LITTLE-LORD-JESUS MAN: A Great Christmas Blasphemy

 

     There is a line in a beloved Christmas carol that I’ve not sung for over 25 years, nor do I ever intend to sing it again. Rather, I’ve been on a fervent crusade to bring the heresy of the seemingly innocent lyric to the attention of those potentially deceived. 

     It started in December of 1997. Through moist, glazed eyes, I made out an image that has lingered ever since as a surrealistic mast. Cheap tinsel glistened on an evergreen tree near the front of an unfamiliar sanctuary. The dancing of light, through the reds and greens of the decked out room, pierced into my cloud of mourning -- not enough to free me but just enough to pronounce into the haze: “It’s Christmas out here! Life goes on even when it may have stopped and frozen for you.” The jarring glare of refracted light seemed a mockery of what we were going through, saying our goodbyes to my little sister Amber, the baby of the family, the one whom – if life were “fair” – should have been the last of us to go. 

     That touch of sparkling tinsel, viewed through waters that I attempted to forestall spilling from my eyes, stayed with me, intermingling with the carols that would play in the walking dream that followed. For days and weeks afterward, nothing was real, yet this glimmer remained with me. Words melted into incoherent syllables, sounds, bells, clanging, empty, loveless. Time was not linear – did it even exist? 

     Children stood donning their Christmas best in the front of another church, singing “Away in a manger....” The song warbled impotently across air that was as visible as anything else. Cute little baby Jesus... I know, I know, I’ve heard it all before. Jolly old Saint Nick and the Easter bunny, too... Deck the halls and flashback to Amber. 

     Amber and I shared a room growing up. I used to have such a hard time keeping my big mouth shut. Christmas presents should be surprises, I thought, but I would always end up spilling the beans and telling her what I had gotten her. Then I would have to get her something else, too, so she could have a surprise. Before long, I would inevitably tell her about the new gift, necessitating that I find yet another. The gifts may have been small stupid things, the kind of special inside jokes that only sisters can understand. 

     Back to the kids singing on the stage... sisters standing next to each other: one pokes the other, the other whacks her back, sticking out the tongue, hitting, pinching... a mom glares at her offspring. Why can’t they be good at least until the song’s over and they’re out of the spotlight? The song warbles on: “...the little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes....” That’s it, the mom thinks – why can’t my kids be more like the Little-Lord-Jesus? One sibling pinches the other. Little sister sniffles, a full blown fit is about to ensue. “The Little-Lord-Jesus, no crying he makes...” 

     The song reminds all seated in the mass of ceremony how unlike us that Little-Lord-Jesus is: He is a superhero. The entire taking on mortality thing that I thought Christmas was supposed to be about begins to unravel. God put on a costume to pretend he was a real baby, but the fact that he didn’t cry gave him away. He’s an impostor! 

     Suddenly, the quaver of the sweet traditional hymn is pierced by a fleck in the flickering tinsel – I’m back at the funeral, trying to hold back the tears, trying to be good, trying to act like the hope of being reunited in the afterlife is enough now, in this moment. “The Little-Lord-Jesus, no crying he makes...” The flickering tinsel is ablaze in flame now, engulfed in righteous anger, and the anger is not mine. “LIE!” a voice shouts through the fog, but everyone else drones on. They didn’t hear – perhaps they are trying to drown him out. “The Little-Lord-Jesus, no crying he makes...” The inflamed tinsel becomes a tear, a blazing hot tear burning through the fog. It washes over me in a refreshing flood that will never again allow me to sing those words: “The little Lord Jesus” did what? 

     Have you ever had that feeling of betrayal, when you discover that someone has been spreading lies about you, defaming your character? You thought they knew you, but they obviously didn’t. You may feel anger about being misrepresented. You may feel hurt. But then, if someone you love dearly is harmed by the misrepresentation, the anger and hurt give way to heartbreak. You want to pour yourself out and wash away the poison, make all right. You want to whisper the truth, to be heard, believed, to bring healing. The lie may go on, but once you are holding the one you love, it fades like meaningless noise into the background. You whisper the truth and the power of it washes away the lies. 

