To Light The Darkness

Sir Terry Pratchett spoke to a packed house in 2003 as part of his book tour for "Monstrous Regiment."
Sir Terry Pratchett spoke to a packed house in 2003 as part of his book tour for “Monstrous Regiment.”

The flags will be flying at half-mast all over the Discworld today.

Yesterday the grand master of satirical fantasy, Sir Terry Pratchett, died at the age of 66.

The author of more than 70 books published worldwide and beloved by millions of fans, Sir Terry wrote literature that defies classification. While best-known for his creation of Discworld, a sort of alternate universe complete with wizards, witches, trolls, dragons and all the traditional fixin’s of the fantasy genre, Sir Terry upended that world with his brilliant wit, droll social commentary, and engaging cast of characters.

One of his most endearing characters was Death, who always spoke in all caps, and had a mordant sense of humor that cut straight to the bone.

My explorations of Discworld began in the early ’90s, soon after I read “Good Omens,” Sir Terry’s collaboration with Neil Gaiman, in which a plucky gang of kids averts Armageddon. A familiar story these days, but back then it was fresh, and no one had ever done it with more dark humor and hope.

The Discworld series brims with characters struggling to fight crime, poverty, gender discrimination, blood feuds, religious nuts, and rogue magic—all in a day’s work for the Night Watch in Ankh-Morpork, the city that never sweeps.

I’m grieving today, because Terry Pratchett made me laugh. So much.

It would be hard to pick one favorite among all his books, though the top five would likely include “Soul Music,” in which a young man’s rock and roll dream takes an unlikely turn, “Reaper Man,” in which Death takes a holiday, “Mort,” in which Death takes an apprentice, and “Wyrd Sisters,” in which we meet Granny Weatherwax and her partner in outside-the-box thinking, Nanny Ogg, who breathe new life into the tired tropes of witchery.

For these and many more I am deeply grateful to Sir Terry. There are few writers about whose work I feel so passionate.  That’s why, when I learned in 2003 that he would be speaking in Washington, D.C., I had to go. At the time I lived in Fauquier County, a good hour’s drive away, and the event was on a weekday evening.

It was a gathering of fringe elements. Geeks and freaks who had been chuckling and grinning madly alone in their rooms for years emerged blinking into the light to offer praise to the master. The seats were filled with white-haired old ladies, blue-haired punks, obese loners hugging book bags stuffed with scribblings, lean academics and gnarly eccentrics, bubbly college girls and pimply adolescent boys with hungry eyes and insulting T-shirts.

The room was packed, standing room only. During the entire half-hour stage wait of buzzing anticipation the girl seated next to us read aloud without pause at breakneck speed from “Good Omens,” until finally we were delivered from her spell when a small man dressed all in black leather approached the podium.

And I was struck with a sudden horrible fear: what if TP turned out to be less than delightful? Of course I loved his writing, the dark fizzy outlook of his books, but what if in person he was small and mean? What if he was cold and self important? Or had an ugly voice? Or an annoying mannerism that dimmed his aura of perfection?

All these fears evaporated as he stood before the crowd—us cheering wildly, him raising his arms as if to raise the volume (which we did), then lowering them to get us to bring it down (which we did), then lifting one arm up and one down, to throw us into a state of confusion, where we merrily tumbled, cheering even louder. We loved him! We wanted to have his baby!

And when we obediently hushed, he began to talk, and his voice was perfect—English accent, but not snooty, more a kind of Python-ish shade of dry wit. He said so many funny insightful things in the next two hours that my smile muscles grew tired. He was kind, patient, wise, generous, and thoroughly entertaining.

Afterwards there was a book signing, a thing I usually avoid. But I wanted a chance to thank my hero for all the times his books had lifted the gloom that plagues my soul. So we got in line.

