More Dreamworld, or Scary Stuff for a Sunday

This continues the story begun with this post. It was about as scary as I could devise for today. Happy Halloween!

I grabbed a towel, wiped myself fast and wrapped the dingy thing around me as the doorbell wheezed for the fifth time. I leaped out of the bathroom and barreled dripping down the hall to the front door.

Stop. Started the wrong way first, but I recognized the kitchen door up ahead before I actually got there, turned right around and went half-naked and still damp to the door. I didn’t even hesitate opening it. Bad guys or robbers, mayhemming murderers—on a day like this it just didn’t seem to matter very much. Let them take me off. It’ll be a relief.

Two guys were there. Suits. Nice suits. Armani maybe. Better suits than I owned. Better suits than I remembered ever talking to before. Good ties too. Not too shiny: real silk probably.

Both looked good as well. Healthy. Tanned but not cancerously so. They seemed athletic without flaunting it. Either one could probably beat the crap out of me with one hand tied behind his back and drinking an iced cappuccino at the same time.

Just one of those days.


“Mr. Bronson?” Number one didn’t even move his lips as he asked.


“You want to speak with us.”

“I do?”

“You do.” Number two echoed with no inflection whatsoever. Suddenly I felt as naked as I was.

“You gotta be selling something.”

“Not exactly.” Number one smiled.

“And I don’t think I’m buying.” I started to pull on the door.

“Then I assume you haven’t had time for breakfast yet?” Number two inquired mildly, his face unexpressive.

“I just got outta the shower. Couldn’t you tell?” Moving the door some more.

Number one just kept smiling. “You probably want to visit your kitchen then.”

“Maybe after you’ve gone.” And I tried to completely shut the door.

But number two simply pushed on inside. It wasn’t any effort for him at all. And his friend followed. All three of us were just cozy together there in my little hallway.

“Maybe right now, Bronson.”

Number one shut the door completely. I felt claustrophobic.

It was a hold-up. I knew it. You shouldn’t think about things: it makes them come true.

“What do you think you’re doing?” It sounded lame even as I said it.

Number two started pushing me down my own hall, backward, toward the kitchen. He thumped my bare chest with both hands, repeatedly, to make me move. He was pushing at a pretty good rate. I stumbled over my own feet, and fell flat on my rump.

Number one, trailing behind, laughed. “Clumsy little runt, isn’t he?”

Number two kicked me. Hard. Right in my gut. I couldn’t even breathe, he slammed me so hard. And he never even grimaced; his face stayed blank and unconcerned. “Get up, f——face.”

I just sat there, hurt, trying for air like a landed trout, a pathetic excuse for a man in a green bath towel. I wasn’t moving fast enough for old number two. He kicked again. Harder.

“Get up.”

I was gasping, the wind totally knocked out of me, vision swimming. I couldn’t move.

So he kicked me again. Really hard. He was smiling now. I think I felt something crack in my lower chest. A rib? I couldn’t breathe worse than ever, and my gut was a swollen bag of hot pain.

“Stop stalling.”

My sight went dark as I sagged completely supine on the hallway linoleum.

“Oh, no, you don’t. Dipstick. You’re staying with us.”

Hands grabbed me, hauled me upright, roughly, against the wall. Hands I didn’t even see slapped my face about a dozen times, rapidly. I sobbed out loud. My belly and ribs hurt like hell. Whitehot pain with every strangled breath.

“Go ahead and cry. But you’re staying here, buddy boy.” And he shoved me on toward the kitchen. Seven eight nine staggering-backwards steps and I smashed into the door frame.

“God! What a jerk.” Number one’s voice chuckled.

“We really sure he’s the one we’re after?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s the one.”

“Hard to believe. —Come on, douchebag. Let’s take a good look in your kitchen.” He grabbed me by the shoulders, spun me and shoved me right through the swinging door. I fell down inside, and even half-conscious I saw it.

The kitchen was a shambles. Literally: a slaughterhouse.

Everything was blood.

“My my. What have we here?” Number one was still laughing. This was real funny.

“What have you been doing in here, Bronson?” Even number two found it humorous.

There was a body in the chair at the table right in front of me. She was naked. Lying flat on my back, I was looking right up at her. She was ripped open, and I could smell her intestines, a warmish toilet odor—excrement. A blonde, she was looking at me, her mouth hanging obscenely open. But she was dead. It was her blood that was all over the place. All around my head.

“Looks like you’ve been a bad, bad boy, Bronson.”

And number two kicked me once more. In the crotch.

I vomited. The pain, the hideous kitchen, terror and shock all collapsed into me.

“Nice job, Richie.”

“Goddamn. The wad puked on my shoe.” His name was Richie. For some reason I focused on that. He just kicked me again. Right in the nuts. Again. “You puked on my shoe!”

I knew then I was going to die. I really couldn’t breathe any more.

Richie still couldn’t get over it. “The little rat’s rear puked on my goddam shoe, Travis.”

Now I knew both of their names. Travis and Richie. Realizing that made it hurt a little less. Realizing that they didn’t care if I knew their names scared me. And the blonde was still somewhere behind me, sitting dead and gory in my kitchen chair.

My crotch felt warm. Bleeding? No… not quite so bad. Travis looked at me, noticing it himself. Worse.

“He’s peed his pants, Richie. Look at him. He peed his goddan pants!”

“Would have if he had any pants.”

“Peed his little towel then. What a jerk.”

“Guess he’ll need another shower now.”

“Guess he will, Richie.”

“Gonna take another shower now, Georgie-boy? Now that you’ve gone and wet yer little self.” He kicked me. There. “Come on, creep. Talk to us.”

Travis had moved around above my head. Now he kicked me in the back and neck. “Come on, Bronson. React. You miserable cocksucker.”

Everything hurt. More than hurt—red stinging pain made my body feel jagged. I couldn’t see straight; the two goons and the kitchen looked blurry. Where was the dead girl now? Still in her chair, jerk. The dead don’t move. Then I realized I was crying.

I was terrified. They were going to kill me. I didn’t know why. Two strangers walked into my house on a rotten morning, before I’d even had breakfast, and they were going to kill me. Torture me first. And for how long?

Now it was more than just tears in my eyes. I sucked in an agonizing breath and sobbed. Out loud. I sobbed in sheer pain and fear.

My neck and shoulder exploded. “What a wuss. The little baby’s cryin’, Rich.”

Richie took a swing at my crotch again. “Don’t cry for me, Argentina. You spineless little crap factory.”

Another kick from each of them and the whole world seemed to turn into fire. Things popped inside of me, cold, and then it seemed warmth was oozing through me. They were sending me to join the blonde. Sheer agony bloomed through my whole being. I really felt I was dying…

…And the alarm shrilled…

Anguish. Rolling waves of mindbending distress. Stabs of torture and wild throbs filled my being. Everything felt hot and cold all at once and all together. Everything was torment. Redness going black…

I cleaned up Travis and Ritchieʼs dialog a little, and at this level it doesnʼt even seem to do any harm (maybe make them just a touch less dangerous).

