Yeah, I know, it's been a while. My brain kind of hit the briar patch and I couldn't figure out how to push through it. It's kind of appropriate to take a sabbatical going into Act Two, don't you think? All right, back to work now.
Click here for the table of contents.
The board had moved quickly in the last ninety minutes, calling an emergency session for everyone who could be reached at such a short notice. For a time, high ranking studio officials clamored in and out of the hallway like the hurricane from The Band Concert. And then in almost an instant it was silent, leaving Oswald on one of the metal benches outside the boardroom burying his face in his hands while Mickey summoned every ounce of his will power to keep himself from pacing.
"It'll be all right, pal," Mickey tried assuring him. "We've all had to face the board before."
Oswald couldn't respond, and Mickey gave in to the reality that, at least at this time, there was nothing he could say to make the situation any better.
Minnie appeared in the boardroom doorway, gently pulling the handle shut behind her as she joined Mickey and Oswald. "They need a few minutes to set up the mics."
Mickey nodded, guiding her to the entrance door. "Why don't you head on back to the office. We'll take it from here."
"You know," Minnie whispered, completely forgetting how keen the rabbit's hearing was, "They're gonna try to pin this on him."
Mickey glanced over his shoulder at Oswald, who was still covering his face. "Jiminy won't let that happen."
"He may not have a choice Mickey. Madame Medusa's presiding over this one."
Mickey's confidence was noticeably deflating. "Gosh, that's never good."
"Don't try to fix this today. Just focus on damage control."
"Have we had any luck contactin' anybody on the inside?"
Minnie shook her head. "I got confirmation that the firebird wore itself out. Jasmine and the others made it to the ocean. So if anyone asks, and they will, that's officially the latest update."
"So everyone's okay then?"
It may have been the closest Minnie Mouse had ever gotten to deliberately lying. She really hadn't wanted to burden Mickey with worse news than the bad news he was already going to have to present, but the long pause she took made the word 'yes' impossible. "We can't find Tarzan."
Mickey's mouth fell open. "Oh no."
Minnie attempted a recovery. "We don't know for sure."
"Not knowin' for sure is the same as hope."
The loud swing of the boardroom door interrupted the conversation. Minnie gave Mickey a quick kiss on the cheek for luck. Mickey inhaled slowly, and motioned to Oswald. And the session began.
The first round of questions was a blur to Oswald. The board was made up of nearly a dozen human faces including Madame Medusa, Mulan, and someone who looked like he was from the Don Bluth era; the rest he didn't recognize. Jiminy Cricket had thanked them both for coming in, and with the exception of the phrase 'that rabbit' now and again, it was about the last words that Oswald registered. There were a lot of heated screeches coming from Madame Medusa's voice, followed by an occasional return volley from Mickey. But Oswald's mind was on the disaster that was his creation.
Despite how careful Minnie was to murmur, Oswald had heard everything she said. And one of the volunteers trapped inside was unaccounted for. Probably dead. Most definitely dead. Alice and Meg had heard the banshee's wail.
Oswald went over all of the time he had spent on programming the simulation. Nobody was even supposed to be able to die in his world. But maybe he hadn't been thorough enough. Maybe he was using elements he didn't fully understand. He'd always assumed cartoon characters didn't die, unless they were forgotten for long enough.
His ears perked up when he realized the floor was his. Jiminy had said something to him, and Oswald frantically looked to Mickey for help.
"It's okay," Mickey smiled. "Just answer the questions as they're asked."
"What did he say?" Oswald inadvertently whispered straight into his microphone.
Madame Medusa's voice resonated through the entire boardroom. "He said state your name!"
"Thank you, Madame. I've got this." Jiminy took a second to reassert his control of the session. "For the record, please state your name."
"Oswald," said the rabbit, sounding a few levels meeker than his previous whisper.
"And how long have you been part of the Disney family?"
"Since February 2006-"
Mickey jumped into the testimony. "He's been with us since 1927." The stenographer looked to Jiminy for clarification and the cricket indicated Mickey's answer to be the accepted one.
"And how many other families have you been a part of?" asked Madame Medusa.
"Gosh," said Mickey, "Oswald's always been one of us-"
"Let him answer!" Madame Medusa commanded.
Oswald cleared his throat. "I've been with George Winkler and Universal. Then Walter Lantz."
"And then you were in storage for quite awhile." Oswald couldn't tell if she meant it as a statement or a question, but she continued before he could answer. "And now this simulated world is of your design. Tell the board. Do you have trouble concentrating?"
Mickey raised his hand to object but Jiminy was already ahead of him. "Madame, I think we're going to need an explanation for the question before it goes on record."
"Gladly," Madame Medusa smirked. "I'm proposing that the rodent may have his allegiances torn."
"I'm not a rodent!" Oswald blurted out, sending an audible reaction through the assembly. Jiminy had to regain order while Oswald glumly refused to make eye-contact with Mickey.
"Okay, let me remind the board," Jiminy told the all-human members seated behind him, "that species is irrelevant to job competency."
Madame Medusa was clearly enjoying this moment in the spotlight. "Anyone who works at competing studios may very well have grey loyalties. And the 'rabbit' has already shown a lack of focus just being able to tell the board his name."
Oswald leaned into his microphone. "May I respond?" Jiminy gave him the okay. "I have trouble concentrating because I haven't been sleeping. This project was supposed to be something special. Yes, I've made a terrible mistake by sticking my neck out before I was ready. And whatever's happened- whatever continues to happen- it's because of me. I take full responsibility for it all. But it's because of carelessness, not because of torn allegiances."
His words left him for a few seconds, and Mickey patted him on the shoulder. Oswald lost himself in images of that firebird that he was positive he'd never included in the simulation. And Jiminy was kind enough to let the silence run as long as it needed to.
"Please," Oswald said at last, "fix this before anyone else gets hurt."
Mickey found himself back in the hallway doing his best to comfort Oswald. "It went a lot better than it feels," said the mouse.
