You Can't Stake Your Lives on a Saviour Machine

Now more than ever.



President Joe once had a dream
The world held his hand, gave their pledge
So he told them his scheme for a Saviour Machine

They called it the Prayer, its answer was law
Its logic stopped war, gave them food,
How they adored 'till it cried in its boredom,

"Please don't believe in me, please disagree with me
Life is too easy, a plague seems quite feasible now,
or maybe a war, or I may kill you all"

Don't let me stay, don't let me stay.
My logic says burn so send me away
Your minds are too green, I despise all I've seen
You can't stake your lives on a Saviour Machine

I need you flying, and I'll show that dying
Is living beyond reason, sacred dimension of time
I perceive every sign, I can steal every mind

Don't let me stay, don't let me stay
My logic says burn so send me away
Your minds are too green, I despise all I've seen
You can't stake your lives on a Saviour Machine

Savage Beauty: A Review

Documenting the life of anyone is bound to be occasionally problematic. Edna St. Vincent Millay’s life was more in line with that of a Greek Goddess than any mere mortal: impulsive, passionate, effusive, sometimes insensitive, occasionally self-destructive, and thoroughly lusty, to name only a few. In her time, she was considered the dominant voice of rebellious youth in the period of hedonism and experimentation known as the Roaring Twenties. Millay was a talented poet, playwright, and actress, whose popularity was unmatched for a period of roughly thirty years, beginning with the end of World War I in 1918 and her death in 1950 at the age of 58. Her life is masterfully documented in a biography written by the author Nancy Milford. The title of this authoritative work is Savage Beauty.

To know the artist, one must know something of her upbringing. Edna St. Vincent Millay was born in a small coastal town in Maine about a decade or so before the turn of the Twentieth Century. Her father, Henry Millay, was a teacher who would later become superintendent of schools. Her mother, the former Cora Buzzelle, was a nurse. The two of them produced three children, all girls. The marriage, regrettably, was not a happy one and it swiftly ended in divorce. Cora left Henry at the time their oldest daughter, Edna, was 8. Though ordered to pay child support, Henry Millay rarely did, and the decision to legally separate thrust his former wife and their three children into a sustained state of poverty. These dire circumstances produced a tight bond between the Millay girls, a close-knit, highly involved relationship that persisted for each sister’s entire life. They could be loving, competitive, confrontational, and sometimes resentful, but the three of them always identified as a singular unit, of which their mother also played a large part.

To make a living, Cora decided that she ought to become a traveling nurse, going wherever she was needed. She made enough to survive, frequently sending money home. Consequently, she was rarely present in the daily lives of her daughters, particularly in their formative years. In effect, three young children had to more or less raise themselves. Their mother corresponded frequently through the mail, and insisted upon frequent letters from her children, but would sometimes be absent for days, even weeks at a time. Edna began writing poetry in childhood and her first efforts reflect this sense of isolation. It is a motif she would frequently return to later in life, even when surrounded by friends, fans, and associates.

Though she herself occasionally used the feminine first name of Edna, she was more well-known simply as Vincent. Considered to be a boy’s name, this created waves, particularly in a very different, far more conservative age where gender roles were usually adhered to without question. She began to submit her work to literary contests, and her proficiency as a poet was almost immediately acknowledged. Through these, she built her name, and also won the first round of admirers, who eventually gave her the ability to leave the remote place of her birth and enroll in college.

In those days, a university or college education was far more rare than it is today. It was considered a sign of great privilege and distinction and since few could afford it, it was largely off-limits to all but a fortunate few. By the time Vincent was old enough to attend, women’s colleges had been established to counter-balance the number of institutions that refused to admit them. It had, after all, only been in the recent past that colleges and universities had been the sole domain of men. Only a few had even begun to start admitting female students.

Her name now in print, Vincent wrote prodigiously, eventually drafting the poem that would introduce her to American readers, “Renascence”. The work was entered into a contest, wherein she placed fourth, a highly controversial decision. Even the eventual winner, a man, believed that her work had been vastly superior to his. The judges simply found it hard to believe that a twenty-year-old girl from rural Maine could have been possible of writing something of such high quality and maturity. The cloud of dust kicked up by the scandal did eventually produce something quite fortunate for the young poet. She found a patron willing to subsidize the cost of tuition, should Vincent wish to attend college. Choosing Vassar, Millay eagerly enrolled, though at twenty-one she was older than most of her classmates.

