How about men wearing engagement rings?

One of the things that always used to intrigue me when I’d go to the bank to deposit some money was the number of rings the older tellers would be wearing: engagement ring, wedding ring, and possibly a couple of others. What would they be for? An anniversary? A memory of some occasion? I used to wonder how some of them could bend their ring fingers, they were so laden with jewellery. Was there some kind of competition going on to see which teller could outdo the others?

Men, on the other hand, are ostentatious enough if they only wear a single wedding band. And while some of these have become a bit more stylish with the years, you never see a man’s wedding ring with a stone in it – at least not a stone that you’d notice.

One tradesman friend, who seldom wore his wedding ring (he did have one), said the reason was that it was easy to catch the ring on things while working. A friend of his had had his finger nearly torn off when the ring caught on something stronger than he was.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man wearing an engagement ring, though it’s an interesting idea, and I’m sure some enterprising company will eventually try and start a trend in this – if they haven’t already done so. Still, if a guy can catch his wedding ring on something like a hook at work, imagine how easily he’d catch a rather more ostentatious engagement ring!

This thought came to me when I was looking at some matching engagement and wedding rings on Danforth Diamond’s site. The engagement rings are obviously the more showy, but the wedding rings have their own special style

Stands in a suitcase

One of the things that used to be a pain when I worked in the bookshop was dealing with old style bookstands. Of course, money to pay for new stands was another issue too! And as for taking books out on the road to a book display: that meant carting all sorts of things with us, and hoping that the church or institution would have enough tables, would put us in a place where we’d actually be visible and so on.

In the light of this I see that the bookstands one company provides for trade show displays are marvellously original, ranging from collapsible stands in a concertina style that fold away in their own handy case to ones that fold up like a pack of cards. Others have a nice lean to the like someone standing back to admire a painting, or shoot up in a triangular shape like someone giving a shout at a football game.

This company, ExhibitDEAL, doesn’t only provide bookstands, of course – it has the whole range of materials for setting up at trade shows, from booths, to floors, to pop-up displays. Very eye catching!

Silver and Gold I have none!

I was with some friends the other night and one couple who’d been in Amsterdam a few years ago were telling me about a bank there. Apparently this bank has a good deal of gold bullion stored in its basement, and they have an excellent approach to preventing the gold being stolen. When the alarm goes off to tell them that someone is trying to filch the gold, floodgates from the canal near which the bank is built open up and….flood the basement. Any thief is promptly drowned (unless he’s a good swimmer) and the gold, which is known to float too well at the best of times, stays exactly where it was. A little hard on the thieves maybe, but then did I hear anyone say theft was something they approved of?

I was reminded about this story when I came across a firm, Monex Deposit Company, advertising silver as an investment. I hadn’t realised silver came in ingots as well as coins – but then silver hasn’t been something I’m known for giving much thought to. I didn’t realise that there is more demand for silver now than ever; in fact, the demand is outstripping the supply….which means, of course, that anyone investing in silver will do very well. Silver, like gold, doesn’t lose its value. Maybe I should store a few bars here at home. The only problem is, living on a hill, I don’t have a canal running alongside the house…

Being an Introvert is OKAY!

I get emails from Jurgen Wolff's Time to Write blog, and yesterday he sent a short piece about Introverts.

I wouldn't consider myself an Introvert, by any means, since I like people, and enjoy having my family around. I'm not a great party-goer, but I've been to plenty of social occasions I enjoy.

The point about Introverts is that unlike Extroverts, they need time to recoup their energy. There comes a point when we have to say to the family (which can be up to ten adults and six grandchildren), "Please go home." Basically, my wife (who's much the same as me in this regard) and I have had enough. We've run out of energy to be social any more, and need space to recoup. Give us a few hours and we'll be back into it again. I go to my computer and do some writing or other work; my wife has a rest - often, in fact, a sleep - or sits and blobs in front of the telly.

According to Jonathan Rauch, in the article that Jurgen Wolff quotes, there's nothing wrong with this - it's a normal kind of behaviour for Introverts.

Both my wife and I feel as though we're normal humans again!

