I've been doing some preliminary work on a memoir I'm going to write in 2007, things such as going through old musty boxes and trying to sort out timelines for the New York bar review course I did and jobs I've had since coming to the United States and where I've lived, etc. Though it's been fourteen years since I came to the States from London, it's astonishing how much one forgets--how I was once attacked (and shrieked in a highly undignified manner) by a large, bad tempered Amazon parrot belonging to Larry's ex at a dinner party in New Jersey, for example--and how one loses touch with people one meets on the journey such as a centenarian who was a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution.
One thing I'd definitely forgotten was my extreme surprise at the flimsiness of contemporary American home construction, especially the condominiums and tract housing (MacMansions is the term for such houses) that's mushroomed in the towns and cities in the past fifteen to twenty years. I remember moving into a condo unit in Long Island, rapping my bedroom walls with my knuckles, and thinking when I heard how hollow it sounded that we wouldn't even make the walls of a kennel with that kind of sheetrock in England or Ireland. Nor did it help matters any when I could hear my landlord's every word and lovemaking in the bedfoom next door--very unnerving, very disturbing, very public.
Nor is the use of this 1/2", 3/4" or max 1" wide sheetrock restricted to cheap housing. Nowadays, multi-million dollar houses are constructed with the same inferior and unsuitable, yes 'inferior and unsuitable' are the only appropriate words, product. I asked Larry about this (he builds French Country homes and should know) and he said it would not be cost-effective to employ old-fashioned plasterers. They're now categorized as artisans and, therefore, their labor is very, very expensive. In his last house, Larry contracted with chaps from Ireland to have the house facade done in stucco and it was hugely expensive. (The Celtic Tiger was also at its peak and two were going back permanently to Ireland because they could make more money.)
Admittedly, the fact that the frames of houses in the US are constructed of wood and not cinder blocks (or its new cement equivalent) adds to the hollowness and ability of noise to travel unfettered through modern homes. The other night at a dinner party in someone's home, I needed to use the loo and didn't miss any dinner table conversation in the dining room because I could hear clearly; of course, that inhibited my pee stream because I feared they could also hear me.
It amazes me that Americans, who are so picky about their cell phones, computers and cars--although here, too, there is room for debate when it's an American car they buy--will accept such substandard products. I cannot believe they gave up their domestic privacy without complaint.
I believe Americans should insist that gypsum manufacturers make a better product and/or townships and cities should amend their building codes to insist privacy is as important as the breath of stairs and height of treads, fire walls and installation of electrical circuit breakers and demand products taht cut down on the hollowness and flimsiness of interior walls. Either that, or just bring back good old fashioned plaster walls such as are found in old farm and townhouses.
[technorati: sheetrock, condominiums, housing, privacy, real estate, framing, America, United States, construction, plaster
Monday
Tuesday
A diagnosis
Last Friday, the reality of breast cancer hit very close to home because Lee of our very dear friends L&L got a call that a biopsy she'd had done the day before was positive.
Lynne rang to tell us and I could tell she was absolutely shocked on the phone. So Larry and I went over as they wanted to be with friends. Lee was there because she'd been told the news while at work and, of course, it put her through a loop and she had to come home and gather her thoughts.
Anyway, the cancer is pea-sized, is not the aggressive type, and she needs to seeboth an oncologist and breast surgeon in order to discuss treatment options. They're busy setting that up now, in addition to having a test done on her lymph node to ensure it has not yet spread to that area.
Thanksgiving is on Thursday and this year we've got something to be very thankful for in that Lee's being going for mammograms on a regular basis. Her last one was eight months ago and there was no cancer at that time, so this means she's only contracted the disease in the last months, which makes it much less dangerous and absolutely treatable.
She wishes me to say that going for your checkups really works. So to all women reading my blog, please go and have a mammogram done if you've been putting it off. To borrow a legal phrase: Time really is of the essence.
Another site for information
When her treatment begins, I'll have more posts.
[technorati: mammograms, breast cancer, American Cancer Society, cancer, friends, women, family, medicine, diagnosis, national breast cancer foundation
Lynne rang to tell us and I could tell she was absolutely shocked on the phone. So Larry and I went over as they wanted to be with friends. Lee was there because she'd been told the news while at work and, of course, it put her through a loop and she had to come home and gather her thoughts.
Anyway, the cancer is pea-sized, is not the aggressive type, and she needs to seeboth an oncologist and breast surgeon in order to discuss treatment options. They're busy setting that up now, in addition to having a test done on her lymph node to ensure it has not yet spread to that area.
Thanksgiving is on Thursday and this year we've got something to be very thankful for in that Lee's being going for mammograms on a regular basis. Her last one was eight months ago and there was no cancer at that time, so this means she's only contracted the disease in the last months, which makes it much less dangerous and absolutely treatable.
She wishes me to say that going for your checkups really works. So to all women reading my blog, please go and have a mammogram done if you've been putting it off. To borrow a legal phrase: Time really is of the essence.
Another site for information
When her treatment begins, I'll have more posts.
[technorati: mammograms, breast cancer, American Cancer Society, cancer, friends, women, family, medicine, diagnosis, national breast cancer foundation
Interview with a Brother from Australia
As someone who was born and educated Roman Catholic, I've thought it important for people like me who learned our catechism by heart and also understand how the church functions to speak up against the hierarchy when its members act hypocritically or in a bigoted manner and/or when they're not in touch with the laity in some of its doings and/or when they're just plain wrong. The day of blind or ignorant acceptance of all that they preach is over viz-a-viz the developed world and I am convinced--with respect to God in so far as practicing Christians venerate Him--a hierarchy that is fully accountable to an educated, informed people would be much more in keeping with His intentions.
The obverse side is that when people within the church--whether in the laity or hierarchy--are doing good then that, too, must be acknowledged and lauded. So I am very pleased to bring you an interview with a Brother whom I had the good fortune to come across as a result of word of my novel going farther and farther ashore--in this case to Papua, New Guinea via Australia.
Because he is still in the process of coming out to some members of the Order to which he belongs as well as having a desire to afford them privacy, the Brother wished to remain anonymous and I respect that. I feel you will find this as educational and interesting as I did. As he reads my blog, feel free to leave comments for him via if you feel inclined to so do.
---------------------------------------------
DMN: Can you tell me about the area where you grew up in Australia?
ANS: I grew up in the Western Suburbs of Sydney in an area that would be described as working class. My family is very close and very large. I am one of 11 children, two of whom have died. In reality I am classed as the eldest because the one born before me died shortly after birth. My education was totally in Catholic schools and many of the Brothers and Nuns who taught me were Irish, a feature of Australian Catholic life at this time. I attended the Convent School from Kindergarten until Year 3 and the following year, Year 4, advanced to the ‘Brothers School’ where I completed my
education up to Year 12.
DMN: Were you close to your parents? Were they very religious Catholics? Are they immigrants to Australia?
ANS: I was closer to my mother. My father was a good man who loved us, looked after us and provided what we needed. In many ways he was a very private person and looking back it was hard to get to know him at least that was my experience. I realize now (he died in 1984) that there were many things about his own family he never told us. Much I have found out from my research into the family history. My mother was always the one at home and having given birth to so many children she had to be there, so for me she has always been the one I found it easier to talk to.
I don’t think I would describe them as overly religious Catholics. They took us to mass every Sunday, confession occasionally and we attended all the Easter ceremonies in our parish church and dad was a member of the St Vincent De Paul Society. We took our turn at the family rosary statue that came around the parish but not too many of my brothers and sisters enjoyed that compulsory exercise.
Both my parents were born in Australia.
DMN: Did you go to university and, if so, what did you study?
ANS: No I did not go to University. I went straight from school into the Brothers and when it came time to undertake my professional studies I went to the Teachers College where I trained as a Primary School teacher. I therefore have a BEd and also now have a BTh and Mth.
DMN: Have you always been religious?
ANS: I went to Mass and did the things that were expected of me as a Catholic but apart from that I wouldn’t describe myself as always being religious.
DMN What made you decide you wanted to devote your life to the church?
ANS: I did not join the Brothers with any big ideas of wanting to devote my life to the church; I simply wanted to be a Brother like those I knew and admired. That may sound naive and at the age of 19 when I joined it was probably not a good reason for joining a Religious Order. Having said that I did join and I still remain to this day, quite some years later. I am convinced that although one’s initial reason for joining a group may be immature or unclear, over time one refines that initial call and the reasons why one remains. A call to me is something that unfolds as the life journey we are on continues. I would describe it as a journey into authenticity and faithfulness.
DMN: Are you a priest or a brother?
Why did you decide to enter as a brother as opposed to becoming a priest?
I am a Religious Brother. The Religious Order to which I belong does not have priests. Despite the men who taught me being tough enough in school, outside of class there was an ease in relating to us that I was drawn to. It was never a choice between being a Brother or a Priest. I always wanted to be a Brother.
DMN: Please explain the difference between the two.
The major difference is the role we play within the Church and the life we lead. Priests are very much involved in the sacramental life of the people. We are not; we don’t celebrate Eucharist, hear confessions or marry people, or dispense any of the other sacraments of the Church. My vocation is to live out my calling in a community of like minded men who try to imitate Christ and base their lives on Gospel values. We also follow a particular ‘charism’ or spirit given to us by our Founder. It can be argued that this is the call of all Christians and that is so. The thing about me is that I have chosen to live out my Christian calling in the Religious Order to which I belong, trying all the time to deepen my relationship with the God who called me initially.
DMN: Describe an average day in your life and the type of responsibilities you have in your vocation.
ANS: I live in Papua New Guinea. An average day for me at the moment is a follows. I rise at around 5.30 am. Things start very early in the tropics and that isn’t all bad. I am not by nature an early riser so it is sometimes hard to get up that early. I begin the day in private prayer followed by community prayer with the other Brothers with whom I live. Mass follows and after breakfast the day of ministry begins. Having only been in my new posting for a little less than two months I am still settling in.
Basically I am involved in the teaching of young men who are in various stages of training and commitment as Brothers. I teach them about Prayer, our Religious Life, Scripture and all manner of other topics relevant to our life and life development in general. In the New Year I will be responsible for those in a particular stage of their training called Novitiate. That is a period of two years before the person commits themselves to our life by the vows of Poverty, Chastity and Obedience. At the end of the working day we gather in community for prayer and then our evening meal which we take turns to prepare. I love the morning and evening as they are the coolest part of what is generally a very hot and humid day. The cool of the evening gives the chance to sit and enjoy the particular beauty of the area in which I live. We have a lovely view of the coconut palm dotted coastline. People would pay a fortune for such a view in Australia.
DMN: When did you first realize you were gay and how long did it take for you to accept it?
ANS: This is the six million dollar question and also what has been at the heart of my own journey over the last year. My earliest memory of my same sex attraction would be around the age of 8 or 9. Obviously I would not have attached the word gay or homosexual to those feelings but they were there as I look back. My knowing I was gay continued to unfold as I got older but around my early teenage years I definitely knew I was attracted to other boys of my own age. There is a very big difference between knowing and accepting. I was going okay until towards the end of my High School. I was in Year 10 and 16 years of age. We were told by our Principal that we were to have a visit from a particular priest who was going to tell us some very important things about sex and other matters young men of our age should know. I remember thinking this was funny as we had already been told the facts of life in Science class some two years previously and I wasn’t sure what this priest could add. I don’t remember all he said but I am very clear on the tirade he gave us about homosexuality. That really threw me and I was too scared to go and talk to anyone about it. I was totally confused. Up until then nothing bad had come to my attention about my feelings. That was suddenly all changed. When I ‘gave in’ to those feelings I went to confession and thought it was all okay but the feelings were still there and I struggled very much. Throughout the last two years of my High School I was very aware of my attractions to other boys but despite having some very good men teaching me there was no way I was going to raise the topic with them. At this stage I began to become aware of the views of the wider society on homosexuality and they were as bad as the church so I shut up and said nothing. So began the journey to not accepting the truth about myself.
When did I finally accept this truth? Only this last year, in what has been a most difficult, personal and spiritual experience but one I am pleased I have been through because of the end result. I would not wish the agony on any one but believe me there was light at the end of the tunnel and with the help of an excellent counselor and an excellent spiritual director I came through. The agony was around finally believing that it is good to be gay and that one is loved very much by God for being gay.
DMN: Was it difficult to accept your upbringing as a Catholic with being a gay man?
ANS: I suppose that was what my journey was all about. Both the Church and society continually sent messages that to be gay was something akin to having a life threatening disease. I had to finally confront the reality of this belief in my own life and that was difficult. I thought I had succeeded in blocking out all the negative messages and was okay especially as I was not living in a homosexual relationship, but one can only fool oneself for so long. Eventually the truth has to be faced and the truth was that many within the Church and society for that matter still think it is wrong to be gay. When I accepted that reality I then had to face what I really thought myself about being gay.
DMN: How did your family (immediate and extended) react when you told them? Did any of them reject you as a result?
ANS: My fear has always been that if others knew I was gay they would not want to have anything to do with me. The thought of being rejected by my own family worried me so much I wasn’t prepared to say I was gay. I have always wanted to be accepted for who I was but have been afraid to say it.
I initially shared my journey and my fears with particular members of my family and was so happy with the reaction. I have since shared it with them all and not one has reacted negatively. I have shared it also with some members of my extended family and received the same positive response. Some of my family members have friends who are gay and so it was never going to be a problem for them. It is a similar case with my younger nephews and nieces who live in a more tolerant society and are very much faced with the reality of gay men.
DMN: Why did you decide to tell them?
ANS: In the end I had to, if you know what I mean. When I finally came to the peace of accepting who I was it seemed to be the natural step to share this knowledge with those I loved. It adds integrity to ones life if you are prepared to share the deepest truth of yourself with those you love. The sharing of such truth and the pain of the journey has brought me to a deeper relationship with quite a few of them and that in itself is good.
DMN: Have you informed your order that you are gay?
ANS: I have informed the leadership within my Province and also our worldwide leader. There are also significant others within my own Province with whom I have shared this truth about myself.
DMN: What was their reaction?
A very positive one. No one has any problem with my being gay. In fact the community in Australia which I recently left felt free enough to discuss the matter around the dinner table.
DMN: What do you hope will result from your decision to come out to them?
ANS: First and foremost, an acceptance of the reality that there are gay men already living within Religious Community and doing quite a good job at it. Secondly, to challenge any stereotypes that may exist in the minds of individuals. Thirdly, how does such knowledge challenge them to accept homosexual men and women within the wider society?
DMN: Have any of the brothers changed in attitude toward you since you came out?