The board was taking a recess and neither one of them was needed for the reconvention; in the interest of mental preservation they casually tried making a beeline for the door without having to speak with anyone else.
"I didn't mean anything about not being a rodent," said Oswald.
Mickey shrugged. "Aw shucks, I wasn't bothered."
"It's just, rabbits aren't part of the rodentia order. We're lagomorphs. Like pikas. I guess I just panicked in there and reached for something I knew."
Mickey gave him a warm grin, unaware of Mulan chasing after the pair of them. "Wow! Ya learn somethin' new every day!"
"Hey guys," Mulan called.
"Not now, okay?" Oswald said, glancing back at her but refusing to stop until Mickey did.
"Aw, not to worry, Oz. Mulan's on our side. She's got our backs."
"Well she was awfully quiet in there."
Mulan had caught up to them, giving Oswald an empathetic grimace. "Battle strategy involves knowing how and when not to fight."
"How's it lookin' in there?" Mickey asked.
"They're going to officially pull Oswald off the project."
"Gosh, can you stop them?"
Mulan shook her head. "It's better in the long run to go along with the decision without calling for a vote."
"Better for who?" demanded Oswald.
"For you," she said. "We can't not take an action. Let it feel like enough of a resolution and I can steer towards the issue of nine stranded Disney characters."
"But without Oswald," said Mickey, "how can we hope to get everyone out safely?"
"I don't know, just keep at it."
Oswald huffed. "That figures."
Mulan knelt down to where she was closer to Mickey's level. "Would it be okay if we," she indicated Oswald, "had a moment alone?"
"Sure thing! Take all the time ya need!" Mickey smiled at Oswald and scurried to the door.
"I've got an idea," Mulan told Oswald once Mickey was gone, "but I need you to trust me."
Oswald eyed her up and down, weighing his options. It didn't take long for him to accept that he didn't have any. "Okay."
"What hardware did you use?"
"What hardware?"
"When you created the world," Mulan clarified. "You had to have gone through some sort of processing."
Oswald thought. "I used paper designs. Built some models."
"And then what?"
"And then I looked through the backlog of Disney films."
Mulan realized her line of questioning wasn't getting her anywhere. "Did you outsource it?"
Oswald gave her a blank stare. "I don't know what that is."
"At any point did you use a machine that wasn't owned by the company?"
"No, I didn't think I'd need to. Why?"
Mulan flipped through the mess of pages pertaining to Oswald's project. She showed him one of the digitizing laser that had been used in Tron. "Do you know what this is?"
"Yeah, that's the thing that transports everyone to and from the island."
Mulan continued fumbling through the disorganized files in the binder. "So the island is a computer program."
Oswald shrugged. "I suppose. I don't really-"
She set another image in front of him, this time an oddly shaped metal box with a few coiled appendages protruding from it. "Do you know what this is?"
"No. What is it?"
"It's an adaptor. You've been using old technology in a modern studio. This adaptor allows the laser to communicate with your virtual world. And it's missing."
Oswald just looked at her obliviously. "So...why is it missing?"
"I don't know. But it's why you can't contact anyone on the inside."
"So we need another one?"
"It's thirty year old technology. I don't think we're going to have spares anywhere."
Oswald hopped onto the same bench he'd been on before his testimony and slumped down again. "Great," he grumbled. "Terrific."
Mulan was about to sit down next to him but she was interrupted by the summons from one of the other board members. Recess was over.
"Oswald, listen to me. Stay on property. But make yourself scarce."
"And how am I supposed to do that?"
"Head over to the commissary and wait." Oswald hadn't seen Mulan smile until this moment, and he wasn't sure how to take her knowing wink. "I'll send help. I know a dragon."
Oswald rolled his eyes. What did she think Mushu was going to do? "He's your guardian, not mine," the rabbit chided her.
Mulan glanced over her shoulder without stopping. "I wasn't talking about him..."
Continue to Chapter Fourteen.
Return to the table of contents.
Thursday, January 26, 2017
Friday, January 20, 2017
Editorial: The Liberal Christian
A little background information on me, if you're interested: (if you're not, feel free to skip to the next paragraph; and I don't like you anymore) I went to college with the intention of going into the ministry. Fortunately the School of Church Careers made me fully aware of what I was getting into, namely the political element to any church. Organized religion, by its nature, has to have a political... 'side' feels a bit misleading. 'System' maybe? In much the way the human body has a skeletal system, a muscular system, circulatory; there's a political layer to the church that I remain psychologically inapt to withstand professionally. It's probably why I started a career at a library; sort of a secular version of a church.
And welcome back to those of you who aren't interested in me, thanks for reading my blog against your wishes.
So despite my unstable relationship with churches I still find myself with a spiritual calling, even if it's one that drives me to the outskirts of the organization. In my imaginary world (one of them anyway) I picture myself as a sort of coffee shop owner across the street from the religion district, where patrons are encouraged to sit down, have a drink, and discuss/debate/even go so far as to get into a controlled argument about anything related to the unobservable scope of life-death-and beyond. Just so long as they don't expect answers. I call it The Flowing Fountain.
Ninety percent of my fictional patrons are welcomed here. The remaining ten percent are merely tolerated, fortunately they're too caught up in themselves to notice the difference. These are the extremists. So out of twenty patrons, you've got eighteen that are making The Flowing Fountain a special place. The other two are immovable fundamentalists who think they're above everybody else. I've named them Char and Ashe, a pair of destructive four letter words. Naturally they find each other.
Today's topic involves something from the real world. I would like to draw your attention to Brandi Burgess, an actress living in Philadelphia. She's the daughter of Alabama radio personality Rick Burgess of The Rick and Bubba Radio Show. At the risk of being narrow-minded, the phrase 'and Bubba' probably tells you exactly what you need to know about the talk show's content: God, country, hunting, conservative Christian values. I've never listened to them, but I'm confident a Wikipedia search pretty much brings me up to speed.
