#(marking the point of no return for the tragedy of frankenstein)

[pasdetrois]

the creature as victor's wife in the attic. do you see my vision

[drmedicsgamesurgery]

Danganronpa Togami Volume 3 Part 1 (Summary)

Thanks to @enoshima-pyon @shockersalvage​ @jinjojess​ @hopeymchope​ for helping out! Merry Christmas!

Danganronpa Togami Volume 3 - I'd Stake The Togami Name On It

In terms of the development of talent, we are still in the experimental stage because we do not know how to cultivate talent.

(Eric Hofer, "The Temper of Our Time") [0]

This text was written using the following note-taking system.

K2K System ver2.3

Pseudo books, bad books, and popular books. I think that one must often tolerate these in a world rife with copies of copies of manuscripts. I am left speechless by the solidity and sheer veracity of a system.

Therefore, my job is only to add or delete a few things.

I am very aware of my place, I will hold onto my spirit until the very end.

I pray for the soul of the original.

That is, if there is such a thing.

CHAPTER 11- The Three Byakuya Togamis

1.

It’s a simple story. One young man decided to try to take over the world. After many repeated extraordinary adventures, the young man got what he wanted and was able to return home safe and sound. And he lived happily ever after.

But here is the problem: which of the following young men is the protagonist of this story?

2.

“I believe I’ve given everyone a slice of cake, no? Back during the Yalta Conference [1] when the world was being split up, the president’s daughters prepared food to calm the atmosphere. Since we’re in a helicopter, a banquet is out of the question, but at the very least I can offer some cake…”

“Who cares about the cake? Let’s continue our conversation. After all, at the moment I am allowing you the right to lead.”

“Heh heh. What admirable conduct from you, Byakuya Togami. Well then, let’s get started, shall we? Nee-san, you eat up too. Please sample this sweet, saccharine cake–it’s American, filled with sugar and butter.”

A dreamy expression crossed the boy’s–Kazuya Togami’s–face.

3.

And so began our discussion of world domination–over a tea set, under the watchful eye of countless gun muzzles, within a WHO helicopter.

In the four years since I’d seen my younger brother, he had grown so much that I barely recognized him. His thin frame had filled out with an appropriate amount of muscle, a sarcastic smile stretched across his lips, his eyes which had once been filled with constant fear now sparkled with self-confidence, and he now wore glasses that resembled Byakuya-sama’s. This young man who had only once referred to himself as Byakuya Togami was now brazenly exerting control over us, UN military forces in tow. He was certainly throwing his weight around.

Since I wasn’t restrained, I put a finger to my temple and accessed Borges, intending to get some information.

Borges Search Result

#71009224

Data Type: Person

Title “Kazuya Togami”

The perpetrator behind the Biggest, Worst Incident in the History of the Togami Family. He was the sole survivor of the Burning of Kuchinashi Village, but was raised by Michiko Furuhata as a legitimate son. No body was discovered during the large-scale search that followed the incident, but he was presumed deceased. He has had direct contact with Kudan. One of the top targets marked for assassination by the Togami Conglomerate. Is currently posing as Orvin Elevator, the adopted son of World Health Organization Infectious Disease Prevention Unit director Keith Elevator, and working as the captain of the WHO Infectious Disease Prevention Unit’s task force.

“Byakuya Togami. You are under arrest by the UN-affiliated organization WHO, and currently in our custody. We are acting in accordance with Chapter VII of the United Nations Charter [2] set out by the United Nations Security Council. Considering the weight of your crimes, they will require action on par with the International Criminal Tribunal of Former Yugoslavia.” [3]

“Hmph.” Despite being handcuffed, Byakuya-sama’s usual demeanor was unruffled. “If you are planning to treat me the same way as Pol Pot, I will not forgive that.” [4]

“But you are the one spreading the seeds of massacre around the world, aren’t you?”

“And do you intend to take me to the International Court of Justice as is?” [5]

“Yes. We will cross the border from the Czech Republic into the Netherlands, and you will stand trial. Your crimes are heavy, Byakuya Togami, for trying to pick a fight with the world. Don’t forget that I could allow you to be lynched at this very moment to nary a complaint.”

“You certainly seem like you want to beat me.”

“I’m rational. I don’t intend to contribute to the violence you’ve brought upon the Czech Republic by drawing so many maniacs crazed with bloodlust.”

“What are you talking about, you ‘won’t contribute to violence?’ With all of these guns here?”

“Think of the number of guns as an estimation of how dangerous you are.”

“If that’s the case, then there’s far too few.”

To my delight, the UN forces’ gun muzzles bobbed in surprise at Byakuya-sama’s uncharacteristic smile. Similarly pleased, Kazuya cheerfully responded with: “Don’t move, okay? Byakuya Togami.”

“Obviously. If I couldn’t keep still at a time like this, I would not be fit to be a Togami.”

“Well then, until we get you to the International Court of Justice so you can be stuffed into a cell, why don’t you enjoy this tea time with me?”

“If you do not remove these shackles, I won’t be able to teach you table manners.”

“Would you prefer to eat like a dog? I know you are revered as the SHSL Heir, Byakuya Togami, so it would certainly make for a good story, showing you eating like a mangy hound.” [6]

“To think, such a powerless brat saying things like he’s part of society.”

Byakuya-sama, despite the handcuffs, skillfully pushed up his glasses with his fingers.

“Heh heh. But you see, I am already part of society. I’m the captain of the WHO Infectious Disease Prevention Unit’s task force.” [7] Kazuya, as if to mimic Byakuya-sama, adjusted his glasses as well. “I’m much different from how I was four years ago.”

(Thanks to Jinjojess for the translation up to this point).

“Listen here boy, if you want to have a tea party, how about at least some tea talk? Tell me how much the WHO has this current state of affairs under control.” Byakuya asks Kazuya, and he begins.

"The situation has progressed to the following stage: The 'Despair Disease' can now be spread without the 'Despair Novel'. This is why the tragedy in that village occurred just now.”

Byakuya mocks him by saying that the ‘tragedy’ in the village wasn’t brought about by the disease but by them massacring everyone without distinction. Kazuya retorts calling them all trash and all he did was throw the rubbish away, so there is no big deal. Shinobu thinks to herself that it might be her fault Kazuya turned out this way.

Kazuya then declares that Hope’s Peak Academy is also under investigation, since the Despair Novel was written there.

During the investigation, continues Kazuya, they found out that the academy is secretly working on two projects: the “Sage Plan” and the “Bible Plan”. Kazuya says both names have religious connotations, which is ironic considering Hope’s Peak is a school that worships hope as a god.

He still doesn’t have enough information on the “Sage Plan”, [8] but he says that apparently the Despair Novel was written using the system of the “Bible Plan”. The “Bible Plan” consists of an AI which studies all the books and stories in the world to create a Bible which will bring hope to people just by reading it. The data that the AI works on are input by SHSL such as SHSL science fiction writer, SHSL oral inheritor', SHSL light novel writer, SHSL folk story collector etc.

"What do you think Hope’s Peak Academy is most afraid of? Is it human extinction?"

"No, it is human despair."

"That's right, whether it's a giant meteorite or a nuclear war, I hope that the academy will not budge, but if at that time, human beings are in despair, give up their struggles, give up hope... they will be intolerable.”

Byakuya says that he is boring and to go to a bookstore to buy some actually well written books. Kazuya goes on to say that since they couldn’t touch the hearts of all humans, that they instead, let an AI create a story that could. Shinobu is confused and wants to take headache medicine, but Byakuya is simply and utterly bored by the idea. Kazuya says it’s not in an AIs essence to defeat humanity, such as in Go or Chess and that Byakuya’s way of thinking is backward.

"I will say it is 'boring' on the premise of correctly estimating AI capabilities. No matter how good an AI is, one thing is that it can't be done anyway."

"I would appreciate further details."

"That is 'creation', if you don't have the ability to create, you can't write a story."

Kazuya retorts saying that it has no need to as since it has analysed narratives for so long, it has merely become an algorithmic process. He points out that it’s the same as Dr. Victor Frankenstein’s story: they tried to play God and as a result they created a monster. As Kazuya puts it, "People often compare Dr. Victor to God who is the Creator, and the monster is used to compare with Adam, created by God. However, this contrast quickly collapsed. Dr. Victor as a human being imitated God's behavior, the result is a terrible monster, a monster will only kill everywhere. The story writing AI is also a fake God, it and The Bible that was created, are just a strange monster."

After listening to the talk of Kazuya, the expression of Byakuya became very smug, he took a sip of black tea and said, "Let us not stick to these old literary theories."

"Listen, Dr. Victor who created the monster, and God who created human beings, the situation is exactly the same. If you ask why, it is because both sides have encountered unexpected situations. Isn't it? Yes, that is the death of Christ. Is Christ as God's own being killed on the cross, is this also within God's plan? If Dr. Victor is a rebel to God, then God is also a traitor to God Himself; if Dr. Victor is guilty, then God is. Just like this, after the negation is denied, the result is that God and Dr. Victor are put on the line. In essence, they are equals. Since you are a student of Hope’s Peak Academy, you should know these things in advance."

"It seems that you have read a lot of Zizek's [9] books, but in any case, the books written by anarchists can't save humans. This motive makes me very displeased."

"Motive?"

“It’s a third-rate motive to let an AI write a Bible out of fear of human despair. When Hope’s Peak Academy was subjected to this boring uneasiness, they were already poisoned by despair, which is like making a doctor who got a cold force the patient to give him an injection."

After Kazuya and Byakuya throw witty insults at each other, they both look over at the guy next to Byakuya, stuffing his face with food.

*Chew chew*

*Swallow!*

It may be because their hands are cuffed, or just because they are too greedy, but Imposter is buried in the cake, eating like a pig. He seemed to find it hard to notice that he was caught up in the crowd and slowly lifted his face. His face and glasses were covered with cake. Kazuya calls out to Ultimate “Mr. Pig” Imposter.

“Mr. Pig,” says Kazuya. “To be a student at Hope’s Peak Academy, having ties with those who those who took the ‘Bible Plan’ system and started the “World Domination Proclamation”...who are you?”

To all of this the Imposter responds with this:

"Pardon me but, since you aren’t eating those carbs, give them to me."

4.

Shinobu wonders about who the Imposter is, originally thinking he might be with Kazuya, she dismisses the idea. Is it possible that Imposter shares some sort of relationship with Byakuya, then.

The Impostor snorts and tells everyone to don’t bother trying to figure out their true identity and they are  just a teenager. Even when Kazuya asks how many people have joined Super High School Level Despair or if they were the ones who are behind inciting the Reserve Course to to hold their “Parade”, they merely dodge answering it.

“I just said you don’t have to think about my identity. I am just…yes, I am just chasing a star.”

Byakuya seemed to looked bored as he gazed at the Imposter. “What do mean by chasing the stars? Explain it to me.” he ordered. 

“I have been paying attention to you. To me you are the ‘Super High School Level Heir’, a symbol of Hope. It is because you are that symbol of Hope that I will fall into despair.”

“How twisted. Also, deal with the cream on your face.”

The Impostor tells the real Byakuya that they should eliminate the WHO, which doesn’t have anything to do with the story, and then start once again the battle between Hope’s Peak Academy and the Despair High School. Shinobu compares this to a girl rejoicing after they confessed their love to their crush and she becomes somewhat embarrassed upon seeing it. 

Byakuya-sama is God. 

Shinobu believes this to be the absolute truth of the world, though it doesn’t need to be expressed in such a way like what the Imposter is doing. Shinobu is also quite unhappy that other people are now declaring it as truth as she believed that “fact” was her own personal secret. But Kazuya says that the Impostor is the one who doesn’t have anything to do with the story since he is just a fake pig. The Imposter shoots this back at him as Kazuya being the one no one wants to see and that he can’t even match up as an imposter himself. Imposter equates Kazuya’s skills as a fake to a worm. The Imposter then tells him to heed these words and go back home.

"I have been taken away, my hometown, my name, and my life. It is all gone. There is no place for me to be able to return. No matter what people say to me, I will stand in front." Kazuya says.

"Tell me one thing, is life interesting being robbed by others? Hometown, name, life, and even your beloved sister. Has losing all of those made life interesting?" taunts the Imposter with a smile.

The Imposter’s ironic smile makes Shinobu want to vomit, as it reminds her of Kazuya and she avoids their sight. Since the Imposter isn’t Kazuya, she has no idea what to make of them.

Kazuya looks at Byakuya and asks him to return his sister and everything he stole from him, starting with the Kudan. The Imposter also gets in it out as well, since they desire the Kudan as well.This is because, at least how Shinobu sees it, since the Kudan is the secret behind the Togami’s family prosperity:

If you can’t get it, even if you don’t understand it, you can’t really become Byakuya Togami.

“Answer me, Mr. Authentic, where is the ‘Kudan’?”

“Answer me, Byakuya Togami, where is the ‘Kudan’?”

As both demand it, Shinobu notes that the two seems to be acting less like those who want to become Byakuya Togami, but rather those who want to become his enemy.

Byakuya answers that he sealed the Kudan away, since he doesn’t need it to dominate the world. As such, Kazuya demands it back since he found it, though Byakuya believes the knowledge of the Kudan’s prophecy is worthless since the future can’t be changed regardless of one knowing or not. While this is happening, Shinobu looks up information about the Kudan. 

Borges = Search Results

#69010922

Classification data

Title "About the various Kudans (short version)"

It seems that you do not understand the meaning of the prophecy.

No matter how many methods are tried and how many means are used, it cannot stop it. This is the prophecy.

——TORI MIKI's Banquet in Parsifal [10]

Kazuya argues that even if one is destined for failure, they would still be able to minimize the loss thanks to the Kudan’s prophecy given him a warning. Byakuya just insults him and calls him a defeatist that was needed to face reality. To prove his point, he then he wraps the handcuffs he is wearing around Shinobu’s neck, and pulls with strength. Shinobu however is loving it, because of how close Byakuya is.

"You have been escaping from reality all this time. I want you to see it clearly,” Byakuya says “Look carefully: this woman, ‘Blue Ink', belongs to me, so I can even treat her like this."

Byakuya-sama raised my head up and rubbed against my cheek. Ah, now i'm really sweating, this feels weird.

Kazuya’s exploding blood vessels appeared on his forehead, and hid glasses trembled without him having to touch them. No, his whole body was shaking, from the top of his head to his fingertips. This was, without a doubt, a sign of true madness. Kazuya’s body trembled, staring at us intently.

“Hey!”

I heard such a voice, and in the next moment, the table was cut into two halves from the middle. The cake and the teacups flew around, and the fake Byakuya screamed with a clearly frustrated voice, "Gah, I haven't finished eating yet!"

Kazuya’s right hand… It’s the same...

The same light sword as that time.

My brothers and sisters, murdered in cold blood with that very sword.

"Your lives... are now in the palm of my hand. So, will you be dying now? Do you want to Die? Answer me."

"My my, what a strange sword that is. How did you manage to pull that party trick off."

"I cannot wait to slit your goddamn throat."

Kazuya approached us with that lightsaber in hand. Byakuya-sama, in Kazuya’s blind fury, whispered quietly into my ear.

“Wait for me.”

Then he finally let me go. Kazuya has snorted and repeatedly gasped in a mixture of pure anger and sexual excitement, restraining the impulse to use the sword on his hand immediately. His expression was so distorted, it looked like a twisted laugh.

"There is still a long time before we arrive in the Netherlands. Now, Shinobu, it’s only been for years since we last met, but let us continue where we left off… Nice and slowly…” [11]

Translation notes:

[0] Couldn’t find the actual quote in english but hopefully this will suffice.

[1] The Yalta Conference, also known as the Crimea Conference and code-named the Argonaut Conference, held February 4–11, 1945, was the World War II meeting of the heads of government of the United States, the United Kingdom, and the Soviet Union to discuss the postwar reorganization of Germany and Europe. The aim of the conference was to shape a post-war peace that represented not just a collective security order but a plan to give self-determination to the liberated peoples of post-Nazi Europe. The meeting was intended mainly to discuss the re-establishment of the nations of war-torn Europe. However, within a few short years, with the Cold War dividing the continent, Yalta became a subject of intense controversy.

[2] Chapter VII of the United Nations Charter sets out the UN Security Council's powers to maintain peace. It allows the Council to "determine the existence of any threat to the peace, breach of the peace, or act of aggression" and to take military and nonmilitary action to "restore international peace and security". Chapter VII also gives the Military Staff Committee responsibility for strategic coordination of forces placed at the disposal of the UN Security Council. It is made up of the chiefs of staff of the five permanent members of the Council.