At Vassar, Vincent began to branch out and explore same-sex relationships. Nancy Milford’s book is made ever richer because the author had complete access to most of Millay’s written correspondence, this by way of one of her sisters, who fortunately preserved her papers. Though Vincent pursued other lesbian relationships while at college, Savage Beauty in particular explores the relationship between Vincent and Elaine Ralli, one of her classmates. Reading between the lines, one can observe that the two were lovers, though Millay was careful never to spell it out directly. Her relationships with men, in great contrast, were so verbose and detailed as to be excessive. Nevertheless, the pairing lasted only a few months until prominent others caught wind of it.

Vassar was (and still is) a notoriously difficult school to obtain entrance. And as mentioned earlier, a poor small-town girl without a name or a trust fund, Vincent Millay had to depend completely on the charity of wealthy benefactors to keep her enrolled and to pay her tuition. And, true to form, exactly as she would resolve situations like these in the years going forward, she simply cut all ties with her girlfriend. Elaine was very much in love with Vincent. Her partner knew this, but she still severely distanced herself, eventually ending all contact without much in the way of consultation or tact.

Vincent was well-known for her numerous love affairs with both men and women, the details of which frequently made their way into her poetry. The word promiscuous was frequently assigned to her, a characterization that is, I suppose, technically accurate, though it does connote slut-shaming and I use it here reluctantly. In her heyday, Vincent’s love life was a revolving door. Her letters reveal a consistent pattern. She had a habit of proclaiming ultimate love and devotion for a short time before finding something much more attractive and appealing later.

Had she not also left behind a large trail of spiteful, slighted lovers in her wake, this would not have been as much of an problematic issue. Many of these were also writers themselves, so their characterizations of her in written form often show feelings of extreme betrayal and resentment. Many fell in love with her through her writing. Many others became infatuated after meeting her in person or by way of the bedroom.

I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day,
Your little month, your little half a year,
Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
And we are done forever; by and by
I shall forget you, as I said, but now,
If you entreat me with your loveliest lie
I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And vows were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived
To struggle on without a break thus far,
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking.

Attempting to explain where Vincent’s rebellious streak began is not terribly difficult. Her mother, even as an old woman, was fond of saying shocking things. First among them was her assertion, regarding her daughter’s sexual prowess, that she was a slut in her day. Why shouldn’t Vincent be the same way? In traveling through Europe with her daughter, she noted Vincent’s sexual behavior firsthand. At times, she even stumbled upon her daughter in the act itself, when the both of them shared a hotel suite, particularly when Vincent forgot to close or lock the door behind her.

The relationship between mother and daughter, then, often completely lacked any sense of healthy boundaries. Vincent’s mother was not above chiding and, if need be, browbeating her oldest child to write frequently, particularly during her daughter’s trips abroad, just as she had at an earlier time. Mother Millay, as Vincent’s husband called her, also spent vast amounts of time in her daughter's company, in a fashion that would seem intrusive and off-putting to most.

At times, their relationship resembled that of relative equals rather of than parent to child. This degree of intimacy does at times seem obsessive, particularly in certain revealing circumstances. The most prominent of all of these might be when the elder Millay took it upon herself to remedy her daughter’s unwanted pregnancy. Consulting an archaic book of natural remedies, she found a particular root that had abortive properties and personally induced the process herself.

While in her early thirties, Edna St. Vincent Millay eventually married Eugen Boissevain, a relatively well-off Dutch businessman and importer who was ten years her senior. A self-proclaimed feminist, he was the widower of Inez Milholland, a First-Wave suffragist, labor lawyer, socialist, war correspondent, and public speaker who died tragically young at the age of 30. Theirs was an open marriage, in which the two of them could and did take other partners. During the course of their marriage, she often wrote to and kept track of previous partners, to whom she was known to periodically return. These were usually other writers and artists who floated in the same social circles, though a particular infatuation on her part was the poet George Dillion. Fourteen years younger than her, he was the inspiration for several beautiful sonnets. It is occasionally difficult to keep track of Millay’s lovers, as they tended to share similar interests and passions, and as such a vast amount of creative cross-pollination was present, both literally and metaphorically speaking.