It was a long line. After the first hour, Sir Terry got up from his seat and walked in his stocking feet to the back of the long line to get a sense of how much work still lay ahead of him. As we neared the two hour mark we appeared to be no closer to him. Did I mention this was a school night? But I was determined, and I had given a lot of thought to what I would say. Just one line.

But when my turn finally came, and he reached for my book, he glanced up at me wearily and I was overcome with grief. I was so close, and he was too tired. I tried to say my line. He looked puzzled. He didn’t quite catch it. I repeated, “I wanted to thank you for lighting a flame-thrower in my life.”

Something jogged in his face. He looked up at me and said slowly, “Well, it’s better to light a flame-thrower…” I joined him to finish the line, “than to curse the darkness.”

I smiled as well as I could, holding back inexplicable tears. I owed this man so much. He lightened my sadness so many times.

In 2007, when he was diagnosed with a rare form of early-onset Alzheimer’s, I grieved, knowing this was the beginning of the end. I lost my mother to the disease in 1995, but she lost her memory years before she died. I’ll never forget her.

Millions of readers around the world will never forget Sir Terry Pratchett.

 

Plots and Plans

Human emotions are a swamp best explored in a sturdy canoe. Rock at your peril.
Human emotions are a swamp best explored in a sturdy canoe. Rock at your peril.

Daylight savings time begins tomorrow. Fuzzy accounting if you ask me.

You can’t legislate daylight any more than you can deny hoping rights.

But let’s put all that behind us, shall we? Today the sun is glaring on the icy snow and with any luck by next weekend we’ll be complaining about mud.

As a gardener I’m accustomed to these mood swings. One day everything is coming up roses, or cucumbers, whatever, and the next day little green worms have infiltrated the territory, black tiger mosquitoes have awakened from their brief winter nap, and there’s nowhere to hide from the scorching heat.

Yet on we go, planning and planting, plotting and scheming. It’s a bit like writing a novel. We start out standing, optimistic about our chances of constructing something just believable enough to hold together for a couple hundred pages yet adroitly sidestepping the festering ooze that makes reality such a weary slog much of the time.

I just finished reading Jeffrey Eugenides’ novel “The Marriage Plot,” which deftly critiques the entire catalogue of traditional romantic fiction. From Shakespeare’s bantering couples to Austen’s repressed heroines, the standard model for a romance has long been: boy meets girl (or girl meets boy — let’s not quibble just yet), boy loses girl, boy and girl patch things up and marry, or at least commit to the possibility. Yet times have changed, and not in a daylight savings sort of way.

Divorce, rare and slightly scandalous at the dawn of the last century, is now utterly commonplace. Marriage itself is viewed as less essential to a satisfying life, and alternatives abound for those who prefer to march down a different aisle, or not march at all. In “The Marriage Plot” Eugenides explores the confusion and pain of three characters: two men and the woman they both love. Yet in spite of the best intentions and faithful efforts to treat each other with care and respect, their attempts to love one another are sabotaged by one of life’s many hidden hazards. When one of the characters develops manic depression, the rosy glow of romance turns murky with doubt and frustration. Happily ever after, not so much.

It’s a terrific book. All the characters are flawed, likeable, maddening, and still trying as hard as they can to do the right thing, in spite of the continuing difficulty of knowing exactly what that is. It made me think about how much the element of chance figures into every aspect of life. Some people really are born lucky. Some aren’t. But it’s what people do with the hand they’re dealt that defines who they are.

In “The Marriage Plot” the three main characters have one trait in common. They’re brave. They may run away for a time, but eventually they turn back and face the music, discordant as it may be. Sometimes in romance a little discord can be bracing. A clash of cymbals to rouse the complacent. It’s all in the volume.

There’s a rule in drama that if you show a gun in the first act it has to go off in act three. I get that rule. But I’m not convinced the writer has to kill a character in order to fulfill the prophesy. Nor do I think a marriage is essential at the end of a romance. But love? Yeah. No matter what, even if somebody gets shot and not everyone is happy, as long as somebody gave their whole heart to someone else and never regretted it, that, to my way of thinking, is love.