ANS: None at all, but then again those I chose to share my truth with are men whom I respect and with whom I have a very good relationship. Some expressed surprise but then realized that being gay didn’t change the reality of the person they already knew.
DMN: How do you feel the Catholic Church treats people who are homosexual,both its clergy and lay congregation?
ANS: This is a difficult and complicated question to answer and what follows is my own opinion. The official teaching of the Catholic Church on homosexuality leaves much to be desired. It can only be and is a source of pain to those who are gay and lesbian and who want to take their rightful place within the Church. I believe it is stuck in a time warp and it is high time it moved out. Bigotry and hatred abound against homosexual people and the Church has to accept her share of the responsibility for this given their only partial acceptance of men and women homosexuals. Many quote the Bible to prove their position but take it completely out of context and with no knowledge of the advances that have been made in Biblical scholarship in recent times. They have also failed to take into account the advances in the behavioral sciences about sexuality in general and sexual orientation in particular. While many within the Church totally accept and minister to the homosexual community the hierarchy itself has a long way to go.
DMN: What changes in attitude would you like to see within the church in this connection?
ANS: Imagine a world where all men and women are accepted fully for who they are!
That is the change in attitude I would like to see. What if the Church stood up and publicly declared that it has been wrong in its judgment of and treatment of homosexual people in the past and they want to change all that. What if the Church espoused a Theology of love that included the love of one man for another and one woman for another and welcomed the living together of two such people in a loving, life giving and committed relationship! It would be a very different world we live in.
DMN: Is Australia tolerant towards gay people?
ANS: Australia is very much like any other country. There is both acceptance and rejection in all its degrees. While Sydney each year hosts the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras and huge numbers attend there is still much violence done to homosexual people. Sons and daughters are still thrown out of their homes for saying they are gay or lesbian; gays and lesbians are still being beaten up on our streets and even killed. So while I would say Australia is a tolerant country it still has a long way to go.
DMN: Is there anything else you would like readers to know about yourself,
etc.?
ANS: What I have described here is only the tip of the iceberg. The story each of us has to offer has its similarities and differences. It is also very complex and is almost impossible to put down accurately in such a short space. I ask those who read my story to accept it as it is. It is not complete and it still continues. It has validity because it belongs to me. I look upon it as something very special and something quite sacred. I trust you will respect it for what it is and for the truth I have decided to share in these few pages.
[technorati: roman catholic, God, religion, gay, family, sexuality, priests, new guinea, christianity, Australia
The obverse side is that when people within the church--whether in the laity or hierarchy--are doing good then that, too, must be acknowledged and lauded. So I am very pleased to bring you an interview with a Brother whom I had the good fortune to come across as a result of word of my novel going farther and farther ashore--in this case to Papua, New Guinea via Australia.
Because he is still in the process of coming out to some members of the Order to which he belongs as well as having a desire to afford them privacy, the Brother wished to remain anonymous and I respect that. I feel you will find this as educational and interesting as I did. As he reads my blog, feel free to leave comments for him via if you feel inclined to so do.
---------------------------------------------
DMN: Can you tell me about the area where you grew up in Australia?
ANS: I grew up in the Western Suburbs of Sydney in an area that would be described as working class. My family is very close and very large. I am one of 11 children, two of whom have died. In reality I am classed as the eldest because the one born before me died shortly after birth. My education was totally in Catholic schools and many of the Brothers and Nuns who taught me were Irish, a feature of Australian Catholic life at this time. I attended the Convent School from Kindergarten until Year 3 and the following year, Year 4, advanced to the ‘Brothers School’ where I completed my
education up to Year 12.
DMN: Were you close to your parents? Were they very religious Catholics? Are they immigrants to Australia?
ANS: I was closer to my mother. My father was a good man who loved us, looked after us and provided what we needed. In many ways he was a very private person and looking back it was hard to get to know him at least that was my experience. I realize now (he died in 1984) that there were many things about his own family he never told us. Much I have found out from my research into the family history. My mother was always the one at home and having given birth to so many children she had to be there, so for me she has always been the one I found it easier to talk to.
I don’t think I would describe them as overly religious Catholics. They took us to mass every Sunday, confession occasionally and we attended all the Easter ceremonies in our parish church and dad was a member of the St Vincent De Paul Society. We took our turn at the family rosary statue that came around the parish but not too many of my brothers and sisters enjoyed that compulsory exercise.
Both my parents were born in Australia.
DMN: Did you go to university and, if so, what did you study?
ANS: No I did not go to University. I went straight from school into the Brothers and when it came time to undertake my professional studies I went to the Teachers College where I trained as a Primary School teacher. I therefore have a BEd and also now have a BTh and Mth.
DMN: Have you always been religious?
ANS: I went to Mass and did the things that were expected of me as a Catholic but apart from that I wouldn’t describe myself as always being religious.
DMN What made you decide you wanted to devote your life to the church?
ANS: I did not join the Brothers with any big ideas of wanting to devote my life to the church; I simply wanted to be a Brother like those I knew and admired. That may sound naive and at the age of 19 when I joined it was probably not a good reason for joining a Religious Order. Having said that I did join and I still remain to this day, quite some years later. I am convinced that although one’s initial reason for joining a group may be immature or unclear, over time one refines that initial call and the reasons why one remains. A call to me is something that unfolds as the life journey we are on continues. I would describe it as a journey into authenticity and faithfulness.
DMN: Are you a priest or a brother?
Why did you decide to enter as a brother as opposed to becoming a priest?
I am a Religious Brother. The Religious Order to which I belong does not have priests. Despite the men who taught me being tough enough in school, outside of class there was an ease in relating to us that I was drawn to. It was never a choice between being a Brother or a Priest. I always wanted to be a Brother.
DMN: Please explain the difference between the two.
The major difference is the role we play within the Church and the life we lead. Priests are very much involved in the sacramental life of the people. We are not; we don’t celebrate Eucharist, hear confessions or marry people, or dispense any of the other sacraments of the Church. My vocation is to live out my calling in a community of like minded men who try to imitate Christ and base their lives on Gospel values. We also follow a particular ‘charism’ or spirit given to us by our Founder. It can be argued that this is the call of all Christians and that is so. The thing about me is that I have chosen to live out my Christian calling in the Religious Order to which I belong, trying all the time to deepen my relationship with the God who called me initially.
DMN: Describe an average day in your life and the type of responsibilities you have in your vocation.
ANS: I live in Papua New Guinea. An average day for me at the moment is a follows. I rise at around 5.30 am. Things start very early in the tropics and that isn’t all bad. I am not by nature an early riser so it is sometimes hard to get up that early. I begin the day in private prayer followed by community prayer with the other Brothers with whom I live. Mass follows and after breakfast the day of ministry begins. Having only been in my new posting for a little less than two months I am still settling in.
Basically I am involved in the teaching of young men who are in various stages of training and commitment as Brothers. I teach them about Prayer, our Religious Life, Scripture and all manner of other topics relevant to our life and life development in general. In the New Year I will be responsible for those in a particular stage of their training called Novitiate. That is a period of two years before the person commits themselves to our life by the vows of Poverty, Chastity and Obedience. At the end of the working day we gather in community for prayer and then our evening meal which we take turns to prepare. I love the morning and evening as they are the coolest part of what is generally a very hot and humid day. The cool of the evening gives the chance to sit and enjoy the particular beauty of the area in which I live. We have a lovely view of the coconut palm dotted coastline. People would pay a fortune for such a view in Australia.
DMN: When did you first realize you were gay and how long did it take for you to accept it?
ANS: This is the six million dollar question and also what has been at the heart of my own journey over the last year. My earliest memory of my same sex attraction would be around the age of 8 or 9. Obviously I would not have attached the word gay or homosexual to those feelings but they were there as I look back. My knowing I was gay continued to unfold as I got older but around my early teenage years I definitely knew I was attracted to other boys of my own age. There is a very big difference between knowing and accepting. I was going okay until towards the end of my High School. I was in Year 10 and 16 years of age. We were told by our Principal that we were to have a visit from a particular priest who was going to tell us some very important things about sex and other matters young men of our age should know. I remember thinking this was funny as we had already been told the facts of life in Science class some two years previously and I wasn’t sure what this priest could add. I don’t remember all he said but I am very clear on the tirade he gave us about homosexuality. That really threw me and I was too scared to go and talk to anyone about it. I was totally confused. Up until then nothing bad had come to my attention about my feelings. That was suddenly all changed. When I ‘gave in’ to those feelings I went to confession and thought it was all okay but the feelings were still there and I struggled very much. Throughout the last two years of my High School I was very aware of my attractions to other boys but despite having some very good men teaching me there was no way I was going to raise the topic with them. At this stage I began to become aware of the views of the wider society on homosexuality and they were as bad as the church so I shut up and said nothing. So began the journey to not accepting the truth about myself.
When did I finally accept this truth? Only this last year, in what has been a most difficult, personal and spiritual experience but one I am pleased I have been through because of the end result. I would not wish the agony on any one but believe me there was light at the end of the tunnel and with the help of an excellent counselor and an excellent spiritual director I came through. The agony was around finally believing that it is good to be gay and that one is loved very much by God for being gay.
DMN: Was it difficult to accept your upbringing as a Catholic with being a gay man?
ANS: I suppose that was what my journey was all about. Both the Church and society continually sent messages that to be gay was something akin to having a life threatening disease. I had to finally confront the reality of this belief in my own life and that was difficult. I thought I had succeeded in blocking out all the negative messages and was okay especially as I was not living in a homosexual relationship, but one can only fool oneself for so long. Eventually the truth has to be faced and the truth was that many within the Church and society for that matter still think it is wrong to be gay. When I accepted that reality I then had to face what I really thought myself about being gay.
DMN: How did your family (immediate and extended) react when you told them? Did any of them reject you as a result?
ANS: My fear has always been that if others knew I was gay they would not want to have anything to do with me. The thought of being rejected by my own family worried me so much I wasn’t prepared to say I was gay. I have always wanted to be accepted for who I was but have been afraid to say it.
I initially shared my journey and my fears with particular members of my family and was so happy with the reaction. I have since shared it with them all and not one has reacted negatively. I have shared it also with some members of my extended family and received the same positive response. Some of my family members have friends who are gay and so it was never going to be a problem for them. It is a similar case with my younger nephews and nieces who live in a more tolerant society and are very much faced with the reality of gay men.
DMN: Why did you decide to tell them?
ANS: In the end I had to, if you know what I mean. When I finally came to the peace of accepting who I was it seemed to be the natural step to share this knowledge with those I loved. It adds integrity to ones life if you are prepared to share the deepest truth of yourself with those you love. The sharing of such truth and the pain of the journey has brought me to a deeper relationship with quite a few of them and that in itself is good.
DMN: Have you informed your order that you are gay?
ANS: I have informed the leadership within my Province and also our worldwide leader. There are also significant others within my own Province with whom I have shared this truth about myself.
DMN: What was their reaction?
A very positive one. No one has any problem with my being gay. In fact the community in Australia which I recently left felt free enough to discuss the matter around the dinner table.
DMN: What do you hope will result from your decision to come out to them?
ANS: First and foremost, an acceptance of the reality that there are gay men already living within Religious Community and doing quite a good job at it. Secondly, to challenge any stereotypes that may exist in the minds of individuals. Thirdly, how does such knowledge challenge them to accept homosexual men and women within the wider society?
DMN: Have any of the brothers changed in attitude toward you since you came out?
ANS: None at all, but then again those I chose to share my truth with are men whom I respect and with whom I have a very good relationship. Some expressed surprise but then realized that being gay didn’t change the reality of the person they already knew.
DMN: How do you feel the Catholic Church treats people who are homosexual,both its clergy and lay congregation?
ANS: This is a difficult and complicated question to answer and what follows is my own opinion. The official teaching of the Catholic Church on homosexuality leaves much to be desired. It can only be and is a source of pain to those who are gay and lesbian and who want to take their rightful place within the Church. I believe it is stuck in a time warp and it is high time it moved out. Bigotry and hatred abound against homosexual people and the Church has to accept her share of the responsibility for this given their only partial acceptance of men and women homosexuals. Many quote the Bible to prove their position but take it completely out of context and with no knowledge of the advances that have been made in Biblical scholarship in recent times. They have also failed to take into account the advances in the behavioral sciences about sexuality in general and sexual orientation in particular. While many within the Church totally accept and minister to the homosexual community the hierarchy itself has a long way to go.
DMN: What changes in attitude would you like to see within the church in this connection?
ANS: Imagine a world where all men and women are accepted fully for who they are!
That is the change in attitude I would like to see. What if the Church stood up and publicly declared that it has been wrong in its judgment of and treatment of homosexual people in the past and they want to change all that. What if the Church espoused a Theology of love that included the love of one man for another and one woman for another and welcomed the living together of two such people in a loving, life giving and committed relationship! It would be a very different world we live in.
DMN: Is Australia tolerant towards gay people?
ANS: Australia is very much like any other country. There is both acceptance and rejection in all its degrees. While Sydney each year hosts the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras and huge numbers attend there is still much violence done to homosexual people. Sons and daughters are still thrown out of their homes for saying they are gay or lesbian; gays and lesbians are still being beaten up on our streets and even killed. So while I would say Australia is a tolerant country it still has a long way to go.
DMN: Is there anything else you would like readers to know about yourself,
etc.?
ANS: What I have described here is only the tip of the iceberg. The story each of us has to offer has its similarities and differences. It is also very complex and is almost impossible to put down accurately in such a short space. I ask those who read my story to accept it as it is. It is not complete and it still continues. It has validity because it belongs to me. I look upon it as something very special and something quite sacred. I trust you will respect it for what it is and for the truth I have decided to share in these few pages.
[technorati: roman catholic, God, religion, gay, family, sexuality, priests, new guinea, christianity, Australia
Saturday
Cosmopolitans and the Book Club
A book club 'adopted' my book recently and they invited me in to discuss it last week. I knew I'd enjoy it as soon as I arrived and saw thirteen ladies in the living room clutching Cosmos' that looked exceptionally expertly made. I stuck with red wine.
I love it when a book club gets the questions asked that they need to ask while having a good time doing it. To top it all off, Leslie (the hostess) made the most delicious chocolate fondu for desert that I've ever tasted. I made an absolute piglet of myself...but that's what chocolate's for, right!!!
What a really fun evening.
Coming up next week, my interview with a Brother from Australia in which he discusses growing up in Australia and his coming out to his family and church.
[technorati: book clubs, reading, fiction, authors, novels, cocktails
I love it when a book club gets the questions asked that they need to ask while having a good time doing it. To top it all off, Leslie (the hostess) made the most delicious chocolate fondu for desert that I've ever tasted. I made an absolute piglet of myself...but that's what chocolate's for, right!!!