The go-to place for young, politically active intellectuals, artists, and activists at the time was Greenwich Village in New York City. Here the term “Bohemian”, applied to their libertine, freewheeling lifestyle was first applied. It was this scene that was the spiritual homeland of many such characters. Even today, their behavior and permissive attitudes would be shocking to many. I myself noted while reading a description of what went on back then that it disproves many cultural myths. The Godparents of free love were not the hippies or flower children of the 1960’s. Rather they were the riotous, high energy jazz babies and high steppers of forty years prior. Even now, much of the way they lived their lives is still well ahead of its time.

The last few years of Edna St. Vincent’s Millay fall into the category of falling action. Her health, which had never been good since her early thirties, began to fail once again. Flare ups of physical ailments combined with nervous breakdowns had been periodically present for years. She gave public readings and continued writing, though at times she was quite frail. Making matters even worse, three crucial people in her life died in rapid succession, a trusted friend (and lover), her mother, and her father.

She became addicted to morphine and alcohol as a means of coping with the pain. Photographs taken of her in the last decade or so of her life reveal a person in swift decline. It is as if she lived an entire life in only a few short years, then found nothing left in reserve to sustain her. Perhaps her most famous poem, written in her early twenties best defines the life she led.

First Fig

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
It gives a lovely light!

Understatement

One of my New Year's Resolution is to write more poetry. Back in undergrad I took several poetry writing workshops because my mentor was a poet. At the time I saw it as an intriguing challenge, and like most things I put my mind to, effort alone tends to work near-miracles. I learn and process by doing. Surveying the quality of two years worth of short essays alone proves this.

Having said that, poetry is a discipline that is not necessarily my default. Prose flows naturally from my brain to my fingers, requiring a minimum of revision. Poetry, by contrast, takes a lot of work. But there are times where the images and atmosphere are strong enough that they merit writing. This was the case in what follows below.

I've been reading a lot of Edna St. Vincent Millay recently, and this effort is an homage to her famously profuse romances.

______________

Understatement

call me a student
of the subtleties

whose intentions
are not subtle

half the distance
of otherwise adequate
personal space

or a reassuring hand
reaching out frequently
redundant punctuation

safe
appreciated
but unnecessary

these how I found
my way into your car

for thirty minutes
of parked conversation
the engine still running

losing my composure
the words I wished to find
obscured by nerves

strange, bizarre combinations
revealing, bordering on obvious

producing strategic retreats
or quick corrections

now out of sorts
I look downward
to the floorboards

reappearing from time to time
to fully take in
your eyes

the increasingly
high-pitched, accented squeak
of your voice

recalling an ancient, overused
turn of phrase involving

sharp objects and
gelatinous impulses

as you nervously began
to twist a gold band

round and round
at the knuckle

eventually sliding it
off altogether

holding it loosely
in the palm of

the right hand
as though weighing its worth

for nearly a minute
before casually returning it

Fighting Intolerance Requires Trusting Other People

An English professor at Auburn University Montgomery (Alabama) has recently sparked a firestorm of criticism for his decision to edit two Mark Twain classics. Twain's The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, both read by generations of schoolchildren, contain frequent usage of racially insensitive language. However, they are also products of their time. The books were written by an author who used dialogue authentic to the period, as objectionable as it is to us in this day. The controversy among Twain scholars and the general public has been substantial. But until recently, the professor held a completely different attitude altogether.

"Probably a dozen years or so ago, I would have thought the same way," Alan Gribben, a professor of English at Auburn University Montgomery, said Tuesday night. "The author’s final text is sacrosanct and should never be altered."

Specifically, one troublesome word used to refer to African-Americans, beginning with the letter N, has been completely removed from the text. In its place, the word "slave" has been inserted. Also, the derogatory, but colloquial word "Injun" to describe Native Americans has been replaced with "Indian". Everything else remains as it was in Twain's original manuscript. Predictably, this has become another political correctness fight. My position is one of those unsatisfying, on-one-hand, but-on-the-other-hand stances that leaves me conflict and uncertain. What I will say is that I take less liberty with Dr. Gribben's decision than the current reality that motivated it.

No one doubts the destructive and psychologically damaging impact of one particular word that was struck from the text. However, I think also that there is much value in periodically looking back over our shoulder to note where we once were. We cannot easily understand where we are today unless we have a clear understanding of our history, even if it is painful to contemplate. Today's audience might well be able to draw a sharp distinction between yesterday and today, realizing in the process that we have made great strides in race relations. I speak only for my own experiences here, but I do recall that I had to read both books when I was in school. Neither I, nor my classmates came to some erroneous conclusion that simply because we read a particular word as part of our classwork that it justified our use of it. As I recall, curriculum requirements mandated we read Twain, as was true for every student in the rest of the state.