Surveys

I wish people who make up research questions would come up with some better ways of defining how you answer. I don't find the boxes they want to fit you into at all satisfactory, and I can't see how they give accuracy to the overall survey. No wonder they talk about error factors of up to 5% - I'd rank it considerably higher in fact!

I laughed out loud a couple of times at a survey I did on the phone tonight. Twaddle about whether a certain cereal made me feel good about my day. Only someone who worked in an advertising agency could possibly answer that with sincerity.

But it's the questions that have to be answered with a choice somewhere between strongly disagree and strongly agree that niggle me. Sometimes that kind of answer just doesn't fit the question. Yet surveyers time and again use it as an answering approach; plainly someone got hold of it once when it actually suited the questions it was applied to, and they've all been on the bandwagon ever since!

Car insurance online

Because, being out of work at present, I’ve been applying for a lot of jobs lately, I’ve had to make mention of the fact that I once worked for State Insurance – back in the days when computers in offices were unheard of. How things have changed. Now you can ring my old insurance company and get insured on the phone. My old bosses would be turning in their graves, I suspect.

Even better is the idea of being able to go online and compare insurance companies. We’ve been able to do it here with banks and mortgages for some time, but I’m not aware that it’s possible in NZ to compare insurance companies with any ease as yet. In the States, however, there’s a crowd called CarInsurance.com who do a car insurance comparison for you. That would be convenient. When I last insured my car I changed insurers, and while it wasn’t hard to do over the phone, I certainly wasn’t able to compare their prices easily either with my previous insurers, or with any others on the market. This idea from CarInsurance.com sounds great, because you can actually receive quotes from many insurance companies – and with the number of insurance companies there must be in the States, this can only be a good thing!

Along with this comparison business there’s an another idea a car insurance company has come up with. Because HD DVD discs have about six times the capacity of the current DVD format, Progressive Direct, a unit of a U.S. auto insurer, has teamed up with Universal Studios Home Entertainment to do something on the HD DVD version of The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift that sounds rather fun. You can choose to have a running tally of the vehicle destruction – in insurance cost terms. As the cars smack into one another in Tokyo, a display in a small window keeps track: "Roof repair: $209, taillights: $451, fender: $618.' The calculator is labelled Progressive Direct: Insurance Damage Estimates.

I’m not entirely sure what use you could make of it, except as one of those kind of I’m kind of curious about that sort of things. And whether most people who watch this kind movie would be interested in the cost of what’s happening as opposed to the mayhem, I’m not sure!

Apparently there are plans for incorporating all manner of extras of this kind into the new format DVDs. We wait with bated breath!

Well, now it's blogs about blogs. Or rather, blogs about blogs have been on the increase for some time, and are a bit like people eating their own skin. To put it less vividly, they're the same as writers' magazines, where the topic is writing: by writers, for writers, a kind of catch 22 situation. Or am I just being over the top on this?

At least with other magazines, they're mostly about something else besides themselves: sports magazines are written by sports writers, mostly, rather than by sportsmen. Business magazines are written by business writers, rather than businessmen, or women. But writers' mags are written by writers for writers, like looking in the mirror and telling yourself how beautiful you are.

I must admit that when I first began to write seriously, by which I mean when I began to write with the aim of getting published, I devoured every writers' magazine and book I could find. "Devoured" may be more apt than you think, in view of what I've said above.

So would I write a blog about blogs? Only if they were interesting. What's happening however, is that people are writing blogs about how to write blogs. Surely part of the pleasure of a blog is that you don't have to be told how to write: you can write the way you always do - for better or worse. (If it's for worse, people will quickly switch off. There's nothing worse than a badly written blog; or one in which you wonder why the person is writing at all when their command of the language is almost nil.)

This is a bit of a ramble: it's late at night; I've been on the computer for quite some time composing music, and I need to go to bed...

Maybe I'll think more clearly tomorrow!