[3] The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) was a United Nations court of law dealing with war crimes that took place during the conflicts in the Balkans in the 1990s. During its mandate, which lasted from 1993 - 2017, it irreversibly changed the landscape of international humanitarian law, provided victims an opportunity to voice the horrors they witnessed and experienced, and proved that those suspected of bearing the greatest responsibility for atrocities committed during armed conflicts can be called to account.

[4] Pol Pot was a Cambodian revolutionary and politician who governed Cambodia as the Prime Minister of Democratic Kampuchea between 1976 and 1979. Ideologically a Marxist–Leninist and Khmer nationalist, he was a leading member of Cambodia's communist movement, the Khmer Rouge, from 1963 until 1997 and served as the General Secretary of the Communist Party of Kampuchea from 1963 to 1981. Under his administration, Cambodia was converted into a one-party communist state governed according to Pol Pot's interpretation of Marxism-Leninism. 

[5] The International Court of Justice (ICJ),sometimes called the World Court, is the principal judicial organ of the United Nations (UN). The ICJ's primary functions are to settle international legal disputes submitted by states (contentious cases) and give advisory opinions on legal issues referred to it by the UN (advisory proceedings). Through its opinions and rulings, it serves as a source of international law. It is located in The Hague, in The Netherlands.

[6] Japanese food culture believes that food is placed and eaten at a table. It’s extremely unsightly to lean over, or on the floor or elsewhere, because that is where dogs eat.

[7] The full name is the Infectious Disease Prevention and Control Unit (IDCU).

[8] You don’t get an explanation for the sage plan so my guess is it's referring to Izuru. Also I wasn't sure if it’s actually translated as Sage Plan but thats what im going with for now.

[9] Slavoj Žižek is a Slovenian philosopher, currently a researcher at the Department of Philosophy of the University of Ljubljana Faculty of Arts, and International Director of the Birkbeck Institute for the Humanities of the University of London. He is also Global Eminent Scholar at Kyung Hee University in Seoul. He works in subjects including continental philosophy, political theory, cultural studies, psychoanalysis, film criticism, Marxism, Hegelianism and theology.

[10] Parsifal is an opera in three acts by German composer Richard Wagner, who you would know for composing Suisei Nanamura’s ever favourite “Die Valkyrie”. It is loosely based on Parzival by Wolfram von Eschenbach, a 13th-century epic poem of the Arthurian knight Parzival (Percival) and his quest for the Holy Grail (12th century). This exact book by TORI MIKI, however, does not exist, at least, not in this Reality.

[11] So it looks like you weren’t supposed to like Kazuya **AFTER ALL** TV Tropes?

To Be Continued.

https://drmedicsgamesurgery.tumblr.com/GameSurgeryDRTranslations

[study-lit]

how to edexcel a level lit: prose comparative essay

wow, back with another semi useful post! :) I’ll use my mock essay as an example of what I mean -- warning: this will be really wordy.

question: compare the ways in which the authors of your two chosen texts criticise human behaviour. you must relate your discussion to relevant contextual factors. (40 marks)

INTRODUCTION: In my view, the introduction is difficult to get right, but it pays off when done well. This is the first bit of your paper that the examiner will read; setting out your thesis well in your introduction lets them know what you’re about.

Human nature, according to Richard Dawkins, is dictated by an ‘unrivaled selfishness’, the internalised want which focuses humanity on its goal of personal success seeps into the functions of us, as humans.

In my opening sentence, I focus on the topic of the question. In this mock, I misinterpreted ‘human behaviour’ and replaced it with ‘human nature’, but really this didn’t impact my mark too badly. It’s good to show some sense of critical theory, but in terms of the assessment objectives, this isn’t imperative like it is in the drama exam.

This ‘selfishness’ is utilised in both Mary Shelley’s ‘Frankenstein’ and Margaret Atwood’s ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ to, perhaps, demonstrate the innate failure of human nature in that its natural state, individualism, even when well meant, creates a catastrophic outcome for both the protagonist, and wider society.

Then, I relate the critical theory to the texts. How do the authors present human behaviour? As the topic title is ‘Science and Society’, I make sure to get in ‘wider society’ in order to demonstrate I am aware of what I was taught.

For an A/low A*, that’s all you need to do. I am going on my teacher’s marking, but for this essay I got 36/40, a low A* if an A* is 90%.

BODY:

I’m going to use one point from my essay, as I wrote two rather long points. I’d try for three or four points (a side and a half for each text per point), but three is probably the happy medium.

Thesis/Comparison:

I try to write a paragraph of direct comparison before I go into the individual texts and their relationship to my thesis. In this case, I break it into two parts:

Humanity’s selfishness directly contributes to the so-called ‘amity-enmity complex’, the social state which dictates individual societal positions.

My point is about the demonstration of the amity-enmity complex in both books, so I make this clear, and define what it means.

Both Shelley and Atwood commentate on the effect the utilisation of ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’ has on the individual, perhaps products of their respective contexts: the Religious Right of 1980s America dictated collaboration of White Christians in order to rule over homosexuals or people of colour, whilst Victorian Britain’s main entertainment was the ever-popular ‘freak show’, where those predisposed were taunted for their bosses to make money quickly.

Here, I compare the texts and relate it to the books’ contexts in order to get those AO3 and AO4 marks. Plus, it shows the examiner that I’m clearly considering the methods used in both texts, not just one or the other.

Text One - Frankenstein:

This is long, so I’ll try and break it up...

In ‘Frankenstein’, Shelley utilises Victor’s monster in order to demonstrate the roots of the eventual downfall Victor’s family succumbs to, creating a societal outsider whom Victor shuns. “His hair was a lustrous black [...] teeth of a pearly white [...] these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes” -- Shelley juxtaposes the traits deemed attractive by society with the ‘watery eyes’, a trait common found when crying. The appearance of the Monster -- by which everyone treats him (’wretched daemon’) -- invokes Victor’s amity-enmity complex, which itself, in shunning his newly born Creature, begins the events -- as mirrored in The Handmaid’s Tale -- of the oppressed rising against the oppressor.

So, here, I make my main point: the amity-enmity complex pushes the Creature to revolt against his ruling class (Victor), and in turn sets in motion the events of the rest of the text. Pretty standard stuff (or at least I think so)!

For instance, later in Shelley’s work, the Monster laments that “even Satan has accomplices; fellow demons [...] I am abhorred by all,” a personal outlook imposed by Victor’s human nature to shun those who are different. In his own self interest -- hiding his ‘damned’ creation -- Victor contributes to the creation of the ‘beast’ who leaves Elizabeth, William and Clerval ‘lifeless’, just like the Creature began his lifetime.

Here, I’ve linked my main point to an example further on the text, and rounded it off. Shelley criticises Victor’s human behaviour of abandoning his ‘son’, and punishes him through the tragedy his family (and Clerval, who is totally his gay lover and you can’t tell me otherwise) succumb to.

Text Two - The Handmaid’s Tale:

This point is like 2 and 1/2 sides... your points don’t need to be this long, I just got a bit carried away.

As aforementioned, the amity-enmity complex makes an appearance in ‘The Handmaid’s Take’ where it, too, leads to an outsider rising against the ruling class. Whilst Offred is not an as explicitly an ‘outsider’ like the Creature, her use as a Handmaid creates the divide between those who rule and conform (the Commanders and their Wives) and those who serve (the Handmaids and Marthas). The room Offred resides in, and its contents, demonstrates a ‘return to traditonal (New Right Christian) values’: works of ‘folk art, archaic made by women’ out of things ‘that have no further use [...] waste not, want not.’ The proverb ‘waste not, want not’ and design of things from materials no longer used under the Gileadian regime reflects the commodity of the women used as Handmaids: they’re all ‘sisters dripped in blood’, pairs that ‘mirror’ one another, a group of people who are, by the amity-enmity complex, pulled from the fringes of society (Janine was raped, Offred married a divorcee) and forced into a collective for abuse by their superiors, who joined Gilead when it was little more than a segment of the Moral Majority of Reagan’s day.

If I’m honest, I still don’t quite understand why I got marks for this point, as my language analysis is not quite as developed as I feel it should be. In some ways, this could cover the ao1: I talk about my point - the amity enmity complex’s means of splitting society into groups, and back it up with some loosely relating quotes. I don’t get to the meat of my point until this bit:

Offred, by name, is a possession. Thus, the blatant societal divisions present in Atwood’s text helps assist in creating ‘Mayday’, a rebellion against Gilead’s bourgeoisie. It is Offred, like Shelley’s Creature, whose ostracisation is a catalyst for the events which culminate in the Historial Notes: ‘the past is a great darkness’ which no longer exists. As such, the means of reproduction, and creating a social hierarchy through the view that Handmaids are a commodity, due to human nature’s amity-emnity complex, leads to the felling of a successful society.

This makes more sense: jumping to conclusions and treating people as ‘lesser’ will result in a communist-esque revolution. In referencing the whole text, I can gain provide the examiner with proof that I’m considering all of the text.

Thus, both authors’ texts reflect on the existence of humanity’s prejudices as a direct cause of societal failure and familial tragedy, criticising the human nature of having powerful ‘insiders’, and ostracised ‘outsiders’.

I always culminate my points in explaining the explicit point I’m making.

CONCLUSION:

Here, you’re not just summing up your essay. If your teacher has told you that’s the case, then by all means listen to them, but maybe try this format once. My conclusions come as ‘why should you care, then?’

Human behaviour is, ultimately, criticised in both Shelley and Atwood’s texts as detrimental to the surivival of the individual, but also creates change in the world around them. Both Victor and Offred succumb to the demise often ascribed to Machiavellian villains who practise self-preservation at all costs. Their fates do, arguably, come as a direct result of the actions they take due to their human nature.

I don’t actually mention Machiavelli elsewhere in the essay; I saw this opportunity to leave the examiner (in this case my teacher) with a potential reading. Are Victor and Offred Machiavellian due to their determination to survive over everyone else? Possibly.

I like to make the fact that the authors are telling us, the reader, why we should/shouldn’t be like their characters the final sentence of my conclusion.

As such, through a demonstration of key human attributes such as desrire and the amity-enmity complex, Shelley and Atwood criticise the actions of their own creations whilst giving their readers their own warning: we, too, are prediposed with these traits, and thus have the ability to destroy as well as create.

well, there you go! a breakdown of my essay with “helpful” tips. I hope this assists you guys in your a level or even gives you some new ideas!

[aion-rsa]

Zack Snyder’s Justice League: Why It’s Better Than the Joss Whedon Cut

https://ift.tt/3lqZB9g

This article contains spoilers for zack snyder’s justice league.

The long-awaited Snyder Cut is here at last. After nearly four years of rumors, innuendos, hints, allegations, online harassment, and everything else that’s good and bad about fandom, Zack Snyder’s Justice League has been willed into existence by the filmmaker and his legions of fans.

Four hours long–one for each year you’ve had to endure the clamor of Snyder acolytes demanding the filmmaker’s vision be restored–Zack Snyder’s Justice League is the ultimate version of the movie that Snyder never completed in 2017. Instead the version of the film that reached theaters was a truncated, patched-together mess that nearly stopped the DC cinematic universe in its tracks.

If you detect a bit of snark in the preceding paragraph, you’re not off-base. The very notion that a vocal contingent of fans could make enough noise to actually get a version of a piece of art or entertainment in their preferred format opens a proverbial Pandora’s box. Everyone treats whenever fans sign online petitions to get movies, television finales, or the like remade as jokes. But a cynic might wonder if the Snyder Cut gets us closer to that happening.

There is of course a key difference between Snyder finishing his passion project and other flair ups between fans and creators: The Justice League that came out in 2017 was a Frankenstein’s Monster of a movie, with half of the finished picture rewritten and reshot by a director (Joss Whedon) with a completely different tone and approach. This occurred after Snyder had to abandon it due to a terrible family tragedy–which, in the most cynical version of this tale, the studio (Warner Bros.) saw as an opportunity to hijack the film and retool it to their liking.

So now that Zack Snyder’s Justice League is a thing, with the original director restoring hours of footage that he shot (and adding some freshly filmed material at the end) while throwing out everything he didn’t, there is one question that burns as fiercely and brightly as the raging eyes of Darkseid himself: Is it better than the 2017 theatrical version, aka the Whedon Compromise?

The answer is unequivocally yes.

Now that doesn’t automatically make ZSJL a good film. Nor does it necessarily make the Whedon version a wholly bad one–but there’s no question that the 2017 version suffers greatly and is diminished by comparison. In fact, it’s almost not fair to call that version the “Whedon” one; regardless of the man’s personal controversies, it seems apparent that he was put in an almost impossible position when he was recruited to finish Justice League back then.

Whedon was tasked by the studio to make a movie more like his own The Avengers out of material that couldn’t be more different in terms of tone, visual style, pacing, and structure. He was also asked to recreate what Marvel had taken six movies to do: introduce and assemble a team of superheroes all in a single film and in less than two hours (minus credits). And he did that by stitching together footage that was already shot by a different director with scenes that he had to craft almost on the fly, all with a desperate, panicking studio breathing down his neck. Whedon could have summoned Scorsese, Coppola, and the ghosts of Hitchcock and Kubrick to help him solve it and it still might have defeated him.

The result was a movie that was the soulless, corporate product that critics accuse all Hollywood blockbusters, particularly superhero movies, of being–but which most are decidedly not. Whedon’s own The Avengers is proof that a studio can make a heartfelt, earnest, charming, and still awe-inspiring spectacle with the right people, story, and vision in place. The vision behind 2017’s Justice League–which does have its lively moments and does benefit in some ways from better pacing (but is ultimately hurt more by its shortened running time)–is a vision only of bottom lines and quarterly profits.

So, yes, ZSJL is the better movie. For one thing, it’s clearly a personal work. Whatever one thinks of Snyder’s directorial vision and peculiar take on superheroes, it’s all there on the screen and unashamedly his, just as Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice and, to a lesser extent, Man of Steel were. The fact that the DC film franchise has long moved past his approach doesn’t necessarily factor into ZSJL. It stands alone.

On its own terms, it hits all the marks that Snyder probably wanted to hit. The story and several of the characters are developed much more than they ever were in the 2017 edition. True, a lot of exposition is needed to make that story more cohesive and complete than it was before, but there are plenty of new visuals to go along with that foundation building as well. There is much more representation here of the full breadth of the DC universe, from ancient gods to Jack Kirby’s Fourth World.

The back story of Darkseid and the Mother Boxes, and the first battle for Earth with the Atlanteans, the Amazons, and everyone else somehow seems better articulated and executed. The connective tissue joining Darkseid’s quest to that of his lackey Steppenwolf–tying it all to the death of Superman, whose removal from the board cleared the way for Steppenwolf to return–is strengthened. Bruce Wayne’s quest to put together the team to defend the planet takes longer and has more steps to it, making it feel like much more of a challenge than it did four years ago.

Warner Bros. Pictures

Some of that team are given much better treatment this time, with Victor Stone/Cyborg getting the most out of the deal. He truly does become the heart of the picture in many ways, getting two extensive flashbacks that are equal parts elegant and clumsy but do a lot to round out a character who was little more than a special effect in 2017.

Ray Fisher’s performance is assured and graceful, and one can now see why he is so angry about what happened with the theatrical cut: it’s quite possible that some backroom studio committee meeting came up with a variation of “we can’t have an unknown take up so much space in a movie starring Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman.”

Ezra Miller’s Barry Allen/the Flash also has more to do than make jokes, although the much-ballyhooed introduction of Iris West (Kiersey Clemons) is little more than a walk-on, seen once and never heard from again (there’s a bit of that going around in this picture). Similarly, Lois Lane’s grief over the death of Clark/Superman is explored with somewhat more depth, although an otherwise poignant scene between her and Martha Kent (Diane Lane) is nearly ruined by a pointless twist.

Aquaman (Jason Momoa) and Wonder Woman (Gal Gadot) are less developed here, and their characterizations clash with what we’ve seen since in their standalone movies. There is a much more melancholy resonance to the absence of and longing for Superman. And although he’s still no Thanos in terms of complexity and nuance, Steppenwolf at least has a clearer motivation in this film. He just wants to get back on the boss’ good side, which kind of makes him weirdly amusing in a movie notable for its almost complete lack of humor.

All the banter that Whedon wrote and shot–the flirting between Bruce and Diana on the plane, Aquaman sitting on the Lasso of Truth–is gone. There are still some laugh lines in the movie, but ZSJL is as self-serious and grimdark as Snyder’s previous two DC entries. That makes it feel heavy-handed, as does Snyder’s deployment of agonizing slow-motion for so many scenes that it feels like he could have lost an hour just by speeding up the film. The colors are murky, mostly brown and gray, and while a number of visual effects are pulled off handsomely and seamlessly, this is supposed to feel mythic but ends up feeling just artificial more often than not.