Brandi is bisexual, and she's currently in a relationship with a woman. This doesn't sit well with her celebrity father. Hell, why don't you take a moment to read her own editorial that she published a few days ago? I feel it's genuine and to the point.
As you might expect, her father and the rest of her family has reacted against her; excuse me, her choices (to Rick, these are no doubt two very different things but I imagine they feel identical to Brandi). They highlights are, he loves his daughter but anything that isn't heterosexuality is the road to Hell, she's making up her own version of God -which is the equivalent of idolatry, and then they pull a faux high road by asking everyone (their own judgment notwithstanding) to be kind to their daughter.
See? This is why I do my best to escape reality.
So back at The Flowing Fountain, Char and Ashe have been discussing Brandi and they find themselves in a string of agreements on Brandi's false Christianity and how rigid the scripture truly is. But you can guess how surprised they both are when they discover they're at opposite ends of the extremist spectrum. Char is a fundamentalist Bible-pounding Christian. Ashe on the other hand is an overly-assertive Atheist (did you see what I did there with their names?). And they were getting along so well too, both having found a like minded individual to detest the rest of the world with. The funny thing is, they're convinced that has somehow changed.
I'm going to need to break this up before it gets out of hand. What's the problem I ask them. Boom! In unison they both obliviously begin arguing the same point that one can't be a bisexual Christian, although Char's conclusion is that Brandi is in fact going to Hell, while Ashe is insisting her orientation nullifies her faith.
Okay, let's back this up. Walk me through it from the beginning.
The first problem is Char and Ashe both love the sounds of their own voices. Char doesn't start at the beginning like I asked. Char starts with a series of memorized Bible verses and will not shut up until every last one of them has been recited. Then Ashe picks up the spotlight and quotes MORE Bible verses. The mantra of every asshole Atheist is "Atheists know more about the Bible than Christians" and Ashe is determined to prove it while simultaneously disproving the Bible.
What they actually say is irrelevant, because I'm not listening. It's not that I'm blocking it out, but neither one of them is actually saying anything. When they've finally worn themselves down I strike every bullshit argument they just made from the record. My coffee shop, my rules. It looks like I'm going to have to start this myself.
Premise number one, I say, preparing to give each word in the remainder of my sentence equal emphasis. You. Are. Not. In. God's. Head.
Ashe can't really debate the issue except by adding "because He doesn't exist", which I ignore. In fact, that summarizes my basic criticism of the Atheist mentality. Humans may be the top minds on this world, but I find it very unlikely that we're the apex of cognitive evolution. To paraphrase Socrates Jones, there are infinite numbers between zero and one, yet none of them are two. Atheists believe there is no proof of God (which is curiously also the definition of faith), and they may be right about that but that doesn't disprove God. Atheism operates from an answer that hasn't been earned.
But Char is the one who wants to challenge me. The Bible says- is as far as I'll let Char go before interrupting. Are you in my head? I ask. Char has no choice but to meekly say no. (Well, technically, being a fiction construct Char is in my head but Char doesn't know that, and since this whole conversation is a metaphor for real world conversations the correct answer is 'no'.) Am I in your head? I ask. Char grumbles no again. I ask is God bigger and greater than both of us? Char confidently says yes. I make one last attempt by asking, then are you in God's head?
Char is stubborn to the point of inflexibility, but is certainly not an idiot (elitists never are, that's why they're dangerous, they've convinced themselves they're right). Char correctly predicts where I'm going with this thought and refuses to answer a yes or no question with an obvious response.
See, here's the deal, God didn't write the Bible. Inspired it, yes, but there's no logical reason to assume it was God's intention. And this has been my longstanding frustration with rigid Christians who treat every single word among the pages as infallible divine dictation. The Bible is the combined work of generations of flawed human hands. And if there's one thing humans are guaranteed to do, it's screw things up.
But Char can't fathom even the possibility that anything from Genesis to Revelations could be slightly out of place. God has a plan says Char (an unfounded assumption) and the book of books is literally the word of God in black and white. There can be no grey area, and Char begins another full rant of circular reasoning (using Bible verses to 'prove' the Bible). And when I point out that conclusion is only valid if you already accept the conclusion as the premise I get the go to tantrum every fundamentalist who stumbles in an argument reaches for: why not just throw out the whole Bible then?
I lean forward on my imaginary counter and stare Char in the imaginary eyes. Are you telling me, I say, that one loose strand of scripture is enough to unravel the entire foundation of your fragile faith? This is not well received.
I'm told the exact same things that everyone who believes in any incongruity with orthodox fundamentalism is told, that I will be prayed for in the hopes that I will turn away from my not-them outlook before I spend eternity in Hell. And Char also has to rise and leave while the last word on the matter is still within grasp.
I wasn't expecting anything more from someone like Char, for that is the kind of Christian who knows nothing about Christianity or Christ. They think it's an exclusive club belonging only to themselves and the people with which they're comfortable. Like Rick Burgess, 'God's love' is a series of two words that they recite as a discriminating weapon; anything but God's love.
Ashe, who interprets the preceding conversation as a victory for the side of Atheism, gives me a smile that I don't return. You are no different than Char, I tell Ashe, which is met with a smug challenge as how I figure. Simple, I say, both of you believe exactly the same thing; that God is limited to Bible. It's just where Char thinks that it somehow elevates the Bible up to God's level, you think it drags God down to the level of a human text that can be disproved away.
When prodded to enlighten Ashe I use a modern metaphor. GPS. The Bible may not be God's autobiography but that doesn't mean it doesn't at least point us in a valuable direction. It's a collection of ideas about the nature of life, written centuries apart, all pointing towards a unifying theme. Something exists beyond what we see, and it's small-minded arrogance to assume we've got it all figured out.
