Parenting in "Star Trek" and "Man of Steel"

 
I'm a Star Trek and Superman freak. I wouldn't go so far as to call myself a "trekkie," though I did see the late James Doohan at the University of Texas a few years ago. I was so accustomed to his Mr. Scott, it was a shock to hear him speaking without an accent. I also saw George Tekei at a science fiction convention, once. Superman and I have yet to meet, but that doesn't rule out the possibility. You never know, he might decide my hayfield looks like a homey place to stop by, en route to an adventure somewhere else. 

I'm especially fond of the reboot versions that have appeared over the past couple of years and watch them every chance I get. As a matter of fact, I was watching Man of Steel (2013) for the umpteenth time this past weekend, when I began noticing similarities between Superman and Captain James T. Kirk, particularly in their relationships with fathers and father figures.

Both characters, for example, experienced the loss of their biological fathers at or near the moment of childbirth and under similar circumstances. Kirk's dies in the process of trying to secure the safety of his wife, newborn son, and crew, while battling the renegade Romulan, Nero (Star Trek, 2009). Superman's father, Jor-El, is killed by General Zod, while sending his son to safety on Earth. Both men are subsequently raised by step-fathers, with somewhat different outcomes.

Technically-speaking, Kirk never has a "step-father" in the sense his mother remarries. In Star Trek (2009), we find him, his mother and brother, living with an uncle with whom their relationships are conflicted. Our introduction to a teenaged Kirk occurs in the scene where he "steals" a vintage Corvette Stingray his uncle claims is "his," and drives it off a cliff. It looks like a typical case of adolescent acting-out, but as the deleted scenes indicate, the car actually belongs to Kirk and his brother, an inheritance from their father. Its destruction, however, reveals how much Kirk resents his uncle and the way he treats his nephews.

Superman is raised by adoptive parents after his spacecraft crash lands on their Kansas farm. In many ways, he has a far more functional family life than Kirk. He is the child his step-parents wanted and never had. He is loved and protected from the misunderstanding that may result from the premature use of his powers and his step-father frequently reminds him his presence here is for a reason. Although Superman ultimately learns the meaning of his potential from a holographic representation of Jor-El, his becoming a man of integrity results from the influence of his step-parents.

Kirk needs an experience like that of Superman, but it doesn't materialize until his early twenties. He's grown up a "genius-level repeat offender," with little concern for his future until he encounters Christopher Pike, an officer in Starfleet, following a bar fight. Pike offers Kirk what he's always lacked: a strong male role model who sees his potential and challenges him to develop it. 

In Star Trek: Into Darkness (2013), we witness Pike reprimanding Kirk for violating the Prime Directive on a recent mission. More importantly, he's angry and clearly disappointed because Kirk lied on his mission report rather than accept responsibility for his actions. Pike has expectations for Kirk that exceed those he might have for any other officer; they're the expectations a father has for his son. Nevertheless, when Kirk is relieved of command of the Enterprise, Pike goes out on a limb and argues he's worthy of a second chance. It reminds me of something I learned from my own father: dads never give up on their children.

Pike does, in essence, what no one has done before, in Kirk's experience. He requires him to live up to higher standards of integrity and behavior. He has confidence in Kirk but he knows his greatest weakness is his ego-centric immaturity. As a father figure, Pike also knows Kirk has yet to realize that mature masculinity must be rooted in something greater than himself. Pike's death is meaningful, not only because it entails losing the only functional father figure Kirk has ever known, but because it represents losing his closest connection with his biological father. His tears aren't for Pike alone, they're for the father he never knew and the life he never had.
  
Superman, in a similar manner, has to come to the place where his life is rooted in something transcendent. His earliest efforts to use his abilities are sporadic and situational. He rescues a crew from a burning oil drilling platform, then finds a job in a bar. He's still bound by his step-father's fears he will be rejected by the people of Earth. Superman's encounter with Jor-El helps him begin integrating who he is as Cal-El, with the life he's been given by his step-parents. In this way he is enabled to create his own vision of himself as one pledged to help humankind.

Death is a key player in the myths of Superman and Captain Kirk. Superman has to risk his life to prevent the destruction of planet Earth. Kirk literally does give his life to save the Enterprise and her crew. Both must also "die" to an immature understanding of themselves in order to become the person they were meant to be. Each received instruction in dying from a father who gave himself for those he loved. They received instruction in living from men who chose to be fathers for their sake. I'm not sure anything we do possesses greater significance than how we raise our children. Kirk and Superman show us why.  

(Creative Commons image of Man of Steel billboard by Victoria Pickering via Flickr)

Now You See Me -- Or Do You?

I am easily delighted. I'm also easily entertained, though when I was little, hearing the words, "I'm bored," exit my mouth was my mother's cue to reach for the Bayer (aspirin). My attention could be as difficult to hold as a kid's hand in an amusement park. I loved the films Houdini (1953) and The Great Imposter (1961), starring Tony Curtis, and still do. Both were about illusion, magic, "now you see it -- now you don't." The impossible becoming possible with the blink of an eye.

I remember seeing my first and only, sword-swallower in a traveling circus when I was five or six. We lived in the country, as I've mentioned before, and one weekend a circus, with three rings under the bigtop, arrived at our local fair grounds. They had all the acts you associate with larger operations like Ringling Brothers or the Shrine Circus, including a fellow who had himself shot out of a canon. A young, pretty, blond-haired girl astride a dappled Welsh pony, stole my heart and galloped through my fantasies for weeks afterward (sigh). 

I saw my first "Punch and Judy" puppets the same night, in the side-show. I remember how a devilish puppet, clad in black, crept onto the stage to scare Punch. With a menacing voice, he said, "I am the Devil." Punch responded, sarcastically, "Well, you look like the devil!" I'd heard my mother use that phrase often enough to get the hint. When Punch and Judy appear in The Santa Clause (1994) each Christmas, my mind replays that evening.

Anyway, like I said, that's also where I saw my first sword-swallower. He stood next to Punch and Judy's stage, and with great flourish, proceeded to swallow a decorative sword which he said was "only a toy," and then what he insisted was a "real" blade. He even stepped behind a flouroscope so the audience could see the instrument of death inserted vertically through his mouth with the tip resting benignly in the curve of his stomach. When medical school and gross anatomy entered my life a few centuries later, I realized there was no way on earth that sword could have done what the flouroscope displayed. It was a "trick," an illusion, but one that delighted me as a child and continues to do so when I think of it.

I'm certain this is why I love the film Now You See Me (2013) with an ensemble cast including Jessie Eisenberg, one of my favorite new actors. It just delights me. The story revolves around four magicians who have been mysteriously contacted about membership in a secret society called The Eye, which is dedicated to preserving pure magic, righting wrongs, and overcoming injustice. As the plot moves forward, it includes tricks worthy of David Copperfield, slight of hand, hypnosis, and has the lead characters pursued by the FBI. Honestly, I could scarcely contain my inner child the first time "we" saw it.