And you can take that to the bank and put it in your daylight savings account.

 

The Mage of Reason

Spock's mind was his super power.
Spock’s mind was his super power.

Logic never made much sense to me.

When I took it in college I was confounded by its rules and axioms. The so-called self-evident principals never resonated with me in the way that poetic flights of sheer fantasy always have.

In general, I’m a pretty gullible person. Just ask my brothers, or the guy who scammed $12 off me back in 1978 to pay for his bus fare to see his dying grandmother. Yeah right.

But arguments based on pure logic always woke the mule in me. Until a certain Starfleet Science Officer known as much for his pointy ears and greenish skin as for his brilliant analytical mind came into my life.

I never saw the original Star Trek during its three season journey through the wasteland of prime time television from 1966 to 1969. I was exploring other worlds myself back then. But in the summer of 1971 my brother Billy introduced me to the series, which was in heavy reruns and already gaining altitude in the pantheon of science fiction legends.

The great thing about reruns is that they allow a newbie to catch up fast. With Billy’s coaching I was soon fully engaged, a shy but enthusiastic Trekkie. I never went to a convention. Although I did stand in line to sit in the original Captain’s chair when the 20th anniversary Star Trek exhibition opened at the Smithsonian.

So, is Spock really dead? I mean, I know Leonard Nimoy died yesterday, and I’m saddened by this, although grateful that he had such an amazing life and eventually came to terms with his Spock legacy.

For me, Spock was always the one. I loved all the originals: Kirk with his over-the-top thespian shtick, McCoy with his irritable grit, Scottie with his mechanical wizardry and never-say-die pluck, Uhura with her poise and courage, and the playful Sulu and Chekhov.

But it was Spock whose gravity, credibility, and wry humor made me believe that sometimes a little logic can be magical.

Leonard Nimoy himself, according to reports and things he wrote in his 1975 memoir, “I Am Not Spock,” and later in the 1995 memoir, “I Am Spock,” came to realize that, illogical as it may be, the character of Leonard Nimoy had so much to do with the character of Spock, that the two “melded” in the minds of adoring fans.

As a lifelong romantic fool myself, I found the character of Spock the most compelling precisely because he always tried to resist irrational behavior, yet, because he was half-human, he was vulnerable like all the rest of us.

The truth is, humans aren’t rational. Yet we continue, some of us anyway, trying to make sense of this life, trying to assign reasons for the infinite mysteries that surround us. It’s kind of sweet. And that’s why, if I had to choose one Star Trek character to be my desert island companion, it would be Spock, the tall cool one. I’d mind-meld with him any day.

Go in peace Leonard Nimoy Spock. And thanks for all the fascinating years.

About Face

Sometimes I just vant to be alone.
Sometimes I just vant to be alone.

Some years ago when I read A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, the incredible first novel by Dave Eggers, I was electrified by his lucid writing and awed by his ability to find humor in a true story of loss and struggle.

Since then, I’ve read some of his other books, but none stuck with me the way the first one did. Until now.

I just finished The Circle. Zing if you know what I’m talking about. Or hit “like” unless you are one of the handful of holdouts still hiding your face from Facebook. Good luck with that.

The Circle is a chilling Orwellian cautionary tale about the insatiable spread of social media. Anyone who has dipped a toe in the vast digital sea will recognize the symptoms of addiction, compulsion, and self-absorbed blindness that afflict Mae, the female protagonist. And while the plot veers toward the surreal, none of the ideas is far-fetched enough to be unbelievable. As Mae increasingly surrenders her privacy, her autonomy and her freedom in order to gain artificial status and the hollow fame that comes from being followed online by millions of “invisible friends,” her real life unravels while her virtual world expands.

The dark satire explores some of the deeply troubling aspects not only of Facebook and its ilk, but the entire spying, lying, couch-potato stalking aspects of “social” networks. The insidious spread of drone usage, the short-sighted maneuverings of political leaders, and the dramatic increase of economic disparity worldwide combine to create a toxic climate for all.

