…the agony of my feet!

I had just set two world records: one in the javelin and one in the dash and it looked like I was well on my way to setting another in the long jump. My first attempt had resulted in a scratch over the foul line — to the disappointment of the stadium filled with enthusiasts — but my second attempt had definitely set a record. It was then, on my third attempt, that disaster struck. I was making my approach run and my launch was good … but as I landed I pulled something in the back of my knee. I was able to participate in the discus throw, with disappointing results, but I had to forfeit the hurtles.

Not that I’m complaining. Last year my oldest son and his wonderful wife came by our home with what they termed our ‘combined birthdays, Christmas, Father’s Day, Mother’s Day and likely also President’s Day, Groundhog Day and Arbor Day’ present: an XBox 360 complete with a connect. This also came with a copy of Dance Central 2 and was, I believe, not only a superbly thoughtful gift obtained with incredible shopping and hunting skills at 4am on Black Friday by my son, by the way) but was also their way of saying I needed to get away from the keyboard and do something physically active for a change.

Laura and I have been using it ever since with the window curtains closed. That’s because while we do not mind them seeing us ‘bowling’ in our living room there are other Kinect activities which are probably best kept out of our neighbor’s view. Our youngest daughter Tasha, for example, came home for a visit one afternoon to find her mother and father both gyrating to Lady Gaga’s ‘Born This Way.’ It took her twenty minutes to stop laughing at the mere thought of my ‘snap and hip’ move. Yes, we regularly delete the pictures of us taken by the all-seeing Kinect eye.

I have gotten used to talking to that now ubiquitous eye above my television and have even stopped saying, “Good evening, HAL’ whenever I address it with my commands. That we now get to visit Disneyland on the Xbox through this wonderful device as well as video conference with our grandson through it from time to time just makes it all the sweeter.

However, now that I’m sidelined for a while with my pulled tendon, we are back to bowling (which we love). And, as a reward for myself when I finish a chapter during the day, I settle onto the couch with the controller and enter that amazing other world that is ‘Skyrim’.

I may not be setting any more Olympic records for a while … but I can swing a broadsword with the best of them!

When I was a boy, I loved Christmas at my Grandfather’s house. We were living in Las Vegas, Nevada at the time while my father was trying to establish an educational television system in that state. But my grandparents on my father’s side, whom I knew as Grampa Sam and Nanny, lived in their home of many year in the rural community of Beaver, Utah. My brother, Gerry, and I would pile into the back of my father’s Pontiac Grand Prix and tear off down the highway north-east out of Las Vegas with my mother and father in the front seats. That Grand Prix was a muscle car with sleek lines and far more engine than was necessary. It was a time before seat belts were required by anyone, including my parents — and my brother and I would gambol about the back seat like unrestrained puppies as my father sought out the boundaries of the ‘Safe and Prudent’ speed limit signs that flew past on our way to Christmas.

The interstate system of divided highways was barely underway then and we very quickly ran out of that luxury and continued on — at a slight reduction in speed — across the desert on two-lane highway. Eventually we climbed over the snowy and somewhat trecherous summit west of St. George, Utah, dropped back down into the valley, drove the length of the main street in town and made the long curve northward, passing through the length of every town along the way. Mainstreet WAS the highway back then. Little towns could flurish off of the traffic that moved through them. These towns would dry up and wither years later when they were passed up by the interstate, but back then they were bright with tourist commerce and neon.

Climbing up out of the desert we would hit serious snow squalls as we became a moving lesson in differing climates. The heavy snowfall in the headlights of the Pontiac flew past the windshield. My mother was concerned but I was enchanted: it reminded me of the stars going past the view screen of the Starship Enterprise on ‘Star Trek’ — a show regularly watched at my house. I perched myself on the center arm-rest of the back seat and imagined myself as Captain Kirk, my parents bucket seats in front of my perfecting the illusion as the snow-stars streamed past on our voyage to the distant parts of galactic Utah.