Elizabethtown

I’d heard Elizabethtown was a bit quirky, but thought it might still be worth watching. It wasn’t. It was far more than quirky – it was off its tree several times. Early in the piece the characters, especially those from Kentucky, came across as fun and eccentric, but then the thing lost its way almost completely and decided it was a late starter in the road movie stakes and spent the last ten minutes with Orlando Bloom on the road, driving and visiting a number of tourist sites. Very odd. Bloom had been going to kill himself early in the piece after having cost his company a billion dollar sale (!) but didn’t because he was interrupted by his annoying little cell phone. His intention to go to his father’s funeral and then come back and kill himself was mostly forgotten about for at least an hour until it suddenly was used as an excuse for why Bloom couldn’t fall in love with Kirsten Dunst (who was definitely eccentric, even though she was an airline hostess – of an airline that plainly wasn’t doing very well, flying a jet with only one passenger). The minor characters were fun, but the film couldn’t make up its mind what it was doing: why on earth was Susan Sarandon given a tap dance to do when plainly she had no talent in this direction? How did Bloom and Dunst manage to talk all night on cellphones without having to recharge the batteries (in one shot the phone is connected to a socket, but only once); why did they keep avoiding falling in love with each other? What happened to ‘Ben’ the supposed excuse for Dunst not being able to fall in love? How did she manage to write an entire road book with CDs attached that would cover a 42 hour road trip – in the day or so between Bloom deciding he was definitely going home and then going? The thing started with a real sense of style, then got stuck into the ‘funny backwoods’ people thing in Kentucky, introduced us to a whole host of characters, most of whom didn’t actually do anything in the story (including the one who supposedly has so upset Bloom’s mother) and then gets waylaid by an odd love story that has no suspense whatsoever.

Roger Ebert tells us that the original movie was another twenty minutes longer – and never seemed to know when to end. A good deal of it related to the road trip at the end (which must have seemed mind-boggling) and an epilogue where the shoe that missed becomes the shoe that hits. A relief that this is all gone, I’d say. Berardinelli rightly says that the cut down version still doesn’t address the film’s flaws, and I’d greatly agree. It’s a matter of structure. The love-story is waffly, the point of the film is waffly (is it about getting back to your roots, or forgiving your father, or what?)

I have to link to the superbly cutting review by Peter Bradshaw in The Guardian. He puts it so much better than I can, and far more succinctly.

Punishment fitting the crimes

Brent Todd arranges for a friend to meet with a cocaine dealer and, when he finally has to face the court, is given a fine of $500. That’s about what I’d pay for electricity over a couple of months.

Ngati Reweti, takes a piece of concrete up on an overhead bridge with the intention of dropping it on the cars below, and kills a young man. Not only is his sentence reduced by the judge from what was first considered, it’s then found that he’ll probably be out of jail by Christmas because (1) he’s already served 14 months, and (2) because of the parole system.

I could no doubt scour the newspapers for other examples of nonsensical justice, but these two will do. They’re all well known.

I’m not the sort of person who naturally demands an eye for an eye, though in my first reactions to crime, especially vicious crime, that’s often how I feel. Why should someone live years in prison when a life has been taken? But I always realise that justice of that kind doesn’t serve much purpose in the end. Killing a murderer is an easy way out.

I’d believe in restorative justice much more if I saw enough evidence of it, but although it’s talked about a lot, I suspect that the increasing prison populations tell me it isn’t working very well as yet.

So while out walking yesterday the old song by W S Gilbert came to mind, the one from The Mikado about letting the punishment fit the crime. Throwing people in prison very plainly doesn’t work: most criminals come out of jail worse than they went in.

My ‘fitting punishments’ aren’t perhaps the most imaginative, and perhaps they don’t need to be as clever as Gilbert’s were, but supposing, instead of Ngati Reweti, being put in jail, he was chained to a lump of concrete roughly equivalent to the one that killed an innocent man, chained in such a way that night and day he couldn’t get free of the thing. He’d have to carry it to school, or drag it; he’d have to go to bed at night with it still attached to him; he’d have to go out with his mates and suffer their ongoing mockery. Perhaps he could be attached to this for the same number of years his victim had been on earth. Maybe the same number of months would be enough. But at least we might start to see some remorse from him. So far there doesn’t seem to have been any.