Some have described Now You See Me as evidence The Illuminati have taken over Hollywood in an attempt to pull the wool over our eyes, deceive our better judgment, and secretly promote a "New World Order." Critics proclaimed the film's illusions were unrealistic and its ending unsatisfying. Personally, I wonder if we were watching the same film. I was captivated from the outset and couldn't wait for the credits to roll before hitting the restart button. Once was not enough and the second, third, and fourth viewings triggered my sense of delight as readily as the first.

Now You See Me isn't merely a story -- it's a yarn, a rambling and implausible tale, according to the Concise Oxford, though the film doesn't ramble and any implausibility lies in the eye of the beholder. There is no moral, such as you'd expect from a fable, but it does make a point, i.e. the ego can be so wrapped up in its own perceptions that it prevents us from realizing we're one, two, three steps behind what's taking place right in front of our us. I've been there, haven't you?

It also reminds us that to be captivated by wonder, we need to have a little faith, to suspend our natural disbelief, and be willing to trust. Not everything needs to be explained, as the film urges, and some things are best left unexplained. I'd agree, particularly when they make us feel like children, fascinated by what defies reason and once again, believing that anything and everything is possible.

(Creative Commons Image by ictusoculi via Flickr)

Doctors and Spirituality: Nothing is Etched in Stone

On the premise one agrees spirituality is important to medicine, as I argued in yesterday's post, that's only where the story begins. There are even more questions to be raised about its management in the clinical setting. For example, who is best qualified to inquire about spirituality and, besides, isn't it an end-of-life issue? What if a patient asks their physician to pray with them and s/he is an atheist? These are real concerns and as a minister on the cusp of medical residency, I'd like to offer a perspective.  

Customarily, religious or spiritual preference is noted in the intake interview and becomes part of a patient's chart. Whoever does the intake should ask, at least generically, about the significance of religion, faith, or spirituality. During times of stress, changes of life, or when treatment decisions can be affected by religious beliefs, it's especially appropriate for the physician to broach the subject. When patients come to the clinic, they anticipate seeing a doctor they know and have come to rely on. The doctor-patient relationship provides an ideal basis for talking about what health or illness means to them, personally. As I define it, such conversations reflect "spirituality" in its most basic sense.  

Naturally, you'd assume spirituality to be an end-of-life concern but it surfaces at other times as well. For instance, couples who have been relatively uninterested in religion often express a desire to reconnect with family religious traditions when a newborn enters the picture. As a first-time pastor, I discovered young children in the home was associated with parents attending church regularly. Family atmosphere, the potential for children to learn moral principles, and social contact with other parents were important factors in the decision to become involved. Midlife is another time when spirituality may take on new significance. The point to remember is, spirituality and relating -- intrapersonally and interpersonally -- go hand in hand, and most of us are best at both while we're still breathing.

The question of qualifications is one that has far less importance for spirituality than the practice of medicine. Doctors are accustomed to referring patients when a specialist would be better qualified to be of help. Spirituality, however, doesn't require technical expertise to be addressed meaningfully. Patients don't expect their physician to be a theologian. What they expect is consideration, respect, and empathy. If we can't provide these qualities, we've got far bigger fish to fry than whether we can explain why bad things happen to good people. And for the record, even ministerial folk have a hard time with that one, if they're honest about it. As long as we stay in touch with our humanity, we've got all the qualifications we'll ever need.

Well, then, what about physicians counseling with integrity when their own convictions concerning spirituality are at odds with patients'? While statistics indicate physicians who are fairly comfortable bringing up spirituality tend to be persons of faith, there's absolutely no reason why this should be considered necessary or even advantageous. For one thing, it's not about what we as physicians believe or disbelieve, anyway. For another, there are a number of potential points of disagreement with patients, including music, politics, caffeine or decaf, none of which require us to alter our convictions to be medically effective. In any case, introducing spirituality into the conversation is never an occasion for us to persuade, convert, or pontificate.

Admittedly, possessing a spiritual orientation may seem helpful, but it can also create problems. The innocent presumption that you know what a patient is talking about since you're able to identify with their experience may result in failing to ask follow-up questions. Conversely, patients may withhold information believing a common experience tells you all you need to know. In situations like these, having no spiritual orientation or one that differs from your patient can be an advantage because it requires us to explain ourselves rather than err by relying on assumptions.

Finally, in the matter of praying with patients, I'm reminded of a wonderful line from the film, Oh, God (1975). John Denver's character asks God (George Burns) if they might just talk now and then, to which God says, "You talk, I'll listen." If a patient should ask their doctor to pray with them, whether or not they are persons of faith, offering to listen reverently while the patient prays is spot on. If they should ask you, as their doctor, to pray on their behalf, there is no harm in gently explaining your convictions should they differ from your patients'. By telling the truth you maintain your integrity and confirm your trustworthiness. Furthermore, your honesty tells your patient that you value them too much as persons to pretend to be someone other than who you are. The result could very well be a much stronger bond between you.

Admittedly, in this essay I haven't gone anywhere near the truly difficult and painful spiritual/ethical issues of blood transfusions and Jehovah's Witnesses, abortion, or faith-based objections to teenage birth control and HPV vaccination. My interest has been on what you might call "bread and butter" spiritual concerns, but demonstrating respect, empathy, and truthfulness is essential in any situation involving religion or spirituality. We struggle, do our best, make mistakes, fall down and get back up, mindful that where spirituality is concerned, nothing is etched in stone. 


(Creative Commons image by john-norris via Flickr)

A Proliferation of Porcupines

Image via Wikipedia
I had just gotten out of the car, backpack and arms loaded down with books and miscellaneous school-related items, when I saw a shadow scoot across the ground in front of me. It was after dark, but the street light was bright enough for me to discern a basketball-size shadow with a little nubbin sticking out of one end and four legs. Then I noticed there were more of these NBA wannabees, maybe a dozen, multiplying so quickly, I couldn't keep up with their numbers. Suddenly, there were what I took for babies, hundreds of them, swarming around my feet like flocks of birds gathering to migrate south for the winter. Next, hundreds of infants swarmed behind the babies, and like Mary's lamb, everywhere I stepped, they were all sure to go.

Porcupines. Big ones, little ones, littler ones still, following me like geese in the film, Fly Away Home (1996). Sounds cute, you say? Well, I suppose it was, but cuteness wasn't going to solve the problem of getting into the house without a proliferation of porcupines clinging to my heels. Fortunately for me, dawn's early light intervened at that moment, accompanied by a full bladder and empty stomach. I didn't tell you? Shame on me. Yes, this was a dream from night before last in the wee, wee (no pun intended) hours of the morning.

Why was I dreaming about porcupines? I'm glad you asked. It all started with Freddy, a sweet little porcupine who lives under my barn, snitches apples from the tree next to the house, and has been growing increasingly comfortable having dogs and a person around. I won't use the word "tame" because he's still a wild animal, though one who's obviously nonplussed whenever the dogs and I go outside while he's gnawing away at lunch in the front yard. I speak to him, naturally, and he seems to respond to "Freddy" by looking my way.

