Nice. Nice. Nice.

That's no nut, boy. . . it's Captain Nice!

(To explain the preceding video experience)

For no good reason at all, thinking about the Kid from Deliverance and what he looks like now, which got me thinking about that rockin' Duelling Banjos scene from Deliverance, watched it on YouTube and was impressed by Ronnie Cox on the guitar, wondered what else Ronnie Cox had done, remembered he played George Apple on a show called Apple's Way, then remembered he was also on St. Elsewhere playing Dr. Craig's wife's boy friend, then remembered Dr. Craig (William Daniels) starring in a very very bad, very very lame Batman-ish sendup in 1967 called Captain Nice.

Now you know where I get my ideas.

A horse is a horse is a horse

Last week I had a wonderful riding experience on Vancouver Island at Tiger Lily Farms. I got to ride Bentley, a lovely roan Quarter horse with an amiable personality and a penchant for grabbing leaves that brushed his nose over the trail. Oh how I wish. How I wish I could've taken Bentley out on my own, for a nice meander and perhaps a canter or even a bit of galloping, but this isn't an option for me now. Riding for an hour with a guide cost $40.00, which seemed like a lot until I checked prices around here and found out they're $55.00 per person per hour, minimum booking of four, with a $100.00 deposit.

Did I appreciate having a horse of my own when I was age 10 - 13? Of course not. I am embarrassed to say I eventually lost interest. I was in high school and it wasn't cool to be horsy then. Rocky wasn't a registered anything, certainly not a Quarter horse like Bentley (though I used to say he was "1/4 Quarter horse"). He was a trail horse well-trained to tolerate any kind of rider, even a kid who steered him into some pretty bad situations (like being stuck to the shoulder in a mud-wallow).

I realize in these primitive archival photos that he seems to have too big-of-a-head, which he really didn't. The style of his mane could be described as a Mohawk, more for ease of grooming than anything else (I think his unshaven mane would have been a tangled jungle in which curry-combs would have been lost forever). He was what was called a strawberry roan, a sorrel (redhead) with a lot of creamy white sprinkled through his coat, especially on his face and rump(though it's hard to see it here).

My mother used to say "Rocky has a pink-and-grey face." I remember a kind eye and a rubbery nose perfect for kissing.  He was a "character" who would prance around the pasture trying to evade the bridle (prance? My ass - he was putting it on to annoy me). If we crossed a stream, he would stop and splash vigorously with a foreleg until I steered him the other way.

He once broke out of my back yard and took off like a shot (back yard? Yes, these photos were taken when I had the bright idea of riding him the 2 miles or so from the boarding stable to my house). My Dad said, "I didn't think that horse was so fast." He was a strawberry blur, his hoofs clopping the pavement at a furious rate, and by the time our car caught up with him he was contentedly munching hay in the barn, his coat unusually dark with exertion.

I think horses have taken on an almost mythical significance to me. I was born in the Year of the Horse (not that I believe in such things!) and have come to see the horse as a symbol of absolute freedom. Even the most highly-trained have a streak of wildness in them, much as cats do. The quietest horse can spook (as Rocky did once, seeing a gum wrapper on the trail, causing me to say, "You idiot, you're doing that on purpose").  I have sat on bolting horses, horses who tried to scrape me off under a tree branch, and I stayed on. Not because I'm a good rider - I'm not, particularly - but because I feel like I'm one with them. Or one of them? Almost.

The Help: they just can't help it, can they?

My mother had a black cleaning lady named Eva for years and years. She didn't have much to do with us kids, though we regularly saw her vacuuming our rooms and setting right the chaos of our jumbled games and toys.  My Mum once said if she met Eva on the street and didn't say hello to her first, she'd look away, but if she did say hello, Eva would smile and warmly respond: "Hello, Mrs. Burton." 

I think that was the protocol then: "the help" didn't initiate greetings, in case the white lady would rather the cleaning lady remain anonymous. Or in case she didn't want to be seen talking to a colored person.

Does this sound like the deep South? Guess again. I grew up in Chatham, Ontario, which is near Windsor, which is near Detroit, so we got all the Detroit TV channels and culture. Motown music got to us sooner and affected us more than in most parts of Canada, as did the late-'60s riots that Gordon Lightfoot wrote about in "Black Day in July". 