What a really fun evening.
Coming up next week, my interview with a Brother from Australia in which he discusses growing up in Australia and his coming out to his family and church.
[technorati: book clubs, reading, fiction, authors, novels, cocktails
I didn't inhale
It seems fitting I would give my ten cents worth on the recent scandal involving Ted Haggard, who's the president of the U.S. National Association of Evangelicals and senior pastor of the New Life Church in Colorado Springs. Not to do so would risk me being hypocritical because my comments on the Catholic church in this regard are already known.
Basically Ted romped with a handsome gay escort called Mike Jones and asked him to procure two hundred dollars worth of crystal meth--a drug which apparantly increases sexual pleasure during coitus--over a period of three years despite being a married man and father of five children. When meeting for trysts, he went by the name of Art and they discussed many topics including his antipathy toward the homosexual lifestyle and his strong opposition to gay marriage and civil unions--which he even made known personally to our current President. While surfing late at night on TV, Mr. Jones was apparantly flabbergasted to come across his 'John' pontificating and praising God and Jesus on a Christian channel.
It is to Mr. Jones' credit that he decided to come forward because he could not stomach the hypocricy of this self-appointed man of God. He openly admits he was being political in exposing this man and thereby hoping to effect the outcome of a Colorado ballad initiative aimed at excluding the institution of marriage to gay people, an initiative Mr. Haggard was actively campaigning for.
It is unacceptable for any person to attempt to destroy and trample on the rights of any law abiding human including gays and lesbians, and doubly so if the attacker is a closet homosexual (Mark Foley) or a married man or woman full of selfloathing and/or living a clandestine gay or lesbian or bisexual lifestyle. Unfortunately, there are many such persons. It is just and proper that this man be exposed.
Haggard will now have a great deal of explaining to do to his congregation, wife and children. He has stated he did order the drugs, but threw them away as soon as he got them...oh, and yes, he also admits he was with a gay escort but did not inhale...I mean, shag. Hopefully, after the necessary media circus comes to an end, he will enter a period of deep reflection, come to terms with his sexuality, and give priase to his God for bringing an end to his falsity and pernicious hypocrisy.
[technorati: Ted Haggard, Mark Foley, Mike Jones, Colorado, gay, evangelical
Basically Ted romped with a handsome gay escort called Mike Jones and asked him to procure two hundred dollars worth of crystal meth--a drug which apparantly increases sexual pleasure during coitus--over a period of three years despite being a married man and father of five children. When meeting for trysts, he went by the name of Art and they discussed many topics including his antipathy toward the homosexual lifestyle and his strong opposition to gay marriage and civil unions--which he even made known personally to our current President. While surfing late at night on TV, Mr. Jones was apparantly flabbergasted to come across his 'John' pontificating and praising God and Jesus on a Christian channel.
It is to Mr. Jones' credit that he decided to come forward because he could not stomach the hypocricy of this self-appointed man of God. He openly admits he was being political in exposing this man and thereby hoping to effect the outcome of a Colorado ballad initiative aimed at excluding the institution of marriage to gay people, an initiative Mr. Haggard was actively campaigning for.
It is unacceptable for any person to attempt to destroy and trample on the rights of any law abiding human including gays and lesbians, and doubly so if the attacker is a closet homosexual (Mark Foley) or a married man or woman full of selfloathing and/or living a clandestine gay or lesbian or bisexual lifestyle. Unfortunately, there are many such persons. It is just and proper that this man be exposed.
Haggard will now have a great deal of explaining to do to his congregation, wife and children. He has stated he did order the drugs, but threw them away as soon as he got them...oh, and yes, he also admits he was with a gay escort but did not inhale...I mean, shag. Hopefully, after the necessary media circus comes to an end, he will enter a period of deep reflection, come to terms with his sexuality, and give priase to his God for bringing an end to his falsity and pernicious hypocrisy.
[technorati: Ted Haggard, Mark Foley, Mike Jones, Colorado, gay, evangelical
The Queen:Movie review
"Uneasy the head that wears the crown" Henry IV, part 2
As the film opens with Helen Mirren posing as the Queen for an official portrait on election day in a flowing purple robe (the color of royalty) adorned with the medals of state, the viewer thinks this will be a remarkable film. When she turns and stares into the camera before it pans away from her face and, with an additional mere twitch and the slightest shift of her neck, imbues herself with the public's perception of Queen Elizabeth II's personality, the viewer knows it will be remarkable.
The film revolves around the events of the week following the Princess of Wales's death on August 31, 1997. Juxtaposed between actual footage of the arrival of Diana's coffin back to England by a jet in the Royal flight (a privilege the Queen did not wish to extend until Charles informs her they can arrange for her to be sent via a commercial flight with an hour stopover in Manchester), images of her life as a royal, and parts of the funeral procession, we see a Queen totally ignorant of the wishes of her subjects for the first time in her reign. Encouraged by her idiotic husband, the Duke of Edinburgh, who is portrayed with a hairsbreadth of hating Diana--not to be forgotten is the irony that he is an outsider, himself brought into the bosom of the English royal family as a spouse, yet renders the loudest, most unconscionable opinions about the Princess's life and personality, and many of us can relate to this kind of situation within our own families--the Queen decides to stay at her forty thousand acre estate called Balmoral and keeps both William and Harry in the dark about what's occurring in the country viz-a-viz their motehr's death by removing the radio, television and newspapers from their quarters.
The public begins to turn against the royal family, despising their indifference. We are shown scenes of them talking about deer hunting in the living room over gin-and-tonics while watching montages on television of Diana's life on the television, as well as a scene of Philip and his entourage stalking a magnificent 14 point stag on the moors--the scenes compiled partly as a result of discrete interviews with people 'in the know' and partly from 'informed imagination. It falls on Tony Blair as the newly elected priminister to advise the Queen she is in error and eventually, when the Queen's folly and intransigence becomes ludricous, he compiles a list of things she must do in order to save the monarchy that includes getting her family to London as soon as possible, accepting a state funeral when she wanted it to be private, and actually paying her respects at Diana's coffin in person and flying the royal standard at half mast at every royal residence including Buckingham Palace. The latter has never been done before, and it is all the more galling in that the Queen stripped Diana of her HRH title and thus regards her again as the commoner she once was. One can experience the Queen's abject horror in Mirren's face and by the stiff British upper lip turning slowly upward before our eyes. Moreover, the insult that it is the British Primeminster advising the Queen wounds her psyche deeply, especially when one understands that royal protocol dictates that the charade to be maintained at all times is that it is the Queen who appoints and advises her Primeinister on affairs of state.
A very moving moment occurs in the film when the audience relives emotions experienced on the day of the funeral while listening to a portion of the eulogy given by Diana's brother, though the tears do not remain in our eyes long because this time we can see the Queen's deadpan face as she sits listening in the front pew inside Westminster Abbey. Also, I had the sense that the director may haved inserted a bit of fun for the benefit of British audiences (and those foreigners in the know) by poking oblique fun at Blair's promise to change Britain radically when he came to power, yet ten years down the road there's been no major change at all, the monarchy still survives, and he's become America's poodle.
Like Cherie Blair, I am not disposed favorably toward the monarchy, but having grown up in Northern Ireland where one could not escape the public's appetite and adulation for all things royal, I have had to fight a natural inclination to watch them if they're on television. Mirren is seductive. But then the monarchy is a seductive institution, which is why it survives. The Queen has fought hard to maintain its air of mystery. A shrewd woman, she understood that the elixir of secrecy and mystery is what made their subjects rever both the family and instititution and thus ensured its unquestioned existence by the majority-- though now that the curtain has been pulled open on that world of privelege and familial shenanigans and we see they're not any better than we are and that they have a perverted vision of their 'upper class-ness', it will inevitably lead to their demise--the only question being when, exactly. All in all, a very good film and well worth seeing.
[technorati: Queen Elizabeth II, The Queen, Buckingham Palace, Princess Diana, Helen Mirren, Prince William
As the film opens with Helen Mirren posing as the Queen for an official portrait on election day in a flowing purple robe (the color of royalty) adorned with the medals of state, the viewer thinks this will be a remarkable film. When she turns and stares into the camera before it pans away from her face and, with an additional mere twitch and the slightest shift of her neck, imbues herself with the public's perception of Queen Elizabeth II's personality, the viewer knows it will be remarkable.
The film revolves around the events of the week following the Princess of Wales's death on August 31, 1997. Juxtaposed between actual footage of the arrival of Diana's coffin back to England by a jet in the Royal flight (a privilege the Queen did not wish to extend until Charles informs her they can arrange for her to be sent via a commercial flight with an hour stopover in Manchester), images of her life as a royal, and parts of the funeral procession, we see a Queen totally ignorant of the wishes of her subjects for the first time in her reign. Encouraged by her idiotic husband, the Duke of Edinburgh, who is portrayed with a hairsbreadth of hating Diana--not to be forgotten is the irony that he is an outsider, himself brought into the bosom of the English royal family as a spouse, yet renders the loudest, most unconscionable opinions about the Princess's life and personality, and many of us can relate to this kind of situation within our own families--the Queen decides to stay at her forty thousand acre estate called Balmoral and keeps both William and Harry in the dark about what's occurring in the country viz-a-viz their motehr's death by removing the radio, television and newspapers from their quarters.
The public begins to turn against the royal family, despising their indifference. We are shown scenes of them talking about deer hunting in the living room over gin-and-tonics while watching montages on television of Diana's life on the television, as well as a scene of Philip and his entourage stalking a magnificent 14 point stag on the moors--the scenes compiled partly as a result of discrete interviews with people 'in the know' and partly from 'informed imagination. It falls on Tony Blair as the newly elected priminister to advise the Queen she is in error and eventually, when the Queen's folly and intransigence becomes ludricous, he compiles a list of things she must do in order to save the monarchy that includes getting her family to London as soon as possible, accepting a state funeral when she wanted it to be private, and actually paying her respects at Diana's coffin in person and flying the royal standard at half mast at every royal residence including Buckingham Palace. The latter has never been done before, and it is all the more galling in that the Queen stripped Diana of her HRH title and thus regards her again as the commoner she once was. One can experience the Queen's abject horror in Mirren's face and by the stiff British upper lip turning slowly upward before our eyes. Moreover, the insult that it is the British Primeminster advising the Queen wounds her psyche deeply, especially when one understands that royal protocol dictates that the charade to be maintained at all times is that it is the Queen who appoints and advises her Primeinister on affairs of state.
A very moving moment occurs in the film when the audience relives emotions experienced on the day of the funeral while listening to a portion of the eulogy given by Diana's brother, though the tears do not remain in our eyes long because this time we can see the Queen's deadpan face as she sits listening in the front pew inside Westminster Abbey. Also, I had the sense that the director may haved inserted a bit of fun for the benefit of British audiences (and those foreigners in the know) by poking oblique fun at Blair's promise to change Britain radically when he came to power, yet ten years down the road there's been no major change at all, the monarchy still survives, and he's become America's poodle.
Like Cherie Blair, I am not disposed favorably toward the monarchy, but having grown up in Northern Ireland where one could not escape the public's appetite and adulation for all things royal, I have had to fight a natural inclination to watch them if they're on television. Mirren is seductive. But then the monarchy is a seductive institution, which is why it survives. The Queen has fought hard to maintain its air of mystery. A shrewd woman, she understood that the elixir of secrecy and mystery is what made their subjects rever both the family and instititution and thus ensured its unquestioned existence by the majority-- though now that the curtain has been pulled open on that world of privelege and familial shenanigans and we see they're not any better than we are and that they have a perverted vision of their 'upper class-ness', it will inevitably lead to their demise--the only question being when, exactly. All in all, a very good film and well worth seeing.
[technorati: Queen Elizabeth II, The Queen, Buckingham Palace, Princess Diana, Helen Mirren, Prince William
Tuesday
The Scent of God and Author Interview
The Scent of GodBeing raised Roman Catholic and coming from an extended family with a long tradition of members dedicating their lives to the nun and priesthood, I was anxious to tuck into Beryl Singleton Bissel's memoir. Here was somebody similar yet very different to me: similar in that she was brought up Roman Catholic and educated in their schools, but different in that she came into Catholicism as a result of being the offspring of an English mother who converted; similar in that she never quite fitted four-square into her social milieu as a child and then adolescent, yet different in that, whereas I began to question my faith and the hypocricy of the organized church, she became infatuated to the extent she was convinced she was destined for sainthood and in an effort to secure that prize became a Poor Clare and left society to live a life of prayer and contemplation in a New Jersey monastery.
I was not disappointed, was in fact often riveted by the narrative. In a straight-forward, precise writing style (which I like in both fiction and nonfiction), the author takes us on a unique journey from her first home in New Jersey beside a pretty lake where she experienced the negative effects of a parent who drinks too much to lush and exotic Puerto Rico--she even mentions the blazing flamboyan trees, which held me spellbound on a trip there too--where she doesn't quite fit in at school initially and later experiences her first love affair with a Puerto Rican youth who dies before the book is finished. But Bissell decides her happiness lies in her being close to God and enters the aforementioned Poor Clares, much to the horror of her parents--as does her sister a few years later. Her descriptions of the time spent in the order is one of the book's strongest parts because it gives the reader an exceptionally intimate portrait of the noviate's life and the hardships, solace and humor behind those formidible walls.
But living as a nun was not to be and the author meets and befriends, on a trip home to Puerto Rico to assist with an ailing parent, an older priest. The friendship develops into a love affair. When Bissell decides to leave the Poor Clares--she is resolute and unafraid to show she's redblooded and has desires for this priest. Though not stated, there is a sense that the memoirist feels the clock is ticking and she wants to marry and this leads to an ultimatim being given to Vittorio (who is tormented about quitting his vocation) that he must make up his mind becaused she will not wait for him to make up his mind. A period of indecision on his part follows--there is a funny aside about her first trip with him to Italy where she packs condoms in with her luggage just in case--and they do eventually marry. However, the story does not end there because Vittorio sustains a life-threatening illness, an illness whose knowledge Bissell carries alone in the relationship because the family do not want him to know he is dying.
I am thrilled I discovered this inspiring memoir because it educated me in an aspect of Catholicism I had not known anything about and showed the choices one woman made in her path toward becoming happy and fulfilled.
------------------------------------------------------
Author Interview
Thanks for agreeing to appear on my blog and answer my questions, Beryl.
DMN: Writing a memoir is an exceptionally personal process (as I'm discovering myself now that I'm embarking on the journey) and leads to much self analysis. What inspired you to write a memoir about growing up in the States, Puerto Rico and becoming a Poor Clare?