I think the most inspiring thing I've heard about the Bible came from Eric Idle. The story goes, at the premier of Monty Python and the Holy Grail a reporter asked him what the group's next film would be, and Idle (always with a quip ready) answered, "Jesus Christ, Lust for Glory". And after the premier the fellows went to the pub and had a few too many and started entertaining themselves with a series of blasphemous jokes about what they'd do with the concept. But the next morning, the idea was still there and they gradually started taking it a bit more seriously. And they started doing research on the time period and reading the Gospels and the Dead Sea Scrolls and the scholarly analyses, and what they found was the message behind Christianity was actually a very sound moral philosophy. Comedy relies on human selfishness, things like greed, lust, etc. Jesus's teachings were devoid of that kind of negativity. Love, patience, humility; comedy really can't react against these things. And we're talking Monty Python at the apex of their professional and creative energy as a full unit. Christ's teachings were immune to the efforts of comedy's highest ensemble.
Naturally Ashe can't accept that the Bible could be viewed as anything between a chaotic hodgepodge of random musings and a unified thesis statement that is destined to cave in on itself. And Ashe claims my GPS metaphor stumbles because the Bible is only one source and is destined to make people lost.
I lay it on the line. But we have a second source you fucking moron, although neither you, nor Char, nor Rick Burgess seem willing to take notice or make use of it. We have our God-given ability to use our God-given thought processes to figure out whether or not something makes sense.
I had a psychology professor who once told me that he'd thought very long and hard about it and he eventually decided that the world just made more sense to him without the existence of God. And you know what? I find it very hard to believe that God feels threatened by that. I think Thomas Jefferson was on to something when he asserted that using the critical evaluation skills God has blessed humanity with is the greatest way to honor that gift- even if it leads the individual on a path away from God. The God I believe in loves us all. I believe God loves Atheists. I think we disappoint God when we're assholes to each other whether we believe in Him or not. And in the end, I think all souls belong to God, no matter what word our various religions do or don't refer to the Divine by. But the bottom line is, that's what I believe and how I live my life. I don't know. And neither do you. And neither does anyone else on this earth today. We don't have answers, and we're not entitled to them.
So where does that leave us with Brandi Burgess? Personally, I say a prayer for her. I pray that she finds peace and continues to experience and share God's love in whatever way she's called to. I believe God made her the way she is, and anyone arrogant enough to think they know better than God will have to check their ego with their creator. Peace may have to come at the expense of the family with which she grew up, but I think there's a much more Christian family out there for her.
Her parents would rather feel like they're right than continue a relationship with their own daughter. I don't see anything Christian in that.
And welcome back to those of you who aren't interested in me, thanks for reading my blog against your wishes.
So despite my unstable relationship with churches I still find myself with a spiritual calling, even if it's one that drives me to the outskirts of the organization. In my imaginary world (one of them anyway) I picture myself as a sort of coffee shop owner across the street from the religion district, where patrons are encouraged to sit down, have a drink, and discuss/debate/even go so far as to get into a controlled argument about anything related to the unobservable scope of life-death-and beyond. Just so long as they don't expect answers. I call it The Flowing Fountain.
Ninety percent of my fictional patrons are welcomed here. The remaining ten percent are merely tolerated, fortunately they're too caught up in themselves to notice the difference. These are the extremists. So out of twenty patrons, you've got eighteen that are making The Flowing Fountain a special place. The other two are immovable fundamentalists who think they're above everybody else. I've named them Char and Ashe, a pair of destructive four letter words. Naturally they find each other.
Today's topic involves something from the real world. I would like to draw your attention to Brandi Burgess, an actress living in Philadelphia. She's the daughter of Alabama radio personality Rick Burgess of The Rick and Bubba Radio Show. At the risk of being narrow-minded, the phrase 'and Bubba' probably tells you exactly what you need to know about the talk show's content: God, country, hunting, conservative Christian values. I've never listened to them, but I'm confident a Wikipedia search pretty much brings me up to speed.
Brandi is bisexual, and she's currently in a relationship with a woman. This doesn't sit well with her celebrity father. Hell, why don't you take a moment to read her own editorial that she published a few days ago? I feel it's genuine and to the point.
As you might expect, her father and the rest of her family has reacted against her; excuse me, her choices (to Rick, these are no doubt two very different things but I imagine they feel identical to Brandi). They highlights are, he loves his daughter but anything that isn't heterosexuality is the road to Hell, she's making up her own version of God -which is the equivalent of idolatry, and then they pull a faux high road by asking everyone (their own judgment notwithstanding) to be kind to their daughter.
See? This is why I do my best to escape reality.
So back at The Flowing Fountain, Char and Ashe have been discussing Brandi and they find themselves in a string of agreements on Brandi's false Christianity and how rigid the scripture truly is. But you can guess how surprised they both are when they discover they're at opposite ends of the extremist spectrum. Char is a fundamentalist Bible-pounding Christian. Ashe on the other hand is an overly-assertive Atheist (did you see what I did there with their names?). And they were getting along so well too, both having found a like minded individual to detest the rest of the world with. The funny thing is, they're convinced that has somehow changed.
I'm going to need to break this up before it gets out of hand. What's the problem I ask them. Boom! In unison they both obliviously begin arguing the same point that one can't be a bisexual Christian, although Char's conclusion is that Brandi is in fact going to Hell, while Ashe is insisting her orientation nullifies her faith.
Okay, let's back this up. Walk me through it from the beginning.
The first problem is Char and Ashe both love the sounds of their own voices. Char doesn't start at the beginning like I asked. Char starts with a series of memorized Bible verses and will not shut up until every last one of them has been recited. Then Ashe picks up the spotlight and quotes MORE Bible verses. The mantra of every asshole Atheist is "Atheists know more about the Bible than Christians" and Ashe is determined to prove it while simultaneously disproving the Bible.
What they actually say is irrelevant, because I'm not listening. It's not that I'm blocking it out, but neither one of them is actually saying anything. When they've finally worn themselves down I strike every bullshit argument they just made from the record. My coffee shop, my rules. It looks like I'm going to have to start this myself.
Premise number one, I say, preparing to give each word in the remainder of my sentence equal emphasis. You. Are. Not. In. God's. Head.