©2010 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Novel Resolution

On the basis of having written two thousand five hundred words and better for yesterdayʼs post, half in commentary defense on Thursday against just the kind of (deliberately concealed) intolerance I was writing about on the recent series of posts, I will (try to) keep this one short.

To begin (and pretty much it will be the end as well), I have made a Halloween resolution…

and to the contrary…

I have signed up for NaNoWriMo, which is evidently a very well known acronym among unpublished writers — the National Novel Writing Month. I had seen it in references on some other blogs and research I did a year back as I tried to get started pretending to be a maybe-writer. But I didnʼt investigate this scheme to motivate amateur writers to slash out 50,000 words (which they say is a 175-page novel) in the month of November. (I only just learned those details last week, by the way.)

Then, toward the end of March, I found Scrivener (the wonderful word-processing/writing program I am using all the time for everything I write nowadays), and just last week Literature & Latte released a preview short-term freebie version of Scrivener 2 especially labeled for NaNoWriMo writers to use (offering half price on the full update/release if you make your 50,000 words in November). I really like this program (now going to be available for Windozers, too), and the newer version seems slicker and cooler (and puts font choice and size controls in the toolbar the the top, instead of buried a couple of levels/windows down on a menu). And the preview version expires with Novemberʼs end.

So I visited the NaNoWriMo website and signed myself up (mostly to find out what it was all about). I somehow doubt I will spew 50,000 words in November alone (especially on a wholly new project), but I will try. I had been wanting to finish writing my “No Public Options!” satire on a post-2010-election America in which Big Business has claimed control of everything except government (which they leave to Christian Right totalitarian theocrats). But now…

…And the election is soooo close, too. My usual procrastilassitude has undone me. Unless of course the Foxified (FoxiLied?) make it all come true… StupidiTea (an alternative title!).

I am instead, while out running in the mornings, calculating my time-travel-tale-turned-planetary-romance. If I just forget how much I may be (unconsciously or not) ripping off from Burroughs and Vance and just write write write write write… I might be able to churn out all those words and win a half-off nonexpiring Scrivener 2 in thirty days. (And pigs will fly for certain, as Janet has plenty of daily drudgery tasks she wants me to actually work on, too. And I do have a conscious commitment to put up 356 days of blog posts this year, as well…)

The posts may just get shorter (me not having exactly held myself down to a thousand words each day anyway), and you may have to suffer a few that are merely pieces of the NaNoWriMo novel-in-progress (but then, that probably beats my old semi-poetry, anyway).

Th — th — thatʼs all for now, folks (having put up over-a-thousand-words-a-day in First Amendment ponderings this week already, not to mention those 1500 words of comments to Daniel on Thursday). I plan to talk about Picasso on Monday.

“Procrastilassitude” — sometimes I amuse and amaze myself. Sometimes.

©2010 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Wayfaring Stranger

Ironically, or through synchronicity, or merely by coincidence, after I had finished the posts for Wednesday and (at least roughed out) yesterday, God in America was on PBS Tuesday night. With American religion and religious history in my mind, I watched much of it (trying also to keep up on Glee and Raising Hope at the same time). First, I do recommend the series, and I learned a few things. For instance, evangelicals were behind the progressive movements of the nineteenth century: orphanages, public welfare for the poor, even Abolition (for which I had always credited the Transcendentalists, who strongly opposed and sought to end slavery but whose nature-centric, nontheistic rationalism should certainly put off most religious Tighty Righties of the present day). It must have been an unusual era, when the devout creatively practiced the preachings instead of greedily grubbing for themselves.

So I want to credit the nineteenth century evangelicals for actively promoting a genuine Christianity (and to PBS for reminding me to distinguish between evangelicalism, my own heritage, being twice-over a lapsed Methodist, and fundamentalism). Of course, even at that time, two hundred years ago, the United States was not solely Christian, however much some state constitutions and most Protestantsʼ everyday behavior expected the nation was (rather like our contemporary fundamentalists, I suppose). There were Jews in the country since the earliest colonial days. Slaves were not all (or like European Yule-celebrating ancestors, thoroughly) converted, and some if not many practiced, the best they could, their native religions from Africa (and out of that spiritual stress and mix, scholars agree, arose and evolved the complexities of voodoo). And native Americans mostly practiced their longstanding beliefs and rituals (also sometimes influenced by Christianity — which Andrew grads having taken American Lit should recognize from Leslie Marmon Silkoʼs short story “The Man to Send Rain Clouds”). Of course, first and finally, the initial Christians on what would become U.S. turf were the Catholic friars in/out of New Spainanathemic for those American Protestants (of already so many variable denominations) who had broken from the traditional faith (supposedly monolithic, ignoring Nestorians, Ethiopians and Orthodox, I guess) only a few hundred years earlier and who maintained a horror and aversion toward the church they often dubbed the Whore of Babylon.

Doréʼs Dante in the dark wood

Multiplicity of religions marked the nation from the beginning, leading freely to such religiously radical, independent-thinking revolutionaries as Jefferson and Adams, even Washington (to name only an unholy trinity out of the flood of freethinking Founders). But more important to those Framers of the Constitution were the combative and quarrelsome denominations of Protestants (and some Catholics) in which they lived — dissenters and established churchgoers. Thus the quite secular (and, as befits their neoclassic Enlightenment era, rationalistic) founding documents of the nation (which owe so much to agnostic, nearly atheistic Jefferson). I feel confident that those Framers never imagined their document would protect the free religious practices of nonchristians or disbelievers (except perhaps Jefferson), but within four decades from its signing, it already did (remember those Transcendentalists, already apostate by the early 1830s, even as evangelical spiritual rebirth enthused the nationʼs ordinary Protestants). Maybe those intellectual rebels in and around Concord were glossed as elitists by the evangelized frontiersmen, as our Fundies now wish to trash factspeakers dissenting accurately from their pseudohistory, but the comfortably Born Again were about to clash hard with an older religious division.

Immigration has never been a cozy situation for Americans, and leaving aside a national zest for xenophobia, for a long time the problem was clearly religious: the new immigrants were Roman Catholics. (I wonder if all the guntoting, teasucking immigrant bashers today would feel so frantic if incoming Hispanics were all Protestants or Mormons?) The Irish began arriving in the early 1800s, then the Italians — all Catholics and all subject to religious discrimination and violence, an abhorred threat to the snug (incompletely) Protestant nation. All in need of the shelter provided under the adamantly secular Constitution and the “free-practice” First Amendment, right along with freethinkers and the irreligious (and although they knew it not, the Catholic-bashers themselves). From those clashes and from others in the twentieth century has come our current legislative “wall of separation” between the state and religion, which Reactionary Religious Rightists seek to tear down for their own radical and novel ends (although they will lyingly pretend, as good conservatives, that it was impossibly “always so” and only altered just recently, just as they pretend that “under God” was originally part of the Pledge of Allegiance and not added at the gunbarrel of conservative antiCommie hysteria in the Fifties, no matter what blackened gaps and tortured rewrites they must impose on actual history).

