Review of the poetry collection The Subsequent Blues by Gary Copeland Lilley

     At times the writing in this thin volume is slow and careful in rhythm - lilting like easy waves lapping at the reader's ankles - but then it all turns, as if on the tip of a needle, towards fast staccato beats that rush forward and lay one flat. Wash over your head in a fierce tidal wave. Leave you startled and gulping oxygen on the shore. These poems know what they're doing. They're lived in and precise - full of well-worn flesh and whispered echoes of bluesy guitar floating upon air laced with cigarette smoke.                
     Truth resides here as well. Lilley's verse weaves stark realism with the spiritual, crafting myths of honest witness to the good, the bad, and all the shades of in between coloring this earth. Quietly lovely and then brazen and arresting in the exhilaration emitted. Drugs and booze, love and hate, life and death all sing inside the covers of this collection. And, after putting it down, one is left sensing a renewed and refreshed contact with the world.

KING ELIJAH'S DIRECTIONS TO THE GRAVEYARD

The sweet musk of plowed dirt, over country 
as dark as the chamber of a cold heart
or an oiled pistol.  The melancholy
of whiskey and guitar, a blue steel night.
No moon slash or razor.   There is no star
as good a guide as the tombstone neon
that hangs over the long bar, the half-full glass
where talk swings dry, thin, and quick, and red eye
cigarettes beckon through the haze.  Jukebox
jumps, a saxophone pushes smoke to the ceiling.
A rattle of bullets and ball and chain,
the dust raising dance of hoodoo saints.
A prayer sung like rainfall, and everyone
that you see in there is already gone.


-from the collection, written by Gary Copeland Lilley

Review of the novella collection The Sky, The Stars, The Wilderness by Rick Bass

“The heart of it all is mystery, and science is at best only the peripheral trappings to that mystery -- a ragged barbed-wire fence through which mystery travels, back and forth, unencumbered by anything so frail as man's knowledge.”* 

     I need some out of doors, natural world contemplative, wilderness and universe glorifying reading right now. It's about that time. When the realization of this habitual yearning finally dawns on me, the first book I always reach for is Rick Bass's collection of three novellas, The Sky, The Stars, The Wilderness. The Texas-born and Montana Yaak Valley-dwelling author excels in the short form of literature. And he is one of the few American writers who can consistently and seamlessly marry his deep adoration for the wilderness with the fictional tales he puts on page.
     The ethereal yet realistic stories that comprise this collection are all rooted firmly in the land. And a deep respect and awe for how that land which his characters inhabit comes to inhabits them as they pass through on the eye blink-quick trajectories of their lives. Bass's characters find themselves altered by the rocks, rivers, meadows, and trees that they so naively believed they had total dominion over. 
     In the first tale, a desperate man chases his resourceful, quick-witted wife through the winter-heavy foothills of the north country. She lures and thwarts his progress over and over, until it is uncertain who is attempting to ensnare whom. The second story centers around a young and brash oil surveyor in flight above the Appalachians and the site of the ancient sea that formed them so long ago. The author's reverence for the natural world is clearly spoken through the ruminations and words of a childless woman returning to the vast tract of west Texas land on which she was raised in the final story. She is the last of her family left alive to keep claim of this ranch that has been their's since before Texas became a state. And she takes stock of and wonders at the wild terrain that will surely outlive her.
      These men and women again and again discover their existences bumping up against the inevitable mortality that waits for all. Because what is left behind when we die but the land? No matter how drastically we alter the landscape, or however long we believe we have ownership of those rocks and trees, they will replenish, thrive even, long beyond the brief specks of our lives by millennia. 


*excerpt from the title novella.
     