Brent Todd – how might he be punished? There are plenty of options. Instead of receiving his celebrity fees on television, all his earnings could go to Drug Rehabilitation Clinics. Maybe that wouldn’t be quite strong enough. Perhaps he should go and work in a Drug Rehab Clinic for some long time – 500 days sounds like a good minimum. Maybe he could be made to live with someone trying to overcome their addiction. Maybe the walls of his fancy home could be plastered with the names and photographs of the thousands of people who’ve suffered from drugs in this country – the pictures of those who’ve killed themselves because of addiction might be blown up to full size.

As long as we treat the victims of criminals as unimportant, as has been the case in both of these instances, people like Todd and Reweti, will consider that they got off lightly, and will carry on doing stupid and remorseless acts. If they were made to face some deterrent aspect of their crime in a full-on fashion, perhaps we’d reach their hearts, their souls, and find out whether they really were human or not.

An hour before meals

Why do doctors insist on prescribing tablets that have to be taken an hour before meals?

Do they think we all live in a controlled world where everyone always eats their meals at the same specific time each day? Or that suddenly, because we have these tablets to consume, we will order our lives in order to fit around said consumption.

The hardest part, of course, is trying to remember to take the things an hour before meals, breakfast being the worst. Do the doctors really expect us to wake an hour before breakfast just to down a tablet or two? And what happens when you have to take four of these things a day? Are you supposed to fit in an extra meal?

More on the dance

More from Michael Mayne's Learning to Dance. This time from the chapter entitled May. I just read a kid's book on the way home from town: Fibonacci's Cows, by Ray Galvin, published in NZ. Gives a very good explanation of what Fibonacci did.

We live in a world of patterns. Nightly the stars move in a circle round the sky; the perfectly shaped spiral of nautilus shell echoes the spiral of the curling, breaking wave; the patterns in the desert sand point to the laws governing the flow of sand and air. Once again we are in the world of mathematics, the way we recognise and classify the patterns that lie all about us. And nothing is more intriguing than the mathematical equations that link leaf and flower patterns with the exact proportions the Greeks used in their architecture.

Leonardo Fibonacci was born in Pisa in about 1170. When he was twenty he went to Algeria, where he learned Arabic methods of calculation. He wrote on number theory and recreational mathematics. His most famous discovery was what is known as the ‘Fibonacci sequence’, in which each number is the sum of the two previous ones: hence 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144….and these turn out to be the numbers that dominate the natural world. The number of petals on most plants is a Fibonacci number: for example, 3 petals on lilies and iris, 5 on buttercups and the wild rose, 8 on delphiniums, 13 on ragwort and corn marigold, 21 on asters, 34, 55, or 89 on most members of the daisy family.

More strikingly, the Fibonacci sequence is found in the spiralling seed-heads of sunflowers, where the clockwise spirals 55, 89 or 144; on the diamond-shaped scales of pineapples, with 8 rose sloping to the left, 13 to the right; and on the spirally base of pine cones, or the spiralling florets of a cauliflower. If genetics can give a sunflower any number of seeds it likes, a daisy any number of petals, or a pine cone any number of scales, why is there such a dominance of Fibonacci numbers? The answer almost lies with the dynamics of plant growth.

Now go one stage further: take the ratio of two successive Fibonacci numbers, starting with 5, and divide each by the number before it: 5/3 = 1.666, 8/5 = 1.6, 13/8 = 1/625, 21/13 = 1/61538. The ratio settles down to a particular value, 1/618, and this is known as the Golden Number or the Golden Mean, the ideal proportion used by the ancient Greeks in building: an oblong with the proportion 1 to 1.618 found to be particularly pleasing to the human eye.

At the time of the Renaissance this proportion was seen to be the secret of what we find beautiful in the human face and body: in a well-proportioned body 1/1618 is the ratio from the top of the head to the navel, and from the navel to the ground, as it is of the finger (measuring the length of the knuckle to the end of the first joint against that of the middle joint) or that of the middle joint against the finger tip; as it is also if you measure the width of the mouth against that of the nose, or the width of the incisor against that of the adjoining tooth.