The Supremes came to Chatham in 1961, but I guess it was too much too soon, because hardly anyone showed up. Marian Anderson came to perform and couldn't stay in the same hotel as her entourage. There were, by Ontario standards, a lot of black kids in my classes, maybe 3 or 4, 5 or 6 even, but we usually didn't hang out with each other or both sides would be offended.

I never learned about the profound historical significance of Chatham/Kent County because it was never taught in school, nor even mentioned once. My mother did talk about it a bit, but I was not sure what she was referring to and I am not even sure how she found out about it. This is a tidbit from Wikipedia:

During the 19th century, the area was part of the Underground Railroad. As a result, Chatham–Kent is now part of the African-Canadian Heritage Tour. Uncle Tom's Cabin Historic Site is a museum of the Dawn Settlement, established in 1841 by Josiah Henson near Dresden as refuge for the many slaves who escaped to Canada from the United States.^[3] John Brown, the abolitionist, planned his raid on the Harpers Ferry Virginia Arsenal in Chatham and recruited local men to participate in the raid. The small village of North Buxton, part of the African Canadian Heritage Tour, also played an important role in the Underground Railroad.

The Underground Railroad was a loosely-organized escape route for runaway slaves from the U. S. South looking for sanctuary in Canada, and many of them found it in Chatham. I read these statistics now in shock: holy hell, these are all places I was familiar with from my childhood! There were poor neighborhoods in Chatham and surrounding areas where black folks had their - well, weren't they really happier in their own communities? We tried to convince ourselves of that. But by then, integration was the norm and they had to go to school with us, whether they (or we) wanted to or not.

Churches remained pretty much segregated, mostly (we believed) by choice. Reminds me of the old joke about the black man who goes to a white church and finds the door locked. He pounds on the door and shouts and tries to get in, but he can't. Then God comes along and says to him, "Don't worry, I've been trying to get into that place for years."

If there was any sort of official attitude toward black folks back then, it was "aren't we generous to let them live here": they were treated as glorified squatters, not part of a historical movement every bit as significant as the undergrounds that operated during World War II. Imagine the raw courage it took to escape, to risk life and limb for freedom and sanctuary. Imagine how many were maimed and killed. But what really destroys me is the kind of "welcome" waiting for them in this land of safe haven: every trace of their courageous journey was erased from the record, as if it were just some sort of embarrassment we'd rather forget.

This is complicated stuff, isn't it? I wonder. I'm not finished reading Kathryn Stockett's novel The Help, the book that would have been on Oprah if Oprah were still on. I probably don't need to tell you what it's about: an entire sub-class of black women in the early '60s basically taking on the role of nanny/surrogate mother as well as household help. But the deeper issue is a racial oppression so ingrained it didn't even draw comment, and a seething unrest just below the surface of normalcy.

I grew up on the cusp of that unrest. By the mid-'60s things were starting to bubble and boil and overflow the container. A shy lady named Rosa Parks had gone to jail for refusing to sit at the back of the bus. I heard about Malcolm X and Black Power and the Black Panthers, but I didn't understand much of it. There was a famous baseball pitcher named Ferguson Jenkins who was as well-known for being black as for his sports prowess. And a Chatham boy! Imagine being on the map for such a thing.

My Dad was full of hot air and given to endless, boring rants and monologues about pointless things. I was the last to leave home, so I sat on his right side for years at the dinner table without any kind of support or buffering from my three older siblings, who had made their escape years before. 

He got drunker and drunker over the years, and more maudlin, though of course no one believed me. His attitude towards black people still puzzles me. It was along the lines of "I knew a real nice colored guy once," like saying you knew a nice Nazi or maybe a leper. My parents were generally enlightened enough not to use the "n-word", and in fact I absorbed the message that it was just about the worst word there was, but my Mum still told me, not once but many times, that when she was a girl Brazil nuts were called "nigger toes".

I still don't know if this was meant to be funny, or a sign of how far we had progressed. But it was all part of the confusing and often conflicting stew of attitudes I absorbed as a child.

Just now this comes back to me: a song by Janis Ian, who wrote the provocative At Seventeen ("for those whose names were never called/When choosing sides for basketball", an anthem for the scorned and socially rejected). I remember kids saying to each other, murmuring. "Didja hear that new song?" "Which one?" "You know, the - " "Oh, yeah. Society's Child?" "Yeah." An exchange of knowing looks. The song is full of loaded images:

Now I can understand your tears and your shame.
She called you "boy" instead of your name.
When she wouldn't let you inside.
When she turned and said
"But honey, he's not our kind."