But most importantly, the story and characters in this Justice League are still ill-served by the way the film was conceived in the first place. Even though our heroes are overall given more to do, this is still a movie that has to introduce three of those heroes, their backstories, and their worlds in one fell swoop. There’s no sense of culmination or victory in seeing them together, like there was in The Avengers. And in the end, Steppenwolf’s pursuit of three magic boxes just doesn’t carry the entire four hours.

Read more

Movies

Zack Snyder’s Justice League vs. the Whedon Cut: What are the Differences?

By David Crow

Movies

Zack Snyder’s Justice League: A History of Steppenwolf

By Marc Buxton

For all the world-building that Snyder (and screenwriter Chris Terrio) do, the placement of the “Knightmare” epilogue and its Joker cameo undermine everything that has come before, and undermine the character of Superman again. By the time the movie’s ending rolls around, Snyder is still basically saying that our heroes are going to keep letting us down–especially poor Superman, who’s going to turn evil in the future after being killed off and brought back once already as a rage monster. The addition of a Martian Manhunter cameo (his second!) at the very end is also superfluous, pointless fan service.

It certainly seems as if Snyder put every scrap of footage he shot into this version of his magnum opus, and perhaps that is what it took to give him closure, both for the film and for the unspeakable loss he endured while making it (there is a poignancy now to the movie’s major plot point of trying to bring back someone from the dead). But just because he could do it doesn’t mean he should have. Incredible as it seems, there may be an even better two-and-a-half or even three-hour cut of this Justice League that we’ll never see.

As it stands though, this one we now have will be the one spoken about in the years to come. Meanwhile the 2017 version will fade into history as an oddity. And that is, in the final analysis, the way it should be.

Zack Snyder’s Justice League is now streaming on HBO Max.

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[anangelicday-mrwolf]

Wolfsbane : Noblesse Fanfic (post-ending)

(previous chapter)

Chapter 19 – To Be Like Me

“Welcome, Lady Seira. I’ve been expecting you.”

Deneb smiled at the newcomer, his face beyond dead-pallid thanks to the contrast his black outfit provided, stylized in a way commonly worn for events.

“I appreciate that you have come. Your presence tonight will without a doubt cast an all-revealing light upon this gathering and this very mansion, like a moon printed upon the cloudless sky. Now please, this way.”

Click, click. Tap, tap.

The corridor echoed with auditory frictions that clearly conveyed the difference in the levels of their heels.

As he guided Seira, Deneb repeatedly peeked at her.

‘Every time I see her, I can’t help marveling how beautiful she is.’

Seira donned for the night a dress composed in Lukedonian fashion, instead of a robe that she would wear as a head of her clan for meetings at the Lord’s Hall.

Not too extravagant, yet graceful enough thanks to laces and ornaments of perfect quantity and size, beautifully synergistic with her calm atmosphere.

She was like a flower sent from heaven.

And Deneb was dying to wrench the said flower to brand as eternally his.

‘If only I could make her mine and mine only. What a pleasure it would be!’

But he knew it was not the time yet to reveal what he has been nurturing within. Until then, he promised to himself, he shall keep his gardening knife as sharp as possible.

They soon arrived at the “party room,” and Deneb opened the door for Seira.

“Lady Seira J. Loyard has arrived.”

Seira’s eyes grew upon entrance; tables and sofas occupied with nobles filled the room, larger than she had thought.

The heads of non-octaclans, their wives, and their children old enough to behave in parties were all clutching teacups or delicacies in their hands, bringing about quite a friendly mood.

It reminded Seira of the time she had spent outside Lukedonia. And she was not anticipating this.

“I heard this is how humans often seek friendship and companionship.”

Seira by now would have usually questioned the source of his knowledge. Alas, her heart so far frozen in loneliness managed to thaw little, which was more than enough to blind it from a mysterious truth.

Deneb learned from Yuhyung during his stay at Lukedonia that Seira used to enjoy the company of her human friends every single day. Thus he calculated she would be suffering from loneliness ever since her return: a perfect condition for him to lay stepping stones before her, towards the arch he is longing for.

Of course, he was not the sole noble who sought to woo the Loyard.

Beneath the pacific atmosphere that meets the eyes of Lukedonians is an invisible tempest of power struggle among the non-octaclans, applicable to a lot, if not all or most of them. There have been – and there are – silent war cries and cacophonies of steels in their quest to nest in the Lord’s Hall, which exacerbated ever since the Tradio clan redeemed itself and reclaimed its spot.

To these challengers’ disappointment, their influences, menpower, and name values are much below those of the octaclans, like comparing a mere fly to a falcon.

So they naturally turned to plan B: securing a marital relationship with the last surviving Loyard on earth, who would be anxious to save her clan from extinction, and whose name would provide a spotlight brilliant enough to shed a light upon a new spot that has yet to be claimed in the Lord’s Hall.

Hence so many of the non-octaclans decided to attend. However, there was one thing they have failed to put into account; Deneb knew what would be brewing in their heads. And he invited them on purpose, to try to spark a relationship with Seira and demonstrate that none of them can speak or flirt like he can. He was so very determined to make Seira, the Loyard clan, and a new spot at the Lord’s Hall his.

True to his intention, he did not leave Seira’s side. Whenever a head or an heir of a clan dared to strike up a conversation with his prize, he ruthlessly thwarted him with his gift in speech and maneuvering of company. And so far he has successfully marked in everyone’s head that Illiness is the most supreme among the non-octaclans.

Everyone was thereby beyond displeased that their goal was right there for them to reach out, only to be barricaded thanks to a nuisance that prevailed whenever they attempted.

And then something changed.

“Look! Over there.”

“It’s Sir Rael.”

Sir Rael?

Seira’s hand trembled, as she was sipping out of her cup in a very experienced manner.

She knew what Rael was like. She would not say that she knew him as much as she knew Regis, but she had spent enough time with him under Frankenstein’s roof in Korea, enough to say that she now knows him better.

So she could swear that Rael is not at all a type to enjoy such a gathering. And she saw no reason for him to say yes to an invitation from a clan that had no connection with the Kertias whatsoever.

So she automatically darted her eyes at the door to witness the result of a highly extraordinary phenomenon, soon to blink with curiosity.

Rael was dressed in a social outfit, like any other noble in the scene. What captured Seira’s eyes, however, was the fact that he brushed his hair back, with his bang fixed at a side of his face. Which is why for a split second she mistook him for Razark.

Apparently she was not the only one.

“He looks like...”

“He resembles Sir Razark very much.”

“I guess bloodline never lies.”

Some female nobles were even blushing at the very handsome sight the new guest presented, and Deneb strode up towards him.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

In reality, he was endeavoring to hide his fluster.

‘What is this? I can bet he was not on my to-invite list. Could it be that the patriarchs of Kertias did something about this?’

That was good enough for him to dissect what is lurking in the patriarch’s mind in the speed of light, and he began to come up with a solution even faster.

It was a widespread fact that Rael Kertia has been courting Seira for as long as anyone could remember. Therefore, most of the nobles at the place were not very happy to see him. In terms of the standing point, influence, and connection to the Loyard clan, he was the sure-finalist to this competition of their own to win Seira.

Knowing that too well, Deneb was not willing to welcome Rael into the battlefield.

But first he led Rael to an empty seat in the room, and much to Seira’s disbelief, Rael did not even glance at her as he passed her at close.

“I didn’t think I’d get to see you, sir. You see... Apologies. I mean no offense, but I’ve never taken you for a type to take pleasure in something like this.”

“...Time has passed. And it left behind a change.”

“A change? I’m not sure how you will take this, but this is marvelous. Isn’t that right?”

Deneb so very suavely looked around at the audience keen on their conversation. Nevertheless, no one was willing to take the leash from him.

The Kertias were still in tumult, and Rael has yet to find peace for his clan and his position. But there was no denying that he is a pure descent of Kertias; no one was bold enough to willingly challenge the prestige Rayga and Razark had built.

However, there is bound to be a person or two that has been born without the ability to get the hang of the mood. Two young nobles who would surely earn a thwack or two on the back once they go home took the risk for Deneb.

“You are absolutely right. Before you became a head of your clan, Sir Rael, you were so...”

“You were such a troublemaker.”

Appalled faces swung back and forth between Rael and the two speakers, but Rael’s face was as serene as it could be.

He had already told himself that he must not avoid what his past has been saving for him.

“You are more than correct. And I regret the fact at least thousands of times a day.”

Everyone seemed more than ready to smash their heads with the saucers or rinse their ears with the tea. THE Rael Kertia oh-so-gently responded to a comment that was by means nothing less than a mockery-slash-taunt.

If this happened to be a different situation, Rael would have basked in applause lauding his maturity and raked in praises like a farmer raking in acorns in autumn.

However, at this moment his action was nothing more than an assurance that no matter what they say to him tonight, Rael would never lunge towards their throats to “teach them a lesson” like he used to.

Feeling like breaking stuff or two because of their failure in approaching Seira, let alone appealing to her, the nobles gladly threw themselves at a new punching bag Deneb flung for them.

“It is completely understandable.”

“To tell you the truth, I remember lamenting more than a number of times whenever I heard news about you in the past.”

“It’s a shame that you have wasted your time so far.”

Flaunting his power like some stupid teenager to young nobles.

Pursuing a disgrace-of-noblekind-named-Ignes in the past.

These were just two of the dozens of weapons the nobles picked against him.

And Seira watch them. She watched how Rael stood steady on his ground despite the nobles’ comments that grew more vicious every second.

However, he started losing his ground when Deneb quoted something that touched on his trauma.

“But here you are, sir. Kertias would be ecstatic. If only Sir Razark were here to...”

Then Deneb stage-slapped his mouth with his hand, to pose that he made a mistake, and the atmosphere froze in an instant.

Which was, however, nothing compared to the ice exploding through Rael’s veins at the moment.

“Speaking of which, Sir Razark’s death was a grave tragedy.”

Rael’s hands covering the teacup, a measurement he took so he could buy his time to reply to the noble’s biting words while pretending to wet his lips, started to quiver.

He placed both his hands on his knees to stop the tremor, but Deneb’s eyes were too acute for him to fool.

His every word began to cut deep into Rael’s heart.

“Still, Sir Razark would be as contented as he could be to see you like this.”

Would he? Ever since my return, I’ve been nothing but incompetence.

“I haven’t been a head of my clan for that long, but if I were to give you a support as a more experienced one, just keep going. That’s good enough for you.”

That’s right. If I manage to stay out of trouble, that would be more than enough. My past was that disastrous. You are such a disgrace, Rael Kertia.

“And please, don’t be so disheartened. Sir Razark may lie in eternal sleep, but he is always with you in your soul weapon.”

Rael could not keep his face straight anymore.

The idea that has been tormenting him once in a while even after his return – the obsession that would return on a regular basis to torture his head as he lies in bed started to spasm.

Razark wouldn’t have died if I forfeited my Grandia for him ages ago.

The dam that has been securing his nightmare from awakening was crumbling. Rael ended up yielding his teacup a little roughly and stood.

“...I appreciate your invitation, but I would like to take my leave now. Please forgive me.”

The edges of his outfit left behind breeze as chilly as his heart as he rushed outside.

‘Just as planned.’

Deneb brushed his face with his hand, faking bafflement, as he smiled in secret. The other nobles looked pleased as well, the most powerful competitor now gone. They savored victory in their improvised alliance, until Seira’s teacup resonated against the table.

“Lady Seira?”

“Forgive me, Sir Deneb. But I must leave now.”

Every pair of eyes in the room instantaneously lost its focus.

“B-but why?”

“We still have time.”

“This gathering was reserved for you and you only!”

Deneb tried to stop Seira, more than ready to kneel if demanded, but Seira was smoothing out her dress for movement.

“My appreciations, but I believe this is not where I am required right now. Now please excuse me.”

Leaving behind a polite bow of her head, Seira did not even look back as she walked away, and dead silence wrapped the room.

One of the nobles threw an unpleasant stare at Deneb for ruining his chances, only to stiffen in surprise. Deneb was glaring at the direction that Seira took, his face immediately stony. His eyes were smoldering with dark rage and gluttony, terribly unmatching with his skin.

*****

“Sir.”

Rael started at a familiar voice.

“I see you are still here.”

Rael could not tell her why he was lingering. He had no place to go; the patriarchs would be more than dissatisfied to see him back so fast.

“Are you alright?”

In normal occasions, he would have softened just by her question. At the moment, however, he felt uneasy just by standing in her presence.

But he was not heartless enough to shut out a person caring for him, so he decided to come up with excuses good enough to send her away.

“I appreciate your concerns. And... My apologies for causing you concern.”

Seira flinched a little.

She has never looked for him before he did, save the day when she offered him her shoulders once they learned about Razark’s death.

It was much thanks to his have-it-all-my-goddamn-way personality.

Nonetheless, right now she felt it would be so much better to see him like his past self. In spite of his glamorous looks, he could not appear more devastated. He was obviously on the edge of his seat, like a child scared that he will get scolded at the slightest thing.

This is not Sir Rael.

“Please, don’t mind what they said.”

“I should do that, but...”

Rael unleashed the heaviest of a sigh.

“My former head of Kertias would have been much wiser and more assertive with his responses.”

“Please don’t blame yourself like that, sir. Nobody would have left the scene unscathed back there. Right now, this... This isn’t like you, sir.”

That moment Rael felt something breaking within him.

The dam that was crumbling was finally down to the mantle.

“Not like me...?”

Rael growl-whispered with his head drooped.

“Not like a noble. Not like a head of a clan. Not like a Kertia. Not like the brother of my former head of Kertias. Not like the son of my former head of Kertias.”

Seira gaped in surprise as his voice whipped up an increasingly violent emission of emotions.

“So what am I supposed to do? I’m reaping what I have sowed. Yes, I know that. That’s why I’m trying. But nobody is realizing that I’m trying. What more am I supposed to do from here? Just... Just......”

Rael’s head frantically spun towards Seira, and she was stunned the moment she met his eyes.

She could detect not the tiniest hint of tears, but Rael’s eyes were weeping.

“Just what more am I supposed to do from here? What do you want me to do? What in the world do you want from me? Just what am I? What am I supposed to be to be like me?!”

After a rushed cry, Rael was breathing harshly, his fists balled into a tight globe.

As a brief silence passed by, Rael’s face turned gray, upon noticing what he has done.

“...Lady Seira, I...”

Seira said nothing as he fumbled with his words.

“I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry. I swear. I wasn’t blaming... I... I wasn’t... I...”

Eyes lost at what to do, Rael soon gave up and let his shoulders slouch.

“I’m sorry I was what I wasn’t supposed to be. I’m... I’m terribly sorry.”

Seira still said nothing.

“Allow me to take my leave now. I wish you a pleasant night...”

With his final remark, Rael’s entire body vanished, not even leaving behind a breeze.

There was no way for Seira to catch up to him; the noble fled the scene, even putting at work the speed and elusive body coordination endowed to the Kertias.

And Seira had no intention of catching him.

Standing still to gaze towards his back that she lost already, Seira removed herself from the forest, like a lifeless ghost.

(next chapter)

For this chapter, I wanted to show what Deneb’s goal is and what the hierarchy and power struggle of Lukedonia are like. The majority of Noblesse’s plot centered on the heads of clans and their clans during chapters that feature Lukedonia, and I wanted to show Lukedonian population and system outside the Lord’s Hall.

And I feel bad for Rael in this chapter :’( Sorry, Rael - but I promise this won’t last forever!

[tokupedia]

Japanese Hero Show Case: Tetsujin-28

The year is 1956, Japan was still recovering from World War II and Tokyo is getting a new landmark with the Tokyo Tower under construction and nearing completion. Akira Kurosawa and Godzilla made their marks on the world 2 years prior.

Amidst all this change, the shadow of the Second World War hung heavily over the nation after its defeat. Some became bitter, others mourned the immense loss of life of families and friends, some proclaimed their unending hatred of the US for being so cruel as to use them as a live testing target of a new weapon. Others who witnessed the horrors of the atomic bomb and the war or heard about it growing up developed an anti-war mentality, wanting to never again experience such tragedy and show the world why war was a bad thing. 

We know some of their names because of this thematic narrative: Ishiro Honda and Tomoyuki Tanaka with Godzilla, Yoshiyuki Tomino with Gundam, Shotaro Ishinomori with his Cyborg 009 manga and Go Nagai with Devilman who mused humanity will inevitably destroy itself if it succumbed to violence. Among those many names was Mitsuteru Yokoyama. 

Mr. Yokoyama is considered the template builder of many of the anime, tokusatsu and manga genres we now take for granted: Ninjas, Jidaigeki, supernatural and sci-fi, Magical girls and of course, humanoid robots that fight evil controlled by a human. 