My ancestors lived this history, on both sides of my family, right back to our Puritanical beginnings. These turmoils and transcendences I have summarized today comprised their lives. And I am sure some of them came down on what I would consider the wrongheaded side of the debates and conflicts (yes, you, John Winthrop). In all this mire, I have struggled to find my own way secularly and spiritually, abhorring falsehood and pretense, trying to discover a few crumbs of truth here and there. I explored my own religious history already and so wonʼt rehash it here. Besides, itʼs time to close this all out at last. I find itʼs hard to be a poor wayfaring stranger in this dark world of woe, chafed by the savage spotlights and overamped loudspeakers of fascist so-called Christians blinding themselves and too many others about what is actually out here beyond the razor-wire compounds of their faith-based concentration camps, where wellfunded stormtroops of doctrinal repression march unceasing. A new dawn would feel refreshing after the fetid black night of the soul their endless agonized wailing has imposed on the nation and the world.

Letʼs allow the Constitution to breathe free in these United States, unfettered, unbecked, by cant, hypocrisy, falsehood and sectarian prejudice.

Yikes! I penned almost a fifteen hundred words yesterday morning just in comments on Thursdayʼs post. With that I am far over doubling my net verbiage for today.

The Picasso performance was last night. As I am scheduling this post almost twenty hours ahead, I havenʼt actually performed yet, but Iʼll try to remember to write on how it went soon.

©2010 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Faithful Facts

And today provides the third installment on my religion-and-government reflections, continuing from Tuesday and yesterday.

Problematically for our Christian-American religious zealots, the Constitution is a religiously neutral document, nowhere referencing God, Jesus or Christianity (except in the matter of the date of adoption, about which much nonsense, like the two links, has been generated but which merely translates into English the Latin Anno domini, A.D. — the only calendrical numeration system, predating the contemporary religiously neutral CE and BCE, available to the Framers and one that even nonbelieving I use, thus clearly no evidence of any Founder religious intent of any kind). The U.S. Constitution online discusses the complex matter here. The Framersʼ choice of words was most careful, deliberate and neutral. Indeed, historically, there was considerable outcry against the Constitution in the days of adoption because it was “Godless,” to some fervently faithful hyperChristians of the day (pretty much sinking the whole impossible Founders-as-Fundamentalist-Bible-Thumpers argument right there). As endlessly many sources, online sites and legal precedents insist, the Constitution (unamended) itself prohibits any religious qualifications in the government — “no religious Test shall ever be required as a Qualification to any Office or public Trust under the United States” (Article VI). That pretty much clinches the gargling demise of the Christian-Nation ridiculosity. And the First Amendment erases the doubts about a theocratic foundation for the United States: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof…”

The statement is clear. Our federal government can in no legislative way establish any religion, nor may it interfere with the free practice of any religion. My extremist fundamental friends are free to practice their religion… without interfering (particularly legislatively) with anyoneʼs elseʼs practice or nonpractice, beliefs or nonbeliefs. That seems a straightforward and American way to behave. Perhaps, missionary zeal on the parts of some Christians (and those of some other religions and some atheists as well) may cause problems in this simple ideal, as may nonstandard religious practices like the consumption of peyote or ganja. My (imaginary) evangelically fundamental neighbor may not like the exclusion of her dearly held Creationist myth from high school biology, but an American public school is a public, therefore governed, trust, and religion may not be established there; she may sue in the courts for the privilege to insert her beliefs there (and fail again to change the course of law in the land). These situations and multitudinous, unimagined others are why the Constitution insists that Congress and the Judiciary will be empowered to make legislation and decisions to enact and refine the founding document (which is just what has happened ever since 1787/1791 — sometimes to my satisfaction and sometimes not). Just as Congress cannot interfere in the free practice of religion, there is absolutely no established religion for the nation, and Congress and the courts are permitted to make this principle work in real life hereafter. Thatʼs a Constitutional (amended) fact.

The Fundies donʼt like that. It means they donʼt get their way: to make this nation into a theocratic Christian state. Too bad. Ours is not a religious nation but a worldly (yep, secular) state. Many Americans donʼt appreciate all the “under God” and “in God we trust” and “so help me God” items that religious extremists enjoy and have inserted into our governmental and judicial practices since 1791 (mostly just over fifty years ago), simply because zealots have insisted at the ripe and proper historical moment and legislators and justices have meekly caved to the political pressure. But the Constitution remains, clear and adamant, against theocratic intrusions on the nation (or at least on the government, and likewise government intrusions on the varied religious or irreligious). Rightists may quail at the phrase, “separation of (or between) church and state,” but it is the simplest explanation of the exclusion clause I (or our federal courts) have heard or seen (thanks, TJ).

If youʼre a “Constitutional Fundamentalist,” then, you stand firmly and proudly for the principle of no government-established religion whatsoever and everyoneʼs right to practice freely his or her diverse religion(s) or lack thereof. To take any other position on religion in America is a contradiction, fundie zealots, and a Lie.

So the nation is definitively not Christian. But it is equally, definitively not antiChristian (or anitMuslim or antiBuddhist or antiWhatever-Religion-You-Like, for that matter). Fundamentalists may feel threatened by the bogus threat of secularism, toward which the Framing Fathers did seem to tilt the country in the foundational documents (to my relief), but they and all religious folk of whatever faiths or conscience are guaranteed the right to their free practice of their religion(s), regardless how humanistic, how secular, how agnostic or atheistic (or Rastafarian or Pastafarian or Muslim or whatever) the nation becomes. Itʼs guaranteed in the Constitution. And thatʼs a fact for folks of all faiths (and none).

And then, after closing, the most evil bit of selfRighteous activist warfare that my research uncovered is this wicked bit of video intolerance, deeming any unSaved Others as Nazis because, according to Rightist Revisionism, Adolph Hitler (a Tighty Righty fascist, if there ever was one, by the way — talk about glibly and blindly rewriting history to suit oneself!) was the first to use the exact phrase “separation of church and state.” (Which he didnʼt, but itʼs an established Rightist position, and the incestuous unimaginative carboncopying of notions by other Rightists is tediously well documented and easy to prove for yourself.) To the contrary, Jefferson clearly had a few hundred years on the evil, one-testicled, mustached dictator, and Jeffersonʼs letter to the Danbury Baptists (“separation between church and state”) comes much closer to the key phrase than any translation of Hitlerʼs remark(s) I have found.