She said I can't see you any more, baby.
Can't see you anymore.

This is "the" forbidden relationship, delicately referred to as "interracial dating", forbidden particularly in quiet conservative non-radical Chatham. The nice boy down the street who just happens to be black, from another world. With the inevitable ending, but more shocking than I remember: 


One of these days I'm gonna stop my listening,
Gonna raise my head up high.
One of these days I'm gonna raise my glistening wings and fly.
But that day will have to wait for awhile.
Baby, I'm only society's child.
When we're older things may change.
But for now this is the way they must remain.

I say I can't see you any more, baby.
Can't see you anymore.
No, I don't wanna see you any more, baby.


"I don't want to see you any more"? That's not the way I remember it. When did it change?

The "rules" are nearly invisible but incredibly persistent, and thorny. Trespassing can happen in an instant. A middle-aged white woman wrote The Help, wrote much of it in dialect that is quite plausible as Southern black American speech, but in doing so she walked a fine line. I read about at least one lawsuit from a black woman who claimed Stockett had stolen her life, skimmed off the juicy parts and incorporated them into her novel without a thought. This sort of thing happens all the the time, because writers are vacuum cleaners (if not vampires) who suck the life and energy out of every situation and spew it back out again as "literature".

Perhaps they can't help it. But how many black people are equipped to write such a novel? Did Stockett decide she had to become a mouthpiece for the still-dispossessed? Maybe their usual champions are too busy. It seems that every African-American celebrity has to stand for a few thousand or million unknowns. There's only one Oprah, after all (though Condaleeza Rice didn't do too badly and blew open every racial stereotype I ever learned as a child). Alice Walker hasn't been around much since Oprah totally snubbed her at the premiere of the Broadway musical version of The Color Purple. Then there's Toni Morrison, an Oprah Book Club staple.  And who's that other one. . .you know, the one Oprah worships. God, I should remember.

Am I trying to say that only black people should write about black people? Obviously, someone had the nerve and the writing chops to step over that barrier. But I do wonder how all this goes down with black readers. Dialect is just a device, isn't it? Mark Twain didn't speak in the y'all-drawl of Huckleberry Finn, though he caught  the rhythms of speech from the deeps of Mississippi with uncanny accuracy.

"We" have a black President now, but unfortunately, not a very popular one. "We" have Jackie Kennedy coming out in her taped memoirs to say she didn't like Martin Luther King, didn't trust him, thought he was a phony even.  What does it mean? Applecarts are being upset, and even the sacred, calcified foundations of white liberalism are beginning to tremble. Now we have this woman, this middle-aged white novelist, uncovering shameful examples of racism, such as rich white women going on a campaign to force people to build a "colored" bathroom for the help, not just to make their houses more marketable but for sanitary reasons.

The book is readable, so far, but a little sudsy, a little slick. Bits of it make me groan for their almost-cutesy-ness. This is the sort of book that sells wildly. Supposedly Stockett was rejected by 60 agents before landing the one that slam-dunked this probably-mega-million-dollar deal. This smells of the kind of legend spun around the unknown writer (as in the probably-apocryphal "Whales, Mr. Melville?"), the writer who seemingly comes out of nowhere. Kind of like Mark Twain, who had been bouncing around for years on the fringes of eccentric anonymity before he broke through with Tom Sawyer.

Well. . .he didn't quite come from nowhere, nor did Stockett. Try Jackson, Mississipi (Oprah country, for sure). Try sixteen years in the publishing business in New York City. That's not "nowhere". It's the farthest thing from a literary backwater you can get. Surely a writer, a smart writer, a smart white writer like Stockett could make best use of those kinds of contacts. The woman has a good ear and a good eye and a good nose for opportunity, and is any of that a bad thing? If she calls attention to the plight of black maids in the South, a plight that still isn't resolved by many people's reckoning, isn't it all good?

And if it isn't, why not?

Bitter fruit: why I left the United Church

Those last two spirituals, stumbled upon while trying to find something else, so pierced the core of me that I wondered if I could write about the central dilemma of my life (at long last!). After many years of intense involvement with the United Church of Canada, and after varying degrees of satisfaction/frustration, I "walked". There were many reasons why I walked, chief among them (I thought) my dire disillusionment with leadership. Yes, I know ministers have a tough row to hoe, but I also think churches have a way of drawing to them ministers who reflect both their strengths and their most dire, unacknowledged weaknesses.