     “The little Lord Jesus...” the voice whispers, “Where is that in my book? Where?” He flips the pages of my memory and my eyes settle on the words of the shortest verse in the Bible: “Jesus wept.” (John 11:35) 

     “Jesus wept,” it says. How beautifully profound. How perfect. Jesus wept. When Mary and Martha had lost their dear brother Lazarus, in that very moment. In that moment. Jesus knew they would see him again. Jesus even knew that he had the power and would bring Lazarus back to life. He could have said, “Get over it. You’ll be with him in heaven.” He could have said, “Settle down, look, he’s alive now. No biggie.” He could have used any of the comforting words spoken by Job’s friends and all of their descendants to put those of “little faith” in their places and to tell them to be good. Jesus, however, did none of these things. Jesus wept. 

     Since December of 1997, that verse has become central to my understanding of what the gospel of Christ is. We are so often distracted from what is central by the droning noise of our own traditions. La la la la la... blah blah blah blah blah... it is all like a clanging cymbal “if we have not love” (1 Corinthians 13). He didn’t come into the world to be a role model. 

     "Follow me. Be good. You better watch out. You better not pout. You better not cry..." 

He came because he wanted to be with us. To laugh with us. Cry with us. Feel with us. Love with us. He wanted to make a way for us to truly live with Him. It’s about connection. 