BSB: Overhearing my teenage children, in periods of special angst say that things were going wrong because their mother had been a nun and their father a priest and God had it in for them. I began writing to tell them the story of the love that brought them forth but as I wrote I realized that I, too, was grappling with the same questions. Did God punish us for the choices we make in life, what were the beliefs that led me into the monastery, what was my role in the events that contributed to the unravelling of that vocation. Basically, who is God and who am I.
DMN: Was it difficult to write at any time and, if so, can you give us an example of any difficulties you experienced. Going deeper, getting to the story beneath the story.
BSB: This required the most prolonged examination of conscience I've ever undergone. I thought I'd finished the story when an agent told me it was a great story and I wrote well but I hadn't told the story yet. "You touch on huge issues and then dance away from them into details."
DMN: You write that your parents were not initially pleased that you decided to enter a convent, which I found very interesting because I come from an Irish tradition where it is almost a mark of honor to have a child receive a call to the religious life. Your mother was an English Catholic. Do you think her Englishness and coming from a country which is not particularly interested in organized religion (as judged by low church attendance) made her suspicious of religion to the point she discouraged your vocation?
BSB: My mother was actually a convert who became a Catholic because she wanted a "church wedding." At that time mixed-marriage ceremonies took place in the rectory. She had little grounding in the faith; there had never been a priestly or religious vocation in either family and she wanted me to have the best this world had to offer, including marrying a rich man.
DMN: Why do you think your father was unenthusiastic?
BSB: No religious vocations in the family, even though he'd once considered becoming a priest, and wanting to support my mother. I think it was giving up the college scholarships that troubled him the most. He was proud of my brains and wanted me to excel and a monastery was not a place that would allow me to "shine."
DMN: Have you tried to trace your mother's former boyfriend, the one she went back to England in search of during your girlhood?
BSB: I've been thinking of writing a book based on her life (fiction because there is so much I don't know) but to do so will require going to England and searching out this sort of information.
DMN: What is your relationship toward Roman Catholicism today?
BSB: I am a practicing Catholic but not one the Church would call "devout" because I have serious issues with the Church today. I feel at home in Catholicism but not in the Church -- the liturgy, sacraments, and the legacy of the saints keep me anchored.
DMN: Have you experienced any negativity from people within the church's hierarchy since the book's publication about your decision to leave the church and your courtship (and eventual marriage) to an ex-priest?
BSB: I thought I would but I've had little negativity. My conservative pastor loved it -- bought six more copies and wrote a full page review in the parish newsletter, The National Catholic Reporter gave a glowing review. I have met a few people who told me they are deeply loyal Catholics and found the whole idea scandalous but while reading the book found our story deeply spiritual and moving. Where it has caused heartache has been in my monastery -- especially because I used real names and locations. Had I a chance to do it over again, I'd change those names and the location of the monastery.
DMN: You mention in the book that your brother became a Brother later in life. Do you think he was inspired by your earlier decision to enter the religious life and were you surprised by his decision?
BSB: Greg joined the Third Order Franciscans as a lay-person. He cooked for a friary and was very active in their ministries to the homeless and those dying from AIDS. He'd been an alcoholic and the process of living sober became deeply spiritual (though always remaining outrageous). His wife had divorced him years earlier because of his drinking. When he stopped drinking a few years before his death, his children felt they'd regained their father. I know that Greg asked me for the silver ring I'd been given at my final profession of vows.
DMN: What are you working on now?
BSB: Publicity, publicity, publicity. I've been doing lots of readings and the like
to keep the book before the public's eyes. And I am working on the sequel to the memoir. Right now I'm plowing through 20 or so journals rereading the painful years that followed Vittorio's death through the death of my daughter. Heavy, heavy reading and I want the book to have enough joy and humor to leaven the rest.
DMN: Tell us a bit about your approach to writing.
BSB: I write in order to discover what I think about things. Since joining Gather, my words flow with greater ease . . . I am a fine-tuner of phrases but writing short posts and commenting on other's works has alleviated that need to fix every word. I usually read some poetry, especially Rainer Maria Rilke's Book of Hours, before starting and I say a prayer for the gift of tongues--that people will hear and find what they need in my words.
[technorati: Beryl Singleton Bissell, Memoir, National Catholic Reporter, Poor Clares, Puerto Rico, New Jersey
Wednesday
Frau Laux
When I was a freshman at law school--I was nineteen-years-old, I decided to spend my vacation in Germany learning German and ended up in Trier, the oldest city in Germany that has a huge Roman gate in its center called the Porta Nigra. I ended up staying with the Laux family in Pfalzel--a suburb--which was arranged by their son, Richard, who was teaching my brother Seamus at high school in Ireland at the time.
I arrived speaking little German and both Frau and Herr Laux spoke little English, which meant I had to learn fast which I did. Frau Laux was an attractive redhead, about mid-fifties, and she made it clear from the beginning that this Irishman was to be treated as one of her family. She became a surrogate mother in a way and took me into the city, helped me find a job at a restaurant called Zum Domstein, and spent her afternoons feeding and conversing with me in her garden. In the center of their garden, which swept down to the banks of the Mosel river, was a Mirabella tree that produced a sweet delicious fruit that looked like yellow plums. She baked the most exquisite pies--those German pies where the fruit is halved and put on the top of teh salty-sweet like a plum comforter.
Some days Frau and Herr Laux came to the restaurant to collect me after work and then they'd drive in their gray Ford Tauras to a hospital carpark where I'd wait while they went inside for a long time. I could never understand what was going on, nor did they offer an explanation, though the rides home where always very somber. Moreover, even if they had, my German was so poor I wouldn't have understood.
The summer passed quickly and I grew to love them deeply. On the final morning, they came outside with me and hugged me tightly before I left for the train staion. (They'd wanted to take me to the station, but I didn't want that as I knew it would be difficult to take leave there.) As I kissed her, Frau Laux's amber eyes sparkled with tears and she gripped me more tightly that my mother ever had. I looked to Herr Laux and saw his eyes were similarly full.
"I'll be back at Christmas time to visit," I said in perfect German. "I promise."
Frau Laux began to sob.
"Tschus," she said, and I can still see her beautifully tanned arm rise and wave sand then she went quickly inside leaving the others to watch me leave.
Three weeks passed and then I got a call from a friend Michael--a student from the same village that I'd befriended--to say Frau Laux was dead.
"What?" I said, shocked to the core, memories tumbling like kaleidoscope pieces in my brain.
"Damian," he said, "she didn't want you to know she was dying of cancer. That was her one condition to her family. When their son Richard told them that someone from Ireland wanted to come to Germany to learn German and asked if they were interested in having him stay, they held a family conference. Herr Laux didn't want you to stay because he said you'd be too much of an interruption because she was dying. But Frau Laux wouldn't hear of it. She wanted you. She said she wanted the Irishman to come and no one was to tell you that she was dying. She wanted her life to be full and normal. She didn't want pity. She wanted to show you the real Germany."
I was at once humbled and in awe. My love for her surged. There was so much to tell her, so much to say, and it was all too late. For the first time in my life I knew the true meaning of death, its silence and permanence. I hadn't even felt such loss when my grandfather died, but then I was a child and didn't understand.
I take comfort in knowing my presence and my ignorance helped her during those final days, helped her live a normal life till she could do it no longer, that being there stopped the family from becoming dark and breaking into endless bouts of tears and darkness. She was an amazing woman and the laughter we shared--often when I said crazy things in German like "Es regnet Katzen und Hunden" on rainy day (It's raining cats and dogs) when in German it should be "Es regnet in Strom"--is vivid in my memory, as is her chiselled, tanned smiling face as she stands beside her beloved Mirabella tree.
[technorati: Trier, Germany, Pfalzel, family, cancer
I arrived speaking little German and both Frau and Herr Laux spoke little English, which meant I had to learn fast which I did. Frau Laux was an attractive redhead, about mid-fifties, and she made it clear from the beginning that this Irishman was to be treated as one of her family. She became a surrogate mother in a way and took me into the city, helped me find a job at a restaurant called Zum Domstein, and spent her afternoons feeding and conversing with me in her garden. In the center of their garden, which swept down to the banks of the Mosel river, was a Mirabella tree that produced a sweet delicious fruit that looked like yellow plums. She baked the most exquisite pies--those German pies where the fruit is halved and put on the top of teh salty-sweet like a plum comforter.
Some days Frau and Herr Laux came to the restaurant to collect me after work and then they'd drive in their gray Ford Tauras to a hospital carpark where I'd wait while they went inside for a long time. I could never understand what was going on, nor did they offer an explanation, though the rides home where always very somber. Moreover, even if they had, my German was so poor I wouldn't have understood.
The summer passed quickly and I grew to love them deeply. On the final morning, they came outside with me and hugged me tightly before I left for the train staion. (They'd wanted to take me to the station, but I didn't want that as I knew it would be difficult to take leave there.) As I kissed her, Frau Laux's amber eyes sparkled with tears and she gripped me more tightly that my mother ever had. I looked to Herr Laux and saw his eyes were similarly full.
"I'll be back at Christmas time to visit," I said in perfect German. "I promise."
Frau Laux began to sob.
"Tschus," she said, and I can still see her beautifully tanned arm rise and wave sand then she went quickly inside leaving the others to watch me leave.
Three weeks passed and then I got a call from a friend Michael--a student from the same village that I'd befriended--to say Frau Laux was dead.
"What?" I said, shocked to the core, memories tumbling like kaleidoscope pieces in my brain.
"Damian," he said, "she didn't want you to know she was dying of cancer. That was her one condition to her family. When their son Richard told them that someone from Ireland wanted to come to Germany to learn German and asked if they were interested in having him stay, they held a family conference. Herr Laux didn't want you to stay because he said you'd be too much of an interruption because she was dying. But Frau Laux wouldn't hear of it. She wanted you. She said she wanted the Irishman to come and no one was to tell you that she was dying. She wanted her life to be full and normal. She didn't want pity. She wanted to show you the real Germany."
I was at once humbled and in awe. My love for her surged. There was so much to tell her, so much to say, and it was all too late. For the first time in my life I knew the true meaning of death, its silence and permanence. I hadn't even felt such loss when my grandfather died, but then I was a child and didn't understand.
I take comfort in knowing my presence and my ignorance helped her during those final days, helped her live a normal life till she could do it no longer, that being there stopped the family from becoming dark and breaking into endless bouts of tears and darkness. She was an amazing woman and the laughter we shared--often when I said crazy things in German like "Es regnet Katzen und Hunden" on rainy day (It's raining cats and dogs) when in German it should be "Es regnet in Strom"--is vivid in my memory, as is her chiselled, tanned smiling face as she stands beside her beloved Mirabella tree.
[technorati: Trier, Germany, Pfalzel, family, cancer
Friday
Barbary's dedication
As some of you may know I am a member of Gather.com and this morning I received an email from the poet Barbary Chaapel (who also read A Son Called Gabriela few months ago and enjoyed it) to say she was much moved about a post I had written about the homeless I saw a few months ago in NYC and, as this is an issue she holds close to her heart, she dedicated a poem entitled 'Invisible' to me.
I have never had a poem dedicated to me and I am both speechless and much moved.
As many of you may not know Gather.com, I am posting her poem here so you may read it.
----------------------------------------
for Damian McNichol
INVISIBLE
Old eyes.
Lower teeth sunk sideways
Like old tomb stones.
The things her mouth
Won't tell;
Keep away the man.
I see her plainly.
This season, the color of winter,
She is grey limbo.
What she does
Does not define her.
Can you not imagine,
Once, on her hands,
Scent of cherry and almond,
This hungry ghost,
Waiting for a spoonful of sugar.
[technorati: Barbary Chaapel, poetry, homelessness, NYC, Gather
I have never had a poem dedicated to me and I am both speechless and much moved.
As many of you may not know Gather.com, I am posting her poem here so you may read it.
----------------------------------------
for Damian McNichol
INVISIBLE
Old eyes.
Lower teeth sunk sideways
Like old tomb stones.
The things her mouth
Won't tell;
Keep away the man.
I see her plainly.
This season, the color of winter,
She is grey limbo.
What she does
Does not define her.
Can you not imagine,
Once, on her hands,
Scent of cherry and almond,
This hungry ghost,
Waiting for a spoonful of sugar.
[technorati: Barbary Chaapel, poetry, homelessness, NYC, Gather
Wednesday
An act of brainwashing
This is a new twist on attempts to dumb down or con Americans.
The other night I was watching the telly and a commercial came on for a drug meant to alleviate some kind of arthritis. I can't remember the drugs name, but I know it's manufactured by a large corporation.
One of the side effects stated in a very calming voice was that it may lead to "fatal events". I could not believe my ears.
"Larry," I said, "did you just hear that commercial?"
"No, I wasn't listening. I never listen to that stuff."
"He said, taking it can lead to a "fatal event."
"No kidding. Huh!"
Last time I checked, 'fatal event' meant 'death.' Why don't they just take off the sugar coat and say "death."
The answer is simple, of course. It won't make us rush to the doctor crying for a prescription for the drug.
Marketers and their clients want used cars to be 'pre-owned' and dangerous drugs to cause 'fatal events' not death.
[technorati: pharmaceutical industry, prescription drugs, rheumatism, arthritis, advertising
The other night I was watching the telly and a commercial came on for a drug meant to alleviate some kind of arthritis. I can't remember the drugs name, but I know it's manufactured by a large corporation.
One of the side effects stated in a very calming voice was that it may lead to "fatal events". I could not believe my ears.
"Larry," I said, "did you just hear that commercial?"
"No, I wasn't listening. I never listen to that stuff."
"He said, taking it can lead to a "fatal event."
"No kidding. Huh!"
Last time I checked, 'fatal event' meant 'death.' Why don't they just take off the sugar coat and say "death."
The answer is simple, of course. It won't make us rush to the doctor crying for a prescription for the drug.
Marketers and their clients want used cars to be 'pre-owned' and dangerous drugs to cause 'fatal events' not death.
[technorati: pharmaceutical industry, prescription drugs, rheumatism, arthritis, advertising
Tuesday
The priest
During my time in Croatia one of the most poignant visits was to a priests' house in a village outside Dubrovnik. The memory of the visit still remains as fresh in my mind as the first taste of the yellow-gold plum grappa that the priest offered us as a welcome drink as is customary over there. (He'd offered two kinds of beverage--grappa and the herb brandy which was medicinal and I had three quick shots of the delicious medicine and two of the grappa. I'd have had a sixth and a seventh, but Larry started to object to my (what I'd considered) stealthy siddling toward the drinks board, and the priest's maid who served the drinks became somewhat Stalinist in her behaviour.)
