The World of the Kid

Rawhide, Arizona.

December 26, 2005.  Boxing Day.

So I'm in this general store, right?

And they've got this full-length mirror?

And I've got this digital camera?

So I shoot myself.

Like that.

                       *     *     *

I'm still up.  It's 5:12 AM.  This is good.  I'm getting stuff done.

Since I'm on vacation, I can actually set my own hours.  It seems that when I work through the night, I get more done.  Especially when it comes to writing.

Actually, I haven't done any writing during this vacation (except for these blog entries).  Instead, I've been reading voraciously -- both cinematic theory and story -- and watching Western films, and working with the production team to prepare for our shoot on January 7 and 8.

I've also gone out to eat quite often with close friends.  Sharing a meal is probably the most powerful bonding activity, emotionally, that exists.  It's no accident that the communion ritual involves a meal.

                       *     *     *

My Christmas was memorable.

After two hours of rest, I left Los Angeles at 3 AM on December 25, zipping out of the city by way of the 10 West.  There was little traffic. 

On the way there, and on the way back, I stopped myriad times to shoot exterior shots of the desert coming to life under the rising sun.  I hope to use these shots in my comedy short for Channel 101.  Don't ask me how, since I didn't have a tripod, and the coffee I was drinking didn't make my hands any steadier.

I arrived in Phoenix in time to attend church with my old friend Glendon Yoder's family (Deborah, Ashley, Angie, and Tyler).  The service was fairly short, the community warm and friendly.  I stayed awake during most of it.

After Christmas lunch, which was attended by Glendon's parents Dan and Mary Louise Yoder (she makes a mean seven-layer salad), we got down to business with a three-hour game of Monopoly. 

You'd think that my enthusiasm for the game would have carried me farther, but no.  After failing to secure any real holdings, I went bankrupt.  Quickly.  There's something unjust about that.  I chose the game!

Of course, my disastrous performance could have had something to do with the fact that when I wasn't playing, I was trying to find good angles for photo of the group playing Monopoly.  Oh, well.

After supper (another fantastic spread of food), we plugged in the DVD of It's a Wonderful Life -- I was shocked to discover that after having seen the film at least 15 times, and having edited/directed a staged version of it, the story STILL sucked me in and wouldn't let go...

 The following day, I slept in.  Got up and read cinematic theory.  Ate too many cookies.  Drank more coffee.  Went out for breakfast with Glendon.  Hung out.

That afternoon, Glendon, his father, his son, and I headed up to Rawhide, a Western town rebuilt on a reservation.  There I got closeup shots of the various aspects of the town, which I intend to use as transition shots in the Channel 101 piece we're doing.

That night, the rest of the family joined us at Rawhide Restaurant.  Delicious meal, great conversation.  Is this beginning to sound repetitious?  Trust me, the experience was anything but.

The next morning, I had breakfast with Glendon and left the city at about 7 AM.

The fact that I left that late (as opposed to 3 AM) added an additional hour to the driving -- by the time I reached the outskirts of LA, I was crawling along at an average speed of 5 MPH.  Ugh.  LA traffic.

Not like Arizona.

                       *     *     *

This blog has also been a wonderful way to communicate with those I know.  I've gotten some interesting reactions during the past few weeks:

For example, an email warning me that "an hour after I die, I'll regret everything I've ever done, but it will be too late.  Forever." 

Lovely.

A few on my mailing list followed my instructions and asked to be removed.  That's a relief.  My biggest fear in writing this blog is that I'm pushing unwanted emails on my friends.

A surprising number of friends and relatives, with whom I haven't communicated in years, have responded to this blog with gratitude and renewed friendship.

And that's the purpose of this blog.  It allows me to keep in touch with my friends, no matter where in the world they live.

                       *     *     *

I've tapped back into Western novels.  Angie, Glendon's daughter, loves the Zane Grey series, so I suggested to her that she choose her favorite, and I'll read it.  She left a copy of Twin Sombreros in the kitchen for me.

It was a wonderful read.  Granted, Zane Grey reshapes his words to reflect local accents, which is confusing.  But the stories and characters are simple and clean.

I really liked the novel.  In fact, I want to read more.  But since Barnes and Noble didn't carry any of the full novels, I've shifted to reading Louis L'amour.  It's been years since I've read a Western, and I'm coming back to them with a greater understanding of story, and a profound appreciation for the way Grey and L'amour shaped their stories.

                       *     *     *

So the question I have is this:  when will the Western experience its next great revival?

It's the only film genre that is genuinely American.

Here's an interesting anecdote.  In 1932, when John Ford went to all the studio heads and asked them to fund a Western film with a B-rated actor named John Wayne, they turned down Stagecoach, telling Ford that the Western was dead.

It was Ford who gave the Western new life.  It just took a really solid director who utterly believed in the genre.

Merry Christmas!

It's been a quiet night with Sir Knavely.

He does so love our little chess games.

                        *     *     *

INT. HEATHROW AIRPORT - ARRIVALS GATE - DAY

Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the Arrivals Gate at Heathrow Airport. 

General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed - but I don't see that. 

Seems to me that love is everywhere. 

Often it's not particularly dignified, or newsworthy - but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends.

                                                                        - from Love Actually

                        *     *     *

Tonight seems a good time to break out It's A Wonderful Life.  I've seen it so many times during this time of the year. 

How can you not be moved by that story?

                        *     *     *

Tomorrow at 2 AM, I'll be leaving for Phoenix, where I'll be spending two days with Glendon and Deb Yoder and their kids.

Kind of adopting myself out, as my friend Alice puts it.  It's only a six-hour drive, since by driving at night I avoid the stop 'n go traffic patterns.

                        *     *     *

I'm taking care of my two neighbor cats, Jasmine and Chloe.  Their mistress Sarah (my neighbor) is spending time with her parents, and can't be with them.

Hey, what are neighbors for, anyway?  Especially a neighbor who writes about his cat in his blog.  As if it's a real live person.

They're beautiful and smart.  Then again, they are cats.

                        *     *     *

Yesterday, Allesandra, my art designer, storyboarded the script of The Discount Kid with me.  Today I created a shooting script, listing the shots, one by one.  I think this script is going to move fast.

I'm varying wide angle shots with extreme closeups.

My art designer has a brilliant sense of comedic timing.  She definitely contributed to the finished product.

Nice to work with talented people.

                        *     *     *

Time to get some sleep.  But before I do, I'd like to finish this Merry Christmas greeting as I began it, through the words of writer/director Richard Curtis (and voiced by Hugh Grant):

Before the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know, none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate and revenge - they were all messages of love.

If you look for it, I've got a sneaking suspicion you'll find that love actually is all around...

The Secret Recipe to Mom's Famous Chicken Soup

There they are.  The entire family.  That's an historical moment.

I took this picture while my brother Richard and his family were here on their adoption mission.  I shot it within a local cafe using a digital camera -- I think it makes a stunning family picture. 

So, to Caleb, Richard, Patrick, Katrina, and Tina -- Merry Christmas!

                       *     *     *

Thoughout my years of growing up at home, my father had a hobby.  During his free time, he puttered in his bedroom, playing with his reel-to-reel tape recorder.  Once 8-track was invented, my father quickly obtained the necessary equipment.  We soon were entertained by recordings of the latest church hymnsing as it looped through the machine again and again.

