fpdorchak

My ba-rain hurts!

I grew up on Monty Python in the late sixties and early seventies, and besides all the naked breasts I remember from the show, I simply adored their comedy! Loved their deadpan humor, their outright silliness, their surreal animation. I’ve only just yesterday realized that October 5th marked their 40th anniversary of their broadcast on BBC. Having grown up in the Adirondacks of upstate New York, and only able to get the reception of 2 1/2 television channels, I quite fell into Monty Python by accident from a Canadian channel (I think it the half-channel…).

Oh, how I miss This-isn’t-an-argument sketch.

Doug and Dinsdale Piranha brothers.

The Inquisition.

The Funniest Joke In The World.

The Lumberjacks.

And who could forget about Spam!-Spam!-Spam!-Spam!

They were ground breaking, and I didn’t even know it.  I loved their stream-of-consciousness approach…about how they merged from one sketch to another in dream-like fashion. The naked girls. The absurdity!

So, there is an IFC.com Monty Python, Almost the Truth (The Lawyer’s Cut), and a CNN article that brought it to my attention. Take a peek.

So, happy birthday, Monty Python! I continue to quote your comedy throughout my life!

I recently read some blogs about the slighting of Science Fiction/Fantasy authors, on Carol Berg’ site.

I feel their pain.

I have a self published book.  Guess what kind of glazed-over eyes I get?

Oh, SF/F peeps don’t know the half of it!

The way I see it is…there are bullies everywhere. It doesn’t matter that these are in the literary world. It’s everywhere. Government, sports, the media (“We report hard news, not them-there fluffy Sunday supp stuff….”). Yeah, publishing. For some reason or reasons, perhaps because of improper diaper-to-potty training or standing before too many chalk boards before a rough second-grade class because they couldn’t do long division (or whatever grade that is), there are those out there who feel the need to trounce others.

The defense?

A thick skin.

There are always going to be bullies. And it’s okay to get pissed. Just don’t let it get to you. Keep doing what you’re doing.

Writing.

If you’re publishing SF/F and people are buying it, guess what—someone likes your work. Someone’s buying your books. Frankly, and besides blogging fodder, when it comes right down to it, who gives a shit, right? At least you have published work. I write stuff that publishers find difficult to pigeonhole, hence am still looking for publishers. And I don’t say any of this to dismiss nor demean your concerns or feelings toward the issue. Your feelings are totally justified. And as I stated earlier, I really do feel your pain.

One of my unsold (yet agented) manuscripts is a UFO novel. Yeah, let’s talk about how the SF community feels about UFOs….

Continue to fight the good fight, my friends!

I went to this movie yesterday with family members, two of which were children, and as I sat there watching it, the following ran through my mind:  creepy, weird, disturbing. In the movie, Spike Jonze goes right up to “the line” of “unsettling,” dips a toe over it, then backs off. But keeps tapping that damn toe right on that line.

How is this made for kids?

How was it childlike, carefree, and happy-go-lucky—like the book?

Before seeing the movie I admit I read a review, but after having gone, I had to reread it. Check out some others. I really loved the book. Loved the weirdness of it—I like weird—the message and artwork, and all, but seeing it as a movie…my first thoughts were that some things are perhaps better left as books. As the reviews stated, the movie was not made for kids. However, the book was created for 4 to 8 year olds.

Now, sure, kids might “like” the movie—but what, exactly might they “like” about it?

Visuals, of course.

And define the age group “kids.”

Yes, the movie is visually stunning. Incredible imagery! But, more so, its atmosphere is dark and creepy. Foreboding. Constantly alluding to “something” not shown on-screen that is just barely contained (well, there is one scene of bones hidden in the embers of one smoldering fire). And the low-talking Wild Things are about as unnerving and disturbing in and of themselves as any other on-screen monsters (I admit I really liked their portrayal in that way). The restrained and heavily implied element of nasty power. The dialog definitely is that of a child’s mindset—and I understand all of that. And since it was made into a movie, you do have to fill in more than all of the five minutes it takes you to actually read the book. And, in that vein, I think Jonze did a great job of capturing Child Think. Even seeing the opening 15 or 20 minutes of “reality” of the movie brought me screaming back to my own youth, in terms of the low-lit wintry atmosphere and snow tunnels. The cozy dark feel of an older house in winter. That really touched a nerve for me. Got me into the mindset. Then later, at Wild Thing Island, I understood the “cut out their brains” lingo and dirt clod fights, the fort building, etc. It’s about adults trying to capture the mind and thoughts of being a kid. I get that. And after doing some more Internet searches, I found that the movie wasn’t even supposed to be marketed to children, at least 4 to 8 year olds.

