Or, Why I REALLY HATE Religion
Death: Humans need fantasy to *be* human. To be the place where the falling angel meets the rising ape.
Susan: With tooth fairies? Hogfathers?
Death: Yes. As practice, you have to start out learning to believe the little lies.
Susan: So we can believe the big ones?
Death: Yes. Justice, mercy, duty. That sort of thing.
Susan: They're not the same at all.
Death: You think so? Then take the universe and grind it down to the finest powder, and sieve it through the finest sieve, and then show me one atom of justice, one molecule of mercy. And yet, you try to act as if there is some ideal order in the world. As if there is some, some rightness in the universe, by which it may be judged.
Susan: But people have got to believe that, or what's the point?
Death: You need to believe in things that aren't true. How else can they become?
- Terry Pratchett, Hogfather
Dear Jesus,
Could you have a direct word with your followers and remind them about the One Commandment? And that to be one of your followers, they're supposed to follow that ONE Commandment? Or, better yet, tell them the truth about the censoring of the Bible, the truth about your life (especially those missing years), and the fact that they weren't supposed to make a separate religion out of it?
Many thanks,
Empress
So, I had an interesting weekend. It seems that even when I'm not trying to get into trouble, I get into trouble. Now, I've mentioned that I am a Neopagan--that while I believe in God, I really feel like He needs friends, and I like having a man to argue with who doesn't argue back. It doesn't work in a real, face-to-face relationship, but it gives me the illusion/delusion that I'm not talking to myself.
I used to be a Catholic. Scratch that--I was never a Catholic, but I was raised Catholic and realized after graduating from Catholic school that the reason I never quite fit in is because I didn't believe the dogmatic bullshit. For the record, I don't believe in Jesus Christ as a God figure. I love his philosophy--it jives with several other philosophies that I think are worth living by--and I generally respect his message. HOWEVER... I also accept that he has been used across two millennia as both an agent of civilization and oppression, and that clever men have manipulated that message and history for their purposes.
That is historical fact.
I also accept that we all need beliefs and superstitions. I get that--I have a shitload of my own, and I get that most of them are security blankies--my way of insulating myself against the ugliness of reality. I included the exchange from Hogfather because I think Sir Terry got it right--belief is the essence of being human. It's just that some of us take our beliefs a little too far. Allow me to elucidate.
I was late leaving work on Friday because I stopped by the desk to chat a sec with one of my favorite student workers, Tess. Tess is awesome--aside from the fact that she's brave enough to venture on a jaunt to the Asshole of the Northeast with me to see Celebricrush--she's just a fabulous person. Now, two other students were having a convo, and I couldn't help but listen because it was a GREAT convo--convos like this are the reason I LOVE working in academia because every so often, I get to witness (and take part in) a REAL exchange of ideas--people listening and sharing and discussing--the free exchange of ideas--with civility and respect. What was even more awesome was that Lex and Chris invited us into the conversation. It started with single parenthood and went on to feminism, language, racism, and ended with a handshake on the steps.
I LOVE THAT. Convos like that are food for my soul--nourishing, uplifting, joyful, stimulating and just AWESOME. I left here happy and feeling fabulous, my faith in humanity renewed.
Fast forward to Saturday afternoon. I overslept Saturday morning, missed Jason Ciaramella's comic scripting seminars (both of them) at the Brockton NE Comics (majorly annoyed, considering the next writing project after the rewrite is finished is taking a hack at adapting Tory's MS for a manga), as well as getting my hair cut (which it needs desperately). It also put me behind schedule for Getting Things Done--I had a long list that included working out, hitting the supplement store, getting coffee, taking Mum on errands, and running a few of my own before getting home by 8:00 in order to finish up the Lurve Monkeys for etsy.
Sooooooooooooo... I finally made it to the supplement store around 4:30. A friend is running this side of a new business, and I'm psyched because he always give great advice without trying to rip people off. He knows how strapped I am budget-wise, BUT he also knows that I'm hoping for some serious success in the gym PLUS all of my allergy issues, so I can trust Lou's advice (and I will be giving the store a plug in my next "promotes" post). So, I have my selections and he's ringing me up, and there's this old guy leaning against the counter, talking away, and of course, I get pulled into the convo, talking about how long we've known Lou, yadda yadda.
Well, of course, the talk shifts to politics, and it becomes almost immediately obvious that this gent and I are on POLAR opposites of the political spectrum. When I politely make this clear, he tries to hand it off to Lou, who clearly states that he and I have agreed not to talk politics because we are friends and want to stay that way. Lou and I agreed years ago to agree to disagree and not try to sway each other. It's about respect.
Then it gets interesting, because Old Guy is NOT gonna let it go. He pulls another guy over--"Here, let me introduce you to my friend, HE knows all about the TRUTH."
I should have RUN. Instead, I continue to be polite. Mistake: turns out Mr. Truth is a Tea Partier. And a fundamentalist Xtian. Who has studied theology. Who KNOWS Jesus. Who tells me that I don't know Jesus, I haven't studied theology (and yeah, the idiot did NOT know where I work), I don't know the Bible, and the list went on.
I finally said, once I'd been told that I was WRONG, that I was getting out of the conversation because he was being uncivil and not listening and I was walking away. And I did.
Stop fainting--I was in a friend's place of business, I was dealing with old people, I was not going to start cussing him out and making a scene. I modeled my beliefs--I remained civil, polite, and walked the fuck away to look at the menu for the restaurant this place is attached to. Mr. Truth continued to yammer and gesture to Old Guy about how wrong I was, and eventually, they walked out. I tried to look at the menu, but my appetite was gone at that point. I turned around, said good-bye to Lou, and headed for my car. I opened the door to hear Mr. Truth say, "She seems like a really nice lady, but she's WRONG."
I grin, shake my head, and start to descend the stairs. To have Mr. Truth suddenly in my face, trying to evangelize me, reiterating how I don't know The Truth. At which point I say, "There is no single truth. Truth is subjective."
And he freaks. FREAKS. "There's only ONE TRUTH!!!"
Me: "No, there's three sides to the truth: yours, mine, and somewhere in the middle, is fact."
"YOU'RE WRONG!"
I walk away while he blathers and yammers. He continues to shout at me while I walk to my car.
I turn and tell him, "Go in peace," and do the yoga half-bow, hands together with just the fingertips touching.
"YOU GO IN PEACE, TOO!"
What brings me up short is this: "YOU'LL NEVER KNOW JOY BECAUSE YOU DON'T KNOW JESUS!"
I stop, standing by the door of my car, looking at him with a look that clearly conveys the fact that he has grown four extra heads and I'm trying to comprehend it. I have been rendered speechless. Seriously. Speechless. He repeats himself. And repeats himself as he disappears between his vehicle and an SUV.
Old Guy is standing there, watching me, waiting for my reaction.
And finally, my face splits into a grin, and I say to Old Guy, "Get him a good psychiatrist, willya? He's crazy!" I wave, bust a gut laughing as I get into my car, and I can hear Mr. Truth's voice dopplering over that I'm the crazy one and he doesn't need a shrink, he's got Jesus.
Yeah.
*slams head on the desk*
Being me, I posted the statement to the Twitverse & FB: Evidently, I can never know joy because I don't know Jesus." I also had to call a couple of my Fellow Faithless, the Fabulous Alicia and Vicki and have a damn good laugh with them. Leesh explains that her hubby used to have a roommate named Joy, and she knew her pretty well, so she's OK, and we conclude that I just need to meet someone named Joy. Vicki and I just shake our heads and laugh. I went to the gym, still amused, and got in a good (if short) workout. The FB exchange was pretty good, and of course, I had to tell St. Teresa when I got home because I was still trying to process this insanity. She had the best reply (and remember that St. T. is a good Catholic and real Christian): "How the hell can you know him? HE'S DEAD!"