In some cases, they even draw evil. What does this mean, and, more to the point, why doesn't anyone recognize/admit it? What sort of spiritual blinders keep the so-called faithful from seeing even the most glaring kind of light?

From needing the church as a way to belong, contribute, and express my feelings about God and Jesus, I ended up feeling like I was in a box. Not just any box but a shoebox that I was supposed to squash myself into. Suddenly - or maybe it was not-so-suddenly - all I could feel was limitation, lack of oxygen, and bitter alienation. I cannot even tell you how lonely this was. I became deeply disaffected, and there was no one in the church - not one person - I could talk to about it. I knew it would be misinterpreted. Or, worse, perhaps it would be interpreted correctly.

I had something happen to me that I really can't describe, and for some reason - maybe very obvious reasons - I link it to Hurricane Katrina back in 2005. I obsessively watched those stranded souls - marooned in a stinking hell we can't even imagine - as they cried out for help, help, help. I watched old people die and be covered with whatever was available, maybe a plastic tarp. I saw hungry, dehydrated babies, glassy-eyed like in those ads for Save the Children.

The ordeal went on forever. I began to wonder if there could be a benevolence in the universe that "loved" everyone, that "cared". The Christian model of God was supposed to be an omnipotent deity, remember, one that was capable of changing everything. Like the poet in The Hound of Heaven, he swung the earth a trinket at his wrist, and we were expected to dangle from it like insignficant little charms.

So what does worship mean? It seems to me it means a kind of surrender, a submission to what is perceived to be a power greater than ourselves. It's a bowing down, at least of our heads - or a kneeling - or outright prostration. Lowering yourself. Worship doesn't mean love, it's something else, something quite else, and it began to scare me.

(This just popped into my head as a sidebar: a First Nations preacher talking about being forced to adopt the white man's style of worship. "They told us to close our eyes and bow our heads in prayer. And when we opened our eyes, our land was gone.")

Though the church claimed to allow me all kinds of freedom of interpretation, increasingly I found that freedom ebbing away. It was subtle at first, but soon I began to feel we had to shape our lives, not around our own apprehension/comprehension of the deity, but around the church's. I saw this as a very conventional and limited model, no renegade cries of hallelujah, no embarrassing professions of salvation. If you were saved, and United Church people don't talk about being saved very much (or a personal Saviour or even the Devil), then keep quiet about it or you might bother people.  And if you're committed, you have to Serve, which means doing thus and so. You can't just fill a pew. Go and bake something, for heaven's sake, or sit on a committee and pick on fine points until the cows come home, solving nothing.

Though we were expected to keep our faith journey pretty much in a one-block area, I saw no such restrictions on clergy, who sometimes had agendas that were not so hidden.  In the 15 years I attended, we went through some doozies: one minister decided, without permission from the congregation, to allow CBC television cameras into the sanctuary on Sunday morning to further a "cause" that would raise his spiritual profile, improve his media image, and lift up his wife as a heroine and role model for oppressed women everywhere.

It made me sick. But nobody said anything. Not anyone. Stepford Syndrome had already set in, a dry rot worse than I could have imagined.

It was not ever thus: early on in my involvement, I tried to share some things that went to my core, leading worship services, doing Biblical readings and poetry and even dance and drama set to classical music. People were polite, but I see now that it didn't really fly. The starchiness inherent in churches (I mean "liberal" churches) eventually communicated to me a lack of openness to anything new or different. Being a little tired of their perception of me as a creative flake who really couldn't help it (and whom, by the way, they generously tolerated as a kind of social work),  I gave up and stopped doing it.

Recently I went with a friend to visit Christchurch Cathedral in Vancouver, a magnificent edifice in the old style, full of stained glass featuring Biblical figures that could not have been inspired by human beings. I used to come here to pray, hadn't been in it for years, but this time it was a whole 'nother place. It was the smell that hit me: that old-varnish, dusty-hymn-book smell. The echoing emptiness of the place. The huge pipe organ. I felt my throat constricted as by a collar and leash. I could no longer bend my knee and worship: as my friend meditated with her eyes closed, I kept looking at my watch and wondering when I could get the hell out of there.