But after finding the Wild Things YouTube, and watching that (yeah, I know—we don’t own a copy, but other family members do…), it reminded me that the book was more lighthearted. Fun. Childlike.

I really can’t fault a person for wanting to make a movie out of an iconic children’s book. Heck, even Maurice Sendak apparently wanted the book made into one. But, I think what perhaps really caught me off-guard was that Where The Wild Things Are was a children’s book, so I expected a children’s movie. That is not what was delivered. And I don’t think the production company’s “mentioning” that in any way could have saved the film. Thinking back on the movie trailers I saw, this was not what came across in any way, and just voicing that concern didn’t do the trick. That book is so ingrained into everyone’s mindset that no matter how it was marketed, people everywhere were going to see it, come hell or high water—and bring kids. There was no way around that. And as my wife and I discussed, and I agree with her, I think the movie could have taken a much lighter tone—more like the book.

Again, with the book.

So, the movie was an adult’s re-imagining of a treasured children’s story, but it’s not a movie for children. It’s made for adults—and that’s okay. Even adults need a “children’s story” or two. Help remind them where they came from. So, had I gone into the movie with that in mind, perhaps it wouldn’t have unsettled me so much that children were being brought to this movie.

The movie is dark.

It is creepy.

And disturbing.

And I liked it.

I just finished reading Soul Survivor: The Reincarnation of a World War II Fighter Pilot,  Bruce and Andrea Leiningers’ (with Ken Gross) account of their son, James’s, experience with the reemergence of WWII Navy Lieutenant (junior grade) James McCready Huston Jr’s soul. It brought tears to my eyes.

On the first of May, 2000, when James Leininger was barely two years old, he began having nightmares that caused him to kick and scream into the night. Little did the Leiningers realize that in their quest to be good parents and try to quell these episodes that they would break open a whole new world of hurt to some of their long-held and rock steady beliefs. What they discovered was that their young, two-year-old son was the reincarnation of the abovementioned WWII fighter pilot.

There’s no “seems to be” modification of “was the reincarnation of” here. Even the staunchly religious Bruce had to modify his view of the afterlife.

There will always be those who disbelieve something…ready to take issue with pretty much anything…and after having read this 256-page book, and the Leiningers’ intense six-year investigative journey, I would love to say that the only ones who do not see the obvious are those who are rigidly close minded…but I pull back on that statement. I suppose there could be any number of reasons why one does not believe what the Leiningers went through to be real. I suppose fear and apprehension could be one, resistance to change, another. Sheer surprise, and the need to internally and spiritually assimilate? Possession of a mental construct that simple does not allow such a structure to intrude? Sometimes the most obvious is the answer. This book is powerful and moving. It details things that a child of two or three or four or five or six years of age has no possible way of knowing—I don’t care what all the skeptics rant and rave about. Skeptics, by definition, question everything. “Investigating” everything and “questioning” everything are two very different things. This book details an incredible trail of facts and events that should give everyone hope that there’s more beyond this world than “meets the eye.” All before he was six years of age, the following samples of behavior were exhibited by James:

—Shouting “Airplane crash! Plane on fire! Little man can’t get out!” over and over at two or three years of age.

—Knocking the props off every toy airplane he was ever given.

—Insisting on familiarity with Corsair aircraft.

—Signed his name as “James 3” on all his drawings, which were of aircraft strafing and bombing runs.

—Mimicked the act of putting on a leather flight helmet before he’d ever seen one (in this life).

—While still in diapers, corrected his mother about what she thought was a “bomb” was actually a “drop tank.”

—Naming the G.I. Joes he got the names of dead friends of James McCready Huston Jr.; G.I. Joes that also just “happened” to look like these dead men.

—Correcting documentaries about incorrectly identifying a Japanese aircraft being shot down as a “Zero,” when it was really a “Tony.”

These are just some of the actions James exhibited on his way to six years of age.