Did I mention that I grew up without radio?  It wasn't permitted.

We could hear that hymnsing no matter where we were.  For my father personally wired the house, putting speakers everywhere, including in his body shop, located in our garage.  As we unwillingly taped up our neighbor's sedan for a paint job, we could listen to the latest elementary school programs through the speakers.  Did I mention each tape looped?

Yes.  Be happy for small blessings.  For example, thank goodness we didn't have radio or television.  If so, we would have had to listen to the latest, cheezy disco hits, been forced to understand the link between the Dukes and a pair of Daisy Dukes.  I'd even have been exposed to the inherent sappiness that is Country music.

Actually, that analysis is still pretty accurate. 

Back then, I disagreed philosophically with my parents -- I thought they were way too out of touch with culture.  They believed that practicing faith meant being separate from the world.  That belief shaped every other belief and social practice they chose.  They still maintain these beliefs today.  For which I respect them.

But I still kind of disagree with them.

                       *     *     *

I'm in the midst of pre-production for the pilot episode of my comedy short:  The Discount Kid.  This means I'm staying in Los Angeles over break.

I have an unusually long holiday vacation this year -- it started on Friday, December 16, and I'm due back in the classroom on Tuesday, January 3. 

I need this break.

I started it, of course, in the classic way:  by catching that infamous Cold-in-Your-Chest, which has nailed more than one person out here.  So I spent my weekend on the couch, sucking down tangerines while absorbing Western films. 

By Sunday, I had recaptured my energy.  I've more or less quit coughing since then.  And tonight, I made my mother's Famous Chicken Soup.  No one makes it better than she.

I'm allowed to be biased, right?  The secret, by the way, is in the broth.

                       *     *     *

I'm slowly building my team of collaborators.  My goal is to use the series of Channel 101 films I intend to submit this spring (one per month) as a team-building exercise before my producers and I budget any real money.  We're using primarily creativity to create each piece.

That goal recognized, the reality is that no one actually does a zero-budget film.  One must use a DV camera, and tape, and have access to editing equipment.

I've come to peace with the money I will spend by accepting the fact that this is a practical film education for me.

For example, I just spent the most worthwhile $120.00 of my life by paying a superb teacher, Ken Stone, to teach me how to edit dv film professionally in Final Cut Pro 5.  He's a superb teacher.  He even runs a web site committed to answering questions from Final Cut Pro users.

Over Monday and Wednesday, I spent 12 hours in his studio listening, practicing, asking questions, being tested -- the most intense class I've ever taken. 

But I actually finished a short film (1 minute and 48 seconds long), complete with a simple story line.  I used split edits, created a sound track, practiced sound editing principles, and even used a dissolve.  Being able to manipulate what was on the screen to create an emotional experience was absolutely exhilarating.

In between introductory lesson I took on Monday, and the mostly practicum lesson I had on Wednesday, I raced through a superb book on Final Cut Pro:  Editing Techniques with Final Cut Pro by Michael Wohl (2004).  Surprise.  It is actually well written, easy to read, with excellent analogies that help you understand.  And best of all, it teaches sound principles of editing.

If I ever had any doubts about whether I should continue to pursue my goals as a filmmaker, this experience eliminated them.  Stone is a mentor who doesn't throw out compliments lightly, so his praise at the end of the short "course" was a powerful incentive to persevere.

I've said this to my friends, and I believe it.  One of the reasons I was able to capture basic skills so quickly in Final Cut Pro 5 is because of my the years of experience I had with Adobe Pagemaker as a yearbook advisor.  Different programs, similar intuitive demands.

Incidentally, this does not mean that I've mastered Final Cut Pro -- far from it.  I've just gotten started.  But I know how to talk about editing, I can complete minimum editing tasks on Final Cut Pro, and I better understand how to deliver good takes to my editor.

Most important, working in it is SO much fun.

                       *     *     *

Research for The Discount Kid means watching a lot of Western films.

The most thought-provoking have been the films of Sergio Leone.  Everything is so stylized -- very different than American Westerns.

I think it's the perspective behind the films.  American Westerns are hopeful -- the films of John Ford felt good about the fact that we conquered the West, essentially taking the land from Native Americans.  John Wayne makes no apology for what we did.

By the time you get to the Spaghetti Western, things have changed.  A post-war weariness pervades Leone's films -- pessimism defines his characters.  Instead of white versus black hats, we have the forerunner of the Tarantino protagonist:  violent, cool, and amoral.

And his films are brilliant.

                       *     *     *

So how to create a directing style that works for our comedy Western?  After all, we have an incompetent hero who calls himself "The Cheapest Shot in the West."  Somehow he wins, but never in the way that he expects.  His primary antagonist is Savage Sam, a close relative of Yosemite Sam.

When the art design team met this past Tuesday, we looked at the comedy found in James Lubin's script, and decided that our production design would use cartoon touches, even though our characters are live.

If you look at the film Leone loved most, Once Upon a Time in the West, you realize that he is creating a fairy tale -- based on an American myth called the West. 

For example, I didn't realize until recently that the whole concept of the fast draw was invented by Hollywood in the early twentieth century.  Was it Clint Eastwood's comment on a track of The  Outlaw Josey Wales who said that  a man in the old West would never have carried his gun in a tied-down holster -- he would have stuck it in his pocket.

But who cares.  No one in that era of Western movies actually cared about reality:  the emblems of the American myth were far more interesting.

So rather than trying to make our Western feel real, we are deliberately creating something as fake as a cartoon:  costumes in primary colors, establishing cranes shots over a scale model of the Arizona town of Rawhide, exterior shots taken at the tourist recreation of Rawhide, a very fake cow in our Very Small Corral, and toy guns that look fake and sound very real.  I suppose it's a form of deconstruction.

But all this sounds like a research paper, and this five-minute pilot will be anything but.  It's going to be funny, and it's going to tell a great story of a bumbling hero who faces overwhelming odds.

But you can see this when you view the film on Channel 101 during the last week in January.  At least I dearly hope so.

Wish us all luck!  And if you can, and if you live in the area,plan on attending the screening at Cinespace on Hollywood and Vine, the evening of the last Sunday of the month.

                       *     *     *

One more note:  I'm really pleased with the production team that is coming together.  They're talented and committed and loyal.  They're hard-working.  I'm so completely honored to be working with them.

I'm still looking for several critical players, but some quality people have expressed interest.

Putting this team together has given me flashes of deja vu.  Probably because it's all about defining roles and helping my team see how the entire puzzle fits together. 

My background and training has been in the theatre, and the roles on a movie-making team are different from those found in the theatre...yet not so different. 

For example, the responsibilities of my AD (assistant director) are very much like those carried out by the stage managers I've worked with in the past -- it's all about people.  And planning helps.  But instead of blocking out each scene with your actors on stage, you storyboard every camera shot on paper.

Thinking through these connections has also made the process of directing less intimidating (Ah, I've done this before!), and gives me confidence.  Just as I began directing in the theatre by mastering technical direction (The Music Man, Steubenville), so I'm beginning my work in film in the editing bay.  