Whenever we arrived at my grandparents home, my Grandma Nan would have something on the stove for us — a simmering pot of navy beans perhaps and fresh baked bread to go with it. My grandfather’s white hair would be slicked back from his forehead and his smile would beam at us.

My brother and I would often draw the ‘back bedroom’ in the house. Grampa’s home was originally built by early pioneer settlers and the main part was constructed out of black rock stone that my brother and I were convinced was now less that three feet thick. The back bedroom was something of an archetectural aberation: it had two entry doors but both of them came from other bedrooms. You could only leave this room by going through someone elses bedroom. It also had the unique quality of having no heating mechanism whatsoever. We were certain that you could hang meat in that room and the only danger would be the meat freezing solid. The double-bed in that room was a four-poster with a soft matress and a most seriously thick pile of blankets and comforters that was unquestionably a full foot thick to ward of the arctic conditions of the room. Hot water bottles were a required skill for survival.

My brother and I loved that bed because my Grampa Sam would toss us into it with such enormous arcs that gravity was completely defied for gloriously long periods of time. Gerry and I would each take turns being launched into the air, squeeling with each toss as we flew, actually flew. We were bedroom astronauts giggling into our matress splashdown, only to scamper out of the bed once more and beg, oh, please, for just one more time.

Morning would be cold, but my brother and I had a system. We would turn up the heat first thing on the thermostat in the small hallway next to the bathroom and then rush back into the living room where there was the warmest heat register in the entire house underneat the book case. We would both get out our books, plant our feet on that forced-air vent and wait for the warmth to blow between our toes.

There were preparations to be made for the Christmas to be properly celebrated. We had to borrow my Grampa’s International Harvestor Scout and drive up into the mountains to hunt down the family Christmas Tree. My father would tell us scary stories about the ‘Indian Creek Monster’ that lived up in those woods — but we always managed to escape with both the tree and our lives.

“Evergreen,” my father would say. “It’s a symbol that because Christ was born, we will live forever.”

Then in the afternoon, my father would tie ropes out the back of that same four-wheel-drive scout and attach them to the front of our flexible flyer sleighs. The object here was a game from his youth where he would drive through the snow-packed streets of Beaver with my brother and I clinging to the sleighs for our lives as he dragged us around the corners of the town.

Again, this was a time without seat-belts … let alone air bags.

On Christmas Eve the family in town would all gather together at my Grandparent’s home for a feast. Then we would have our Family Christmas Program. Much of the previous day had been spent by my brother and I along with our local cousins creating a puppet show of ‘The Littlest Angel.’ Despite a few production issues with getting everyone behind the card table and the angel’s molded play-dough head falling off twice inside the cardboard box that was our stage, the applause and enjoyment of the family was enthusiastic. My uncle Gordon played his accordion, my father read a Christmas poem and many songs were sung.

Then my brother and I were thrown across the sky of that back bedroom again by my laughing Grandfather and, hot water bottles at our feet, we waited for the interminable night to end so that Christmas would come.

Looking back, I remember very few of those presents that I got on those Christmas mornings. What I do remember is the warmth of my family home, the laughter around my Nanny’s kitchen table and the loved that warmed us on those cold winter nights. They all shine from the Polaroid pictures and live in my mind.

My beloved grandparents are now gone… and my brother joined them too soon. Yet now I look on the Christmas tree and know that they will always be mine and that I will always belong to them.

Evergreen.

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Laura and I have been watching the ABC television series ‘Once Upon a Time‘ here in the United States. It is about an Evil Queen in a fantasy world filled with fairytale characters all of whom she curses with the most terrible of magical spells … condemning them to live their lives in our reality and not remembering their true, better selves.

It is, indeed, a terrible curse.

The conflict between what we desire — our fantasies — and what we perceive as real has been a long standing one. Recently, Laura and I watched the traditional holiday movie ‘Miracle on 34th Street.’ Avoid the modern version, the only true Santa Claus is found in the 1947 version with Edmund Gwenn, Maureen O’Hara, John, Payne and the perfect Natalie Wood. The curse is found here, too, in Maureen O’Hara’s character of Doris Walker when she addresses John Payne’s Fred Gailey on the subject.