A short one today, to balance the lengthier consideration yesterday.

©2010 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

No Separation?

Todayʼs post is the direct continuation of the long essay I began yesterday.

I frequently wonder at the kind of mind (even soul) that must cling to a rock-solid, dead-certain set of irrational principles (if principles isnʼt too decent a term for extremist rigidity) at all costs, including violence to others who appear to threaten the comfy security of the believer. The current wildness of the Rightists in the U.S. and Muslim hatemongering jihadists worldwide leaves me jaw-dropped at our human abilities to deceive and blind ourselves. Most vividly of late is the Christine OʼDonnell debate gaffe (or masterly thrust and skewering of her opponent, if you are yourself an initated Rightist) about the First Amendment. If you watch the video, she clearly accepts the laughter at her denial of separation of church and state (terminology which, as she wished to assert, is not verbatim in the Amendment, true) as supporting her and undermining Coons. She sadly but goofily was wrong about the laughs, but Coons, not being a blinkered Rightized fundamentalist, didnʼt get her intended point about the exact words not being in the Constitution, accepting instead the valid and majority-held nearly 250 years of history and legislation that have defined the establishment clause to erect just that Jeffersonian wall of separation between religion and government. She didnʼt understand that her denial of separation made her appear a fool to the general public. She believed from her eight days of Rightist Constitutional training that Coons was the fool for expressing the key clause of the Amendment in the terms of “separation of church and state.” What we had there was a classic failure to communicate.

OʼDonnellʼs mindframe was so set in her rigidly Rightist terminology that she had forgotten or neglected that a larger history had not excluded separation from the Amendmentʼs nonestablishment of religion clause. I have found recently that in the narrow alterworld of Fundamentalist Christian Rightism, from which OʼDonnell spoke, the Amendmentʼs meaning has been sculpted to mean that Christianity is the foundation of the government of the United States (the goal these Fundies do want with their calls for established and required school prayer and all). And the establishment clause means that their presumed basic Christian foundation for the country should never be undermined.

Seem like a stretch into fantasyland to you? It did (still does) to me. Our dissenting, Deistic (not quite the good oldtime Christians the Right wants to paint them), freethinking, agnostic, revisionistic (think of Jeffersonʼs cut-and-paste collection of Bible quotes), frequently Unitarian founders would be startled, I am sure. Only an easy skim through the politico-religious biographies of the founders turns up the, to be gently mild about it, uniqueness of their possible personal connections to any established Christian religion(s). And, of course, contemporary Fundamentalism arises only just over a hundred years ago, chronologically far outside the scope of the original Patriotsʼ comprehension. But the Fundamentalist Right has whole tipsy tiers of rationalization to make it so. The statement “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof…” is contorted savagely to mean things that I find it difficult to follow. But weʼre going to try, in all fairmindedness, because I have experienced an eye-opening excursion, via the Internet, into the strange waters of seflRighteous selfjustification — from which I am going to utilize some of the most reasonable and least bilious sources.

Before exploring the issues I have recently learned about (you can tell how weakly nonFundie I am by that remark — actually bothering to acquire information beyond my own personal experience and prejudices), I would like to turn your attention to a very enlightening (although perhaps partisan, perhaps not) article in Newsweek, last week, on Rightist Constitutional Fundamentalism. Having the ideas I am exploring here drifting and throbbing through my consciousness for years, for me the reporter put some things into clarity and perspective. Some mindsets seem to need a document of absolute truth (the Bible, the Quʼran or the Constitution, for instance) on which almost thoughtlessly to rely, or they canʼt handle the real world. Unfortunately, it seems most of such fundamentalist believers also pick and choose what to notice/remember/use as weapons of attack from said document. (For instance, spouting uncontextualized Old Testamentary regulations on homosexuality with no regard for Christʼs actual message of brotherly love. Or so-called “Constitutionalists” who refuse to comply fully with the Census, citing only the documentʼs precise text on the required procedure, as if the final clause of Section 8, granting Congressional powers — “To make all Laws which shall be necessary and proper for carrying into Execution the foregoing Powers, and all other Powers vested by this Constitution in the Government of the United States, or in any Department or Officer thereof” — did not exist.) Even as the rocks that comprise the earth are forever shifting and drifting (viz. geological tectonics), our abilities simply to read are a sandy mire of consciousness and inter/contextuality (viz. literary criticism, which began, by the way, in Western civilization as efforts to clearly read and understand the Bible — and one of my heroes, Benedict Spinoza, was crucial in making some important advances therein). Selective emphasis from a text is not new nor particular to fundamentalist points of view; it is the uncertain and varying essential nature of the reading process, sorry to say, fundie friends. But I can discuss lit crit another time.

In order to propound the sorrowfully mistaken notion that the founders of this nation were establishing, deliberately and knowingly, a Christian nation, our contemporary fundamentalists have derived an interesting set of arbitrary (but for them very useful) distinctions. They begin by distinguishing between doctrinal religion and denominational religion (terms absolutely unknown to our Founders, who might have recognized “established religion” versus “personal conscience” — terms which donʼt help the contemporary extremistsʼ argument). The simplest discussion I found for this fundamentalist, Rightist argument is here, which tries to assert that first, somehow (perhaps through the effects historical migration from Europe into the colonial New World) Christianity is gifted with special status among religions (because it is ours/theirs, of course; but also because it was the established, dominant set of beliefs colonists imported from England — regardless of what were to them extremely important, life-shattering denominational differences), and second, that although the Founders clearly stated, “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof…” they didnʼt mean exactly that. Supposedly what the Framers meant was that in this Christian nation (nowhere stated), no one denomination (of Christianity) could be established as the state religion (as the Church of England had been in Great Britain). But Christianity somehow is the religion of the nation…

Clever? But false, unfortunately (and perhaps deliberately so).

The arguers feel supported by various moves the government (federal and states) has made that do impose an almost Christian God on the State. Check the list on the bottom of this page. Or any of the other pro-Christian-nation sites I have referenced above (there is a strong tendency to quote from each other). Those points would be better taken if documented and correlated against strong religious ferment to push that agenda into government historically. Also needing some evidence is their “90 to 95 percentage of them were practicing, Trinitarian Christians,” a position I flat out discredit. Although many of the Founders and Framers were ordinarily Christian for everyday social purposes, the beliefs that filled their hearts and consciences were often anything but staidly traditional (as linked above).

However, having topped thirteen hundred words, weʼll have to save further investigation for tomorrow.

Please click the links. There you will find massive amounts of information, good and bad, from both ends of this argumentative spectrum, to weigh and ponder for yourself. Of course the Rigid Rightists wouldnʼt care for the notion of a spectrum these days; for them the realm of discussion is reduced to only a bipolar, conflicting segregation into the (extreme, unbending, blindly) Right versus the godless secular humanist/atheistic “libs.” And thatʼs a Lie of the First Magnitude.