Thoughts inspired by the television series True Detective: Season 1

     I realize that I'm a little late to the review party on this one. I'm almost always early to parties, unfashionably so. But, in this case, I'm so unfashionably tardy. Oh well.  
     I've had a lot on my mind lately. And my thoughts on the first season of HBO's True Detective were somewhere in that whirlpool occupying my head space as well. It is only in the last few weeks and days, as I read and read and am near overflowing with reactions to the Elliot Rodger killing spree in California, that those reflections surrounding this television series began to spill over into the forefront once again. I guess the threads of the real life tragedy have become knotted together with the frayed, dangling ends of the somber fictional tale floating about in my brain.
    It is not my intent to infer that Rodger and the wholly imaginary killer of True Detective: Season 1 are the same thing. They are not. But they are of the same cruel world, the same culture of misogyny, privilege and entitlement. Please allow me a little elaboration - or flight of fancy - whatever the following might be named.
     In season one of the series, detectives Rust Cohle and Marty Hart, as written by the creators of the show, swirl some mighty thick and dark waters. And throughout the confined narrative, we catch fleeting, shadowy glimpses of terrifying and powerful monsters lurking beneath that surface. Many decry the single, smaller - but still horrifying - beast of a man that ultimately emerges as a cop out. He doesn't seem to live up to the epic nature of those lurking monoliths that remain behind. The critics can argue about faulty harbingers of a vastly different conclusion to the story until their faces turn blue. Yes, I agree, those waters still harbor greater giants whose hides are thick with the armor of veiled decency and order - be it cloaks of religiosity, tailored suits of bureaucracy, tightly linked arms of family values, whatever - they are allowed to stay hidden. For now.
    On May 23, 2014, the horrific events caused by Rodger swirled to the surface and emerged. And certain threads of truths were drawn out with them and him, dripping from the young man's shoulders and back. Then they were deposited on the shore upon his death, like ropey strands leading back into the watery murk. And people - some outspoken and others more hesitant - began to pick up those cords and pull, tugging hand over hand to draw out that which would still remain concealed.
     There are those who, like viewers of True Detective: Season 1, had seen the dark shadows of things much bigger than the one singular man that surfaced. Now, those premonitions of larger monsters are becoming real through the evidence being dragged up. Their existence has been thoroughly rebuffed. Or whispered about by that population who knew the constant disavowals were false. But the beasts' very real outlines are becoming more distinguishable to all. They are taking on their true forms, and those who would deny them still seem increasingly absurd.
     So many wrongly believe that misogyny is a women's issue - that the realities of this constant force are simply a female problem. But this cultural climate is what we all swim in, and no one - not women, men, nor those who identify differently - can remain unchanged by that which is all around each of us. We are held inside it; we all breath, and digest the culture. To a different extent for each of us, true, but that effect is still present in our lives, shaping and filtering our individual contexts. 
     
"Yes, we should all be feminists, but too often we believe that the plight of the oppressed is solely the business of the oppressed, and that the society in which that oppression is born and grows and the role of the oppressors and beneficiaries are all somehow subordinate." 
    - “Yes, All Men” by Charles M. Blow in the New York Times section 'The Opinion Pages' on 06/01/14.
     
     And this is not just about misogyny and women, but also the privilege and entitlement afforded to so few at the expense of the majority. It is about racism, classism, sexism, xenophobia, ethnocentrism, egocentrism, greed, and hypocrisy. I could go all day on the wrongs that this is about. I hope others realize that the cumulative weight of these wrongs has an adverse effect on everyone - those oppressed and those perpetrators and those who fall into categories of both. 
     Maybe these wrongs can be become fleshed out and seen for what they are - drastically limiting facets of our culture. In True Detective: Season 1, the narrative introduces misty outlines of this - hinting at the grand architecture of society's ills. Even the utter lack of well-developed and progressive female characters can be seen as a suggestion of the misogynistic nature of the world portrayed therein. And/or it can be viewed as a glaring error by the creative team behind the show. Either way, it is extremely troubling to witness.
      Women were viewed in a very similar manner by Elliot Rodger. They did not possess true multi-dimensionality or full human agency. The way in which he talked about what women, and society too, owed him recalls the female characters inhabiting the edges of True Detective. They each serve a purpose - sex, titillation, sympathy, deepening male character development mostly - and then they fade again into the background and are forgotten, until their presence is needed for further narrative advancement. They are ornaments in this fictional universe. You could also say that about many of the sideline male characters of the show - like those of the biker gang the detectives must infiltrate and the entirety of the African American population living in the neighborhood Cohle must navigate out of during a police raid, both in the fifth episode of the season. One could argue that Elliot Rodger seemed to look at everyone, besides himself, that way too. 
     But it is most glaring when examining the view of women in each instance. When focusing on how they are portrayed in this television story and the story that Rodger seemed to be reading and telling himself, one can catch sight of those monsters over their shoulders, rising, revealing themselves for what they are - beastly structures constructed and fortified by concepts of misogyny, privilege, and entitlement. They continue to dip in and out of clear focus, misty and slippery, but they should be gazed upon by all and named accordingly. They make everyone perpetrators, victims, or some combination of the two - and I hope that, on a basic level, there are an increasing number of people who realize that those roles are not who any of us wish to be. We have been molded into inert bystanders of a society built on the bending and breaking backs of all. Instead, we need to clasp hold of those ropey strands left on the shoreline and begin to wade in.
    