But Gribben, who has studied and taught Twain for 40 years, changed his mind as he toured the state a few years ago reading to audiences from "Tom Sawyer" as part of the NEA’s Big Read program. He’d routinely replace the n-word -- used 219 times in "Huck Finn" and nine times in "Tom Sawyer," he said -- with the word "slave," which he has done in NewSouth Books’ new combined edition of the two works. In addition, the word "Injun" is replaced with Indian.

Let it be known that, before we read both of Twain's novels, I remember my teachers spending much time beforehand to point out the problematic language, as well as addressing what was and was not appropriate. This proactive approach was in place well before we even as much as opened the first page. I wish that a knee-jerk response to a knee-jerk response was not present here.

"We were very aware that we were doing something that was potentially very provocative and controversial," NewSouth publisher Suzanne La Rosa said. "We were very persuaded by Dr. Gribben’s point of view of what he called the amount of ‘preemptive censorship’ going on at the school level. It pained him personally to see ... the way that Twain’s novels were being de-listed from curricula across the nation. It became difficult for teachers to engage in discussion about the text when the kids were so uncomfortable, particularly with the n-word."

My mother taught Language Arts in K-12 for years, so I'm intimately familiar with frequent parent reservations regarding objectionable material. Ordinarily sane, rational individuals sometimes lose both when their children are involved. Micromanaging every aspect of their child's education quickly makes life miserable for teachers. Parents complain about almost everything, and if they had the ability to truly speak their own minds, I'm sure some teachers would probably request that certain parents opt for homeschooling. For example, I myself don't know how the first thing about being an attorney. I have have never been to law school and have never passed the bar. So I'd feel a bit silly telling a lawyer that I know how to do his or her job better. But this same courtesy is infrequently given to educators. Personal reservations should be addressed in appropriate ways, but often they are not.

As a result, school systems increasing have no backbone. Afraid of litigation, no matter how frivolous, they acquiesce to parent demands rather than risk confrontation. Bad publicity of any sort is to be avoided. In the process they bend over backwards so far that they snap their spine neatly in two. School districts that remove Twain altogether from their curriculum do no one a service. They destroy our vital link with the past. Instead of opening a dialogue that might be a bit uncomfortable at first, we remove the offending item altogether. If I believed that sanitized versions along the lines of this new edition were the solution, I would be more enthusiastic and less concerned. But I know that such undertakings never stop at one seemingly minor editing job.

As we continue to make progress and push aside the shackles of the past, I'm sure we'll find reservations in other literary works. Unlike the views of some, I have faith in the ability of people to know how not to cross lines. I have faith that they will be able to tell the difference between what is offensive from what is not. I have faith that they can observe the difference between wrong and right and stick to it. I have faith that if we frame any issue in its proper perspective and context, we don't need to cut off our nose to spite our face. It's time to trust other people again to do what is right.

And There's Nothing I Can Do

Ground control to Major Tom
Ground control to Major Tom
Take your protein pills
and put your helmet on

Ground control to Major Tom
Commencing countdown, engines on
Check ignition and may God's love be with you

This is ground control to Major Tom
You've really made the grade
And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear
Now it's time to leave the capsule if you dare

This is Major Tom to ground control
I'm stepping through the door
And I'm floating in a most peculiar way
And the stars look very different today

For here
Am I sitting in a tin can
Far above the world
Planet earth is blue
And there's nothing I can do

Though I'm past one hundred thousand miles
I'm feeling very still
And I think my spaceship knows which way to go
Tell me wife I love her very much
(She knows)

Ground control to Major Tom
Your circuits dead, there's something wrong
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?

Here am I floating round my tin can
Far above the moon
Planet earth is blue
And there's nothing I can do

A Life's Work Speaks Louder Than a Million Words

As we often lament, every minority or marginalized group can be easily stigmatized, slandered, or reduced by what is not factually correct. How one personally deals with it is a matter of individual preference; I would not dictate terms to anyone if I could. Tactics may differ, but the response does not. Sometimes, despite our best attempts, as the context changes, we wait our turn to be vociferous opponents as well as allies. We live in an age that has good reason to be cynical, but we often go too far, applying it heavily to everything, particularly that which we take offense. Passion is not at fault here, but the volatility of debate is.