Porcupines are supposed to be nocturnal, but this fellow's more of a day person who likes the warmth of the sun on his back. There have even been a few occasions I've discovered him lying in the flower bed, snuggled up against the house, right below my study window. The first time this happened, he had me worried because he hadn't moved in several hours and I thought, Oh, no, he's been sick, I didn't know, and now he's gone to the Happy Munching Ground in the sky. I got down on one knee, maybe an arm's length away, and gently called his name. He woke up, looked at me sleepily, and of course, said nothing, as is his way.

Now, why my dream has porcupines in such numbers is probably due to there having been another one in the yard lately, a big one, easily twice Freddy's size. He or perhaps, she -- I'm not getting close enough to find out -- lives in the forest behind the house and when the dogs and I go out at night with a flashlight, s/he looks at me as if to say, Do you mind, I'm eating here?! and ambles off into the bushes. I'm guessing Freddy's mentioned something about the quality of the menu and as with any good restaurant, the word gets around. Either that, or he's left his scent on the grass like a sign reading, Porcupines Welcome Here. The point is, now there are two -- well, actually, three. Last evening we had a new customer who took off before I had a chance to ask how they liked the service.

Jung or Dr. Freud would likely say my dream was a portrayal of how my unconscious views the coming months of board preparation, graduation, fourth year rotations, residency interviews, and the Match. I'm not going to argue; they know dreams better than me. But that doesn't change the fact, I'm honestly a bit worried. The last thing I want is to become so popular my best customer (Freddy) takes his patronage elsewhere simply because he doesn't like having to wait for a table. Porcupines are particular about these things, you know.


(GNU Free Documentation image via Wikipedia)

Noticing

When the dogs and I stepped out of the house this morning, the lane was littered with oak, elm, and magnolia leaves so thick our feet (my feet, their paws) barely touched the blacktop as we walked along. It rained last night, not a gentle, soaking, spring-like shower I imagine makes the trees lift their limbs and whisper to one another, "Psst, pass the soap, will you?" This one was intermittently wind-blown and down-pouring, scattering leaves and drenching the countryside. It was the kind of rain that rinses the air clean as a whistle and whets sunlight sharp as a tack.

As we walked up the road, morning business on our minds, something unusual caught my eye. A single leaf, a tiny piece of oaken gold, hung spinning in mid-air, its stem caught in a single strand of spider web, like an arboreal ballet dancer dancing as though her moment had come and never would again. I'm reminded of the line by Mark Twain, Sing like no one's listening, love like you've never been hurt, dance like nobody's watching, and live like it's heaven on earth? That's what she was doing, drifting and swaying to music beyond my hearing. I was mesmerized.

Some people never notice the things that render life more than a matter of getting by, those side-long, fleeting instants when eternity opens a window, reaches through, and taps us on the shoulder. Sort of like what happens in the film, Babe (1995) with James Cromwell as Farmer Hoggett, a man who notices. Hoggett lives on a sheep farm in Queensland, Australia, and to his family, he seems a bit odd now and then. They're solid, ordinary people who are nevertheless, completely unaware that eternity has not only opened a window, it's climbed through the frame, unpacked its bags, and taken over the guest room.

Hogget knows something is happening. He can't explain it, neither does he bother to try; some things you try to explain and their significance gets lost in the details. He simply lets it all in and follows its lead. Presented with possibilities others would dismiss, he can't help but take them seriously,

For instance, when he notices how Pig interacts with his sheep, he allows the little guy a chance to prove himself. Hoggett sees what no one else can or will, and while he's a man of few words, his actions are as pregnant as a woman at nine months who;s about to pop. Only he doesn't just notice things, he responds to them, opening a creative space in which they can unfold at their own pace. We're often in such a hurry to find out things will turn out, perhaps because we're in doubt they will, that we forget about everything that comes before. Hoggett's efforts are ridiculed, of course, even by his family. But then comes the final scene, when the crowd that jeered goes crazy, cheering its heart out over the little pig that could.

Hoggett knew what Pig was capable of because he'd witnessed it. He noticed something unusual and instead of blowing it off as nonsense, he did what most of us are too afraid or too embarrassed to do, he gave it credence. He did the hard thing and in the end, he wasn't disappointed. It really all begins with noticing.


(Creative Commons image by Lord Mariser via Flickr)

Missing Megan Fox

I really like Megan Fox, but not necessarily for the reasons you might think, me being a guy and all. Sure, she's drop-dead gorgeous -- I'd have to be blind as a bat not to have noticed and trust me, I've noticed. But what I like about her so much is her role in the first two Transformer films. No, I'm not talking about the cutoff jean shorts she wears in both, though I noticed them as well. I mean her character.

Megan (if she's reading this, I hope she doesn't mind the familiarity) plays Mikaela Banes, a pretty young woman with a past. Her father has a prison record for grand theft auto and she, a juvenile record for having been his presumed accomplice. She has another liability, however, and that's her beauty and sex appeal. Like far too many women, she has a history of being regarded as a trophy.

In the first film, her boyfriend is a muscular, good-looking, football player who treats her like a possession once too often. She knows there's something wrong with the guys she's chosen to date, she doesn't like the pattern, and she has sufficient inner strength to do something about it. As she's walking home, along comes the film's hero, Sam Witwicky. Sam is everything the other guys could never be: overtly insecure, honest, and down deep, utterly courageous.

In the first installment of the trilogy, Mikaela is not only a match for Sam, in some ways she is even more heroic. For instance, when they're attacked by a mini-decepticon, she grabs a power saw and goes to work, rescuing him. During the final battle against Megatron, she is determined to save Bumble Bee by hooking him up to a tow truck and then drives it backwards down a wreckage-strewn street while he shoots at the bad guys. I love that scene.

In Revenge of the Fallen, her character is a little more traditional and her biggest challenge seems to involve convincing Sam to tell her that he loves her. Sam, how crazy do you have to be to have someone like her around and dither about saying, "I love you?" Get a clue, buddy. Anyway, that bothered me, the fact that she wasn't permitted to be the totally gutsy chick she was in Transformers. Her character wasn't just beautiful, she was admirable.

Now we come to Dark of the Moon and there's no Megan Fox. Instead, we've got a blond babe whom Sam has decided is the love of his life. She flirts with other guys and then minimizes her behavior, she's essentially focused on the accumulation of expensive toys, and perhaps, worst of all, she has absolutely no idea what makes Sam tick. You tell me what's wrong with this picture.

If we wanted to get psychological, we'd have to ask why Sam hooked up with her in the first place. According to the story line, he and Mikaela had a fight, broke up, and rather than do what any man with a lick of sense would do, i.e. turn himself inside out to get Mikaela back, he lets her go. Sam clearly has far too much pride for his own good. It's what kept him from declaring his feelings in Revenge of the Fallen and it comes back to haunt him in Dark of the Moon. We could be Freudian and say the new girl is more like his mother, but we really don't have enough character development to go that route. We do know, however, that Mikaela and his mother are two very different kinds of women and that could explain a lot.