Touch darkness and darkness touches you back.*

P.S. While I was writing this post, I listened to the Spotify playlist entitled "HBO's 'True Detective.'" It features 80 songs that were used over the course of the season, adding up to over 2 and 1/2 hours of awesome.


*Tagline from HBO's True Detective: Season 1

Thoughts inspired by the poetry collection Diving Into The Wreck by Adrienne Rich

"A man is asleep in the next room
     We are his dreams
     We have the heads and breasts of 
     women
     the bodies of birds of prey
     Sometimes we turn into silver serpents"
- excerpt from the poem Incipience by Adrienne Rich


"Men are afraid women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them."  - Margaret Atwood


     I remember times when I have laughed at certain jokes and seemingly random aside comments of casual misogyny. I think back on those moments and wonder how I could have chuckled so easily? How readily these blatant suggestions and hints of gender/sexuality based violence have risen from some individuals' throats and out their mouths, falling upon the ears of those who know better. How could these persons be so cad about veiled but handy threats against others - those who are their friends, their coworkers, their lovers and family? How could we, me, giggle as though these threats are never carried out, that there are those among us, men and women, who suffer beneath the weight of their constant shadow? Why do we titter about what is a reality as though it were not? How is it that I myself can giggle when I could easily be made victim of such suggested acts? And, perhaps, be made yet another survivor or simple statistic...of the misogyny that dominates our culture...but that so many - possible victims and probable perpetrators - have willed themselves to believe is just innocent fodder, guiltless fuel for laughs over drinks and dinner.
    The hair on my skin stands on end every time, no matter how I may grin and chuckle, allow these moment to pass without raising objections. Because, I have now begun to understand, there was silent objection, muted query and closemouthed protest. And I can guess that it wasn't just my own disapproval. There are those around me whose hair also stands up in the same mum manner. They might not have a clear notion of why this is happening, but it's there - the cloudy idea that what is being said isn't funny, is too true to ever be simple, or simply humorous.         
     Every one loses in a misogynistic culture. Men and women and those innumerable individuals who do not/choose not to fall into that limiting, culturally-constructed binary of identity. Even those who would be labeled perpetrators - they are losing out too...on the better options, actions, and identities possible for themselves and for those with whom they come into contact and affect/are affected by.
    The currently commonplace phrases "Not All Men" and "Yes All Women" and the heinous words and, much worse, deafeningly loud actions of one perpetrator in California have been ringing in my ears as I both skim and sink into Adrienne Rich's seventh volume of poetry, Diving Into The Wreck: Poems 1971 - 1972. The precision of her language across such a range of experiences yields images so delicately personal yet, also, so revelatory in their universal nature. Rich renders clearly identifiable feelings and notions that were once foggy - shrouded in cloud...floating along the edges of conscious thought. She writes of loss, love, intent, despair. And of those horrible things that one person can do to another. This includes acts of terrifying violence...rape, homicide...events that seem so hard to imagine at more innocent moments but are so present all around, all the time...are reality for so many.   
     I grapple with my distance from/proximity to the events that swirl around and surround me. I fumble to make sense of the tectonic-plate-like shifting of roles for men and women throughout the world. I sometimes weep over what it feels like I owe to others because of those roles that I have been forced/willingly stepped into. And I despair over what others find their spines bending and splintering under the weight of. 
     So, in my struggle forward, treading - sometimes weakly, other times fiercely and with such great purpose - through the murk, I will discover a buoy at my fingertips and grab hold. Call it a romantic, silly mirage. Call it a privilege afforded to so few. Call it whatever the fuck you wish. But I will continue to reach for those small islands of respite and re-invigoration, like Rich's transcendent, gloriously fortifying poems. We all find our strength where we can.
     
