Just Chillin'
I think I ought to talk about the Golden Fleece. This is from a show on TV (A&E or maybe Discovery or something like that - I forget). They were talking about a very, very remote village up in the hills of the Balkans. The village is virtually inaccessible. The only inhabitants of the region are the villagers and some mountain goats. The village does have one claim to fame, however; it has some really remarkable icons. They keep them in their little church except for one day a year, when they haul the whole bunch out into the sunshine for some reason. Anyhoo, the villagers do have one tiny little source of income - gold. It ain't much, however. There are flecks and bits in some of the caves and streams.
What was absolutely fascinating is how the villagers manage to get the gold. They take sheep skins from the mountain goats and stretch them across the streams in early spring when the snow starts to melt. The streams become torrents and wash all sorts of things down hill. The sheep skins catch plenty of debris, including quite a lot of gold flecks. See? The Golden Fleece! Well, here's the punch line. Everybody has known forever that there's gold in those hills - there is plenty of evidence in the caves that, through the millennia, a lot of effort has been put into trying to squeeze some gold out. It's just that there's not that much, it's not very accessible, and nobody could ever make a good industry out of it (except the villagers).
In many of the caves people have found Greek coins. Very, very old Greek coins. So, all you Doubting Thomases, pay attention. There really is such a thing as the Golden Fleece - and the Greeks knew about it. So the next time you dismiss something as a "myth", think hard before you say that.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Saturday, April 11, 2009
I gotta stop reading the newspaper
Music: AfroCelt Sound Experience
Okay, you can just shoot me and bury me in the garden because now I've read it all. This story appeared in our local newspaper.
A woman in Lake Jackson, Texas, was arrested and charged with negligent homicide in the death of her husband. It seems that he had a long history of alcoholism and was desperate for a high. He could no longer ingest alcohol by mouth because of "painful medical problems" with his throat.
So what these two geniuses came up with was this: she administered an alcohol enema to him using (are you ready?) not one but TWO 1.5 liter bottles of sherry. Sherry? Huh? You heard correctly. I am NOT making this up. The coroner determined that the guy's blood alcohol level was 0.47, which is almost six times the legal intoxication limit.
Detective Robert Turner of the Lake Jackson police said, "I heard of this kind of thing in mortuary school in 1970, but this is the first time I've ever heard of someone actually doing it". And they're going to be talking about this one in other mortuary schools, too. I'm beyond speechless. [facepalm]
Okay, you can just shoot me and bury me in the garden because now I've read it all. This story appeared in our local newspaper.
A woman in Lake Jackson, Texas, was arrested and charged with negligent homicide in the death of her husband. It seems that he had a long history of alcoholism and was desperate for a high. He could no longer ingest alcohol by mouth because of "painful medical problems" with his throat.
So what these two geniuses came up with was this: she administered an alcohol enema to him using (are you ready?) not one but TWO 1.5 liter bottles of sherry. Sherry? Huh? You heard correctly. I am NOT making this up. The coroner determined that the guy's blood alcohol level was 0.47, which is almost six times the legal intoxication limit.
Detective Robert Turner of the Lake Jackson police said, "I heard of this kind of thing in mortuary school in 1970, but this is the first time I've ever heard of someone actually doing it". And they're going to be talking about this one in other mortuary schools, too. I'm beyond speechless. [facepalm]
Walk the Line
A friend of mine loaned me her copy of the DVD for the Johnny Cash biopic, "Walk the Line" and I really loved it. I'm not a fan of country music, but Cash was not Country. More Rockabilly, but with a lot of soul injected.
My one very minor connection with Cash is that when I was in 7th grade we moved to Memphis (Air Force dad) and the house we rented belonged to Cash's bass player, Marshal something-or-other. Very nice house. But the movie reminded me of how much entertainment Cash provided through his music and how many songs of his seem to thread through my life.
The added spice of his relationship with June Carter makes the whole package/story so much more touching. In many respects it's a chick flick, but you can't watch Joaquin Phoenix's amazing, riveting portrayal without getting chills. As if all that isn't enough, Reese Witherspoon is amazing.
The icing on the cake is the fact that both actors did all the singing, and I am impressed by both of them. Not only did they do credit to the songs and the singing, they also came across remarkably like Cash and Carter. Really a very, very good movie.
My one very minor connection with Cash is that when I was in 7th grade we moved to Memphis (Air Force dad) and the house we rented belonged to Cash's bass player, Marshal something-or-other. Very nice house. But the movie reminded me of how much entertainment Cash provided through his music and how many songs of his seem to thread through my life.
The added spice of his relationship with June Carter makes the whole package/story so much more touching. In many respects it's a chick flick, but you can't watch Joaquin Phoenix's amazing, riveting portrayal without getting chills. As if all that isn't enough, Reese Witherspoon is amazing.
The icing on the cake is the fact that both actors did all the singing, and I am impressed by both of them. Not only did they do credit to the songs and the singing, they also came across remarkably like Cash and Carter. Really a very, very good movie.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Revenge - a Story of Hope
Mood: Quiet Music: Manhattan Transfer
This is a book by Laura Blumenfeld. I first saw her on C-SPAN discussing her book and was astonished at the background, journey, and conclusion. The book jacket has the grabber: "My father was shot by a terrorist. A decade later, I went looking for him..."