For whatever reasons the producers decided Megan's character wasn't meant to be a part of the last film, I miss her. I liked Mikaela's resourcefulness and willingness to take a risk. Her response to Sam's question, "Fifty years from now, when you're looking back on your life, don't you want to be able to say you had the guts to get into that car?" is one with which I, as an older medical student, can well identify. I also liked the fact that she wasn't squeaky clean. She had a past she was ashamed of but she refused to let that prevent her from something better. Her wounds made her human and more interesting. Best of all, I think, she didn't allow herself to be paralyzed by fear. She could be counted on in the clinches and was capable enough to be a participant in the action rather than a hand-wringing damsel-in-distress. Definitely the right kind of gal and why I'm missing Megan Fox.


(Image of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen via RottenTomatoes.com)

Lost in the Big Picture

There was something I started to add to yesterday's post, decided it was best to hold off, and I'm glad I did because it gave me something to write about this morning. It concerns the treatment given free will in The Adjustment Bureau. In this film, the caseworkers (see 7/30/11) tell Matt Damon's character they've taken over managing human affairs because we've botched the job whenever they've given us the opportunity to do otherwise. To justify their position, they refer to our darkest and worst times, e.g. the Holocaust in Europe during the 1930s and 40s.

Their approach is similar to the one I've heard used as an objection to theism, the idea that God is personal (may be engaged in relational terms) and more specifically, to Christianity. If an all-powerful God exists and this God is good, then how could such a being permit ______ (you fill in the blank)? The implication is we humans at least possess good intentions and if we could prevent vile things from occurring, we would. Therefore, presence of evil indicates God either does not exist or s/he is not good. If God merely lacks the power to act, s/he is not of much use and frankly, I'd agree. Most gods are too small, anyway.
 
But what if evil is a matter of opinion and the problem lies in perception? Well, to really qualify as evil and not simply as bad or inconvenient, something has to be so bad that any conceivable world would be a better one without it. Famine, pestilence, and environmental degradation strike me as good examples. Things that have the potential to bring about irreversible damage, rendering life less tenable. Evil has to be more than semantics, otherwise we're just playing word games.

Now, back to the caseworkers. They cheat because they paint our misuse of free will in broad strokes, blaming us for the Big Evils while conveniently ignoring the little ones. If they're really nudging and guiding us along to fulfill the intentions of The Plan like they say they are, why do we hurt each other so often? What about the fellow who robs a little old lady on the street or guns down an innocent bystander in a shoot out with police? I know, they said there aren't enough of them to ensure chance events don't happen once in a while, but they also said those occasions are generally insignificant. If that's true, who's minding the store the rest of the time? If they're doing the nudging and we only think we possess free will, then it seems to me we're off the hook. We've got one massive King's X when it comes to being blameworthy and they've got some serious explaining to do.
 
For me, what it comes down to is, either I'm free to be a bastard or God or the Devil make me act like one. Maybe I'm slow on the uptake, but I don't see a whole lot of other options. True, how could I know if someone else was directing my actions, particularly if I never saw or had any communication with them? I'd have to be able to stand outside myself, observe my behavior, and measure it against some relatively objective standard, to say whether or not I was acting on my own or as a puppet. And in fact, isn't that what we do when we call someone into court, compare their actions to lawful ones, and then decide innocence or guilt with whatever objectivity we can muster? Even if free will turns out to be a fiction, we have to presume it is not, if we're going to hold each other accountable for our actions.

Black and white turns interminably gray at this point because none of us are as free as we would like to be or as would like to think we are. Personal baggage, unconscious or not, influences decisions and behavior, and it's the recognition of this fact that forms the basis for mercy. Extenuating circumstances, errors in judgment, simple stupid mistakes, are part of life and perfection is a far off ideal for most of us. The caseworkers got lost in the big picture; grace is found in the pixals. Enough of them and you've got a snapshot, but you have to see them to see the whole story. I guess it takes a human to do that.


(Creative Commons image entitled "Angel" by just Luc via Flickr)

Fate, Freedom, or Both

Do you believe in fate?

Not really, I'm more of a dumb luck kind of gal.

These are the final lines spoken in Source Code (2011), a film I've heard described as a thinking person's science fiction story. "Think" is what it made me do and it's the second film in the past week to have that effect. The first was The Adjustment Bureau (2011) and both raise the question, is there really such a thing as chance?

Source Code sets up a scenario in which an event is repeated until a desired outcome is achieved, suggesting what appears as chance may be the by-product of someone or something working behind the scenes. Jake Gyllenhaal as Captain Colter Stevens, is a helicopter pilot KIA in Afghanistan, whose conscious identity has nevertheless been salvaged. Because eight minutes of neural processing remain active and accessible following physical death, a new scientific process enables uploading of Stevens' residual consciousness into the body of a passenger killed in the bombing of a commuter train bound for Chicago. His mission is to find the bomber before s/he can set off a second device downtown. Reminiscent of Bill Murray in Groundhog Day (1993), the success of Stevens' mission requires practice and he must experience his borrowed body dying several times before he can accept the reality of what's happening to him.

As a subplot, Stevens becomes involved with a young woman played by Michelle Monaghan. Unaware they are reliving their final eight minutes over and over and possessing no memory of the experience, she views the attraction between them as spontaneous. In reality, it's an outgrowth of what Stevens learns about her from each previous leap onto the train and expresses in each subsequent leap. In Source Code, what appears as chance is a matter of perception.

The Adjustment Bureau brings Matt Damon and Emily Blunt together as potential lovers by what also seems to be happy coincidence. In this film, however, they were predetermined to be together by a master Plan, composed and set in motion by an unseen character known only as The Chairman. One might expect such a Plan to be inviolable, set in stone, but from time to time, The Chairman has been known to revise it. Although earlier versions have Damon and Blunt living happily ever after, most recently, The Plan indicates "other plans" for them. Their budding romance is considered a mistake and individuals known as caseworkers, who have the duty of implementing The Plan to the letter, intervene.

According to The Adjustment Bureau, chance sometimes slips through the cracks. There are just too many people for too few caseworkers to monitor all of the time, but the effects of chance and free will in most circumstances are pretty limited. Whenever we've been allowed to try running the whole shibang, we've done very badly. The Holocaust, two world wars and the Dark Ages are proof humans lack the maturity and judgement to make choices that don't end in destruction. To prevent us from ultimately destroying the entire planet, the caseworkers have taken over, nudging us this way and that. When persuasion doesn't work, they have the ability to alter our thinking, leading us to make choices more in line with the direction The Plan intends. 

Most people, we're told, are happy enough not knowing their choices aren't free. Security and predictability come at a price and they're willing to pay without a second thought. Now and then, however, someone comes along who needs to know who's pulling the strings and why. For Damon, however, knowing, in and of itself, resolves nothing. For him, love validates the exercise of free will.