But to me the scariest part of the future Eggers so vividly conjures in The Circle, is the growing threat to privacy. Something is deeply askew when reading quietly alone in a room is viewed as an antisocial act. When taking a walk alone in the woods is considered selfish. When failing to respond to hundreds of unsolicited emails and texts and posts every day is taken as an act of rudeness.

As a writer, I cherish solitude. I need a certain amount of empty space in my life in order to think clearly. Other people thrive in a group dynamic. And that’s fine. For them.

But among the most vital human rights must be the right to choose how we spend our brief lives. Surely we should have the right to be alone with our thoughts from time to time.

To paraphrase E.M.Forster: Only disconnect!

The Sky of the Sky

What we see is what we get.
What we see is what we get.

I’ve been binge reading lately. Sometimes when I’m trying to avoid dwelling on some unfixable situation I plunge into the sea of fiction as a way to block out what can’t be managed.

This works for a while. But sooner or later the unwelcome reality I’m trying to escape rears its grim face in the very pages of whatever novel I’ve chosen as an escape mechanism.

When my mother died nearly twenty years ago I was unprepared for the crush of grief that hit me. Everyone experiences grief. But in our modern western culture we’re taught to keep our chins up, our emotions to ourselves, and to do whatever it takes to find “closure” with our sorrow. As if sorrow were some sort of limited time offer.

I was inexperienced at grief back then. So I thought time would work its magic and after a year or so I’d regain the spring in my step. But after two years went by and every day I was still feeling as if I were carrying a backpack loaded with cement, I began to wonder what was wrong with me.

At the time I was still working at a newspaper and trying to finish my college degree in my spare time. I was a crazed soccer mom, too, just to make sure there was never any free time to let my thoughts stray into the danger zone of the past. I was driven to reach closure, wherever the hell it was.

That spring, nearing the end of my marathon college education, the finish line was in sight. I needed only a few more credits. For one of them I enrolled in Comparative Religion 101. So many gods, so little time.

I was doing all right in the class, which was taught by an older man of Asian background. I didn’t totally understand the logic of the various belief systems we studied, but then logic rarely seems paramount with belief systems anyway.

Then one day the professor began talking about how different religions handle grief. And suddenly I was weeping uncontrollably in class.

I was embarrassed and apologetic. But the professor was very sympathetic. When I told him it had been two years already and I didn’t understand why I was so overcome, he told me that in his culture the standard time for grieving was three years. No one expected it to take less.

Well, that comforted me to some extent. I stopped thinking I was totally morbid and depressed and gave myself permission to feel sad. And that helped.

But in the past twenty years I’ve had a few refresher courses in grief, and I have a new relationship with it.

I don’t expect it to end. I hope I never forget the people I’ve loved. And if the price of that is some pain and sorrow now that they’re gone, then so be it. It was worth every ache to have shared time with them.

The friends and family I have lost live in my heart.  As e.e. cummings so memorably wrote:

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)

Safe Harbor

Troubles seem far away in the serene view from Safety Harbor, Florida.
Troubles seem far away in the serene view from Safety Harbor, Florida.

When the waters rise over your own doorstep, climate change hits home.

Politicians who view this critical issue as simply another chip in the electoral poker game are gambling not merely with their own careers, but with the future of our planet. And I, for one, am fed up.

The factors driving global warming have been well understood by scientists for decades. Back in 1970, the first Earth Day was a call for sanity. Yet our flagrant destruction of the environment and our rapacious consumption of oil and coal continue. Now, we stand on the brink of irreversible climate change. And still naysayers persist in their blinkered resistance to even modest efforts to reverse the trend.

Most notably, Rick “I am not a scientist” Scott, the current governor of Florida, which is widely viewed by the scientific community as one of the most vulnerable places in the country in terms of sea level rising, has gone on record with his denial. Scott has said, “I’ve not been convinced that there’s any man-made climate change. Nothing’s convinced me that there is.”

