From Bill Doskoch‘s blog:

It certainly makes me want to jump on the next plane to the Sunshine State

The state of Florida has passed a “stand your ground law,” which allows people to blast away at potential threats in public spaces without trying to escape first.

Gov. Jeb Bush signed a bill on Tuesday giving Florida citizens more leeway to use deadly force in their homes and in public, a move that gun-control groups and several urban police chiefs warned would give rise to needless deaths.

Read it here.

A lot of campus groups have started web radio stations, but this group at the University of Prince Edward Island are developing an extensive and well thought out project that incorporates radio, podcasting, syndication, and multi media.

“We are collectively building an archive of East Coast flavoured rich media artifacts. This includes songs, intros, segments, shows, and so on. By organizing and “describing” this archive, or repository, we can build tools that make use of its content coherently -according to individual taste & preference, for example. Anyone can contribute to this archive. If you don’t like what you’re hearing from radio@upei you can help us build this archive as you would prefer. Already we have hundreds and hundreds of great East Coast-flavoured artifacts in this archive, primarily songs featuring local, talented artists. ”

Check it out, it’s really quite amazing. Those with long memories will recall that UPEI has made a few attempts to start a campus station. Hopefully this will be successful.

Sometimes life brings you joy in unexpected places. That happened this weekend when I received the tribute below from a dear friend in California. Simone is a poet, a writer, a gifted facilitator, and a genuinely lovely person.

It will make you cry.

From: "Simone Nelson"
Subject: A tribute to a life long-lived and lived-long
Date sent: Sun, 17 Apr 2005 19:09:15 -0700

Dear all:

Please read if you have a long, contemplative moment. (You have been warned – contains non “light-n-fluffy material)

I can only write that I am very sad at this moment. My amazing 95 year old/young grandmother died today. That’s right – 95 years old. Yes of course given her age, I have been contemplating her mortality (probably since her 80th birthday party which I remember clearly while on break from College). But no matter how much contemplation – given her healthiness over the years – it was hard to imagine her ever not being.

My father threw her a 95th Birthday party for her in January because we all saw her slipping away from us in the last several months. He believed that this would be the last time to celebrate her with family. Relatives flew in from across the country to see her. I am not sure she remembered them all but she was so happy and so loved and how lovely that she could see so many who loved her once more on a happy occasion. I have attached a picture of that day just a few short months ago. I have also attached a photo taken only 6 months before that – this past July – right when I returned from my trekking adventure in India. It’s amazing how much she changed from July to January when you look at those photos.

Such is the human body – almost as indomitable as the human spirit – for my grandmother was the strongest, toughest little woman with a real life living attitude. “What’s the use of complaining?” She’d say in that funny accented way. I always told her how much I wanted to be like her when I got older. She was still struttin’ around in heels until recently and about 2 weeks ago had a perm, her nails done and went to play her usual bingo (walking across the street!). That still makes me smile.

For those who read this who have had the chance to meet her, to know her or even hear me talk about her: you know that this 4 foot nothing russian babushka, this last of the living of her generation of Nelson’s, this widow of 40 years, this grandmother to 7, great grandmother to 3, this great source of unending love for her family no matter what…you know that the loss is great indeed.

I loved her dearly. My father has been taking care of her in one way or another since his father died many years before I was born. She has been a part of my life for many important occassions like the traditional grandmother was – once – when the family all lived together or near. This is also perhaps a tribute to my father and his life long love and care (whether she drove him crazy or not) of his mother.

When I saw her last she was very frail and more in the throes of dementia than I’d seen before. But her words echo still in my head as they did that day (because she repeated them 20 times at least!) “You look beautiful.” “You should only be happy.” “You look beautiful.” “I love you.” “I love you.” “I love you.”

She had a blessedly long life. She lived basically by herself remarkably until LAST WEEK. She did not suffer great pain, depression or sadness in the end. She just let her body shut itself down, naturally, like when a watch needs to be re-wound but isn’t, the last slow revolutions turn and then there is silence.

We should all be so blessed in life and death.

So I am very sad but also smiling when I think of her – which I do – and I know will – often.

For those I have not spoken to or seen in a while for a variety of reasons (hmmm….), I still felt compelled to share this news.