Once you get the connections, it all feels very familiar.

                       *     *     *

Tomorrow morning (Thursday), I'm heading out on a scouting trip with my art director.  We're looking for key exterior locations, checking out several model/toy shops.

I'm psyched about the chance to possibly work with model trains again.  I deliberately set this in the post-Civil War era because it's got those very cool smokestacks on trains.  We'll see.

The following evening, we'll be spending a significant block of time storyboarding the script.  This job is very much like blocking out a show on stage, except that it's just you and the artist creating the storyboard, rather than the entire cast.

I'm determined to have every shot planned out ahead of time so that my shoot will fly by like lightning, so that the actors won't lose their forward momentum.  The last thing they need is me not knowing what I want to do next.

Everything I've read indicates that the most successful directors are those who have a clear plan to follow.  Actors hate waiting around.  It drains them of their energy.  I'm going to do my dangdest to avoid that.

                       *     *     *

On Christmas Day, I'll be doing another run to Phoenix, Arizona to spend time with an old friend, Glendon Yoder, and his family.  I'll leave at 2 AM, missing the slow-moving traffic patterns that haunt the freeways during the day.  I should arrive just in time for church services on Christmas morning, followed by dinner.

Spending time again with Glendon and his brothers has been very fulfilling.

When I was 20, I moved to Phoenix to teach school.  I spent a lot of late nights playing Rook with Glendon and his two brothers.  This past Thanksgiving, the four of us played again (I actually won).  This time, however, the conversation was very post-teenage. 

We discussed real estate, business, etc.  Around us flowed conversations and movements of their daughters and sons -- a lot of family members packed into Glendon's and (wife) Deb's brand-new house.

Glendon's parents are supposed to be there for Christmas, as well.  I haven't seen them in over 20 years.

The day after, we'll do a quick trip to Rawhide to shoot exterior shots for The Discount Kid.  You can have more than one reason for a vacation jaunt, right?

                       *     *     *

It sounds like I'm not doing much other than preparing for the shoot.

Well, you might be right.

It also seems like there are going to be a lot of people involved in a project that will only run less than five minutes.

That's true too.  But why do something that is this much fun all by yourself.  For me, joy comes through collaboration.

I loved the comments of Walter Murch, who edited The English Patient, among other films.  In an interview with Michael Wohl, he talks about his childhood fascination with recording bits of reality, and making those bits tell a story.

Before this week, I never made the connection between his love for sound, which he recorded on reel to reel tape recorders (he still loves to putter with the sermons he recorded by George R. Brunk in the 50s), and my love for moving pictures, which I record on a dv camera.

Ironically, my father could have written this: 

At a very early age, I fell in love with the tape recorder. 

What I loved about it (and this is true about film editing now) is that you could instantly capture a fragment of reality, and then you could manipulate that fragment and juxtapose it with other fragments in unpredictable ways.

That was intoxicating to me in the early 1950s, and it still is in the early twenty-first century.

I also love the collaboration, working with other people... (523).

                                                                -- Walter Murch

The Amish Strand

I am me,

And you are you,

As you can see;

But when you do

The things that you can do,

You will find the Way,

And the Way will follow you. 

     ~ Benjamin's Hoff's "The Tao of Pooh"                      

                        *     *     *

Yes.  That's a photo of my parents -- Earl and Magdalena Denlinger -- taken by Dick Gotschall at my parents' 50th wedding anniversary in Hartville, Ohio.

                        *     *     *

The following came as a surprise to me.

The most powerful strand woven into the culture of my birth is...Amish.

                        *     *     *

Incidentally, just for the record, I am Mennonite.  I will always be Mennonite.

You can't really write or direct until you know where your home is.  Not until you can lead people to the unique window you've created, given them a stepladder, and let them climb up to see the view.

Perhaps that's why I started this blog.

Certainly, my most honest work has garnered the most powerful reactions.  Is it possible that my readers can help point me toward the stories I need to tell?

                        *     *     *

My own world view was created in the clash of cultures through which I've moved over the last twenty years:  Amish, Mennonite, Friends, Catholic, Methodist, Presbyterian, Jewish.  Even Atheist. 

I am Mennonite in the same way that a Catholic will always be a Catholic.  The Jesuits used to say, "Give us your child until he's seven, and we'll own him forever."  It's so true.

                        *     *     *

I'm also a Christian.  But that has nothing to do with being Mennonite or Amish or Catholic.  

As an artist, and a person of faith, I am deeply aware of the fact that the constant flow of questions streaming through my mind is a gift -- and a curse. 

I wish it were just a gift.

It's not like I can help myself.  I'm going to ask questions.  Feel free to join the conversation, or get the heck out of my way.

Is that a rude remark?  I intended it to be welcoming.  Just for the record, I'd prefer that you join the conversation.  Really. 

                        *     *     *

During my childhood and youth, I saw my home community attempt to differentiate itself from Amish culture.  How unfortunate.  The Amish culture is the gentlest weave within the quilt of my faith today.

Several religious influences fused into a denomination in the 1950s.  It labeled itself conservative Mennonite.  I've already spoken about its harshness.

In 1988, I completed my history thesis on an all-school revival that took place at Hartville Christian School in 1973.  To understand its force, I examined the birth of my home church, the Hartville Conservative Mennonite Church. 

To my shock, I discovered that the gentlest cultural influence of my childhood -- and the one from which my community had fled -- was Amish.

                        *     *     *

I don't know why my perspective is so different.  One could argue that every one of my siblings are individualists by nature.  I suspect that's because we come from a father who refused to do what everyone else did.

At least that's his nature.  I used to regard this quality as a negative. 

Today, it's the reason I am so proud of my father.  He modeled individualism.  He questioned the world around him.  He invented labor-saving gadgets.  And he drove everyone crazy, including me.

What caused my father to be this way?  Why couldn't he simply be like everyone else?  He didn't seem to give two cents for what other people thought.

Can you imagine what it was like to have a father like that?  When I was in my early teens and just wanted to fit in.  Forget that.

                        *     *     *

My father left his home community, Lancaster, Pennsylvania, to marry a conservative  Mennonite girl.  A beautiful young woman he had met  while he was completing his 1-W service as a conscientious objector.  During the Korean War.

They met while doing missionary work to multi-ethnic children.  The mission was located squarely in the Bronx.

They worked together as a married couple until my third sister arrived.  Shortly before I was born, they decided that the Bronx was no place to raise a family.  So they moved to Hartville, Ohio.  It was five years after they were married.

                        *     *     *

Several years ago, I got an email from some random mother.  She was looking for her missing child.

Apparently, she took a boy child home with her on September 8, 1963.  But it turned out that this boy child was NOT her progeny.  Her real child was switched in the hospital.

Wait!  September 8, 1963.  That's MY birthday.

A hospital in New York City.  In the Bronx.  My parents were living in that area right around that time.

I thought my birth certificate was registered at Aultman Hospital.  Canton, Ohio.

The random stranger who wrote to me asked me if I was her child. 

If she was my mother. 

Now that would explain a lot of things, I thought.  So I checked with my mother.  Where exactly was I born?