There were and are many other aspects to my discontent. A few years ago the United Church set up a trendy website called Wondercafe (hey, make sure you don't mention church or God or Christianity or anything spiritual, but set it up as a sort of Sunday Starbuck's). I see this as a fairly desperate attempt to overcome the largely accurate public perception of the church as outmoded and dull. But they went too far, having some sort of squirrel-figure that gave answers to moral questions, and even offering bobblehead Jesus figures for sale. (No, I am not kidding: kind of like that buddy Christ in Dogma).

It sickened me, but everyone else seemed to either ignore it (what did this have to do with them?) or display a mild acceptance, even enthusiasm. I couldn't figure it out. The church was hiding behind something, I didn't know what. But whatever it was trying to do, and I guess it thought it had to do something, it didn't update the essential dustiness and boredom of liberal Christianity.

Same old hymns, for the thousandth time. A seating plan that isn't even made manifest until you try to sit in the "wrong" place. (After I "walked", I made three more attempts to find a church home. Twice, when I went to sit down, an elderly person said, "No, my family sits there." One old lady even put her hands on the pew beside her. Get your ass out of here!) Superficial friendliness exists, all sorts of it. But what lives underneath it, if anything? I remember a few people washing up on shore over the years who were in some sort of personal crisis, but they immediately left when that crisis was resolved.

There was all sorts of other stuff going on in my church (which I came to privately call Dysfunction Junction),  including hiring a minister so corrupt he had to be fired, and unceremoniously running another minister out of town after nine years of service (and surely we could have sat down with her and gone over our grievances? Apparently not. Nobody said anything until it was too late.) Underneath the friendliness and the Sunday starch, I saw cruelty, all the more awful for being subverted, pushed down and denied. If you raise even one objection, unless you have an immediate and total solution, the messenger will be shot. Problem solved.

When I left, no one called me, but perhaps it was just as well. After fifteen years of somehow trying to fit in, I got tired of the lockstep and had to abandon the whole thing. During our big meltdown over leadership, in which the entire congregation was embroiled in a kind of civil war, not one person seemed willing to take responsibility for hiring a minister who turned out to be a complete fiasco. He was a con artist and a manipulator, but why didn't anyone see that? (If they had, would anyone else have listened?)

I think in large part, we saw him as desirable because he was a black South African who constantly referred to his "pals" Nelson Mandela and Bishop Tutu. At last we had an opportunity to transform our bland pseudoliberalism into something far more exciting. We'd have the most politically correct leader in the whole Lower Mainland! Such power, such cachet, even if only second-hand. This would blow those sad little churches with gay ministers out of the water.  No one was willing to entertain even the possibility that hiring him was a way to increase our prestige in the community, not to mention raise our profile as an "inclusive" congregation who even accepted black folk, so long as they had the right connections.


It all went bad because he wasn't who he said he was. I don't think he was exactly evil, but I often heard that word bandied about. (The Council Chair once fumed, "He's a nasty, evil little man.") Without a doubt he was a shallow con artist with a smooth exterior, and we fell for him hook, line and sinker.  Unfortunately he flipped the race issue  and turned it to his advantage, calling his dismissal an appalling example of racism. The church was left in a tailspin from which it never recovered, in spite of our insistence that we had "healed" and moved on.

But if a church could be so blind as to hire a man like that, how can it make clear-headed judgements about its multitude of unsolved problems, systemic problems that go right back to the founding of the church?



The mess my church created was a big part of my disillusionment, but I was also astonished and shattered to find I no longer believed in God. Not the God of dusty hymn books and pipe organs, anyway. There was no "big guy in the sky" calling the shots. If there is anything, it is an indwelling love, not always within our comprehension, and a dizzyingly complex Creation that quite literally came out of nothing.

So am I Christian or not? Probably not, but the only real Christians I know seldom or never set foot in a church. They live and embody it, and don't even talk about faith or worship because they don't have to. They have the quiet gift of making others around them feel comfortable and OK with who they are. If there's a task needs doing, they show up and do it. They don't say things like "if there's anything I can do, just call me" to a person struggling with devastating bereavement. They call them and say, "How are you?", then listen for the response. No unsolicited advice, no psychobabbling, no social work. And above all: no staying away.