There is in mathematics what is known as the Logarithmic Spiral: if you draw within an oblong with these proportions further and ever-smaller oblongs, in which the shorter and longer sides are in this same 1/1.618 proportion, and then join the corners, the resulting spiral exactly matches that which is everywhere in nature: in the shell of the hermit crab, in the ammonite, the ram’s horn, the breaking wave.

It doesn’t stop there: 90 per cent of plants show the Fibonacci numbers in the arrangement of the leaves around their stems; and in the bee colony the number of female workers to male drones will be around the golden number of 1/1.618.

Learning to Dance

One of two passages I want to quote from Michael Mayne's Learning to Dance. This is from the chapter entitled June: The Dance of DNA. One of Mayne's other books, This Sunrise of Wonder, has been a book I've gone back to at least twice, and it's still a great book to dip into. Learning to Dance is proving to be just as good.

I've altered the paragraphing to make it more readable on here.

In mid-December 1928, my mother became pregnant. Here again the combination of law and chance took effect: the law dictates that male sperm fertilise female eggs, while chance allows just one sperm (out of 300 million or more) finally to each and invade the ovum, some 85,000 times its own size. Around each one of us hover the shades of a million other lives that were not destined to be born. By early January a distinct tube-like structure had been formed in my mother’s womb: it would become my heart, and it was already beating. By early February the early forms of all my internal organs were present, though the embryo that was potentially me was only a little more than an inch long and weighed less than one-fifth of an ounce.

Already my genetic make-up had been determined. The genome (that sequence of genes which carries instructions for the manufacture of proteins) was directing the two hundred or more types of cells of which we are composed to their various ultimate locations in order to generate the necessary systems (skeletal, muscular, circulatory, reproductive, digestive, urinary, respiratory): to my lymphatic system which would fight disease; to my immune system whose role would be to distinguish friend and foe, what belonged to my body and what did not; and to my autonomic nervous system, that widespread web of nerve-cells, circuitry and chemicals with the task of preserving within my body both equilibrium and constancy.

In a few more days tiny arms and legs could have been seen, the hands and feet still paddle-like, with web-like bits between the fingers and toes, and faintly detectable ears and eye sockets. ("In the absence of any other proof," said Sir Isaac Newton, "the thumb alone would convince me God’s existence.")

My central nervous system and muscles had formed sufficiently to respond to gentle stimuli. Ever movement and change was now being choreographed by the genetic code, various cell groups uniting to

‘migrate, twist, turn, glide, fold, bend, lengthen, branch, fuse, split, thicken, thin, dilate, constrict, hollow out, form pockets, pinch off, adhere, separate….Hundreds of millions of dancers appear and they all participate, forming themselves into the shapes of various tissues and organs.’ [Sherwin Nuland in How We Live]

I had become a foetus, and it was all systems go.

By the middle of March my head was still enormous in comparison with my body. Fingernails and eyelids had formed, plus lips and an enormous nose. My ribs and vertebrae had become cartilage. By the middle of April my body was catching up with my head: I was some nine inches long and my mother could begin to feel me kicking. By the end of May, with an ear to the womb you could have heard my heartbeat, and I was beginning to show signs of an individual personality, establishing patterns of sleep and wakefulness. I was even growing eyelashes.

By Midsummer Day my eyes were complete and I could both hear and cry. Finally, on 10 September I was born. And already there was enough information capacity in every single cell in my body to fill some dozen copies of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

Chick flicks and Dogville

Celia and I went to see the much-heralded (by other people) Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont, the other night. A load of old sentimental cobblers, and even Celia said it was a 'chick flick.' It was enjoyable, but improbable, relying almost entirely on the central performance by Joan Plowright, who does 'old' very well - possibly because she now is old. The relationship between her and the young man who takes on the role of her interim grandson isn't a difficulty, but it's always sweet and light; there's no difficulties in it. And everybody, even the nasty people, fall in love with Mrs Palfrey - though it seems she'd prefer they didn't, as she wants some privacy, and to just be herself, not someone's wife, or mother, or daughter. The young man, Rupert Friend, has the unenviable task of being nice all the time. He manages it okay, but it's not very interesting, and there are some scenes where you think: he's going to have to break out of this or go crazy!