                        *     *     *

In Hartville, Ohio, my parents tried to fit into my mother's conservative Mennonite community.  It didn't work. 

For one thing, my father didn't own a farm.  He didn't know how to do construction work.  He only had a high school diploma.  And he was mighty proud of it.

So my father got a job in a lumber yard.  Too many times a month, he had to miss work, due to debilitating migraines.

                        *     *     *

So there's no real proof that I'm a child of my parents?  Oh, there is.

Okay.  Now that you mention it, I do look a LOT like my family.

                        *     *     *

The move to Ohio must have been a jolt to my father's system.  He knew NO one in Hartville.  And he carried a funny last name that people still can't pronounce.

I often tell people this:  My ancestors must have lingered in dens.  Den-linger. 

It's the only way I can get them to pronounce it correctly.

                        *     *     *

In the 42 years I've known my father, I've never heard him question his decision to live within my mother's home community.  He has steadfastly supported its conservative lifestyle.

When I was ten, I believed that my father had thought it up. 

Okay, not really.  But almost.

                        *     *     *

In July 2003, as I researched material for Mennonite Prince, I happened upon Donald B. Kraybill's The Riddle of Amish Culture (2001).

It opened my eyes.  It's one of the most respectful, profound examinations of that culture.  On the cover is a picture of two Amish girls moving down the road -- on roller skates.

On pages 34-5, Kraybill talks about a German concept called Gelassenheit.

The constraints of Amish culture would certainly suffocate the "free spirits" of the modern world.  But Amish children, taught to respect the primacy of the community, usually feel less stifled by the constraints than Moderns who cherish individuality.

The grammar of Gelassenheit regulates interaction with others.  How one smiles, laughs, shakes hands, removes one's hat, and drives one's horse signals Gelassenheit or its absence.

A boisterous laugh and a quick retort betray a cocky spirit.  Rather, a gentle chuckle, a hesitation, and a refined smile embody a yielded and submissive spirit.  A slow and thoughtful answer, a deference to the other's idea, and a reluctance to interrupt a conversation are signs of Gelassenheit. 

It was Kraybill who first helped me see what a stark change had taken place within the Amish of Hartville, Ohio, who converted to a faith that was evangelical and fundamentalist.

It is precisely at this point that Amish faith bewilders those with evangelical religious persuasions.  Amish faith is holistic.  The Amish resist separating means and ends -- salvation and eternal life.  They are reluctant to say that they are sure of salvation.  They focus on living faithfully while waiting on providence -- trusting that things will turn out well.  Announcing that one is certain of eternal salvation reveals a haughty attitude that mocks the spirit of Gelassenheit....

The code words of the evangelical mind-set --personal salvation, personal evangelism, and personal devotions -- accent the individual rather than the community as the center of redemptive activity.  In refusing this vocabulary, the Amish bring a much more holistic, integrated view that does not separate the individual fromcommunity or faith from action. 

Evangelical and Amish vocabularies are analogous to two foreign languages describing the same sentiments of love.  One is a communal language of patience, humility, community, and practice; the other is a individualistic language of beliefs, certainty, feeling, and experience. 

Whereas evangelical Christians want to know, control, plan, and act to guarantee their salvation, the Amish outlook is a more modest and perhaps a more honest one.

                        *     *     *

"We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time."

              ~ "Little Gidding" by T.S. Eliot

To become a filmmaker

Becoming a filmmaker is a challenge.

As you can see in his latest photo, Sir K is well on his way.  When the raw footage is shot...

But I digress.

                          *     *     *

Congrats to JD Ryznar and the crew of Yacht Rock, who took home the Channy for Best Show at Channel 101.

That would include Hollywood Steve, my writing partner and the host.  He bookended each episode of the series with flair.

If you haven't checked out the show, and if you're over the age of 13, take a look at it.

                          *     *     *

Sir Knavely the Westside Cat is on its way to becoming an illustrated series of books

A children's book.  Well, kind of.  The themes are probably too dark for the smallest children.  But I'm sure they'll appreciate the sketches that my illustrator, Terra Harker Pearson, is creating for him.

Terra fell in love with the character I've been creating on this blog -- just for the record, the journey you're getting on this blog is mostly imaginary -- and suggested that I create a book about him.  I suggest that she become an illustrator for the series of books I'm planning on Sir Knavely.  She agreed.

I adore Terra.  She played Lucy when I workshopped our play adaptation of A Tale of Two Cities at the Canton Players Guild in July 2003, and I was very pleased with her work.  The audiences loved her as well.

I'm honored to work with Terra again.  It's going to be fun.

                          *     *     *

I'm watching How the West Was Won:  the latest in a series of Westerns I've chosen.  Before directing the Two-Gun Kid pilot, I'm trying to get a visual understanding of the Western genre.

I've seen a range of Westerns this month:  John Ford's The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance with Jimmy Stewart and John Wayne, Lawrence Kasdan's Silverado with Kevin Costner, Scott Glenn, and Kevin Kline.

Also John Ford's The Searchers with John Wayne; and George Stevens' Shane with Alan Lad and Van Heflin; and several episodes from The Lone Ranger, the 50s televison vehicle for Clayton Moore from the 50s. 

I couldn't finish David O. Selznick's Duel in the Sun with Jennifer Jones, Gregory Peck, and Lilian Gish -- too over the top.  It looked like a Western version of Gone with the Wind.

The strangest thing is this:  Lilian Gish got her only Oscar nom from this film, and Jones picked up her third.  Why?  Oscar is inscrutable, at times.

                          *     *     *

The other evening, I had a long conversation with Sandy Said, my art designer, about the kind of sets and locations we want to use for Kid.  Since this is a zero-budget piece, we have to be creative.

I don't want to cover for the lack of a set by doing lots of closeups.  Somehow, I think we can do better than that.  My art director is  young and energized.  She'll figure out what can be done.  Ever since Sam Mendes did American Beauty, I've trusted filmmakers who come out of the theatre.

She believes the set and costume design need to come out of the story idea.  So I'm inviting her to my next story conference with my writer, editor, story consultant, and dp.

One of the big questions we must answer is this:  why a Western?  What is there about this story that demands it?  I know it does, but I want us to articulate it.

                          *     *     *

Last night I finished reading Robert Rodriguez's Rebel Without a Crew:  Or How a 23-Year-Old Filmmaker with $7,000 Became a Hollywood Player.  What an inspiring book.

What I liked most about him is his creativity as a director.  His story about using the turtle to bookend El Mariachi was a perfect example of the way to use creativity rather than a big budget to create a film.

                          *     *     *

I saw Rent Friday night.  Major disappointment.  I loved the show, so perhaps my expectations were too high, but there were several problems that helmer Chris Columbus simply couldn't overcome.

The problem I had with the movie Rent -- and this showed in the first two episodes of Harry Potter series that he directed -- is that whenever Columbus needed to imagine the story differently, he retreated to the theatre.

Thus the opening scene takes place on the stage.  Beautiful, if you're doing a video of the show.  But there was no visual connection made between that scene and the rest of the story. 

Second example:  the tenant rebellion, with a fire started in the apartment, and the people lighting up paper on the fire escapes.  What?