©2010 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Faithful Doubts

As my Facebook friends could realize, I finally got around to taking the Pew Forum on Religion & Public Life quiz on general religious knowledge. When they gave it as a survey/poll, Pew returned an apparently surprising result that not only did most Americans not exactly pass the really pretty easy and superficial set of fifteen questions, but those who deemed themselves devoutly religious usually did worse than the nonbelievers, atheists and agnostics. Naturally, I scored a solid 100%. My religious alienation remains evident.

I say “apparently surprising,” because the poll results made news, particularly the poor showings by folks who deemed themselves true believers. The explanation that atheists and agnostics at least took religion seriously enough to make a clear, conscious decision about it (rather than just mindlessly swallowing your parentsʼ faith) has some merit. After all, an atheist should have studied and considered the multiplicity of faiths before breasting the majority tide (currently popular and historical) of fervent belief. And too many (believers) seem to find thinking too much (sometimes at all) about their beliefs evidently hurts somehow. But I think religious chauvinism may best explain the poor showing by the devout.

The Colbert Report approached the subject from the same angle. (Sorry, I couldnʼt find the segment using the inept labeling at Comedy Central.) Reporting on the Pew survey, Stephen snarked that as a Christian he didnʼt know why he should recognize Ramadan as the Hindu god of something-or-other (or a similar but better joke). The point being that good Christians donʼt need to know about them other religions; we got all the truth we need right here under our hats. And we donʼt need to understand our own religion all that well either — you just gotta be Saved, brother. (After all, too much knowledge makes you wonder why various denominations ever split, or how other beliefs persist in the face of your personal salvation, and you might have to consider all that historical bloodshed in the name of Divine Love. Better just to presume youʼve got it all Right and let it go at that.) If I am Right and Saved, donʼt trouble me with information…

On the other hand, an old friend (briefly) noted, just as I was writing the paragraph above, in response to my Facebook post on the poll, that thereʼs a vast difference between “knowledge of facts, etc. and a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.” Lacking the celebrated personal relationship (however briefly I might have been Saved by the AoG magician back in eighth or ninth grade, having made my trek to the front of the audience for hands-on salvation and all), I cannot accurately comment on that experience, only from the experience of that “relationship” nastily reflected back from too many Utter Believers at poor sinners like me. And the rest of the world at large. But I did note that my skepticism (and/or accuracy in answers to the quiz) offered an unintended offense, for which I do apologize. Alternatively, I have always felt that our spiritual struggles or somnolence belongs to each of us, alone, and it is the acquisitive and assertive proselytizing by and against othersʼ faiths that has caused so much ill throughout history. (I did note the easy rejection of facts for what must be a matter of faith, as well.)

Partly these reflections arise from my recent religious encounter at my uncleʼs funeral. Nothing like getting right into the midst of religious experience to wonder what you might be missing, or they clouding and neglecting. As with my friend, I did not feel an exclusionary Righteousness (what the pastor termed “judging”), but a welcoming sincerity of belief. I feel confident that particular church is probably pretty evangelical/fundamentalist in its beliefs, but if they really mean the “avoiding judging” thing, I have no issues to argue with them, no bones to pick. In fact, from my Biblical reading, thatʼs what Christians should be — tolerant, compassionate, loving. Could we imagine a Fundamentalism that embodied the actual teachings of that crucified Galilean — like Matthew 22: 37-40 (New International Version) 37 Jesus replied: “ ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ 38 This is the first and greatest commandment. 39 And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ 40 All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.” (Thanks, BibleGateway, a not even liberal Bible resource on the internet.) Of course, all you have to do is check such explanatory sites as this (although I do appreciate the answers to the narrowminded oneʼs issue) to find the querulous selfrighteous nitpicking redefinitions of the pretty clear statements in Matthew. Distinguishing believers from the rest of us heathens, indeed! Talk about artificial and selfserving distinctions…

Unfortunately, if you consider the altogether radical restrictions of “neighbor” raised above, and as politics and news stories have made obvious, keeping oneʼs faithful principles from extremist, judgmental and belligerent brawling in the world must be very difficult, apparently impossible for some really selfRighteous. Pro-life murderers (and uncharged, still active poncy pimps scavenging for more anti-abortional assassins). Heartless picketers savaging homosexuals, (a “Christian” hate group, now thereʼs an oxymoron) who prance provocatively and impenitently at fallen (straight) soldiersʼ funerals. All in the name of faith. All judging and attacking instead of loving…

Such aggression instead of solicitude and compassion troubles me. And puts me off. That puffed Right behavior is merely thorough-going selfRighteous chauvinism in full attack mode against everyone but oneʼs own Saved Elect, including brother and sister believers who happen not to strive so blindly or wildly. (Some of the worst Righteous bile is spewed at Christians of more moderate views, strangely. The apparent principle must be “exactly like us or dead.”)

Thereʼs more, but this constitutes a post for today. The real issue is still facts and faith…

Of course, such chauvinism is certainly not restricted to Christianity, or even some subversions thereof. Muslim extremists provide a quick and obvious example. Fundamentalists of all stripes hug their Truth comfortably under their own belts, heedless of scrutiny or consideration, and damnation and death to all others. Itʼs pretty much the basis of any fundamentalism: me right, you dead. From this — all of bloody history results (a story Gandhi was desperate to lovingly revise; but Partition and subsequent events seem to have eroded his effect on the subcontinent and elsewhere).

©2010 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

More Doors

Itʼs Pablo Picassoʼs birthday today! I guess that means no matter what, I really do have to seriously practice in his honor. Janet and I ran lines (quite successfully, almost completely without error) sitting in her car in a parking lot in Waverly yesterday, having arrived about forty minutes earlier than we had expected for my Uncle Billʼs funeral/celebration of life service. I am a poor relative and hadnʼt seen most of my cousins (or my one surviving member of my fatherʼs generation, Aunt Macky) in years, but I did feel fine in their company. My sister and youngest brother were able to appear as well, and pastor brother Paul and his wife came for the the family get-together the previous evening (Paul, of course had preacherly things to do on Sunday). I spoke with half a dozen cousins, including Sharon who came right over and greeted/talked with us, even though David was unsure and Janet clueless about who this was (like us, Sharon had come to honor an uncle; pretty much all the others, their kids and grandkids were there for “Dad”).