     All I want for Christmas is to see a few more droning choruses shattered, if that will help us to see the Jesus who wept, and still weeps – who loves us every moment and doesn’t expect us to be good little super-heroes. Let’s be real. Let’s be honest. God can handle that. It’s what He wants. He wants us. 

~~~~~

December 2024. The past few years have been filled with more funerals of family and friends than all of the rest of my years combined. Young and old. Anticipated or not. It’s never easy. In studying the book of Matthew, one little phrase from the Sermon on the Mount keeps pestering me: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” If there’s one thing I’ve learned through the years, it’s that God’s Word is living and intentional. I want to know what Matt. 5:4 means. We speak words of comfort to the mourning all the time, but what about the “blessed” part? What is the blessing in mourning? What is this Comfort? 

      I pray that all of you, my loved ones who have suffered loss this year especially, will have a truly blessed Christmas. I'm not posting this until the 7th Day of Christmas (New Year's Eve) because I wanted to edit this more--to make it perfect. But that would have meant putting it off, possibly until next Christmas, or the next... That would be missing the point entirely. I'm not a superhero and I never will be. But looking forward into the New Year -- a year that will be full of ordinary days -- I will not despise "small" things. 

Day by day: Don't put off hugging those you love, and be intentional in seeking the only One who is the answer to all of our questions. 

If we could see through her eyes now…

Palindrome Day 22022022

Yesterday was a fitting day to begin a new journey – or to take a new perspective on the existing journey. Sometimes we get hung up by the past. “Don’t look back or you’ll turn to a pillar of salt” doesn’t mean that we should avoid examining our lives, living only for today or tomorrow. Balance that allows us to move forward grows from an accurate awareness of where we stand. That includes honesty about the past as well as optimism and strategy for the future. It is my prayer that the story of my life will ultimately make sense in the greater context of God’s eternal timelessline.

I’ve told my children all of their lives that “people are consistently inconsistent.” It’s definitely a perspective that helps avert disappointment and frustration. Frustration with the inconsistencies of our fellow humans stems from the inconvenience it causes us, and it doesn’t help that their glaring inconsistencies usually mirror the things we have worked so hard to mask within ourselves! It throws us off balance as we struggle to feel at home on the balance beam of a linear timeline. We should grow, getting better and smarter as time goes by, shouldn’t we? Yet we stumble. Instead of evolving into what we long to be, we often experience entropy. 

Entropy can be defined as “a lack of order or predictability; a gradual decline into disorder,” and interestingly enough, the definition, as a measure, is about energy that is “not available for doing useful work.” Sounds like the greater portion of my energy in this post-pandemic malaise. Procrastination has become more than an annoying habit – it has become the new breathing. I know I’m not alone in feeling numb and uncertain more easily than in pre-pandemic days. I’m not turning backward on the balance beam to see what I’ve been through, but I'm not looking forward either. My eyes are closed. My feet are still. My breath, shallow. If you don’t move, you won’t fall… unless the very beam you are planted on is falling; unless the world in which the beam exists is plummeting (which it is, but our perspective creates its own basis, or baseline, for defining stability.)

What is balance?

    What is stability? 

        Are they mere illusions? 

Most people focus on the balance of a palindrome being about its structure – the same whether you read it forward or backward, but I see the balance of this one is also about its very content. Amidst the emptiness of the 0’s of life, emerges the repeated “22’s” (“tutus” to the mind of this recovering dance mom and long-time costume designer.)

Maybe balance is not just about structure and perspective, but also about what we’re wearing. A nice, puffy tulle tutu might help one balance through the wafting winds of life, and if one falls, it might cushion the impact of the fall on our delicate hips. But seriously, what we “wear” is just as important as where we focus. The value of light-heartedness is serious. There’s an old song based on Isaiah 61 that says, “Put on the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.” It’s a trade-out worth exploring. 

We hear a lot of talk about pre-pandemic this and post-pandemic that, but take a moment today to consider what you will “wear” in this post-palindrome-day world. 

“The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me,

Because the Lord anointed me

To bring good news to the humble;

He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted….

Giving them a garland instead of ashes,

The oil of gladness instead of mourning,

The cloak of praise instead of a disheartened spirit.”

  Isaiah 61:1-3