Yeah, I actually inherited my sarcasm and lack of tolerance for the morons from her.
Had a laugh in Sbux over it with the baristas AND the clients. I got mileage, let me tell ya. I actually had to watch I Swear to God yesterday for a dose of Jim Jefferies's atheism and common sense as an antidote to the rabid Xtianity that had infected my day. How fucking sad is it that the atheists and Neopagans know more about Xtianity and Jesus's philosophy and religion than the people who claim to believe? And to tell me that I hadn't studied theology when the fucker didn't even know my name, never mind my background. *slams head on the desk* THIS is why I HATE people--I really tried to give him a chance, but the idiot wouldn't give me a chance to get a word in.
And I know why--it's not because Mr. Truth trusts his belief. I always find that argument amusing--that it's because a person is SO INFUSED with their FAITH they MUST share it with you. BULLSHIT. It's because they have so little faith they need to shout down the rest of the world lest a little fucking common sense and intelligence worm its way in and create doubt. It's the ultimate form of insecurity--they have so little grounding, they have to shove what little bit of meaning they've found down the throat of others. I hate it. Jesus wept, I have so many fucking insecurities, but I have enough faith in myself and my spirituality to give others the space to be who they are and believe what they need to.
Gimme the same fucking courtesy, willya? Don't look down on me as some poor, uneducated, deluded fool, and I'll give you the same respect, ferfuckssake.
I'm still baffled by it, but for me, it really sums up the difference between the right and the left these days (and it's not an original conclusion): the Right believes that it is RIGHT and leaves no room for discussion. The left concedes that the Right has a right to believe what it does, has a some valid points, but isn't seeing the whole picture.
I'm in the middle--there are people who will tell you that I'm not, but it's not the truth. See, while I have seriously liberal leanings, I also have a fair measure of common sense. I belong to the Coffee Party because I believe in what they're doing--they're working towards civil dialogue. That's all I want. I'm sick of rhetoric, bullshit, bullying, and outright lies. I'm tired of the truth being twisted. I'm tired of the conspiracies and the conspiracy theories. I'm FUCKING TIRED, PEOPLE. It's fucking time we all got along and played nice. Either that, or Washington and the lobbies and the bureaucrats need to be wiped off the planet, let a little anarchy in, and rebuild. I'm done.
(That being said, let it be noted that I am not one of these extremists that has a stockpile of weapons--chemical or firearms--at home who would act on such an insane premise. What has been stated above is HUMOR--BLACK HUMOR, CYNICISM. And it makes me very sad and lose hope that I have to make a statement like this on this blog because my country has forgotten sanity and civility and is going the way of ancient Rome--once a beautiful civilization worth respect and glory, now a crumbling ruin of inanity, excess and extremity.)
So in conclusion... Argh. To be Christlike, consider the above parable-ish. If you find yourself dealing with someone with an opposing viewpoint, LISTEN. CONSIDER. You don't have to change your beliefs or your faith, but at least allow that the other person has a right to their own truth.
Doing what Mr. Truth did to me on Saturday is how wars start. How Christlike is that?
Showing posts with label Terry Pratchett. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Terry Pratchett. Show all posts
Monday, January 31, 2011
Saturday, November 6, 2010
On Being an Old Broad
Or, I WANT IT ALL AND I WANT IT DELIVERED BY HOT, NAKED MEN!
“No man is failure who has friends.” Samuel Langhorn Clemens
St. Teresa has just asked if I’m ready to go out. Argh. I hate being rushed, and I operate on Empress Time, which is pretty much about half an hour behind schedule because there’s always something I forgot to do. I find this statement amusing (although it drives all the hyper-organized Capricorns who surround me INSANE). I have heard it called “black folks time,” “Latino people time,” “Pagan folks time,” “Lesley time,” etc. which basically means damn near everyone runs behind schedule. So tell me, is there ANYONE (besides Capricorns, of course) who is ON TIME? Except Germans, of course. (And there are at least three people in my life who just got winked at and who are laughing at that line, so anyone who isn’t, GET A FUCKIN’ SENSE OF HUMOR AND LIGHTEN UP!)
It r ma birfday, as the LOLCats would say. And I am 43 on this cloudy November day. It really kicked off last night over at Leesh’s with my first b-day gift: a copy of How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack. Just the right note! Baked apples, Lucky therapy, writing, IMing with Potential Paramour (things shifted there; long story), actually impressing Josh with the Jim Jefferies gig story, and then running into one of my favorite (currently enrolled) student with her lovely boyfriend as I was getting out of the car and shooting the shit for an hour in the chilly post-midnight hour—GREAT way to kick off the b-day weekend! (And nice to see a sweet, fabulous person happy, with a good guy. Hey, if it ain’t me, I’m glad it’s my friends.)
My day started with my phone going off around 11ish, realizing that Piddy Pat was sleeping in my right armpit, purring away (I sleep on my left side, FYI), and found a gajillion happy b-day wishes waiting on the Happenings screen of my restored ‘droid and a couple of b-day text messages as well. The only way my morning could have started better would have been waking up in a posh hotel room with the scent of a full breakfast (including bacon, sausages, fresh cinnamon buns, baked apples, cooooffffeeee, V8, a slightly green banana, and a raspberry mango smoothy) in the arms of the current Celibricrush after seeing his gig last night and with a front row seat for the Nottingham gig tonight with all my UK friends whom I haven’t seen in a dog’s age. (The realistic version of that fantasy would be waking up in the arms of Old Sbux Crush and breakfast at Supreme Kitchen. I don’t think he’s checked out the blog, so the secret is safe, although I think he’s figured out I’m attracted. *shrugs* No whooper—girl’s gotta dream, and needs to aim high.)
I have not been the nicest person this week—I have been incredibly depressed, irritable and spazzy due to PMS/PMDD, thyroid being out of whack, horrific insomnia, anxiety attacks, weird vibes at work, the b-day, and a few other minor kerfuffles.
The pre-b-day depression, fueled by all the attending bs, was not fun and was compounded on Thursday night by an email from Brit Boy #5. I am recovering from it, slowly. My heart is hurting—I still miss him, whether I want to admit it or not. I really thought that was going to work out. *shakes head* I miss his eyes, his smile, and being in his arms.
Vicki has been an utter trooper this week—all the shit she’s dealing with and she’s had to babysit my depressed ass via IM. I hate that awful feeling of being a complete failure, and boy, did it hit me this week. I really felt like utter shite—like a complete waste of space on the planet. I know that I’m not; it’s just been a rough year.
See, for me, today is New Year’s Day. I think it’s one of the reasons I don’t get into the whole Samhain thing as the Pagan new year, and ditto for New Year’s Eve. Today is the day my new year starts, and all of the assessment and re-evaluation that goes into those holidays for other people goes into today for me. This past year has been… argh. It’s been an incredible mix of great and horrible, and I don’t know what the new year is going to bring. My life is shifting so rapidly, and I know that come this time next year, I will be in a very different place.
Where I’ll be is the biggest question. I could very well be living in Nova Scotia by this time next year; or, I could still be in Boston but no longer in Hell’s Vestibule, something I would desperately love but also fear. This has been my family’s home for over 70 years; it probably will no longer be by this time next year. That will be traumatic in a lot of ways. It’s a cultural thing—the Irish are weird about Their Land. You want to see me go insane? Threaten my home. Violate my property. Friends have seen me drop everything and challenge fisticuffs to someone fucking with my house. If you’ve ever seen Gone With the Wind, Gerald O’Hara has this little speech to Scarlett about what it means to own land. It’s a very real thing ingrained in the Irish, I think, especially in light of our history, and something that hasn’t died out in a lot of us, for good or ill.
I’m behind the 8-ball artistically right now—I haven’t written a bloody word for NaNoWriMo, haven’t finished the sodding rewrite of Book 1 (and am only on page 31, argh, argh, argh), have ANOTHER craft show next weekend, and the house… Christ, the house. At least Elder Services has approved a sliding scale fee, so the heavy chores guy won’t cost an arm and a leg. We may get this monstrosity cleaned out yet.