Below is a poem called THE DASH which a very dear friend told me of just this morning – before my grandmother had died. It makes me remember how my grandmother lived ALL those years (95!!) in between the dash and how important the living of life to the fullest is and was to her and how you should spend it in care and consideration of those you hold dear. Easy to say, I know. Hard to do and remember.

Let’s remember it today, okay??? Let’s do that in honor of my Grandmother whether you knew her or not. You know me – so it’s one degree of separation.

I also included a portion of Part I Allen Ginsberg’s epic masterpiece KADDISH that he wrote following his mother Naomi’s death. His mother was also a russian-jewish immigrant who lived in New York and then moved to New Jersey just like my Grandmother Sonya. Her husband’s name was also Max like my Grandfather’s. She was a bit older than my grandmother, was a die-hard communist and went insane – so uh – the similiarities end at the russian-jewish-Max-NY-NJ thing, okay?

Ironically, the same friend who told me about The Dash was also the person with whom I created a beautiful tribute to Allen Ginsberg at his own memorial service in San Francisco (how long ago now? 10 years???). She was asked to create some sort of tribute and I was honored that she asked me to create it with her. We had poets and artists artfully winding through Temple Emanuel reciting, reading, weeping, singing this poem KADDISH before the service began. It was moving. It was powerful. It was a sight. It was sounds. It was something Ginsberg would have loved. I don’t think my Grandmother would have gotten a kick out of it or understood it and certainly recently given her hearing…she probably would not have heard it! But she was “up for anything” – even seeing me in plays just this past May (risque ones mind you!).

But for you grandma, I say the Kaddish today. The Kaddish is The Prayer for The Dead in the Jewish Religion. For you I pray and say goodbye and I love you.

THE DASH
by Linda Ellis

I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of his friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
from the beginning . . . to the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth
and spoke of the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
that she spent alive on earth . . .
and now only those who loved her
know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own;
the cars . . . the house . . . the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard . . .
are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left.
(You could be at “dash mid-range.”)

If we could just slow down enough
to consider what’s true and real,
and always try to understand
the way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger,
and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives
like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,
and more often wear a smile . . .
remembering that this special dash
might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy is being read
with your life’s actions to rehash . . .
would you be proud of the things they say
about how you spent your dash?

FROM KADDISH, PART I by Allen Ginsberg

Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on
the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking,
talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues
shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm–and your memory in my head three years after–
And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud–wept, realizing
how we suffer–
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember,
prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of An-
swers–and my own imagination of a withered leaf–at dawn–
Dreaming back thru life, Your time–and mine accelerating toward Apoca-
lypse,
the final moment–the flower burning in the Day–and what comes after,
looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city
a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom
Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed–
like a poem in the dark–escaped back to Oblivion–
No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream,
trapped in its disappearance,
sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worship-
ping each other,
worshipping the God included in it all–longing or inevitability?–while it
lasts, a Vision–anything more?
It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder,
Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shoul-
dering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant–and
the sky above–an old blue place.
or down the Avenue to the south, to–as I walk toward the Lower East Side
–where you walked 50 years ago, little girl–from Russia, eating the
first poisonous tomatoes of America frightened on the dock
then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?–toward
Newark–
toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice
cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards–
Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school,
and learning to be mad, in a dream–what is this life?
Toward the Key in the window–and the great Key lays its head of light
on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the
sidewalk–in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward
the Yiddish Theater–and the place of poverty
you knew, and I know, but without caring now–Strange to have moved
thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again,
with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstops doors and dark boys on
the street, firs escapes old as you
–Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me–
Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe–and I guess that dies with
us–enough to cancel all that comes–What came is gone forever
every time–
That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret–no fear radiators, lacklove,
torture even toothache in the end–
Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul–and the lamb, the soul,
in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger–hair
and teeth–and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin,
braintricked Implacability.
Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out,
Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with
God, done with the path thru it–Done with yourself at last–Pure
–Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all–before the
world–
There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good.
No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more
fear of Louis,
and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts,
loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands–
No more of sister Elanor,–she gone before you–we kept it secret you
killed her–or she killed herself to bear with you–an arthritic heart
–But Death’s killed you both–No matter–
Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and
weeks–forgetting, agrieve watching Marie Dressler address human-
ity, Chaplin dance in youth,
or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, halling his voice of a weeping Czar
–by standing room with Elanor & Max–watching also the Capital
ists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds,
with the YPSL’s hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts
pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and
laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920
all girls grown old, or dead now, and that long hair in the grave–lucky to
have husbands later–
You made it–I came too–Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and
will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer–or kill
–later perhaps–soon he will think–)
And it’s the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now
–tho not you
I didn’t foresee what you felt–what more hideous gape of bad mouth came
first–to you–and were you prepared?
To go where? In that Dark–that–in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the
Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with
you?
Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull
in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon–Deaths-
head with Halo? can you believe it?
Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence,
than none ever was?
Nothing beyond what we have–what you had–that so pitiful–yet Tri-
umph,
to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower–fed to the
ground–but made, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe,
shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth
wrapped, sore–freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless.
No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the
knife–lost
Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy–even in the Spring–strange ghost
thought some–Death–Sharp icicle in his hand–crowned with old
roses–a dog for his eyes–cock of a sweatshop–heart of electric
irons.
All the accumulations of life, that wear us out–clocks, bodies, consciousness,
shoes, breasts–begotten sons–your Communism–’Paranoia’ into
hospitals.
You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of
stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is
Elanor happy?
Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over
midnight Accountings, not sure. His life passes–as he sees–and
what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might
have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Im-
mortality, Naomi?
I’ll see him soon. Now I’ve got to cut through to talk to you as I didn’t
when you had a mouth.
Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever like Emily Dickinson’s horses
–headed to the End.
They know the way–These Steeds–run faster than we think–it’s our own
life they cross–and take with them.

Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, mar-
ried dreamed, mortal changed–Ass and face done with murder.
In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under
pine, almed in Earth, blamed in Lone, Jehovah, accept.
Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless,
Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m
hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore
Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not
light or darkness, Dayless Eternity–
Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some
of my Time, now given to Nothing–to praise Thee–But Death
This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Won-
derer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping
–page beyond Psalm–Last change of mine and Naomi–to God’s perfect
Darkness–Death, stay thy phantoms!

II
Over and over–refrain–of the Hospitals–still haven’t written your
history–leave it abstract–a few images
run thru the mind–like the saxophone chorus of houses and years–

From Collected Poems 1947-1980 by Allen Ginsberg, published by Harper & Row. Copyright © 1984 by Allen Ginsberg.

Posterwire.com is a movie poster weblog. From images of the latest Hollywood one-sheets to vintage movie posters, this film poster weblog hopes to offer a bit of insight into film key art.

Seriously, if you have even a passing interest in movie art you must check this out.

Recent posts discuss Type designer Ed Benguiat, who created the logos for Superfly and Planet of the Apes, Phallic Symbols in Posters, and Sunglasses at Night

What could be better than “Big Heads” on a movie poster? The answer is obvious: “Big Heads Wearing Sunglasses” on a movie poster, silly.

One of the great things that I saw at NFCB was a project called Crossing the Blvd: strangers, neighbors, aliens in a new America.

Crossing the Blvd is a flash heavy interactive website that explores the immigrant experience by looking at communities in and around Queens NY.

It has timelines, sound, video, animation, and some very effective interactive tools. You can even leave the story of your immigrant experience, or that of your parents and family. And there’s a travelling exhibition touring the U.S.

Watch for arrows and subtle navigation tools. Once you’ve found them it’s a breeze to navigate. The Go [to] menu top right is essential.

And don’t hesitate to also buy the accompanying book – it’s beautiful – or CD.

Thanks to earsay producer Judith Sloan for giving us the tour.

Well, this weekend I was referred to repeatedly as an imp. Tonight I tracked down a definition of that creature in the wikipedia.

A being described as an imp would be more likely to be mischievous than seriously threatening, and to be a lesser being rather than a greater one … The term carries an implication of liveliness and small stature. They are usually, but not invariably, assigned male gender.