The village was pretty, constructed of stone with red-tiled roofs, and nestled high in a mountain. As we got off the bus, we followed the tour guide along a winding path that led to the priests house. At every entrance to a house was a memorial to family members who'd been executed by Tito's partisan army during the second world war. My eyes were instantly opened to a second, less well known or discussed mass murdering--the killing of millions of Yugoslavs who'd refused to support General Tito's communist dictates--during and after World War II. The priest also had a monument outside his house that bore the names of seven members of his family--his parents and five siblings--who'd been executed that morning by the partisans. In fact, the priest, then six-years-old, had escaped shooting by hiding in the shaft of a well until they army had left. I can only imagine the images in his young mind when he climbed out and saw an entire village of corpses.
Craggy of feature with silver hair and a wide smile, the priest was about sixty-five and his stooping gait told of a hard life. Humility and happiness dualed half-heartedly for supremacy within his shiny irises. When I shook his hand, it was as if more than his blood warmth passed beneath my skin. It seemed as if his entire history, the ancient pain, his extreme calm and kindness entered my body and the sensation aroused in me a deep curiosity to know more about this man of the cloth and his life. That was not to be because he didn't speak a word of English and relied solely on the services of our guide whose English wasn't fully up to the task. In any event, it was clear he was a man of greatness and I must say--though I tend to rail against the hypocrisy of organized religion--I saw God in every aspect of him and I can say in total honesty that not many priests make me think like that.
A wealthy, kind German woman had been told of his plight and took him in as a child. She arranged for his education and, on her death, the priest inherited her entire estate and used the proceeds to bring the village back to life. He rebuilt his parents home and it was truly poignant to walk into the room where he'd been born and see his parents photographs and the crib where he'd lain as a child. He oversees teh spiritual needs of a large parish (Croatia is overwhelmingly Roman Catholic and most people still practice their faith) and supports the village by cooking meals and selling grappa and the 'brandy medicine.' Lunch comprised delicious freshly baked bread and homemade virgin olive oil, sardines--a tad salty for my taste--and hearty vegetable soup, all served by the same smiling, buxom Croatian maid in a local costume who'd observed my liking for the local medicine.
An afternoon never to be forgotten.
[technorati: General Tito, Partisani, World War Two, Yugoslavia, Croatia, Roman Catholic
The village was pretty, constructed of stone with red-tiled roofs, and nestled high in a mountain. As we got off the bus, we followed the tour guide along a winding path that led to the priests house. At every entrance to a house was a memorial to family members who'd been executed by Tito's partisan army during the second world war. My eyes were instantly opened to a second, less well known or discussed mass murdering--the killing of millions of Yugoslavs who'd refused to support General Tito's communist dictates--during and after World War II. The priest also had a monument outside his house that bore the names of seven members of his family--his parents and five siblings--who'd been executed that morning by the partisans. In fact, the priest, then six-years-old, had escaped shooting by hiding in the shaft of a well until they army had left. I can only imagine the images in his young mind when he climbed out and saw an entire village of corpses.
Craggy of feature with silver hair and a wide smile, the priest was about sixty-five and his stooping gait told of a hard life. Humility and happiness dualed half-heartedly for supremacy within his shiny irises. When I shook his hand, it was as if more than his blood warmth passed beneath my skin. It seemed as if his entire history, the ancient pain, his extreme calm and kindness entered my body and the sensation aroused in me a deep curiosity to know more about this man of the cloth and his life. That was not to be because he didn't speak a word of English and relied solely on the services of our guide whose English wasn't fully up to the task. In any event, it was clear he was a man of greatness and I must say--though I tend to rail against the hypocrisy of organized religion--I saw God in every aspect of him and I can say in total honesty that not many priests make me think like that.
A wealthy, kind German woman had been told of his plight and took him in as a child. She arranged for his education and, on her death, the priest inherited her entire estate and used the proceeds to bring the village back to life. He rebuilt his parents home and it was truly poignant to walk into the room where he'd been born and see his parents photographs and the crib where he'd lain as a child. He oversees teh spiritual needs of a large parish (Croatia is overwhelmingly Roman Catholic and most people still practice their faith) and supports the village by cooking meals and selling grappa and the 'brandy medicine.' Lunch comprised delicious freshly baked bread and homemade virgin olive oil, sardines--a tad salty for my taste--and hearty vegetable soup, all served by the same smiling, buxom Croatian maid in a local costume who'd observed my liking for the local medicine.
An afternoon never to be forgotten.
[technorati: General Tito, Partisani, World War Two, Yugoslavia, Croatia, Roman Catholic
Monday
Fire island Pines sojourn
Just returned from a few days spent with L&L at the Fire Island Pines. We stayed with friends who own a lovely beach house on the Great South bay side. For those of you unfamiliar with Fire Island, it's a long sand bar running along part of Long Island's easterly side. Properties on Cherry Grove and the Pines are pretty much gay,lesbian and liberal-straight owned--the likes of Calvin Klein owned beach houses in the Pines at one point in their lives--while properties at Sunken Forest, etc are owned by others.
On our first evening, we went for cocktails to Sharon and Michelle who'd rented a gorgeous house on the Great South Bay for a week, though given its high rent, they were very annoyed--and justifiably so when they showed us the shabby state of them--that the furniture covers were badly stained in places. In the end, they resorted to covering the sofa and dining chairs with beach towels. I mean, it doesn't take much for homeowners renting out their homes at top dollar to bleach a few chair covers once or twice during the season, does it? All that's required is not to be so goddamned greedy.
As I sipped on their ice-cold Chardonnay, I watched the sun dip ever so slowly in the sky, turning the placid waters of the Bay into a huge navy-blue blanket that seemed made of velvet and liberally crisscrossed in places with shimmering stripes of molten gold. Thereafter, we all went to one of two restaurants--in actuality, a pizza joint--in the Pines, which proved sadly (although Sharon and Michelle had pre-warned us) to be mediocre with pretensions to being an expensive Italian restaurant in possession of a spectacularly impoverished wine list. (The following evening L&L, Larry and I went to the second restaurant at the Blue Whale, which proved to equally mediocre. (The friends we stayed with informed us that there used to be a brilliant restaurant called Marco's which closed last season.) Given that the Pines is decidedly upmarket--the homes are whimsical, elegant or boastful, and the small supermarket stocks quality foodstuffs--it was surprising that the homeowners and renters would accept such shoddy offerings.
Unfortunately, the weather proved churlish and we only got to bask at our friends pool for one day. I managed to get a mild sunburn that has already begun to tan. I was looking forward to strolling along the beach--truly pristine and full of gold sand--but in the end had to settle for glimpses of the ocean from underneath the shade of my umbrella. The rain was torrential and unremitting. For a few days we read, played the game of 'Yatzee', watched videos, ate and drank cocktails. I was disappointed I hadn't brought along my laptop because I could have done some writing, but I've always been lucky with the weather on vacation and figured it would be a waste of time dragging it along.
One highlight was the tea dances which took place on Friday and Saturday evening where we danced to great music or simply chatted.
[technorati: Fire Island, Fire Island Pines, The Pines, Cherry Grove, Sunken Forest, Great South Bay
On our first evening, we went for cocktails to Sharon and Michelle who'd rented a gorgeous house on the Great South Bay for a week, though given its high rent, they were very annoyed--and justifiably so when they showed us the shabby state of them--that the furniture covers were badly stained in places. In the end, they resorted to covering the sofa and dining chairs with beach towels. I mean, it doesn't take much for homeowners renting out their homes at top dollar to bleach a few chair covers once or twice during the season, does it? All that's required is not to be so goddamned greedy.
As I sipped on their ice-cold Chardonnay, I watched the sun dip ever so slowly in the sky, turning the placid waters of the Bay into a huge navy-blue blanket that seemed made of velvet and liberally crisscrossed in places with shimmering stripes of molten gold. Thereafter, we all went to one of two restaurants--in actuality, a pizza joint--in the Pines, which proved sadly (although Sharon and Michelle had pre-warned us) to be mediocre with pretensions to being an expensive Italian restaurant in possession of a spectacularly impoverished wine list. (The following evening L&L, Larry and I went to the second restaurant at the Blue Whale, which proved to equally mediocre. (The friends we stayed with informed us that there used to be a brilliant restaurant called Marco's which closed last season.) Given that the Pines is decidedly upmarket--the homes are whimsical, elegant or boastful, and the small supermarket stocks quality foodstuffs--it was surprising that the homeowners and renters would accept such shoddy offerings.
Unfortunately, the weather proved churlish and we only got to bask at our friends pool for one day. I managed to get a mild sunburn that has already begun to tan. I was looking forward to strolling along the beach--truly pristine and full of gold sand--but in the end had to settle for glimpses of the ocean from underneath the shade of my umbrella. The rain was torrential and unremitting. For a few days we read, played the game of 'Yatzee', watched videos, ate and drank cocktails. I was disappointed I hadn't brought along my laptop because I could have done some writing, but I've always been lucky with the weather on vacation and figured it would be a waste of time dragging it along.
One highlight was the tea dances which took place on Friday and Saturday evening where we danced to great music or simply chatted.
[technorati: Fire Island, Fire Island Pines, The Pines, Cherry Grove, Sunken Forest, Great South Bay
Beryl Singleton Bissell
Beryl Singleton Bissell is an author whose memoir The Scent of God (Perseus Books Group/Counterpoint Press)is doing very well in the United States. In the near future I plan to post a review of her book and Beryl has very kindly agreed to answer a few questions which will accompany it.
Beryl was born in Saddle River New Jersey, grew up in Puerto Rico, and entered a cloistered monastery the day after she graduated from high school. She left religious life fifteen years later. She now lives on the North Shore of Lake Superior and has a son and three grandchildren. Her 24-year-old daughter died in 2001.
She has a website (www.berylsingletonbissell.com) and runs a blog, which you can check out as I am posting the link on my Author Blogs sidebar.
[technorati: Beryl Singleton Bissell, The Scent of God, Perseus Books Group, Memoir, Roman Catholic, nuns
Beryl was born in Saddle River New Jersey, grew up in Puerto Rico, and entered a cloistered monastery the day after she graduated from high school. She left religious life fifteen years later. She now lives on the North Shore of Lake Superior and has a son and three grandchildren. Her 24-year-old daughter died in 2001.
She has a website (www.berylsingletonbissell.com) and runs a blog, which you can check out as I am posting the link on my Author Blogs sidebar.
[technorati: Beryl Singleton Bissell, The Scent of God, Perseus Books Group, Memoir, Roman Catholic, nuns
Friday
The encounter
An episode from my trip to Europe--nearly verbatim.
------------------------------------------------------
I was coming out of the hotel restaurant when I saw the attractive, impeccably dressed Ms. X and her (I think) second husband, whom I think may have been a jewish convert to evangelicism. I'm not certain of that though, and can only go by his
surname which, of course, in Northern Ireland instantly tells one a person's religion and can in the wrong circumstances get one shot.
"You're coming up to my part of the country for a wedding soon, arent you?"
"Not for a wedding," said Ms. X. "For a christening."
"Oh."
"My grandson is getting christened."
"Very nice."
Pause.
"Damian, you don't know what it's like when you have grandchildren who don't walk with the Lord. Thankfully, my daughter has come around and is christening my grandson who's five now. We've been trying so hard for this. So hard."
"I...I see."
"I have four children and I thought I brought them up well, but none of them walk with Jesus or allow their children the pleasure,"she says. "It's devastating."
Hubby cranes his neck in my direction, looks moist and sad about the eyes, and says, "It's so sad. We all need Jesus in our lives."
I recognize his look--it's the look that says 'You will burn in the hot, eternal flames if you do not have Jesus. Get saved.'
Silence as my mind whirls.
"Well, I'm Catholic, but I would never presume to say or require that everyone needs Jesus as their personal Lord and savior. (Having been brought up in fundamentalist Northern Ireland, I know the code words to invoke by now as they are posted on telegraph poles, tree trunks, sides of barns, etc.) God comes in many forms, Ms. X. For example, the Buddhists, Jews and Muslims have a different concept of God and none of them subscribe to Jesus."
Hubby cranes again and says, "Everyone must have Jesus."
"These people are equally as right as Christians," I say. "We are but one form of belief and God planned it this way."
Ms. X has a beautiful smile and I see her lips curl up slightly and I am given a sad puppy dog look. She shakes her head knowingly. "Damian, only Jesus. Only Jesus is king."
I have just been canvassed and my mind is strong and we have reached a stalemate. Stalemate for me, at least. More likely for them, "He's so nice but doomed to writhe within the eternally scorching flames."
Gosh, Ms. X, it's very late,"I say. "I really must go to bed. Good night now."
In case you're wondering, yes, I forgive them for the approach.
[technorati: evangelicals, roman catholic, jews, buddhism, muslims, religion
------------------------------------------------------
I was coming out of the hotel restaurant when I saw the attractive, impeccably dressed Ms. X and her (I think) second husband, whom I think may have been a jewish convert to evangelicism. I'm not certain of that though, and can only go by his
surname which, of course, in Northern Ireland instantly tells one a person's religion and can in the wrong circumstances get one shot.
"You're coming up to my part of the country for a wedding soon, arent you?"
"Not for a wedding," said Ms. X. "For a christening."
"Oh."
"My grandson is getting christened."
"Very nice."
Pause.
"Damian, you don't know what it's like when you have grandchildren who don't walk with the Lord. Thankfully, my daughter has come around and is christening my grandson who's five now. We've been trying so hard for this. So hard."
"I...I see."
"I have four children and I thought I brought them up well, but none of them walk with Jesus or allow their children the pleasure,"she says. "It's devastating."
Hubby cranes his neck in my direction, looks moist and sad about the eyes, and says, "It's so sad. We all need Jesus in our lives."
I recognize his look--it's the look that says 'You will burn in the hot, eternal flames if you do not have Jesus. Get saved.'
Silence as my mind whirls.
"Well, I'm Catholic, but I would never presume to say or require that everyone needs Jesus as their personal Lord and savior. (Having been brought up in fundamentalist Northern Ireland, I know the code words to invoke by now as they are posted on telegraph poles, tree trunks, sides of barns, etc.) God comes in many forms, Ms. X. For example, the Buddhists, Jews and Muslims have a different concept of God and none of them subscribe to Jesus."
Hubby cranes again and says, "Everyone must have Jesus."
"These people are equally as right as Christians," I say. "We are but one form of belief and God planned it this way."