But free will is complicated. What we believe to be fully conscious intentionality is more often than not a reflection of the genetics, adaptive behaviors, thoughts, and impressions derived from family and culture, albeit individually processed, packaged, and marketed as "us." Choice is conditionally free; the conditions under which it develops influence its exercise. Those influencing Damon and Blunt include previous versions of The Plan. 

Interestingly, their meeting was prearranged. For Damon's character to achieve the destiny set forth by The Plan, he needed her as inspiration to rise out of a moment of defeat. Once she'd done as the caseworkers intended, that was to have been the end of it. Their ongoing relationship resulted from the desire of one caseworker to give free will another chance. By acting in contradiction to The Plan, he created a space in which Damon and Blunt could take their lives in their own direction. Even if it turned out to be the one chosen for them, long ago.

Is there such a thing as fate? I sometimes think so, though I'd be hard pressed to demonstrate it empirically. But my own ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and sometimes the other way around, is sufficient proof to me, that free choice hasn't completely abandoned the field. I still think it comes down to what we do with it, fate, freedom, or both. Hopefully, it's something good.


(Creative Commons image entitled "Reversible Destiny" by scarletgreen via Flickr)

Psychiatric Help is Five Cents, Please

"I just needed a little psychoanalysis -- did I say that right?"

"Yes, Jake, you said it fine."

"It's my first big word, you know. Will you take me out to the bathroom now?"

"Sure, hop down and let's go."

Having a patient sit on your lap probably isn't quite what Dr. Freud would approve, but neither did he have patients with fur. Then again, the potential for soiled trousers may been precisely the reason why he insisted on sitting behind patients while they reclined on a couch. And all this time we've thought it was to avoid contaminating the transference. I mean, who knew?

Furthermore, under most circumstances the idea of taking a patient out to the bathroom is questionable, rather like taking one out to the ballgame, except there are conditions where that could be considered therapeutic. You think I'm kidding? Not at all. Exposure therapy for what most clinicians call Baseball Stress Disorder. It happens a lot in cities with major league teams, though more cases are reported in Boston and New York, depending on whether the Yankees or Red Sox won the pennant any given year. Actually, the DSM-IV labels it Post-Pennant Syndrome (PPS) -- I'm sure you've heard of it, it's been in all the papers. This morning however, since my patient was Jake the Puppy, a visit to the front yard was hardly a boundary violation.

It all came about because Jake has been thinking about a behavior problem that troubles us both. It concerns his proclivity for growling and barring his teeth when he's sitting, contentedly, on my lap and I happen to move. I thought it was a dominance issue, his answer to the age-old question, Who's the boss? But he said it wasn't that way at all.

According to Jake, he spent most of his early life scratching and clawing for his share of the food, blanket, and play toys at various adoption centers between Arkansas and Maine. It wasn't horrid, he said, but it was dog eat dog and since he was a little baby puppy, he had to learn to be tough. Now, things are different. He has his very own crate, food and bowl, a big brother, the Cat and me, and he's very happy. But when he growls, he says it's because he feels like he's back at the animal shelter. I told him not to worry, it was an unconscious response, and now that it's out in the open, he'll be more able to regulate his behavior. And since he wants to be a "good dog," like his older brother, the motivation for change is already built-in to his character structure.

It was a good session and Jake accomplished a lot. Naturally, there was the question of fee, since the therapeutic frame must be maintained. "Jake?" I asked, stopping for a moment at the door.

"Mm? Are we going out or not? You know what happens when we don't."

"I know and we are, but first, I need to be paid for my services. Psychiatric help is five cents, please."

"Grrrrr."


(Photo copyright 2011 by the author)

Losing the Fear of Ghosts

I feel ghostly unreal until I become somebody else again on the screen.~ Peter Sellers

We're taught in schools of psychology, medicine, and ministry that empathy entails using elements from our own lives to enable us to identify with persons in distress. If Sellers had been talking about losing himself in a character, I could try relate by recalling the months my life that revolved around writing and editing a book with a best friend. When I wasn't doing either one, I thought, and sometimes dreamed, about them.

But that isn't what he said. He described his life off-screen as ghost-like in comparison to how he felt inhabiting a character. He didn't call it "fictitious," but I wonder if that doesn't apply. It's as though he was saying, I am what has been written and I speak when given words. Not mine, but those of another, and I utter them with passion, humor, and persuasion. Still, I have none of my own, for spirits speak not.

I don't think this represents the typical actor's experience, though not being one, I can only rely on what I've seen and been told by those who are. Nevertheless, most regard the roles they play as interludes of fantasy punctuated by a return to real life. For Sellers, it was the other way around. There was a substance lacking in "Peter Sellers" that he found more readily in Inspector Clouseau or Dr. Strangelove.

I'm not trying to psychoanalyze the man because, for one thing, he's not around to defend himself. But what he said about himself reminds me of what I've observed in narcissistic persons who are between partners. They're less solid, for want of a better term, and certainly less self-assured then when they have a consistent source of admiration. In the absence of someone to mirror or reflect the image of a self -- any self at all -- back to them, they seem anemic, kind of like a vampire on a diet of iron-poor blood.

I think this helps explain why we see a lot of depression, especially in older narcissists who've failed to establish meaningful and long-term relationships. If there's little or no genuine "person-ness" present, it stands to reason that interpersonal dry spells are going to feel rather bleak. It also helps explain why partners often do better when these relationships dissolve. Since they actually possess the resources narcissists value but cannot provide for themselves, partners can function independently; they don't need the affirmation provided by constant mirroring to be real. Perhaps, that's what Sellers was driving at. When filming was over and the cast had gone home, there was no one left to remind him who he was.
(Collective Commons image of "Ghosts of Lake Hume 2" by heritagefutures via Flickr)

I'll have an Avatar with a Twist

If you want to see a grown man with tears in his eyes, go to the theater with me sometime when a film involves a cavalry charge. I don't know what it is about them, but they get me every time. They don't have to be banners-waving, bugles-blowing, reenactments of the second movement of the William Tell Overture (the theme from The Lone Ranger), either. Randy Quaid to the rescue in Independence Day will do the trick. In a moment of dire need when hope has gone south and all seems lost, the appearance of help on the horizon turns me into a blubbering mass of cheering.

And that's what happened last evening while watching Avatar for the first time and the animals entered the fray, the cry of hammer-headed rhinoceros-like creatures taking the place of trumpets. I know, I should have seen it on the big screen -- you definitely got that right. But, as usual, I had my head buried in the books and before I realized what was happening, Avatar had departed for DVD parts unknown. I wasn't disappointed, however, and you can be sure I'll have a ticket for the August 27, 2010 release of the director's cut in theaters.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch. Avatar is more than a science fiction flick and certainly more than a morality tale about environmental degradation. It's what I like to call a transformation film. The lead character, Jake Sulley, is a paraplegic former Marine who has been recruited to take his late twin brother's place in an experiment involving avatars on the distant planetary moon, Pandora. Self-described as a drunk and regarded as an intellectual liability by the rest of the scientific team, through the intermediate agency of his avatar, he is exposed to the Na'vi, the native humanoid inhabitants of Pandora.