Imps are the least evil of all demons, in common mythology and superstition. They are described as dark, shadowy creatures – while mischievous and somewhat destructive; they do not go to the extremes of, for example, gremlins or poltergeists. Imps are shape-shifters – preferring a shadow-form similar to, either, a weasel or a spider … The trickery ascribed to them is, generally, confined to missing, misplaced, or moved articles (socks, keys, etc.) and stubbed toes…

The ambiguous status of imps is reflected by the fact that the name is used as the name for a subunit of a pack of Brownies. Useful description for certain small children exhibiting ‘impish’ behaviour.

One of my side trips while in Baltimore was to the Baltimore Poe House and Museum, one of the places where Edgar Allen Poe lived while in The Greatest City in America?™.

What I expected was the sort of institution befitting one of America’s best loved poets and writers. I envisioned scholarly types smoking pipes and discussing the finer subtleties of say The Colloquy of Monos and Una or Diddling Considered as One of the Exact Sciences.

I expected a cozy cottage with well kept lawns and stately oak trees, all surrounded by well kept gardens and perhaps adjoining a restful park.

In fact the Poe House was just barely saved from demolition in 1941 by the Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore and is in the middle of a public housing project. It is to say the least an anomaly, as are the tourists who wander the surrounding neighbourhood looking quite sure that they have made a mistake, and that they should have paid attention to the Poe Society’s warning to “Use caution when parking in an urban environment. Common sense dictates that you lock your car and keep any valuables out of sight.”

In any event it is an odd location for a museum, but the folks in the neighbourhood are friendly and altogether happy to guide lost tourists. Hopefully Henry and Martha from Topeka will leave Baltimore with a more kindly impression of public housing.

The house itself was sadly unremarkable, and the museum had very little of interest – some photos, some reproductions of articles, and one video. I’m sure that there are good reasons why the Poe Society hasn’t been able to build the shrine to Poe that some would have expected, but I’ll leave that discussion for another day.

At this point I did though feel that I also needed to visit Poe’s grave. It is located in a churchyard on the other side of Martin Luther King Boulevard in a much more tourist friendly setting.

In fact the whole church yard is one of the more fascinating places that I have seen recently, with crypts and stones that span a couple of hundred years. There is no apparent order to where stones are placed, or where the occupants are buried. In several places additions to the church building have been built out and over existing graves, with headstones or crypts tucked beneath the building.

Poe actually has two gravestones.

The one that most people find is at the gate to the churchyard. It is white marble, and very large and prominent. Thanks to the folks at Poe House I also knew to make my way around to the back of the church for the spot where EA Poe was originally buried.

There you will find his original headstone, complete with raven and the words “Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.” A much more fitting tribute I thought.

In the end I wound up spending nearly an hour in this churchyard, and it was without question of the high points of my visit to Baltimore.

I will admit that I have only a passing interest on Poe, and have read nearly nothing of his work, but somehow I feel closer to him. Or at least I have a sudden craving for a little vintage Amontillado.

THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged ; this was a point definitively settled — but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.

This afternoon I find myself in the International departures lounge at BWI airport outside of Baltimore. That would be the euphemistically named “Terminal E.”

This terminal is the place where visitors to America will form their final and most lasting memories of the United States. Whatever they experience in this building will be carried with them back to their home country where they will share stories with friends, family, and the people with whom they do business.

Indeed, after taking off much of their clothing, emptying their luggage, and having their shoes x-rayed by the TSA they can move ahead into the nether reaches of this terminal and finally sit down, secure in the knowledge that they won’t be strip searched. They can bask in the warm glow of the sun though the windows looking out on the runways, maybe have a bite to eat, and reflect on everything that they learned about the American people.

As I speak the television over my head is showing us a particularly vile, dated, and offensive episode on “Married With Children.”

Cheap sexual innuendo – this is the kind of program where the phrase “sexual innuendo” becomes a bad joke all on its own – sexism, cheap nasty name calling, sluttish wives, idiot father figures….

I really have to ask my American friends if this is how they want the rest of the world to remember them.

Ah – but a sparrow just walked across the floor in front of of me! I’ll bet that he wasn’t x-rayed and didn’t even go through security!

As I write I am in Baltimore MD for the annual conference of the National Federation of Community Broadcasters. Well, actually I’m not registered for the conference, and aside from one surreptitious breakfast have not attended any NCFB event, but I am in the hotel and hanging around selling the wares of AIR.