Ashe can't really debate the issue except by adding "because He doesn't exist", which I ignore. In fact, that summarizes my basic criticism of the Atheist mentality. Humans may be the top minds on this world, but I find it very unlikely that we're the apex of cognitive evolution. To paraphrase Socrates Jones, there are infinite numbers between zero and one, yet none of them are two. Atheists believe there is no proof of God (which is curiously also the definition of faith), and they may be right about that but that doesn't disprove God. Atheism operates from an answer that hasn't been earned.
But Char is the one who wants to challenge me. The Bible says- is as far as I'll let Char go before interrupting. Are you in my head? I ask. Char has no choice but to meekly say no. (Well, technically, being a fiction construct Char is in my head but Char doesn't know that, and since this whole conversation is a metaphor for real world conversations the correct answer is 'no'.) Am I in your head? I ask. Char grumbles no again. I ask is God bigger and greater than both of us? Char confidently says yes. I make one last attempt by asking, then are you in God's head?
Char is stubborn to the point of inflexibility, but is certainly not an idiot (elitists never are, that's why they're dangerous, they've convinced themselves they're right). Char correctly predicts where I'm going with this thought and refuses to answer a yes or no question with an obvious response.
See, here's the deal, God didn't write the Bible. Inspired it, yes, but there's no logical reason to assume it was God's intention. And this has been my longstanding frustration with rigid Christians who treat every single word among the pages as infallible divine dictation. The Bible is the combined work of generations of flawed human hands. And if there's one thing humans are guaranteed to do, it's screw things up.
But Char can't fathom even the possibility that anything from Genesis to Revelations could be slightly out of place. God has a plan says Char (an unfounded assumption) and the book of books is literally the word of God in black and white. There can be no grey area, and Char begins another full rant of circular reasoning (using Bible verses to 'prove' the Bible). And when I point out that conclusion is only valid if you already accept the conclusion as the premise I get the go to tantrum every fundamentalist who stumbles in an argument reaches for: why not just throw out the whole Bible then?
I lean forward on my imaginary counter and stare Char in the imaginary eyes. Are you telling me, I say, that one loose strand of scripture is enough to unravel the entire foundation of your fragile faith? This is not well received.
I'm told the exact same things that everyone who believes in any incongruity with orthodox fundamentalism is told, that I will be prayed for in the hopes that I will turn away from my not-them outlook before I spend eternity in Hell. And Char also has to rise and leave while the last word on the matter is still within grasp.
I wasn't expecting anything more from someone like Char, for that is the kind of Christian who knows nothing about Christianity or Christ. They think it's an exclusive club belonging only to themselves and the people with which they're comfortable. Like Rick Burgess, 'God's love' is a series of two words that they recite as a discriminating weapon; anything but God's love.
Ashe, who interprets the preceding conversation as a victory for the side of Atheism, gives me a smile that I don't return. You are no different than Char, I tell Ashe, which is met with a smug challenge as how I figure. Simple, I say, both of you believe exactly the same thing; that God is limited to Bible. It's just where Char thinks that it somehow elevates the Bible up to God's level, you think it drags God down to the level of a human text that can be disproved away.
When prodded to enlighten Ashe I use a modern metaphor. GPS. The Bible may not be God's autobiography but that doesn't mean it doesn't at least point us in a valuable direction. It's a collection of ideas about the nature of life, written centuries apart, all pointing towards a unifying theme. Something exists beyond what we see, and it's small-minded arrogance to assume we've got it all figured out.
I think the most inspiring thing I've heard about the Bible came from Eric Idle. The story goes, at the premier of Monty Python and the Holy Grail a reporter asked him what the group's next film would be, and Idle (always with a quip ready) answered, "Jesus Christ, Lust for Glory". And after the premier the fellows went to the pub and had a few too many and started entertaining themselves with a series of blasphemous jokes about what they'd do with the concept. But the next morning, the idea was still there and they gradually started taking it a bit more seriously. And they started doing research on the time period and reading the Gospels and the Dead Sea Scrolls and the scholarly analyses, and what they found was the message behind Christianity was actually a very sound moral philosophy. Comedy relies on human selfishness, things like greed, lust, etc. Jesus's teachings were devoid of that kind of negativity. Love, patience, humility; comedy really can't react against these things. And we're talking Monty Python at the apex of their professional and creative energy as a full unit. Christ's teachings were immune to the efforts of comedy's highest ensemble.
Naturally Ashe can't accept that the Bible could be viewed as anything between a chaotic hodgepodge of random musings and a unified thesis statement that is destined to cave in on itself. And Ashe claims my GPS metaphor stumbles because the Bible is only one source and is destined to make people lost.
I lay it on the line. But we have a second source you fucking moron, although neither you, nor Char, nor Rick Burgess seem willing to take notice or make use of it. We have our God-given ability to use our God-given thought processes to figure out whether or not something makes sense.
I had a psychology professor who once told me that he'd thought very long and hard about it and he eventually decided that the world just made more sense to him without the existence of God. And you know what? I find it very hard to believe that God feels threatened by that. I think Thomas Jefferson was on to something when he asserted that using the critical evaluation skills God has blessed humanity with is the greatest way to honor that gift- even if it leads the individual on a path away from God. The God I believe in loves us all. I believe God loves Atheists. I think we disappoint God when we're assholes to each other whether we believe in Him or not. And in the end, I think all souls belong to God, no matter what word our various religions do or don't refer to the Divine by. But the bottom line is, that's what I believe and how I live my life. I don't know. And neither do you. And neither does anyone else on this earth today. We don't have answers, and we're not entitled to them.
So where does that leave us with Brandi Burgess? Personally, I say a prayer for her. I pray that she finds peace and continues to experience and share God's love in whatever way she's called to. I believe God made her the way she is, and anyone arrogant enough to think they know better than God will have to check their ego with their creator. Peace may have to come at the expense of the family with which she grew up, but I think there's a much more Christian family out there for her.
Her parents would rather feel like they're right than continue a relationship with their own daughter. I don't see anything Christian in that.
