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Hell on Earth…
What will be left when the Hornsby Family returns?
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Hell on Earth…
What will be left when the Hornsby Family returns?
• Another portion of America is singled out by Mother Nature for a round of devastation and paralyzing emotional trauma.
• I observe in a mirror the image of my departed brother-in-law, sneering back at me as a pirate captain, his frame bristling with weapons.
• The pet cat of a friend is stomped to death by an angry husband, plunging her life into a miserable chain-reaction of self-rescuing actions.
• My Governor declares his daring intent to cast a wide safety net of pardons to spike the ambitions of the unsavory political boss currently abusing the office of Attorney General.
• Jeffrey and Lea’s dachshund “Odie” is slaughtered by a coyote in the woods behind their home at The Blue Bank Farm.
• Paula, the state employee who coordinates the work of the KBBC and assists those of us who sit on the panel, took indefinite sick leave with the news that she has pancreatic cancer spreading to her liver.
• My friend and favorite neighbor Danny is preparing to move his family to Kansas.
• Bruce‘s condition yo-yos from lucid progress to feverish setback, almost on a daily basis.
• We learn that Marty will be leaving Kentucky to live with his mother and her boyfriend in South Carolina.
A chunk of the day was disrupted by power outages in our part of downtown Danville, restricting us to a few basic, civilized activities such as talking, reading, and eating our lunchtime salads on the front porch.
Today it was necessary to take stock of all the dimensions of the life I share—professional, domestic, marital, personal—and resolve to get back to the basics. Some things can survive without nurturing, but they’re rarely important enough to matter…
Congressman Chandler spoke to our Rotary Club at lunch today. He pounded on the subject of an emerging China as a threat to the U.S. economy. The reporter from the local newspaper was sitting next to me. During the Q&A she asked, “Would you support a war with China over Taiwan?” I don’t know why, but I like that kind of spunk. Her name is Liz, and she has a blog. I just checked it out for the first time. Sometimes it seems like everyone has a blog, but that’s far from true. There are still some very significant people who do not yet have blogs. (Use the stuff, Petey!)
My investigation of comic art and commercial illustration goes back more years than I care to mention, and yet I continue to be clobbered by the work some of these Web-based artists are doing. Who are these people?!!! In the “old days,” alternative-media or “underground” art was weird, cluttered, and often ugly, but the imagery at many of these sites—like Bolt City—is flat-out beautissimous!
Maybe I just need to grasp that this is a generation of artists who have mastered digital techniques and use the Web as an efficient tool for distribution and self-promotion. It’s a medium that simply wasn’t available until recently, if you factor in the explosion of high-speed connectivity. Any previous generation of creatives would have jumped all over it, too.
Ian is heading out West. It will be an adventure.
How do I know it will be an adventure?
Because Ian is heading out West.
I remember the exact day that Ian turned cool. It was the same day my brother Jerome got married. I don’t recall the year, but during the wedding reception there was a precise moment when Ian turned unmistakably cool. Most likely he’d already been semi-cool for a long time.
I remember reading Ian’s blog for quite a while, but I guess it hurt too much, so I stopped. It made me think a lot about the painful stuff I couldn’t write down at his age. I hadn’t learned yet how to use my journal to transmute all that torment. I chose to do stupid stuff instead. It was a time when young people did a lot of stupid stuff. Maybe it was more like today than I recognize. Maybe not.
I also remember the time when another of my brothers decided to create a new nickname for Ian. James tried to get people to say “Largian.” It didn’t stick. Lot’s of things never stuck to Ian.
Good luck, my nephew.
Be safe. Have fun.
As is well known by now, Brendan is half-way into a month-long sentence on crutches. During a brief discussion about crutches-free living, I found out he might start swimming on a regular basis. I got so charged up that I walked over to Centre at noon and crawled off a 600-yard Personal Record time.
I can’t get “Gates of Fire” off the front of my mind today. It’s at times like this I could use a basic intellect boost (remember that Krell device in “Forbidden Planet?”) and coalesce all my fragments of thought to produce a single, coherent insight. To be more specific, I keep thinking of Thermopylae, and what it meant, and, beyond that, the place it holds in our history. How many times has it inspired those who faced impossible odds, or given meaning to sacrifices that would serve no immediate purpose other than to lay the groundwork for a subsequent overcoming, or compelled strivers to place the welfare of the many over life itself? And if so, it must be true that knowledge of the heroic feat was present in the mental quiver of an educated person. Is that still true today? If you asked a hundred Americans old enough to vote, how many of them would recognize the word “Thermopylae?” And of those, how many would know what it meant? And of those, how many could explain its significance to Western Civilization? And of those, how many would believe it was a positive contribution to the world that followed? And who among them might speculate with me about how the event had perhaps influenced Wallace and his Scots? Washington and his Rabble? Houston and his Texicans? Churchill, Roosevelt, and Eisenhower and the ordinary men they motivated to storm death’s sanctum on both sides of the planet?
—may contain spoilers—
I wish I had the capacity to take Pressfield‘s premise—that Leonidas hand-picked the 300 Spartan warriors, not for their own character, but for the character of their wives, mothers, and daughters, knowing that the ultimate victory would come to pass when the embattled Greeks took heart from the conduct of the Spartan people, which would in turn be based on the Spartans observing the conduct of the women who would survive their slain husbands, sons, and fathers—and apply it to the national dilemma we face today. I wish I had the ability to write cogently about our collective response to the public posture of American women such as Cindy Sheehan, Evelyn Husband, and Shannon Spann, and what it may indicate for our future as a society, and the longevity of the institutions we inherit from the ancients—from that time when the very survival of human freedom as a concept balanced on a spear point called Thermopylae.