Today I had the opportunity to play hookey and spent most of the day at the waterfront with award winning producer Sandra Sleight Brennan. We had lunch, went shopping and generally did nothing. That is much better than sitting in a crowded ballroom listening to a lecture.

Incidentally, Sandra was kind enough to remind me that Baltimore and Chesapeake Bay were the location of one of the most famous battles from around the time of the War of 1812 – the war where the Canadians beat the Americans and burned down the White House. It is also the place celebrated in “The Star Spangled Banner“, the Francis Scott Key song that no real person can actually sing.

I did though manage to walk across to Poe House, one of the homes of Edgar Allen Poe. It turned out this this tiny historic building is located in the middle a public housing project. All in all very strange. Later today I am going to visit the grave of EAP, with pictures to follow very soon.

The Orioles are playing tonight.

Oh, I am so jealous. Of the URL: campfireditties.com. Of the graphic design, which is lovely, of the content, which is rich and varied and includes lots of lovely audio recordings.

Ian Gibbons, the man for whom this website is a labour of love, does all of the recording and content development. You’ll find musicians, poets, and other wonderful things. Ian describes the site:

I now think of campfireditties.com as a forum for the artists to share their craft, whether they use it as a portfolio or refer a family member across the world to video of their newest poem. I have enjoyed seeing many artists featured on this site hook up for collaborative endeavours. It has been my privilege to work with these talented people over the last couple years.

Take a half hour right now to explore this outstanding web site. In particular there’s a wealth of Hamilton poetry on-line.

It went largely un-noticed at the time, but the orgy of media coverage which has surrounded the death of Pope John Paul II suggests some irony that one of his last acts was to issue an Apostolic Letter titled ?The Rapid Development: To Those Responsible For Communications?

The Letter begins by looking back some forty years:

“The rapid development of technology in the area of the media is surely one of the signs of progress in today’?s society. In view of these innovations in continuous evolution, the words found in the Decree of the Second Vatican Ecumenical Council, Inter Mirifica, promulgated by my venerable predecessor, the servant of God Paul VI, December 4, 1963, appear even more pertinent: ?Man’?s genius has with God’?s help produced marvelous technical inventions from creation, especially in our times. The Church, our mother, is particularly interested in those which directly touch man’?s spirit and which have opened up new avenues of easy communication of all kinds of news, of ideas and orientations.?”

My immediate response of course was to ask how much our North American media ?”touch man?’s spirit’.? Our radio is home to Howard Stern and Bubba the Love Sponge®. Television gives us Trailer Park Boys and Desperate Housewives. Movies offer juvenile titillation or superficial romances with vacuous pretty boy actors. The Internet? well, I suppose that I don’?t need to explain how that medium seems to touch everything but spirit.

In other words, I’?ll allow myself to join the ongoing chorus of voices that can find nothing good about media today.

But do I really believe that? No. The last decades have led to a democratization of media that gives every voice a chance to be heard. Truly we ?have “opened up new avenues of easy communication of all kinds of news, of ideas and orientations”.?

We can look back to the days of Emma Goldman and Jack Reed, and the group who created publications like the radical monthly The Masses. Following in their footsteps in the sixties were the countercultural types that gave us underground papers like the Georgia Strait and Rolling Stone.

About the same time we saw the development of community radio and local access television, and then independent film and video.

All of that led to today, when I can rent a DVD of films by experimental directors or Japanese film makers, where I can buy a copy of almost any book ever published, and download for free many that are long out of print.

The politically minded, the activists, have created a small universe of sites and lists on the Internet. They are such a part of on-line media that they have created a whole new term: Indymedia. Now days anyone, anywhere can find information about any ideology – something that I never would have imagined growing up in small town Kelowna BC.

And what about the hope that media would ?touch man?’s spirit??

I think that in fact we have done that too. Non-commercial radio will usually offer chances to hear music and ideas that stir your soul and inspire you to dance. I do believe that music should be one of the things that brings one joy and allows one to feel closer to whatever God you choose to embrace.