The cat is snoring on the comforter across from me—curled in a ball, making little snuzzy “ook” sounds. What makes this REALLY funny (for Pratchett fans) is that a) she is the same color as The Librarian (of Unseen University) and Horace, my stuffed orangutan (who has appeared in the UU scarf that went over for Hogswatch), has frequently been mistaken for Piddy asleep on the couch; b) she IS a librarian’s cat. I like it.
Today’s epigram is to remind me of how utterly, completely blessed I am—there is no way on heaven, hell or earth someone surrounded by such incredible, loving friends could be a failure. Just not possible. It’s reminder to me to think about how I define success—that it’s NOT about money or fame. It’s about people and how you touch their lives. It’s about leaving the place a little better for your having passed through. If the outpouring of kind regards today is any proof, I’m doin’ OK. :-)
Now, I have to get my arse in gear and take my Mum shopping. She’s already had to deal with me being grumpy with her (for anyone considering getting involved with an artist, particularly a writer, remember, WE ARE GRUMPY BASTARDS when tapping away on the lappie). Time to be a good kid.
Tonight is all about celebrating. Seeing friends (if you’re in the area, come on over!) to nosh and drink (although I’ll probably be going non-alcoholic tonight), and then will head for the ocean for a stroll and to meditate and clear my head.
Sadly, it’s too cold for a skinny dip (although a perfect night to act like a teenager and snog in the backseat).
Remember, kids—growing older is mandatory. Growing up… growing up is for the unimaginative.
Much love,
Your Empress
“No man is failure who has friends.” Samuel Langhorn Clemens
St. Teresa has just asked if I’m ready to go out. Argh. I hate being rushed, and I operate on Empress Time, which is pretty much about half an hour behind schedule because there’s always something I forgot to do. I find this statement amusing (although it drives all the hyper-organized Capricorns who surround me INSANE). I have heard it called “black folks time,” “Latino people time,” “Pagan folks time,” “Lesley time,” etc. which basically means damn near everyone runs behind schedule. So tell me, is there ANYONE (besides Capricorns, of course) who is ON TIME? Except Germans, of course. (And there are at least three people in my life who just got winked at and who are laughing at that line, so anyone who isn’t, GET A FUCKIN’ SENSE OF HUMOR AND LIGHTEN UP!)
It r ma birfday, as the LOLCats would say. And I am 43 on this cloudy November day. It really kicked off last night over at Leesh’s with my first b-day gift: a copy of How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack. Just the right note! Baked apples, Lucky therapy, writing, IMing with Potential Paramour (things shifted there; long story), actually impressing Josh with the Jim Jefferies gig story, and then running into one of my favorite (currently enrolled) student with her lovely boyfriend as I was getting out of the car and shooting the shit for an hour in the chilly post-midnight hour—GREAT way to kick off the b-day weekend! (And nice to see a sweet, fabulous person happy, with a good guy. Hey, if it ain’t me, I’m glad it’s my friends.)
My day started with my phone going off around 11ish, realizing that Piddy Pat was sleeping in my right armpit, purring away (I sleep on my left side, FYI), and found a gajillion happy b-day wishes waiting on the Happenings screen of my restored ‘droid and a couple of b-day text messages as well. The only way my morning could have started better would have been waking up in a posh hotel room with the scent of a full breakfast (including bacon, sausages, fresh cinnamon buns, baked apples, cooooffffeeee, V8, a slightly green banana, and a raspberry mango smoothy) in the arms of the current Celibricrush after seeing his gig last night and with a front row seat for the Nottingham gig tonight with all my UK friends whom I haven’t seen in a dog’s age. (The realistic version of that fantasy would be waking up in the arms of Old Sbux Crush and breakfast at Supreme Kitchen. I don’t think he’s checked out the blog, so the secret is safe, although I think he’s figured out I’m attracted. *shrugs* No whooper—girl’s gotta dream, and needs to aim high.)
I have not been the nicest person this week—I have been incredibly depressed, irritable and spazzy due to PMS/PMDD, thyroid being out of whack, horrific insomnia, anxiety attacks, weird vibes at work, the b-day, and a few other minor kerfuffles.
The pre-b-day depression, fueled by all the attending bs, was not fun and was compounded on Thursday night by an email from Brit Boy #5. I am recovering from it, slowly. My heart is hurting—I still miss him, whether I want to admit it or not. I really thought that was going to work out. *shakes head* I miss his eyes, his smile, and being in his arms.
Vicki has been an utter trooper this week—all the shit she’s dealing with and she’s had to babysit my depressed ass via IM. I hate that awful feeling of being a complete failure, and boy, did it hit me this week. I really felt like utter shite—like a complete waste of space on the planet. I know that I’m not; it’s just been a rough year.
See, for me, today is New Year’s Day. I think it’s one of the reasons I don’t get into the whole Samhain thing as the Pagan new year, and ditto for New Year’s Eve. Today is the day my new year starts, and all of the assessment and re-evaluation that goes into those holidays for other people goes into today for me. This past year has been… argh. It’s been an incredible mix of great and horrible, and I don’t know what the new year is going to bring. My life is shifting so rapidly, and I know that come this time next year, I will be in a very different place.
Where I’ll be is the biggest question. I could very well be living in Nova Scotia by this time next year; or, I could still be in Boston but no longer in Hell’s Vestibule, something I would desperately love but also fear. This has been my family’s home for over 70 years; it probably will no longer be by this time next year. That will be traumatic in a lot of ways. It’s a cultural thing—the Irish are weird about Their Land. You want to see me go insane? Threaten my home. Violate my property. Friends have seen me drop everything and challenge fisticuffs to someone fucking with my house. If you’ve ever seen Gone With the Wind, Gerald O’Hara has this little speech to Scarlett about what it means to own land. It’s a very real thing ingrained in the Irish, I think, especially in light of our history, and something that hasn’t died out in a lot of us, for good or ill.
I’m behind the 8-ball artistically right now—I haven’t written a bloody word for NaNoWriMo, haven’t finished the sodding rewrite of Book 1 (and am only on page 31, argh, argh, argh), have ANOTHER craft show next weekend, and the house… Christ, the house. At least Elder Services has approved a sliding scale fee, so the heavy chores guy won’t cost an arm and a leg. We may get this monstrosity cleaned out yet.
The cat is snoring on the comforter across from me—curled in a ball, making little snuzzy “ook” sounds. What makes this REALLY funny (for Pratchett fans) is that a) she is the same color as The Librarian (of Unseen University) and Horace, my stuffed orangutan (who has appeared in the UU scarf that went over for Hogswatch), has frequently been mistaken for Piddy asleep on the couch; b) she IS a librarian’s cat. I like it.
Today’s epigram is to remind me of how utterly, completely blessed I am—there is no way on heaven, hell or earth someone surrounded by such incredible, loving friends could be a failure. Just not possible. It’s reminder to me to think about how I define success—that it’s NOT about money or fame. It’s about people and how you touch their lives. It’s about leaving the place a little better for your having passed through. If the outpouring of kind regards today is any proof, I’m doin’ OK. :-)
Now, I have to get my arse in gear and take my Mum shopping. She’s already had to deal with me being grumpy with her (for anyone considering getting involved with an artist, particularly a writer, remember, WE ARE GRUMPY BASTARDS when tapping away on the lappie). Time to be a good kid.
Tonight is all about celebrating. Seeing friends (if you’re in the area, come on over!) to nosh and drink (although I’ll probably be going non-alcoholic tonight), and then will head for the ocean for a stroll and to meditate and clear my head.
Sadly, it’s too cold for a skinny dip (although a perfect night to act like a teenager and snog in the backseat).