Do we really need Christ any more? I'm not sure, because my personal relationship with Jesus has gradually devolved from a dazzling connection with a personal saviour (eventually fizzling out from the cold water the church threw on it - no embarrassing displays of love, please!) to blankness and complete bewilderment. We turn Jesus this way and that, make him whatever we want or need him to be. Many Biblical scholars are now coming to the conclusion that he didn't exist at all.

I tried the Unitarians for a while. Nice people, mostly elderly, and far more welcoming than United Church folk. But the "sermons" I heard were talks about people's hobbies, photography and music and the like. No mention of God or prayer or anything spiritual at all. I almost felt like I was at a Kiwanis Club meeting, or maybe Toastmaster's. 

The other two United Churches I tried nearly suffocated me with boredom. I kept looking at my watch. I didn't feel comfortable trying to butt into the little conversational knots of two and three in the hall downstairs as people ate fat-and-sugar-laced baked goods washed down with tepid tea.

I guess I don't belong anywhere now (in spite of my constant references to "my" church), which is sad. It hurts me more than I can say. Recently I was shocked but not surprised when two of my dearest friends, a married couple who gave tirelessly to the church for years and years, were asked to leave. So I have given up the frantic (or whatever it was) search for "sanctuary". If church happens again in my life, it will have to come about through a natural turn of events.

So what do I miss most? I guess it would be the singing, and when I hear spirituals like the two I posted, something in me just aches for it. I wonder sometimes if some mysterious force has hit me like a stroke of lightning and smashed my spiritual life all to hell. I can't pray any more, not like I used to, because I just don't see what difference it makes.

If there is an ultimate power, someone who is in charge of everything, how in the world can we convince him to do what we want? (Do this, God. Do that. Why would we pray at all unless we wanted to change things? Can't we trust that God is doing OK on his own?) And if a thousand different people pray for a thousand different (probably conflicting) things, and none of it comes true, do we go on praying, in hopes that we just somehow didn't do it right? If ONE prayer is "answered", say, wiping out the infidels in the Western hemisphere, does that mean that those people are more beloved of God than the rest of us?

While it may be true that disillusionment is just proof that you harboured illusions, spiritual disaffection - if that's what it's called - is particularly devastating because it strikes at the heart of matters of life, death, and ultimate reality. We expect better of our friends when we're down, or lost, or full of tears. We don't need pats on the hand, Bible verses prescribed like medicine, or more pans of brownies. If the so-called people of God can be this shallow, this dogmatic and self-deluded, how indifferent are the people who walk outside the margins? The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind?

Deep River Mahalia Jackson

Witness - University of Utah Singers

Vat's dis? Vat a mess, oy, get my zecretary!

In all fairness, there were a couple of photos I still liked from The Family of Man, that huge Museum of Modern Art exhibit from the '50s. How could you not like reading the mind of Einstein as he contemplates where he put his lunch? 

The Family of. . . what??

I recently rediscovered this battered old book in my collection and was looking forward to seeing the photos again for the first time in 25 years. It's billed as "the greatest photographic exhibition of all time - 503 pictures from 68 countries - created by Edward Steichen for the Museum of Modern Art (Prologue by Carl Sandburg)".

My copy is dated 1955, a softcover in poor shape, the pages badly browned. The paper is of shockingly bad quality, thin shiny magazine stuff you never see any more, almost designed to fall apart or at least turn sepia within a couple of years.

I remember ooh-ing and ahh-ing over this collection and thinking, how significant! But that's the trouble with this book. Pretentiousness and import hang heavily over it. It's very much a product of left-leaning '50s sentiments, the zeitgeist of the black-and-white Eisenhower era and the liberal resistence that went with it.

In the introduction, Carl Sandburg waxes oh-so-Sandburgian: "Peoople! flung wide and far, born into toil, struggle, blood and dreams, among lovers, eaters, drinkers, workers, loafers, fighters, players, gamblers. Here are ironworkers, bridgemen, musicians, sandhogs. . . " - but you get the idea. Presumably, they don't all live in Chicago.

There is a little photo of a smiling piper that appears every other page or so: "Follow me! I'm the piper!", etc. The pages are grouped in a way that somehow embarrasses me. It starts with a James Joyce quote about sex ("and his heart was going like mad/and yes I said yes I will Yes.") On the facing page is a volcano with lava running down, and a picture of an embracing couple lying on a picnic blanket.