It takes strength to break out of a malaise. There is strength in joy. Silly as it might sound, if you can think of the joy of the Lord as a tutu, it might be easier to remember that it is something one can “put on” to prepare for the dance.

The Future is so Bright...

Last night when I went on a "Once in a Blue Moon" night hike, I made a silly mistake:

I was wearing my prescription sunglasses when we left, and forgot to bring my regular glasses.

Watching the sun set through rose-colored lenses was not a bad experience, and even the moon and it's wispy dance with the marine layer was beautiful through the absent-mindedness-induced filter.

Given the significance I had placed on this Blue Moon as a marker in time, I could have looked upon my faux pas with great disappointment, but rather, it adds a fun twist to the experience: It forces me to think about the way perspective and filters affect the way we approach life.

Maybe my future is so bright I have to wear shades ;)

Blue Fog

Like fog creeping over mountaintop,
running wispy fingers
slowly
through branch, parting leaves--
soothing, seducing,
lulling unsuspecting ridge to sanction passage.
Saturating, consummating, consuming,
then vanishing to phantom misty memory.
Dull void.
Sad silence.
Bare

Barren.

A Standard of Relation

I'm going to share the words of a very special guest today: my big brother, Joel. He took on the extremely difficult task of delivering a eulogy on behalf of our family at our dad's funeral a few days ago. I am grateful to him for shouldering a responsibility that I would not have been strong enough to bear. He did it so perfectly. I could think of nothing to add or to subtract.

In Remembrance of Severt Ole Score

November 22, 1928 - July 26, 2014

a eulogy delivered by Joel K. Score, July 30, 2014

 
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Mom and dad tell me that when I was three I said I was going to be a pastor so that I could talk in church. I wasn’t sure I would speak today. But fifty years after that declaration, perhaps it’s time.

I miss him. Dad. Severt. That’s true this week, and it’s been true these past few years as we’ve lost him, further and further, to memory loss and confusion.

In planning this service, we tried to guess how many people would come. In practical terms, that means how many sandwiches we need.

But it also means thinking about family—who’s still living, how well they’re getting around, how widely they’re scattered.

It means thinking about all of the places dad has been and the people he’s known—in this church and this town, in the nearly twenty churches he’s served (almost a score! How could I speak about dad without one pun?)—all of those churches in half a dozen towns.

It means thinking about the places he lived earlier in his life and places he made friends while passing through.

It’s also meant thinking about the caregivers who have helped dad and helped us, his family, so much in these last years: at Legends, where he’s been in memory care since May 2012; at St. Croix Hospice, whose team gave him a jump-start last winter and gave us advice and solace this past week; at Country Manor, whose nurses, aides, and social workers scarcely had time to get to know dad; and here at Bethlehem, which sent pastors and volunteers to visit him.

I’d been thinking that those of you who have known Severt only in these St. Cloud years have missed out on a lot. And you have—

You missed the practical joker who rewired a seminary classmate’s radio so that it could be switched on and off only from the next room (I missed that too—I was two when he graduated).

You missed the young husband who, in a mix of necessity and the joy of making things, crafted much of the furniture for his and mom’s first homes from salvaged crates and other cheap wood (I still have some of it, including the toddler-size table, chairs, and bookcase he built me).

You missed the father who taught us what he knew but also how to look up what he didn’t know, and to look up more than one point of view. The father who told impossibly long shaggy-dog stories to entertain us, but really to keep us quiet, on long drives to visit relatives. The father who, when we were misbehaving, might introduce us as “Bea’s kids from her first marriage.”

You missed more building—the elaborate camper custom-fit to the roof and tailgate of our Pontiac station wagon; the smaller pushing structure that turned our red wagon into a racecar.

You missed exotic cuisine—the foraged mushrooms that mom would have nothing to do with; the pickled stems of purslane (a succulent weed that’s tastier than some standard vegetables); the rhubarb and backyard-grape wine of which some parishioners did not approve.

You missed thoughtful conversations about how much people miss when they read any meaningful text as strictly literal.

You missed some periods of depression.

You missed most of his art-making.

And you missed forty years of sermons—some inspirational, some entertaining, some meandering discussions of Hebrew or Greek etymology, some just plain embarrassing to the family members who appeared in them.

But you also—especially you caregivers—helped me see how much was still there.

The activities director at Legends, Blaire, recognized how important it was to Severt to make things with his hands and to help people, and she sought out ways for him to continue doing both.