But radio is but one medium. The Internet, despite being a place that is thought of in terms of porn and pop-ups, never fails to amaze me in the number of charming, thought provoking, or spiritual sites and pages that I find. Many of those of course are featured on this blog.

The letter continues:

“?…the first Areopagus of modern times is the world of communications, which is capable of unifying humanity and transforming it into,? as it is commonly referred to,? ?”a global village?”. The communications media have acquired such importance as to be the principal means of guidance and inspiration for many people in their personal, familial, and social behavior.?”

It is interesting that the Pope chose to link these two ideas – that of the media leading us to a ?global village?, and that of the media as our conscience and moral compass.

Especially when followed by:

?“The mass media can and must promote justice and solidarity according to an organic and correct vision of human development, by reporting events accurately and truthfully, analyzing situations and problems completely, and providing a forum for different opinions. An authentically ethical approach to using the powerful communication media must be situated within the context of a mature exercise of freedom and responsibility, founded upon the supreme criteria of truth and justice.?”

Is the media truly global? Has it usurped the Church as the place where people learn how to live together and behave? And if so do the media have a moral or ethical obligation to raise the standard of our society instead of just reflecting the most sensational or cheap?

Certainly His Holiness believed that modern media is a tool for spreading his message, and the Letter speaks at length about harnessing media as a tool to spread the Word.

?“The communication between God and humanity has thus reached its perfection in the Word made flesh. In light of so decisive and definitive a communication, the media provide a providential opportunity to reach people everywhere, overcoming barriers of time, of space and of language; presenting the content of faith in the most varied ways imaginable; and offering to all who search the possibility of entering into dialogue with the mystery of God, revealed fully in Christ Jesus.?”

But he continues on to say:

?”This is certainly not an easy mission in an age such as ours, in which there exists the conviction that the time of certainties is irretrievably past. Many people, in fact, believe that humanity must learn to live in a climate governed by an absence of meaning, by the provisional and by the fleeting. In this context, the communications media can be used ?to proclaim the Gospel or to reduce it to silence within men’?s hearts.??”

The media, instead of raising us up and instilling in us a spiritual belief, may instead be a tool to deaden those parts of us which give us hope and teach us to love.

Surely that is a condemnation of much of contemporary media, a sign that the late Pope was familiar with the base and the cheap, and the soul deadening wash of cheap sexuality, vulgar exchanges, and trivialized violence with which most television or movies are filled.

I don’?t believe that the Holy Father necessarily thought that media or art should be devoid of depictions of love making, or that language should be saintly or clean, or that there wasn’?t a place for a good car chase or shoot out. For all I know he was fan of Quentin Tarantino.

I think though that he was concerned that all of these were being used to dull our senses, to deaden our souls, and to distract us from ideas and activities that might lead us to a higher plane.

If so, he was right. That may be one reason why he made it a priority for all media to be used for pastoral work.

The Letter then speaks of three fundamental options: formation, participation and dialogue. I think this is where those who work in participatory or community media will find much in common with the Pope.

“In the first place, a vast work of formation is needed to assure that the mass media be known and used intelligently and appropriately. The new vocabulary they introduce into society modifies both learning processes and the quality of human relations, so that, without proper formation, these media run the risk of manipulating and heavily conditioning, rather than serving people.”

Who among those in alternative media hasn’?t spoken similar words, and isn’?t motivated by the same ideas? We know the power of media, for good or bad, and we work to counter the greater forces of multinational media corporations.

“In the second place, I would like to recall our attention to the subject of media access, and of co-responsible participation in their administration. If the communications media are a good destined for all humanity, then ever-new means must be found ? including recourse to opportune legislative measures ? to make possible a true participation in their management by all. The culture of co-responsibility must be nurtured.”

Once again, aren?’t these the very ideals that led to the creation of modern day community media? We all embrace the idea that the airwaves should be accessible to everyone in our community, not just those with the power or money to control the means of transmission.

“Finally, there cannot be forgotten the great possibilities of mass media in promoting dialogue, becoming vehicles for reciprocal knowledge, of solidarity and of peace. They become a powerful resource for good if used to foster understanding between peoples; a destructive ?weapon? if used to foster injustice and conflicts.”