In the course of learning their way of life, he undergoes the process of initiation that every young hunter-warrior must, in order to become an adult member of their society. Not surprisingly, and reminiscent of John J. Dunbar in Dances With Wolves, Sulley gradually experiences his connection with his former life grow tenuous as he begins to come into his own under the influence of the community.

Sulley's paraplegia, his inability to receive sensory information through his lower extremities, symbolizes the way he and the other sky-people, as they are called, are disconnected from the life of the planet beneath their feet. Preoccupied with mining its resources, they are numb to anything else. Whenever Sulley "returns" to his disabled body, it is a poignant reminder of loss. In contrast, when "in" his avatar, he is free, not only physically, but also emotionally, allowing him to form intimate connections with others and develop his own sense of spirituality.

I suppose some might accuse director James Cameron of a lack of subtlety, creating a film with parallels to Native Peoples in this country. But in a twist of fate, Avatar has the "Indians" winning and the "White Man" sent packing. Not everyone liked that when the film was released, despite its popularity, but it does no harm to play with history and consider alternative endings. As a matter of fact, it might even help us reflect on our actions and become more adept at acting with the future in mind. Now, wouldn't that be a real twist?


(Creative Commons image of Avatar iPhone Wallpaper by xploitme via Flickr)

The Green Zone: Losing Black and White

Image via Wikipedia I don't get into politics a great deal in this blog, as you know, but having watched Green Zone starring Matt Damon last night, it's difficult to refrain from commenting. Green Zone takes place in 2003 Iraq, and follows a MET (Mobile Exploitation) team in the search for WMD -- weapons of mass destruction. Loosely based on the real-life experiences of soldier Monty Gonzales, who led a MET team in Iraq, the film dramatizes the frustration and confusion associated with trying to locate the stated reason for being there in the first place.

A noticeable difference between the Great Generation and subsequent ones, is the kind of war films produced. If you take a look at many that came out of World War II and Korea, the good guys and bad guys are clearly delineated, there is a strong note of American patriotism, and there are no moral gray areas -- black is black and white is white. To a certain extent, I think these films represent not only the mindset of that generation, but the nature of the particular wars they depict.

Viet Nam was the first truly ambiguous war of the 20th century, though some may argue the same for Korea. But unlike Korea, Viet Nam was more divisive than unifying. Not only from the standpoint of anti-war sentiment, but because there was no undeniable justification for American involvement. The popularity of films such as Platoon, Full Metal Jacket, and Apocalypse Now, reflect the attitudes of a generation coping with war in a world that was losing its sense of black and white.

For a while, 9-11 looked like a rebirth of Pearl Harbor values. But the context was wrong. Unlike America up to December 1941, isolationism wasn't the dominant political voice in 2001. We weren't coming out of economic depression and our recent history included military intervention in Kuwait. We hadn't been minding our own business only to find ourselves thrust onto the international scene against our will. Furthermore, the enemy wasn't specific in the same way as Germany and Japan. This time we had a tribal conflict on our hands with an elusive enemy who could be anywhere.

And that's the dilemma we face in the 21st century. The old reliable categories are too rigid to adequately classify incoming data. The message of Green Zone is, no one knows precisely what's going on; it's all too new. In the aftermath of invasion, neither the Iraqis nor the Americans could resolve the chaos resulting from the instability accompanying the removal of an oppressive regime.

Some critics have described Green Zone as anti-war or unpatriotic. Frankly, I think it does a marvelous job of clarifying how murky war has become. It reveals the kind of Machiavellian machinations that have necessarily characterized our approach to armed conflict since Viet Nam. In a world where ambiguity rules, the old rules don't apply, and as a result, the players all jockey for power. In short, Green Zone is an image of us and while it's not a pleasant one, it's nevertheless an accurate one.


(Fair use of low-resolution image of copyrighted film poster from The Green Zone used to identify the film in question. Copyright presumed to be held by Universal Pictures.)

Losing Sight of Truth: The Book of Eli

Have you ever seen one of those mega-churches on television? You haven't? Oh, you've got to -- if for no other reason than to stay current on cultural trends. And in the name of culture, let's play with language for a second. Mega comes from ancient Greek and translates as (no surprise here) "big." But when we use it as a prefix, we usually mean something that's really big, and that describes the mega-church -- it's the kind that gives new meaning to the word huge.

I'm not going to mention names, tempting as it is, because I don't want someone from the Universal Church of Televised Numerical Superiority to show up on my doorstep with a Writ of You-Have-Been-A-Bad-Boy. Let's just say some are so big they look like indoor football stadiums and have to practically pass out binoculars with the morning bulletin in order to see the minister.

Please understand, I'm not trying to be offensive, it's just that empire-building comes to mind when I see these programs now and then, and that strikes me as alien to the nature of church as a community of faith. Now the reason I'm bringing this up today is because empire-building is a theme played out in the 2010 film The Book of Eli.

In case you haven't seen it, The Book of Eli takes place thirty years after a war that resulted in pretty much universal devastation. Earth and sky are colorless, the landscape is barren and windswept. Survivors live however they can, some having turned to cannibalism. In this milieu we encounter Eli, portrayed by Denzel Washington, a man with singular purpose: he has an extremely rare book -- the last copy of its kind -- that he wishes to get to an unnamed, unspecified location somewhere in the western United States.

In the course of his journey, he arrives at what could be loosely called a "town," seeking a charge for the battery on his i-pod, a remnant of life before the war. As it happens, Carnegie (Gary Oldman) the town's most influential person, has been searching for the very book in Eli's possession, convinced it has power and the one who wields it will control the growing, illiterate and impressionable populace. And he wants to be that one.

Eli, naturally, refuses to give him the book and conflict ensues. Eventually, Eli escapes, aided by a woman who has found him to be a man who may be trusted, something as rare in her world as the book is to the entire Earth. While we get glimpses of it's identity, only near the end does Eli name it, a King James version of the Bible. To save the woman's life, he gives the book to Carnegie, little good that it does him since it's written in braille, a language Eli has apparently learned and no one else remembers.

Eli is a pilgrim, and the woman becomes a disciple. He has a spiritual strength that she first experiences when he prays over their food, but he neither advertises nor seeks notoriety because of it. He's an ordinary, run of the mill person who has a vision to which he is determined to remain true.

The place where Eli and the woman finally end up is a library of sorts located on Alcatraz Island. It's ironic that one of the world's most infamous prisons is the source from which civilization will be reborn. He dictates the entire thing from memory before dying and it becomes the first volume issued by Alcatraz Press, much as the Guttenberg Bible was the first volume ever produced on a printing press.