Thursday, January 12, 2017
Silly Questionairre Redux
What can I say? I'm going through a bit of a creative lull as it pertains to my blog. I also got a PS4 for Christmas, which may be a factor.
Just a head's up: you know those occasional blogs I post about The Carousel that very few people read? I've made it a goal this year (as well as last year, but let's not dwell on the catastrophe that was 2016) to get my first book into a readably complete first draft. As such I'm probably not going to have quite as much time to devote to my blog. It's been a really good exercise for me to hold myself to a weekly schedule, but I suspect the blog may be keeping me from doing the necessary work on my story. So fairly soon I expect I'll be sliding down to an every-other-week blog posting, as I can't fathom giving it up altogether.
As for this week, I haven't really had a chance to work up anything for a blog post, so I dug up this questionnaire that I filled out on Facebook a month and a half ago. I have to say, I never get tired of these.
1. Are you named after someone? I’m sure there have been millions of people who were named before I was. Susan B. Anthony is the first one who comes to mind.
2. When is the last time you cried? The morning of November 9th. And some part of me has yet to stop.
3. Do you like your handwriting? I have horrible handwriting. My first ‘I like you’ note was met with the girl’s puzzled bewilderment followed by a delighted “Oh, it’s an elephant!”
4. What is your favorite lunchmeat? By itself, pastrami. In conjunction with a sandwich of some merit, sliced turkey.
5. Do you have children & how many? I have one dachshund, and he’s going to be a senator before he’s twenty-five.
6. Relationship status? Happily married to an angel.
7. Do you use sarcasm? With the exception of my answer to the previous question (and I guess this one), constantly.
8. Do you still have your tonsils? Yes, I keep them in the back of my mouth.
9. Would you bungee jump? Maybe. I’ll want to practice from a safe height first, like the top of a step ladder. I’ll let you know how it goes.
10. What is your favorite kind of cereal? I want to say Smurf Berry Crunch. I don’t think I ever had the cereal, but I really like saying Smurf Berry Crunch.
11. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? No. I slide them on and kick them off. It gives me more time to think about how I might eventually change the world for the better.
12. Do you think you're strong? As an ox. A really weak ox. Maybe a wombat named ‘Ox’. So, no.
13. What is your favorite ice cream? If I choose a favorite, the rest of the ice cream will get jealous. But if you’re going to Baskin Robbins you can get me a hot fudge sundae with chocolate/peanut butter.
14. What is the first thing you notice about people? They’re in the way. And whether or not they’re wearing a propeller beanie.
15. Football or Baseball? Well, if it doesn’t have ‘Mario’ in the title then I’m unfamiliar with it. I guess I’ll have to choose baseball over whatever that first one you mentioned was.
16. What is your least favorite thing about yourself? I’m always hanging around, having bad handwriting and acting like I’m as strong as a wombat named ‘Ox’. I also tend to collect grudges.
17. What color pants are you wearing? Black. I found them this morning right there on the floor where I left them.
18. What was the last thing you ate? Six mini-doughnuts. In numerical order.
19. What are you listening to right now? “Let it Go”. In my head. Right where it’s been. For three years and counting. Thanks.
20. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? I’m blue! Da Ba De Da Ba Di, Da Ba De, Da- Nope. “Let it Go” is still there.
21. Favorite smell? Crawfish seasoning.
22. Who was the last person you spoke to on the phone? Well, that would be one of the library’s patrons asking me if we were open. “To what?” I said.
23. Favorite sport to watch? Figure skating. I love to sit in the stands and chant “Go Figure!”
24. Hair color? Brown, unless I’m wearing a wig.
25. Eye color? Blue, unless I’m lying.
26. Books or Movies? I have so little of an attention span for reading. I think I only got halfway through “Where the Wild Things Are”. Did that kid ever have his dinner?
27. Favorite food to eat? As opposed to what, throw at the television? Let’s see…favorite food for the specific purpose of eating, narrows it down a bit. Let’s go with the tried and true Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs.
28. Scary movies or movies with happy endings? I thought The Collection was a scary movie with a pretty happy ending. I think as long as the movie gets the ending it deserves then I’m okay with it being up or down. It’s when the filmmakers force an unearned ending into the final act that I have to throw food at the television. Jerks.
29. Last movie you watched? For the first time: Doctor Strange. For the umpteenth time: Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. And now my brain is trying to blend them together. “Listen to this Ancient Babe! She knows what she’s talking about!”
30. What color shirt are you wearing? Dark grey. With black pants. I’m one tiny step closer to becoming Batman.
Thursday, January 5, 2017
The Carousel: A House Call
It's my New Year's resolution to get a first draft of The Carousel up and running, and this is meant to be an early access point for the flavor of the story and a sense of who Caris is. Let me know what you think.
It was a pleasant afternoon, upper seventies. And I was on my way to meet with a potential client who lived in the nicer part of the city’s outskirts. She claimed she was hearing discordant voices singing in her attic and was convinced of a supernatural presence.
I’d never wandered down this street before but I thought I might rectify that in the future. With very little traffic and townhouses lining both sides with a grassy median down the middle of the road, it made me think of a theme park recreation of Hollywood Boulevard. Best of all, I hadn’t received a single catcall in blocks.
I tapped on the door of my destination and a few seconds later an attractive thirty-ish brunette with an adorable pair of librarian glasses opened it. “Mrs. Henner?” I smiled. “I’m Caris. We spoke over the phone-”
“Yes, come in,” Mrs. Henner replied without returning my smile. “May I offer you a drink? We have beer, juice…”
“Thank you, just a water. You have a lovely home.”
“It costs more than it’s worth.” She sneered, stepping into the kitchen and filling a glass for me using the ice maker on her refrigerator.
I made myself comfortable on her den sofa, adjusting my skirt so it covered the features to which it was designed. Mrs. Henner returned to where I was and handed me the glass before sitting across the coffee table from me. “So, how do we do this?”
I sipped from the glass (twice filtered water, yummy) and set it down on a coaster. “The best thing is to start with some personal questions if you’re okay with that. If your home has been touched by the otherworld and it’s making itself known to you and your husband then it may be testing you.”