Sigh.

Belief is a curious thing. If you believe some deity has everything under control, I suppose you sleep better. But if you’re paying attention to the data here on Earth, you may, at the very least, consider building your own ark.

Those who believe in modern science, and are grateful for medicines and airplanes and safe drinking water, to name just a few nifty science-based ideas, would like to see more emphasis on rational thought in our government.

Admittedly, it’s tough to be rational when you’re human. I know. I’m as irrational as the next person. I’d like to believe there’s a happy ending for every story, a perfect solution to every problem, a safe harbor for all the ships at sea.

But these days there are new pirates, and not only at sea. In our internet dominated world, invisible pirates can steal property, identities, and undermine security. The unsettling result of this sort of piracy is that it fuels a kind of knee-jerk paranoia. We don’t trust our government, our law enforcement, our banks. Yet it’s human nature to want something to trust, to desire community, to seek fellowship with our fellow humans.

Many humans rally around religious beliefs, which seems like a fine idea, until intolerance sets in. However, on the subject of global warming we really have to get over our intolerance of each other. We’re all in this thing together. When the seas rise, as they will sooner rather than later, we, or our children, will have to share whatever dry land remains.

On the west coast of Florida, where millions of people retire, lured by balmy temperatures, flat terrain, and low prices, life is quiet. Palm trees and pelicans define the landscape. Yet in the not so distant past the west coast of Florida was regularly terrorized by pirates. In the late 18th and early 19th century the threat of pirate attacks was real, so much so that the small city of Safety Harbor earned its name because it was situated so far from the pirates’ habitual route that it was considered a safe harbor.

These days the pirate history is celebrated with an annual festival in Tampa and Safety Harbor. Pirates, like parrots and piña coladas, are just part of the tropic ambience served up to tourists.

Picturesque cottages on the quiet streets of historic Safety Harbor offer a glimpse of Florida's charming past.
Picturesque cottages on the quiet streets of historic Safety Harbor offer a glimpse of Florida’s charming past.

The town of Safety Harbor is quaint in places. Giant trees draped with Spanish moss shade the historic district, where pockets of old Florida remain hidden behind newer super-sized waterfront development.

The town is 20 feet above sea level. For now.

Kitschy Coup

 

The edgy sculptures of modern Spanish artist Bernardi Roig exemplify the kind of intellectually challenging work that draws museum interest. His "Man of Light" series, recently exhibited at The Phillips Collection, dealt with "existential dualities of entrapment and liberation, blinding and illumination" among other things.
A mysterious figure carries a bundle of fluorescent tubes. Why?

The new film Big Eyes, which focuses on the dark secret behind a kitsch painting phenomenon of the 1950s, touches on the no-man’s-land between fine and popular art.

There are artists whose work crosses over, embraced by both aesthetes and ordinary folks who just want something pretty to hang on the wall above the couch. Van Gogh and Monet, for instance, both seen as rebels in their day, are mainstream now, their masterpieces transcribed onto everything from dishtowels to shower curtains.

Nothing wrong with that.

But some critics hold that serious art has a responsibility to be edgy, to address weighty philosophical and social issues. The sculptures of modern artist Bernardi Roig of Spain, for example, exemplify the kind of intellectually challenging work that draws museum interest. Roig’s “Man of Light” works, recently exhibited at The Phillips Collection, deal with “existential dualities of entrapment and liberation, blinding and illumination” among other things. Not everyone wants reminders of such issues hanging in their living rooms.

Yet historically there have always been patrons of artists willing to produce images that support political or social agendas. Propaganda is a powerful tool for persuading voters, as well as moviegoers. An image worth a million words sometimes trumps the finest policy speech.

Of course when it comes to art, everyone’s a critic. We know what we like. And we know what we don’t.