WALKER: But I think there is harm. I tell her Santa Claus is a myth, you bring her here… and she sees hundreds of gullible children… meets a very convincing old man with real whiskers. This sets up a very harmful mental conflict within her. What is she going to think? Who is she going to believe? And by filling them full of fairy tales… they grow up considering life a fantasy instead of a reality. They keep waiting for Prince Charming to come along. And when he does, he turns out to be a…

GAILEY: We were talking about Suzie, not about you.

Mrs. Walker is condemned to live her life within the confines of her own perception of reality … and only comes alive when she takes off these blinders and considers being open to something more and find hope once more.

As a writer, I’ve come to believe that there are there is apparent truth and desired truth. Reality, I believe, is found in both but not fully explored or understood by either.

We think of apparent truth as reality but what is apparent isn’t always real. It was apparently true to the ancients that the world was flat. Science has down through the ages changed its perspective, broadened its understanding of the universe and, with each new perspective, the apparent truth of yesterday is replaced by the apparent truth of today. Reality has not been altered but our perspective on it has changed. Consider that science, in order to progress beyond our current understanding, must accept that it does not yet have a complete perspective on reality — and so our apparent truth of today is incomplete. ‘Here be dragons’ continues to lurk beyond our apparent understanding.

Desired truth is not just a wish … it is a hope for a reality that is better than the one which is apparent. Desired truth acknowledges that there is an ideal to be achieved beyond the imperfect trappings of our perceived reality.

Some men see things as they are and say why – I dream things that never were and say why not.

– George Bernard Shaw

A friend of mine was speaking a few days ago about our church hymns. He said, “We don’t sing about what’s real … we sing the ideal.” That thought has stayed with me these last few days. We are coming into the holiday season with a day of Thanksgiving and the many religious holiday celebrations in December. It has made me reflect on the purpose I have in writing.

There are many, I know, who believe that our literature should be about the reality — I would say ‘apparent truth’ — of our existence and should reflect who we are in honest examination. I believe that is only partially true; we should examine the apparent truth of our lives but we must do more than just wallow in our sorrows, inhumanity to man or the bleakness of troubled economic times. I believe that the real value in the written word comes not in our apparent truth but in our desired truth — in telling us not who we are but who we can become.

One of my favorite poems is by Robert Frost written in 1947. It’s called ‘Choose Something Like a Star’ and it is about our desire to understand and how we are inspired to rise above ourselves.

O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud –
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.

Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says “I burn.”
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.

And steadfast as Keats’ Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.

Story, as Joseph Campbell saw it, exists not so much to tell us who we are as to show us who we should be.

We may write what is real … but when we do, let us be sure to sing the ideal.

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The Vampire has always been with us. It is found in the writings of the Babylonians anciently and is thought to date even to prehistoric times. They are usually described as sub-human or rotting corpses wishing to drink the blood of cattle or humans or whatever seemed to be a convenient walking food source.

The myth grew up in the early 1800’s when the first sophisticated vampire sprang to un-life. He was born of the unholy union of lurid-living and the need for quick cash.  The parent was John William Polidori, a young doctor, and the traveling companion of scandal incarnate; the poet, Lord Byron. Byron was described by a mistress, Caroline Lamb, as “Mad, Bad and Dangerous to know.”

Polidori was supposed to write out his memoirs of his travels with Byron and send them to the publishers.  But instead, after his travels with Byron were at an end, he wrote a fictional piece.

The Story that Polidori wrote called ‘The Vampyre’, is loosely based on a character from the abandoned story by Byron, called ‘Fragment of a Novel’.  When Polidori’s book was first published, it was accredited to Byron, and though Byron tried to dispel the rumor, it persisted.

This work is the first popularization of the sophisticated Gentleman-Vampire.  Did Polidori, write it to give shape to Byron’s monstrous behavior? Had the unspeakable found a voice?  If so, then we find subject matter couched politely in the vampire genre fiction that is truly frightening above all else; man’s inhumanity to man.