"I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail."
                                           - excerpt from the poem Diving Into The Wreck by Adrienne Rich

     

RIP author, activist, dancer, singer, actress and all around fabulous human being Maya Angelou

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." - Maya Angelou

Review of the graphic memoir Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi

    “…this old and great civilization has been discussed mostly in connection with fundamentalism, fanaticism, and terrorism. As an Iranian who has lived more than half of my life in Iran, I know that this image is far from the truth. This is why writing Persepolis was important to me. I believe that an entire nation should not be judged by the wrongdoings of a few extremists. I also don’t want those Iranians who lost their lives in prisons defending freedom, who died in the war against Iraq, who suffered under various repressive regimes, or who were forced to leave their families and flee their homeland to be forgotten.

     One can forgive but one should never forget.”

-From the introduction of Persepolis.  

  

     Smack in the middle of a region so often the concern of international political debates and yet also so glaringly misunderstood, Iran’s past and current history is a difficult subject to take on. In stellar fashion, graphic memoirist Marjane Satrapi summarizes that tumultuous past in the introduction to her book, Persepolis: The Story Of A Childhood. It takes just a page and a half for her to boil down thousands of years worth of history beginning with the first Aryan settlement in the second millennium B.C. — the foundation of the first Iranian nation in the seventh century B.C., the many changes of power and invasions that followed, the European colonialism upon discovery of oil within the country’s borders, the regime of the Shahs, and the CIA-led overthrow of those who would nationalize that wealth for the people. Despite the near-constant turmoil of history, Satrapi makes sure to stress that the Persian culture and language remained strong. Her pride and respect for the past, present and future of Iran are palpable in the words and phrases she has carefully chosen to use.  

      And this pride and respect continue to be evident throughout the memoir that follows the concise introduction. The author immediately introduces readers to her 10 years old self in 1979. It is that year that the Islamic Revolution took power of Iran and began to drastically alter the rules and customs of the land, rendering the political and personal landscape nearly impossible for a head and heart strong little girl to navigate. 

     Satrapi’s words and images expertly chronicle the story of her childhood and adolescence attempting to balance her rebellious nature with the climate of political repression that hung heavy in her country. There are a multitude of moments that starkly contrast her home life with liberal parents to that of her public life. Outside the walls of her house, Satrapi’s young self and the rest of the Iranian population were shrouded within the folds of oppressive laws meant to silence those who would speak and/or act against the regime. Or even just act as a young person does — curious and candid. 

     There are frightening moments like this throughout the memoir and even more horrifying events, such as the Persian Gulf War between Iran and Iraq that lasted from 1980 to 1988, injuring and killing thousands of Satrapi’s fellow country people. 

     And there are moments that speak just as loudly but with irresistible laughter and amusement at the young girl's undiminished fiery attitude and desire for self-expression.

     Above all, Satrapi's memoir stridently illustrates the intersectional nature of the personal and the political, not only for the young heroine, but also for those Iranians whose voices are less accessible and loud. Their stories are just as important to hear and tease apart from popular media's very singular, simplified, and damning soundbites about an entire nation alive with diverse attitudes and experiences. It is through hearing their tales that we can find the similarities that link us to one another despite the differences. Armed with faulty beliefs and misinformation, there are so many who think the gulf between themselves and others is too wide a distance to bridge. Satrapi's memoir is further evidence that, though we are distinctly unique in a multitude of ways, we are also alike in our struggles for truthful self-expression and a dignified existence.

     "I've always felt that it is impossible to engage properly with a place or a person without engaging with all of the stories of that place and that person. The danger of a single story is that it robs people of dignity, it makes recognition of our equal humanity difficult, it emphasizes how we are different rather than how we are similar."

- Novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, excerpt from TEDGlobal July, 2009.

Review of the album Here, My Dear by Marvin Gaye

"I guess I'll have to say

‘This album is dedicated to you’

Although perhaps I may not be happy

This is what you want

So I've conceded

I hope it makes you happy

There's a lot of truth in it, baby"*

     After the dissolution of his marriage in 1975, soul musician Marvin Gaye made the most rawly personal album of his career with Here, My Dear. The other notable albums he released during that period soar from blistering social consciousness on Trouble Man to sultry, smooth love/sex anthems on Lets Get It On and I Want You. The concept behind Here, My Dear is profoundly different — that being a confession in painful, unambiguous detail of the naked self-pity and hurt stemming from the recent flinty and ruinous separation.