It would be nice to go to something that required the brain to do a bit of work - not that I want to sit through something like Dogville every week - but something that isn't about just straightforward people being nice to each other. Isn't it absurd, that the most enjoyable dramas are ones in which people aren't being nice to each other? The Varsity has just presented Hecuba at the Mary Hopewell Theatre this week: by all accounts as gloomy and miserable a piece as you'd want to see. Yet I bet the 17 people who attended went home thinking they'd caught up with something that was worth their while getting out to.

The World Premieres of Some of My Music

For the record, here's the review that appeared in the ODT of my concert, held on Saturday, the 30th Sept, 2006. It was written by Elizabeth Bouman.

A large audience in Marama Hall on Saturday evening enjoyed a programme of original works by Mike Crowl, whom many Dunedin people know as the quietly spoken man who operated a book shop in the Octagon.

Music fraternity have known of his involvement with Opera Alive, and as accompanist at vocal competitions with singers from 8-year-olds to ODT Aria contestants, but few knew of the ‘composer within’ until Saturday’s recital entitled The World Premieres of Some of My Music.

Crowl’s style in setting New Zealand poetry is delightfully contemporary without venturing into the extreme. It is witty, poignant and very singable, often ending with a whimsical touch.

Performing were Arnold Bachop, Rose Evans, Cally Hammond-Tooke, Benjamin Kidd, Glenys Murray, Brent Read, Helen Scott and Justin Scott, and pianist Richard Warnock.

The songs were mostly written for a particular singer or vocal teacher, and the fifteen performed varied in text, all with interesting stories as to how they evolved. Several set Ruth Dallas’ poems, and a group of five children’s songs included Eel-fishing, The Rooster and [The] Elephant, by J K Baxter. Response (Ursula Bethnell) [sic] was dialogue from an immigrant writing home about opposing seasons in the garden. Sabbath, Winter Warning, Church Sunday and Ecstasy, longer, more complex works with colourful varied accompaniment, were written for Brent Read, who travelled from Auckland to perform.

Piano Pieces for Kobi Bosshard were five impressive piano pieces, each inspired by a picture. The recital concluded with a captivating piano duet written to accompany (projected on screen) pages of a much loved children’s book, The Fence.

Crowl’s work is available for purchase, and may there be many future publications from this local musician.

I no longer work in a book shop, which hasn't been in the Octagon for two years - but reviewers can't be expected to keep up with everything. Ursula Bethell has no letter 'n' in it, either. Opera Alive was a group of young singers, 15 to 29 in age, who for perhaps ten years presented an annual concert/show. 20 to 25 singers would be involved, and it was a great learning ground for these people. I was involved for around seven years. Kobi Bosshard and his wife, Patricia, were neighbours of ours in the late seventies, and at that time Kobi was learning the piano. Unfortunately the pieces I wrote were just a little on the difficult side for someone still learning (!)

Wild Bean Coffee

Liz came and brought me a Wild Bean coffee - it was nice to see her and talk about things, but Wild Bean proved to be exactly what I thought: false advertising. If anyone viewed it as some kind of real coffee, I'd eat my hat. It has all the excitement of coffee that's poured out of a machine: in other words it's coffee for people whose taste buds have gone down the tubes. Which doesn't say much for that chap in the ad who gives up a good-looking girlfriend for a cup of Wild Bean, or wakes with horror from a delicious dream of a luscious lady offering him a morning coffee because it isn't Wild Bean. The guy needs his head read!

It's noteworthy that BP writes about their Wild Bean outlets: "Customers do not expect to find high quality café outlets in a Petrol Station." That's right, they don't. Could anyone expect to find decent coffee at a petrol station, where, these days, they often can't even be bothered to come out and pour your petrol for you...