Bram Stoker’s ‘Dracula’ was published in 1897.  Here is an even more polished vampire.  Here is the blood-sucking gentleman-of-the-manor in full bloom. Slick. Handsome.  Good with the ladies.   It is   thought the story is sub-textually about the abuse of women in the Victorian Era culture as well as other sociological problems of the day.  Victorian’s loved wild Gothic adventure stories and the genre called Invasion Literature.  Interestingly, Dracula though highly praised was not an overnight success.  It was not until it flickered onto the silver screen many years later that it surged in popularity and is now iconic.

Vampires remain in the popular culture, unchanged and unrepentant in nature.  They all want living blood.  They are all users and abusers.  Bad boys to the last, they claim they can’t help themselves.  It’s there nature. Right.

Don’t get me wrong. I love a good vampire, especially a dead one.  (Just like Strahd at the end of Ravenloft). I say give the poor fellow the relief he needs and deserves.

So get that garlic around your neck, hold up that mirror a little higher and stand by with the wooden stakes.  Oh wait, here comes the morning sun… This is gonna be easy.

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It is that haunting time of year. October brings with it a heightened interest in the macabre. My daughter, Tasha, is currently moonlighting (a somehow appropriate term) in a local ‘Haunted Circus’ attraction in our community where tents and an unending chain of connected semi trailers — sort of a portable haunted house — are sending sought after thrills and chills up and down spines of all ages.

A haunted circus is appropriate. Bill Tancer analyzed the most frequent online search queries that involved the phrase, “fear of…”. His top ten list of fears consisted of flying, heights, clowns, intimacy, death, rejection, people, snakes, success, and driving. By my estimation, then, a hot-air circus zeppelin filled with love-seeking zombies covered in snakes who refuse to date victims with money and expensive cars might be a big hit.

The truth is that it isn’t about fear; it’s about horror, terror and suspense … and the proper engineering that elicits a thrilling response.

Horror and terror are related concepts in literature and film. Terror refers to the feeling of dread that we have anticipating and preceding a horrifying experience or event. Horror itself, on the other hand, refers to the feeling of revulsion that we feel after we’ve witnessed something frightening or revolting. It include ‘awful realization’ of the significance of the fearful event. Basically, terror anticipates the fearful event while horror reflects on it afterward. According to Devendra Varma in The Gothic Flame (1966):

The difference between Terror and Horror is the difference between awful apprehension and sickening realization: between the smell of death and stumbling against a corpse.

Suspense, however, is a more complex achievement. Suspense deals with anxiety about the outcome of actions. We in the audience see the choices that the characters are making and experience suspense as we become anxious over the results that these decisions portend.

Horror and Terror are concerned with the effect while suspense focuses on the causes.

What all this has led me to is to contemplate the misuse of the term ‘War on Terror.’

It seems to me that the emotionally-charged term terrorism (as we know it today) is not about terror at all: while we dread the possibility of future acts of terrorism these events are, by their very nature, unpredictable (or we would have stopped them) and only effective AFTER the fact. It is our contemplation of the after effects of these horrific acts of violence that gives them any power. Therefore, by definition, they are not so much acts of terrorism as acts of ‘horrorism’ doing something that will cause fear after the fact.

While this may seem like a trivial exercise in semantics … and I’ll admit that the phrase ‘War on Horror’ isn’t nearly as catchy as ‘War on Terror’ … the distinction leads us to an important distinction. For over a decade now, the citizens of the United States have been waging a ‘War on Terror’ by projecting military might to the furthest reaches of the globe — filled with dread over the mere possibility of another horrific event. But on reflection, I think we have really been waging a ‘War on Horror’ — so filled with dreadful reflection on the truly horrific events of 9/11 — that we have lost the belief in our own future, disillusioned by our own government and plundered by the very institutions — Wall Street and Banks — to which we looked to provide financial security and prosperity.

We are distracted overseas about terror when we need to deal with the horror at home.