     A stipulation of the final divorce settlement was that Gaye pay a portion of the proceeds and advance for his next record to his ex-wife, Anna Gordy Gaye, sibling of Motown founder Berry Gordy. For a while, Gaye played with the idea of making a trash album out of spite. The last years of the couple’s marriage were rocked by drug abuse, fighting and a number of extramarital affairs. Needless to say, Gaye was not feeling nice when he penned the lyrics. But instead of a crap record, the musician laid bare the exquisite rises and tumultuous valleys of the decade-long relationship. And this was for all to hear. 

     He did not restrain the bile. Anna was scandalized by the airing of their personal strife and was tempted to file a $5 million dollar invasion-of-privacy lawsuit upon the album’s release. But she ultimately refrained.

     Perhaps it is because of the truthful nature of the stories told within. The musician struggles mightily throughout the length of the record, chronicling his long, passionate love and trouble filled relationship with Anna. He lays it all bare — not pretending that there weren’t good times and feelings, but also vehemently extrapolating on the ruin and shards of that once exquisite love they had held for each other. 
     There is a lot of self-commiseration within and between the lines, and this album can certainly be a difficult undertaking. But it also, through Gaye’s gorgeous croon and the ebb and flow of the rhythms swelling behind him, transcends a simple understanding — as all ardent relationships do. When listening to these songs, there is never any doubt that Gaye loved Anna. The woman who had sparked emotions that so fiercely penetrated his macho shell — mutating him into someone gazing out at the world after love has gone and stripping him down to his most base form. It is a revelatory experience that causes nerve endings to tingle with aching recognition. 

"One thing I can promise, friend

I'll never be back again

But I'm not really bitter babe"**

*Lyrics from the song “Here, My Dear” written by Marvin Gaye.

**Lyrics from the song "When Did You Stop Loving Me, When Did I Stop Loving You" written by Marvin Gaye.

Thoughts inspired by Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five (and a sorta review)

      In a passage detailing his undergraduate anthropological studies after World War II, Kurt Vonnegut wrote:
    
   "Another thing they taught me was that nobody was ridiculous or bad or disgusting. Shortly before my father died, he said to me, 'You know — you never wrote a story with a villain in it."
     I told him that was one of the things I learned in college after the war."

     I must admit that this has been one of the central themes of my own higher education at both the undergraduate and graduate levels. And there are moments when I desperately desire that this notion be true. Certainly survivors and victims, even perpetrators and bystanders, all are — at some point on each of their lives' trajectories — scot-free of blame. Every one of them has been innocent of being ridiculous, bad, or disgusting. How could I even begin to believe such a thing?
     Let me explain. This is a sentiment only encouraged by how I interpret Vonnegut in Slaughterhouse-Five. His protagonist, Billy Pilgrim, while in the evening years of his life, becomes unstuck in time. He swings from one moment of his existence to another, years and decades into the past or future. He could flash backwards to his childhood — staring at the painful-looking crucifixion on the wall above his bed. Or he could land unexpectedly in the time beyond death — where there is nothing but purple haze and a low humming sound. Or he could be catapulted into the basement of the slaughterhouse in which he was held prisoner beneath Dresden, Germany during the very end days of the War — and above which fall thousands upon thousands of bombs, leveling the beautiful city to ashes and shards. Or he could skip back to his abduction by the Tralfamadorians, an infinitely superior alien race of tiny green beings shaped like plumber's friends, who have much to teach Billy about time. Such wonderful things they instruct him to share with the rest of the human race. Vonnegut wrote that these Tralfamadorians are able to see in four dimensions, an extra over that of our measly three. This is how, Vonnegut explained, they view time:

     "All moments, past, present, and future, always have existed, always will exist. The Tralfamadorians can look at all the different moments just the way we can look at a stretch of the Rocky Mountains, for instance. They can see how permanent all these moments are, and they can look at any moment that interests them. It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone it is gone forever."

     So this is how I imagine that Vonnegut sincerely attempted to view the world's inhabitants. All those survivors and victims, even perpetrators and bystanders, were once and, perhaps, still are innocent beings. Every one of these individuals — little babies before the sins and errors they will surely commit and have committed against them. There is a passage in the novel in which Billy Pilgrim has a transcendent vision; it’s of the world’s history in reverse, like a film projector running backwards — of those horrible deeds done by so many to so many undone, of bombs that had been dropped returning upwards to the bomber planes they came from, and those planes returning to their hangers, and of the mechanisms and chemistry of those bombs being dismantled, and everything returned to factories and labs, and then to their natural forms. It’s a wonderful thing to imagine. 