Dad had made some things since coming to St. Cloud, but mostly he accumulated materials for sculptures and other projects that were never realized.

He filled a two-car garage with tools and rocks, blocks of wood and bits of plastic, prescription jars filled with golf tees or pen springs. He could pick up most anything there and tell you what he saw in it, or how it might fit with that car part in the corner to make a bird or solve a workshop problem. But he could no longer follow through and put the pieces together. They just piled up.

Cleaning out that garage, and (necessarily) discarding much of the stuff, was among the hardest things I’ve ever done. I could see what had drawn him to most of the scraps—their geometry or color or heft in the hand. His belief in the value of simple things, the dignity of materials, his abhorrence of waste, was everywhere evident.

But to every thing there is a season.

It was in speaking with caregivers this past week, and with friends who’ve offered support, some of whom never met dad, that I decided I should say something here.

I spoke with Wayne, a nursing assistant at Legends, about how we resemble our fathers, whether we want to or not, and how eventually, if we’re lucky, we find ways in which that’s a good thing.

I saw how dad, when he could barely talk, charmed the staff at Country Manor, and how, when he stopped talking, and scarcely moved, those last three days, they saw dad in us, his family.

I’ll leave it to others here to speak of eternal life. 

I know my father lives on in the people whose lives he touched—in the family he loved, the friends he loved, in the strangers he loved.

He lives in me, as he long has, as my mother does, as others I love do. He lives in me not just as a relation—someone in my family, someone on my side—but as a standard of relation, a principle I use in finding my place in relation to other things and other people.

I don’t aim to duplicate dad’s life, but I evaluate others’ prescriptions for living in relation to what he and mom taught and exemplified.

In a commencement speech last year, the novelist George Saunders said, “What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness. Those moments when another human being was there, in front of me, suffering, and I responded . . . sensibly. Reservedly. Mildly.”

Age, he said, may erode selfishness: “We get our butts kicked by real life, and people come to our defense, and help us, and we learn that we’re not separate, and don’t want to be.”

So time may make us kinder, he said, but why wait? Start now. Go on with whatever else matters in your life, but be kind.

That fits with my sense of dad and what he valued. It fits with his short poem that we included in the memorial card. It fits with much of what he reminisced about as his memory failed.

The details weren’t always to be trusted. He recalled with gratitude all he’d learned from his brother-in-law Andy about fixing engines (I don’t doubt that)—then he mentioned that they’d invented the airplane (perhaps not).

But the important things were consistent: he believed in generosity, both material and of the spirit; he believed in inclusiveness and encouragement; he believed in kindness; he believed in love.

And if we live up to that, he’s with us.

Thank you all, so very much, for coming.

Education

Something to think about...

Trust

"...I will look up."
Psalm 5:3

I know where to put my trust.

"But as for me, O LORD, I will come into Your house
in the multitude of Your mercy....
Let all those rejoice who put their trust in You;
Let them ever shout for joy, because You defend them...." 

                                                                                     Psalm 5:7a,11a

THE MAVEN - a poem written by my dad

THE MAVEN

(a poem that doesn’t ask the question: “Do mites have ears?”)

by

Severt Score

Once upon a dead mite’s ear was found a dozen dead bacteria,

Twelve microscopic corpses on that arachnid on the floor.

As I spied that dead arachnid I wondered what kind of whack did

Dispatch that tiny creature to the land beyond death’s door.

What sent that little mite on to the land beyond death’s door.

                         Tell me that, if nothing more.

Was it some miniscule mugger or a commercial de-bugger

That made that mite expire -- something he’d never done before?

Was it victim of a swatter? Did it die from lack of water?

Did it starve for lack of food because to buy it was too poor?

Was it victim of starvation because to buy it was too poor?

                         What dispatched it through death’s door?

Was it gout or was it dropsy? Should we ask for an autopsy?

Should some wise forensic wizard probe this mystery to the core?

Could some wise police detective help us gain the right perspective

In the matter of the demise of the mite upon the floor?

Could he find an explanation of that body on the floor?

                         At least that, if nothing more.

We went up to New Haven and retained an able maven.

(“Maven” is a Yiddish word for one who knows the score

And can go without confusion straight to the right conclusion.)

He had been solving mysteries for thirty years or more.