Millions of people love the paintings of Margaret Keane, whose big-eyed images sold like hotcakes in the fifties, and no doubt will see a boost in sales from the new film. Yet Keane’s work was dismissed by most serious art critics from the start of her career until much later, after the truth came out that the artist had been swindled by her first husband, who for years took credit for her paintings and got rich and famous pretending they were his. Since then the big-eyed paintings have been reevaluated in the context of the continuing struggle for women’s rights.

The power of art to speak to power, to challenge power, has been dramatically apparent this past week. The murders in Paris of more than a dozen people, many of them comic artists, underscores the relevance of art in our world. By committing their crime in the City of Light, the epicenter of Art in the civilized world, the perpetrators of this latest affront to freedom and peace have raised the stakes in our terrorist-plagued time. And judging by the passionate response in Paris and the entire world, perhaps there is hope that humanity will finally find the political will to unite against this common threat.

Too often in the dialogue of nations communications stall due to failures of language. Mistrust and confusion fester in bad translation.

Art transcends the barriers of written and spoken language. Sometimes the message is simple and poignant. Big eyed children gaze at us not only in kitschy paintings but in sharp photographs of ongoing famine situations. The sight of one can summon the emotional response of the other.

It’s understandable that religious extremists see nothing humorous in comics that mock their views. They’re free to be offended if they can’t take a joke. But in the recent case, by committing murder in the name of whatever they think is holy, they have drawn far more attention to comic art, thus increasing its impact.

Sure, some comics are cute. Some are silly. But artful humor has a role in the fight against the dark side. And never underestimate the art of wrath. In a war of wits the winner has the last laugh.

The Sap Also Rises

Cupid's aim is true at Florida Botanical Gardens in Largo.
Cupid’s aim is true at Florida Botanical Gardens in Largo.

A few years ago I swore off romance.

Enough with the sappily ever after, pie-in-the-sky, “don’t worry baby” baloney.

I gave in to the Dark Side. And was startled to find it was standing room only. Turns out you can’t throw a brick, or even a volume of Game of Thrones, without hitting some gifted young author gleefully cranking out dystopian fiction in which none of the characters expect to live past the age of thirty.

Ah youth. Wasted on the young, etc.

When I was younger I had a lot of untested ideas about the way things should be. I had dreams about the way things could be. But I always imagined that books — the kind with paper pages that whisper when you turn them — would figure into the scheme of things. I’m no longer so sure about this. Yet neither am I convinced that the future will be programmed by and for robots, and/or zombies.

The other night I watched Network, the landmark satirical film from 1976, again. It’s kind of stunning how well it’s held up. In spite of all the technological and social progress humans have made in the last 40 years, our sheer blinding stupidity and careless cruelty remain daunting obstacles in the way of any sort of real progress as a species. It remains to be seen whether we will destroy the planet before we wipe out humanity.

The biggest difference between the fictional society of Network, with its classic talk show call to arms slogan, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore,” and the modern Twitter-mad world in which we live, is that now people are free to rant and vent without opening a window to shout. They simply open Windows for Cranks and let it rip without fear of consequences, without even changing out of their pajamas.

Well, perhaps this is therapeutic for some people. But it all seems a bit childish and pointless, not to mention counter-productive. Anyone who really wants to change the world must, at some point, step away from the keyboard and engage with reality. And that, of course, is a lot like work. Not my best thing.

Anyway, after careful consideration, I’m planning to return to writing romance. Not that I ever really stopped. Although I did try to be dark and edgy, my heart just wasn’t in it. I hate sad endings. In my view, reality provides more than enough of those. Millions of readers enjoy reading tragedies. Legions of readers thrive on a literary regimen of gore and terror.

But seriously, look around. Reality provides all the grim horror and senseless sorrow you could ever want. What there’s a shortage of is believable uplifting fiction about humans finding happiness together in spite of the everyday zombies and vampires intent on draining the life out of everything .