Remember, kids—growing older is mandatory. Growing up… growing up is for the unimaginative.
Much love,
Your Empress
Thursday, October 14, 2010
This I Choose To Do...
The title of today's post is taken from a crucial line in Wintersmith by Terry Pratchett. I love Sir Terry's books--he's an amazing writer who has always made me laugh and think--a powerful combination, and something I aspire to do with my own writing.
The quote is relevant to what's gone on over on Facebook over the past 36 hours. In my last post, "Imagine," I yammered about my distaste for organized religion, a post inspired by the reaction to a humor piece I linked to on FB. Well, I took some serious shit for it and the rest of this blog--some serious judgemental shit that included a slap at my "morals" (I don't have any; I have ethics) and my Celebricrush of the Moment, Jim Jefferies. (SO HIGH SCHOOL! I mentioned a few days ago all the shit I took for loving David Bowie back in high school--it was like a bad flashback. Didn't work then, didn't work now--you're still a god, Jim. ;-)
Now, when I started writing the more personal entries on this blog, I knew it would make some people uncomfortable. I knew it would upset some folks. I knew that; I accepted it. I'm not writing about easy things, and my style is full-on, no bullshit and confrontational, and I take no prisoners.
What that approach doesn't always convey is the level of compassion and understanding behind the harsh words. I get that the people who react the most violently to what I say--the people who really can't deal with it--are people who don't want to deal with it. I've touched a nerve in them, a place they don't want touched, and their response is to either snap back at me or run away.
And, honestly, that's OK. I mean, it's hurtful to me--don't get me wrong, I have feelings and I can be deeply hurt by the judgments of others--but at the same time, I also understand that not everyone can deal with what I have to say. I react the same way when someone hits a nerve in a sore spot I'm not prepared to have examined. I get that we all are in different places and dealing with different stressors, and we're not always ready to examine the feelings challenging statements can cause.
Am I going to apologize? Nope. I didn't do anything wrong. A couple of folks took something intended lightheartedly a little too damn seriously and over-reacted. I am NOT a religious person; I hate organized religion. Faith... faith is a different story. I respect people who live their faith. I may not understand it, I may not support it, but I do respect it. I have my own faith, my own spirituality. It works for me. It has nothing to do with dogma or morality--there are little rituals involved, but they're pretty losely organized and open-ended things. I don't hold with the serious ritual magic (or magick, whatever the fuck you want to call it) because I think, at bottom, it's silly.
I found Catholic ritual silly--fairly meaningless, honestly, but for some of the songs which are beautiful and can still move me to tears. That's ME--that's my truth. I don't require that it be anyone else's truth. If it works for you, fine. Whatever. Just do it for yourself and leave the rest of us out of it.
This is where my problem comes in--I am sick and fucking tired of religious people using their beliefs--BELIEFS, NOT FAITH--to hurt the rest of us. I'm sorry, but it's unConstitutional (and therefore, UNAMERICAN) to exclude anyone from the rights the rest of us enjoy based on your religious beliefs. There is nothing ethically wrong with homosexuality. There is nothing ethically wrong with non-Christian belief systems or spirituality. Just because it makes you uncomfortable or some old man across the ocean says it's immoral does not give you a right to pass legislation excluding someone.
End of story. Any law based in religious beliefs is a violation of the Constitution. What does that mean in real terms? Well, it means that marriage for same sex couples should be legal across America; however, it does not mean that churches who disagree with homosexuality have to marry same sex couples. OK? I'm not asking the Catholic Church (or any other, for that matter) to marry gays. I'm telling them to leave the civil side of things alone. I think that's a fair compromise. Let the civil side go forward; the religious side is up to the individual church.
I've reached the end of my patience with all of it, especially after being called "arrogant" (yep, I am--I own it, I'm good with it) and having judgment passed on my life. Get this very, very straight: I don't give a fuck what ANYONE thinks about me or my life. I am done caring about the opinions of others. The world can kiss my fat white ass--if you don't like how I think and who I am, get the fuck out of my life because I have no time for you. If I died right now and had to face the final judgment, I could do it with a clean conscience. I know what I've done, who I've wronged, and just as importantly, I know the good I've done in this world. When I shuffle off this mortal coil, the good will outweigh the damage, and while I have made mistakes, I have done whatever I could to rectify them and make amends where it was needed. I have tried to develop and use the talents I've been given. I challenge everyone reading this: CAN YOU SAY THE SAME? Are you living to your full potential?
I am done with ignorant, narrow-minded idiots who have never once stepped out of their safe little world--who never evolved beyond their own safe place. And if you're reading this and taking it personally, THAT IS YOUR CHOICE.
Remember that--everything in life is a choice. EVERYTHING. And if you're not happy with the choices you've made, do something about it.
"This I choose to do..." because I have to. Because I want to be free of the pain and the past, and because I accept who I am and what I need to fulfill my goals. If you can't accept that, that's YOUR choice and YOUR problem. This is who I am--it's who I've always been. I just finally woke up and embraced it.
Let's end this weighty entry on a cheesy note... I heard an old 80's song, a classic hair metal tune, the other day, and it hit me that it's still as applicable to me now as it was then... "Here I Go Again" by Whitesnake. Ahhhh, the fantabulous David Coverdale and his magnificent coif...
"Here I go again on my own
Goin' down the only road I've ever known
Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone
But I've made up my mind
I ain't wastin' no more time..."
G'night, kids. Be kind to each other. Accept each other. And don't let the bastards grind you down.
Much love,
Your Empress
The quote is relevant to what's gone on over on Facebook over the past 36 hours. In my last post, "Imagine," I yammered about my distaste for organized religion, a post inspired by the reaction to a humor piece I linked to on FB. Well, I took some serious shit for it and the rest of this blog--some serious judgemental shit that included a slap at my "morals" (I don't have any; I have ethics) and my Celebricrush of the Moment, Jim Jefferies. (SO HIGH SCHOOL! I mentioned a few days ago all the shit I took for loving David Bowie back in high school--it was like a bad flashback. Didn't work then, didn't work now--you're still a god, Jim. ;-)
Now, when I started writing the more personal entries on this blog, I knew it would make some people uncomfortable. I knew it would upset some folks. I knew that; I accepted it. I'm not writing about easy things, and my style is full-on, no bullshit and confrontational, and I take no prisoners.
What that approach doesn't always convey is the level of compassion and understanding behind the harsh words. I get that the people who react the most violently to what I say--the people who really can't deal with it--are people who don't want to deal with it. I've touched a nerve in them, a place they don't want touched, and their response is to either snap back at me or run away.
And, honestly, that's OK. I mean, it's hurtful to me--don't get me wrong, I have feelings and I can be deeply hurt by the judgments of others--but at the same time, I also understand that not everyone can deal with what I have to say. I react the same way when someone hits a nerve in a sore spot I'm not prepared to have examined. I get that we all are in different places and dealing with different stressors, and we're not always ready to examine the feelings challenging statements can cause.
Am I going to apologize? Nope. I didn't do anything wrong. A couple of folks took something intended lightheartedly a little too damn seriously and over-reacted. I am NOT a religious person; I hate organized religion. Faith... faith is a different story. I respect people who live their faith. I may not understand it, I may not support it, but I do respect it. I have my own faith, my own spirituality. It works for me. It has nothing to do with dogma or morality--there are little rituals involved, but they're pretty losely organized and open-ended things. I don't hold with the serious ritual magic (or magick, whatever the fuck you want to call it) because I think, at bottom, it's silly.
I found Catholic ritual silly--fairly meaningless, honestly, but for some of the songs which are beautiful and can still move me to tears. That's ME--that's my truth. I don't require that it be anyone else's truth. If it works for you, fine. Whatever. Just do it for yourself and leave the rest of us out of it.