The Road (see 8/9-10/10) is a film about hope; The Book of Eli is ultimately about faith and devotion: Eli's to a vision, the woman's to Eli. It's also about contrasts. For Eli, the message of the book is, "Do unto others more than you do for yourself." For Carnegie, it's a means to an end: dominance and control over the minds of the vulnerable. Eli dies having fulfilled his purpose, Carnegie dies in despair. Eli found meaning in his journey and the words he memorized, Carnegie lost everything and gained nothing.

Too many times we hear of ministers who have managed to build an edifice and watch it crumble at their feet because they gave in to greed, lust, or narcissism. Do unto others gets lost in the passion to do for self. Even Eli admits he'd gotten so absorbed in getting the book to the West that he momentarily had forgotten to live by it. It is easy to become so enamored with the trappings of faith and the semblance of spirituality, that one loses touch with its essential truth. And whether it be religion, politics, or the realm of interpersonal relationships, truth is the one thing that matters above all.


(Creative Commons image of Eli by scriptingnews)

Changes in Attitude

Generally speaking, and I am speaking in generalizations, preoccupation with a sense of personal identity came into vogue with Baby Boomers. For the most part, the Great Generation seemed more secure with the presumption of identity than with its pursuit. Having endured the true economic and social hardships of the Depression and then diving headlong into war, for them life was, quite honestly, simpler or at least, more straightforward.

Issues of survival usually preclude examination of the deeper ones related to meaning and purpose, as Maslow's Hierarchy of Human Needs graphically illustrates. Concern for self-actualization, though not always, tends to follow after more basic needs have been met, and is not the typical company of economic hardship and war. Having said this, it's important to point out that the Great Generation also produced Victor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning, as well as a host of works by reflective thinkers and psychologists.

That's why I say, in general, because there are always exceptions. Nevertheless, the average member of that generation seems to have been able to move into career and family without a great deal of interior discussion about who they were and what they were about. Because of their care and sacrifices, Boomers were free to take a closer look at life and ask questions that appeared superfluous to mom and dad.

I think this was one of the major contributing factors to the generation gap between Boomers and their parents . And this is why I mentioned yesterday that I didn't believe Field of Dreams could have been filmed in 1945. The idea that one had to discover "who" they were and think about relationships that people took for granted was a completely foreign one. Why look for an identity that ought to be self-evident? It wasn't merely a matter of language, it was an entirely different mindset.

Ironically, while Boomers can likely be credited with coining the term "issues" and experiencing them with respect to personal identity, meaning, and purpose, I think Generations X and Y will have an easier time of it than we did. The reason is, they had our parents for grandparents. While we were busy rebelling against the Silent Majority, our children naturally became its students, and just as naturally accepted many of the values held by their grandparents that we were so quick to reject.

As a consequence, to the extent Boomers encounter a generation gap with their children, it may seem oddly familiar. Coping with this turn of events depends on how well we've reconciled ourselves with the worldview of our parents. If we're still fighting old battles, dealing with children could be troublesome. But if we've attained a measure of peace with the older generation, relating to the next one's changes in attitude could turn out to be a whole lot easier.


(GNU Free Documentation image via Wikipedia)

Parenting and the Lightning Thief

I was watching Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief, last night when I began wondering what stories like this say about parents. I don't want to give away too much of the plot in case you're unfamiliar with either the books or the film, so suffice to say, among the things the lead characters have in common is virtually the complete absence of one parent, sometimes mother, sometimes dad. It's acutely felt and evidenced by a woundedness or incompleteness the characters act out.

The theme of being orphaned or partially so and children forced to be on their own, isn't the peculiar property of Percy Jackson. It appears in the Harry Potter series, Superman, Star Wars, The Lord of the Rings, and numerous other tales. Dickens used the device in Great Expectations and David Copperfield. In Jungian parlance, the orphan is an archetype that permits children (and adults, by the way) to envision themselves living and, perhaps, accomplishing great things independent of parental control. Mythologists see this as a key factor in the hero's journey, another archetypal image of growth and development.

In some cases, the heroic orphan is oppressed or abused by caregivers as in Cinderella and, once again, Harry Potter. In others, we see them experiencing complicated relationships with parents -- Rudy and Field of Dreams come to mind. In all of these stories, the children experience longing for the missing parent(s) and go through a process that ultimately leads to mature adulthood, often symbolized by marriage and having children of their own.

We could talk all day about the implications of the orphan archetype and its impact on the psychology of children as well as adults. That describes what I've found on the web, researching this topic, which tells me I'm either completely off base or I'm hitting on something relatively new. And that is to say, we're drawn to this motif because we've become uncertain about parenting since the latter half of the 20th century.

A person could probably count the contributing factors several times on their fingers and toes, but the upshot is, we don't live in the same world as my parents and replicating their parenting style in a new one is problematic. Furthermore, judging from conversations I've had with many of their generation, we think about relationships with our parents to a greater extent and at greater depth than they did about theirs. I don't believe Field of Dreams could have been made in 1945; very few would have understood the reason for it.

As a result, in the attempt to make sense of our confusion about being adult children of parents, having children of our own and raising them in the context of cultural change, we turn to myth and try to relive the fantasy of the parent-less child. To the extent we feel estranged from or misunderstood by our parents, we identify with Percy Jackson and his friends. Having had to find our own way or believing that we did, we feel like Harry Potter, whose idealized parents he saw in the Mirror of Erised (desire spelled backwards).

There was nothing wrong, by the way, with Harry's looking in the mirror unless it led him to do nothing beyond wishing and hoping for what he could never have. It's the same with us. Eventually we have to take the image of what we long for and translate it into something real, making ourselves more capable, more fit for parenting in the midst of change. In that case, a little "mirror time," which is what all of these stories can enable, may really be quite useful.


(Creative Commons image entitled The Lightening Thief by Cayusa via Flickr)

A Night at the Movies

If you've ever gotten the impression that I'm not exactly up-to-date on the movie scene, you're absolutely right. I've got a list of excuses as long as my arm -- in excess of three feet, shoulder to fingertips -- but lack of interest is nowhere on it. I love movies and the latest Harry Potter flick got me hooked on IMAX and 3-D. All I have to do is walk into a theater and smell fresh popcorn, and it never fails, somewhere down inside I'm ten years old again.

Ultimately, the main reason I'm behind is cost. I'd betray my age if I told you ticket prices I recall, so as singer Jim Croce would say, "let's forget all that." My point is, it's darned near prohibitive, on a medical student's salary, to see first-run movies. And, unfortunately, the neighborhood movie house, as they used to be called, is a fond memory tucked away in American history. In case you don't know what I'm talking about, movies used to arrive first at downtown, upscale theaters. There they'd run for a few weeks before transferring to smaller, less expensive and less fancy theaters down the street from where most of us lived.