Then it goes on to pregnant women, one prominently holding a cigarette, then BIRTH, a newborn baby being held upside-down by one leg by the doctor. And on and on. It's as if Norman Rockwell had been told to "spice it up".

There are lots of cornball quotes, such as: "Sing, sweetness, to the last palpitation of the evening and the breeze." "With all beings and all things we shall be as relatives." "And the people sat down to eat and to drink, and rose up to play" (a Cecil B. DeMille/Ten Commandments sort-of-thang). One can almost hear the schmaltzy Aaron Copland score in the background.

It's hard to put my finger on just why all this is so offputting. Joy: OK, let's show a whole lot of people smiling (mostly men of the soil with bad teeth, with a few society types thrown in to show the vast diversity of "people!") Sorrow: let's get out the war pictures, and the old black man crying in the rocking chair. I guess their intentions were good, but I could find only one picture I really liked this time, a monk kneeling in the middle of an empty street in Colombia.

The book ends with a stunning display of eight couples, most of them "ethnic" (meaning old and weatherbeaten), and under each photo is the caption, "We two form a multitude" (eight times already!). There are some ominous warnings about nuclear war and even a little picture of Einstein standing over a messy desk looking puzzled ("hmmmmm, vere did I put zat zandwich?"). There's also a brief nod to the UN, reminding us how lefty-liberal this whole enterprise is, and probably seen as downright pinko by the House Unamerican Committee. Maybe that's why it's been out of print for so long.

Tenderly her blue eyes glistened. . .

Until a few minutes ago, I would not listen to anyone's interpretation of this melancholy little gem except William Warfield's. I still love his version, but this was a real find. 

I blush to admit I'm not very familiar with Thomas Allen (in fact, it's also the name of a publisher I've been trying to ding for years!). Now I do a little probing, and find he's one of the world's finest baritones: and no wonder! His restraint in this piece is amazing, his tone lucid and full of rippling, iridescent overtones. 

I do hear hints of Warfield in his interpretation, but that's not a bad thing, is it? The accompaniment is ravishing and seems to be in love with the music. I wish I had more info on this video. (Originally I was looking for My Soul is a Witness sung by Paul Robeson, couldn't find it, found several other spirituals, then stumbled on to this. The Robeson search came from, strangely enough, the Hound of Heaven quote: "I shook the pillaring hours/And pulled my life upon me", which got me thinking about Samson (presumably, the source of the poetic image), which got me thinking about my favorite verse from Witness:

You read in the Bible and you understand
Samson was the strongest man
Samson went out at-a one time
And he killed about a thousand of the Philistine
Delilah fooled Samson, this-a we know
For the Holy Bible tells us so
She shaved off his head just as clean as your hand
And his strength became the same as any natural man

O, Samson was a witness for my Lord
Samson was a witness for my Lord
Samson was a witness for my Lord
Samson was a witness for my Lord

(Oh yeahhhhhhhh!)

Hounded

And a dog stood over him. He was that sort of person. Hounded. So when the 19th-century English poet Francis Thompson wrote his most famous poem, The Hound of Heaven, it had (and still has) the power to make your neck-hairs rise with a disturbingly accurate portrayal of human anguish and despair.

Given when it was written, it's no surprise the language is overly plummy and sometimes almost impossible to decipher. "Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue." (Wist??) Ordinary words are turned on their ear: "skiey" (which I kind of like), "silvern", "dunged" (but I'd rather not go there), and, in the final line, when God finally catches up with the poor fellow, "dravest":

Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me.

I think that word puts me off the most, since when you finally get past all the poet's agony and are about to witness his dramatic salvation, you don't know what the hell he's talking about.

The whole reason I'm posting this is that there's a line, one out of the 184 or whatever it is (and it takes Richard Burton almost nine minutes to recite this on YouTube), that periodically repeats and repeats in my ear:

The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind?

It's an example, amid the overly-florid language and sometimes offputting emotional excesses of the work, of startling clarity and brilliant economy of expression. He shoves that rind in our faces and makes us taste, and it is bitter fruit indeed.

I would never torture you with a transcription of the whole thing, because its twists and turns can be exhausting (and besides, it's just plain too long). Attention spans were much longer then, people were much more attuned to the written word (especially when recited), and almost everyone adhered to conventional Christianity in some form. So his image of God as this lumbering lout with pounding feet chasing after him was probably less oppressive than it seems today.