Walt Whitman once wrote: “I stand for the sunny point of view, the joyful conclusion.”

That’s my plan for 2015. More romance, more hope in the face of the great wheeling darkness that surrounds our little world. I’m going back to basics: When a man loves a woman, and she, in spite of everything, loves him back.

Sound sappy? You bet. Love with no limits, when the going gets rough, when the repartee gets crabby, when the midriff gets flabby. No matter.

Let’s face the music and dance.

Canal Cachet

Ways and means.
Ways and means.

At this time of the year, when Earth’s tilt adjusts the planetary mood lighting, we sometimes feel the urge to hit the reset button, to attempt a bold fresh start on another calendar.

Others of us may yield to the snooze button. Whatever. There’s no right or wrong in this process. There is only winter: cold, wet and gray, tormenting us with dreams of gentler climes and fruity drinks under beach umbrellas.

However, those of us who can’t get away from winter’s worst make the most of what we have right here, right now. And if we don’t like it, we’ll reinvent it! Reinvention is a beloved American invention. Take what the game gives you, add a twist of lime and a dash of chili pepper, fry it with love and watch the lines form.

Here in D.C., a city which, by American standards, has a lot of history, the chances are that anywhere you plant your foot was once trod upon by someone famous or infamous. Some of these places have been lovingly preserved with all their dignity and charm intact. Others have been allowed to languish and/or rot. It takes money and will to resist entropy. But sometimes an injection of good old brass-knuckled entrepreneurism can breath new life – or at least tourists – into areas overlooked for decades.

Such an area is the Chesapeake and Ohio canal below Georgetown. From 1831 to 1924 the original C&O canal provided an important route for barges laden with Pennsylvania coal. But the frequent flooding from the Potomac River eventually took its toll and as railroads took over the coal trade the canal languished.

While several high profile politicians, notably Supreme Court Justice William Douglas in 1954 and President Eisenhower in 1961, helped to bring public attention and funds to preserve the canal, the area below Georgetown remained under the renovation radar until recently.

A painless canal route.
A painless canal route.

These days the pedestrian bridges across the canal swarm with bikers, joggers, and cupcake-eating tourists. The old brick warehouses that still line much of this portion of the canal have been remodeled into condos, trendy restaurants and event spaces. Only traces remain of the area’s funky roots, where the old flour mill once flourished along with the Bayou, the legendary local music club.

Evolution isn’t only a matter of blood and bone. It’s a process in brick and concrete too.

The C&O canal slips past the old and the new, quietly reflecting the changes, as we reflect on our own.

Nothing For Me, Thanks

Begging for change.
Begging for change.

Dear Santa Baby,

Hey, how’s it going? Busy time for you, I realize, so I’ll keep this short.

To be honest, I have my doubts about your ability to deliver what I really want for Christmas. I’m not even sure that it falls into your area of expertise, which, as I understand it, is toys and trinkets for children and adults. But I figure what the hey, it can’t hurt to ask, right?

So here’s the deal. No presents wrapped under the tree. No Secret Santa surprises, no mistletoe, no romance tied with shiny ribbon. I’ll forgo the cookies, the eggnog, the chocolate bonbons, the whole freakin’ holiday enchilada.

All I want is peace. And I’m not talking the “Silent Night” variety. I’m not referring to any sort of Christmas miracle where everyone lays down their weapons and their resentment and their territorial blood feuds for an hour or two before reloading.

I mean the honest to God, bone-deep peace that passes understanding and goes straight to universal forgiveness and tolerance for every stupid self-centered human on the planet, myself included.

I haven’t been the best person I can be. You know that. I know that. But I’m making an effort to do better. And I sincerely believe that with your help, Santa, maybe, just maybe, we could at least cut down on the number of massacres of innocent women and children. That’s not asking too much, is it?

So. That’s all for me.

Thanks for trying to make the world a happy place for one day of the year. And good luck with that!

Cheers,

Diehard Peace Freak