It’s taken three decades for Billy to receive public recognition for the magic he stirred up in Portland. He’s been honored as a “side player” by the Oregon Music Hall of Fame, an eight-year-old organization that few musicians here on the coast have heard of. Better late than never, some might say. Lessons can be gleaned from the lag time. [Read More]
So I awoke today to the morning light streaming in at just the right angle to reveal that the no-see-ums had invaded my bedroom via a teeny-tiny-itsy-bitsy unnoticed hole in the window screen. (Egads!) My room was a flutter with dust-mote-sized, blood-sucking denizens of suffering and I was feeling a bit helpless as I ran for the duct tape and realized that during the night my bug bites had multiplied 3-fold. (DRAT!) [Read More]
When I hear the name Hayao Miyazaki, I think of clouds. Like the kind we see in Cannon Beach on magical evenings after the sun has set, when gold lines our horizon and pink rims giant, puffy pillars. I think of long grass, like on our sand dunes, bending gracefully before mounting winds. And I think of flying images from his films: robots, planes, pig pilots, cat busses, girls on broomsticks, skyscraper-tall gods walking through forests… [Read More]
I’m reading a book by this title, by Steve Hagen, published in 1995. The book has recently been revised and retitled Why the World Doesn’t Seem to Make Sense, published by Sentient Publications. Hagen is a Buddhist teacher with lots of credentials. Anyway, the book so far has been pretty repetitive, basically saying that Reality (with a capital R, the real thing) is different from what we think it is.
From the first line, I love this book, and it’s not even the first line but the quote before the first line that jump starts the whole thing. See, it’s Flannery O’Connor.
I’m haunted by O’Connor. This southern woman with pheasants on her farm who died before forty and wrote short stories about serial killers shooting good Christian grandmas and four-year-old boys drowning themselves in baptismal rivers. [Read More]
The era of the brilliant Nabokovs is over. Dmitri died 22 February 2012. He was my age, born in Berlin in 1934 half a year before me. One day when I asked his father about his taste in music, he said he had none; all the musical talents went to his son, Dmitri. The father was very proud of his son and justifiably so.
One of the most important cultural centers in the ancient world was founded by a dolphin. According to a Homeric Hymn, the creature jumped aboard a ship sailing from Crete and commanded the mariners to build a sanctuary at Delphi. The animal was said to be a manifestation of the Greek god Apollo. Apollo Delphinios.
Does it even matter anymore that light sabers aren’t real? Or that Lance Armstrong used drugs to win races? Or that Manti Te’o’s dead girlfriend never existed? Or that faith, as the filmed LIFE OF PI suggests, needn’t be based on truth to be valid?
JACK REACHER is the rare film that sharpens your senses. Exiting the theater, you find yourself walking brisker, thinking clearer, and having added energy to re-enter your life. You could call it a Red Bull film. Or a Five Hour Energy movie.