This is where my problem comes in--I am sick and fucking tired of religious people using their beliefs--BELIEFS, NOT FAITH--to hurt the rest of us. I'm sorry, but it's unConstitutional (and therefore, UNAMERICAN) to exclude anyone from the rights the rest of us enjoy based on your religious beliefs. There is nothing ethically wrong with homosexuality. There is nothing ethically wrong with non-Christian belief systems or spirituality. Just because it makes you uncomfortable or some old man across the ocean says it's immoral does not give you a right to pass legislation excluding someone.
End of story. Any law based in religious beliefs is a violation of the Constitution. What does that mean in real terms? Well, it means that marriage for same sex couples should be legal across America; however, it does not mean that churches who disagree with homosexuality have to marry same sex couples. OK? I'm not asking the Catholic Church (or any other, for that matter) to marry gays. I'm telling them to leave the civil side of things alone. I think that's a fair compromise. Let the civil side go forward; the religious side is up to the individual church.
I've reached the end of my patience with all of it, especially after being called "arrogant" (yep, I am--I own it, I'm good with it) and having judgment passed on my life. Get this very, very straight: I don't give a fuck what ANYONE thinks about me or my life. I am done caring about the opinions of others. The world can kiss my fat white ass--if you don't like how I think and who I am, get the fuck out of my life because I have no time for you. If I died right now and had to face the final judgment, I could do it with a clean conscience. I know what I've done, who I've wronged, and just as importantly, I know the good I've done in this world. When I shuffle off this mortal coil, the good will outweigh the damage, and while I have made mistakes, I have done whatever I could to rectify them and make amends where it was needed. I have tried to develop and use the talents I've been given. I challenge everyone reading this: CAN YOU SAY THE SAME? Are you living to your full potential?
I am done with ignorant, narrow-minded idiots who have never once stepped out of their safe little world--who never evolved beyond their own safe place. And if you're reading this and taking it personally, THAT IS YOUR CHOICE.
Remember that--everything in life is a choice. EVERYTHING. And if you're not happy with the choices you've made, do something about it.
"This I choose to do..." because I have to. Because I want to be free of the pain and the past, and because I accept who I am and what I need to fulfill my goals. If you can't accept that, that's YOUR choice and YOUR problem. This is who I am--it's who I've always been. I just finally woke up and embraced it.
Let's end this weighty entry on a cheesy note... I heard an old 80's song, a classic hair metal tune, the other day, and it hit me that it's still as applicable to me now as it was then... "Here I Go Again" by Whitesnake. Ahhhh, the fantabulous David Coverdale and his magnificent coif...
"Here I go again on my own
Goin' down the only road I've ever known
Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone
But I've made up my mind
I ain't wastin' no more time..."
G'night, kids. Be kind to each other. Accept each other. And don't let the bastards grind you down.
Much love,
Your Empress
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Queen of the Banned!
Greetings, oh, my blurking darlings, and happy Banned Books Week!
As you know, your beloved Empress is a librarian.
Yep, a LIBRARIAN. Cast aside all of your hideously awful stereotypes of librarians... those of the uptight, baggy-clothed, tight-arsed (well, yeah, my arse IS tight, but I digress) bun-wearing, sexually repressed fascists of the Miss Pinch and Marian-the-Librarian mold. No, my cherished minions, librarians are none of the above. We ARE a quirky, odd bunch... a bit like witches (if you are a fan of Terry Pratchett, and if you are not, FOR SHAME!!!!!!!! *shakes finger* Go read a fuckin' book, you ignorant savage!). Anyhoo... Hey, it's nearly 10:30 p.m., I've been here for 12 hours, been through the Read Out (and read twice!), been to the doctor's, have successfully prevented myself from ceasing to breathe because of anaphylaxis, and I'm gettin' a little punchy. DEAL WITH IT.
Back to Librarians and Discworld witches... We are a quirky lot, those of us who are librarians in the "blood and bone," to borrow Sir Terry's phrase. Some of us meek and sweet, some of us outgoing and outrageous, every one of us to the last a rabble-rousing rebel when intellectual freedom is challenged.
Don't believe me? Well... let's take a peekieboo at Banned Books Week. Wanna know where the list stems from? (Of course you do!) See, the American Library Association has a form. If a cretinous moron with the mind of a failed parachute decides that a book needs to be kept from the hands of other humans, they attempt to force the book's removal from the shelves of a library OR be removed from a school's curriculum. Roughly 90% of the books on the Banned and Challenged list (this is not an official stat; this is a stat gained from a professional stat-compiler's eye for estimation) stem from school curriculum protests.
Yeah.
Busybody fuckin' parents trying to make rules for everybody's kids instead of just their own, so many of them "good Christians." Ignorant fuckin' cunts the lot of 'em. (Yeah, I just dropped the c-bomb. Dunt like it? TOUGH SHIT! Whaddya gonna do? CENSOR ME? This is an Over-18 Blog--PISS OFF!)* It makes me angry (not that you could tell). A book is a book. It's a collection of words and ideas. That's it.
Well, not really. See, I'm a true blue book geek. I go beyond bibliophile and into the area of bibliotaph.** I LOVE books. I read voraciously, usually with five going at once, and reread great books many times. I have travelled to England JUST to meet an author for the third time (yep, Terry Pratchett) because his books were so damn good. I have stood and wept in a bookstore upon discovering the death of a beloved author (Robert A. Heinlein, and I still want to know to whom he left his best bed). I have spent years involved in the debate over the authorship of Shakespeare because of my love for those works and my belief that a middle class glover's son from Stratford in the 16th century COULD NOT HAVE POSSIBLY written those works (and as a working class Boston Irish kid who came of age in the 80's, raised by a single mother who taught her from birth that if I could read, I could do ANYTHING; strict Catholic education in a time when public education was in the toilet; surrounded by the highest concentration of higher learning institutions in the world, EXCELLENT public libraries, television, access to newspapers, magazines, and later, interlibrary loan and the internet, there is a reason I am able to write about what-fucking-ever I choose to research thoroughly and can do so convincingly; Shakspur of Stratford DID NOT HAVE these things in England of the 1500's. There was no such a bloody thing as a "free press"--there were four of the damn things in the country, and all licensed by the Crown. Wanna know what happened to you if you published something unapproved? Google "Isle of Dogs." Go ahead. We'll wait... Yeah. Sorry, folks--reason and rationality don't allow the Stratford story to stand on no legs; yet again, I digress). Words... words are my weapons, in love and war, in all things... Words and the ability to use them effectively are POWER.
The greatest power any human being can possess.
As a Librarian, I am a defender and protector of the written word. A preservationist of knowledge. A guardian of the Right to Read. Sounds a bit silly? Not really. Not when you consider that every year, people try to stop other people from books they find offensive. Upsetting. Disturbing.
Now, "offensive" is a pretty subjective term. There are a lot of things I find incredibly offensive--most sitcoms, for instance, I find so fucking insipid, stupid, and badly written that I'd like to find the asshole who greenlighted them and run the fucker over and leave him/her to bleed in the ditch because I feel they are degrading the collective intelligence of the world. Ditto for reality TV (plus the fact that the writers--and the fucking shows are scripted, so grow up and grow a brain, it's just like professional wrestling--aren't paid union rates so they're getting fucked with a spiked stick)--it's the lowest form of entertainment. Garbage that feeds on the love of misery and watching others suffer and make asses of themselves. Makes me sick.
So how do I protest? I practice the ONLY ACCEPTABLE FORM OF CENSORSHIP IN A DEMOCRACY: I DO NOT WATCH.
That's it, kids.
We live in a democracy. (Well, not really, but the illusion still exists to a point.) In a capitalist republic, the ONLY ACCEPTABLE FORM OF CENSORSHIP is LACK OF SPONSORSHIP. Translation: You don't like it, DON'T FUCKING BUY IT, STUPID. You really want to fuck 'em, DON'T BUY THE PRODUCTS OF THEIR SPONSORS.