There now. If you managed to wade all the way through that swirling, whiny muck above to reach this point, dear reader, all I can do is kiss you lightly on the forehead and say, “Thank you. Now, please go hose yourself off…”
We were with Bruce on his birthday today. Delivered a package of cards, my Cosmosaic (the fourteenth), and a memory-foam pad for when he gets to go home. Perhaps that will be soon; he looked good. Brandon caught his flight to NC, wrapping up his Indiana summer. On the way home, Dana and I finished listening to “Gates of Fire.” I hope there’s truth to the rumor that Michael Mann has signed to develop the novel as a screenplay. It would make an incredible motion picture under his meticulous leadership. (Armand Assante as Leonidas?)
Big multi-birthday celebration in L-ville (Bucket o’ Boop-o’s), and then on to Indy to observe Bruce’s 39th…
Brendan set up a nice Web-based device for further development of our pirate concepts… better ration myself on that one. Makes me realize I could easily take a two-week vacation and devote it entirely to filling up a similar site with ideas from “The Legend.”
My old pal Dan has designed this new, wonderfully refreshing Website.
I continue to wish I was as cool as Dan…
With everything that’s been going on the past six months or so, and with all the time I’ve spent around truly ill people, it still came as a surprise after my 34-miler last night to get “body signals” which murmur (if one is listening), “Better let up on the gas pedal. Quiet yourself. Rest. Or else.”
The notice of my appointment to the Commission hit the local paper yesterday, and I’ve received a few warm expressions of congratulations from friends, some valuable, heartfelt advice from my brother James, and a hearty “welcome aboard” from the only other Republican on the panel.
My first meeting is tomorrow morning.
On my way back from the Salvation Army Advisory Board meeting today, I realized the best thing about being secretary of any organization is knowing that if you say something stupid, there’s no possibility that it will get into the official minutes.
When Victoria spoke after this morning’s Shared Silence, I realized that she’d come away from the memorial service for Mack with the same inner question, “How can I be more like Mack?”
An around-the-cabin discussion followed, with much glowing praise for the lost friend. I agreed with every word, and yet I felt as if Mack, had he been among us, would have remarked—with that impish twinkle in his eye—”Man, did I ever pull a fast one on you all…”
It’s been a while since Dana and I shared a day of such relaxed enjoyment. And then she drove away to be with her son, as I faced a tangle of computer cables in the studio, thinking of her.
Josh was quiet, but clearly happy to be among family. I can’t remember the last time there were so many of us gathered together. The “Houseboat Trilogy” was a hit, and Seth deserved to get most of the glory.
Welcome back, Josh. Have a good time before you must return. Forgive us for the fake video violence that we create for amusement. We know that you’re a professional, and that the dangers you face are very real. We can play at fighting only because you volunteer to go to work behind a machine gun.
I’ve already mentioned that “Pirate Revenge” is done and ready for tomorrow night’s premiere. The family has previously seen a rough cut that’s pretty crude (home VCR edit with no sound track). On the surface, there’s nothing profound or meaningful to be found, because the “Houseboat Trilogy” has always been about indulging ourselves with a bit of silly entertainment for some good laughs and a few inside jokes. The original film was silent 8mm, shot in sequence during a 1971 lake vacation. It was short, violent, and very funny. The second part came 17 years later, when we celebrated Mombo and Dadbo’s 40th anniversary at Dale Hollow Lake. We’d made the shift to VHS by then, but it was also a spontaneous, in-camera effort, with some miserably poor post-production to spice it up. Now the characters from “Pirate Waters” had names and a context, so “Pirate Isle” was an instant classic within the Clan.
It looked like the next installment was going to be another of my many unfinished projects. I’d decided to shoot it more like a typical movie—get a lot of takes “in the can,” and then put it all together later. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but I didn’t have any capability beyond splicing clips from the raw Hi-8 footage to a home VHS deck. We recorded that master tape during a long weekend outing to Lake Cumberland in 1993. Brendan and I shot some filler months later, but basically nothing happened for nearly twelve years to bring the series to a conclusion.
But now, in the words of Petey the Pirate Urchin, “Everything’s changed,” because Seth rolled up his sleeves to reconstruct the entire production from scratch as a labor of love, adding his own natural sense of pacing and story coherence. The result goes way beyond my original vision for what was never meant to be more than another goofy contribution to the family archives, and I say that because the clean production quality of the Casablanca editing system at WREB lends an odd credibility to the composed footage. For me, this achieves two things. It provides a more satisfying entertainment experience rooted in our unique camraderie and shared humor, but, beyond that, it captures in one collaborative creation a intensely pleasurable look at the many raw talents and “playtime personalities” of the participants—the acting skills of Brendan in early formation, the not inconsiderable ability of his mother to craft a powerful characterization with minimal screen time, the hilarious histrionics of Jeanne, Susan, James, Jeffrey, Jerome, and others, the touching scenes of my parents together (demonstrating the typical respect they had for our endeavors by playing their roles straight), but perhaps more than anything, Seth’s embryonic media capability, which no one should fail to admire at his stage of the game.
Speaking only for myself, I think this oddball creation should be preserved and treasured forever.
Something buried in the fiber of my marrow will not allow me to discount the augury of birds. In any case, I’ve always been convinced that seeing a blue heron while on a bike ride is a sign of luck, and that observing one take flight while in the saddle is an omen of good fortune, but what do I know about such things?
OK, OK… This evening I also saw two big vultures perched together in a dead tree, but that was before the heron flew over…