Ms. X has a beautiful smile and I see her lips curl up slightly and I am given a sad puppy dog look. She shakes her head knowingly. "Damian, only Jesus. Only Jesus is king."
I have just been canvassed and my mind is strong and we have reached a stalemate. Stalemate for me, at least. More likely for them, "He's so nice but doomed to writhe within the eternally scorching flames."
Gosh, Ms. X, it's very late,"I say. "I really must go to bed. Good night now."
In case you're wondering, yes, I forgive them for the approach.
[technorati: evangelicals, roman catholic, jews, buddhism, muslims, religion
Wednesday
Mel Gibson: In vino veritas
Mel Gibson (and his father) would appear to be hypocrites and I am saddened that they have some Irish blood coursing through their veins. I've often wondered how Gibson reconciles the violence and darkness in his movies--especially the Mad Max series--with his current pious, right wing attitudes. Moreover, they cannot legitimately call themselves Roman Catholics as they practice a form of Catholicism--including, I understand, the celebrating of the mass in Latin--that is no longer countenanced by the Church of Rome. In other words they have in a way voluntarily excommunicated themselves from the official Catholic church, if you will. (I doubt of the Pope will go public and confirm that, though.) Gibson is, I understand, building his own Catholic Church in Malibu at a cost of 4 million dollars.
I believe Gibson is also bigoted--he made outlandish and gross statements about homosexuals on Spanish TV a few years ago. He has many children and I feel sorry for any child of his who, later in life, may find he or she is growing up homosexual or different in any other significent and unorthodox way.
With regard to the claim of anti-semitism, I feel I need only refer to a maxim of the ancient Romans. In vino veritas is the maxim, which translates as 'Truth in wine.' The Romans knew of what they spoke.
It is laughable to watch Gibson backtrack and apologize. I must say galloping off to an alcohol treatment center is a bit of a cliche, even by Hollywood standards. He sounds like an old woman trying to get all her sins expunged in confession. Mea aculpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. These shrill acts of contrition are nothing other than slick PR counselling at its most ridiculous. If he truly wants to repent, perhaps then his apology and offer should be backed with the commitment to give a very large part of his net worth to the Bill Gates Foundation or some other charity.
Time will tell the quality of his repentance.
[technorati: mel gibson, roman catholic, jews, anti-semitism, hollywood, ancient rome
I believe Gibson is also bigoted--he made outlandish and gross statements about homosexuals on Spanish TV a few years ago. He has many children and I feel sorry for any child of his who, later in life, may find he or she is growing up homosexual or different in any other significent and unorthodox way.
With regard to the claim of anti-semitism, I feel I need only refer to a maxim of the ancient Romans. In vino veritas is the maxim, which translates as 'Truth in wine.' The Romans knew of what they spoke.
It is laughable to watch Gibson backtrack and apologize. I must say galloping off to an alcohol treatment center is a bit of a cliche, even by Hollywood standards. He sounds like an old woman trying to get all her sins expunged in confession. Mea aculpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. These shrill acts of contrition are nothing other than slick PR counselling at its most ridiculous. If he truly wants to repent, perhaps then his apology and offer should be backed with the commitment to give a very large part of his net worth to the Bill Gates Foundation or some other charity.
Time will tell the quality of his repentance.
[technorati: mel gibson, roman catholic, jews, anti-semitism, hollywood, ancient rome
Monday
Smiling Dolphins
'Mommy, mommy, look at the pretty dolphins...look how they leap into the air.'
'Yes, they're just so cute, honey.' She smiles at her daughter. 'Are you glad we came?'
'Yes.' Hahaha To her little brother. 'Danny, look how it's swimming in the water just using it's tail.' She stands up and points.
The children squeal with excitement.
Mommy looks at Daddy and smiles as she pats her daughter's head. 'They're just so cute.' Hahaha 'I wonder if they do that in the wild as well or if they train them to do that.'
'Mommy, I think they like it here,' says the little boy. 'Look at their smiles.'
'Yes sweetie, they're cute,' says Mommy.
'Wow,' says Daddy. 'Wow. Did you see the two of them jump out of the water at the same time.'
Hahahaha. Hahahahaha. The children laugh and squeal.
'Mommy, look over there,' says the girl. 'There's a woman swimmming with them. She's hanging on to its fin.' Hahahahahaha. 'She's going fast.' Hahahahah. 'Mommy, let's go swim with them.'
'Yes Mommy,' says her son. 'I want to grab its fin and swim too.'
Mommy pushes her sunglasses over her hair and looks at Daddy. 'Hon', she wants to swim with them. I'd like to as well. They seem so cute. Go and find out how much it'll cost.'
'I asked already,' says Daddy. 'It's a hundred bucks.'
'Wow, a hundred dollars,' says Mommy.
'Mommy, I want to swin with them now.'
'We're on vacation, Jeff. It's a once off, isn't it?. Let's do it. We'll get some great photos of the kids.'
'Daddy, please let's do it...oh Daddy, let's swim with them...please,' says the boy.
'Yes, we're all on vacation, Jeff and look at how the dolphins are grinning. They're just so cute. A hundred bucks is worth it, no?'
How often this scene or something like it plays out somewhere in Mexico or the Caribbean or at a show in Seaworld or similar exhibit in the United States. And let me preface this piece at this point by saying I'm a huge dolphin lover and just watched a program about captive dolphins on the telly the other night. Ever since I first saw them when I was sixteen while on the beach at Jelly Fish Bay in Killybegs, Ireland, I fell in love with their grace and uniqueness.
Their unexpected appearance caused quite a stir that afternoon, actually. People were in the water and next thing a couple of women further along the beach started waving their hands and screaming like a banshee choir and all the bathers were racing (as fast as the water would allow) from the sea screaming 'SHARKS, SHARKS, SHARKS'. One man in his haste didn't realize he'd lost his swimming costume and ran naked clutching his daughter from the water. I should say JAWS had been a recent hit and the opening scene of the woman slowly disappearing beneath the waves had clearly traumatized a part of the collective Irish psyche. Even I thought 'shark' for moments as I watched them slice across the waves. Then my intellectual side kicked in and I realized sharks don't swim so close to the Irish coast...but since then, we've had a whale travel up the cold River Foyle to the city of Derry so you never know.
Dolphins are certainly gorgeous animals. Yet behind their unflaggingly impish smiles (our human interpretation of the smiles) lies sadness and misery. Dolphins are mammels, highly intelligent, and thousands and thousands are ripped mercilessly from family pods in the wild by hunters and transported to sunwashed pools of concrete where they're trained to behave like circus animals just to appease the insatiable lust for 'cuteness' we humans have.
(In the United States, all dolphins performing at places like Seaworld and Miami Seaquarium, etc.--places which first displayed the animals for commercial gain--must be bred in captivity. It is also undeniable that the insatiable and growing worldwide demand for performing dolphins leading to brutal and murderous dolphin hunts is due to the practices of these parks in allowing people to interact with the animals under the dubious assertion that it is educational and/or therapeutic for humans. The displays are hard-nosed capitalism at its worst. In the Dominican Republic, one exhibit attracts 200 people daily whio pay $100.00 to swim with the animals. Multiply this by the number of exhibits throughout the Caribbean and it is easy to see the huge profits to be made. Little wonder the animals are overworked and die of exhaustion from being constantly on call. Moreover, fishermen are paid about $200.00 for the capture of a wild dolphin which, when trained, sells to these exhibits for $130,000 via 'brokers' of whom one Canadian--a former trainer--is the most notorious and nefarious in his 'harvesting' for gain )
The dolphins do have an ally. 'They [dolphins] are self-aware animals that make decisions and choices. Thus they are entitled to freedom.' says Ric O'Barry. And Mr. O'Barry should know. He was the trainer of five dolphins for the TV series Flipper. Moreover, he began his career taking part in the capture of wild dolphins for training, a practice he believed in then. Mr. O'Barry realized his error in participating in the capture of wild dolphins and spent the next 30 years leading his own group The Dolphin Project against the practice before becoming a consultant to the World Society for the Protection of Animals, a London-based coalition of 400 conservation and preservation groups.
The wild dolphin hunts take place throughout the world, though Japan leads the world in its cruelty. According to the Whale and Dolphin Conservation Society hunts can last for days and the dolphins, being sentient animals, endure the most excruciating circumstances including intense terror at both the hunt and violent dissolution of their group. Hundreds of them are rounded up until all that can be heard is the sound of their bodies thrashing in the scarlet water. The animals selected for captivity are hoisted into tanks via cranes; the others, the smaller and weaker, are not set free. No, they are murdered simultaneously with those captured--thus answering your question as to why the hunt waters run scarlet. It's bloodsoaked water. And the carcasses are then dispatched to food processing companies. Such is the gruesome fate of sentient mammels, mammels whose sonar systems are as sophisticated as any man has developed to date.
So, I think it's incumbent upon people of conscience to educate our fellow human beings about this practice. We must also stay away from these displays of captive dolphins--including the American ones which have stirred and fed this worldwide increase in demand for dolphin exhibits--so that it will become unprofitable for corporations in the ghastly business to offer them as entertainment. We need not deny ourselves the sight of dolphins swimming and frolicking in water. The Whale and Dolphin Society suggests and recommends various trips to watch dolphins and whales in their natural habitat. So take the hundred bucks and spend it on a trip out to sea where you can watch wild dolphins truly smiling as they play.
[technorati: dolphins, whales, seaworld, ric o'barry, flipper, dolphin and whale conservation society
'Yes, they're just so cute, honey.' She smiles at her daughter. 'Are you glad we came?'
'Yes.' Hahaha To her little brother. 'Danny, look how it's swimming in the water just using it's tail.' She stands up and points.
The children squeal with excitement.
Mommy looks at Daddy and smiles as she pats her daughter's head. 'They're just so cute.' Hahaha 'I wonder if they do that in the wild as well or if they train them to do that.'
'Mommy, I think they like it here,' says the little boy. 'Look at their smiles.'
'Yes sweetie, they're cute,' says Mommy.
'Wow,' says Daddy. 'Wow. Did you see the two of them jump out of the water at the same time.'
Hahahaha. Hahahahaha. The children laugh and squeal.
'Mommy, look over there,' says the girl. 'There's a woman swimmming with them. She's hanging on to its fin.' Hahahahahaha. 'She's going fast.' Hahahahah. 'Mommy, let's go swim with them.'
'Yes Mommy,' says her son. 'I want to grab its fin and swim too.'
Mommy pushes her sunglasses over her hair and looks at Daddy. 'Hon', she wants to swim with them. I'd like to as well. They seem so cute. Go and find out how much it'll cost.'
'I asked already,' says Daddy. 'It's a hundred bucks.'
'Wow, a hundred dollars,' says Mommy.
'Mommy, I want to swin with them now.'
'We're on vacation, Jeff. It's a once off, isn't it?. Let's do it. We'll get some great photos of the kids.'
'Daddy, please let's do it...oh Daddy, let's swim with them...please,' says the boy.
'Yes, we're all on vacation, Jeff and look at how the dolphins are grinning. They're just so cute. A hundred bucks is worth it, no?'
How often this scene or something like it plays out somewhere in Mexico or the Caribbean or at a show in Seaworld or similar exhibit in the United States. And let me preface this piece at this point by saying I'm a huge dolphin lover and just watched a program about captive dolphins on the telly the other night. Ever since I first saw them when I was sixteen while on the beach at Jelly Fish Bay in Killybegs, Ireland, I fell in love with their grace and uniqueness.
Their unexpected appearance caused quite a stir that afternoon, actually. People were in the water and next thing a couple of women further along the beach started waving their hands and screaming like a banshee choir and all the bathers were racing (as fast as the water would allow) from the sea screaming 'SHARKS, SHARKS, SHARKS'. One man in his haste didn't realize he'd lost his swimming costume and ran naked clutching his daughter from the water. I should say JAWS had been a recent hit and the opening scene of the woman slowly disappearing beneath the waves had clearly traumatized a part of the collective Irish psyche. Even I thought 'shark' for moments as I watched them slice across the waves. Then my intellectual side kicked in and I realized sharks don't swim so close to the Irish coast...but since then, we've had a whale travel up the cold River Foyle to the city of Derry so you never know.
Dolphins are certainly gorgeous animals. Yet behind their unflaggingly impish smiles (our human interpretation of the smiles) lies sadness and misery. Dolphins are mammels, highly intelligent, and thousands and thousands are ripped mercilessly from family pods in the wild by hunters and transported to sunwashed pools of concrete where they're trained to behave like circus animals just to appease the insatiable lust for 'cuteness' we humans have.
(In the United States, all dolphins performing at places like Seaworld and Miami Seaquarium, etc.--places which first displayed the animals for commercial gain--must be bred in captivity. It is also undeniable that the insatiable and growing worldwide demand for performing dolphins leading to brutal and murderous dolphin hunts is due to the practices of these parks in allowing people to interact with the animals under the dubious assertion that it is educational and/or therapeutic for humans. The displays are hard-nosed capitalism at its worst. In the Dominican Republic, one exhibit attracts 200 people daily whio pay $100.00 to swim with the animals. Multiply this by the number of exhibits throughout the Caribbean and it is easy to see the huge profits to be made. Little wonder the animals are overworked and die of exhaustion from being constantly on call. Moreover, fishermen are paid about $200.00 for the capture of a wild dolphin which, when trained, sells to these exhibits for $130,000 via 'brokers' of whom one Canadian--a former trainer--is the most notorious and nefarious in his 'harvesting' for gain )
The dolphins do have an ally. 'They [dolphins] are self-aware animals that make decisions and choices. Thus they are entitled to freedom.' says Ric O'Barry. And Mr. O'Barry should know. He was the trainer of five dolphins for the TV series Flipper. Moreover, he began his career taking part in the capture of wild dolphins for training, a practice he believed in then. Mr. O'Barry realized his error in participating in the capture of wild dolphins and spent the next 30 years leading his own group The Dolphin Project against the practice before becoming a consultant to the World Society for the Protection of Animals, a London-based coalition of 400 conservation and preservation groups.
The wild dolphin hunts take place throughout the world, though Japan leads the world in its cruelty. According to the Whale and Dolphin Conservation Society hunts can last for days and the dolphins, being sentient animals, endure the most excruciating circumstances including intense terror at both the hunt and violent dissolution of their group. Hundreds of them are rounded up until all that can be heard is the sound of their bodies thrashing in the scarlet water. The animals selected for captivity are hoisted into tanks via cranes; the others, the smaller and weaker, are not set free. No, they are murdered simultaneously with those captured--thus answering your question as to why the hunt waters run scarlet. It's bloodsoaked water. And the carcasses are then dispatched to food processing companies. Such is the gruesome fate of sentient mammels, mammels whose sonar systems are as sophisticated as any man has developed to date.