While Go Nagai is credited as the father of the Super Robot Genre which expanded this to involve them being piloted from the inside by humans, Mitsuteru Yokoyama is the one of the origin points of our modern association of the island nation and robots with the other being the legendary Osamu Tezuka and his creation; Astro Boy.

In an interview with a Japanese magazine, the manga artist said the inspiration of his most beloved creation was one from the terror of war as a child. He said: 

"When I was a fifth-grader, the war ended and I returned home from Tottori Prefecture, where I had been evacuated. The city of Kobe had been totally flattened, reduced to ashes. People said it was because of the B-29 bombers...as a child, I was astonished by their terrifying, destructive power." 

Adding to this was his fascination of experimental vehicle superweapons the Nazis tested. Despite most of them being impractical or outlandish, their size and seemingly threatening appearance made the creative spark in his mind along with that childhood traumatic horror. A final inspiration was reading Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein, with Yokoyama feeling sympathetic to the Monster as he was not good or evil, just misunderstood and driven to evil by the cruelty of the world. This lead to the idea for a robot who was a superweapon made by the Japanese Imperial Military meant to destroy the Allies, but became a force for good for all mankind in the hands of the succeeding generation.

BIRU no machi ni GAOO  Yoru no HAIUEE ni GAOO DADADADA DAAN to tama ga kuru BABABABA BAAN to haretsu suru BYUUN to tondeku Tetsujin Nijuuhachi-gou!

Original Story: In the 1950s, Dr. Kaneda revealed to his son Shotaro that he had worked on an top-secret experiment during the last phases of the war that would have turned the tide in Japan’s favor had the atomic bombs not dropped and Japan surrendered. A series of powerful giant robots that would have crushed the Allied forces. 

Deciding that a device that was intended for war would be able to be used for peaceful purposes, Dr. Kaneda entrusted the 28th model and its remote to his son. Shotaro used it to stop crimes, disasters, kaiju and other robots that had been stolen, created for evil or fallen into the wrong hands. Shotaro is a famous genius private detective and despite this breaking all known reason, he can legally drive his 1953 Austin-Healey (or a Volante depending on the incarnation) around Tokyo despite being 10 years old. Shotaro also has to keep the remote on hand or others could use the powerful Tetsujin-28 for evil.

This story has been adapted several times. Aside from the manga, there was a 1960 tokusatsu TV show. The series is an interesting time capsule... if a bit primitive. See, while things like Godzilla could pull off the scale of giant things on the big silver screen, Japanese TV hadn’t perfected that trick just yet. It would take until Ultra Q and Ultraman to get it just right and the live action adaptation of Giant Robo (another Yokoyama creation) to give TV one of its first baby footsteps into live action giant robots. Thus this incarnation of Tetsujin-28 is giant...by only a foot or two. In other words, he was human sized, which I’m sure disappointed some fans.  Then there was the 1960s anime which was brought over to the US as Gigantor and rebroadcast years later on Cartoon Network. (Oldtaku love this show and have fond memories of it. Remember, without this series as one of the gateways, we wouldn’t have anime here!)

Its next retellings was in 2004 with a reboot anime that followed its own story and a 2005 live action movie that transplanted the events into the 2000s. 

An animated reboot film by Imagi Studios was planned, but ultimately terminated as the studio went bankrupt. Interestingly, the trailer showed it borrowed an element from Giant Robo by having Shotaro control Tetsujin-28 with a voice control radio wristwatch. 

The 1980 Reboot:

The Reboot moved the story into the 1980s and several things changed. First was Dr. Kaneda built Tetsujin-28 to fight aliens (WWII was a sensitive subject to some TV viewers) who wanted to destroy Earth and conquer the universe. Another change was Shotaro was a junior agent of Interpol. But the most radical change was the star of the show, slimmed down to a sleeker design and stronger than ever. Theme song is pretty good too, because its pure 80s rock/pop.

The TMS made sequel series- Tetsujin 28 FX:

It is the year 2002 and robotics technology has advanced rapidly since the time of Tetsujin-28 back in the ‘50s. Shotaro Kaneda is now a middle aged man who still uses his robot every now and then and mentors young kids to succeed him in his detective agency business and his wife is part of a tech company. Sakaki Electronics wants the children of the world to live by Shotaro’s example and protect the future with new robots. Unfortunately, said robot tech attracts the attention of evil aliens called the Neo Black Group who wish to use them for war. While old Tetsujin puts up a good fight, the tech he runs on is too old to be a match for the evil space menace on his own. Fortunately, a new and improved Tetsujin called the Iron Man Future X Project or Tetsujin-28 FX has been built and is controlled by Shotaro’s son Masato via a remote gun. Together along with thier friends and family, they fight the Neo Black Group to save the Earth! 

The original Tetsujin still puts up a good scrap and helps his successor when the situation calls for it, nice of TMS to not render the classic character useless.

(Like father like son!)

The series was planned by Yokoyama himself and is sort of a sequel to the 1960s anime. There is a G Gundam vibe as some of the mechs are very stereotypical, like Iron Eagle, the official robot of the United States of America controlled by Michael Justice! (No, I swear I am not making that name up.)

Look at him, red white and blue with gunmetal gray, covered in bullet bandoliers, has a fighter pilot helmet head and wields a shotgun weapon. All that is missing is a cheeseburger and a cowboy hat! 

There was another Tetsujin series recently..Tetsujin-28 go Gao!

But it is more comedy based and has slice of life scenarios. Outside of that, the famed robot did a live action ad for NTT’s wi-fi internet service in 2009.

Powers: Tetsujin-28 is made of a super steel alloy that makes him difficult, and in some cases near impossible, to damage. It has super strength from complex hydraulics that allows it to lift buildings or smash a robot with his bare hands! Tetsujin-28 can also fly using the rocket boosters on his back to carry Shotaro to wherever he needs to go at super speed.

As to be expected from the granddaddy of Japanese Robots, he is awesome based on the fact he doesn’t need any fancy weapons. Simple brute force gets the job done!

Weaknesses: Tetsujin can be controlled by someone else if the remote is stolen or its remote frequency is jammed and manipulated.  It also didn’t work well in the old days when a thunderstorm was going on as the lightning interfered with the signal and made it liable to get zapped. Since its body is made of super steel, intense heat can melt its armor. Lastly, Shotaro is both vulnerable to attack and needs to stay close to Tetsujin-28 in order for it to keep moving.

Tetsujin-28 is a classic character that has transcended its WWII origins and endured for over 60 years. Its influence is everywhere, from Akira to Pacific Rim. Here’s hoping we see more of the lovable potbellied robot in the future!

*flexes arms like Tetsujin-28*

[pigballoon]

Blade Runner 2049

(Denis Villeneuve, 2017)

Watch this movie in IMAX if you can. I don’t say this as someone who necessarily thinks that bigger is better, the images of the good lord Roger Deakins would hold up on an iPhone, but it’s an issue of sound. When watching this film in regular big screen fashion there are stretches, particularly early on during scenes set in bare, echo-y rooms, where dialogue proved often indecipherable (or maybe I just have really bad hearing) in IMAX this is not an issue. If you are not blessed with access to this grander format it’s not too great a tragedy as it’s a film in which a lot of the dialogue is not particularly essential to the linear understanding of the basics anyway, but in the opening act of a film when things are being set up it would be nice to be able to determine that for yourself.

Anyway, Denis Villeneuve’s latest moody epic is a film that sets its maker the arduous task of bringing to life a sequel to a film that stands as a classic of its genre, but probably more dauntingly the near impossible job of continuing a story its difficult to follow up without ruining the original work. It is at least safe and sort of undeniable in regards to that second point to say, that aided by original Blade Runner scribe Hampton Fancher, and Michael Green... He’s done it.

Despite the fact that it took its time to find its audience, the original adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?’ is one that through its many iterations over the course of the 25 years it took before Ridley Scott finally got the movie he wanted, was a trailblazer that followed up his earlier Alien by continuing to take back the science fiction genre on screen from the grand galactic adventures of the Star Wars and Star Trek franchises, and reestablish hellish, dystopian visions of the future grounded in the every day horrors of reality.

35 years after said groundbreaker first arrived it is basically impossible for any film to leave so large a mark either from a production standpoint, or a thematic one, given the near constant evolution of possibilities offered up in cinema via visual effects in the past quarter century, and the influx of numerous science fiction dramas influenced by the ever larger, ever more intricate impact of technology upon 21st century society.

Indeed, it’s probably 2049′s greatest failing that it’s hard to watch it without calling to mind the likes of Her, The Matrix, Snowpiercer, Children of Men, Ex Machina, and numerous others. All films that dealt in subject matter touched on here however heavily or briefly, and it’s that attempt to cover so much ground, the fact that it has so much on its mind, and tries to squeeze so much in there that to me leaves it a large, and sprawling disappointment.

That sprawling size should be noted. It’s a two hour forty minute movie, and it feels it too (Indeed it not only looks like the latter day version of an Andrei Tarkovsky movie - I got Nostalgia vibes in particular - but it also feels like one) Villeneuve lucky enough to get the time to play his ideas out on so grand a scale, with so large a budget, and so few apparent restrictions from suits, or concessions made for the average filmgoer. Those that call it a cross between a blockbuster and an arthouse movie are not wrong, it takes its sweet time in exploring all that it wants to explore, my issue is that because it approaches from so many angles it cannot even in 160 minutes go as satisfyingly in depth in any particular area as the movies mentioned above.

Like an arthouse movie it seems more about feelings that it conjures up in the viewer, whether via some seemingly throwaway line, or some glorious image, rather than satisfying via plot. It should be said that it does have a plot, a pretty intricate detective story full of twists and turns, but said plot seems something of a disappointment too, certainly to anyone familiar with the ideas introduced by the original movie that throw off the effects of its attempts at plot twists.

Still, it’s to the credit of the film that at least on a revisit once you are familiar with the story, and able to distance yourself from the central narrative you can use it probably as it’s primarily intended, less as particularly interesting story, and more simply as vessel for its creators to delve into the deeper ideas that they want to explore. In that regards it mostly works well, there’s a sort of Frankenstein/Pinocchio-ish type vibe that hangs over the whole thing, and there are a handful of scenes in there that achieve truly incredible impact (the “Her eyes were green” scene, the one where Ryan Gosling walks along a bridge and a billboard ruins his life, the one with the bees, the entire romantic subplot, particularly the sex scene) but it’s all connected by too much that doesn’t amount to enough to be worth it.

I don’t want to keep making comparisons with the original film, but Scott’s Blade Runner was a film that through the barest, simplest narrative went about exploring wonderfully complex ideas. This one you can say attempts to explore more complex ideas, but whether it needs so much more complex a plot in order to do that is up for debate. Ultimately it can’t comfortably fit it all in to a particularly satisfying degree, and so to me at least ends up feeling incomplete, a film of tremendous ideas that in spite of its nods to Nabokov’s Pale Fire doesn’t quite tie it all together on multiple levels the way that particular subtextual nugget might seem to be suggesting is the ultimate aim.

Still, Ryan Gosling is tremendously well cast in the central role, Harrison Ford looks far more interested and involved in his return to this role than he was the ones in Star Wars and Indiana Jones, and the quintet of actresses introduced - Robin Wright, Mackenzie Davis, Carla Juri, and the show stealing pair of Sylvia Hoeks, and Ana de Armas provide the movie with the majority of its thesping highlights, rounding out an ensemble probably slightly stronger than Scott’s overall with added but all too brief input from Dave Bautista, Hiam Abbass, Barkhad Abdi, Wood Harris, and David Dastmalchian. The one weak link is Jared Leto, his dialogue is bad, and he is worse. Operating on a whole different wave length to everyone else, and thankfully only in about 3 scenes in the whole movie.

And for me that stands as microcosm of the movie in general, a lot of good work spoiled by niggling little issues. If you’ve not seen all the movies that dabble in similar territory then maybe there is more to love here, but when you’re trying to squeeze so much into a movie how can any of it be entirely satisfying, and when a movie puts so much emphasis on plot, and on twists and turns it’s taking up that space that could have been put to better use, and convoluting things unnecessarily. Forget all the technological advancements that have taken place in cinema between 1982 and 2017, sometimes less really can lead to more.

[lostitfernmargetson]

Frankenstein

Frankenstein is written in the form of a frame story that starts with Captain Robert Walton writing letters to his sister. It takes place at an unspecified time in the 18th century, as the letters' dates are given as "17—". In the story following the letters by Walton, the readers find that Victor Frankenstein creates a monster that brings tragedy to his life.

In a series of letters, Robert Walton, the captain of a ship bound for the North Pole, recounts to his sister back in England the progress of his dangerous mission. Successful early on, the mission is soon interrupted by seas full of impassable ice. Trapped, Walton encounters Victor Frankenstein, who has been traveling by dog-drawn sledge across the ice and is weakened by the cold. Walton takes him aboard ship, helps nurse him back to health, and hears the fantastic tale of the monster that Frankenstein created.

Victor first describes his early life in Geneva. At the end of a blissful childhood spent in the company of Elizabeth Lavenza (his cousin in the 1818 edition, his adopted sister in the 1831 edition) and friend Henry Clerval, Victor enters the university of Ingolstadt to study natural philosophy and chemistry. There, he is consumed by the desire to discover the secret of life and, after several years of research, becomes convinced that he has found it.

Armed with the knowledge he has long been seeking, Victor spends months feverishly fashioning a creature out of old body parts. One climactic night, in the secrecy of his apartment, he brings his creation to life. When he looks at the monstrosity that he has created, however, the sight horrifies him. After a fitful night of sleep, interrupted by the specter of the monster looming over him, he runs into the streets, eventually wandering in remorse. Victor runs into Henry, who has come to study at the university, and he takes his friend back to his apartment. Though the monster is gone, Victor falls into a feverish illness.

Sickened by his horrific deed, Victor prepares to return to Geneva, to his family, and to health. Just before departing Ingolstadt, however, he receives a letter from his father informing him that his youngest brother, William, has been murdered. Grief-stricken, Victor hurries home. While passing through the woods where William was strangled, he catches sight of the monster and becomes convinced that the monster is his brother’s murderer. Arriving in Geneva, Victor finds that Justine Moritz, a kind, gentle girl who had been adopted by the Frankenstein household, has been accused. She is tried, condemned, and executed, despite her assertions of innocence. Victor grows despondent, guilty with the knowledge that the monster he has created bears responsibility for the death of two innocent loved ones.

Hoping to ease his grief, Victor takes a vacation to the mountains. While he is alone one day, crossing an enormous glacier, the monster approaches him. The monster admits to the murder of William but begs for understanding. Lonely, shunned, and forlorn, he says that he struck out at William in a desperate attempt to injure Victor, his cruel creator. The monster begs Victor to create a mate for him, a monster equally grotesque to serve as his sole companion.

Victor refuses at first, horrified by the prospect of creating a second monster. The monster is eloquent and persuasive, however, and he eventually convinces Victor. After returning to Geneva, Victor heads for England, accompanied by Henry, to gather information for the creation of a female monster. Leaving Henry in Scotland, he secludes himself on a desolate island in the Orkneys and works reluctantly at repeating his first success. One night, struck by doubts about the morality of his actions, Victor glances out the window to see the monster glaring in at him with a frightening grin. Horrified by the possible consequences of his work, Victor destroys his new creation. The monster, enraged, vows revenge, swearing that he will be with Victor on Victor’s wedding night.

Later that night, Victor takes a boat out onto a lake and dumps the remains of the second creature in the water. The wind picks up and prevents him from returning to the island. In the morning, he finds himself ashore near an unknown town. Upon landing, he is arrested and informed that he will be tried for a murder discovered the previous night. Victor denies any knowledge of the murder, but when shown the body, he is shocked to behold his friend Henry Clerval, with the mark of the monster’s fingers on his neck. Victor falls ill, raving and feverish, and is kept in prison until his recovery, after which he is acquitted of the crime.

Shortly after returning to Geneva with his father, Victor marries Elizabeth. He fears the monster’s warning and suspects that he will be murdered on his wedding night. To be cautious, he sends Elizabeth away to wait for him. While he awaits the monster, he hears Elizabeth scream and realizes that the monster had been hinting at killing his new bride, not himself. Victor returns home to his father, who dies of grief a short time later. Victor vows to devote the rest of his life to finding the monster and exacting his revenge, and he soon departs to begin his quest.

Victor tracks the monster ever northward into the ice. In a dogsled chase, Victor almost catches up with the monster, but the sea beneath them swells and the ice breaks, leaving an unbridgeable gap between them. At this point, Walton encounters Victor, and the narrative catches up to the time of Walton’s fourth letter to his sister.