I propose that we fight this War on Horror instead. If our house seems haunted and we think there’s a killer in the basement then it’s time we turn on the lights, get rid of the shadows and the secrets and don’t let anyone get separated form the group or leave anyone behind. If we absolutely have to face the monster in the basement, let’s do it together with every pitch fork, axe, shotgun, crucifix and preferably a large canister of liquid nitrogen if that’s what it takes.

We need to win this ‘War on Horror’ in our lives with joy, hope, determination and the faith that good people of differing views can come up with solutions to our problems if they are less interested in protecting their brooding castle of didactic ideologies than forwarding the good of all.

We all like a good horror movie now and then … but no one wants to live in one.

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The beautiful woman on the left. I’d like to introduce you to her … her name is Laurie Payne.

Laurie was born with a passion for the arts. She received a BA from BYU in Theatre Secondary Ed, with a Dance Teaching Minor. She grew up performing and learning stage craft under the mentoring of Jerry Elison and Syd Riggs. Her vocal background includes 10 years of vocal training with Gayle Lockwood and Marilyn Rudolph. Favorite acting roles include Aldonza in Man of La Mancha with Robert Peterson, The Baker’s Wife in Into the Woods, and Nellie Forbush in South Pacific opposite her husband Marvin Payne at Sundance Theater, where she played principle roles for several seasons. She has performed with Marvin in his two person musical comedy Wedlocked, and co-directed with him in pioneer musical Trail of Dreams.  Currently, she has been following in the footsteps of her mother, the magical Joan Koralewski, teaching dance to children. Laurie was raised on ballet and the Virginia Tanner philosophy of dance and learning, and is teaching for BYU’s Children’s Creative Dance program. Laurie was looking very much forward to teaching acting at RMTA – doing what she cares about most: igniting a love of learning in young people and helping them discover the very best in them at the On Broadway Music Theater Academy in American Fork, Utah.

Laurie is married to Marvin Payne. Marvin is an actor, author, playwright, songwriter, and recording artist. He has released eighteen albums of original songs, has co-authored seven widely-produced musical plays, and a folk oratorio that has enjoyed ninety separate productions. He has acted professionally in about forty films (Disney, PBS, the major networks, a Heartland Award winner, etc.), about forty plays, and over a hundred audio adventures for children.  Marvin lives in a cabin with his lovely singing actress wife Laurie, magical daughter Caitlin Willow, atomic John Riley, and funny five-year-old Adwen Lea. For fun, he rambles long distances in the Wasatch mountains rehearsing lines to vast audiences of bewildered squirrels.

Now, I have been listening to Marvin Payne’s music since the 1970′s. His ‘Planemaker’ album was cherished by me and still makes me tear up. In recent years, I’ve gotten to know Marvin and Laurie more personally and we’ve all been trying for months now to get together, burn something on the grill and spend an evening together.

Last week, that changed… when Marvin found his dear wife lying still on the floor, her heart and breathing stopped by an arrhythmia. The songs, dance and artistry all seemed to have come to an end.

But extraordinary measures and new techniques were employed — including an abundance of miracles — and somehow Laurie came back to us. It will be a long road, a difficult road and … because of the world in which we live today … an expensive road.

Artists, musicians, authors … we of the tribe of ‘the makers’ … are almost always self-employed. In America today that almost always means without adequate insurance if we have any at all.

So, next Monday, September 26th, at 6:00pm, Laura and I will be Timberline Jr. High in Alpine to hear great entertainment and to benefit the great cause of these good friends. There will be a silent auction held at 6:00 pm (including items donated by Laura and me) and a concert at 7:00 pm. Performers include Sam Payne, former Young Ambassadors, Marvin Payne, violinist April Moriarty and Todd McCabe, On Broadway Academy Companies, Utah Glee Club, The Dance Conservatory, and the Alpine Community Theater.  If you are anywhere near the Provo/Salt Lake City area, I personally urge you to purchase tickets and come out to support this cause. 100% of the proceeds from the concert and the auction will go directly to Laurie’s medical costs.