     “And Hitler turned into a baby, Billy Pilgrim supposed…Everybody turned into a baby, and all humanity, without exception, conspired biologically to produce two perfect people named Adam and Eve, he supposed.”

     Not that I believe in Adam and Eve as told by the Bible’s book of Genesis. But look at how I capitalize certain words despite my disbelief! It is strange how there are particular things that we cannot unlearn no matter how much we wish we could. They hold onto us, and we discover that we cannot lessen our own grip on them — though we thought we had done so long before.
     Each of us is a product of many different systems working on and against many others. It’s all about context — the biology and genealogy, the familial and community influences, the point of history in question, the economic and political structures at play, the quality of life on Earth, etc... We are constantly in flux — being worked on by and trying to balance ourselves against the world’s innumerable forces.
     I’m sure there's faulty logic in here somewhere. I certainly can’t claim to know what Vonnegut believed. But I personally hold that once a piece of art/literature is released into the world, the artist/author no long has any jurisdiction to direct the audiences’ impressions of that work. Thus, the readers of Vonnegut’s masterpieces may interpret them however they would like. It is my intent to do so thoughtfully, especially since I am on a quest to dissect why certain books speak to me so much. And Slaughterhouse-Five is one of those novels that simply will not stop speaking to me — no matter how many times I pick it up to flip through, and ultimately, reread in its entirety again and again.
     So, some may ask, where is the villain? And if there exist no true villains, what becomes of personal responsibility — of holding individuals accountable for their heinous acts against others? Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five is notably lacking in individual villains. Sure, there are plenty of people behaving poorly, but whose fault is all of the nonsense and horror? Who does Vonnegut blame for the leveling of Dresden by Allied bombs in the last days of what is commonly considered to be the absolute worst series of events in the history of the world?

Why do such cruel and abhorrent things occur so often? 

Why do terrible things happen to anyone at all?

     “‘That is a very Earthling thing to ask, Mr. Pilgrim.’”  A Tralfamadorian tells Billy when he is first abducted. “‘Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is. Have you ever seen bugs trapped in amber?…Well, here we are, Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment. There is no why.’”

     I can’t say that I agree that there is no why, as Vonnegut spoke through his little green characters. And perhaps he did not believe it completely either. Because it seems that he kept asking this question in nearly every book he penned after Slaughterhouse-Five, until his death in April of 2007.  There exists no definitive answer, but my curiosity continues, waxing and waning in intensity. Just as his certainly did. We are caught like insects in the three dimensions we are able to sense; we do not share the fictional Tralfamadorians’ capacity to gaze upon that fourth dimension — that view of time as much more flexible than we can ever begin to comprehend.
    Thus, it appears to be the nature of our existence to keep asking these unanswerable questions. And I promise I will keep asking. So it goes.

Review of the film Spirited Away

   Hayao Miyazaki and his Studio Ghibli have made some of the most stunningly multifarious and creative animated films in the history of cinema. Princess Mononoke, My Neighbor Totoro, and Ponyo instantly come to mind. While most obviously geared towards the younger set, each of Miyazaki's films possess intricately plotted story lines and whimsically gorgeous visuals that appeal to those older as well. There are many who would also point out that this particular filmography boasts a fictional cast of personalities with seemingly unprecedented realism, complexity and nuance of character.
   Take my favorite of the bunch, the amazing Spirited Away. In this film, a young gangly girl named Chihiro finds herself swept into an alternate reality filled with magical specters, plotting witches, flying dragons and loud-talking toads - among many other fantastical creatures. Since her parents have suddenly been turned into slop hogs, Chihiro is thrust into this new world with only her own wit, courage, and generous and loyal spirit to guide her. 
   It seems Miyazaki's heroine is in over her head, but in this story, Chihiro's ability to remain brave and kind - a rare combination for anyone, especially a little girl - is paramount to setting herself and her parents free. At first glance she appears a selfish and anxious preteen. Then, through her adventures and encounters with a vast company of those willing to help if only asked in the right way, Chihiro discovers she is more resilient and resourceful than she had any chance to once believe. It is the wonder of Miyazaki's films that so many of his young protagonists find the best of themselves when thrust into unexpected and testing circumstances. It may be that Miyazaki is simmering the notion that there is often more to each of us than our current easy situations are pushing us to confront and realize.
   And this idea and the enchanted story full of such abstract yet accessible characters give way to images of transcendent magic and power. There are certain scenes that are not of this world. But I catch sight of them and am instantly bowled over - awed - with uncanny recognition. I simply feel as if I have dreamed of these gorgeous landscapes before some night long ago and must have forgotten them until this very second. It is the most spine-tingling sensation. In a good way. In the best way. I can't say that about many films. Spirited Away is one I can watch again and again.