Walton tells the remainder of the story in another series of letters to his sister. Victor, already ill when the two men meet, worsens and dies shortly thereafter. When Walton returns, several days later, to the room in which the body lies, he is startled to see the monster weeping over Victor. The monster tells Walton of his immense solitude, suffering, hatred, and remorse. He asserts that now that his creator has died, he too can end his suffering. The monster then departs for the northernmost ice to die.

Source: Sparknotes

[thorntonkrell-blog-blog]

Non-Fiction is the New Faction

I chose my Christmas gift 25 years before I was born. I chose wisely. On that day, Mary Keenan, who had just arrived bag and baggage in Rochester, New York from County Cork Ireland, gave birth to her first child...and named her Mary.  I sent that child the twinkle in her Irish eyes.

Young Mary went on to celebrate another 91 Christmas birthdays. I was around for 67 of them as she was glad to see my father and her husband who saw my twinkle when he returned from the Phillipines at the end of WW2 which made me part of a significant demographic excess known as the Baby Boom. When my father was in the Phillipines and during his entire time in the service, my mother wrote him a letter every day.

I am an early Boomer and a late bloomer.

When she was child, she raised her brother and two sisters as her father died suddenly when she was in high school. She lived to be near the bedside of all of 'em when they passed. Same with my father, she comforted him till he died in her arms.

I was the oldest of her three children.

She loved me and supported us, every day of our lives.

I never bothered to ask her to thank me for choosing her above millions of candidates to be my mother while I was in my first infinity before my vacation before my next and final infinity.

And I know I'll see her again.

The stars twinkle

Mary's grandaughter is our youngest child.

Of course we named her Mary.

Yes, Mary Dear. Your twinkle brought your Mom and I together thirty years ago.

Thank you for that.

There is a theory which states that if ever anybody discovers exactly what the universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable.

Yes, there's ANOTHER theory that this has already happened.

I have a theory that it happens over 300 millions times every day in the United States alone.

The initial discovery is called death and the something even more bizarre and wonderful is called birth. The vacation in between is called life or some say "lipstick land."

All of us on earth at this moment share a common state of inexplicability which we project as the "universe" or "reality". We create this reality as we go along living our lives in a state of mass hypnosis, love and wonder. Eventually we straighten things out, kick the bucket and re-awaken with only a vague memory of what we knew before.

This vague memory is called our subconscious.

With each awakening we discover a brand new universal puzzle to contemplate along with a brand new set of people also contemplating the same puzzle with slightly different kaleidoscopes. The most immediate, influential people we call our parents.

And you, dear Mary, call me Dad.

The tools that worked best the last time, even though we don't remember them, are called aptitudes.

When we discover them, we use them to explain the universe to ourselves and others particularly our children.

I get the feeling I've written this before.

I get the feeling this is what all writers are writing about all the time.

All singers singing about all the time etc.

I get the feeling you've read this before, Mary.

Of course it's all just a theory.

I am still alive, honey.

Aren't I ?

AVA’S SHOWER

When we moved to Tumbleweed, we had to enroll Mary in a brand new school. She was in third grade and had a broken leg. She arrived in time for school pictures. When the class pictures came out, I noticed this little girl with big glasses. Her name was Ava. I pointed her out to Mary and said "She looks like she'd be a good friend." Sure enough, they became besties and remain so to this day almost 30 years later.

This is the story of Ava's shower

I know this wasn't a dream because when I dream I always try to get the picture but the camera never works.

It was my bridal first shower. My gender had always rendered me ineligible but this shower was co-ed. We were enjoying our drinks and conversation downstairs when I noticed that the main female stars were missing.

Ava was trying on her wedding gown upstairs. I'm not sure who invited me but somehow through the grapevine I came too know that I would be welcome in this room and so would my camera.

This happens often in my dreams but in my dreams, the camera she don't work.

I walked up the stairs and entered the room. I was the only male but everyone seemed to welcome me.

Everyone was admiring Ava in her dress. Ava was radiating joy and reflecting the admiring glances that were coming her way. The dress was perfect. Everybody knew it.

I've been taking Ava's picture ever since she was a little girl.  I wanted to get a great picture of Ava at this moment. All of my years of photography had led to this moment. It wasn't gonna come again.

Ava noticed me. She looked into the camera. I snapped. The camera worked.

This was no dream.

Mine wasn't the only camera in the room. Ava seemingly picked up on all of the lenses by not concentrating on any of them but rather enjoying her moment of celebration.

A model of decorum

I got my pictures. Everybody got their pictures. The cameras disappeared. I lingered with my lens.

At that moment, at that second, in about the time it takes a car to swerve a deadly swerve, Ava's expression changed. For an instant memory, vulnerability and pain flashed through her entire being in a collision of joy and pain.

I imagine she was thinking of her older sister who was not in the room. The older sister Abby who ended up on the deadly end of an unsignalled swerve on a dark Halloween night almost 10 years ago. A tragedy that changed everyone.

Suddenly Abby was in the room.

I didn't see Abby but I did see Ava seeing Abby as did my camera.

For one split second grief and recognition flashed across Ava's glowing face. In that split second I had to make the decision whether or not to snap the picture and "capture" this exceedingly private, candid, personal and vulnerable moment.

I was almost certain that the camera was going to malfunction revealing the entire scene as one more dream forever undocumented.

I snapped.

The camera worked.

Ava's expression returned to joy.

A few weeks later, I told Ava about the picture. I told her this story. I told her I wanted to write about it but couldn't do that unless she approved.

She said it would be an honor.

The wedding is this weekend.

This writing  is in honor of Ava

and of Abby.

HEADING FOR FRONTIER AT LAST

Today's the day. Last night was the night. I only had to steal one mirror last night so I got my first half way decent shuteye in months.

At this moment I am resisting the urge to hit the sack and indulge in fatigue.

I'm thinking about the original Invasion of the Body Snatchers and Nightmare on Elm Street. In both of those flicks, sleep was to be avoided unless you wanted Freddy to slash through your walls or wake up as a pod, a poisoned pod.

Those movies always bothered me.

I hate the feeling of falling asleep when I don't want to fall asleep. This used to happen to me all the time, particularly on Wednesday nights when I was young.

Because I was big fan of horror films, my parents used to let me stay up "late" to watch Shock Theater which played all of the Lugosi, Karloff and Chaney films. Frankenstein, Dracula, the Wolfman, the Raven, the Mummy, the Black Cat, The Invisible Ray,The Ghoul,The Werewolf of London etc. The show came on  came on past my bedtime so it was quite a privilege and quite a challenge.

Plus, I was actually scared by the movies or at least I expected to be.

I would take my position on the carpet in front of our timy teevee set. The movie would start and before too long, I would realize that I was falling asleep. I learned to recognize the feeling and the "oh no" that accompanied it. I would invariably choose to "rest my eyes" for just a minute during a commercial. I learned after awhile that once I started to rest my eyes, the rest periods would increase in frequency and duration until at last I was asleep on the floor and had to be carted of to bed all the time insisting "I'm awake, I'm awake"

The morning came and I awoke with a sense of failure and a determination to make it all the way through the next week. I realized that once I started to "rest my eyes", it was all over. I would make a conscious effort to "resist the rest" but week after week I failed.

I wasn't used to failure back in those days and it frightened me more than the movies did. I was learning about temptation and my inability to resist it.

This was my first previews of fatigue but I really didn't know what fatigue was until a few months ago. There's a difference between fatigue and being tired, passing out, blacking out, dozing off or being exhausted.

For the past few months, I've suffered fatigue and it's a lot different from "resting my eyes" because in fatigue I'm not even interested in the "movie" that is my life. All I want to do is sleep, well not exactly sleep but more like escape but evdn in the escaping there is the over-riding sense of failure and guilt as days melt away and merge with nights.

Fatigue sucks.

So as I write these words, I am resisting the urge to "rest my eyes" and to go downstairs to my cave/pit. The urtge is strong but not as strong as yesterday and yesterday wasn't as strong as the day before.

They told me after my last blast of radiation that sometimes the fatigue starts to go away after a week and a half but sometimes it can continue for three or four months or in some cases forever.

Today is exactly a week and a half since my last blast. I'm gonna go the distance. I'm not goin' downstairs. I'm not gonna turn into a pod person again today. No way. I've charged up my camera. I'm snapping flowers. I'll be leaving for the ballpark in three hours. I'm gonna look good. This is the day I marked down on my calendar for the beginning of my comeback and I'm not gonna rest my eyes until I get back from Frontier Field.

My brother is my best friend and I haven't seen him during this whole situation. I want to see him now. I want him to see me snapping pictures, keeping score, drinking a beer and rooting for the old home team.

Freddy Fatigue can't get me at Frontier Field if I keep my eyes on the ball.

THE OLD BALLGAME

One of my colleagues, a guy named Fred, got into as much trouble as I did for having classrooms that were not quiet.

Neither Fred nor I thought the criticism and penalization were justified but we did have "long hair" at the time and we were considered "popular" by the students.

Fred was a great teacher.

Eventually, thank God,  the concept of beautiful noise in the classroom began to take hold. Beautiful noise means the kids were buzzing and working with each other and with the teacher. Nothing on earth sounds like productive buzzing.

It was a far cry from the spray and pray method formerly preferred by the fearful badgers of the ruling realm and their supportive administrators.

Quiet in the classroom was no longer a guaranteed good thing.

Suddenly, Fred and I were seen as "innovators". People started imitating us and when they got good at it, they began to instruct us on how to do what we had been doing all along, since we had already moved on to the next thing which they were currently against but soon would be imitating and then instructing.

On and on and on and on etc.

Meanwhile, my classes were getting busier and buzzyer so I was headed for trouble. Quiet is so much quieter when it's surrounded by buzz.

One day Fred and I and about fifty teachers were at a workshop run by a consultant who hadn't taught a public school class in years but who was paid more than we were to look at our watches and tell us what time it was. The consultant was also on the lookout for new ideas which he could steal and profit from when he took his carnival on the road., always searching for a new parade to jump in front of and declare himself the leader etc.

So the consultant called on teachers to "share" new ideas that they had. Most of the "sharing" consisted of ideas that people like Fred and I had been criticized for by the same people who were now "experts" at whatever "technique" they were sharing.

The consultant ooohed and aaahed over every "insight" no matter how unremarkable.

Meanwhile, Fred was in the back of the room trying to stay serious.

Fred was a big, dark haired dark eyed handsome guy who wasn't lacking in self confidence and didn't need or want to be drawn into this festival of self congratulation.

Even though Fred hadn't raised his hand to volunteer a response, the consultant decided to call on him.

"Do you have a technique, Fred, that you'd like to share?", the consultant asked in an overly friendly way.

Fred said "Well, I guess I could share what I call 'the old ball game'.

The consultant perked up. "I've never heard of that technique, Fred. It sounds very interesting. How does it work?"

Possibly a new parade was forming.

"Well" said Fred, "if I see a kid's not paying attention, I throw a tennis ball at him/her. That usually gets their attention."

Fred was serious.

I looked at Fred's face. Fred was looking at the consultant's face. The consultant had no idea what to say.

Nobody ooohed or aaahed.

I burst out laughing which broke the silence.(I had used the same "technique" myself" on quite a few occasions except I didn't use a tennis ball. I used a bunch of tinfoil that I had rolled up in a ball for my version of "the old ball game". I called my tin foil ball "the egg of unexpected courage". The kids called it THE EGG.)

Back to the seminar......

Fred started laughing.

The consultant sorta smiled

Once again, Fred and I were operating on the same page even though we weren't aware that we were until Fred answered the consultant. I had no idea that Fred  also used "the old ball game".

This is one of my fondest moments because "the old ball game be it tennis or tinfoil" actually worked and probably still does today

I am afraid, however, that a few months after this moment.....some consultant somewhere was instructing teachers on the effective use of what has become known as "the old ball game".

Beautiful.

ADVERB ANGST

Call me Very.

I'm an adverb. I'm angry about that. I'm common. I'm used and abused all the time. I don't even get the complimentary "ly" that some of my mates get. My ancestors had it for awhile when people knew how to talk. Remember "verily" or "yea verily".

Those days are gone.

Now, I have to submit to those fancy pants "ly" adverbs e.g. "very quickly".

"Quickly" at least gets to modify a verb, an action word of some kind, maybe even a passionate action like "kissed". Then I arrive. I diminish the kiss by making it even less soul driven, less selfless, less sensual, more furtive, dismissive and distracted.

See, I hate situations like that. I'm jealous of "quickly" who's nothing but a verblicking sycophant passing himself off as an expression of time.

It's a bit more tolerable when I submit to an adjective. At least an adjective bows to a person, place, idea or thing; tangible, usually visible, often alive, occasionally intelligent almost always miraculous.

Action verbs are my cup of tea but let's face it action verbs ain't exactly nouns. Action verbs need nouns to give them meaning. Nouns don't need action verbs they can exist quite well lthank you on verbs of being. After all, what is a human but "being".

Even when modifying an action verb I usually need an "ly" to make any sense

I am uncomfortable modifying verbs of being. "very are" won't cut it. Neither will "very is", "very was" nor wishes neither not v"very could" or "very would".

Speaking of the subjunctive, I wish  i was more existential. Hell I'm barely essential. I'm actually an add on although ever since teehee came along and people forgot how to talk, a lot more "very" are in use today.

I'm designated Very Mask Neg Neutral which means I am the very that can be only used to describe Masculine Negative to Neutral Adjectives, verbs or other adverbs such as

cumbersome lethargic immature uncommunicative incompetent self-absorbed smarmy frantically and sloppy Making them each a little worse.

My girlfriend is also an add on. She's a Very designated Fem Neg Neutral. She gets to work with feminine negative to neutral adjectives, verbs such as

bitchy bloated perfunctory over-sensitive Superficial Moody Slutty Vengeful and air headed.

The classes above us are Very Mask Positive And Fem Positive. They work with

courageous dedicated authentic Athletic Intelligent Capable gorgeous resplendent intuitive sensual supportive nurturing and erotic

Do you see why I'm upset? Very upset.

They'll terminate us low class adverbs when and if we stop being over used. When and if people stop watching teevee and texting. When and if people start articulating and valuing vocabulary rather than gloss.

In other words, we'll be around a long time.

A very long time.

Some of the higher class verbs were even used as adjectives for a bright, shining, glossy time as in "She is soooo very"

I once had to modify a very Pompous adjective, negative implication of course as in "He's very, VERY"

Thank God that particular trend, that monstrosity has retreated for awhile.

My woman, Very Fem Neg Neutral has a real bad attitude. She gets it from her job. Look what she works with bitchy, bloated, hyper-critical etc. Still between my anger and her attitude we still managed to get busy and have babies. Our babies are the "kindas". They're even more inarticulate than my woman and me.

I'm kinda afraid. Kindas are the adverbs of the future.

I am very kinda afraid.

CROSSWORDS

Way back in another lifetime, when I was teaching kids how to write, my class used to do the New York Times crossword puzzle together every other Monday. The puzzle gets more cryptic, arcane and oblique as the week continues. Monday is fair game for high schoolers working in tandem. Tuesday's puzzle maybe. Saturday's forget about it. Maybe that's why we don't have school on Saturdays except for Breakfast Clubbers who are puzzled and puzzling enough with or without crosswords.

I always told my writing students that writers need to know something about everything and then need the vocabulary to articulate what they know by choosing the exact right word for the right place. Close is good but no cigar. Crossword puzzles serve as an exercise not only in vocabulary and exactitude but also in breadth of knowledge.

Crossword puzzles are to writers what shadow boxing is to boxers or what ping pong is to tennis players or driving ranges to golfers, a truncated version of a more pervasive obsession. Aside from their value as literary barbells, crosswords teach one of life's most valuable lessons. If you have one wrong word or a right word in the wrong place, it screws up the rest of the puzzle. We can't insist that a word is right if it is wrong. Will power only extends so far. It can't be right simply because we want it to be right and we're good people. That's called willfullness. In the words of Johnny C, "if it don't fit, you must acquit". Somewhere in all puzzles, before we abandon original thinking or stick with our misconceptions, we confront wavering allegiance to a shady word choice. Since most of our lives are spent re-inforcing our own biases, wavering allegiance is a frightening flourish of vulnerability. In America, especially in politics, it's all about being "right" first and then sticking with that righteousness in the face of hell or high water, fire and fury.

Wavering allegiance is a forerunner to change. All change includes loss and all loss requires mourning. Who wants to mourn? Who wants to admit a mistake? In politics, to flip is to flop.

So when we stick with wrong words in Crosswords, we never solve the puzzle or the problem contained within the puzzle, a problem that grows more pressing with every passing day. Usually national problems come in the form of dollars and cents, bread and butter, black and white , war and peace, red and blue.

Hey if we come to a cross roads where we should turn right and instead turn left, don't worry if we drive completely around the world we'll end up going the right, right way.