“Do you do this full time?”
“Heavens no. I’m a stripper,” I laughed. “There’s not a lot of money in demonology. In fact, none from what I can tell, unless I start lying to people.”
“Aren’t you about nineteen?”
“Twenty-two, but thank you,” I smiled. “I had a really good mentor. Are you ready?”
Mrs. Henner nodded and gave me the sweeping picture of her life. One husband of four years who was a bank teller. No children and no pets. Mrs. Henner worked in public relations which was a less consistent but more lucrative job than her husband had. No history behind the house that she was aware of and no mental illness in her family that she was admitting to. Basically, the situation was a blank slate.
“And you usually hear the voices at night?”
“Yes.”
“But not consistently.”
“No, why? Does it matter?”
I acted as if the question was rhetorical. Experience had taught me that most people who were willing to e-mail a 'specialist' with no verifiable credentials didn't take kindly to being told their hauntings were nothing more than an aging air unit. I found my penlight in my purse. “Do you mind if I take a look in the attic?”
“Not at all.” Mrs. Henner showed me to the hallway where the door to the attic resided, tugging on the tell-tale string that unfolded the wooden ladder.
“Has your husband heard the voices?”
“No. I guess maybe he’s not…what? In tune with them?”
I climbed most of the way up the ladder and stopped on the third step from the top, shining my penlight around the attic. Nothing particularly remarkable about it; insulation, cobwebs, boxes, a few old lamps.
“There’s a switch overhead,” Mrs. Henner informed me.
“Some things are easier to see in the dark, especially when you know what you’re looking for.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“About ten seconds,” I joked, giving Mrs. Henner a grin. She wasn’t even hiding her interest in the convenient upskirt view of my backside. I could tell I was being appraised, which was probably a stronger clue than anything I'd find in the attic.
“No, how long have you been communicating with ghosts?”
“I haven’t,” I admitted. “As best as I can figure I’ve never actually experienced any sort of ethereal connection.”
“Seriously? You're admitting to being a fake?”
“I'm not saying that, I'm just into full disclosure.” I hopped down from the ladder. “It's actually not necessary when you know what to look for and subsequently what to do about it.”
“How does that work?”
I shrugged. “The same way doctors can cure diseases they haven't contracted themselves. My track record is pretty good.” I clicked off the penlight and replaced it in its cradle. “So. No singing at the moment. Can you give me any kind of description of what it sounds like?”
“How would you feel about spending the weekend here?” Mrs. Henner suggested.
“The weekend?” I repeated.
“I’ll be going out of town until Sunday. You stay, diagnose the house, eat whatever you want in the refrigerator.”
“What about your husband?”
“He’ll be here in case you need anything.”
Yep. That was all I needed. “That’s a very generous offer, but it won't be necessary.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Henner gave me a skeptical look. It was the first time her expression had changed.
I slipped past her intentionally giving off the impression I was heading for my water glass in the den. I wasn't.
“I have questionably good news and unquestionably bad news,” I told her once I was comfortably near the door. “The good news is, I don’t believe there is a supernatural presence here. At least not one that will cause you any concern.”
“But there could be something here nonetheless?”
“There’s always a possibility, but that's not the bad news.”
“Which is?” Mrs. Henner gave me an irritated look.
“Let me ask you a question, and there’s a point to it. It’s really important. Fair?”
Mrs. Henner gave me a confused nod.
“What kind of underwear am I wearing?”
She kind of lost flow of the conversation for a moment and I waited for her to find it again. “I’m…what?”
“No seriously, it’s important.”
“How does that matter?”
“It matters that you got a pretty good look.” I smiled my poker face smile, which has gotten me out of three parking violations.
“An orange thong,” she said grumbled. “What does that have to do with-”
“You know nothing about me Mrs. Henner. Yet here I am in your home with nothing more than my word supporting my claims, and you're willing to leave me here for the weekend with your husband.”
“So what are you saying?” she demanded.
“I’m saying I'm a twenty-two year old stripper, not someone a woman blindly leaves alone with her husband. But not only are you unconcerned about what might happen while you’re away, but it's fairly clear you're hoping for it.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Any number of reasons. You’re having an affair for which you want to push the guilt off on your husband. You want out of the marriage but you have to fabricate a reason. It doesn't really matter. The point is, you don't need a demonologist with a website, you need a counselor and/or an attorney.”
“How could you possibly-” she trailed off. However she planned to finish the sentence wouldn't have mattered anyway.
“And any doubts I may have had are assuaged by the fact that haven’t you thrown me out for the accusation.”
She stood stunned and I took that as my cue to back towards the door. I’d just reached the knob when she recovered from the bizarreness of the conversation. “I’ll pay you.”
“I’m not a counselor.”
“I’ll pay you to sleep with my husband,” she snapped (although 'sleep with' wasn't the phrase she used but I try to be as classy as possible).
“Mrs. Henner,” I said, still smiling but awkwardly now, “I’m a stripper, not a prostitute.”
“What’s the difference?”
I took in a breath. “My answer.” One twist of the knob and I was back out in the sanctity of suburbia street. “It was very nice meeting you. You have a lovely home. And now I’m going to run away from whatever this is.”
I did and I didn’t look back. Sadly I'd never wander down that beautiful street again.
It was a pleasant afternoon, upper seventies. And I was on my way to meet with a potential client who lived in the nicer part of the city’s outskirts. She claimed she was hearing discordant voices singing in her attic and was convinced of a supernatural presence.
I’d never wandered down this street before but I thought I might rectify that in the future. With very little traffic and townhouses lining both sides with a grassy median down the middle of the road, it made me think of a theme park recreation of Hollywood Boulevard. Best of all, I hadn’t received a single catcall in blocks.