The film couldn't decide whether it was a film -- or a video of the stage production.  For example, at the end Mimi dies and comes back to life.  Who?  What?  Why?  And was there ANYONE in the theatre who didn't predict that the pinky would wiggle back to life -- at least by the time the camera had moved laboriously, slowly, deliriously up her hanging arm to the open palm.

Too bad.  I really wanted to like this film.  By the way, Sarah Silverman puts in an appearance as the executive who hires Mark as a documentary filmmaker.  Interesting.

I know this movie was a labor of love for Columbus, and I respect that.  But he should have hired a director who could reimagine the story for a film audience.

                          *     *     *

I've been watching all of the films of Hitchcock.  Netflix gives me excellent access to films I'd never have been able to locate even five years ago.

It's a nice option for a young filmmaker today.  It should prepare my generation of filmmakers to do even more informed work.

I like Hitchcock's style -- very precisely designed -- with beautiful cohesion.  Very stylized.

I believe the raw material of a film should be generated from a process that includes risktaking, mistakes, and random brainstorming.  But the final product should be the result of sheer hard work, and ruthless choices.

Oddly enough, as I've been learning and processing the material I read and discover, I keep referencing my workas a yearbook advisor:  so much of the work feels similar.

This feels especially true when it comes to using computer software.  When I began my tenure at Hoover High School, I immediately pushed the program into using Pagemaker, a difficult software program with a steep learning curve.

I'm just beginning to learn how to use digital editing equipment.  In so many ways, filmmakers have a much easier task than did Rodriguez when he shot El Mariachi. 

And of course because of that, expectations are higher.  So any way you look at it, filmmaking is a hell of a lot of work.  Exactly what I like.

I suppose it's no surprise that I'm planning to direct this Western piece by using a stylized set.  I don't think it's an accident that my 1998 Romeo and Juliet production was the most stylized piece I've done.  It works for me.

Of course, it's awfully hard to pull off style, but if it works, it can be breathtaking.  I'm willing to take the chance that I'm going to fall flat on my face with this piece -- a good reason not to spend money

Rodriguez believes EVERYONE has several bad films in him, so you're best off shooting those before you go to film school, before you spend money.  I like that.

                          *     *     *

As I watched The Lone Ranger, I realized again why Westerns went out of style.  The show is about a team of crimefighters who solve crimes.  But the plots are predictable, and the production values are in the toilet. 

The radio show was far more successful.  Television simply couldn't match it -- a few simple sound effects, and you created a brilliant world in people's minds that film is now only beginning to create.

Today's crime fighting shows are much more interesting and relevant.  People can compare the complexity of CSI to their own lives much more easily -- the Republicans like to shout about how people in middle America have simple values, but that simply doesn't match the reality of people's lives.  Everyone has a dark side:  how many politicians who stand for family values turn out to have a dark side that shocks and horrifies the naive.

It's for that reason, I suspect, that a straight-up Western simply wouldn't be interesting anymore.  Taking out the bad guys with clean cheer, a horse, and a six gun simply isn't believeable anymore.

Thus, we're creating a Western show that isn't really about the old West at all.

Another example of a prop in The Lone Ranger that doesn't fit:  the black mask.  A black mask should symbolize secrets.  So why does Clayton Moore's lawman wear it?  He doesn't have another life to protect -- as he says to Old Joe's sister, his mask is simply fashion accessory.  Unless what he has to hide has nothing to do with crime.

For a prop like the mask to work, it needs to be relevant.  And it isn't.  The only Batman films that have worked clearly play on the truly dark, secret life that the hero actively hides.

                          *     *     *

I wonder which direction film will go next?  The current generation seems influenced most by Quentin's obsession with game violence -- especially action grounded in the martial arts.

I know this much.  I found Sin City -- a child of Tarantino's ideals -- to be incredibly disturbing.  But its power could not be denied.  I'll never forget the impact of the film, because I was in the midst of writing this summer when I saw it, and it shut me down for two days while I wrestled with its ideas.

                          *     *     *

Several other books on my immediate reading list -- mostly film theory and practicum:  Rudolf Arnheim's Film as Art; Christina Metz's Film Language; Camille Landau and Tiare White's What They Don't Teach You At Film School; Sergei Eisenstein's Film Form; Renee Harmon's The Beginning Filmmaker's Guide to Directing; Karel Reisz and Gavin Millar's The Technique of Film Editing; and Bruce Block's The Visual Story.

For sheer pleasure, I'm also reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Love in the Time of Cholera, Frank McCourt's Teacher Man, and Stephen Chbosky's the perks of being a wallflower.

I finally finished Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kevalier & Clay, but I had to first read Wonder Boys (I love the film) in order to get up the courage. 

JOHN CLEESE's ADDRESS TO U.S. CITIZENS

I couldn't resist passing on this little note from the noted comedian ...

In light of your failure to elect a competent President of the USA and thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective immediately. Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths, and territories (excepting Kansas, which she does not fancy).

Your new prime minister, Tony Blair, will appoint a governor for America without the need for further elections. Congress and the Senate will be disbanded.  A questionnaire may be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed.

To aid in the transition to a British Crown Dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:  You should look up "revocation" in the Oxford English Dictionary.  Then look up aluminium, and check the pronunciation guide. You will be amazed at just how wrongly you have been pronouncing it.

The letter 'U' will be reinstated in words such as 'favour' and 'neighbour.'  Likewise, you will learn to spell 'doughnut' without skipping half the letters and the suffix 'ize' will be replaced by the suffix 'ise'.

Generally, you will be expected to raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels. (look up vocabulary).

Using the same twenty-seven words interspersed with filler noises such as "like" and "you know" is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication.  There is no such thing as US English.  We will let Microsoft know on your behalf.  The Microsoft spell-checker will be adjusted to take account of the reinstated letter 'u' and the elimination of 'ize'.

You will relearn your original national anthem, "God Save the Queen".  July 4th will no longer be celebrated as a holiday.

You will learn to resolve personal issues without using guns, lawyers or therapists. The fact that you need so many lawyers and therapists shows that you're not adult enough to be independent.

Guns should only be handled by adults. If you're not adult enough to sort things out without suing someone or speaking to a therapist then you're not grown up enough to handle a gun. Therefore, you will no longer be allowed to own or carry anything more dangerous than a vegetable peeler.  A permit will be required if you wish to carry a
vegetable peeler in public.

All American cars are hereby banned.  They are crap and this is for your own good.  When we show you German cars, you will understand what we mean.

All intersections will be replaced with roundabouts, and you will start driving on the left with immediate effect.

At the same time, you will go metric with immediate effect and without the benefit of conversion tables.  Both roundabouts and metrication will help you understand the British sense of humour.

The former USA will adopt UK prices on petrol (which you have been calling gasoline)-roughly $6/US gallon.  Get used to it.

You will learn to make real chips.  Those things you call French fries are not real chips, and those things you insist on calling potato chips are properly called crisps.  Real chips are thick cut, fried in animal fat, and dressed not with catsup but with vinegar.

The cold tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually beer at all. Henceforth, only proper British Bitter will be referred to as beer, and European brews of known and accepted provenance will be referred to as Lager.  American brands will be referred to as Near-Frozen Gnat's Urine, so that all can be sold without risk of further confusion.

Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as Good guys.  Hollywood will also be required to cast English actors to play English characters.   Watching Andie MacDowell attempt English dialogue in "Four Weddings and a Funeral" was an experience akin to having one's ears removed with a cheese grater.

You will cease playing American football.  There is only one kind of proper football; you call it soccer.

Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which has some similarities to American football, but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full kevlar body armour like a bunch of nancies).

Further, you will stop playing baseball.  It is not reasonable to host an event called the World Series for a game which is not played outside of America.  Since only 2.1% of you are aware that there is a world beyond your borders, your error is understandable.

You must tell us who killed JFK.  It's been driving us mad.

An internal revenue agent (i.e. tax collector) from Her Majesty's Government will be with you shortly to ensure the acquisition of all monies due (backdated to 1776).

Thank you for your co-operation.

Sincereley, John Cleese

My father's voice

He's made it safely through brain surgery.  My father, that is.

Shot by a friend and photographer Dick Gotschall, this photo was taken last night after the operation. 

Location:  my father's hospital room at Aultman Hospital in Canton, Ohio.  The nurses must have bent every rule in the book to make this photo happen.

Then again, why am I surprised?  People who meet my father think he is one of the nicest guys they've ever met. 

They probably would have done even more for him had he asked.  Seriously.

The photo includes (L-R) my Aunt Betty, Aunt Martha, Pastor Eugene Sommers, sister Marjorie Denlinger, brother Richard Denlinger, mother Magdalena Overholt, second sister Rose Miller. 

And, of course, at the center, the star of this whole show:  my father Earl Denlinger.  :-)

My father's operation went better than expected.  The shunt -- to drain the excess fluid causing pressure on his brain -- was installed successfully in a one and a half hour operation, as opposed to the four they planned.

The surgical team did one correction afterwards, going back in and taking a kink out of the shunt shortly after they finished the operation.

To the left, my family gathers around his bed.  I'm told my father was already cracking jokes as they shot the photo.  Such a kidder, he is.

My brother Richard reported that my father continued his recovery today, although he was in a great deal of pain, with some nausea.  All par for the course in this type of operation.

And the doctors plan to send him home on Thursday (today).

                         *     *     *

I've somehow been able to keep teaching here in Los Angeles across the last few days.

What was profoundly unexpected was the outpouring of support I got from fellow colleagues.  

On Monday night, I sent a short email out to all the faculty at my school requesting their thoughts and prayers for my father. 

In response over the last two days, I've received well over 30 emails and cards -- even one all the way from the East Coast from the founder of our school -- all expressing warm thoughts and prayers.  Gentle pats on my shoulders.  Quiet expressions of support from people I passed in the halls.

And so I taught for the past two days.

I imagined my father's life cradled in the energy field of God's grace as he went under the knife.

My father, who laughs so much, and who brings joy to the lives of those he touches. 

My father, a little frightened during our last phone conversation the night before, yet trusting with the same quiet faith that has nourished him over 70 years.

I am truly grateful and blessed. 

                        *     *     *

Several email responses to my last blog deserve to be posted here.  This one from a boyhood friend, Gerald Biesecker-Mast, a boyhood friend and communications professor at Bluffton College.

In the past couple of years, and especially in the past few weeks, I have actually thought about your father quite a lot.

I have been dwelling on a very particular memory—that of having been with you at your parents' place overnight, and rising on a Sunday morning to hear your father's voice reading the Scripture.

While the rest of us are getting dressed, combing our hair, and getting some breakfast, your father is surrounding us with the ancient words of Scripture.  He is speaking in a sacramental manner, a kind of chant.

I have thought about this memory partly because I am increasingly aware of how important the physical voice is in the revelation of the Divine.

I think that one of the great harms that fundamentalism brought about was our coming to understand Truth as some kind of disembodied abstraction  that we either accept or reject—like the four spiritual laws.

And then the Bible is this Book that we look at privately, quietly, in the expectation of discovering little bits of turth that we can somehow apply to our lives.

But these texts are voices from of old, and they come to us from places that exceed our comprehension.  Our only chance of being transformed by these texts is to have them spoken to us, to listen to them, and then, of course, also to study and discuss them and argue about them.

I have started reading the Bible to my children, partly because of the memory of your father's voice.

Bless him.

                        *     *     *

And then three entries in direct response to my last blog entry.

The first again from Gerald.

I'm sorry that you still experience so much antagonism with your family and church background.

I realize how fortunate I am that my parents made a decision somewhere along the way (after they met my wife Sue, to be precise) to affirm my life's choices, even though these choices did not fit their original expectations.

I seldom have nightmares anymore, although just the other night I had one featuring bishop Fred Hostetler, my childhood nemesis.

I am fortunate to be working within a progressive wing of the Mennonite church, and to feel perhaps great continuity than your presently experience between the convictions that conservative Mennonites were trying to live out in a rather reactionary way, and the convictions that shape the church and academic community I presently work within.

                        *     *     *

Another from actor Bill Brown, who lives and works in Northeastern Ohio -- he's a fine writer about my father's age, who emails his throughts regularly.

You may recall that Lynn and I met your parents at the Lake High School opening of your stage adaptation of A Tale of Two Cities.  They were most cordial to us.  I got theimpression that they took some pride in what you had done.

But it is hard to overcome the disappointment of parents as to lifestyle.  I had one such experience with my father.  I was studying for the ministry and, indeed, had four quarters of study in seminary. 

I had been struggling for over a year as to whether I should continue and, after much prayer, thought and discussion with my wife and mentors, I elected to drop out of school.

I never had a quarrel with the church, nor did I dislike seminary.  I simply came to the realization that I was not called to the pastoral ministry.  And over the years I have come to realize that this was the right decision.

My father wrote me a three-page letter when I dropped out of school, saying essentially that not only was he crushed, but he felt others who were supporting my entrance into ministerial studies would also be hurt. 

We had a long discusssion about this in the Summer of 1998, and I think we made our peace on this issue.  He died a few months later so I was glad we talked. 

I believe that Pop was from a generation where the parents made plans for their kids and often were unhappy when the children didn't live out their dreams.

Although you may not be the conservative Mennonite your folks desired you to be, I still get the impression that, down deep, they love you and are proud of you.

                        *     *     *

And from Tamara Rosenberg, a fellow artist here in Los Angeles.

Just read your most recent blog entry and I feel compelled to comment.

You stated up front that you do not like to discuss your upbringing and yet, in this particular entry, you discuss it so eloquently, powerfully and poignantly.

I must insist that your greatest and most unique contribution as a writer could potentially spring forth from that which you most resist writing about.

In comparing your experience with one on par to a child of the Taliban, you crack the politicized walls separating "us" and "them." 

Repression is repression, no matter what literature you use to justify it and the resulting scars on society are essentially the same.  And it happens within our own boundaries in the same manner as it does abroad (though George, et al, would have us believe otherwise).

Forgive my impudence, but I'd feel remiss if I did not suggest that you expand upon your current thesis regarding the overall effects of any kind of fundamentalism and submit the resulting material for publication. 

The Atlantic Monthly comes to mind....