So, I think it's incumbent upon people of conscience to educate our fellow human beings about this practice. We must also stay away from these displays of captive dolphins--including the American ones which have stirred and fed this worldwide increase in demand for dolphin exhibits--so that it will become unprofitable for corporations in the ghastly business to offer them as entertainment. We need not deny ourselves the sight of dolphins swimming and frolicking in water. The Whale and Dolphin Society suggests and recommends various trips to watch dolphins and whales in their natural habitat. So take the hundred bucks and spend it on a trip out to sea where you can watch wild dolphins truly smiling as they play.
[technorati: dolphins, whales, seaworld, ric o'barry, flipper, dolphin and whale conservation society
Book review:Public Radio behind the Voices
When I lived in London I was an avid listener of BBC radio. Imagine how happy I was when I arrived in the US and discovered the American equivalent known as National Public Radio, the unapologetic thinking man and woman's radio, a refreshing oasis amid the jangle-jangle detritus of America's commercial networks.
Well thanks to author Lisa Phillips who has worked at local NPR stations I'm even happier now because her book entitled Public Radio Behind the Voices yields deep insights into NPR from the shoestring early days to its now polished broadcasts that are choc-a-bloc with humor, intelligence and insight.
In breezy, uncomplicated prose she unfurls rich information about some of our favorite personalities, Liane Hansen, Terry Gross, Scott Simon, Robert Siegel, Susan Stamberg--many of whom she interviewed personally at their studios. Others who did not grant her an interview--either because they are publicity shy, or just don't do interviews out of out principal, or plain just didn't get back to her--she has researched meticulously so that we are left with a complete picture of the personalities rise to prominance.
One of my favorites concerns an anecdote in her essay entitled The Fallopian Jungle about Nina Totenberg, whose husband was hospitalized after slipping on an icy sidewalk and was not expected tio live. Totenberg, at one point during the hospitalizations, was in Oklahoma City to cover the bombing there, but her husband's health plunged and a plane had to be chartered by ABC TV to get her home chop chop. On the plane, she cried because she thought he was going to die alone. She arrived at the hospital to find out her good friend Cokie Roberts keeping vigil at her husband's bedside.
Most fascinating during the read was seeing the development of NPR from its amateurish origins to the powerhouse it is today in American society. This book is a must for NPRophiles.
[technorati: npr, national public radio, scott simon, cokie roberts, terry gross, liane hansen
Well thanks to author Lisa Phillips who has worked at local NPR stations I'm even happier now because her book entitled Public Radio Behind the Voices yields deep insights into NPR from the shoestring early days to its now polished broadcasts that are choc-a-bloc with humor, intelligence and insight.
In breezy, uncomplicated prose she unfurls rich information about some of our favorite personalities, Liane Hansen, Terry Gross, Scott Simon, Robert Siegel, Susan Stamberg--many of whom she interviewed personally at their studios. Others who did not grant her an interview--either because they are publicity shy, or just don't do interviews out of out principal, or plain just didn't get back to her--she has researched meticulously so that we are left with a complete picture of the personalities rise to prominance.
One of my favorites concerns an anecdote in her essay entitled The Fallopian Jungle about Nina Totenberg, whose husband was hospitalized after slipping on an icy sidewalk and was not expected tio live. Totenberg, at one point during the hospitalizations, was in Oklahoma City to cover the bombing there, but her husband's health plunged and a plane had to be chartered by ABC TV to get her home chop chop. On the plane, she cried because she thought he was going to die alone. She arrived at the hospital to find out her good friend Cokie Roberts keeping vigil at her husband's bedside.
Most fascinating during the read was seeing the development of NPR from its amateurish origins to the powerhouse it is today in American society. This book is a must for NPRophiles.
[technorati: npr, national public radio, scott simon, cokie roberts, terry gross, liane hansen
New York spectacles
First, on my way downtown the other day, I walked through the tunnel at the Port Authority which leads to the 1,2,3,4, J,M and Z trains. The tunnel's very long and, to my surprise, there was a wall of professionally made posters announcing "Jews for Jesus" in pop culture-like script. I hadn't realized they'd become such a large and/or slick marketing organization because it sure takes a lot of dollars to pay to create that kind of brand awareness. Ironically--and this was my first odd sight--there was an African American homeless man standing halfway into in the tunnel chanting "Jesus saves....Jesus saves...Jesus...Jesus...Jesus saves" like a broken record to the swarm of commuters who swung out religiously to avoid any contact with him.
On my return, I saw my second profoundly disturbing sight. It was an old Chinese woman sitting in the tunnel (the black guy was gone) begging. She was clutching a polysterene coffee mug that served as her begging bowl and had once been a handsome woman, was relatively well-groomed and dressed--clad in a bamboo leaf pattern blouse and those tight black slacks one associates with Chinese women--and I pulled up short at a discreet distance to observe her, so surprised was I by the sight. I have never seen a Chinese woman beg in the streets of New York. I had never seen a Chinese woman or man begging in any western city. I could not imagine what circumstances had occurred in her life to bring her to the grimy place.
As if some kind of dark fate or eye of stark truth (I wasn't sure which, then) was swarming around me that morning, I encountered my third spectacle near the Helmsley Building in midtown. One should bear in mind the magnificence of this building, with its ornate architecture and elegant brass clock and motiff. Near where one crosses the very wide Park Avenue halfway there is a median replete with grass and trees. I looked toward the median and, to my surprise, there was an elderly man, clearly homeless becaused of his grimy clothing and unkempt Moses-like hair (Think Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments). He was clutching a thick book, and every ten seconds or so, he would raise it toward the sky and shout something as if he were calling on God.
After I'd crossed the Avenue, I stopped and looked around. Everywhere, there were well-shod business people hurrying along or standing in little groups conferring about business deals, contracts, God only knows what but I'm sure money was involved, lots of it...and this man was calling to God. Not a single person, other then myself and a couple of tourtists, was looking at him. Clearly he was mad, perhaps had himself been a businessman at one time, perhaps had even worked in the sumptuous Helmsley Building from where Leona had or perhaps still does hold court, perhaps he'd never been anything and had been relesed from an asylum.
Of all the sights though, the one of the dignified Chinese grandmother begging was the most disturbing. Why? It's to do with a number of factors. First, there was the intensely conflicted look of shame, resignation and absolute need written on her face that wrenched my heart, and she wasn't yet a veteran of the streets because surprise at the cold indifference of people still registered in the rapid blinks and creases of her brow. And secondly, I knew in my gut that Chinese-Americans never beg, and the fact this woman was doing so was proof positive that the middle class, the backbone of American society, is in deep trouble in these United States.
[technorati: new york city, america, usa, homelessness, helmsley building, middle class
On my return, I saw my second profoundly disturbing sight. It was an old Chinese woman sitting in the tunnel (the black guy was gone) begging. She was clutching a polysterene coffee mug that served as her begging bowl and had once been a handsome woman, was relatively well-groomed and dressed--clad in a bamboo leaf pattern blouse and those tight black slacks one associates with Chinese women--and I pulled up short at a discreet distance to observe her, so surprised was I by the sight. I have never seen a Chinese woman beg in the streets of New York. I had never seen a Chinese woman or man begging in any western city. I could not imagine what circumstances had occurred in her life to bring her to the grimy place.
As if some kind of dark fate or eye of stark truth (I wasn't sure which, then) was swarming around me that morning, I encountered my third spectacle near the Helmsley Building in midtown. One should bear in mind the magnificence of this building, with its ornate architecture and elegant brass clock and motiff. Near where one crosses the very wide Park Avenue halfway there is a median replete with grass and trees. I looked toward the median and, to my surprise, there was an elderly man, clearly homeless becaused of his grimy clothing and unkempt Moses-like hair (Think Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments). He was clutching a thick book, and every ten seconds or so, he would raise it toward the sky and shout something as if he were calling on God.
After I'd crossed the Avenue, I stopped and looked around. Everywhere, there were well-shod business people hurrying along or standing in little groups conferring about business deals, contracts, God only knows what but I'm sure money was involved, lots of it...and this man was calling to God. Not a single person, other then myself and a couple of tourtists, was looking at him. Clearly he was mad, perhaps had himself been a businessman at one time, perhaps had even worked in the sumptuous Helmsley Building from where Leona had or perhaps still does hold court, perhaps he'd never been anything and had been relesed from an asylum.
Of all the sights though, the one of the dignified Chinese grandmother begging was the most disturbing. Why? It's to do with a number of factors. First, there was the intensely conflicted look of shame, resignation and absolute need written on her face that wrenched my heart, and she wasn't yet a veteran of the streets because surprise at the cold indifference of people still registered in the rapid blinks and creases of her brow. And secondly, I knew in my gut that Chinese-Americans never beg, and the fact this woman was doing so was proof positive that the middle class, the backbone of American society, is in deep trouble in these United States.
[technorati: new york city, america, usa, homelessness, helmsley building, middle class
Getting to Montenegro
As a writer I am always looking for new experiences and fresh sources of inspiration for my writing no matter from where they emanate and a recent trek through parts of Eastern Europe proved such an occasion. Though European by birth (Northern Ireland though living now in the United States), I had never before visited her eastern reaches, and so, I stored away all my historical knowledge and prejudices about the Balkans and resolved to be open to even the most banal of encounters. If I had expectations, they were that I would not find the cities of the new European Riviera—cities such as Budva, Dubrovnik (also an ancient republic as powerful as Venice had been), Pula, Opatija, etc—suffering from the destructive effects of mass tourism such as one encounters in the original Western European Riviera. And I expected to discover magnificent landscapes, interesting people, unspoiled Roman ruins, castles and cathedrals, and of course mounds of inexpensively delicious food and gems of local wines. I was not disappointed and can highly recommend these countries to other writers and tourists looking for fresh experiences, though have chosen in this essay to concentrate on narrating the experiences I had on my initial journey.
At first, the assertive vividness of the meandering rivers of Croatia and the tiny mountainous section of Serbia and Montenegro—soon to be known only as Montenegro as a result of successfully voting for independence from Serbia whilst I was there—appeared to suggest they were sick with pollution. The water appeared sluggish, thick and jewel-like, the latter quality exhibiting to the exact degree the same gorgeous turquoise hue of the nearby sea. But visitors expects such riotous color to yield from the depths and shallows of the ancient Adriatic hugging the jagged coastlines of these lands; they don't expect it—at least I didn't—to assert from even the humblest of the fresh water lakes and rivers.
Given these countries are newly emerging democracies, as I traveled onward by bus, my Western cynicism came to the fore and I mulled if perhaps farmers and local industries were with impunity discharging toxins into the waters and this mimicry of the Adriatic's shining azure was but a telltale by-product. I scoured for the evidence, targeting my vision deep into nooks and crannies etched into the banks, searching for the glowing white underbellies of bloated fishes, for black, hairy fronds of mutated vegetation, for the rainbow scum of oil and assorted chemicals where the waters appeared particularly indolent and deep. I found nothing. The magnificent truth is that the color of these Montenegrin and Croatian rivers is as innocent and miraculous as that of their sea, and encounters with either will leave only but the most jaded tourist unmoved by the shimmering beauty.
My journey to these parts began at an obnoxiously early hour at London's Stanstead airport. Because the flight to the ancient city of Split in Croatia (site of Emperor Diocletian's huge palace with its well-preserved ruins including Jupiter's temple) was leaving at 6:30 am and the gate closed two hours earlier, I chose to spend the night 'kipping' on an airport lounge couch alongside, it turned out, most of my fellow passengers. (Later that day, I planned to hook up with my American friends in Budva, Montenegro. We were to embark with eighteen others on a 21-day guided tour of the Adriatic and Lake Bled, Slovenia but, because I was visiting friends and family in London and Ireland after the tour ended, I was responsible for organizing my own air travel to and from the points where the tour commenced and terminated. This I love to do where possible because it yields unparalled opportunities for visitors to learn firsthand about a country's infrastructure, customs and people.)
For my flight to Croatia I choose Easyjet, a budget airline that lists major airports for its arrival and departure points. (Some budget airlines may, for example, list Paris as the destination and the unwary passenger books the flight only to discover on arrival that the airport is situate seventy miles from the city.) Split was a new route for Easyjet—they'd started flying there just the week prior—and it was cheap, although I was surprised by the griminess of the seats headrests and aircraft interior. (On my return flight three weeks later from Ljubljana, Slovenia (already a functioning member of the European Community), the interior of the aircraft on the same airline was pristine.)
I found myself seated beside what I gradually came to realize was an English aristocrat traveling to Croatia in order to inspect a farm on an island near Split that he'd treated himself to as a divorce present and on which he planned to plant citrus groves and vineyards. The gentleman offered me a ride in his hired car into the center of Split—a journey lasting forty minutes during which I learned much about Croatia and England's strong links with their sworn enemy, Serbia, during periods of Balkan strife—and was lucky enough to be on time to catch the one morning bus traveling to Dubrovnik that day. One aspect I found amusing at the Dubrovnik national bus station was the requirement to purchase a ticket (only about thirty US cents) for my luggage, a suitcase that was then slung into the hold. TRAVEL ALERT: Easyjet has a tendency to offer sales on routes after you've just booked at a higher price, though they will give you a credit toward a future flight. However, the onus is on the customer to request a credit and they do not make it easy. I was required to call a dedicated number that I had to pay for on a per minute basis—they won't accept email requests—and found it engaged every time I called. I drew the conclusion that Easyjet knows their customers will soon realize their credit is being used up in paying for this absurd phone call and will give up at some point, which is exactly what I did. It is an outrageous fulfillment method and one that would not be acceptable in the United States.
The journey to Dubrovnik cost approximately $40, took a little over four hours (over six during the peak summer season) and was spectacularly beautiful because of the elevated views of the Adriatic coast. Upon arrival at the main station, a phalanx of friendly peasant women immediately surrounded me carrying placards brandishing the word "Sobe." Figuring this to mean "Rooms," I told them I had to be in Montenegro that evening and required information about departing buses. They scuttled about until they located a woman who spoke English and she informed me with a broad smile, "No more buses today. The daily bus to Budva leaves at 3.30 pm, but I can get you a good, cheap room." Public road transport around Croatia and Montenegro is very good and reasonably priced and buses—very comfortable on the whole—do indeed leave only once per day from major cities to other destinations. Moreover, given its coastal, mountainous location, there are no trains in and out of Dubrovnik. (Also, do know that Eastern Europeans smoke at every opportunity—even in five star hotels—though during the bus journeys it was not so overwhelming as to render my experience unpleasant.)