Once upon a time on my way to Iowa from South Dakota, I made a wrong turn and drove halfway through Minnesota.

With a crossword puzzle, we can just take out an eraser. With a war, with poverty, with racism, with recession, with division we need something more than rubber at the forgiveness end of a pointed stick of lead. Every day seems like a Saturday crossword.

ALI, FRAZIER, CHUVALO AND EVELYN

Slides.

Remember slides?

You'd throw your slides into a Kodak Carousel and voila...a slide show up against the wall.

Needless to say I threw quite a few slides against quite a few walls over the years as I told my Ali stories.

I liked one of the slides in particular.

I made a nice 11 by 14 print from that negative.

Ali and Joe exchanging punches during their second fight at Madison Square Garden.

We all got older as the years passed. It seemed like Ali and Joe got older faster than everybody else. What else could we have expected?

During this time of great decline, George Chuvalo added to the pugilistic tragedy.

George Chuvalo

The Croatian Crusader.

The Heavyweight Champion of Canada.

The human punching bag and common opponent for the vastly more talented Ali and Frazier.

The man who could not be knocked down.

The man whose face had launched a thousand fists.

George Chuvalo had a face that had been sculpted by other fists into the face of a fist.

And then after George retired, life stepped in and continued the battering.

He lost his wife and sons to suicide. Heroin was very involved.

Still George refused to hit the canvas.

Word got through to his old opponents, Ali and Joe, that George was hurt and staggering but that he refused to go down.

A boxing organization in Rochester decided to throw a benefit dinner for George. Yeah it was a band aid on a shotgun wound but every little bit helps.

Joe Frazier decided to attend and waive any fee.

So did another wounded warrior name of Muhammad Ali.

Ali was shaking from Parkinsons and Joe could barely see.

Joe and Ali didn't usually appear together.

Bad blood existed.

People wondered why after all these years bad blood still existed between Ali and Frazier.

The answer is simple. These guys tried to kill each other three times in front of the whole world and they damned near succeeded.

He jest at scars who's never felt a wound.

There was a lot of laughter that night but nobody was laughing at the scars.

I was there too.

The Chuvalo benefit cost a hundred bucks to attend. My ringside seat at Ali-Frazier fight also cost $100.

So much had changed.

One thing hadn't changed.

The 11 by 14 photograph that I took at Ali Frazier 2 looked exactly the same. The two of them stalking each other in the middle of the ring, youg and heallthy and with all the lights shining on them.

I brought the picture to the benefit.

I  had met Muhammad, Joe and George individually but I never thought that I'd see all three of them in the same room at the same time.

Yet, here we were for the common good of Chuvalo

In the lobby, I got a chance to visit with boxing expert Burt Sugar and HBO analyst Larry Merchant. They both reacted to me as if I had pissed myself while wearing a white suit.. Arrogant and a million miles away from Ali in terms of engagement and humility, these two vampires brushed off my questions about the sweet science with an insolence worth mentioning here.

Vampires

I left those "famous guys".

I was relieved to leave.

I entered the main room. I found my table. My name was still not Sinatra nor for that matter Sugar or Merchant so my $100 dollar table resembled my "ringside" seat in terms of physical distance from the action.

And I wasn't even at the same table as the Son of Sanford.

I shared a "way in the back" table with another human who also had connection/complexion problems; a stunning middle aged African American woman named Evelyn. We had the only two seat table in the place. Evelyn and I chatted for awhile about the value of our $100 as compared to the $100 spent by the more connected, very Caucasian, very male attendees flaunting upfront and uptight.

We figured we were outsiders. We bonded.

I showed her my 11 by 14 photo. She liked it and said "be careful with that. It's valuable".

Evelyn had a mission of her own.

Evelyn told me that she knew Joe Frazier and the last time Joe was in town, she really got to know him and he got to know her. She planned on having a little chat with Joe later in the evening about his previous method of leaving town. She assured me that Joe would be paying attention.

All the stars were already seated miles away at the main table. All the stars that is except for Ali.

It's only fitting that the champ enters last.

All of the other guys had entered from the front of the venue.

When Ali and his entourage entered the room, they came in from the back. As soon as he entered the room, the whole environment changed for the better. He walked very, very slowly. Since he came in from the back, the first table he passed was the distant table for two. He stopped at our table. He looked right at me and although it seemed impossible, I got the distinct feeling that he remembered me from our morning at Deer Lake decades before.

Evelyn noticed the look and asked me after Ali had passed us, "does he know you".

I told Evelyn that I had spent some time with him a long time ago.

Whether he recognized me or not, he once again gave me that wonderful feeling that I was cool with him and that our table was the best table in the house.

and that, once again, made me feel cool with myself

He couldn't possibly have remembered.

I guess that's what charisma is all about.

Like I said, I had met Sugar and Merchant, ten minutes before they took their upfront seats. I'm sure they had already forgotten about me and their vibe would have amplified that disregard.

Not with Ali.

I started feeling great.

Important

The whole room turned back to see the old champ. I got the feeling that everybody in the room started feeling great for different reasons.

Uplifiting

Transcendent

Eliciting smiles and cheers with every step, the Champ caned his way to the front. Everybody in the place was experiencing rampant, contact joy.

I don't think that Frazier was feeling that joy although he probably remembered feeling a lot of contact. It was obvious that Joe was feeling pretty dang great before he even entered the place, if ya know what I mean.

Obviously, a lot of feelings fly around a room when Ali enters that room and walks toward a partying Joe Frazier.

The dinner began.

Neither Ali nor Frazier addressed the audience; for different reasons.

Chuvalo expressed his gratitude towards both men for showing up and making his benefit such a success. Weirdly enough if a three man boxing match broke out, Chuvalo would probaly win even though both Joe and Ali had batterred him in the past.

I assume Merchant and Sugar blabbed some and sucked a bit of energy from the room although their wisdom has slipped beneath the radar screen of both my memory and contempt.

When the program concluded, the master of ceremonies, a born bullshitter named Jerry Flynn announced that for a half an hour the head table participants would be willing to sign autographs.

Immediately the rush to the front began led by the people sitting in the front.

From the way back table, we watched the crowd in front gain full advantage.

We only had a half hour and it looked as if there were two hours of people in front of us.

We did a little spontaneous human calculus.

Evelyn headed towards Joe.

She had more than an autograph in mind.

She had a piece of her mind in mind and she was about to give that to Joe.

I headed for Ali, by far the longer of the two lines.

Somehow, my 11 by 14 print caught the eye of somone in Ali's entourage. He asked me to identify the picture.

"Ringside, Madison Square Garden, Ali-Frazier II"

"Diju take dat picture?"

"Yes I did"

"Champ prolly like to see it. C'mon"

He escorted me towards the front of the line, not the very front but a definite improvement on my table rank. Ali and I were in the same force field. I knew he'd have time for me even as the minutes ticked away. With about 10 minutes left in the opportunity, our chance came. I put my picture in front of the Champ. He considered it carefully. He was in no rush whatsoever. Then the familiar whisper that he either said or sent. I'll never know which but the message was clear..."choo take this?"

"Yeah Champ I did'

Another whisper/send "it's good"

Then the eye contact. Ali and me eyeball to eyeball again. Same eyeballs that had been eyeball to eyeball with Martin King, John Lennon, Sonny Liston, Elvis Presley, Nelson Mandella, Joe Louis, James Brown, Stallone, Duvall, Carson, Borgnine, Malcolm X, Ross, Chamberlain and infinite others were inviting me to come on in and stay a minute.

Make yourself comfortable

Join the crowd.

Maybe u been here before

He gave me his beautiful Parkinson's signature. Very slow, very painful, looking up every few seconds directly in my eyes as if this were the first signature of his career given to his best friend. Ali had signed another piece for me at Deer Lake decades before. Like the man himself, Ali's signature had changed dramatically over the years. His Parkinson's signature took a good twenty seconds to make with five separate lookups and included only the fragments of four letters..... M...a...l....i. Ironically he made his mark over Joe Frazier's image in the ring in my picture.

He hit me with the feint again although this feint was very faint yet still overwhelming.

I thanked the champ. Again the eyes. Again the illusion of recognition. Again the electricity.

So long champ.

Still five minutes of the half hour remained.

Wow

Pause

Shift

Recalculate

I got a shot at Joe.

Where's Evelyn.

There she be.

Evelyn chillin' with Joe

"Hey Evelyn" from fity feet away with four minutes left.

"Hey Ice, c'mon up here and meet Joe."

Once again the Red Sea miraculoulsy parted.

The Red Sea thought Evelyn was Joe's wife and I was a friend of Joe's family.

I got to the table with time to spare.

Evelyn said "Joe, this is my friend. Sign his picture"

I put my picture in front of Joe.

Joe looked at my picture.

"dijoo take this picture" "Yeah I did, Champ"

"good picture"

Ironically, Joe signed over the image of Ali in the ring in the light at Madison Square Garden, young and beautiful.

Floating

Getting ready to sting forever.

Evelyn gave Joe a peck on the cheek.

Joe took a sip from his beer.

I gave Evelyn a peck on her cheek.

It was the last time that I ever saw any of them.

Time was up. Ring the bell.

FAMOUS MIKE CAN DRAW

Some stories are so lovely that I hesitate to write them. Some legends are so fragile and delicate that I'm reluctant to reveal them. Here's a lovely story and a delicate legend all in one.

I'll try to do them justice before the memories fade completely as the blur increases every day.

I remember his first day in class. He was fresh off the boat. I mean that literally. He was a boat person from Viet Nam. He was in my English class.

He didn't speak a word of English.

I didn't know what to do with him that first day so I somehow signalled/sent him to the main office to pick up an attendance sheet.

The secretary at the main office was expecting a student from another class named Mike. When my student arrived, whatever his name was, it wasn't Mike. Helen asked my new student if his name was Mike. He didn't know what Helen was saying but he knew a question when he heard one.

He nodded his head up and down.

Helen said "Here, Mike", and gave him the papers.

He returned to my classroom a few minutes later without the attendance sheet but with whatever administrivia Helen was supposed to give to "Mike". I took the paper from him. I said thanks and asked  him what his name was. He said "Mike"

I said "Hi, Mike"

That's how Mike got his name.

Aside from the single word "Mike", Mike spoke no English. We were a pair, Mike and I.

Mike would come into class, take his seat and listen with great patience and attention to the academic tumult engulfing him. I knew something of the concept of linguistic immersion wherein a person learns a foreign language more quickly by surrounding himself with it. I believed this was happening with Mike although I didn't know for certain. I did know that in this case English was the "foreign" language to Mike and he was surrounded.

One day after a couple of weeks, I noticed that Mike was taking "notes" of what I was saying. I couldn't imagine what Mike's notes looked like so I casually made my way to his desk to sneak a peek. Mike's "note" was a surreal and photographic drawing of a rose. As I looked at the rose, I was amazed as much by its sensitivity of  rendering as I was by its virtousity.

Near the drawing, I wrote the word "rose."

Then I said the word "rose"

I spelled the word "R..O..S..E"

Mike smiled and said "rose"

I took a risk. I had a feeling the risk would be approved by Mike.

I announced to the class. "Check this out, everybody. Mike can draw."

Everybody crowded around Mike's desk.

Everybody look at the rose.

Everybody flipped out.

Everybody started saying "Mike can draw"

Eventually Mike got the message.

He spoke his first English sentence in English class.

This is what he said.

"Mike can draw"

He smiled.

Time stood still.

I'm here to tell you, Mike could draw.

Many scholars praise the efficient linguistic style of Julius Caesar, how much he could say with how few words. All of France is divided into three parts. Has anyone ever said more with fewer words at the beginning of his story.

This is the beginning of Mike's story.

Mike Can Draw.

Mike not only continued to draw but he also continued to listen with purpose and intention. Mike observed not only with his eyes but also with his heart and mind. Mike's vocabulary began to grow as he listened and observed. Nouns first then verbs then adjectives.

Here's the story of the first adjective I can remember.

One day, I walked over to Mike's desk and noticed that he had been sketching a portrait of himself.

On his portrait, I wrote a bunch of nouns with arrows like "mike" and  "nose" and "eyes" and "ears"and "head" and "neck" and "body".

I pointed to each word and said it. Mike repeated the word with me.

Then I added the adjective.

I wrote "famous"; drew an arrow to the picture of Mike and said the word.

Mike hesitated a second and then asked "Mike famous?"

I said "Yes, Mike is famous"

Mike startled me with his reply.

"No, Mike not famous. You, Mr. Rivers...you famous."

I realized that Mike's language skills were blossoming with as much beauty as his drawing skills.

From that day on, every time I saw Mike I would always say.

"Here's the famous Mike."

And Mike would always say, "Mike not famous. Mr. Rivers famous."

We would laugh.

We were connected.

Sure enough, Mike WAS becoming famous, at least in my class. I was running the school newspaper at the time. I asked Mike, still using arrows, objects and printed words if he would draw a comic strip for the paper. He drew the strip. The school read Mike's comic. His character was a lion, The school loved it. Mike's fame grew. His audience expanded.

By this time, everybody in my class knew something rare was happening with Mike and his art, kids were always crowding around his desk to see what new drawings were coming alive.

About this time, Mike develped a crush on Kathy.

I discovered this when Mike showed me a picture of Kathy that he had been drawing.

Mike was stylizing Kathy rather than photographing her with his rendering. I immediately recognized Kathy even with her stylized, over sized Disney girl eyes. I wrote "Kathy" on Mike's paper and drew an arrow. Mike blushed and smiled.

I could tell Mike wanted another word  from me, an adjective perhaps so under Kathy, I wrote "beautiful" and drew another arrow.

Mike put the drawing away. His portrait of Kathy was not an image that he intended to show to the class. Not only were we connected; we had a secret.

A couple of weeks passed and Mike's language skills kept growing.

One day, he took out the picture of Kathy and showed me something new that he had added. He showed me that he knew how to change and adjective into a noun.

Under my printing of "beautiful", Mike had printed a word of his own.

This is the word that Mike had printed in painstaking calligraphy.

Beauty

Beauty is truth and truth is beautiful.

I was facing a beautiful truth in my professional life as well as a crossroads. I was given the opportunity to write a grant under the auspices of the Federal Career Education Incentive Act Grant Program, the purpose of which, as the name suggests, was to help secondary education become a better link to careers.

I proposed my very first grant.

The proposal was funded for $500,000.

In my proposal I visualized the creation of an intern program. The idea was radical at the time. I was chosen to be the administrator for the project. I would have to leave the classroom.

Leaving the classroom was the crossroads and a difficult factor in the decision.

When the kids heard what I had done. They were proud of me. Mike came to me and said "Mike not famous, Mr. Rivers famous."

I left the classroom.

I left Mike in the capable hands of the Art. Dept.

The day that I left, Mike showed me his private sketchbook.

In his sketchbook were dozens of drawing of Kathy.

Underneath each sketch; a single printed word:

Beauty.

By the time I got the Intern Program running smoothly, moving it from dream to imagination to realization, Mike was back in my life.

Mike had made breathtaking progress in language and art and had begun to crystallize his dreams. Mike had grown to love classic Walt Disney cartoons and wanted to become an animator.

I had heard that fantasy from other students before and I would hear it again but with Mike...well he had a dream, spectacular discipline and dedication. I had an intern program.

Uh, let's put two and two together and see if it comes out four, twenty two or five.

I contacted the only artist in town who specialized in 16 millimeter matte animation, a guy by the name of Brian. I told Brian about Mike. I told Mike about Brian. I brought the two of them together at Brian's downtown studio. With Brian's  encouragement and equipment along with the ongoing help of the high school Art Dept, Mike created his first animated cartoon.

He had even learned to play the guitar well enough to supply his own music to the animation. In Mike's cartoon one of the characters was a lion. Mike asked me, because I was "famous" to provide the voice for the lion.

Mike's cartoon was eventally selected in an extremely competitive national cartoon contest to be shown on Nickelodeon.

Mike's cartoon was one of the best student cartoons in the country. Little ol' famous lion voice me was roaring on television sets across America.

Mike was only a sophomore in high school but he was already thinking about college and colleges were thinking about him.

Anything was possible including truth , beauty and fame.

Mike was most interested in beauty.

He had discovered that the Disney studios regularly hired interns from the California Institute of the Arts. Mike knew about internships. He had completed four of them in high school.

In the meantime Mike had taken all the art courses at the school plus four more at Rochester Institute of Technology and had aced them all.

Mike spoke a lovely version of the English language, the direct, clear, soft and kind versionrarely used by native speakers.

Mike could draw

Mike could talk

Mike could write, words and music.

Mike could play the guitar.

