thing as random, don’t they?—the compelling voice would want to speak as well.

Against Misanthropy (subtitle A Life in Poetry) is, as I did mench, interviews and statements. Eileen is much thoughtful on the process of writing. Writing seems too delimiting a term to enclose the artistic, political, cultural, aesthetic, and humanistic concerns of this author. This book offers an engaging sampling of her thoughts and concerns. Eileen Tabios engages and supports poetry with unusual zest. That zest shows in every page of this book.

I was about to get wordy but the three words I just used, engages, supports, and zest pretty well map the territory. Lively statements and lively replies about poetry, people, and world. Do drop in.

Avengers: Age of Ultron

Finally saw this second Avengers movie. It was okay. I’m not really keyed into the grand intertwining of story lines. That’s Marvel’s contribution to comics. I didn’t savour the lengthy plot lines when I was 13, and haven’t changed much on that. But anyway.

We got to the theatre early enough to sit thru ads for tv shows. Sorry, not about to watch. The theatre, by the bye, has undergone a redo, to the degree of electrically-powered lounge seats and room for my legs. Wowzer!

In the previews, there’s a movie about a boxer. Rocky redux. To keep custody of his daughter he has to beat the champ. Okay chumps, buy that one again. Old never gets old.

Looking for something else to buy again? Try more Terminator. I never saw the previous, altho of course I have absorbed them all thru cultural osmosis. Arnold’s back. It looks like the same old shit, albeit with shiny new graphics. And while I cannot abide Arnold, his acknowledged status as a cultural thing works well in the two minutes that I saw. Jurassic Park has also received a reshine.

Adam Sandler sits in the middle of a movie in which aliens invade Earth using video game characters such as Donkey Kong and Pac-man. Sort of almost nearly kind of a cute idea but Adam Sandler, the God of Stupid. The Fantastic Four return, also redux. Yeah, I slept thru the last 90 minutes of the earlier attempt. I have to say that I never particularly cared for FF in its comic book evocation.

Ant-Man also hits the screen. I never read Ant-Man. What up with Marvel’s predilection for hyphens? This looked more okay. Paul Rudd seems a funny cast selection, but he does have a bead on comedy, which these stupid movies need.

Anywho, the movie for which good money paid finally arrived on the screen. Popcorn was by then gone.

I was plot-confused the whole way thru. It’s me, Erin claimed that he followed it (them). I don’t even want to recount that which I got. Doesn’t seem to matter.

The plus of this feast is the cast. Robert Downey, Chris Evans, Scarlett Johansen, and Chris Hemsworth all snap off crisp banter with charm. Joss Whedon writes crisp banter. Plot, ugh.

We had to get sad because the poncy English AI voice of Tony Stark’s computer system is, er, killed by Ultron. Ultron is voiced by James Spader, a pretty good escapade. I recognized the voice but couldn’t put his name to it. Spader lounges back in the character like an old hammock, if that simile isn’t too much to digest.

CGI still sucks. I think you are supposed to smoke a few joints and then say Whoa!. Look, the greatest movie ever is Monty Python and the Holy Grail—budget three quid—which just let you enter the process and say those men pretending to be on horseback really are. Those blurs on the screen in The Avengers just look like blurs on the screen. And Physics is just a suggestion, not a set of qualities by which we are ruled.

The action scenes are splat. Ridiculous movements all over the screen. Physics should be ashamed of itself for allowing this free for all.

Captain America the character and Chris Evans the actor are surprisingly appealing. I like Cap’s earnestness. He seemed more of a dick in the comics that I read (in the day). Not a dick, really, but just standard superhero.

After a rough superheroing day, the crew betake themselves to the unexpected farm in the middle of nowhere whereat Hawkeye stows wife and fam. I mean please.

Stupid got the game ball with Ultron’s attempt to wipe out humanity. He lifts an entire town with I dunno secreted underground. The idea being that it would drop onto the earth with force enough to wipe out humanity. In the last X-Men that I saw, Magneto lifts a ballpark, and that seemed tuned to idiocy enough, but Ultron trumps. From this disaster and the attack of Ultron’s robotic minions, three gazillion and seventeen nobodies die. Ho hum.

Almost nobody gets hurt amongst the favoured heroes, no matter what befalls, not counting that three gazillion and seventeen. There’s an endless scene in which Iron Man tries to subdue The Hulk. More means nothing, they clash and clash until it’s time to stop. The more that finally beat Hulk is the same more that earlier did not.

This is America in action. Why think when thoughtlessness will fill the bill? Do we understand revenge, at all? It looks like the stupidest intolerance of all. The Old Testament hails the calm satisfaction of us and them. So too The Avengers.