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;

I fled Him, down the arches of the years;

I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways

Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears

I hid from Him, and under running laughter.

Oh yes. The imagery splashes pictures onto the blank canvas of the mind: running away from something, here described as "Him", but something that could be infinitely more mysterious and powerful than any conventional Christian God.

It's hard to pluck out single lines here, as the poet's thoughts tumble out with manic urgency, line blurring into line: but there are a few, yes, there are a few. . .

Across the margent of the world I fled,

And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,

Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars:

Really, it's the middle line that draws me, those gold gateways: but it's that word "troubled" that is so odd and affecting. Maybe he was just looking for the right number of syllables, I don't know. How can anyone have the power to "trouble" the stars? Either he's expressing delusions of grandeur, or the word means something entirely different to him.

I said to Dawn: Be sudden - to Eve: Be soon;

With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over

From this tremendous Lover -

Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!

Well, this is nearly a peep-show, isn't it? Quick, God is coming - put your pants back on! Dawn and Eve could be his girl friends, or wanton women at least, cleverly couched in coded language. "Dawn" and "eve" represent each end of the day, but Eve is also the "first woman", and therefore infinitely desirable. And oh those skiey blossoms, big fat plumphy cumulous heaps to roll around in (with Eve - or Dawn - whose turn is it, anyway?). And what about "this tremendous Lover"? That's nearly homoerotic, when you think about it.

To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;

Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.

I don't need to explain this one, its visual imagery startlingly cinematic. Simply brilliant. 

As I said, it's hard to pull lines out of this without dragging up a root-ball of context, but I'll try (coz I'm already getting tired, aren't you? This ain't English 101.) He speaks of "quaffing"

From a chalice

Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring.

OK. What does the poem mean? What the hell is he getting at? "Chalice" (he doesn't frequent Starbuck's, obviously) could be the Holy Grail, or the cup of communion. Lucent-weeping, well, what's that? Lucent means either translucent, permitting light, or a source of light. The poet is weeping crystalline tears, perhaps: and as far as I know, Dayspring is a reference to Christ.

This fellow does have delusions of unusual influence:

Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist

I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist

Or does this express his disdain or even contempt toward the world? If the world is but a trinket, a charm on his tinkling little bracelet, what does that make him: a cipher, perhaps? Or could it be this way: the world somehow swings around him, an egocentric sun eclipsed by his own transgressions.

But perhaps the most powerful passage, which I can't pull apart but must present whole, is this description of his self-created hell:

I shook the pillaring hours

And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,

I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years -

My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.

Oh my goodness, this fellow is not just in trouble, he's (in his own estimation) already dead, and in dire need of resurrection. In some sort of awful anti-heroic Herculean or perhaps Samsonian gesture, he has pulled the entire structure of his life down on his head. But the next two lines are tasty enough to keep you wading forward in the hip-deep mire:

My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,

Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.

If hell can be this heavenly, why fear the hound?

Everything I touch turns to. . .

Yes. Every once in a while, everything turns brown.

I sort-of figured out why I can't attach links or embed videos. I have it more-or-less under control, though the videos are small.

Then another problem, so bizarre I don't know if I can even describe it. I lost the title to my blog, which used to appear below the photo of the little girls. It just wasn't there any more, though it was saved correctly under Design and should have been displayed.

I can't have a no-name blog. I'm not Anonymous. My name is on it for a reason. It's a kind of ad for my work. So I got to work fixing it, and came up with: white lettering against the background of the photo (at the top). It looked OK and was saved and everything.

And it shows up fine, until. Until you go to Older Posts, or an individual post, or a brand-new post, or anything except the home page. Then it shows up. . . brown.

Brown, as in I can't see who the hell wrote this. BROWN, as in, sorry, you didn't fix the problem at all, you stupid bitch, phhhbbblblblblbphhhbllblblblblbllblblbllbtt!

To make it even more screwy, the "blog description" (the line below the title) still shows up in white. I have gone over this again and again, and the setup is perfect. Then I get this intermittent (not even consistent!) problem with display.

I will not go on one of those help sites. They make me ill and never tell me what I need. I need to email a real person who knows what to do. Even my son the techie wizard is stumped.

Nevertheless. I somehow figured out the other problem, or most of it at least. Enough to avoid a nervous breakdown in the near future.

But this.