Like everyone, I claim a patchwork of several interconnected identities for myself. If we take these views seriously and actively advance them, parts of who we are can easily prove to be controversial. To best illustrate what it is I mean, I have randomly chosen to highlight Feminism. When I share this bit of information with the general public, I usually get one of two responses. Some people immediately identify, but regularly make assumptions that are incorrect. Taking the time to constantly correct misinformation and to refute stereotypes is exhausting work. Every new soul I encounter must be set right, and doing so means having a long-practiced speech and battle-tested strategy at my disposal. At times, I feel a bit like the musician who has scored a major hit, but becomes entirely defined by it, forcing him or her to play said song for the rest of eternity.

The other responses are those of hostility and skepticism. In them, one immediately is placed into a defensive, apologetic role, balancing anger with necessary tact. These are the hard sells, if you will, and gaining their trust by looking past their fear is an even greater challenge. Sometimes I open minds, but often I end up in a stalemate that may not have changed minds as much as lessened hostilities. If this is, in fact, a war, we seem to be stuck on the same field of conflict. We have not moved forward when the same stubborn urban legends persist. They have their true believers, who may never see the numerous holes in stale arguments. The best I can do sometimes is to raise doubts or encourage self-reflection.

There have been other times, of course, where I have taken the path of least resistance. I have let words of prejudice go unchallenged or felt disinclined to correct someone who holds an opinion that is factually wrong. Sometimes I simply do not have the stomach to go through one more protracted energy drain. Indeed, I could spend my entire life as a exercise in rapid response. Correcting, subtracting, negating, and adding to grows weary and repetitive. Offensiveness has a thousand mothers and fathers. It seems to have a robust family tree, as well. If only it were an orphan.

Perhaps a third way exists. If I lived my life as a Feminist, and let my actions speak for the movement itself, would that be the most successful undertaking possible? In effect, the goal I hold for myself regardless of how I self-identify is the same. No matter what label I assign to myself: Quaker, Feminist, Progressive, Liberal, Pacifist, the way I live my life proves my case more than the words I adopt or defend. Part of human progress is a constant process of amending or striking out that which has come before. That being said, I am ever more unwilling to be a living statute or by-law.

I am tired of alternating between a role as state's witness and the council for the defense. Living by example alone may be what is most necessary. My most recent goal in life is that my life, more so than my words, should most accurately reflect my passions and causes. By the end of my it, if someone were asked, What is a Feminist?, or What is a Progressive?, or What is a Quaker?, or What is a Pacifist? I hope they might think of me.

I need not be alone in this.

Quote of the Week

"A bureaucrat is a Democrat who holds some office that a Republican wants."- Harry Truman

Space Adaptation

cryptic phrasing

a disguise for
the unsighted
influences

while happening upon
attraction clothed by
energy turned inward

I spied a black hole
scurrying off

the results of
shadowy work
without credentials

some radiate
others disappear
into the black

the wisest know
instinctively

others
often not as much

perception works
and resumes stand
in line for unemployment

1 January 2011

Nothing Changes on New Year's Day

All is quiet on New Year's day
A world in white gets underway
I want to be with you, be with you, night and day

Nothing changes on New Year's day
On New Year's day

I will be with you again
I will be with you again

Under a blood red sky
A crowd has gathered, black and white
Arms entwined, the chosen few

The newspapers says, says
Say it's true, it's true
And we can break through
Though torn in two
We can be one

I, I will begin again
I, I will begin again

Ah, maybe the time is right
Oh, maybe tonight

I will be with you again
I will be with you again

And so we're told this is the golden age
And gold is the reason for the wars we wage
Though I want to be with you
Be with you night and day

Nothing changes on New Year's day
On New Year's day
On New Year's day

Happy New Year!

Everybody had a hard year
Everybody had a good time
Everybody got a wet dream
Everybody saw the sun shine
Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah

Everybody had a good year
Everybody let their hair down
Everybody pulled their socks up
Everybody put their foot down
oh yeah

I've got a feeling.

Everybody had a good year
Everybody had a hard time
Everybody had a wet dream
Everybody saw the sun shine

Everybody had a good year
Everybody let their hair down
Everybody pulled their socks up
Everybody put their foot down
oh yeah

I've got a feeling.

