Wheatstone was right!

My family is a subscriber to WORLD magazine, a Christian magazine on various issues. One of the articles caught my eye. It's called "Against Life" by Arsenio Orteza. Though the contents of this article are depressing in nature, I found it exciting that Mr. Orteza compared artists to canaries, just like we learned at Wheatstone last summer. It fascinated me that artists are the canaries of civilization, which makes sense because when one looks at how trends are set, one can usually trace it back to artists whether it be in movies or music. When the artists begin to disappear, it may be certain that the rest of the civilization may be in danger as well. I only hope that the rest of humanity will take notice and make changes in order to save ourselves.

Suicide and lesbianism among professional musicians are nothing new, but recently there's been a seeming uptick in both.

The suicides: Vic Chesnutt (who died on Christmas Day), Sparklehorse's Mark Linkous (March 6), and Will Owsley (who financed his power-pop solo albums by performing in Amy Grant's live band, April 30). Each was male, each was from the South, each was in his mid-40s, and each was a singer-songwriter with a track record of critical if not commercial acclaim.

The "coming outers": Jennifer Knapp and Chely Wright, both in their mid- to late-30s, both known for conservative-friendly music (CCM in Knapp's case, the pro-troops "The Bumper of My SUV" in Wright's), and both free of the unflattering masculine traits often associated with lesbians.

One of the aesthetic consequences for songwriters who commit suicide or embrace homosexuality is that their lyrics tend to be regarded as mere code for suicide or homosexuality. Chesnutt's "My New Life" (from his 2009 album Skitter on Takeoff) was depressing already; as a harbinger of his self-destruction, it's unbearable. Wright's "The Bumper of My SUV" was a refreshingly non-liberal take on the War on Terror; now one listens for hints about her position on "Don't Ask, Don't Tell."

Worse yet, fans who once turned to certain songs for solace or empathy might now hear in them little more than permission to follow their composers into sloughs of despond.

Obviously, however, the eternal consequences are the direst of all. "The man who kills himself," wrote G.K. Chesterton, "kills all men; as far as he is concerned he wipes out the world." "Homosexual activity," wrote Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger (now Pope Benedict XVI), "is not a complementary union, able to transmit life; and so it thwarts the call to . . . that form of self-giving which the gospel says is the essence of Christian living."

The ordinary explanations fail. Chesnutt was wheelchair bound, Linkous was bedeviled by depression, drugs, and drink, and Owsley was a divorced father of two, but many other men in similar circumstances still choose to be rather than not to be. As for Knapp and Wright, given the circles in which their music required them to move, it's hard to imagine either woman's giving peer pressure as a reason for her public commitment to same-sex living.

In his dystopian novel The Bridge, D. Keith Mano imagined a strikingly similar scenario. The setting: New York City and its environs circa 2035. The killing of all living organisms—animal, vegetable, and mineral—has been illegal for decades. Deer, bears, and dogs run wild and, due to overpopulation, die; grass and weeds grow unchecked; insects thrive. Meanwhile, the "termination" of the "human species" has been mandated by the government because human respiration has been determined to "destroy . . . microscopic biological life."

In response, men willingly swallow suicide pills and women form lesbian communes. It's a scenario that must have seemed far-fetched when the novel appeared in 1973. It seems less far-fetched now.

An article in the May 12 Daily Telegraph says that a forthcoming UN report will declare "one-third of plant and animal species" to be "at risk of extinction" and blame the "developing world's appetite for raw materials." "If the 9 billion people predicted to be with us by 2050 were to have the same lifestyle as Americans," says a spokesman for the Convention on Biological Diversity, "we would need five planets."

Translation: Human life is bad.

Death fumes are in the air. Our singers are the canaries in the coal mine.

Tale Continued

One day when the sun shone cheerily and puffy white clouds floated aimlessly, Rowena was sitting in rapt attention as Excelsior finished his tale of his pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

“Just as we thought we would perish, a mighty lion appeared. His hid shone like melted gold and thunder was his roar. As quick as lightning, he sprang upon the bandits and chased them all away without ever turning to molest my fellow pilgrims and me.”