Best wishes,
Tamara

                        *     *     *

And finally, from an essay I wrote in 1999 while I was still teaching at Hoover High School in North Canton, Ohio.

Since childhood, I have loved hearing my father’s laughter.  An important part of dinner involved telling the latest jokes we hadheard. 

Dad always told the funniest ones, with the butt of the joke usually being himself, and he laughed harder than anyone else. There were even times when a joke was so funny that – and this is a literal report – he literally rolled on the floor laughing.

It took me several years of teaching before I realized that my father’s pedagogical methods really work.  Laughing and learning are not too far apart. 

Laughing at yourself is a requirement for any good teacher, sincestudents distrust anyone who takes himself or herself too seriously.  They want to see that their teacher is human before they will follow his or her example. 

So I’ve made humor part of my curriculum. 

Although my jokes don’t always work as well as my father’s did, my students are kind.  “At least you try to make jokes, Mr. Denlinger,” one of them told me recently. 

Although he never entered the teaching profession, my father’s example still inspires me.

Babe on the Beach

No, that's not my child.  That's my new nephew, Patrick Ryan Denlinger.  I'm at the Santa Monica Pier.

Several weeks ago, I got a call from my brother Richard.  He and his wife Tina were in Pomina, CA, having just picked up their newly adopted child.  The mother is "a 22-year-old English major who's living with a 37-year-old man."  

My brother asked me if I cared to come see the baby and visit with them.

I did.  I really enjoyed myself.  I took photos of the baby.  Then more photos.

During the next two weeks, while waiting for the red tape to clear, Richard, Tina, and Patrick spent a lot of time with me.  It was nice to have them here.  They seemed surprised that I would spend so much time with them. 

It was even nicer once Tina's parents flew out to join them, bringing niece Katrina and nephew Caleb from North Canton, Ohio.

Richard was the first member of my family to visit me. 

I've been living in Los Angeles since August 2001.

                         *     *     *

While my brother's family was here, and immediately after they left, I created a music video.  I'm still placing the last photos.

In the video, I contrast the photos of the child and family with photos from my past:  childhood, adolescence, and departure. 

My nephew and niece are quite photogenic.  And Tori Amos's lyrical song "Winter" captures my emotions perfectly.

Richard and Tina were so taken by the video that they've asked for a copy, once I complete it.  They offered to pay for it. 

So I'm sending a disc of the video back to them.  They said they plan to send it to the family as a Christmas present.

                         *     *     *

Shortly after my brother's family left for home, I received a friendly letter from my brother-in-law.  The most conservative one in my family. 

He was pleased to hear about the time I'd spent with my brother and his family.  He was concerned about my soul.

I guess he just couldn't restrain himself. 

Thanks, bro.

Should I have written him back to tell him that I completely disagree with his world view? 

One in which women are encouraged to submit to their husbands in daily life as they do to God?

One that has more in common with the Muslim Taliban than it does with American democracy? 

As a teacher, I promote independence, self-realization, and risk-taking in young women.  This man's faith promotes dependence, repression of self, and actions based on fear.

Is it any wonder that his letter infuriated me?

                         *     *     *

I don't like to talk much about my departure from the world of my childhood.

It comes up occasionally when someone here in Los Angeles hears that I "grew up Amish." 

Actually, I was raised Conservative Mennonite.

The sound of the word Amish immediately evokes a world that includes a simple lifestyle, happiness, and tranquility -- not necessarily in that order.

That may be what an Amish person experiences.  They have a documented escape valve called rumspringa.

My reality was anything but simple.

Trust me, there's nothing nostalgic about the experience of the Conservative Mennonite world.

Nor is the exit from that world much fun.  The intense psychological pressure to stay -- from friends, family, and other members of the faith -- is well-nigh unbearable.

Especially if you're a woman, as my cousin is. 

Especially if you're told that the only way you can be truly certain of eternal salvation is by remaining within the world of your childhood.

Never mind the panic attacks.  The guilt.  The fear.  

The only thing I really knew was that something was wrong with a world that discourages education.

                         *     *     *

I don't like to talk much about my family, but tonight I'm going to.

It needs to be said.

"Your family fought you every step of the way," remarked one of my friends who saw me leave my childhood community of faith.

They did.  Kindly.  Sweetly.  Bluntly.

My family is convinced I'm no longer a Christian believer.  They're wrong, but I've given up trying to correct them.

People will believe what they want to.

I couldn't stay.  There were too many questions.  

I knew the Story I'd been taught since childhood was wrong.

And so I left.

                         *     *     *

The real discovery was talking to children of fundamentalist Muslims.  Reading books written by the children of Hasidic Jews.  Looking at art created by the children of radical evangelicals.

Shock. 

We all had the same experience.

The perspective is the same.

Every fundamentalist movement -- whether Christian, Jewish, or Muslim -- obsesses over the same issues:  the place of women in society, and the control of sexual behavior.

Why is that?

                         *     *     *

I don't like to talk much about my faith because it's essentially a private thing.  I know intimately the psychological pressure of evangelicalism. 

Nothing coming from George Bush and his cronies surprises me -- it's just the intolerance of my childhood writ large.

When someone told me recently that God sent Hurricane Katrina as a punishment to Mayor Nagin for tolerating gay pride parades, I wanted to throw up.

That's not my God.

I guess said person got the idea from some evangelical magazine.

Perhaps said person's God should sharpen His aim. 

If the US Military can send a smart bomb into Saddam's basement, surely the Lord of All Intolerance could kill fewer innocent people when he goes after an enemy as thoroughly mediocre as Nagin.

                         *     *     *

One of my cousins just wrote me -- a young woman who is brilliant, talented, and uncertain about where she fits into the universe.  At the age of 18, she's left her childhood home to join the real world.

I applaud her bravery and determination.  I wish I had left in my teens.  It would have made my present life so much simpler.

There.  I've said it.

                         *     *     *

Hair is grey and the fires are burning,
So many dreams on the shelf.
You say I wanted you to be proud of me,
I always wanted that myself.

When you gonna make up your mind?
When you gonna love you as much as I do?
When you gonna make up your mind?
Cause things are gonna change so fast,
All the white horses have gone ahead,
I tell you that I'll always want you near,
You say that things change, my dear.

                                     ~from "Winter" by Tori Amos

Shooting in the dark

Got back on Sunday from two nights at El Capitano Camp near Santa Barbara.

I slept in clean air -- not more than several hundred yards from the ocean.  My room was exactly like a hotel room, except that it was a tent.  What a delight.

I had the chance to use a three-chip camera, as shown in these photos.  Walked the beach, adding tar to the bottom of my feet.  On a beach, yes. 

But the view was stunning, warmed by fog and sunshine.

                        *     *     *

The weekend at El Capitano was memorable in other ways.   

Primarily because on Saturday night the hay wagon on which I was riding turned over during a too-sharp turn.   I was carrying the video camera pictured above. 

I was just getting off the back of the wagon as it went into the final turn.  I fell, bruising my arm and my shoulder.  But I protected the camera.

The entire wagon went over on its side, spilling everyone out, some on top of the others.  One rider bloodied her face.  Another broke one shoulder and dislocated the other.  