Mike had a resume full of A's, internships, art work, awards and a cartoon that had played nationally on Nickelodeon. Mike applied to the California Institute of the Arts. We were all happy but not surprised when Mike was accepted and scholarshipped.

Mike was ready for another journey.

I was on a bit of a journey myself. My first marriage was breaking up although I didn't realize it or perhaps  was denying the realization.

Mike had never been to a rock concert in his life so at the end of the school year, the night after his graduation I invited Mike as our family guest to see the Moody Blues at the Canandaigua Performing Arts Center. Mike acceptd the invitatiion.

You'll hear more about THAT later.

After the concert, Mike left for California. I haven't seen him since.

Here's the last few things I heard about Mike.

In college, his skill and interest continued to blossom. As an undergraduate, he applied for and completed an internship at Disney Studios.

Upon graduation from college, Mike was hired as an animator by Disney. His first screen credit appeared at the end of the LIttle Mermaid, listing Mike as an animator of Ariel. Apparently Disney liked Mike because his next assignment was a substantial promotion. Mike would be one of the main designers for Beauty and the Beast

Mike was helping to create Belle.

By now, everybody knows WHAT Belle looks like. Only a few of us know WHO Belle looks like. Beauty, if you will, looks exactly like the sketches of Kathy that Mike labored over so mightily, so beautifully, so passionately, so innocently and so truthfully during his junior high days.

Kathy is Belle.

Kathy is

Beauty.

Some stories are so lovely that I hesitate to write them. Some legends are so fragile and delicate that I am afraid to relate or reveal them.

Remember?

Well, I tried.

As I tried, I kept flashing back to the writers who brought us the legends of the Old west, those scribes who turned big nosed, shiftless, violent, alcoholic William Hickock into the great Wild Bill, the  handsome hero who died, shot in the back while playing poker and holding the deadman's hand...a pair of aces and a pair of eights. .

A cardinal rule for those writers was, according to John Ford in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, "if  you come to a crossroads between truth and legend, write the legend."

The legend of Mike and Kathy is the loveliest local legend, I've ever personally encountered. I'm part of it; a small part but yes I was there in the very beginning.

I can vouch for everything until Mike left for California. I can vouch for the similarities between Mike's sketches of Kathy and the rendering of Beauty.

Every once in awhile, when I reminisce about my teaching days, I like to think that I was the guy who had something to do with the inspiration for the creation of Beauty.

And ya know what?

It's a beautiful feeling

Maybe even true.

Next time somebody you know mentions truth, beauty or Beauty and the Beast tell 'em this story.

That's how legends grow.

AFTERNOON ANGEL

I know for sure it was a Tuesday afternoon. I don't know if it was the first time I smoked weed, such moments are hard to pinpoint. Today is also a Tuesday afternoon. Today I found out that Ray Thomas, the flautist for the Moody Blues has passed away from prostate cancer. I know something about cancer.

The beauty of metaphysiction is its ability to go flash forward and backward at the same time while flirtting with the eternal and the imaginary.

The Tuesday afternoon that begins this story happened fifty years ago. I was shooting footage for a film that I was making in graduate school. My idea was to simply walk around and shoot whatever came into my lens on this Tuesday afternoon and call whatever came out "Tuesday Afternoon" It was during this activity that I might or might not have smoked a joint because I know the guy with me was a "weirdo" at the time who definitely smoked the rope. I had shot enough weird footage so I was confident that within the images, I could find 10 solid minutes that would represent what a Tuesday afternoon looked and sounded like and that it would probably be interesting to watch in say 50 years so that I could clearly remember what fifty years ago looked and sounded like.

Yeah, maybe I was loaded as I recall this thought process.

We were driving back to campus. We turned on an FM station. By this time I was an album guy and FM was the album station. I was trying to figure out what music I would use in the background of the film when on the radio came "Tuesday Afternoon". I had never heard anything like it before. When the song was over, the announcer said "that was Tuesday Afternoon by the Moody Blues from their new album Days of Future Passed"

Days of Future Passed might as well have been the name of my mind set on that Tuesday afternoon with Tuesday afternoon playing. I hoped that I would see the Moody Blues in the Future and at that time, remember the past which would naturally include the moment I was living in.

I knew the Moody Blues. I knew of their hit "Go Now" which I wasn't crazy about. I didn't know that the personnel of the band had changed and they had gone from THAT to THIS. Ray Thomas was in both versions, I learned later.

Shocked, stoned and stunned by synchronicity, I became a Moody Blues fan. In other words, I too was a weirdo. At the time you had to be a little weird to like the Blues. They were hanging with LSD guru Timothy Leary and proud of it.

I couldn't believe that "drug music" could be so beautiful or that a simple Tuesday afternoon could be so profound.

I had the music for my film.

I found my film in the music.

Now let's fast forward 15 years.

My first marriage was breaking up although I didn't realize it or perhaps was denying the realization. I know I felt like I had a ton of bricks on my back.

The "famous" Mike had never been to a concert before and he loved the Moody Blues. I invited Mike and a couple of friends to join my family at the Moody Blues concert at the Canandaigua Performing Arts Center.

Mike accepted my invitation.

The night of the Moody Blues arrived.

I had purchased a dozen tickets for the show.

The day of the night of the Blues was very hot. I ran ten miles that afternoon trying to lighten my load.

My brother, my sister, my wife, a few of our friends, my son Beau, Mike and I made the short trip. We walked to the gates. I took out the tickets. I only had eleven tickets. Everybody was looking at me. I counted the tickets only eleven again. I was going to have to exclude someone from the concert. I looked around at the faces. I knew I would exclude myself. I looked at the tickets again. I counted the tickets. I looked at Mike. My marriage was falling apart. Mike was on his way to California. I had screwed up the tickets. I had ruined Mike's first concert. I could feel the earth spinning. I said something incoherent to my brother. He looked at me with concern and said "whaaa?" I spoke again and once again sounded like Gregor Samsa after his metamorphosis. I started to stumble. The tickets fell out of my grasp. I looked directly into my son's eyes as the weight on my shoulders flew off and I fell in slow motion towards the ground. As I looked into his eyes, I realized that I was watching a son watch the death of his father. I wondered how this would affect him him. I heard my wife scream "he didn't go to his physical"

I hit the ground

I knew I was dead.

When I opened my eyes some time later to see what heaven was like I saw two faces. One face was of a beautiful, elderly woman. The other was Mike. This was Mike's first minute at his first concert.

In the background Moody Blues music was playing.

The elderly woman whispered her phone number in my ear. It went right into my permanent memory She told me to call anytime and that the more I called, the more I would want to call. Eventually I wouldn't even need a phone.

I still remember the number. I call it everyday.

The number is/was a prayer.

I called it before I started writing this, seeking help to get this right.

Phone? I don't need no stinken phone.

They wanted to call an ambulance.

I didn't want that

I wanted to go where the music was, where the angel was.

Somebody picked up the tickets and found all twelve.

We went inside the Shell and heard the Blues.

The woman had disappeared once it became clear that I was going to live.

The last time I saw her, she was listening to the show. The Blues may or may not have been playing Tuesday afternoon when our eyes met.

Flash forward

Today, Tuesday,  I learned that Ray Thomas had died. Ray was 76 years old. I'm 71.  How could all of those future days have passed.

I'm calling the number.

IN THE PACKAGE

Mr. Baseball remained in his coma for months.

It was the bottom of the ninth and his team was behind by 100 runs and there were two out and two strikes on Mr. Baseball. One more strike and he was out.

Game over.

That was the situation the last time that I visited him at the Community hospital.

Time passed. Mr. Baseball kept fouling off pitches, his faithful loving wife Rosie by his side.

Rosie figured that maybe things would improve if they moved Baseball to his home ball park. Still in his coma, Mr. Baseball was transported to his home.

Home plate.

His home plate was far away from my homeplate.

We didn't visit in person, overwhelmed as were with our own ballgame.

When he got home, minus a few tubes and some drugs that hadn't worked, Mr Baseball out of nowhere, hit a homerun. He came out of the coma but remained bedridden.

We didn't know about the rally, we had left the game a little early.

We knew that he was home and we had his phone number. One day, Lynn called the number and Rosie answered.

The rally was still going on. Therapists were pitching now and Mr. Baseball continued to swing away always encouraged by Rosie who was as encouraged as she was encouraging. She told Lynn that a speech therapist was pitching at the moment. She whispered to Mr. Baseball that Lynn was on the phone. He understood; another base hit. Rosie put the phone up to Mr. Baseball's face. Lynn said "Hello, Mr. Baseball."

Lynn's 'hello' was like a hanging curve ball. Mr. Baseball took a mighty swing and said in a slow, soft, labored voice "Hi Lynn."

Home run. Grand slam.

Rosie took the phone back and explained the progress Baseball had been making.

He was scoring on the coma. His therapists were amazed. 

He scored 200 runs and beat the stroke.

Meanwhile he had developed cancer.

It was the cancer, not the coma that finally got him.

We went to the funeral. Mr. Baseball looked good almost as good as he looked the time he caught a foul ball barehanded at Frontier Field. In my dreams, he shows up at his funeral and he, Rosie, Lynn and I go off to dinner as if nuthin' had happened. He even makes fun of me for imagining that everything wasn't perfect.

We paid our condolences to Rosie.

A week later, we got a package in the mail with Mr. Baseball's address as the return.

In the package was the fiber optic bear.

DEAD, ALIVE or DREAMING

We thought we had located heaven but we had to pass through Indiana first. I was wondering why the hell somebody decided to name this state Indiana when we cruised into a blind spot.

The first moment that I realized we were in a blind spot was when I saw the front fender of a semi smashing through the driver’s side window. We were going 70, I don't know how fast the semi was going but somehow the driver never saw us when he attempted to change lanes.

I remember flying up in my seat and hitting my head against the roof of our vehicle.

Then the swerves began as the semi hit the brake while it pushed us down the road. For a moment we were perpendicular with the eightyeen wheeler and taking up both lanes. I remember thinking to myself….I can’t die here. I’ve got to teach next week. Nobody will know who the hell we are….our friends back home will never understand how we came to crash and burn in this weird place.

This can’t be the end but it must be. Nobody ever lives to tell this story.

We disengaged from the semi and the high speed spin began.

The laws of physics must be obeyed.

The swerve into spin continued forever. I lost consciousness. When I came to a second or a minute, an hour or a lifetime later, our totaled van was in the median between the lanes of a four lane highway.

I figured that I had just learned how to die. It was simple really. You hit your head and the video tape called life goes dark for an undetermined time and when you wake up, you’re in a median in Indiana.

Slowly, I got the impression that I might be alive but what about Lynn? She.was driving She must be dead. I saw the fender smash through her window. I saw the flying glass Her head was against the steering wheel.

There was blood.

She had to be dead.

The whole goddamned thing was my fault.

I was the one who thought we could find heaven.

Whatever this was; it didn’t look like heaven. I had a lot to learn about heaven. I had a camera. Soon I would use it. In my dreams, the camera never works. The camera worked. Whatever this was, it wasn't a dream.

to my mortal amazement, Lynn was as alive as I.

To my immortal wonder, perhaps she was as dead as I.

I saw the truck coming through her window.

No way that she could have survived that collision as long as there were laws of physics that governed force, mass, speed and velocity.

If she was alive…these natural laws had been circumvented which put us in the realm of the supernatural where we have remained ever since.

And the blood?

We both had slashes above our right elbow from the shattered glass….nothing serious.

We were able to exit the vehicle without much trouble.

I went to check on my cameras. In my dreams, my camera is always broken at times like this.

My camera was shattered.

That suggested, I might wake up so I decided to go with the dream a little further to see what would happen.

I went to my video camera. It seemed to be working.

Uh Oh.

This might not be a dream.

Whatever it was, if I could tape it…it might help.

I turned on the camera. It worked. The semi had come to a stop about 150 yards in front of us. The driver was still in the cab

I pointed the camera in the other direction and noticed a person coming towards us.

I kept the camera aimed at his face so I got a closer up look than I would have without the camera.

I focused on his eyes.

His eyes told me that he thought he was looking at a couple of ghosts.

When he got within speaking distance, I put down the camera.

“I saw the whole thing. I thought you guys were goners? Are you okay?”

I wasn’t sure.

We walked around to the side of the van. Lynn was leaning up against it.

I kept the video running.

The tape would later be seen at least three times on national teevee.

Moments later, the police arrived.

Lynn explained the collision with astounding calm and clarity.

I was no longer taping.

They arranged for our totaled van to be removed from the median.

They gave us a ride to a nearby hotel.

They explained our situation to the folks at the front desk who set us up with a room although all of our belongings were still in the van.They gave us a room pro-bono. Everybody told us not to worry.

We found out that we were in La Grange, Indiana.

All we had was the clothes on our backs.

And the aid of better angels.

I was teaching summer school.

I was a teacher all the way. I taught twelve months a year. No house painting for me.

I had been going twelve months a year for ten years with only one break in between. I didn't teach in the summer of 87, the year that I met Lynn.

Lynn was a single Mom when we met. She was raising three daughters. I was a single Dad raising a son and a daughter. Her kids liked me and my kids liked her. We spent a lot of time together especially on the weekends when I had custody of my two.

Lynnn was working part time at First Federal Bank.

She was good with change. She balanced every day. She could find the errors when someone else failed to balance.

She didn't stand for a lot of bullshit that's why she was checking the boat when I suggested a road trip test.

My prior experience as a road warrior had convinced me that you don't really know a person  until you've been on the road with them. I had made the trip from ocean to ocean three times before I got married the first time. I regretted the fact that I hadn't road tripped with my first wife before we got married. Although two children had to be born, we might have saved ourselves some nightmares. I had rushed into that first one and wasn't gonna rush into this one.

Two years had already passed with Lynn and me....our bodies were at rest and would tend to stay at rest unless acted upon.

Times of indecision.

We had both already been married. We both carried the scars.

We had met one enchanted evening when she walked up to me and asked me if I wanted to dance.

The first song we danced to was “Hurt so Good”....John Mellencamp.

The second was “Loving You” by Elvis.

The third was “It’s All in the Game” by Tommy Edwards. When Tommy was about to sing the words “then he’ll kiss your lips” I decided to take the chance.

I kissed her lips. She kissed me back

We had been together every day since and it was going on two years. Two wonderful years. Time to clarify.

Lynn made a decision.

She said we should get married at the local justice of the peace.

She called it to question one afternoon when we were having lunch at Mario's on East Avenue our favorite Italian restaurant.

Justice of the peace was no place for me or for us as far as I was concerned.

She took it as a rejection of her love which was the opposite of my intention

For the first time, we began to wonder about the future of the relationship.

Yet, we had booked a trailer for a weekend at Darien Lake. We decided to make the trip.

We had a couple of our kids with us.

They were having a lot more fun than we were. They were outside the trailer when Lynn handed me a tiny article from the Democrat and Chronicle.

The article said “The Field of Dreams is a real place.”

All of a sudden it was clear to me.

I am a person of intuition which means I have a tendency to say out loud exactly what is flashing through my mind at the exact time that it flashes.

The flash came on.

“ Hey Lynn, If we were ever to get married, it would have to be at the most beautiful place in America. Our love deserves it. If you’re willing to travel to Iowa and if we can find this place and if it's real we could get married on the spot....right at home plate.”

She made a face that I couldn't decipher so I didn't take it as a rejection.

Then she said "Great idea. I'll call up Iowa and tell them we need a marriage license to get married at an imaginary place at an undetermined time."

I found out later that she thought I was nuts and bullshitting her at the same time.

We had seen the movie together earlier in the year. we both thought it was great. In one scene, Kevin Costner (Ray Kinsella) asked his wife Amy Madigan “is this heaven or is this Iowa” as they relaxed one starry evening on the diamond that he had carved into his cornfield.

The location was so exquisite that I thought perhaps it was the most beautiful place I had ever seen.

This was the place for us.

Plus we would give the relationship the test....a test that I firmly believed had to be taken by any couple in the  tentative situation that we occupied.

I enjoyed teaching summer school because I got a chance to pay attention to the kids who had been lost along the way during the regular school year. I was always amazed with the progress they made when given that second chance.

So the question would be, if we were going to take a road trip when would it be. Lynn had her schedule at the bank and I had mine at the high school. During the regular school year, I taught twelfth grade English as well as Creative Writing. I also taught an elective called Cinematic Literacy. I created that one myself and it was a great success. I was approaching the peak of my teaching career.

I had ten days at the end of August, beginning of September.

Lynn had a week of undefined vacation saved up.

We had  originally met on July eleventh 1987 or as we called it 7/11. On our two year anniversary, we went out to dinner at the very restaurant where Lynn had made her first proposal a month before. Midway through the meal she said "I sent away for a marriage license in Iowa. The field is located in Dyersville which is near Dubuque. We have a license waiting for us in Dubuque."