"Looking for him" is a huge understatement. Her father survived the attempt on his life in 1986, and this event absolutely overwhelmed her. She became obsessed with finding and confronting the Palestinian who tried to kill her father. With a family full of lawyers and rabbis she figures out quickly the difference between Justice and it's "illegitimate brother", Revenge. She wants Revenge.
The journey she undertook morphed almost beyond recognition and wound up being a psychological/emotional healing as well as a journalistic research project on the level of a post-graduate thesis. She started by just wanting to find and confront her father's would-be killer. But now the study of revenge itself and how to do it PROPERLY becomes her quest. Her travels detoured through Albania, of all places. She calls it one of the Revenge Capitols. It seems that those clever Albanians have actually codified Revenge and have a BOOK that details which revenge is appropriate for which offense!
This 15th Century "rule book" was written by an Albanian monk and is actively sold at book kiosks in Albania. This is a country where revenge is not a choice; it's a sacred duty. However, one must follow the rules set out in this book. IF this happens, THEN your revenge is [fill in the blank]. Furthermore, revenge-taking is the end. No one is allowed to take revenge for someone who took revenge. Got it?
At any rate, her journey went much farther than Albania. With her husband, she winds up in Israel and she then embarks on the most astonishing leg of her astonishing journey - she goes in search of the man who shot her father. She finds him - he had actually been arrested and jailed for his act. But now she wants to confront him and begins a very dangerous dance. She gets to know the shooter's family by representing herself as a journalist, which she is.
It's difficult to condense the multiplicity of dangerous stages she passes through. She befriends and becomes emotionally close to the shooters family. She worms her way into the prison and meets the shooter, who, much to her dismay, is not a monster but a sad little weakling who couldn't even shoot straight the night he was sent out by the PLO to shoot a Jew.
The book's climax is a courtroom scene that not even Hollywood would believe. Laura Blumenfeld goes to court to win freedom for the man who tried to kill her father.
Beautifully, beautifully written. All her condensed emotions and intellect find eloquent expression. I have recommended this book to all my friends and family.
This is a book by Laura Blumenfeld. I first saw her on C-SPAN discussing her book and was astonished at the background, journey, and conclusion. The book jacket has the grabber: "My father was shot by a terrorist. A decade later, I went looking for him..."
"Looking for him" is a huge understatement. Her father survived the attempt on his life in 1986, and this event absolutely overwhelmed her. She became obsessed with finding and confronting the Palestinian who tried to kill her father. With a family full of lawyers and rabbis she figures out quickly the difference between Justice and it's "illegitimate brother", Revenge. She wants Revenge.
The journey she undertook morphed almost beyond recognition and wound up being a psychological/emotional healing as well as a journalistic research project on the level of a post-graduate thesis. She started by just wanting to find and confront her father's would-be killer. But now the study of revenge itself and how to do it PROPERLY becomes her quest. Her travels detoured through Albania, of all places. She calls it one of the Revenge Capitols. It seems that those clever Albanians have actually codified Revenge and have a BOOK that details which revenge is appropriate for which offense!
This 15th Century "rule book" was written by an Albanian monk and is actively sold at book kiosks in Albania. This is a country where revenge is not a choice; it's a sacred duty. However, one must follow the rules set out in this book. IF this happens, THEN your revenge is [fill in the blank]. Furthermore, revenge-taking is the end. No one is allowed to take revenge for someone who took revenge. Got it?
At any rate, her journey went much farther than Albania. With her husband, she winds up in Israel and she then embarks on the most astonishing leg of her astonishing journey - she goes in search of the man who shot her father. She finds him - he had actually been arrested and jailed for his act. But now she wants to confront him and begins a very dangerous dance. She gets to know the shooter's family by representing herself as a journalist, which she is.
It's difficult to condense the multiplicity of dangerous stages she passes through. She befriends and becomes emotionally close to the shooters family. She worms her way into the prison and meets the shooter, who, much to her dismay, is not a monster but a sad little weakling who couldn't even shoot straight the night he was sent out by the PLO to shoot a Jew.
The book's climax is a courtroom scene that not even Hollywood would believe. Laura Blumenfeld goes to court to win freedom for the man who tried to kill her father.
Beautifully, beautifully written. All her condensed emotions and intellect find eloquent expression. I have recommended this book to all my friends and family.
Hurricane Ike
Music: Deodato - Whirlwinds 2 - appropriate
It is the Noise that I remember most. I'll remember it for the rest of my life. We sheltered a few miles north and east in our daughter's house (remember, misery loves company) because we were ordered to evacuate our house. The joke was on us, however, as Ike took a turn to the east and passed right over our refuge. Power went out at 1:05 a.m., and the hurricane had not even made landfall in Galveston, 40 miles south of us.