Other people's books

I once visited...Anthony Powell, who actually wrote a novel called Books Do Furnish a Room. Indeed, they did so in his case. He lived deep in the English countryside, in Somerset, in an old stone manor on many green acres. We had tea in his sitting room, which had floor-to-ceiling shelves on every wall. There were first editions by his good friend Evelyn Waugh, and countless volumes culled from his decades as a reviewer. "I can't give a book up, if it's a book that meant something to me," he said. "I always imagine I'll go back to it one day. I rarely do, but the intention is there, and I get a warm feeling among my books." I wished I could have spent days wandering in that house, as he had books in nearly every room.

From an article by Jay Parini entitled: Other People's Books.

I have given up a number of books that I thought I never would, because I was sure I'd read them one day, but I understand Powell's feeling. Having read a book you have a link with it that won't go away - even the awful books that you know were badly written and which you only read because you had to review them or because someone else thought they were wonderful. And so you keep them, thinking that one day you'll need to look something up in them, or check the title, or make a note to read something else by the same author.

I have a great deal of trouble not buying copies of many of the books I borrow from the library. Having established the link with them, I want them to stay close at hand, not be on the shelves at the library where someone else might take them out just when I need them.

Some notes about Gibson's The Passion

Some notes I made about Gibson's The Passion of the Christ, that I made when I first saw it.

I enjoyed the way it was made, the superb photography, the excellent direction, the amazing cast of unknown faces - most of them continental rather than US in origin - the curiosity of having them speak in the original languages (it's not often you hear Latin spoke!), some of the individual scenes - the healing of Malchus' ear is one that is really affecting.

I didn't enjoy the excess of the lashings, which go on and on and on, until they blunt your sense of horror at what's happening, and you want to say - Enough...this is a movie, not a reality.
Equally the journey up the hill to Golgotha goes on and on and on... and has the same effect on the audience. People have said Gibson, as a Catholic, has based this on the 14 stations of the cross - I didn't think it was quite as pointed as that, but it's a long time since I went round the stations.

I found it odd as to what was left out: John has his feet washed but not Peter, who was surely a more dramatic actor in that incident. Judas' suicide is given prolonged treatment, but who he is and why he's doing this isn't explained. People coming to this movie who are unfamiliar with the Jesus story will be quite puzzled by some of what goes on....there's no back story to a lot of it, and the flash backs we do get are rather random. Even the resurrection looks like another flashback until you notice, if you do, the nail hole in his hand.

I 'enjoyed' it more than I thought I would, but mostly from an aesthetic side. It moved me in places, but more in small ways than large. Jesus' suffering became over the top because one of the lessons of drama, as Gibson ought to know, that less is more. As for it being violent; well, Gibson himself has appeared in movies that are just as violent as this. The only difference is that they aren't about a revered figure....

Muyk Quhroughl

A friend suggested I might spell my name:
Muyk Quhroughl.

I was impressed: it gives hints of my Irish forebears, and the first name may have some connections with the Jews in my past.

On further reflection she added:

Sometimes you could spell it 'Majic', pronounced'Mah-yeek'. Majic Quhroughl, the Slavic Irishman.

I didn't think I could call up any Slavic ancestors, but she said:

It's a public-relations tour de force. People notice it and they boggle. [As opposed to bloggle]. They say to you, 'MAGIC? How can you have a name like MAGIC??" and you reply, with a faint superior smile, 'It isn't Magic, silly. It's Mah-yeek. Short for MghCaejl. Old traditional Irish family name, handed down from my greatgreatgreatgrandfather, the Chieftain.'
Then they say, 'Huh! Nobody's THAT great,' and you murmur modestly, 'HE was. . . .'
And they'll be so impressed they'll never forget you, and the next time they want a book reviewed, they'll send it to you. (That solves the problem of having no Slavic ancestors)