Expert in forensic medicine thirty years or more.

                         Oh, that maven knew the score!

Well, he came down to our city to pursue the nitty gritty

Details of the mystery that made our brains so sore.

He was persistent. He was thorough. He carefully turned each furrow

As he plowed through all the evidence -- o’er the facts did pore.

He left no stone unturned -- o’er all evidence did pore.

                         Oh, that maven knew the score!

Oh, whatever did that cop see? Naught was found in the autopsy

But the dozen ear borne corpses that we told about before.

All he found in the inspection was a petered out infection --

Just a dozen dead bacteria -- only that, and nothing more.

Only twelve deceased bacteria on the ear, and nothing more.

                         Just a dozen, three times four.

Well, it seems that each bacterium had succumbed to some strong serum,

But not before the arachnid was a corpse upon the floor.

Given sooner that same serum might have conquered each bacterium

In time to save their tiny host and snatch it from death’s door.

Given sooner might have saved it from passage through death’s door.

                         Now it’s dead upon the floor.

Or perhaps some stronger sera could have conquered the bacteria.

Some powerful medications might have held some hope in store.

But saddest words of tongue or pen, as the poet said, are “It might have been.”

And what might have been did not occur, so it hit the floor.

For want of stronger sera the arachnid hit the floor,

                         Stiffer than a two by four.

Can you tell us, clever sleuth, relentless stalker of the truth,

If you find this kind of germ when a mite’s ear you explore,

Does twelve seem an average count, or what’s the usual amount?

When a mite’s ear you explore, is it less or is it more?

Quoth the maven, “Never more. Sometimes less, but never more.”

                         Quoth the maven, “Never more.”

“To find none is always nice. I’ve found a dozen once or twice.

“The usual number I have found is in the range of three or four.

“Six or seven is not so strange, but three or four’s the usual range.

“I have found twelve but never more when a mite’s ear I explore.

“No arachnid has ever more when its ear I explore.”

                         Quoth the maven, “Never more.”

The view out Grandpa's window.... I'm so thankful for my dad's poetry, as it offers a means to glimpse the world through his eyes. I hope my children will come to cherish this heritage of humor and creativity.

Looking for more poetry by Severt Score?  

Check out the Norwegian epic, Gunder.

Strength’s Casket

The ceiling hovers like an airtight lid.

The pounding in my head, nails,

I no longer resist.

I rest.

Rest is said to rejuvenate.

That’s what I’ll say I’m doing.

In this airless room,

I wait.

In the past, I had the strength

To run out the door to fields a flower,

To trudge toward the exit,

To crawl.

This state becomes the new norm.

I breathe smaller breaths,

Make fewer moves,

Eat less.

Oh, to fade from existence.

The crunching of the termite’s jaw

Muted, as from some distant land

Where destruction is merely change,

Deterioration is transformation.

I exhale.

Exhale.

I am Woman, Hear Me...

Coming off a project in which I wrote a script with three great, highly nuanced male roles and one so-so female supporting role, I read this article:

Gender inequality still has a starring role in Hollywood

Nothing new. The study didn't even address the fact that there are more female actors vying for fewer good female roles.

I am proud of the latest script I completed, but I do regret that it had worse than a 3:1 ratio of decent male roles to female roles. Reading this article, I'm reminded that as a female writer, I still can be part of the gender inequality problem.

Since I started out acting, part of my dream has always been to write scripts that will bring creative opportunities and employment to more female actors. It is always about the story first, and not the casting agenda; however, with half of the world population being female, it is utterly foolish to think that strong female characters somehow weaken a story! The male-dominated story mill is not a product of logic, but rather of habit. Given the fact that male screenwriters are less likely to go out of their way to create strong female roles*, I believe it is not only a noble dream for me to do what I can to fill the gap... it is also my responsibility.

It was such a joy to see all of those women up at the podium receiving the SAG Award for outstanding cast for The Help this year. While I must admit that it would be nice to someday receive recognition from the Academy for my writing, I think it would be equally enjoyable to be able to sit back and watch a group of talented actresses receive an award that they never would have been considered for if not for hours, weeks, months, even years I spent creating characters for them to inhabit.

This is not just another "I am woman, hear me roar" rant, but rather a "I am woman, hear me... Hey! Over here! I am woman, I exist... I am part of this world you are writing about. Please remember that at least occasionally. It could even add some authenticity and depth to your writing!"