I always feel both at home (in a peculiar return-to-childhood way) among my relatives and an outsider at the same time. First, most everyone in the clan is wholeheartedly devout (in varying nuances and denominations) and sincerely Christian. Except me, of course. (My uncle was truly a godly man, a good man, a lot like his brother, my father.) Partly, the return to church feels like childhood, partly an anthropological excursion (especially into the storefront church with sacred screen for the holy powerpoint and full band praise singing that we explored on Sunday), partly an unfamiliar experience where I just feel stiff, awkward and outside. (I did noticed that at least one of my cousins wasnʼt quite at home in the community of faith experience either, standing pretty still and staring at the words on the screen like me.) Likewise, my brother and sister arenʼt of this revivalist evangelical schism (and I owe Margaret for the Sacred Screen observation) and also stood uncomfortably for the long alt-rock songs of praise. Good music, well played and decently sung, but all unfamiliar to us…

My conservativism comes out in my religious preferences perhaps?

On the other hand, the pastor was sincere and genuine (quite often in those environments, for me, not the case), and I actually liked the service, particularly the formal sharing of paternal memories by about half  dozen of my cousins, as well as the hired man for the farm during the Eighties. Emotions ran deep and powerful during that part of the service, for everyone. Funerals, even celebrations of life, arenʼt exactly blissfully happy times, but it is good to see extended family, no matter what. And to be reminded of roots, genetics and heritages. I have been thinking considerably about family in the past ninety hours. A door closes and a door opens…

But I do think thatʼs more than enough for now to share in this forum about my family.


#1 — old boiler and workmenʼs vehicles, last Thursday

#2 — the high-tech new boiler

#3 — PVC-tube chimneys

The old doors/décor theme continues today because ironically last Thursday as I wrote the two posts that appeared on Friday and Saturday about Janetʼs decorative old doors, our furnace/boiler (we have not forced air but hot-water baseboard heat) left its forty-plus year-old spot in the basement for a younger, more svelte, more economic and more efficient replacement. Irony appeared in the form of the tired old boiler and its parts littering the lawn when it came time for me to take a photo of the outdoors door on its tree (a junky mess I had to hide/avoid getting in the shot). So I thought I would give you a look at the yard as it really was that day. (Actually, by the time I shot the picture, the guys had cleaned up pretty much everything but the big box of the boiler itself.)

The new boiler is great, expensive (as is everything) but nice. It takes up fantastically less room than the old one, as you may be able to see in the second photograph, although we now have the gloriosity of the double tubes of white across the unfinished ceiling of our back room in the basement (third photo). Just for fun (and perhaps to annoy The Lovely One, who made us try to scrub the driveway on Saturday to remove oil stains from leaky vehicles parked there recently — canʼt tell if it was the cleaning lady or the furnace installation guys) hereʼs what our basement currently looks like with all the stuff, that once was organized elsewhere, scattered around on the floor so the furnace guys could work (fourth photo).

#4 — some of the mess downstairs

She and I got started reorganizing and cleaning up after the installation on Saturday (her idea, not mine exactly, although it seriously needed/needs to be done). As I said, she also wanted to scrub the driveway (for me an unnecessary task considering itʼs a driveway and outdoors, but Iʼm only the man around here). At least two vehicles in the past week had dripped oil and/or other automotive fluids on our still nearly new concrete. We had sought a cement scrubbing detergent months ago for the garage, with only minor success, so she had us try Gasser, who had two products. (Go, Gasser: now if youʼd only get rid of your creosote log mountains…) The detergent worked really well on one larger, fainter spot and the tree-sap splotches, not so well on the three major oil smears. But we tried (and I raked the front yard and the driveway clear — session number four so far, creating a good trash bag of moist leaves for the yard waste site). Indoors I was less helpful because she needed a vacuum cleaner, and somehow with the tinnitus that sound a vacuum pump creates is more painful and disturbing than ever (and Iʼve never liked it). Part of the issue may have been that I had just used the leaf blower on the driveway and already hurt my hearing some more. (Of course, she might say I have always been worthless on housecleaning chores.)

Sorry about the bodily condition complaints (I also had one of my peculiar “glittering eye” experiences on the drive back along US 20 to Dubuque from the funeral — thatʼs the fourth since late spring), but these are issues I need to consider myself (and comprise the diary-like portions of the blog, I guess). Sometimes I open doors onto myself that I really donʼt need to. Correct?

And this post is again going up late on a Monday, and I have a flu shot to receive just before noon in Dubuque, so I must leave it as it is and get the words and pictures posted. No plans for tomorrow, so weʼll see what events, chance or the bubbling unconscious spit up later today.

©2010 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Creative Stall

I havenʼt got a good update to anything creative that some of you might expect on a Sunday. Thereʼs nothing new outside my head on “Mantorville,” not a clear angle for the next Daniel bit for Stars in Heaven (although there is a whole section from the boykidʼs point of view thatʼs been done forever), and I started handwriting a new Søren-and-Judah story (the direct sequel/continuation of “Mistakes by Moonlight”) instead of getting a third bit of editing and revision completed for today (or any more of it digitized — too busy becoming Picasso/getting a new furnace/subbing last Friday/wasting my time arguing against ignorant authoritarian Rightist politics on Facebook/reading/idling).

However, it has been raining around here this weekend, starting Friday night into early Saturday morning. So I will take refuge in a bit of verse I had wanted to put up for autumn, but with our month-long dry spell this year, ending Friday night, this antique hasnʼt seemed quite right. And, as I have pretty vivid memories of the weekend around which this not-quite-a-poem came to be (mostly because theyʼre recorded in the poem), I know itʼs not cold or dreary enough to really qualify for a revisit. However, I donʼt have anything else, and I really have wanted to post this one (or at least have an excuse for typing it up on the computer).

It came from my first autumn in Maquoketa, in the (probably underheated) cute little house on Emma Court (has anyone noticed that I used that street as a character in the Queztal County story?), which was evidently a cooler and definitely wetter autumn than this one has been. I was sitting at home alone in the quaint house, rain drizzling, feeling tired and old and apparently very chilly as I listened to I-donʼt-know-which-Bob-Dylan-album on the stereo. It might have been Street Legal, but I am pretty sure (especially having just checked on Wikipedia) that came out later, the next spring, and was new when I played it almost ceaselessly on the drive to and back from the 1978 International Thespian Festival with three unwitting high-school girls on lawn chairs in the back of my blue Ford van (sorry about that, ladies, in retrospect). Much more likely the soundtrack for the poem(s) was Blood on the Tracks, which would fit perfectly.

The actual trigger for composition was work-weariness and the earliest sensation of arthritis in my poor overworked and enervated fingers (much more noticeable any day of any week in any season nowadays), which you may easily observe in the second part/poem/stanza…

Shades of Gray: Autumn Rain


And so the hectic day subsides
into a slimy chillgray evening
whispering winter in my knuckles and my knees.


The cracks between my bones
forget the lambent tones of electric lights
and listen: the sleety whispers of the wind
keen autumn autumn autumn winter night.


Dylanesque atmospheres suggesting
ice inside these fingertips
and fogs behind my eyes;
the coals of existence whisper
out in the leaf-drenching drizzle.