First Day Back

Oh, the errands to be run!

For a few people back home.

Should Societal Judgment Be Time Limited?

The impetus for this post was a most unlikely subject. I've been recently deconstructing my own uneasy feelings towards disgraced NFL Quarterback Michael Vick. My partner, a native of Philadelphia, is a huge fan of the Eagles professional football team and is thrilled at the its recent success with Vick at the helm. When the dog fighting revelations surfaced, I admit that I wanted to see him banned from the league for life. Instead, Vick served nearly two years in jail, filed for bankruptcy, missed two full seasons, and was blackballed from his original team. His stunning return to form was highly unexpected. And as much I try to be a forgiving person, I simply cannot extend it to a player who is nonetheless a strong candidate to be eventually awarded the National Football League's Most Valuable Player for a most impressive season.

My partner's response is calm, but firmly adamant. How long should we continue to punish anyone for past sins, particularly after they have done their time and suffered for it? I do see her point, though I still retain my skepticism. She frequently and adamantly encourages me to reevaluate my initial viewpoint, with limited success. So it is that on this same basic subject, a fellow Quaker, Betsy Cazden, recently invoked a thought-provoking, and highly controversial query for us all to ponder. Adapted from the theologian and philosopher Miroslav Volf, Cazden poses, “In heaven are there permanent memorials to Auschwitz, to Hiroshima, to the Middle Passage, to the Quaker martyrs?”

Or, to put it another way, can the atrocities humans have committed against each other be rightly let go after a time? Visitors to Holocaust concentration camps and memorials to those killed by Nazi atrocities are implored to "never forget." Is it healthy to eventually forgive and forget? Is it even possible to keep its memory alive beyond a certain time? Eventually, everyone negatively influenced by these infamous crimes against humanity committed in the name of the Fatherland will pass on to the next life. When they do, will wave after wave of museums, memorials, films, literature, and personal anecdotes suffice to serve as the supreme deterrent? Seemingly in in opposition to them is the radical forgiveness espoused by Jesus, commandments unwavering and undeniable.

"If you forgive those who sin against you, your heavenly Father will forgive you. But if you refuse to forgive others, your Father will not forgive your sins."

"Stop judging, so that you won't be judged, because the way that you judge others will be the way that you will be judged, and you will be evaluated by the standard with which you evaluate others."

We are reflections of the way we react to other people, particularly in how we respond to those who break the rules, for any reason, and at any time. Putting ourselves in the place of those we criticize will be sure to create discomfort. If we are honest enough with ourselves, we can see how our judgments evolved and grew throughout the course of our lives. Every human develops differently based on specific environmental factors combined with the complex biology of how we came to be in the womb. This is not to excuse offhand anyone's bad behavior or poor decision making, but rather to note the complicated series of events that goes into the formation of each and every human life. Without contemplating the entire picture, our instant, summary judgments are based on incomplete and inadequate information.

Since I became a Friend, I have been called to avoid absolute words like "evil", in that they provide no possible way to see the Divine within the mortal. Even so, I find it a severe challenge not to see historical figures like Adolf Hitler in such blanket terms. The best I can manage is a weak, strained kind of halfhearted concession which states that der Führer certainly must have loved dogs. Which is more than we can say for Michael Vick. Hitler may have loved canines, but he certainly didn't love many of his fellow human beings. It is an extraction of the scriptural passages above that forms Quaker theology and I concede that as a spiritual discipline, I need to work on myself to not fall into the habit of making self-righteous pronouncements of any sort. Still, when one considers genocides, regardless of who is involved, I seek not to dishonor the memory of those who perished. With this ambivalence, a column I began with open-ended questions I conclude the same way.

Is it finally time to forgive, even if we do not forget? Would forgiveness facilitate healing? What is the ultimate and lasting value of maintaining an open sore? For all our striving, are we fighting a losing battle with time? If we are religious or spiritual people, do we trust in the guidance of God to open hearts and close wounds, or is this our responsibility, first and foremost?

Belated Quote of the Week

"A person who publishes a book willfully appears before the populace with his pants down. If it is a good book nothing can hurt him. If it is a bad book nothing can help him."- Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Obligatory Snow Pictures

Christmas Pictures

A Most Improbable Event

Snow on Christmas? In Alabama?

First time ever!