Crestfallen (and a tad panicked because my tour orientation was scheduled to take place at 7.45 that evening at an hotel in Budva), I wondered if I should indeed rent a room through this woman. As I mulled, a tall, young chap whom I'd noticed on the bus from Split to Dubrovnik approached me, introduced himself in reasonable English (better than my Croatian, which is nonexistent) as a citizen of Montenegro on leave from the Greek navy, and informed me the woman was not completely correct in her information. It transpired there were alternatives including catching a bus to a city beyond the Montenegrin border from where I could then catch a local bus into Budva.
Ten minutes later we were on the bus to Herceg-Novi and traveling out of the principal city of the former Dubrovnik Republic. (Dubrovnik is mindbogglingly beautiful, but crowded during high season even with the restrictions they impose on the numbers of people from docking cruise ships allowed hourly into its ancient heart.) As my new friend and I chatted, I stopped often in our discourse to take in the shimmering waters of the Adriatic and the weather-beaten (and shell-pocked) walls of the city and acres of red clay tiled roofs beneath. And as I'd hoped to gain by traveling with local people, by the time Milo exited the bus at Kotor, he'd imparted a number of restaurants and places off the beaten tourist track to visit. TOURIST TIP: Aside from showing my passport at the Montenegrin border, I had to also show it when we passed through a ten kilometer strip of land within Croatia that belongs now to Bosnia-Herzegovina (they have no access to the sea) which had been given to the Ottoman Empire hundreds of years ago by the former Republic of Dubrovnik as part of a successful treaty to stop the marauding Turks from invading the Republic.)
At Herceg-Novi I encountered no-one who spoke English and had to resort to German in order to learn of the times of connecting buses to Budva and the fare price which was a mere $5 for a forty kilometer ride. However, even if I didn't speak German, the process would still have been easy because all one needs to do is show the name of the city you wish to reach to any bus driver and they'll point one to the correct platform, etc. TOURIST TIP for US visitors: All bus drivers collect fares on the bus—in Euros if in Montenegro and Kuna if in Croatia—so it doesn't matter if the bus station is already closed. Moreover, it is best to exchange dollars locally rather than do it prior in the United States because the exchange rate is much better.
Croats and Montenegrins are happily still eager to meet and embrace Americans regardless of political or religious creed, their perceptions of American politics and corporatism perhaps not yet having rendered them as cynical of us as it appears to have done my Western European friends and acquaintances with whom I interacted in the UK and Ireland. But that is a story for another time. Of course these friendly attitudes will likely change in a few years because, like Slovenia now deep in the throes of integration, they are eager to become full members of the increasingly powerful and assertive European Union, which currently bears no great love of the US.
Finally, after a journey of twelve hours, I arrived in the stunning city of Budva at 7.30 pm, just in time it turned out for a 'cat's lick wash' in my room before rushing to the restaurant where the main course of the tour's welcome meal had just begun. I had paid a total fare of approximately $60 from Split to Budva though, of course, the journey had a value far beyond mere dollars: I'd seen much of the country's craggy coastline, become intoxicated by my first view of Dubrovnik, befriended a local chap and learned about Montenegro's colorful past, eaten local foods and candies, and traveled with the confidence of a local. And best of all, I'd learned indeed that rivers can also run stunningly blue.
[technorati: montenegro, croatia, easyjet, dubrovnik, lake bled, slovenia
At first, the assertive vividness of the meandering rivers of Croatia and the tiny mountainous section of Serbia and Montenegro—soon to be known only as Montenegro as a result of successfully voting for independence from Serbia whilst I was there—appeared to suggest they were sick with pollution. The water appeared sluggish, thick and jewel-like, the latter quality exhibiting to the exact degree the same gorgeous turquoise hue of the nearby sea. But visitors expects such riotous color to yield from the depths and shallows of the ancient Adriatic hugging the jagged coastlines of these lands; they don't expect it—at least I didn't—to assert from even the humblest of the fresh water lakes and rivers.
Given these countries are newly emerging democracies, as I traveled onward by bus, my Western cynicism came to the fore and I mulled if perhaps farmers and local industries were with impunity discharging toxins into the waters and this mimicry of the Adriatic's shining azure was but a telltale by-product. I scoured for the evidence, targeting my vision deep into nooks and crannies etched into the banks, searching for the glowing white underbellies of bloated fishes, for black, hairy fronds of mutated vegetation, for the rainbow scum of oil and assorted chemicals where the waters appeared particularly indolent and deep. I found nothing. The magnificent truth is that the color of these Montenegrin and Croatian rivers is as innocent and miraculous as that of their sea, and encounters with either will leave only but the most jaded tourist unmoved by the shimmering beauty.
My journey to these parts began at an obnoxiously early hour at London's Stanstead airport. Because the flight to the ancient city of Split in Croatia (site of Emperor Diocletian's huge palace with its well-preserved ruins including Jupiter's temple) was leaving at 6:30 am and the gate closed two hours earlier, I chose to spend the night 'kipping' on an airport lounge couch alongside, it turned out, most of my fellow passengers. (Later that day, I planned to hook up with my American friends in Budva, Montenegro. We were to embark with eighteen others on a 21-day guided tour of the Adriatic and Lake Bled, Slovenia but, because I was visiting friends and family in London and Ireland after the tour ended, I was responsible for organizing my own air travel to and from the points where the tour commenced and terminated. This I love to do where possible because it yields unparalled opportunities for visitors to learn firsthand about a country's infrastructure, customs and people.)
For my flight to Croatia I choose Easyjet, a budget airline that lists major airports for its arrival and departure points. (Some budget airlines may, for example, list Paris as the destination and the unwary passenger books the flight only to discover on arrival that the airport is situate seventy miles from the city.) Split was a new route for Easyjet—they'd started flying there just the week prior—and it was cheap, although I was surprised by the griminess of the seats headrests and aircraft interior. (On my return flight three weeks later from Ljubljana, Slovenia (already a functioning member of the European Community), the interior of the aircraft on the same airline was pristine.)
I found myself seated beside what I gradually came to realize was an English aristocrat traveling to Croatia in order to inspect a farm on an island near Split that he'd treated himself to as a divorce present and on which he planned to plant citrus groves and vineyards. The gentleman offered me a ride in his hired car into the center of Split—a journey lasting forty minutes during which I learned much about Croatia and England's strong links with their sworn enemy, Serbia, during periods of Balkan strife—and was lucky enough to be on time to catch the one morning bus traveling to Dubrovnik that day. One aspect I found amusing at the Dubrovnik national bus station was the requirement to purchase a ticket (only about thirty US cents) for my luggage, a suitcase that was then slung into the hold. TRAVEL ALERT: Easyjet has a tendency to offer sales on routes after you've just booked at a higher price, though they will give you a credit toward a future flight. However, the onus is on the customer to request a credit and they do not make it easy. I was required to call a dedicated number that I had to pay for on a per minute basis—they won't accept email requests—and found it engaged every time I called. I drew the conclusion that Easyjet knows their customers will soon realize their credit is being used up in paying for this absurd phone call and will give up at some point, which is exactly what I did. It is an outrageous fulfillment method and one that would not be acceptable in the United States.
The journey to Dubrovnik cost approximately $40, took a little over four hours (over six during the peak summer season) and was spectacularly beautiful because of the elevated views of the Adriatic coast. Upon arrival at the main station, a phalanx of friendly peasant women immediately surrounded me carrying placards brandishing the word "Sobe." Figuring this to mean "Rooms," I told them I had to be in Montenegro that evening and required information about departing buses. They scuttled about until they located a woman who spoke English and she informed me with a broad smile, "No more buses today. The daily bus to Budva leaves at 3.30 pm, but I can get you a good, cheap room." Public road transport around Croatia and Montenegro is very good and reasonably priced and buses—very comfortable on the whole—do indeed leave only once per day from major cities to other destinations. Moreover, given its coastal, mountainous location, there are no trains in and out of Dubrovnik. (Also, do know that Eastern Europeans smoke at every opportunity—even in five star hotels—though during the bus journeys it was not so overwhelming as to render my experience unpleasant.)
Crestfallen (and a tad panicked because my tour orientation was scheduled to take place at 7.45 that evening at an hotel in Budva), I wondered if I should indeed rent a room through this woman. As I mulled, a tall, young chap whom I'd noticed on the bus from Split to Dubrovnik approached me, introduced himself in reasonable English (better than my Croatian, which is nonexistent) as a citizen of Montenegro on leave from the Greek navy, and informed me the woman was not completely correct in her information. It transpired there were alternatives including catching a bus to a city beyond the Montenegrin border from where I could then catch a local bus into Budva.
Ten minutes later we were on the bus to Herceg-Novi and traveling out of the principal city of the former Dubrovnik Republic. (Dubrovnik is mindbogglingly beautiful, but crowded during high season even with the restrictions they impose on the numbers of people from docking cruise ships allowed hourly into its ancient heart.) As my new friend and I chatted, I stopped often in our discourse to take in the shimmering waters of the Adriatic and the weather-beaten (and shell-pocked) walls of the city and acres of red clay tiled roofs beneath. And as I'd hoped to gain by traveling with local people, by the time Milo exited the bus at Kotor, he'd imparted a number of restaurants and places off the beaten tourist track to visit. TOURIST TIP: Aside from showing my passport at the Montenegrin border, I had to also show it when we passed through a ten kilometer strip of land within Croatia that belongs now to Bosnia-Herzegovina (they have no access to the sea) which had been given to the Ottoman Empire hundreds of years ago by the former Republic of Dubrovnik as part of a successful treaty to stop the marauding Turks from invading the Republic.)
At Herceg-Novi I encountered no-one who spoke English and had to resort to German in order to learn of the times of connecting buses to Budva and the fare price which was a mere $5 for a forty kilometer ride. However, even if I didn't speak German, the process would still have been easy because all one needs to do is show the name of the city you wish to reach to any bus driver and they'll point one to the correct platform, etc. TOURIST TIP for US visitors: All bus drivers collect fares on the bus—in Euros if in Montenegro and Kuna if in Croatia—so it doesn't matter if the bus station is already closed. Moreover, it is best to exchange dollars locally rather than do it prior in the United States because the exchange rate is much better.
Croats and Montenegrins are happily still eager to meet and embrace Americans regardless of political or religious creed, their perceptions of American politics and corporatism perhaps not yet having rendered them as cynical of us as it appears to have done my Western European friends and acquaintances with whom I interacted in the UK and Ireland. But that is a story for another time. Of course these friendly attitudes will likely change in a few years because, like Slovenia now deep in the throes of integration, they are eager to become full members of the increasingly powerful and assertive European Union, which currently bears no great love of the US.
Finally, after a journey of twelve hours, I arrived in the stunning city of Budva at 7.30 pm, just in time it turned out for a 'cat's lick wash' in my room before rushing to the restaurant where the main course of the tour's welcome meal had just begun. I had paid a total fare of approximately $60 from Split to Budva though, of course, the journey had a value far beyond mere dollars: I'd seen much of the country's craggy coastline, become intoxicated by my first view of Dubrovnik, befriended a local chap and learned about Montenegro's colorful past, eaten local foods and candies, and traveled with the confidence of a local. And best of all, I'd learned indeed that rivers can also run stunningly blue.
[technorati: montenegro, croatia, easyjet, dubrovnik, lake bled, slovenia
Wednesday
The Devil Wears Prada
What better way to celebrate Independence Day afternoon than going to see a movie about the excesses of the American fashion industry and its ancillary magazines.
I'm an avid Meryl Streep fan, have been disappointed that Hollywood has not seen fit to give her lead roles due to the 'age barrier' glass ceiling for quite a few years, and am glad she is now returning in full vigor.
I enjoyed elements of the movie, but ultimately have drawn the conclusion that the producer, director, and screenplay writer need to thank Streep profusely for saving it from relegation to B-movie status. The storyline is about as thin and exciting as the models and not a cliche has been left unturned: one will sit through encounters with a Dragon Lady doyenne of fashion magazines--apparantly, a thinly based cartoon of the novelist Weisberger's former Vogue boss, Anna Wintour; the fashion models starving themselves to skininess while complaining vociferously about other women who can eat 'carbs' and still get into a size 4 dress; the angst of the supporting actress's (Anne Hathaway) failing love affair as she grows in her position as lackey to said doyenne. I think you get the picture--no pun intended.
The message of the movie appears to be to alert us to the fact--as spoken by the dragon lady Miranda to her subordinate Andy--that "Everyone wants to be us."
Saving graces include a short period when Streep is allowed to dispense with the cartoon character and show Miranda as someone capable of real emotion when she talks to her subordinate about her divorce, Stanley Tucci's camping it up as Nigel, a gay fashion designer with heart, and some spectacular shots of New York City and Paris at night.
Fans of chick lit and Meryl Streep (both categories being autonomous, I'd imagine) should definitely go and see it. As I said earlier, I'm in the latter group, and I'm sure glad I did.
[technorati: Meryl Streep, Stanley Tucci, The Devil Wears Prada, Anne Hathaway, Anna Wintour, Vogue
I'm an avid Meryl Streep fan, have been disappointed that Hollywood has not seen fit to give her lead roles due to the 'age barrier' glass ceiling for quite a few years, and am glad she is now returning in full vigor.
I enjoyed elements of the movie, but ultimately have drawn the conclusion that the producer, director, and screenplay writer need to thank Streep profusely for saving it from relegation to B-movie status. The storyline is about as thin and exciting as the models and not a cliche has been left unturned: one will sit through encounters with a Dragon Lady doyenne of fashion magazines--apparantly, a thinly based cartoon of the novelist Weisberger's former Vogue boss, Anna Wintour; the fashion models starving themselves to skininess while complaining vociferously about other women who can eat 'carbs' and still get into a size 4 dress; the angst of the supporting actress's (Anne Hathaway) failing love affair as she grows in her position as lackey to said doyenne. I think you get the picture--no pun intended.
The message of the movie appears to be to alert us to the fact--as spoken by the dragon lady Miranda to her subordinate Andy--that "Everyone wants to be us."
Saving graces include a short period when Streep is allowed to dispense with the cartoon character and show Miranda as someone capable of real emotion when she talks to her subordinate about her divorce, Stanley Tucci's camping it up as Nigel, a gay fashion designer with heart, and some spectacular shots of New York City and Paris at night.
Fans of chick lit and Meryl Streep (both categories being autonomous, I'd imagine) should definitely go and see it. As I said earlier, I'm in the latter group, and I'm sure glad I did.
[technorati: Meryl Streep, Stanley Tucci, The Devil Wears Prada, Anne Hathaway, Anna Wintour, Vogue
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