15 September 1977

Not a lot for exegesis here. The three poems or verses or stanzas (I donʼt know why I numbered them — probably an Eliot-influence) are essentially moody description (intended to mean description that creates a mood).

The date is a Thursday night (I really do love being able to check anything in a heartbeat or ninety on the internet; I probably would be a good victim/consumer for a smartphone or an iPod Touch), so my notion it was a weekend is wrong (unless I am recalling the typing process, having first composed longhand — no idea if that was the way it went, either). However, that would explain the “hectic day” falling quiet in the beginning, a long day after school, and in those days for Andrew, church night (meaning no extracurricular activities in the evening, thus no play practice) was on Thursday. So I would have been at home in my then-TVless house. The arthritis-or-whatever-you-like sensations are there in the close of that verse and grow worse/stronger in the next little poem.

Why my aching joints forget the warm “tones” of electric lights rather than the warm sun is probably me trying to avoid the too-obvious image, and life at school really is ruled by artificial illumination, especially in these shortened days of fall and winter. The final line of number II is mere sounding rhythm (but for lots of poets, say Poe, thatʼs what itʼs all supposed to be about) and the conscious mind of the speaker falling asleep, maybe. The susurrus of the storm/cold rainfall outdoors probably shouldnʼt use so many m sounds.

Number III brings the music on the stereo to the front (so Seventies of my Seventies self). And the speaker falls asleep? (That sounds so trite that perhaps youʼd be better off without the explication…) But autumnal weariness and chill extinguishes whatever passes for energy or life in our speaker.

Of course, I feel this one works as a companion piece to “Dry Leaves” written in the same location a year later (sorry, Rod and Dave, I couldnʼt go so obvious as either of your suggestions; I really do feel poetry shouldn’t be quite that literal). Or maybe I should chose to call that other one “Burnt Fires”? “Fallʼs Cinders”? “Faded Flakes”?

©2010 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Nowhere Portal, 2

Letʼs not close the door on my self-indulgent essay about Janetʼs home décor preferences and choices until I get to what I really wanted to talk about when I got started on Thursday afternoon (which is when I am finishing this post as well, as I got called in to sub on Friday). You learned a little, as a little was all I really had to say, about the door in the corner of the bedroom. Now we need to introduce the one that sits outdoors.

Colorful, autumnal décor, including the famous rusted-out green lawn chair I mentioned yesterday and plastic leaves I mention today.

First, I should stipulate that we donʼt decorate for Halloween. I know that dates us clearly, as younger people seem to think everything after the Fourth of July is all about Halloween. But Janet likes to prettify and festoon on a seasonal, rather than a holiday-based, pattern. She does do Christmas (although we are not a house with acres of outdoor lights, even when I have tried a few some years), but that only lasts from the day after Thanksgiving through New Years. Period. And some/most of the Christmas stuff pretty easily changes into generic winter décor. Further, she generally decorates outside more in the spring, summer and fall than winter. The door is seasonal for spring-summer and for autumn.

Now in the summer months the door is really just a pleasure to us alone, for it (like the three feet of white picket fence) resides against the chainlink that constitutes the boundary of our back yard. I suppose that interested shoppers in Gasserʼs side lot could crane their necks and maybe catch a glimpse of the doorʼs peeling whiteness amidst the greenery. But I am pretty sure none do. Even I find it uncommon when down there to wrench my head aloft and peer up at our back yard and the long line of chainlink fence that tops the twenty-foot wall up to our properties, looming unheeded over and behind the commercial establishments.

The Door, rear view, so you can see the colorful bungee cords holding it in place against the awful winds of autumn.

Janet dislikes the chainlink fence. Rightly, as it was very poorly installed; to the west along our neighborʼs yard it literally tilts at a 45° angle away to the north. When weʼre bored, The Lovely One and I place bets about how many months it will take until the ugly and ill-engineered thing collapses (right now I have eighteen, but heavy snow and a wet spring could undermine that number**). The mowing team Gasser hires to clip the grass along their side never bothers to trim at the fence line, either, thus ensuring a rangy crop of ugly weeds right along the barrier (not that I completely blame them; that metal stockade chews up more trimmer line than I would like to realize — and I am not trying to make a profit when I mow the lawn). So Janet hates the linked-chain thing, and she will do anything to cover it up — thus the series of spreading bushes we have planted (and I have already told you all about) along the northern property line. And her yard-long bit of white pickets. And the door. In the summertime, she decorates the door with metal butterflies and other objects dʼnot-art acquired at one or another of our three local dollar stores (emblematic of the economy hereabouts, thank you not so very much, corporate-coddling, regulation-abandoning, inept Shrub Administration). So through the summer the door looks onto our dismal perspective on corporate hardwareʼs rear end, but also blocks some of that unwanted view.

Our Door Outdoors (which was almost the title of this post).

But when the leaves begin to fall, she indicates itʼs time for me to unwire the cumbersome door and move it out in front, where, as pictured here, it opens onto a tree trunk. As the winds wail strongly up here on the hill, we have to tie the door down somehow or it blows over (as pictured above a bit, that means bungee cords, currently in colorful Boy Scout shades of gold and blue, around the tree trunk). The door now hosts some seasonal curiosities, as you can see. In other years, she had a little hay bale that sat at the foot, which we preserved for use for many autumns. A strange crow creature has also sat in the window — like the scarecrow creature now — or on top. Usually, like this fall now, the door has been garlanded with strings of (plastic) autumn leaves. It hasnʼt always been placed against the easternmost ash, I believe, because I think I can remember it being both on the maple in the middle and even out on the western ash back before we had neighbors on that side who might (or might not) be annoyed at Janetʼs idiosyncratic and creative tastes in exterior yard enhancement.

She likes to put the door face on, full front, to the street (although I personally prefer it at an angle), as it currently is. And she loves hearing from people (often Methodists on their way to church or home from there) about how unusual, even startling this door that leads nowhere is. Eye-catching. Some, like Dr. Bill, enjoy kidding her about it, but as Picasso said (and I repeat in the performance), “Really, it doesnʼt really matter whether they criticize you or praise you, the important thing is to be talked about.” I have always assumed that the purpose of home decorations is to stimulate that conversation about you. And about your yard.

One constant about the door is that its condition keeps changing — and not only in moving around the yard seasonally and from year to year. The door itself is changing. Since the deteriorating paint job makes it “scenic” in Janetʼs view (and thatʼs no criticism, implied or overt, whatsoever), the door, exposed to sun and wind and rain and frost and even snow a few times, has debilitated and enervated, weakened and fragmented, cracked and even decomposed since we acquired it. Its weatherbeaten appearance keeps on getting moreso, raising the interesting question of how long weʼll be able to keep it around. And the more challenging issue of what weʼll do with it when she doesnʼt want it as a decoration any longer. Do you think we could donate it to a theatre group maybe?