Everything comes and goes to and from somewhere. Soul Survivor gives us yet another peak behind the veil of death, and it is nearly exact in structure to Jenny Cockell, and her re-experiencing of another life she lived as Mary Sutton, in early 20th-century Ireland. She, too wrote a book (a couple in fact), titled, Across Time and Death: A Mother’s Search for her Past Life Children. In Jenny’s youth, she, too, had been assaulted by intense images she could never get out of her head…images of a bay, children, an abusive husband—drew pictures as well—and one day, she, too, took matters into her own hands and did some research. Even revisited her own children from that life, who were still around, though well into their eighties! I very well remember hearing about both Jenny and James over the years, and was absolutely captivated by them. I’ve always believed in past lives, and have had my own experiences, one of which is detailed on my website, but reading and hearing about them always powerfully affects me. I’ve even written a novel manuscript about a severe case of what I call, “reincarnational angst.” Heck, Ray Bradbury has even spoken about meeting a magician, a Mr. Electrico, at a carnival when he was a kid in 1932. This magician told Mr. Bradbury that he (Ray) was the reincarnation of his best friend, who had literally died in his arms in the Battle of the Ardennes, in 1918.

So, there are many people out there who have had similar experiences—perhaps not as intricately detailed—but experiences, nonetheless. It is curious, however, that the above detailed existences all involved violence. Perhaps there is something to be said for that? The emotion at work “at the end”? So, the work of Bruce, Andrea, and Ken Gross is to be lauded. They put in the footwork. The blood, the sweat, the tears. Had a powerful experience to relate.

One passage, of Soul Survivor, on page 217, was of the last person to ever see Lt (j.g.) James McCready Huston Jr. alive, Mr. John Richardson, a gunner on a TBM Avenger during the same bombing run on Futami Ko, Chichi-Jima. His description of that moment really struck me, because I could really, really picture that moment. Mr. Richardson related how he’d seen Huston flying alongside his own plane, about 30 yards away, and how, at one point, Huston had turned to look him directly in the eyes, and how there’d been a connection…and in the next moment, Huston’s plane had been hit by anti-aircraft fire, and he went down in flames to his death.

Now as moving and poignant as all the above is, I was even more curious about areas that were not better explored—or at least questioned. But it is understandable, given any number of reasons, from simply being overwhelmed with the surface issues being addressed above, or a publisher’s need to fit a book to a useable size and format, given budgets, etc.:

—I wondered if Bruce and Andrea had ever given any thought to their own reincarnational existences. Had they ever had any inklings or odd thought intruding that they tended to ignore and brush aside? Any that might have been even somewhat related to what was unfolding before them?

—The “finding” of Bruce and Andrea as his parents, at the “Big Pink Hotel,” in Hawai’i,  before James was born into the Leininger family. It would have been fascinating to learn more about the soul at that point in time, had a little more coaxing been involved. Why had James picked them? What was it like at that point in his journey back to physical life? Why had James picked this time period? Why did he come back?  Did he meet any of his dead brethren while in-between lives?

—Was he aware of any kind of “Oversoul” guiding him in his journey to return to physical existence?

To me these would have also been some exciting avenues to pursue, but perhaps things were just overshadowed by the current life experiences and dealing with James’s activity.

But I loved this book. It was riveting and powerful. Put a smile on my face more than once and a tear in my eyes. I would love to read this book again. Like the Civil War, WWII is an crucial, affecting period for me. I can’t say enough about this book (but should finish up this post!)—it will have you thinking about things differently if you don’t already. Like their website says, this book challenges traditionally held beliefs about the afterlife.

Go ahead, crack its cover. I dare you.

A friend of mine, in her blog, posted about writing memories, taken from a technique by Joe Brainard, called “I remember.” I loved her blog. It evoked much emotion, so, in honor of the end of summer, I post the following childhood memories:

I remember waking up after the last day of school, in my in Lake Clear, NY, bed, thinking…summer.

I remember how the early morning sun looked, in all its golden glory, as it sprayed through the trees and splashed upon the lawn and truck and cabin and barn on our property.

I remember the way the crushed gravel of the driveway sounded and felt as I walked Converse-sneakered feet across it.

I remember looking down at the lake across the house from us. Watching the whitecaps during the storms and windy weather. I remember one day, my Forest Ranger dad, seeing someone in trouble on the lake, rushed down to save him.

I remember exploring the thick woods behind our house. Getting lost in my imagination in all those hardwoods and firs. Alien and girls and Star Trek on my mind. I frequently roamed alone and aimlessly among the trees.

I remember my dad showing me how to use the rototiller for the first time, and thinking how silky and cool all that churned up dirt looked.

I remember chopping wood. When my Dad first showed me how to use an ax…and how grown up it made me feel. I loved chopping wood.

I remember stacking cords of wood. Cords and cords of wood. Everywhere.