If you are too far away to help these good people in person … please go to the ticket page, scroll down and make a donation. ALL donations are tax deductible and go 100% to Laurie’s medical expenses.

Come join Laura and I in supporting the talented artists in their moment of need.

Sometimes it takes a little help from each of us to lift the dancer to her feet once more.

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The other day I got an actual, physical letter from CREDO wanting to know if my phone company wanted a ‘Tea Party’ president.

Now CREDO is, itself, a telecommunications wireless company based out of San Francisco. As a company it is very active in what you might call either ‘progressive’ or ‘left-wing’ politics depending upon your current leanings. According to the Wikipedia, they have raised over $65 million for “nonprofit organizations such as Greenpeace, Planned Parenthood and Democracy Now.

Their argument to me: switch my phone service to CREDO so as to put my money behind progressive political change rather than supporting AT&T or Verizon who, according to them, support  Tea Party and/or Republican candidates and such ‘dangerous views’ as ‘wives, be submissive to your husbands’, ‘intelligent design’ and ‘counseling centers that (try) to turn gay men into heterosexuals through prayer.’

When my wife read this letter to me I was filled with anger, outrage and despair. Not because of any party affiliation on my part or allegiance to either ‘progressive’ or ‘conservative’ views. In fact, I support a number of progressive ideas and ideals.

No, I was outraged because this is the next logical step in the death of the American Republic.

CREDO is simply acknowledging a more efficient way of capitalizing and monetizing democracy.

Private capital tends to become concentrated in … a few hands, partly because of competition among the capitalists, and partly because technological development and the increasing division of labor encourage the formation of larger units of production at the expense of the smaller ones.

The result of these developments is an oligarchy of private capital the enormous power of which cannot be effectively checked even by a democratically organized political society. This is true since the members of legislative bodies are selected by political parties, largely financed or otherwise influenced by private capitalists who, for all practical purposes, separate the electorate from the legislature. … Moreover, under existing conditions, private capitalists inevitably control, directly or indirectly, the main sources of information (press, radio, education). It is thus extremely difficult, and indeed in most cases quite impossible, for the individual citizen to come to objective conclusions and to make intelligent use of his political rights.

Albert Einstein (1949)

Einstein’s caution of fifty years ago has become today’s reality. You cannot get elected to office without a boat-load of money. The only entities who have enough cash to get politicians elected are corporations. So politicians enact laws to help pay back the corporations that get them elected (or bail them out when they should have failed like all those other businesses that were too small to have paid enough to elect anyone).

A 2003 documentary film The Corporation by Mark Achbar asserts that the corporation exhibits many of the traits found in psychopaths:

• Callous unconcern for the feelings of others.
• Incapacity to maintain enduring relationships;
• Reckless disregard for the safety of others;
• Deceitfulness: repeated lying and conning of others for profit;
• Incapactiy to experience guilt;
• Failure to conform to social norms with respect to lawful behavior.

And yet, as Chris Hedges points out in his book ‘Empire of Illusion: The End of Literacy and the Triumph of Spectacle’, under the American legal and political systems, corporations have the same legal rights as individuals. Worse, because they have access to vastly greater sums of money than individuals, their political contributions … which U.S. politics now demand in titan-sized numbers for the success of any candidate … corporations have vastly greater influence on which candidate you hear and see the most as well as which candidates you NEVER hear of because they have no bucks to become Buck Rogers.

One might argue that this means our government is essentially being chosen for us by psychopaths.

But now, thanks to CREDO, we no longer have to pretend. Instead of bothering to go to the voting booth to select from a field of candidates determined by which corporation gave the most money to their campaign, all we have to do is CHOOSE OUR CANDIDATE THROUGH WHICH CORPORATIONS WE SUPPORT. Then the corporations that are the most successful can chose for us the candidates that they prefer on our behalf … and buy them for us.

I believe in free enterprise. I believe corporations can and do make many aspects of our lives better … but I don’t want my government chosen by their board of directors. Corporate products need to be in stores … not in legislatures.

The best government corporations can buy … is cheap, disposable, hazardous and potentially lethal.