Review of the novel The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood

“Maybe none of this is about control. Maybe it really isn't about who can own whom, who can do what to whom and get away with it, even as far as death. Maybe it isn't about who can sit and who has to kneel or stand or lie down, legs spread open. Maybe it's about who can do what to whom and be forgiven for it. Never tell me it amounts to the same thing.”*

   As an individual who has never experienced the desire to have children, there are many moments, innumerable probably, in which it is terrifying to be a human with working reproductive organs. Every month, no matter the precautions I’ve taken or the acts I have not engaged in, I am grateful for not being pregnant. It’s a quiet celebration, just as it was a silent waiting agony until that very second of negative confirmation. 

     It’s becoming a more frightening predicament recently, and not just for me. There are intensely loudening rumbles all throughout the country from individuals, groups and organizations who would outlaw the right of those with viable reproductive organs to have control over those very organs. Just a few days before the time of this post’s publication, Mississippi, proceeded by a handful of other states, passed a measure of law drastically limiting the time in which a woman may obtain services to terminate an unwanted pregnancy. This is even in cases of proven rape or incest. The restrictions and rules are becoming more encompassing and strict with every step away from the 1973 federal ruling in the case of Roe v. Wade that is taken.

     I'm not one to throw my politics out there all the time, at least not in the last couple of years or so. I sincerely attempt to listen to others’ opinions, feelings and viewpoints on the world. There are as many possibilities and contexts as there are human beings on the planet. And I value that there does not exist only one way to take aim at an issue, especially one so multidimensional as abortion services. But I am also done apologizing for stating something that is a rock hard truth for so many of us in the world. Perhaps this timidness to speak fact is an unfortunate part of my past and ongoing cultural education - the distinct feelings of guilt for making others uncomfortable despite the reality of what I am attempting to say.

     I truly value that the ability to give birth is something so precious to so many out there. And I am not at all attempting to belittle the struggle many go through to bear the children they so dearly desire and love. Nor do I mean to imply that intense self-reflection and thought should not be an integral part of the process of these choices. They certainly must be given proper weight. I simply mean to restate that there are those who mistakenly believe that a woman does not know what is best to do with her own body - that the choice should not be up to her, or that there should be drastic limits placed upon a severely few number of possibilities. It frightens me to no end. I worry about what the implications of these rules and restrictions mean for the future and for those who will be directly affected by them, that being everyone.

     This line of thinking led me to once again pick up Margaret Atwood’s novel, The Handmaid’s Tale. Set within a bleak dystopian future where the ability to reproduce has been sharply curbed by the effects of world pollution and gross misuse of genetic science, those few woman of childbearing age and potential are kept as broodmares for the rich and powerful. Or, as they are more politely called, handmaidens. This fictional mono-theocratic society no longer allows these women to obtain education or read, work jobs, or have their own families. They have been reduced to their most base function - as viable wombs - not the dynamic, feeling, loving human beings of infinite potentials that they may have been in a different time and place. 

     Despite the bleak and horrific premise, it is at times a startlingly gorgeous narrative, consummated through Atwood’s stark yet sensual language. The prolific author has always possessed the most unique ability to write of her characters’ inner lives in plain but also lush, detailed prose. Thus, she renders so relatable what, for most other writers, can never be made known despite stacking countless words upon phrases upon paragraphs upon pages of explanation.

     Whatever the methods that Atwood employs - be they great details of science fiction or tiny, affecting moments of subversive action - the results are stunning. This is a message book; I have to admit that. But it is also a well-told yarn, a satirical fable that sweeps up readers with a stealth ease. And, as if in the grip of a mysterious and unseen river current, one is carried along through the story until that final page and final line. Then, when deposited back on the shore of reality, there is a shivery sensation of truth to the fiction inscribed within the book’s thin confines. It is quiet but unmistakable.

*excerpt from the novel