I remember my absolute love for climbing trees! Weaving and twisting and wiggling my way up through their whirls and branches! The feel of the branches and pitch and sap. The sound the my clothes rubbing against the trunk and limbs. The jagged little snapped-off limbs. Branches hitting and swiping at my face and body. Looking out over the landscape so far below. Closing my eyes at the very top as I hugged the tree and became one with it, feeling the wind in my face and listening to it breeze past my ears….

I remember playing Civil War soldiers with one of my brothers, Chris, back by that huge boulder in our driveway. I remember punching the crap out of each other with our boxing gloves in the same location. I remember winning.

I remember Dirk Ewan.

I remember Mrs. Lereaux.

I remember Mom taking us to the trailer park, by the airport, to visit her friends. I remember all four of us kids learning to ride bikes there. I remember never having used training wheels, because Chris, Greg, and Marilyn needed them. I remember the utter freedom learning how to bike lent to my life from that point on. I remember that day.

I remember chasing fireflies at night.

I remember stargazing with my dad’s ex-Navy binoculars.

I remember paddling up Fish Creek at night, and watching and smelling the campfires and shadows and muffled conversations of the camps we passed…I remember feeling I was a 1600s explorer….

I remember looking out over the Adirondacks from fire towers with my dad and Chris.

I remember barbeques out back with my family, at the fireplace my dad built, in 1969. Eating at the picnic table on the platform my dad built. I remember following the smoke from the fireplace curling up into the air, and into the branches of the nearby spruce tree where our tree house was, wondering what I would be doing when I was forty. God, how I remember that day.

I remember playing around in a smoldering burn barrel out back by the crabapple tree. I remember my eyes becoming so overcome and pained with smoke, my mom had to take me inside and plaster my eyes with cold tea bags. I remember wondering if I was going to go blind.

I remember cutting my feet in the lake one day, my grandfather having to carry me back up the house.

I remember walking up back one day and finding this huge snake in the process of swallowing a large something. I remember standing, there, just watching it in utter fascination.

I remember water balloon fights with Greg, Chris, and Marilyn. I remember rigging up a really cool water balloon trap that involved a door, string, and a razor blade. I remember getting up on the steep roofs of the house (we had three sets) and bombarding them all from above. I remember getting caught by my grandparents and catching hell when dad came home.

I remember Chris and I rooting around in cedar hedges on one of my sister’s birthdays, and stirring up a ground wasp nest. We did our best to outrun the little bastards. Oh, yeah. We got the crap stung out of us. I remember it hurt. Really bad.

I remember learning how to mow the lawn and loving it. The smell of cut grass, the stain of its green on my sneakers, and later, on the hood of the cutting blades of the tractor. The sound of the mower. The bugs, the heat, the humidity, the summer sun. To this day, I love mowing the lawn, whether from childhood memories or the cathartic joy of simply being under a warm summer sun.

I remember….

As I began reading Soul Survivor: The Reincarnation of a World War II Fighter Pilot, I came across a blog post dated 2005, where someone took issue with the book and its contents. As I read the blog it became apparent to me, and reminded me, that many seem to take great pleasure in labeling themselves “skeptics.” It seems for any point of view, topic, or whatever, you’ll always find someone out there ready to rip it a new one. So, I came across this post, and read it. I’ll just leave it at that this individual only took their argument so far, and didn’t bother to post anything about how the mind may or may not work—it was purely a superficial cut at surface indicators. Had nothing to do with the work of doctoral professionals in the field of reincarnation, psychology, or any other mental operation of any kind. Didn’t look into Drs. Ian Stevenson and Jim Tucker, for instance.

So, anyway, I had this long post all ready to publish late last night, when it occurred to me—why? I don’t want to get into some long, drawn out He said/She Said intellectual Battle of the Bulge. I really don’t want to rip into someone, well needlessly. I don’t. I don’t even like ripping into others. Sure, I have my moments, but, basically, I don’t want to be—mean spirited.

So I trashed it. My post.

People are who they are for a reason. And a large part of that, in any soul, is growth. So, instead of doing what I accuse others of doing—tearing someone else a new one, of publicly debunking another because they think differently than me—I decided against it.

Chagrin.

Thing is…I’m cool with others having a different opinion than me. Talk it over with me…just don’t kill me with it, okay? Agree to disagree, and we’re cool. I love diversity and intellectual banter and discussion. Sure, myself and others might very well even get rather “animated” during some of our discussions, but that’s because we’re passionate about what we think and talk about. It’s who we are. Just be respectful.

I hope I always have this kind of presence of mind in every situation I encounter similar to this, but I’ll probably slip up and there’ll be another out there ready to “call” me on it. Fine. I apologize up front. I’m only human…

And just runnin off at the mouth.