That's it, kids. That's the only way to do it. Boycott. And if you're the only one, maybe you're the one who needs to pry your head out of your arse. Or, maybe you're right, but hey, no one agrees. Or is ready to wake up. (Example: I've been trying to get people to read Revolt in 2100 for years now, and few people have taken me up on it. Read it. After the 2 Bush presidential thefts, see if a shiver or three doesn't run up your spines. Do a google on "The Family" and see how many high-level politicians--and this is why you will NEVER get a vote out of me, Hilary Clinton--belong to an organization that wants to convert the world to conservative Xtianity... yeah, kids, I'll pass.) Either way, you can only make the decision for yourself and your children under the age of 18.
So today, my library sponsored its first ever Read Out. What's a Read Out? It's a gathering of folks reading excerpts from banned and challenged books.
It was joyful. Really, really joyful. We didn't have a whole heck of a lot of people, but it was lovely. Intimate. Like a storytelling circle... all that was missing was the fire in the middle.
See, first and foremost, I consider myself a storyteller. When I was seriously in theatre and directing and acting, that was what I was doing. Telling stories. Interpretting stories. It was this philosophy that got me accepted into the MFA program at the Actor's Studio (I never went; no way I could ever live in NYC; I'd kill people). Now that I've moved into comedy (well, back into comedy--I was always a comic actor), I know that I'm more of a storyteller than a gag-man,*** so I'm probably going to go for staging a one-woman show rather than just the open mic gigging. It's about the set-up and the build, not about the rim shot. That approach just doesn't work for me... the one-liners, the jokes, the gags. Anyway, there is a joy in storytelling. My happiest memories of family are of storytelling (and I don't include my father's stories in here. *shudder* There are just some things you SHOULD NOT KNOW about your parents). Ditto for acting school--as magnificent a teacher as Kristin Linklater is (and she is, hells, yes, she is), my favorite memories from her Shakespearean Acting class are the times she'd gather us all about and tell us stories from her days in New York and London.
There is a magic there... the gathering, the sharing... the knowing that you are a now a part of the story, a part of the history. You become connected to those other human beings and they to you because you have shared something fundamentally primordial, one of the essential things that make us human. Today, in the Atrium lit by the warm glow of the reading lamps while the winds from the latest tropical storm howled about the building, we gathered together in a circle and shared stories. Some of them awful... In the Spirit of Crazy Horse, about the American Indian Movement and the death of Anna May Pictou, read by a transgendered woman just coming out... The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison, one of the most horrifying, heart-breaking novels I have ever read, read by an aging African American woman who lived through civil rights, taught in some of the poorest rural schools, and knows too well the damage the 11-year-old child of that story suffers... I Like Guys by David Sedaris, read by a young man in a wheelchair who had fought to get the book Naked (along with other banned books) reinstated in his rural high school...
And then there were the moments of joy. Jabberwocky. I was quoting along the entire time under my breath, grinning. Hills Like White Elephants. I've never read ol' Papa Hemingway, but I just may give the old fucker a chance. The Chocolate War, read by the author's son. The Song of Solomon, read by a lovely, lovely writer friend who came over just to read.
I read twice. Our Harry Potter reader had to cancel, so I jumped in with a bit from Deathly Hallows. I chose the part of the book that, the first time I read it, caused me to shut the book, clutch it to my chest, and sob like a broken child for the loss of the character. (The chapter is "Malfoy Manor"--I know at least one reader has not read it yet, so no spoilers.) And, yeah, I cried this time, too. The second reading (sounds like church, dunnit? Libraries ARE sacred places--they are temples to the written word) was from The Lord of the Rings. No surprises there, eh?
Lord of the Rings is the book that changed my life. I'm a writer because of Professor Tolkien and the nightmares that the Black Riders gave me. My first ever fantasy novel began as a result of one of those nightmares--"black riders on milk horses." It was a piece of piss (Gods, I love that phrase... thank you, FuckWad, it's the one thing you really gave me) as all first efforts are, but it put my feet on the road. I read The Hobbit when I was eight--checked it out of the public library and took it away to that torture chamber called summer camp. While the other evil little bitches napped, I got lost in Middle Earth. When I found out there was more, I had to have it. Of course, back then, there were no electronic catalogs in the Somerville Public Library. I didn't know that The Trilogy was upstairs in the adult section. So, it was another three years before I got a chance to read it. I was enrolled in an afterschool activity (fuck that, it was group therapy and I hated it--wankfest of bullshit. The only useful thing to come out of it was reading the book What's Happening to Me which prepared me thoroughly for puberty and masturbation) and wanted out. There were five meetings left, and my mother came home with a yellow bag from Lauriat's Bookstore. In that bag was a boxed set of four novels--The Hobbit, The Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers, and The Return of the King. I remember the box... it was gold foil with bosses from The Silmarillon on it.
Now, my Mum is a clever lady (as daft as she's getting now). She knew the only way to really bribe me was to waft a book under my nose because if asked to sell my soul, money would never budge me, but offer me a book I was salivating to read and couldn't find... oh, I would gladly surrender my soul for the book. And the bitch bribed me. I endured the intellectual wankfest for the five more sessions just to get my hands on those books. And I got 'em.
Bliss. Heaven. The world... the world opened up. I have read The Trilogy at least once a year, every year, since 1979. Do the math. You could drop my fat arse down in Middle Earth, and I could find my way anywhere with a compass. I wouldn't need a map; I memorized that one years ago. The movies... I still have a case of the ass with the films, but I also respect the hell out of Jackson, Boyens & Walsh for their incredible achievement in adapting them. I couldn't have done it--I revere the books too much. Visually... I wept during the first film because for the first time in so many years, I was seeing Middle Earth unfold before me, and it was as I had dreamt it... green, beautiful, heaven... home. They even redeemed a character I had hated forever--Boromir. If the extended version had been released, Sean Bean would've gotten the Oscar nod, not Sir Ian. He brought that character to life, and for the first time ever, I saw the Captain of the White Tower and knew why he was beloved of his men and his brother, the true Numenorean. (However, I will never forgive them for cutting out the brains and balls of Faramir. SHAME!) I have friends who would shag Sean Bean in a blink; me, I'd need him in Boromir gear. Then... well, even a whip and a chair wouldn't save him from being ravished. Yeah.
But I digress. Again.
My childhood best friend and I bonded over that book; we passed the novels back and forth. As a wedding gift, I found a set of them with the identical covers (mine had long since disintegrated) for her. I own the Red Book of Westmarch version, as well as the omnibus trade paper edition which has been recovered and taped (and needs a good regluing)--that was the one I read from today.
I chose two bits: "The Choices of Master Samwise," where Sam thinks Frodo has been killed by Shelob and must take up the quest by himself, and the final parting when Frodo tells Sam that while he has saved the Shire, he is far too damaged to remain. I ended with Gandalf's words: "Go in peace. I will not say, 'do not weep,' for not all tears are an evil."
And, yeah, I was tearing up at that. In this time of war, it hit home a little hard. See, as a child of a Vietnam vet (and the ex-girlfriend of a couple of them, as well as an ex-wife of a section 8), I'm from the generation that paid for that war. The emotional price of wounded parents, lovers, brothers, friends... wounded nation, from a generation that never knew a time when we could unequivocably believe in our nation. And now... now, we're fighting an even dirtier, more disgusting war than Vietnam ever dreamed of being, and good people are paying the highest price:
"It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, to save them, so that others may keep them."
Shit, I'm crying again. So this is my little way of saving what I love the most--the written word. I am a Librarian. And because I love them so much and so dearly, because I know what the written word has done for me--how it has shaped me, the worlds books have opened for me that I would never, ever have known... because I am a better person for the gift of the writers whose words I have devoured again and again... because I was taught to love and respect those words, and that I had a gift that I had to use for good purpose... I am a Librarian. I will do my utmost to make sure you get the books you need and the books you want. And I will FIGHT LIKE HELL to make sure you get access to them.