“Do you think Saint George really sent the lion?” the young child asked.

“I truly believe so, child,” he answered. “What kind of story would like me to tell you now?”

Rowena’s face scrunched in deep childish thought and then quickly brightened with an idea. “A treasure hunt,” she said gleefully. The old knight smiled at the girl’s excitement.

“A treasure hunt, you say? I think I have just the one.” Rowena settled herself for the story. “This is a story my grandmother told me when I was not much older than you. Well, before I begin, let me tell you that there is a special treasure that appears every seven years and has a rather special map that leads to it. This map will only show pieces of the map and will only expand once you’ve reached the edge of the revealed region. Now that you know this, I will begin my story.

“Many years ago a knight named Oliver came from small country town long forgotten by men. He longed to go upon some great quest but all was peaceful in his village and all the area around it. Resolved not to become idle and self-consumed, Oliver worked in his family’s carpentry shop as if he’d never been knighted. Not many days later, an old man came to the town. His clothes were thing and dirty and he carried a large walking stick carved with many intricate designs. As he walked, he limped greatly and leaned heavily on his stick. Around his waist, he wore a rope belt from which hung an assortment of talismans for, you see, he was . . .” The storyteller stopped for a dramatic pause and then ended, “a gypsy.” A little gasp followed the revelation. “Yes, a gypsy and when they saw him all the villagers rushed to their homes and locked their doors.

Beginning a Tale

In the time of knights and jousts and quests, there lived a young girl named Rowena. She was the daughter of Geoffrey the blacksmith and Clarissa the seamstress. Both Geoffrey and Clarissa were hard workers and raised their children to fear the Lord and obey His commands. Rowena was the youngest of eight children and was never in short supply of playmates. If none of her siblings could play, she'd find some of her friends from among the local children. At other times, she'd help her mother and older sisters with the sewing by fetching various things that were asked for. When she was allowed, Rowena would watch Geoffrey and his sons at work in the family smithy. But one of her favorite places to be, outside her own home, was at the home of a retired knight who had since become the village bard. His name was Excelsior. Daily, he would sit outside the entrance to his house with his lute upon his knee and entertained the children of the village with the tales of fairies and dragons and secret treasure. Rowena would spend hours listening to the old man's stories. She was his most dedicated listener.

Shakespeare and Reader's Theatre

This past year, I've been wonderfully exposed to the glories of some of Shakespeare's most famous plays. I'm very sad that it's taken me this long to finally read any Shakespeare but 'tis all in the past now. My Shakespeare class in now in rehearsal for "Much Ado About Nothing" in the reader's theatre style of acting. It is quite different from any other kind of acting I've ever done as it is more about what you say and how you say it than it is about what you're doing while you're saying it. If you want to be sinister, you can't walk in a circle 'round your victim menacingly or whisper terrible things into their ear. Rather you must make you voice express all the malicious intents that are stored in your evil heart. At first, I didn't think it would be all that hard but as we started going at it, I realized that I don't necessarily put all of what I mean, as a character, into what I say. After only two sessions, I've learned how strong the spoken word is and the magic that can be done with them.

Bit About Me

So I guess it would be best to tell you a little about myself and the plans I have for this blog. I have a dual fascination for meanings behind names and stories in any form (books, movies, radio dramas, theatre, tv shows). Both have influenced the naming of the blog. The purpose though will be story-oriented. Sometimes I'll post various things that happen in my life that I believe are either of interest to others or have been beneficial to me in some way. At other times, there will be stories from my own feeble brain. They may range from historical fiction to fantasy to fanfiction. I do not guarantee that the stories will be of any interest or excellence but they will be what they will be. Well, I suppose that's about it and I'll post again when something come up.

Venturing Out

Hello all,

I know there have been many of you who have been awaiting this fateful day, the day I got . . . a blog! Yes, I have done it. I have taken the plunge into cyberspace. So here it is. This shall be a place where I share stories out both my life and imagination. If some things are nonsensical or incoherent, I apologize ahead of time. Thus begins my time as a blogger. What have I gotten myself into?