Neil Gaiman

I can believe things that are true and I can believe things that aren’t true and I can believe things where nobody know if they’re true or not. I can believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and Marilyn Monroe and the Beatles and Elvis and Mister Ed. Listen – I believe that people are perfectible, that knowledge is infinite, that the world is run by secret banking cartels and is visited by aliens on a regular basis, nice ones that look like wrinkledy lemurs and bad ones who mutilate cattle and want our water and our women. I believe that the future sucks and I believe that the future rocks and I believe that one day White Buffalo woman is going to come back and kick everyone’s ass. I believe that all men are just over-grown boys with deep problems communicating and that the decline in good sex in America is coincident with the decline in Drive-In Movie theatres from state to state. I believe that all politicians are unprincipled crooks and I still believe that they are better than the alternative. I believe that California is going to sink into the sea when the big one comes, while Florida is going to dissolve into madness and alligators and toxic waste. I believe that anti-bacterial soap is destroying our resistance to dirt and disease so that one day we’ll all be wiped out by the common cold like the Martians in War of the Worlds. I believe that the greatest poets of the last century were Edith Sitwell and Don Marquis, that jade is dried dragon sperm, and that thousands of years ago in a former life I was a one-armed Siberian Shaman. I believe that Mankind’s destiny lies in the stars. I believe that candy really did taste better when I was a kid, that it’s aerodynamically impossible for a bumble-bee to fly, that light is a wave and a particle, that there’s a cat in a box somewhere who’s alive and dead at the same time (although if they don’t ever open the box to feed it it’ll eventually just be two different kinds of dead), and that there are stars in the universe billions of years older than the universe itself. I believe in a personal god who cares about me and worries and oversees everything I do. I believe in an impersonal god who set the universe in motion and went off to hang with her girlfriends and doesn’t even know that I’m alive. I believe in an empty and godless universe of causal chaos, background noise and sheer blind luck. I believe that anyone who claims to know what’s going on will lie about the little things too. I believe in absolute honesty and sensible social lies. I believe in a woman’s right to choose, a baby’s right to live, that while all human life is sacred there’s nothing wrong with the death penalty if you can trust the legal system implicitly, and no-one but a moron would ever trust the legal system. I believe that life is a game, life is a cruel joke and that life is what happens when you’re alive and that you might as well lie back and enjoy it.

The female hippy character, Sam, in Neil Gaiman’s American Gods: on a roll, and expressing the confused state of belief that she probably shares with many other American citizens. It’s also an aria for one of the main characters; Gaiman being both real and cynical and joking and hilarious all at the same time; and a marvellous expression of Sam’s smart/naïve/intellectual/simple personality. And a rare moment of warmth and humour in a fairly dark novel.

John Bluck

John Bluck

Mike Crowl, writing in the Dunedin Star Midweek and wondering why our newspapers devote space to sport rather than religion, said, 'this tells us a lot about ourselves as a nation; we're focused on the physical, the material, the tangible. We shy away from the aesthetic, the spiritual, the things that endure, or the things with a sense of the eternal about them.'

But I'm finding by the day that Mr Crowl was posing a false choice as the so-called physical things start to speak more loudly of mystery and possibility than the so-called spiritual things. A walk on the beach, a shared meal, a hand held tightly, a newly mown lawn, an old hat badge my great-grandfather wore have all, for me, taken on a spiritual meaning richer and deeper than many inherited symbols of faith.

There is a New Testament passage where Jesus tells some not very clever disciples that even the stones of the street cry out when people who ought to understand cannot see or hear. The passage haunts me because it is the story of my own journey in faith - a progress from believing that the best images of faith were borrowed and inherited, to finding that there are more telling images all around me, close to home.
But that seemingly obvious shift in location couldn't happen without the insight that the divine is to be found in ordinary, everyday things, here and now. An unholy alliance has been formed in our Pakeha religious experience between the otherworldly and the other side of the world - spirituality and geography fused to confuse us.

Rather than theologians it has been poets such as Richard Wilbur who have helped me untangle that confusion. In a poem entitled 'Love calls us to the things of this world,' Wilbur writes of a man awakening to the sounds and smell of laundry being hung to dry in the sun:

Outside the open window
The morning air is awash
with angels.

That way of seeing the washing, and the world, makes it infinitely easier to look for and expect to find a spirituality of this time and place, anchored in the ordinary things that happen, even in the trees you drive past on the road.

From chapter 10 of Long, White & Cloudy, published by Hazard Press 1998