Of course I was surprised but since I hadn't been bullshitting her about the road trip idea, I said "that's great. Good job."

I didn't know if she had actually procured a license or if she was reality testing

I was mystified when she said "so if we break up this summer at least we can always say that at one time we had a marriage license in Iowa when we tell our story".

All through the month of August, we came up with reasons to take the trip and those reasons were roadblocked by objections, obstacles and realities. If Lynn wasn't exactly rocking the boat during the previous couple of weeks, she was damned sure checking for leaks.

One night, we watched Close Encounters of the Third Kind. We loved the flick and mixed it into our plan. If we headed west we would go as far as Devil's Tower in Wyoming and if we hadn't made up our mind to get married by that time, we would head back and know that we had tried goddamn it, we had tried and we had a Iowa Marrigae license to prove it.

It was also becoming clear that if we hadn't made up our mind to try the road trip this before school started, it meant that we probably should wrap up the relationship as painlessly as possible.

On August 25th, I called  Lynn from my apartment and said "I was ready to go if she was''.

She wasn't ready and she hung up sorta pissed off.

This was the last possible day to make the trip and be back in time for school.

A couple hours later, I heard a knock on the door. It was Lynn.

She told me the van was in the parking lot, packed and ready to go if I was serious.

I ran into my house, packed a few things.

I climbed into the van.

"Let's go" I said.

"I'll drive"

I drove the first leg. We found rest area deep in Ohio.

We napped for a few hours. Then we went into the rest area and washed up. Lynn came out first and went behind the wheel. I started to climb into the van when an impulse struck me. As I was leaving the rest area, I saw a machine selling bio-rhythm cards. I dec ided what the hell...I went back and bought a card for that day.

It only took maybe an extra thirty seconds. I didn't like what the card said so I threw it out.

That thirty seconds would be crucial as we were headed for a blind spot that we might have missed if not for the card.

Yeah, the whole crazy pilgrimage was my idea. I talked her into it, yet it was her van that was smashed to bits.

One way or another, the journey was over.

We were alone together in a motel in LaGrange, Indiana not far from Touchdown Jesus and the Golden Dome of Notre Dame. I was beginning to get a grip on death. As we traveled from the wreckage to the hotel, I asked what time it was. When we got to the hotel, it was a half hour before the time it was when we were on our way to the hotel.

Someone explained that we had crossed the line separating one time zone from another. We had left Eastern Daylight Savings Time. That’s when I began to realize what death is/was. This was eternity. When you’re dead, you’re in Indiana and you keep crossing between time zones and Touchdown Jesus forever.

Time stabilized for awhile in the hotel. I was expecting hysterics, blame or disassociation from Lynn. Instead, I got calm, composed, courageous capability.She started working the phones.

She had a handle on what happened. She called her auto insurance company back in New York. She explained the situation.....car totaled, hotel in Indiana, etc. They wanted to know what her plan was.

To my astonishment, Lynn told them that she wanted to continue on with her journey. She outlined what she needed and what she expected to make that continuation possible.

Following that she called the American Automobile Association and got from them what we needed to continue the journey.

A few minutes later, a rental car appeared at the motel.

We drove around a bit, looking for a place to eat. We lost and gained two or three hours in that fifteen minute search.

After “lunch” we made our way to the junkyard to take a look at the van.

“Yep, it’s totaled”, the junkman asserted.

We gathered our belongings from the van and loaded them in the rental.

I could not have been more impressed by any companion.

Even though I wasn’t sure whether we were alive or not, it was clear that we were inhabiting the same realm. It was a realm, I wanted to remain in for the rest of my life/death.

I got down on one knee in that junkyard and asked Lynn to marry me.

She accepted.

August 26, 1989.

What a day.

What an eternity.

And the pilgrimage was still on.

We didn’t know if we were dead or alive but we knew we were getting married. We didn’t know where. We had a marriage license in Iowa. We had been looking for the Field of Dreams which we heard was in Dyersville. We drove through that town. There’s a lot of farms in Dyersville and a lot of corn. We couldn’t find the farm that we were looking for. We were hungry, tired, not sure if we were alive and headed for a place that might not exist. We were in a rented van. 

We saw the driveway to yet another farm and turned into it, past yet another corn field. When we got to the farm itself, it was most definitely not the Field of Dreams farm, it looked more like the Cujo farm. We got the hell out of there but not before some giant thing flew out of the corn, through my open window and onto my chest. I don’t know what the hell it was a bird, a locust, a demon grasshopper? I don’t know, I just grabbed whatever  it was and threw it out the window toward the cornfield or the hell from whence it came.

When we reached the end of the driveway safe from Cujo and the flying thing, I pulled the van off the road. I realized that I had gone crazy. Here we were in the middle of Iowa for God sake. We were lost. We might be as totaled as was our original van. All my fault, all part of yet another crazy dream that I had dragged Lynn into.

We turned right at the end of the driveway. We drove about a hundred yards. And then...we saw a paper plate.....nailed to a tree....on the plate two words and an arrow.....Movie site....arrow pointed right.

We took that right turn and a half mile down the road, there it was....The Field of Dreams. No doubt. Right exactly out of the film and out of my dreams.

Perfect.

We drove down that long driveway and met a man who was working in the yard. I asked him if he was the owner of the place.

He said that he wasn’t but that the owner was out in the cornfield on his tractor.

I saw the man on the tractor in the corn and walked towards him. He turned his tractor to meet me. 

When we were about ten feet apart, he turned off the tractor and turned his blue eyes on me.

“Can I help you?” asked the man on the tractor.

I said, “I believe you can. We’ve traveled from Rochester, New York. We had a terrible automobile accident yesterday. I’m not sure if we’re alive or dead so tell me, is this heaven or is this Iowa?”

He looked at me and realized that there was something going on here and he wasn’t sure what it was.

Then he answered in the most perplexing way possible.

“It’s whatever you want it to be.’

I said, “whatever it is, it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. I want it to be the place where we get married.”

He said “You can do that.”

I asked “Would Friday be all right.”

He said “that would be fine.”

We shook hands.

On that Friday, he would be our best man. His name was Don Lansing.

I told Lynn the great news.

We got in our car and drove to Devil’s Tower. We had originally said that we would go as far West as Devil’s Tower and if we hadn’t made up our minds by then, well we’d head back home and take a break. Of course, we had already made up our minds thanks to the junkyard proposal.

We returned Thursday night.

Don greeted us warmly and invited us into the house. Yeah, the house in the movie. Don wanted to know what we were going to wear. All we had left were our jeans. Don went to the phone and called the local tux shop. They had one tux left. Don asked if we wanted a cake. We said yeah. He got on the phone and called the local bakery. He asked Lynn how big the cake should be. She said big enough for fifty. I laughed out loud. We didn’t know a single person in Iowa aside from Don and the guy who originally greeted us, a guy named Butch who was a caretaker for the field and his wife Annie.

Then he asked Lynn if she needed a wedding gown. He knew a dressmaker in town. He called Anne Steffen, the local dressmaker. He described our dream and asked Ann if she could help out. She said that she could.

That evening, we drove into town. The only tux in town fit me perfectly. Next we met Anne. She and Lynn got together and designed a wedding dress. That night we slept at Butch and Annie’s house and the rain poured down ending a drought.

The next day, we went back into town. The dress was made. Beautiful like in a dream. We drove to the town office to pick up our wedding license. Lynn had sent away for one before we left on our pilgramage. By the time we got to the office the word had already spread. We got our license. They told us that they had heard all about the plan and so had the local television station. They wanted to interview us. 

We met the reporter and she seemed very interested in our story. She had a full camera crew with her. We told them that we had arranged for a justice of the peace to do the honors. We told them about the car crash.

The town barber had heard about all of this and volunteered to give me a haircut while Lynn tried on her dress.

By that time it was getting late. We stopped at a restaurant to have our last meal as single people. We looked up at the teevee and there we were on the local news. We watched ourselves telling our story.

We made it back to the house. By this time, a bunch of neighbors had gathered.

I went into the room where in the movie Ray’s daughter looks out the window and says “something’s gonna happen out there.”just before the ghost shows up.

I had the same view of the field and I knew that indeed something was gonna happen out there. We were gonna get married. The ghosts were gonna show up.

I made sure I had the wedding ring which we had bought at Wall Drugs in South Dakota. The rings were made from genuine Black Hills gold.

By this time about fifty people had gathered.

I left the house and walked into the corn in left field. I figured that since I still wasn’t sure that I was alive that I should come out of the corn like the ghosts did.

I made my way to the pitchers mound where I met Don. I was on the mound for a few moments when the fifty people started to ooh and ahh as Lynn emerged from the house. Suddenly everything was in transcendent five dimension. I couldn’t have dreamed of a more beautiful bride.

She made the long walk past the bleachers and crossed the magical first base line. She didn’t disappear. She met me on the mound and we walked together to home plate where the magistrate awaited. We took our vows with Don standing right behind us. The witnesses cheered.

After the ceremony, we went back to the porch. The towns folk had brought fixings. We ate the cake together. They all wanted pictures so we posed for awhile. We drank some champagne that somebody had provided. We bid them farewell.

The next day we were home. On the flight back, we told the  stewardess our story and she put us in first class. Sitting right next to us was Maury Wills, the ex-Dodger shortstop who had once stole a hundred bases in a season. She told Maury the story and he congratulated us.

We made it home in time for the Ring of Fire around Canadaigua Lake.

We’re going to be celebrating our thirtieth anniversary next week.

We’re still going the distance and easing each other’s pain.

[karenstensgaard]

Last weekend, I braved the mobs, so you don’t have to! I spent a full day at D.C.’s convention center standing in line and squeezed into seats. I attended what may be the biggest free to the public book festival hosted by the Library of Congress.

According to the Library of Congress, their 18th annual festival included a diverse lineup of 115 authors featuring U.S. Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor, eminent historian Doris Kearns Goodwin, acclaimed novelist Amy Tan, former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright, U.S. Poet Laureate Tracy K. Smith, and two-time Newbery Medal winner Kate DiCamillo. As usual, I took another route with detours right from the start.

Entering the grand hall when the crowds were more manageable!

On my way to hear Dave Eggers, I could tell the crowd was growing and saw a panel on Spywork and John le Carré. The title sounded mysterious, and since my next novel will include some espionage, I ducked in to get a seat. John le Carré (real name: David Cornwall) wasn’t there. Authors David Ignatius (The Quantum Spy), Joseph Kanon (Defectors), and Adam Sisman (John le Carré: The Biography) with Pulitzer Prize-winning author and moderator for the panel, Kai Bird (American Prometheus: The Triumph and Tragedy of J. Robert Oppenheimer) chatted about le Carré spy stories and his influences on storytelling.

Afterward, I hustled down three escalators and over to the Fiction room to hear Jeffrey Eugenides (well-known author of The Virgin Suicides) and a new book, Fresh Complaint. After waiting over 20 minutes, we were complaining. Since he was running late, the event was canceled.

With time to kill, I slipped across the hall and heard the second half of murder mystery and spy novelist Hank Phillippi Ryan’s update on her new book, Trust Me. She encouraged fellow career changers doing this later in life. She didn’t start her writing career until she was in her 50’s. My husband asked me if Hank was a man. Her real name is Harriet, and Hank was a nickname from college. She has a definite edge since statistics say men writers sell more. Just look at J.K. Rowling: her new books are penned by Robert, not Roberta, Galbraith. A sad fact, since Joanne, of all writers, can afford to be a woman!

At the book fest, authors were grouped mainly by topic or type of book (history & biography, main stage aka big names, teens, poetry & prose, understanding our world – a catch-all mix, fiction, and genre fiction. A few I didn’t check out – two children stages, and a Library of Congress Hall. Each author or group had an hour to discuss their book with an interviewer and a few minutes for Q&A.

On the right, interviews for TV channels were conducted later:

I met my husband for a book discussion by David Ignatius for his spy thriller, The Quantum Spy, about the Chinese ruling the world via computer. David was part of my first lecture on Spywork. Besides being a novelist, he is a journalist and writes a column for the Washington Post. He might have noticed me if he’d learned from his characters. Spies supposedly watch their surroundings closely. But with the packed crowd, I blended in and was undetected. But just wait for my run-in with Security!

After another wait for lunch, I returned to the Fiction salon to hear Andrew Sean Greer talk about his novel Less. Less really means More since he won the Pulitzer Prize with his edgy modern travel love story. Congrats! And the award couldn’t go to a nicer guy. Andrew came across as laid back and friendly joking with the crowd. When he found out one of his teachers was in the crowd, he didn’t hesitate to get to the edge of the stage to hug her.

Now my plan fell apart, and I almost pitched my free book tote bag in disgust. I had hurried across what seemed like miles of convention room carpeting while dodging attendees who are either are from the UK or prefer walking on the wrong side of the hallways. I followed the signs to Room 146, but somehow, I’d left, without leaving the building, and had to ask a security guard for help.

After another delay with another security check and backtracking, I found one of the hundred plus Ask Me volunteers lingering everywhere. She pointed out the best route to the elusive Room 146. But when I arrived, many others had too, and a large line snaked around the corridor.

Here’s why. Room 146 had a captivating title: Understanding Our World. So necessary anytime, but perhaps mission critical if you live in DC. I knew I wouldn’t hear any of the Conversation: Americas Great Struggle for Racial Equality featuring Brooks D. Simpson and Isabel Wilkerson.  But it was the next event that was on the top of my wishlist: Conversation: Sea Creatures.

What would the authors share with us on behalf of these creatures from the ocean and 70% of planet earth‽  (The ‽, a question-explanation mark combo called an interrobang, is official and grammatically correct. I couldn’t resist using an interrobang for the first time in such a deserving situation.)

The sea creature conversation included an interview with Sy Montgomery, the author of a book I loved: The Soul of an Octopus: A Surprising Exploration into the Wonder of Consciousness. Who knew octopi have such personalities and are as smart as a whip‽Times eight, of course. Sy has a new book: Tamed and Untamed Close Encounters of the Animal Kind. Juli Berwald’s book also sounds fascinating. Spineless: The Science of Jellyfish and the Art of Growing a Backbone.

I hate to admit with these long afternoon lines; I’d lost my can-do festive mood. Instead, I found a seat and watched the long line hover and grow resembling the long leg of you know what. My seat buddy, armed with what looked like an ordinary cane, told me about the good old days in D.C. when it was a two-day event held on the Mall under massive tents. She lamented how much easier it was to see inside and hang around outside the tents if the seats were full. And except for the possibility of rain and mud, or scorching heat and humidity, book lovers managed just fine.

Right next to us, the doors opened for the next session in Poetry & Prose with a short and manageable line. So I went high-brow listening to the panel on Literary Lives with authors Mark Eisner (Neruda: The Poet’s Calling) and Kay Redfield Jamison (Robert Lowell: Setting the River on Fire” A Study of Genius, Mania and Character). Fiona Sampson, the author of In Search of Mary Shelley: The Girl Who Wrote Frankenstein, was ill and couldn’t leave the UK. Her book was of particular interest since Mary Shelley and Frankenstein are in my second still to be published novel.

My sixth and final event was again in the Poetry & Prose room: How Writers Think and Work. So apropos since I’m a novelist. I continually compare notes with the experts. But from what I’ve learned in writing, there are no rules, and if there are, no one agrees. Some renegade writers even urge you to break any you happen to find.

This last discussion included authors Lorrie Moore, See What Can Be Done: Essays, Criticism and Commentary, and Richard Russo, probably best known for his novel and TV show, Empire Falls. His recent book, The Destiny Thief: Essays on Writing, Writers, and Life was another book I had read. Two, out of about 200 new books, isn’t too bad.

The book fest ended for me since I lacked the energy for the last few lectures scheduled elsewhere. Isn’t this blog exhausting? In the Amazon carousel below, I’ve added a link to some of the books by the authors I heard speak, including one from yours truly.

[amazon_link asins=’1521210519,0393254151,0765393077,031631613X,1451697724,1524732486′ template=’ProductCarousel’ store=’karenstensg01-20′ marketplace=’US’ link_id=’128fc14f-b47e-11e8-8899-c9d48c37cf6b’] P.S. If you were hoping to see another library blog, here is a photo of the beautiful Carnegie public library at Mt. Vernon Square across from the convention center. Since it looks like a beautiful spot, when the renovation is done, I’ll be back. And here’s a photo of me with an adorable portable library on the way to H Street behind Union Station and my favorite D.C. restaurant, Ethiopic.

Get an insider's view of Washington D.C.’s 18th Library of Congress National Book Festival. Last weekend, I braved the mobs, so you don’t have to! I spent a full day at D.C.’s convention center standing in line and squeezed into seats.