Coda: If you would like to know just how fierce librarians really are, there are two really great concrete examples.
The first is in the introduction to one of Michael Moore's books, I think, Dude, Where's My Country. In it, Mike dedicates and thanks librarians because it was librarians who first picked up his book and promoted it. Love him or hate him, he's made sure that people know the other side of the propaganda (and yeah, I know, he pushes propaganda of his own).
The other book is This Book is Overdue! How Librarians and Cybrarians Can Save Us All. I haven't read the whole book (haven't had time), BUT... Marilyn Johnson has written a fabulous account of life in the trenches. You know the Patriot Act? Know who first really challenged the Constitutionality of it? Yep. Librarians. She busts apart the stereotype and lays it down with humor and respect. Good read. I recommend it! ISBN 9780061431609, available everywhere, including via interlibrary loan (if your librarian hasn't checked it out for her/himself).
OK, kids, it's nearing midnight, and this witch needs to visit the beach before taking off on her broomstick for NYC--gonna see Jim Jefferies tomorrow night!!!!!!--and then Nova Scotia.
Keep the faith--keep reading.
Much love,
Your Empress
*Guess who I'm going to see tomorrow night! ;-)
** Book hoarder. I'm OK with it.
***Yeah, I know, not gender correct, but I hate the intellectual Naziism of political correctness.
As you know, your beloved Empress is a librarian.
Yep, a LIBRARIAN. Cast aside all of your hideously awful stereotypes of librarians... those of the uptight, baggy-clothed, tight-arsed (well, yeah, my arse IS tight, but I digress) bun-wearing, sexually repressed fascists of the Miss Pinch and Marian-the-Librarian mold. No, my cherished minions, librarians are none of the above. We ARE a quirky, odd bunch... a bit like witches (if you are a fan of Terry Pratchett, and if you are not, FOR SHAME!!!!!!!! *shakes finger* Go read a fuckin' book, you ignorant savage!). Anyhoo... Hey, it's nearly 10:30 p.m., I've been here for 12 hours, been through the Read Out (and read twice!), been to the doctor's, have successfully prevented myself from ceasing to breathe because of anaphylaxis, and I'm gettin' a little punchy. DEAL WITH IT.
Back to Librarians and Discworld witches... We are a quirky lot, those of us who are librarians in the "blood and bone," to borrow Sir Terry's phrase. Some of us meek and sweet, some of us outgoing and outrageous, every one of us to the last a rabble-rousing rebel when intellectual freedom is challenged.
Don't believe me? Well... let's take a peekieboo at Banned Books Week. Wanna know where the list stems from? (Of course you do!) See, the American Library Association has a form. If a cretinous moron with the mind of a failed parachute decides that a book needs to be kept from the hands of other humans, they attempt to force the book's removal from the shelves of a library OR be removed from a school's curriculum. Roughly 90% of the books on the Banned and Challenged list (this is not an official stat; this is a stat gained from a professional stat-compiler's eye for estimation) stem from school curriculum protests.
Yeah.
Busybody fuckin' parents trying to make rules for everybody's kids instead of just their own, so many of them "good Christians." Ignorant fuckin' cunts the lot of 'em. (Yeah, I just dropped the c-bomb. Dunt like it? TOUGH SHIT! Whaddya gonna do? CENSOR ME? This is an Over-18 Blog--PISS OFF!)* It makes me angry (not that you could tell). A book is a book. It's a collection of words and ideas. That's it.
Well, not really. See, I'm a true blue book geek. I go beyond bibliophile and into the area of bibliotaph.** I LOVE books. I read voraciously, usually with five going at once, and reread great books many times. I have travelled to England JUST to meet an author for the third time (yep, Terry Pratchett) because his books were so damn good. I have stood and wept in a bookstore upon discovering the death of a beloved author (Robert A. Heinlein, and I still want to know to whom he left his best bed). I have spent years involved in the debate over the authorship of Shakespeare because of my love for those works and my belief that a middle class glover's son from Stratford in the 16th century COULD NOT HAVE POSSIBLY written those works (and as a working class Boston Irish kid who came of age in the 80's, raised by a single mother who taught her from birth that if I could read, I could do ANYTHING; strict Catholic education in a time when public education was in the toilet; surrounded by the highest concentration of higher learning institutions in the world, EXCELLENT public libraries, television, access to newspapers, magazines, and later, interlibrary loan and the internet, there is a reason I am able to write about what-fucking-ever I choose to research thoroughly and can do so convincingly; Shakspur of Stratford DID NOT HAVE these things in England of the 1500's. There was no such a bloody thing as a "free press"--there were four of the damn things in the country, and all licensed by the Crown. Wanna know what happened to you if you published something unapproved? Google "Isle of Dogs." Go ahead. We'll wait... Yeah. Sorry, folks--reason and rationality don't allow the Stratford story to stand on no legs; yet again, I digress). Words... words are my weapons, in love and war, in all things... Words and the ability to use them effectively are POWER.
The greatest power any human being can possess.
As a Librarian, I am a defender and protector of the written word. A preservationist of knowledge. A guardian of the Right to Read. Sounds a bit silly? Not really. Not when you consider that every year, people try to stop other people from books they find offensive. Upsetting. Disturbing.
Now, "offensive" is a pretty subjective term. There are a lot of things I find incredibly offensive--most sitcoms, for instance, I find so fucking insipid, stupid, and badly written that I'd like to find the asshole who greenlighted them and run the fucker over and leave him/her to bleed in the ditch because I feel they are degrading the collective intelligence of the world. Ditto for reality TV (plus the fact that the writers--and the fucking shows are scripted, so grow up and grow a brain, it's just like professional wrestling--aren't paid union rates so they're getting fucked with a spiked stick)--it's the lowest form of entertainment. Garbage that feeds on the love of misery and watching others suffer and make asses of themselves. Makes me sick.
So how do I protest? I practice the ONLY ACCEPTABLE FORM OF CENSORSHIP IN A DEMOCRACY: I DO NOT WATCH.
That's it, kids.
We live in a democracy. (Well, not really, but the illusion still exists to a point.) In a capitalist republic, the ONLY ACCEPTABLE FORM OF CENSORSHIP is LACK OF SPONSORSHIP. Translation: You don't like it, DON'T FUCKING BUY IT, STUPID. You really want to fuck 'em, DON'T BUY THE PRODUCTS OF THEIR SPONSORS.
That's it, kids. That's the only way to do it. Boycott. And if you're the only one, maybe you're the one who needs to pry your head out of your arse. Or, maybe you're right, but hey, no one agrees. Or is ready to wake up. (Example: I've been trying to get people to read Revolt in 2100 for years now, and few people have taken me up on it. Read it. After the 2 Bush presidential thefts, see if a shiver or three doesn't run up your spines. Do a google on "The Family" and see how many high-level politicians--and this is why you will NEVER get a vote out of me, Hilary Clinton--belong to an organization that wants to convert the world to conservative Xtianity... yeah, kids, I'll pass.) Either way, you can only make the decision for yourself and your children under the age of 18.
So today, my library sponsored its first ever Read Out. What's a Read Out? It's a gathering of folks reading excerpts from banned and challenged books.
It was joyful. Really, really joyful. We didn't have a whole heck of a lot of people, but it was lovely. Intimate. Like a storytelling circle... all that was missing was the fire in the middle.