** In utter, actual honesty, the story of our betting is a lie, an invention, a fiction. I should have said, “we could place bets…” but I wanted to put in the detail about how long I think the fence will last. (You just canʼt trust writers who want to publish fiction…)

Perhaps among the numerous topics I have suggested so far this year for me to tackle later (most of which I have forgotten) I should include an exploration of the dicey relationship between reality and illusion in writing, whether fiction or nonfiction.

Do click any of the pix for an enlargement.

(Can even I believe that I got nearly 2500 words out of two old doors? Sorry that you read all that?)

©2010 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.

Doorway to Nowhere, 1

We have some unusual decorations in and around our house. I can take no credit (or blame) for these eye-catchers and conversation-makers. Theyʼre all Janetʼs doing. But I can write about them, and thatʼs what I intend to do, today and tomorrow, on one specific set of adornments. (Yes, I have only scratched the surface of the pointlessness to which I can descend to devise something to post each day this year. Even with the earlier home décor discussions Iʼve made you endure, there is more I can say. And I will.) And having opened the door on this subject, let us continue…

a photo of Mary Nevans-Pedersonʼs “Morning Glorious” photograph, soon to hang next to our own rough and peeling door in our bedroom — below right

There are several amusing decorative items I could discuss. First, (and maybe I will explore this topic one day) thereʼs the tale of the squirrels and the decorative pumpkins — a sorry and sad story in which the squirrels win, defeating Janetʼs best efforts to preserve her purchases, the pumpkins she liked to use as outdoor ornamentation, from the rodentsʼ predations. But thatʼs for another day, as I just said. Thereʼs the horribly rusty Fifties lawn chair that serves to support a plant in the summer and fake pumpkins in the fall, which her dad still enjoys ribbing her about paying ten bucks for, in its rusty condition, at an antiques/gift store. (And I want to know: what distinguishes a “giftable,” horrible word*, from a “gift”?) Thereʼs also her piece of fence that fences out nothing, and which she erects against the chainlink fence that separates us from Creosote Hell, aka Gasser True Value. And there are lots more, just on the outside of our house. Her creativity knows only outer limits. But every passer-byʼs favorite has to be her door to nowhere.

And “doors,” as our title clearly tells us, is the subject for these two posts. We have two doors used decoratively that serve to close off or open onto nothing and/or nowhere. One shifts around outside (thatʼs tomorrowʼs door), and another dwells more permanently within.

One might wonder where or how we were able to acquire any door whose only purpose is to open onto empty space, hingeless and unframed. Let me simply say that being almost the only continuing active members of local theatre for twenty years (and I did say “almost,” decidedly not the only) gave us access to many citizensʼ unwanted stuff. People like to donate old clothes, hats, shoes, and household items to the theatre. In the years before we abandoned it (in reality sold the building), Kirchhoff Theatre housed several old stoves, a refrigerator that (I think) did not work, bicycles, bedding, chairs, lawn mowers, grills, sofas, end tables, old paneling and dry wall sections… I hope you get the point. (The Andrew School theatrical storage was just as accumulative under my weak and accepting supervision, and evidently yet today just as disorganized and messy.) Any junk people couldnʼt dump got offered to us; and, of course, “you never know what a play might need.” As a theatre person you usually just keep it all (like old deck shoes), thinking one day this thing or that may come in necessary (and as my current costuming situation proves, periodically oneʼs needs work out just that way). Until you run out of space, or others in your group run out of patience. In several clean-ups in the final years at Kirchhoff, we twice filled huge trash containers, twenty or thirty feet long and at least ten wide and taller than me, finally canceling the lives of those unwanted appliances and other stuff. Among the many items stored in the theatre basement were many doors.

Our decorative Door on a Corner in our bedroom — Maryʼs photograph will hang over the chair on the right. The two black-and-white photos are of Janetʼs parentsʼ and my parentsʼ weddings.

Onstage, a door needs to be pretty light to be useful. Stage sets, even faced with lauan, as I learned to do in modern times (thanks, Kevin), rather than traditional canvas, canʼt support big, heavy, old-fashioned doors. No one wants to watch your canvas flats ripple with the air surge from slamming a sixty-pound door, thus proving beyond anyoneʼs doubt that wall onstage is not actually a wall, or have a heavy door pull the whole set over. Hollow-core interior doors are the thing to use, painted artistically to look like a big old exterior portal if thatʼs what the scene requires. On the other hand, Peace Pipe Players had accepted more than a dozen old doors far too solid and therefore heavy to be useful, including even a pair of old barn doors (and all of which had sat in stacks leaning against the basement walls, taking up space, never getting moved, gathering inches of dust and worse filth, for more years than I was involved). When all the unwanted stuff got pitched in several spasms of eviscerating reorganization, Janet, rather than throwing out, just claimed a couple of doors… Well, at least one. I am not entirely sure both the doors we have as decorations came from that source.

Anyway, one big old wooden door decorates our external reality around the house. Another resides in a corner of our bedroom, and The Lovely One installs pseudo-antique hooks to hold pictures and other items and memorabilia for display on its surface. Although I questioned its presence originally (and I still wonder how much endlessly drifting dust has silted in behind that barricade), itʼs familiar now, a friendly item embellishing our lives. We even bought a photograph at the art exhibit we attended last Friday (a week ago tonight) because of this bedroom adornment-door. Mary and Clayton have a wonderfully extensive garden around their hillside house (a huge garden on many terraces up the hill that somehow wrap around their dwelling), and their home is an old one. One day Mary noticed a morning glory blossom located right in front of one of the doors, and she took a picture. Thatʼs the photo we bought, framed (and which I still have yet to install in its new home beside the bedroom door — not the actual door but the decorative one with pictures on it, naturally, to provide the appropriate visual pun/reference/imagery). Maryʼs is a great photograph, unlike my illustration included here. So our one pointless door now has a photographic partner soon to hang beside it.

But I really wanted to talk about the outside door. Itʼs really the one that opens to nowhere (although actually it doesnʼt open at all). And thatʼs our subject tomorrow.

* “That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase; ‘beautified‘ is / a vile phrase” (Hamlet II, 2, 111). Iʼve been waiting for someone to accuse me of becoming a tired old windbag, a regular Polonius, and nobody has. So Iʼll do it myself.

On the other hand, if anyone can calm my quandary about the distinction between a “gift,” a perfectly sound word, and the homely neologism, “giftable,” which seems to me an unnecessary elaboration on gift from insensitive and perhaps unconfident craftmakers (lacking the self-assurance to call their products directly “gifts”), I would be pleased to hear from you. Is there a difference somehow? Or am I right in thinking “giftable” just fancies up the basic word?

©2010 John Randolph Burrow, Magickal Monkey Enterprises, Ltd, S.A.