U.S. Space and Rocket Center Pictures

Alabama's most visited tourist attraction is the U.S. Space and Rocket Center. Located in the North Alabama city of Huntsville, one finds many a paean to the Space Program.

Over 200 pictures were taken. Here are the best of them, numbering 140 in total.

Travel Day

As I hang out in train stations, airports, and cars all day, accept this Christmas offering.

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

by O. Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

Can't Tell Them Apart At All

Like to take a cement fix
Be a standing cinema
Dress my friends up just for show
See them as they really are

Put a peephole in my brain
Two new pence to have a go
I'd like to be a gallery
Put you all inside my show

Andy Warhol looks a scream
Hang him on my wall
Andy Warhol, Silver Screen
Can't tell them apart at all

Andy walking, Andy tired
Andy take a little snooze
Tie him up when he's fast asleep
Send him on a pleasant cruise

When he wakes up on the sea
Be sure to think of me and you
He'll think about paint and
he'll think about glue

What a jolly boring thing to do

Andy Warhol looks a scream
Hang him on my wall
Andy Warhol, Silver Screen
Can't tell them apart at all

Andy Warhol looks a scream
Hang him on my wall
Andy Warhol, Silver Screen
Can't tell them apart at all

Freedom of Choice Requires Freedom to Choose

At Meeting yesterday, the subject of raising children found its way into the messages of many. Prompted perhaps by the presence of happy children singing Christmas carols early into worship, vocal ministry focused on the dual blessing and challenges of parenthood. Many moving, emotionally rich stories were shared. Each of them had a common thread, but each also stood separately by themselves as their own unique offering. Much wisdom and humor was present as well, and I am a fan of both. As some contemplated the fragility of the infant Jesus, it seemed fitting that this would be the unofficial subject of the day. When it works well, the exercise in instantaneous revelation that is most Quaker worship is a rich, multi-layered experience, one that, in this instance, left several in tears.

This is why I feel like a stick-in-the-mud in criticizing these unselfish outpourings of love and affection. Long have I wished to see the the Spirit speaking within different people with different life experiences. Most of the time, however, though anyone is always free to share a message and at any point, the same few vocal ministers usually speak. Some who do not vocally share believe that their calling lay elsewhere, which I understand. Some rise to speak only once in a blue moon. But it is notable that almost everyone who served as God's mouthpiece in worship yesterday was female. As best I can reckon, those ordinarily hesitant to speak found a topic upon which they considered themselves a relatively reliable authority. A leap of faith is required for all who would rise to their feet and talk, but some leaps can be reliably made without the fear of failure. Anxiety need not be a disqualifying factor, but I fear it often can be.

My reservations in this are that it took a topic like this one for many women to feel comfortable speaking, even once. Child rearing was the exclusive domain of one sex for a long time and it still is, even with recent changes in attitude. I suppose I always wish that women would feel less constrained to speak on a subject that goes beyond merely so-called "women's issues". Part of gender equality, to me, is the state at which topics aren't automatically relegated only to one or the other. If increased participation is what we seek, be it in houses of worship or in everyday interaction, these deceptively subtle signs must be observed and addressed. It is ironic that Quaker unprogrammed worship begins in and is largely conducted within complete silence, when the everyday silence of women who do not contribute to the greater discourse superficially add to it. Silence to Friends is holy, because there is something weighty and substantive to it, but silence in the form of non-participation is something else altogether. I show up to Meeting every First Day (Sunday) always hoping to hear a different bearer of the Spirit or to observe a message that arises from an altogether unexpected place.

It is choice, above all, that I desire. The choice to minister or not to minister is always present, but I would prefer that the decision be made on theological, not societal terms. I stay seated in the active quiet until a fully-formed message arrives. Often the matter upon which I have spoken instantly takes me out of my comfort zone. Each of us have our interests and passions, and anyone's vocal ministry routinely reflects those. Far be it for me to denigrate anyone else's. The women who spoke were passionate about parenting and Bringing Children Up the Proper Way. To reiterate, this is why I write this post with my own hesitance. Yet, beyond religious expression or practical knowledge, or even gender, I encourage each of us to refuse to silence ourselves. Some traditions are worth preserving, but unlike what some believe, reform doesn't automatically mean that the worthwhile parts of anything will be swept into the gutter at the expense of the new. Women will always be nurturing caretakers of the young, as they always have been. But they don't have to be the only ones, either.