A book is a book, yes?

I have—just this evening—been informed that The Bible is being taught in a Texas High School, as an elective.

I needed to take a wee bit of a breath when I read that.  It wasn’t hallelujah, nor was it disgust; just consideration.

It instantly conjured up the dramatic scenes in Inherit The Wind: protests over what can and cannot be read and discussed in a schoolhouse’s quest to promote knowledge.  Then my imagination worked its way ‘round to Fahrenheit 451.  Although I doubt that anyone in the Lone-star state will be tossing that particular title onto the bonfire in protest.

I daresay that’s a rather controversial decision.

If school boards allow teachers to include The Iliad in their curriculum, (another book steeped in spiritual ties) there’s no literary reason the same courtesy can’t be extended to The Bible.

Great writing is great writing, and regardless of one’s private religious constitution, it cannot (in my opinion) be accurately claimed that The Bible does not contain a few passages of good word craft.  Moreover, it’s a thriller.  There’s enough violence and mysticism in the ‘book of God’ to rival the complete works of Shakespeare.

So now I sit here in the quiet of my writing corner of the room, and reflect that even at the core of my heathen-pagan-scum spirituality, it does not too greatly shock me that The Bible is being read in a High School in Texas.  I’m here in the Pacific Northwest where much of the sky is cloudy, and much of the society is liberal.  But then I wonder: if someone in Seattle starts teaching The Koran in an elective High School literature class, will a Texas teacher be as open minded?

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

The second coming of the Britney catastrophe

I was quite infuriated earlier this afternoon to learn that reruns of House and Lie To Me were being replaced with “The Teen Choice Awards”.

Nonetheless, I made my way through the day.  Because my Beloved One’s ex-hub declared he needed to drop the other two munchkins off at our house for a bloody week, I went to the store and brought back four armloads of groceries (with two hands) on the bus.  I made breakfast for dinner.  We’d had our iced cream, and so far, kept the 11 year old (going on tabloid teen queen) Caitlyn from realizing that these wretched “Teen Choice” awards were taking over the television.

The ruse didn’t last long.  The television somehow made its way to the Teen Choice channel just as Caitlyn’s idol, Miley Cyrus, was making her way on stage.

Then, I saw it:  the reprise of the Britney catastrophe.  You might remember, once upon a time, young miss Spears was actually marketing herself as a wholesome teenage girl with talent.  Then, the downward spiral.  Pornographic clips appeared on the Internet, the babies came, the court case about the babies, the shaved head, the power of attorney fiasco taking center stage on the fishwrap stands.

It’s happening again, this time with ‘wholesome’ Disney endorsed Saturday Morning Hannah Montana teenstress, Miley Cyrus.

She appeared in short shorts, a shirt revealing (instead of covering) a bra, and a fedora.  At one point, a prop. pole was actually brought out on stage for her to swing from and dance around.

I remember recently hearing on a radio interview that her Father, Billy Ray Cyrus, had taken offense to a comment made by a comedian, which said “Make your sex tape, grow up!”

If I were a Father, I’d have taken offense too.  However, there’s no denying, if the polesports continue, she’s well on her way.

I’ve always had a grudge against the media for streaming images which are encouraging thirteen year old girls, children to dress and compete with thirty year old women.  And based on this evenings “teen choice” presentation, I can’t say I’m inspired to lighten up about it anytime soon…

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

The face(s) of Death.

 

A Tarot Deck's Interpretation

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

—T. S. Eliot

. . . . .

I am likely not the only one to have noticed, television has been spattered recently with a number of previews for upcoming horror films. Orphan, The Collector, and the newest installment of the Final Destination series.

Although I’ve only seen the latest of the Final Destination series, those films intrigue me with their modern—and very gory—slant on the notion of accidentally missing an appointment with Death.

I’m reminded of the old story (with many variations) of the man who saw Death in Damascus:

Death was startled by their encounter—well, surprised really—but warned the man: “I am coming for you tomorrow.”

The man sought out his brother and asked to borrow his fastest horse. “I saw Death! Death told me it will come for me tomorrow.” His brother at once supplied him with a swift horse, water, food, and a little money. With the help, by nightfall, our frightened gentleman raced away from Damascus. He rode all night, and was relieved when he saw a village in the distance as the new day began to break.

He rode to an Inn, and found a room. No sooner had he walked through the door, when he saw Death the second time.

“You said you would come for me in Damascus,” he said.

“Damascus? No,” said Death, “which is why I was surprised to see you in Damascus at all, considering our meeting was scheduled for today, here in this room.”

The man was stunned. More than stunned. He was exhausted, bewildered, and suddenly quite depressed. It felt as though the ground itself had turned to run away, but he was stuck standing still.

“You must have had to ride all night on a swift horse to be here with me now.” Death said.

“Yes. . .” the man said, caught in the ironic discovery that this was perhaps the first time he’d been on time for anything in his life.

“Thank you.” Death said, and took him.

. . . . .

First came the realization that people do die. Not long afterward, the concept of a roaming spirit whose dreary task is escorting the living to the other side, materialized in minds around the world. Since then, through the ages and cultures, Death has made quite a stir.

In Greek mythology, he is Thanatos. In Theogeny the poet Hesiod asserted Thanatos was the son of Nyx (night), Erebos (Darkness), and a twin to Hypnos (sleep). One of seventeenth century poet John Donne’s sonnets takes a challenging view. “Death be not proud, though some have called thee / mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so”.

There is the ever popular Halloweenish ‘Grim Reaper’. Eliot’s ‘Eternal Footman’, and Dickens’ ghost of Christmases-yet-to-come.

My ‘Death’ is one who watches, and waits. What does your imagination conjure?

© Jeffrey Puukka, 2009