Somehow, I had the presence of mind to ignore the pain, get up, and begin shooting the accident.   I felt like an intruder as I shot the film, but the victims of the accident quickly figured out why I was doing it.

                           *     *     *  

Got a really wonderful piece of news yesterday.    I've been working for the last year as a story consultant to Laura Williams, who has been writing an historical romance novel, The Devil's Bargain.  

Well, it just won the Maggie Award for Excellence.   One of the judges was a Pocket Books editor, so Laura's hoping the award will help her to secure a book deal.  

I love her story.  Given the right marketing strategy, the book will sell!  

Another odd little note.  My mother's name is Maggie.

                        *     *     *

I've begun Thomas Wolfe's Look Homeward, Angel.  Powerful piece.  Already, I keep going back to moments I like, rereading them with pleasure.  Funny thing is, I haven't even gotten past the first fifty pages.

Like this one...

"I hope I never own another piece of property as long as I live--save a house to live in.  It is nothing but a curse and a care, and the tax-collector gets it all in the end."

Eliza looked at him with a startled expression, as if he had uttered a damnable heresy.

"Why, say!  That's no way to talk!" she said.  "You want to lay something by for a rainy day, don't you?"

"I'm having my rainy day now," he said gloomily.  "All the property I need is eight feet of earth to be buried in."

Then, talking more cheerfully, he walked with her to the door of the shop, and watched her as she marched primly away across the square, holding her skirts at the curbs with ladylike nicety.  Then he turned back among his marbles again with a stirring in him of a joy he thought he had lost forever.

                        *     *     *

I saw Otto Preminger's Anatomy of a Murder last night, starring Jimmy Stewart and Lee Remick.

Superb piece of black and white film.  Courtroom drama at its best.  And it's clear that either John Grisham or Joel Schumacher borrowed heavily from it about 37 years later.when creating the novel and directing the film A Time to Kill, respectively.

My only disappointment is that Preminger didn't do more with the relationship between Arthur O'Connell and Jimmy Stewart.  Several scenes were missing, even at 160 minutes of film.

                        *     *     *

I've mentioned a former student of mine from Hoover who was my yearbook editor in 2001.

Over the last few days, we exchanged several emails that both gladdened my heart, and amused me greatly.  You see, I've always been confused about whether I should spell her name Carlene or Carleen.

These emails have permanently cleared up my confusion.

                        *     *     *

Mr. D,

I wanted to thank you (again) for the letter of recommendation you wrote for me as a high school student.

I've recently FINISHED applying to medical school and as a part of the application process I had several professors and advisors write letters of recommendation on my behalf.

Dr. Hill (co-director of the Cutler scholar program) was one of the people I asked to write a letter.... I think you should find part of it rather familiar.

Greetings:

 

Doing Carleen Risaliti justice in a reference letter is a formidable task.  I have admired her since she was a junior in high school, five years ago,  and fully six months before I actually met her.  

 

She was then a nominee to become a Manasseh Cutler Scholar, and her nomination packet contained the most powerful reference letter I have ever read about a high-school student.  Her yearbook adviser and English teacher Steven Denlinger raved about her love of learning, her organizational skills, and her incredible work ethic, but the passage that still sticks in my mind is this:

"If charm is the ability to put people at ease, then Carleen’s approach to others defines the word.  Call it what you will—presence, poise, or grace—but Carleen knows how to create an atmosphere that elicits the best from those who work with her."

Our interview committee quickly realized that there was no hyperbole in Mr. Denlinger’s letter, and Carleen was awarded a Cutler Scholarship for four years of undergraduate study....

Every two years we produce a short video about the Cutler Scholar program....  In our most recent version, six Scholars have an unscripted conversation about their experiences. 

I have watched this short film dozens of times now, in presentations to different groups, but I still look forward to seeing two parts of it: Carleen talking about her interactions with the other Cutler Scholars, and Carleen describing her work in a pediatric cancer ward. 

As is so typical for her, she speaks not of her own accomplishments, but of what she has learned from the other students in her interactions with them.  Most remarkable is her description of the desperately ill children in that cancer ward—she expresses deep admiration for theirloving natures and good spirits.

Over and over again, Carleen has confirmed the extraordinary leadership skills, the deep sense of compassion, the indomitable spirit, and the buoyant optimism conveyed in that high-school letter.  To me, her most impressive assets as a future physician are her unique reserves of compassion and toughness.

In addition to that summer in a pediatric cancer ward, she has just spent another in a third-world “nursing home” (which had no nurses or other medical personnel).  She had more than enough empathy to bond with the residents and grit to cope with the squalor.

                        *     *     *

Carleen,

Do I thus get forgiveness for misspelling your name Carlene (a million times) instead of the biblical way:  the CORRECT way?  Carleen?  

Mr. D

                        *     *     *

Mr. D.,

Ha. Yes. Consider yourself forgiven.

Carleen

Coffee conversations

Even now, several days later, I'm astonished.

I loved shooting with that digital video camera.

Way too much.

Of course, my surroundings weren't bad.

Lake Arrowhead in the San Bernadino Mountains.

                        *     *     *

Tonight was a satisfying evening. 

A walk down to the village.  A cup of Starbucks coffee.

A quiet read.

Now that I think about it, I've been doing a lot of reading lately.

                        *     *     *

I spoke at length about my profession tonight.

So much that I felt like a recruiter officer.

But you can't blame me.  Within moments of beginning a conversation with the person behind the counter, I knew I was talking to someone who should be a teacher.

Of course, she was unaware of her calling. 

Anger clouded her vision of the future. 

Disgust toward past teachers who saw her as a threat, instead of a challenge.

The only profession that won't bore her is the teaching profession.

I know this.  

The only workspace that won't confine her is a classroom of bright students.

I know this too.

How? 

Because that's been my life.

I hope she figures out her calling soon.  Because she's already a junior at UCLA, and she's only 18 years old.

My perspective might be biased -- I've been in love with teaching since the age of 20.

                        *     *     *

I'm making my way through all of Erich Segal's novels again. 

They compel me.

His most powerful theme:  the clash between faith and reality.

                        *     *     *

Herschel would have long heart-to-heart talks with Linc.  He spoke of Berlin, Hitler's rise to power, the Nuremberg Lawsof 1935 depriving Jews of civil rights, and how he wished that, like his brother, he had seen the writing on the wall and left.  But he and Hannah had been so comfortable, so seemingly assimilated, that they had never dreamed the Nazis wanted to get rid of them.

They both talked compulsively of the camps, of the cruel "Selections" that determined who would live or die.  The Nazis only spared the lives of those who looked robust enough to work.  After they described how they had lost their little daughter, Linc had nightmares for a week.  He could not come to grips with hatred on so vast a scale.

Linc tried to understand their calamity in terms of the faith his grandma had instilled in him.

"Couldn't it maybe have been God's Will?" he asked them.

"His Will?" Herschel replied.  "To slaughter all the members of our family?"

"No," the boy said with feeling, "that he spared you two--so we could meet."

Herschel looked at him with deep emotion.  "Yes, even I could believe in such a God."

                       ~ Doctors, Erich Segal, 1988

                        *     *     *

We all leave the place of our birth.

We all return home.

Our only dilemma?

Which road we choose.