See, first and foremost, I consider myself a storyteller. When I was seriously in theatre and directing and acting, that was what I was doing. Telling stories. Interpretting stories. It was this philosophy that got me accepted into the MFA program at the Actor's Studio (I never went; no way I could ever live in NYC; I'd kill people). Now that I've moved into comedy (well, back into comedy--I was always a comic actor), I know that I'm more of a storyteller than a gag-man,*** so I'm probably going to go for staging a one-woman show rather than just the open mic gigging. It's about the set-up and the build, not about the rim shot. That approach just doesn't work for me... the one-liners, the jokes, the gags. Anyway, there is a joy in storytelling. My happiest memories of family are of storytelling (and I don't include my father's stories in here. *shudder* There are just some things you SHOULD NOT KNOW about your parents). Ditto for acting school--as magnificent a teacher as Kristin Linklater is (and she is, hells, yes, she is), my favorite memories from her Shakespearean Acting class are the times she'd gather us all about and tell us stories from her days in New York and London.
There is a magic there... the gathering, the sharing... the knowing that you are a now a part of the story, a part of the history. You become connected to those other human beings and they to you because you have shared something fundamentally primordial, one of the essential things that make us human. Today, in the Atrium lit by the warm glow of the reading lamps while the winds from the latest tropical storm howled about the building, we gathered together in a circle and shared stories. Some of them awful... In the Spirit of Crazy Horse, about the American Indian Movement and the death of Anna May Pictou, read by a transgendered woman just coming out... The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison, one of the most horrifying, heart-breaking novels I have ever read, read by an aging African American woman who lived through civil rights, taught in some of the poorest rural schools, and knows too well the damage the 11-year-old child of that story suffers... I Like Guys by David Sedaris, read by a young man in a wheelchair who had fought to get the book Naked (along with other banned books) reinstated in his rural high school...
And then there were the moments of joy. Jabberwocky. I was quoting along the entire time under my breath, grinning. Hills Like White Elephants. I've never read ol' Papa Hemingway, but I just may give the old fucker a chance. The Chocolate War, read by the author's son. The Song of Solomon, read by a lovely, lovely writer friend who came over just to read.
I read twice. Our Harry Potter reader had to cancel, so I jumped in with a bit from Deathly Hallows. I chose the part of the book that, the first time I read it, caused me to shut the book, clutch it to my chest, and sob like a broken child for the loss of the character. (The chapter is "Malfoy Manor"--I know at least one reader has not read it yet, so no spoilers.) And, yeah, I cried this time, too. The second reading (sounds like church, dunnit? Libraries ARE sacred places--they are temples to the written word) was from The Lord of the Rings. No surprises there, eh?
Lord of the Rings is the book that changed my life. I'm a writer because of Professor Tolkien and the nightmares that the Black Riders gave me. My first ever fantasy novel began as a result of one of those nightmares--"black riders on milk horses." It was a piece of piss (Gods, I love that phrase... thank you, FuckWad, it's the one thing you really gave me) as all first efforts are, but it put my feet on the road. I read The Hobbit when I was eight--checked it out of the public library and took it away to that torture chamber called summer camp. While the other evil little bitches napped, I got lost in Middle Earth. When I found out there was more, I had to have it. Of course, back then, there were no electronic catalogs in the Somerville Public Library. I didn't know that The Trilogy was upstairs in the adult section. So, it was another three years before I got a chance to read it. I was enrolled in an afterschool activity (fuck that, it was group therapy and I hated it--wankfest of bullshit. The only useful thing to come out of it was reading the book What's Happening to Me which prepared me thoroughly for puberty and masturbation) and wanted out. There were five meetings left, and my mother came home with a yellow bag from Lauriat's Bookstore. In that bag was a boxed set of four novels--The Hobbit, The Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers, and The Return of the King. I remember the box... it was gold foil with bosses from The Silmarillon on it.
Now, my Mum is a clever lady (as daft as she's getting now). She knew the only way to really bribe me was to waft a book under my nose because if asked to sell my soul, money would never budge me, but offer me a book I was salivating to read and couldn't find... oh, I would gladly surrender my soul for the book. And the bitch bribed me. I endured the intellectual wankfest for the five more sessions just to get my hands on those books. And I got 'em.
Bliss. Heaven. The world... the world opened up. I have read The Trilogy at least once a year, every year, since 1979. Do the math. You could drop my fat arse down in Middle Earth, and I could find my way anywhere with a compass. I wouldn't need a map; I memorized that one years ago. The movies... I still have a case of the ass with the films, but I also respect the hell out of Jackson, Boyens & Walsh for their incredible achievement in adapting them. I couldn't have done it--I revere the books too much. Visually... I wept during the first film because for the first time in so many years, I was seeing Middle Earth unfold before me, and it was as I had dreamt it... green, beautiful, heaven... home. They even redeemed a character I had hated forever--Boromir. If the extended version had been released, Sean Bean would've gotten the Oscar nod, not Sir Ian. He brought that character to life, and for the first time ever, I saw the Captain of the White Tower and knew why he was beloved of his men and his brother, the true Numenorean. (However, I will never forgive them for cutting out the brains and balls of Faramir. SHAME!) I have friends who would shag Sean Bean in a blink; me, I'd need him in Boromir gear. Then... well, even a whip and a chair wouldn't save him from being ravished. Yeah.
But I digress. Again.
My childhood best friend and I bonded over that book; we passed the novels back and forth. As a wedding gift, I found a set of them with the identical covers (mine had long since disintegrated) for her. I own the Red Book of Westmarch version, as well as the omnibus trade paper edition which has been recovered and taped (and needs a good regluing)--that was the one I read from today.
I chose two bits: "The Choices of Master Samwise," where Sam thinks Frodo has been killed by Shelob and must take up the quest by himself, and the final parting when Frodo tells Sam that while he has saved the Shire, he is far too damaged to remain. I ended with Gandalf's words: "Go in peace. I will not say, 'do not weep,' for not all tears are an evil."
And, yeah, I was tearing up at that. In this time of war, it hit home a little hard. See, as a child of a Vietnam vet (and the ex-girlfriend of a couple of them, as well as an ex-wife of a section 8), I'm from the generation that paid for that war. The emotional price of wounded parents, lovers, brothers, friends... wounded nation, from a generation that never knew a time when we could unequivocably believe in our nation. And now... now, we're fighting an even dirtier, more disgusting war than Vietnam ever dreamed of being, and good people are paying the highest price:
"It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, to save them, so that others may keep them."
Shit, I'm crying again. So this is my little way of saving what I love the most--the written word. I am a Librarian. And because I love them so much and so dearly, because I know what the written word has done for me--how it has shaped me, the worlds books have opened for me that I would never, ever have known... because I am a better person for the gift of the writers whose words I have devoured again and again... because I was taught to love and respect those words, and that I had a gift that I had to use for good purpose... I am a Librarian. I will do my utmost to make sure you get the books you need and the books you want. And I will FIGHT LIKE HELL to make sure you get access to them.
Coda: If you would like to know just how fierce librarians really are, there are two really great concrete examples.
The first is in the introduction to one of Michael Moore's books, I think, Dude, Where's My Country. In it, Mike dedicates and thanks librarians because it was librarians who first picked up his book and promoted it. Love him or hate him, he's made sure that people know the other side of the propaganda (and yeah, I know, he pushes propaganda of his own).
The other book is This Book is Overdue! How Librarians and Cybrarians Can Save Us All. I haven't read the whole book (haven't had time), BUT... Marilyn Johnson has written a fabulous account of life in the trenches. You know the Patriot Act? Know who first really challenged the Constitutionality of it? Yep. Librarians. She busts apart the stereotype and lays it down with humor and respect. Good read. I recommend it! ISBN 9780061431609, available everywhere, including via interlibrary loan (if your librarian hasn't checked it out for her/himself).
OK, kids, it's nearing midnight, and this witch needs to visit the beach before taking off on her broomstick for NYC--gonna see Jim Jefferies tomorrow night!!!!!!--and then Nova Scotia.
Keep the faith--keep reading.
Much love,
Your Empress
*Guess who I'm going to see tomorrow night! ;-)
** Book hoarder. I'm OK with it.
***Yeah, I know, not gender correct, but I hate the intellectual Naziism of political correctness.
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