I tapped on the door of my destination and a few seconds later an attractive thirty-ish brunette with an adorable pair of librarian glasses opened it. “Mrs. Henner?” I smiled. “I’m Caris. We spoke over the phone-”
“Yes, come in,” Mrs. Henner replied without returning my smile. “May I offer you a drink? We have beer, juice…”
“Thank you, just a water. You have a lovely home.”
“It costs more than it’s worth.” She sneered, stepping into the kitchen and filling a glass for me using the ice maker on her refrigerator.
I made myself comfortable on her den sofa, adjusting my skirt so it covered the features to which it was designed. Mrs. Henner returned to where I was and handed me the glass before sitting across the coffee table from me. “So, how do we do this?”
I sipped from the glass (twice filtered water, yummy) and set it down on a coaster. “The best thing is to start with some personal questions if you’re okay with that. If your home has been touched by the otherworld and it’s making itself known to you and your husband then it may be testing you.”
“Do you do this full time?”
“Heavens no. I’m a stripper,” I laughed. “There’s not a lot of money in demonology. In fact, none from what I can tell, unless I start lying to people.”
“Aren’t you about nineteen?”
“Twenty-two, but thank you,” I smiled. “I had a really good mentor. Are you ready?”
Mrs. Henner nodded and gave me the sweeping picture of her life. One husband of four years who was a bank teller. No children and no pets. Mrs. Henner worked in public relations which was a less consistent but more lucrative job than her husband had. No history behind the house that she was aware of and no mental illness in her family that she was admitting to. Basically, the situation was a blank slate.
“And you usually hear the voices at night?”
“Yes.”
“But not consistently.”
“No, why? Does it matter?”
I acted as if the question was rhetorical. Experience had taught me that most people who were willing to e-mail a 'specialist' with no verifiable credentials didn't take kindly to being told their hauntings were nothing more than an aging air unit. I found my penlight in my purse. “Do you mind if I take a look in the attic?”
“Not at all.” Mrs. Henner showed me to the hallway where the door to the attic resided, tugging on the tell-tale string that unfolded the wooden ladder.
“Has your husband heard the voices?”
“No. I guess maybe he’s not…what? In tune with them?”
I climbed most of the way up the ladder and stopped on the third step from the top, shining my penlight around the attic. Nothing particularly remarkable about it; insulation, cobwebs, boxes, a few old lamps.
“There’s a switch overhead,” Mrs. Henner informed me.
“Some things are easier to see in the dark, especially when you know what you’re looking for.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“About ten seconds,” I joked, giving Mrs. Henner a grin. She wasn’t even hiding her interest in the convenient upskirt view of my backside. I could tell I was being appraised, which was probably a stronger clue than anything I'd find in the attic.
“No, how long have you been communicating with ghosts?”
“I haven’t,” I admitted. “As best as I can figure I’ve never actually experienced any sort of ethereal connection.”
“Seriously? You're admitting to being a fake?”
“I'm not saying that, I'm just into full disclosure.” I hopped down from the ladder. “It's actually not necessary when you know what to look for and subsequently what to do about it.”
“How does that work?”
I shrugged. “The same way doctors can cure diseases they haven't contracted themselves. My track record is pretty good.” I clicked off the penlight and replaced it in its cradle. “So. No singing at the moment. Can you give me any kind of description of what it sounds like?”
“How would you feel about spending the weekend here?” Mrs. Henner suggested.
“The weekend?” I repeated.
“I’ll be going out of town until Sunday. You stay, diagnose the house, eat whatever you want in the refrigerator.”
“What about your husband?”
“He’ll be here in case you need anything.”
Yep. That was all I needed. “That’s a very generous offer, but it won't be necessary.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Henner gave me a skeptical look. It was the first time her expression had changed.
I slipped past her intentionally giving off the impression I was heading for my water glass in the den. I wasn't.
“I have questionably good news and unquestionably bad news,” I told her once I was comfortably near the door. “The good news is, I don’t believe there is a supernatural presence here. At least not one that will cause you any concern.”
“But there could be something here nonetheless?”
“There’s always a possibility, but that's not the bad news.”
“Which is?” Mrs. Henner gave me an irritated look.
“Let me ask you a question, and there’s a point to it. It’s really important. Fair?”
Mrs. Henner gave me a confused nod.
“What kind of underwear am I wearing?”
She kind of lost flow of the conversation for a moment and I waited for her to find it again. “I’m…what?”
“No seriously, it’s important.”
“How does that matter?”
“It matters that you got a pretty good look.” I smiled my poker face smile, which has gotten me out of three parking violations.
“An orange thong,” she said grumbled. “What does that have to do with-”
“You know nothing about me Mrs. Henner. Yet here I am in your home with nothing more than my word supporting my claims, and you're willing to leave me here for the weekend with your husband.”
“So what are you saying?” she demanded.
“I’m saying I'm a twenty-two year old stripper, not someone a woman blindly leaves alone with her husband. But not only are you unconcerned about what might happen while you’re away, but it's fairly clear you're hoping for it.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Any number of reasons. You’re having an affair for which you want to push the guilt off on your husband. You want out of the marriage but you have to fabricate a reason. It doesn't really matter. The point is, you don't need a demonologist with a website, you need a counselor and/or an attorney.”
“How could you possibly-” she trailed off. However she planned to finish the sentence wouldn't have mattered anyway.
“And any doubts I may have had are assuaged by the fact that haven’t you thrown me out for the accusation.”
She stood stunned and I took that as my cue to back towards the door. I’d just reached the knob when she recovered from the bizarreness of the conversation. “I’ll pay you.”
“I’m not a counselor.”
“I’ll pay you to sleep with my husband,” she snapped (although 'sleep with' wasn't the phrase she used but I try to be as classy as possible).
“Mrs. Henner,” I said, still smiling but awkwardly now, “I’m a stripper, not a prostitute.”
“What’s the difference?”
I took in a breath. “My answer.” One twist of the knob and I was back out in the sanctity of suburbia street. “It was very nice meeting you. You have a lovely home. And now I’m going to run away from whatever this is.”
I did and I didn’t look back. Sadly I'd never wander down that beautiful street again.
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