There may have been a lot of changes in the world for women in the four decades since Helen Reddy wrote her #1Hit Song, "I am Woman," but looking at what comes out of (and what goes on in) Hollywood, I'd say we've still got a long way to go... Baby.

Emily Joy Craig (center, www.facebook.com/cast.emily) was the lead in "Grace Like Rain," my 2011 short script about a young woman struggling to be taken seriously in a production role in 1930's Hollywood. Seen here on set with fellow cast members, Gib Gerard, Jenn Gotzon, and Kristin McCoy

* Hats off to Tate Taylor, however, for writing the screenplay for The Help (based on a novel by a female writer, BTW)

ON THE OPINION OF A WRITER

So, the viewing marathon is over and my ballot has been cast.

I'm looking forward to seeing which performances my peers will select as the best of the year in the 18th Annual Screen Actors Guild Awards. I've been eligible to vote all 18 years. That's a lot of years of keeping my dues current even when I've not been acting, but I keep it up because I never officially quit acting -- I've just been on a very prolonged maternity leave.

For those who don't know my story, like so many other starry-eyed young girls, I came to Hollywood intending to act. My road to stardom, however, quickly became very bumpy. Literally. Bumpy. Within weeks of arriving, I contracted my first of five consecutive major bumps.

Concealing an ever-growing "Baby Bump" while running to call-backs for roles like one recurring character who was supposed to be a skinny model was one thing, but after the colicky child arrived making it to any audition, rehearsal, or performance became next to impossible. It had all happened too quickly. Without extended family or resources to pay for babysitters, I could not go on auditions, and without going on auditions one can not get cast, and thus, can not act. I'm not complaining. That derailment ended up bringing me back to an earlier love -- writing. That was something I could do at home and I didn't need to hire babysitters nearly as often.

Over the past 18 years, I've come to look at movies from a much more writerly perspective. While I love a great performance, it is usually the story that that I find myself analyzing and celebrating most when it is well done. (And I would argue that actors rarely win "Best Actor" awards alone, but rather in partnership with well-written scripts.) Because of this, I have to really slow myself down when faced with the question of which film to choose for the "Outstanding Performance by a Cast" award. I have to remind myself that this award is not about the story, it's about the acting. This is such a collaborative art that the dissection is not always as easy as it might seem.

Watching all of these great performances does give me the itch to get back into that form of creative expression again, but I may have to wait a bit longer to do that. I'm still overseeing the education of three of my kids, and dedicating a lot of time to writing. I want to be Superwoman and juggle it all at once, but the truth is, I'm not. For now, I'm a writer and mom (or perhaps I should say "mom and writer" -- priorities always affect perspective.) Acting and painting (and traveling the world, not to mention keeping a clean house) will have to remain on hold.

All that said, I view my SAG screeners as an actor, and I view them as a writer. And I celebrate when both sides are pleased. Although, I would say this was far from the best year I have seen for performances paired with stories that blow me away, there were several celebration-worthy nominees. The Help easily won my vote for "Outstanding Performance by a Cast" and is (not surprisingly) also a "Best Picture" Academy Award nominee.

Personally, I found The Artist delightful, and yet I heard one Hollywood outsider say, "Oh brother! Not another film about making films! How self-indulgent can these filmmakers be?" It's a worthy (and fiscally necessary) challenge to strive for objectivity and to try to see films as those who are not in the industry might see them.

Then there are all those films about characters who happen to be writers -- sometimes they work and sometimes they do seem self-indulgent. Is the writer only being lazy and writing about what he or she does in order to avoid research? I do find myself wondering what non-writers think of these movies.

Whether a person is in a "creative profession" or not, however, we all do create -- we create the lives we live and the environments we inhabit; some create fantasy worlds so elaborately detailed that they even deceive themselves; we create relationships and networks of relationships (and sometimes we destroy them); we create harmony and disharmony.... Because creativity is at the core of what all people do in the living of life, I think stories about writers and artists, if done well, can embody that creativity (which is rather abstract) in a metaphor that resonates well beyond the surface of the storyline of a certain character and his profession.

Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris was one of this year's films that did that well. The competition did not allow for me to cast my vote for it to get a SAG award, but I am glad to see that it received some Oscar nominations. It is a good story that I wouldn't mind watching again... and the writer in me absolutely loved this little exchange:

GIL: Would you read it?

ERNEST HEMINGWAY: Your novel?

GIL: Yeah, it's like 400 pages long and I'm just looking 

just for, you know, just an opinion. 

ERNEST HEMINGWAY: My opinion is I hate it. 

GIL: I mean, you haven't even read it. 

ERNEST HEMINGWAY: If it's bad I'll hate it because I hate 

bad writing. If it’s good, I'll be envious and hate it 

all the more. You don't want the opinion of another 

writer. 

(from Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, 2011)

RETRO BLOG: When Trucks Fly (Human Souls Encased in Metal Obstacles)

Last night when I was driving my daughter home from her dance class, she made a comment about drivers who honk their horns at other cars when they're impatient.  She said that she didn't think people would act that way if they weren't protected by the metal shell of the car.  People feel free to behave rudely, she said, because they don't think about the people in the cars, but rather they just think about the cars as objects.  

My soon-to-be-driving daughter's insight reminded me of a blog from a few years ago (my pre-"Rebekah's Core" days.)  In the interest of gathering more of my ramblings under one cyber "roof," I thought I'd re-print a copy of that vintage blog here...

October 26, 2007 (from MySpace, oh my!)

When Trucks Fly

On my way to the Screenwriting Expo, I saw a truck fall from the sky. 

 

Traffic was moving along at a moderate pace, too congested for anyone to speed. All of a sudden, I saw a truck flying across two or three lanes just about two car lengths ahead of me. Last thing I heard, flying trucks haven't been widely produced. I was reminded of that tornado movie, Twister, and the scene in which cows fly. To me that looked so hokey. If the wind was powerful enough to rip a heifer off the ground, wouldn't it also dislodge enough dirt and other small debris in order to make such a dark cloud that the cow wouldn't even be visible? And where were the pigs? Why weren't any sow soaring through the sky with their barnyard friends? Surely a tornado capable of launching cattle could manage to detour a few little piggies on their way to market. But I digress. 

 

The flying truck has lingered in my mind, weighing heavy on my heart. It was a landscaper's truck, nothing fancy, the kind with wooden sides. I had passed this truck and it had passed me. Traffic was moving slowly enough that I had even noticed the driver. He was a middle-aged Hispanic man, perhaps a poor immigrant who had struggled as a day-laborer to save enough cash to purchase this humble vehicle and start his own business. I don't know why I noticed him in the mass of encased humanity weaving along this vein of Los Angeles infrastructure. Perhaps it was to prepare me for a life lesson.  

 

How many times have I been running late for a meeting and the only obstacles between me and my goal are all these annoying cars? It's a car vs. car battle on the freeways of Los Angeles. Sometimes we forget there are people, human souls, encased in these metal obstacles.  

 

When I saw the flying truck, I slowed down lest it clip the top of my car. It tumbled slow-motion through the sky, shedding parts which I maneuvered around like in one of those driving video games at Chuck E. Cheese. As it rolled and slid to the right side of the freeway, I cautiously split focus between the safety (?) of the road ahead and the surreal tragedy in my rear-view mirror. 

 

Gagging, I fought the impulse to vomit. The truck was motionless. It was a shell, but I had no way of knowing if it contained life any more. One minute I was glancing at a stranger passing me by; the next he may have breathed his last breath. I don't know. 

 

Was he wearing his seat belt? I don't know. If he survived, will he be able to afford the necessary medical bills? He was most likely an independent contractor. Did he carry any kind of disability insurance? How will he be able to feed his children if he's unable to work? If he's not harmed too badly, will he be able to work without his truck? Questions pounded my head and I flipped the radio on to see if there was any news. 

 

The traffic report rattled off slow-downs and inconveniences due to generic collisions. Then they got to the wreck I had just witnessed: "Traffic is slowed due to a roll-over on the right shoulder" was all they said before moving casually on to a tacky mattress ad. That's all? I imagined how serious this event would be to the family of the driver, this trivial inconvenience to commuters.  

 

On the way home, still thinking of the driver of the truck and his family, I yielded the right of way to another car as our two lanes merged into one. Then I realized that there was a man in sport car riding my tail. As soon as he got a break in traffic, he wizzed past me impatiently, laying on his horn as he passed. I had inconvenienced the poor fellow by delaying him a fraction of a second, and he made certain all would know about his anger issues. I pitied him. He didn't know. He'd been lulled into the sad belief that the world revolved around him and all of these moving shells of metal were only meaningless obstacles. I've acted like that too. I've been there, but I don't want to go back.