I've lived on four continents. I've been through wind storms, rain storms, lightening storms, thunderstorms, tropical storms, monsoons (I hate monsoons), ice storms, sleet, freezing rain, tornadoes, the deadly mid-west heat wave of 1980, hail, blizzards, typhoons, cyclones, and smaller hurricanes. I'm no coward, but I have a very healthy respect for any weather phenomenon. You just can't avoid it. You can't stop it. You can't alter it. You can't predict it. You had better not ignore it. It will come when it decides to, will take whatever path it chooses, linger if it wants to, and leave only when it is ready. It doesn't care, doesn't know, doesn't feel, doesn't think. It IS and it must be endured.
After the power went out we all went to bed and tried to sleep. Without power, a house is in itself silent, which makes wind gusts of 135 miles per hour almost mind-numbing. And the raindrops sounded like bullets when they hit the window. I still cannot understand how all the windows in this two-story house remained unbroken under the dual assault.
But it was the Noise that kept me awake. Wide awake. In all my life, in all the places weather had pummeled me or assaulted me, I had never heard this Noise before. Even the cyclone we lived through in Korea was not like this. I can tell you that the Noise was what terrified me more than anything. I'm not sure if I can find the words to describe it. I do know what it was NOT.
It was not the wind - that whistling noise of trees whipping back and forth, slapping their own leaves off. It was not rain, or thunder, or the heart-stopping crack of the lightening close by. It didn't sound like a train, or a jet plane. It was not a growl or a howl or a roar or a scream.
It was always there. It was high above us and all around us at the same time. It was in the background, but absolutely dominated the entire sky. The wind ebbed and sometimes nearly went silent, but that Noise was always there. The rain lashed and crashed and clattered, but that Noise was always there. Even when the huge eye of that hurricane passed over us and the wind was totally calm and the rain stopped completely, that Noise was still there, above us, around us.
It was a threat and a promise and a warning and a very overpowering entity. It was there for nearly seven hours and I hope I never hear it again.
If a weather event can be horrifying and awesome at the same time, Hurricane Ike qualifies.
Postscript:
We managed to feed four adults and two children for four days without any power at all. But we ran out of food and evacuated to Austin, Texas, we were sure there was power again. There is damage absolutely everywhere. Every house, every street, every neighborhood, every section, every block - nothing is completely intact. The damage is largely not catastrophic. But the area of damage is massive. Massive. The area of damage is the size of the state of New Jersey.
And almost seven months later, some houses are still boarded up.
It is the Noise that I remember most. I'll remember it for the rest of my life. We sheltered a few miles north and east in our daughter's house (remember, misery loves company) because we were ordered to evacuate our house. The joke was on us, however, as Ike took a turn to the east and passed right over our refuge. Power went out at 1:05 a.m., and the hurricane had not even made landfall in Galveston, 40 miles south of us.
I've lived on four continents. I've been through wind storms, rain storms, lightening storms, thunderstorms, tropical storms, monsoons (I hate monsoons), ice storms, sleet, freezing rain, tornadoes, the deadly mid-west heat wave of 1980, hail, blizzards, typhoons, cyclones, and smaller hurricanes. I'm no coward, but I have a very healthy respect for any weather phenomenon. You just can't avoid it. You can't stop it. You can't alter it. You can't predict it. You had better not ignore it. It will come when it decides to, will take whatever path it chooses, linger if it wants to, and leave only when it is ready. It doesn't care, doesn't know, doesn't feel, doesn't think. It IS and it must be endured.
After the power went out we all went to bed and tried to sleep. Without power, a house is in itself silent, which makes wind gusts of 135 miles per hour almost mind-numbing. And the raindrops sounded like bullets when they hit the window. I still cannot understand how all the windows in this two-story house remained unbroken under the dual assault.
But it was the Noise that kept me awake. Wide awake. In all my life, in all the places weather had pummeled me or assaulted me, I had never heard this Noise before. Even the cyclone we lived through in Korea was not like this. I can tell you that the Noise was what terrified me more than anything. I'm not sure if I can find the words to describe it. I do know what it was NOT.
It was not the wind - that whistling noise of trees whipping back and forth, slapping their own leaves off. It was not rain, or thunder, or the heart-stopping crack of the lightening close by. It didn't sound like a train, or a jet plane. It was not a growl or a howl or a roar or a scream.
It was always there. It was high above us and all around us at the same time. It was in the background, but absolutely dominated the entire sky. The wind ebbed and sometimes nearly went silent, but that Noise was always there. The rain lashed and crashed and clattered, but that Noise was always there. Even when the huge eye of that hurricane passed over us and the wind was totally calm and the rain stopped completely, that Noise was still there, above us, around us.
It was a threat and a promise and a warning and a very overpowering entity. It was there for nearly seven hours and I hope I never hear it again.
If a weather event can be horrifying and awesome at the same time, Hurricane Ike qualifies.
Postscript:
We managed to feed four adults and two children for four days without any power at all. But we ran out of food and evacuated to Austin, Texas, we were sure there was power again. There is damage absolutely everywhere. Every house, every street, every neighborhood, every section, every block - nothing is completely intact. The damage is largely not catastrophic. But the area of damage is massive. Massive. The area of damage is the size of the state of New Jersey.
And almost seven months later, some houses are still boarded up.
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