As a kid, Saturday afternoons were easily spent with my best buddy at the Woodlawn (isn't that a great name?), munching candy and watching double features. With the advent of the shopping mall and multiple screens, the local guys could no longer compete. Now, at least in my hometown of Denver, many of them have become venues for live music. That's a good thing, really, because it preserves the art deco architecture that was in its heyday in the 1920s and has become part of our cultural heritage.

Some towns, Dallas for example, have or used to have, dollar theaters. The seats weren't quite luxurious and the sound systems usually dated, but, hey, for a buck what can you expect? It was cheap and it beat paying several times that amount to see a film that had yet to go to DVD. The closest I can approximate that today is the automated dispenser at the grocery up the street.

True, my living room isn't the Paramount and the lounge chair I inherited from my parents isn't fitted with cup holders. Nor do I have the experience of surround sound and a screen wide enough to lose myself in the drama. But I can hit the pause button while I take my dog outside or skip backwards to hear a line that bears repeating in casual conversation. Peter Jackson and the Olympians was out in June and now it's available on DVD -- two months, that's not too bad.

The disadvantage isn't so much that I'm at a loss when someone asks what I think of the newest blockbuster. It's more that I don't have anyone to come around after "a night at the movies" to vacuum the carpet and collect the trash. I know, I need to have kids.


(Creative Commons image of Denver's Gothic Theater by DenverPam via Flickr; Operator by Jim Croce, copyright 1972)

Lost: A Metaphor

One evening, rather late, I'd been out walking the dog, and my mind began to wander, as it often does on those occasions. When it gets dark in Maine, it gets d-a-r-k, and particularly so because of the trees. Tall white pines as straight as power poles, their needled tops intertwined and their lower trunks scraped clean, growing so close together they resembled fans in a mosh pit, formed a ceiling between me and the early stars.

How we got off our usual path, I don't know, but we did and it wasn't long before I began feeling slightly nervous. Nocturnal creatures abound up here and while "lions, tigers, and bears" weren't likely, coyotes were. Possums, woodchucks, and foxes are shy and standoffish, but coyotes run in packs and I wasn't eager to play Sharks against the Jets, especially since the rest of our gang was nowhere to be seen and Leonard Bernstein wasn't around to provide background music (West Side Story).

By the luminous dial on my new Black Dog watch I could tell we'd been 20 minutes and close to a mile into the woods when we came upon something I would only have expected from Stephen King. The trees spread apart, forming a glen, and on either side was a tall gateway with a wooden crosspiece bearing a sign beneath it. The one on the left read "Too Late" and the one on the right, "Never Too Late." Before I could say anything about the glass being half-full or empty, my dog and I both startled at the same time, noticing a man sitting on a fallen log off to the side, smoking a pipe. My dog growled, uncharacteristically.

"Easy fella, didn't mean ta scare ya," he said, in a typical Southern Maine accent. "You're new round heah, but I seen you two walkin'. Figgah'd you'd get heah sometime."

"We live somewhere nearby," I said, looking around and waving my hand in the direction I hoped was home.

"Mm. Lost. Happens a lot. Folks only think they know wheah theah goin'." He stood up and took a few steps closer, the smoke from his pipe trailing behind, he was like a locomotive getting up steam. Velvet tobacco, I thought, sniffing, the same as my grandfather. "Well, you got a choice," he said, using his pipe stem as a pointer, "one or t'other, everybody does."

Wondering if I'd inadvertently stumbled onto a scene from Our Town, I said, "Wait a minute, I'm just trying to get home."

"Home is where the haaht is and you're heah. You want ta get somewheah else? You gotta choose. I'll tell ya right now, most folks go left. Oh, they look right and some even poke their heads through -- don't know what they think they'll see -- but then pull back and go left. Guess theah too used ta things the way they ah. It's hahd to go against the grain. Anyhow, you gotta choose. May as well get on with it."

I glanced down at my dog, who glanced up at me and raised one eyebrow in response, imitating, as I like to imagine, Mr. Spock. The man relit his pipe and added, "Yoah some kind of preachah, ain'tcha? (How could he know?) Oh, I know lottsa things. You'll like this, then. Hell's motto is 'Too Late.' Yup, it is. You prob'ly knew that already, bein' a preachah and all."

"Hell's motto, eh? That simplifies everything," I said, and my dog and I headed right.

"You'd think moah folks would realize that," he said to himself, though loudly enough for me to hear.

We'd barely crossed the threshold when it became obvious we'd walked out of the woods into my hayfield, the lights of the house shining on the hill ahead of us. We'd been on my own property, all the time. I looked back, expecting to see an old man, clouded in smoke, framed by the gate we'd just entered, but there was nothing. Only the trees and a tiny glen.

Later that night, with my dog asleep by the fire and the cat curled up next to him, I wondered aloud, what would have lain in wait, had we gone to the left. "A lot of unhappiness and regret, most likely," I said, answering my own question. At that, my dog stirred, looked up, wagged his tail, and I was glad we never found out for ourselves. Some things really are best left behind in this life and the pathway marked Too Late is one of them.


(Photo copyright 2010 by the author -- double click on it to enlarge)

What Would Holly Say?

And I said, "What about Breakfast at Tiffany's?" She said, "I think I remember the film, and as I recall, I think, we both kinda liked it," and I said, "Well, that's the one thing we've got." ~ Deep Blue

Whenever I think about cocktail parties, the archetypal opening scenes from Breakfast at Tiffany's, come to mind. Narrow-lapel jackets with pencil-width ties that are, thankfully, out of style and I hope stay that way, women wearing pillbox hats that appear to have come back in style, and upbeat Greenwich Village jazz. Faces distorted through martini glasses like reflections in a carnival fun house mirror. Holly Golightly desperately trying to land a millionaire.

Until recently, I thought I was the only one who referred to "cocktail parties" anymore and that seemed pretty retro. I kind of felt my age was showing, rather like a silk slip cautiously creeping from behind a skirt's hem -- you do remember slips, don't you? It's Victoria's Secret that she has, and hopefully, still wears them. But I guess they're making a comeback -- cocktail parties, that is -- because my entering class is having one this week as part of Senior Week festivities and calling it just that.

What goes around, comes around, they say, and it feels good knowing I'm "in" like those pillbox hats, once again. Ordinarily, by the time I've decided I like a particular look, no one else remembers it. I'll hang on for dear life because I'm comfortable if somewhat dated, and a few years later, sure enough, the rest of the world gives me a gander and says, "Mm, he doesn't look half bad -- let's try that." Or at least that's what I tell myself.

The real challenge about this party is there will be -- you guessed it -- dancing. Nothing like the "Electric Slide" from today's The Argyle Sweater, I'm sure, but it's hard to tell in advance. I'd like to have the Fox Trot in my repertoire but we haven't covered more than the basic step in class, so I'm left to my own resources and online demos. In any case, this will be my public debut and with a little luck, the floor will be so crowded no one will notice my toes counting out the rhythm. Sigh, what would Holly say?


(Creative Commons image of Holly Golightly by Jonas de los Reyes via Flickr)