And yes, this is surely an idea which we hope that all media would encourage. Instead of presenting conflict as entertainment, and news as some kind of a global Jerry Springer Show, our media should work to find solutions and reach compromises.

Perhaps there is much to be learned from these words, near the end of the Letter.

?”The eternal Word made flesh, in communicating Himself, always shows respect for those who listen, teaches understanding of their situation and needs, is moved to compassion for their suffering and to a resolute determination to say to them only what they need to hear without imposition or compromise, deceit or manipulation. Jesus teaches that communication is a moral act.?”

Communication is a moral act.

That is a concept that I can believe in.

Honestly, what’s the point of a blog if you can’t use it to celebrate the successes of your friends? Today I am tickled to report that one of my dearest buddies, Dr. Evelyn Knight, has accepted the post of Director of the University of Kentucky’s Appalachian Center.

An AP story by the Voice of The Mountains™ Roger Alford can be found in today’s Lexington Herald-Leader.

The mission of the Appalachian Center, which was created more than 25 years ago, is to enlist experts from every field of study at the university to help solve problems in the mountains. Knight will guide the Appalachian Center as it takes on various research, service and education projects involving mountain communities.

Although Evelyn’s work in recent years has been in Public Health, her background and interests are much broader. She also brings something to the job which I think essential – a belief that solutions come from the people who live and work in the mountains, not just from the experts and academics that all too often arrive with pre-conceived notions about what will solve problems.

I suspect that Evelyn will begin by spending a lot of time talking to people from all walks of life, listening to them, and figuring out how the Center can help them to lead richer and more fulfilling lives. As the article above notes, her trusty Subaru will probably accumulate a lot more miles. “The main thing I want to do is get out and talk with people. We’ll be spending a lot of time in the car, really getting to know folks.”

Probably what will make Evelyn the perfect person for this job is the same thing that keeps drawing me back down there: a deep and abiding love of the Mountains. From North Carolina to Tennessee to Kentucky Evelyn has made her home in the hills, and has surrounded herself with the people, and the culture, and the food that makes mountain people unique.

I suspect that if you asked Evelyn she would tell you that those hills have offered a lot to her over the years. Now she’ll have another opportunity to give something back.

Hey Evelyn – it’s time to go dancing!

Yes, that is the sound of the gag in Canadian’s mouths. I’m sure that most have heard of the Gomery Commission which is investigating alleged Liberal party corruption in Quebec.

You may even know that testimony happening right now is under a publication ban to prevent the media from reporting on it.

Somehow though a blogger in a foreign country seems to have found the details and has posted them to the Internet.

Apparently Canadian websites that have linked to his site have received warnings from the Government that they May Not Do That. I suspect though that you can figure out how to use Google to track it down.

Ooooo… I’m Your Captain…..

Today I received the shocking news that my best friend owns a boxed set of the first season of MacGyver. Admittedly that’s not as bad as say Three’s Company, but it still was a surprise.

What, I wonder, would draw an intelligent, cultured, and well educated woman into a world populated by “(a) sort of a modest James Bond, a resourceful Indiana Jones…”, a character who “…is not only a survival expert but a scientific prodigy as well — sort of a Mr. Wizard with dimples…?”

I was frankly surprised to hear that she had at some point become hooked on an episodic TV series that is better known for gadgetry, explosions, and gun fights than thoughtful dialogue and subtle character development. A show which these days is better known for being the favorite of The Simpsons’ Patty Bouvier.

Probably though I’m being too hard. Why not celebrate ingenuity and problem solving? Why not enjoy an action hero “who starts his assignments with a knapsack he carries, ‘not for what I take but for what I find along the way’ ” and who “… carries no weapons and when there’s shooting going on, he’s likely to be found running like mad, knitting spider webs into a bulletproof vest or manufacturing an escape car out of some handy paper clips.”

This is, after all, a guy who will go out of his way to protect baby seals, and who contributed a recipe for “Chocolate Hazelnut and Coconut Cake” to the Vancouver Fire Fighters’ “Pot on the Stove” Celebrity Cookbook.

Then again, when I said that I never caught the MacGyver bug she replied “You probably didn’t think he was cute…”

Aha…

Last month I had the chance to view Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey once again. It is of course an amazing movie, and even more so when you recall that this was filmed in the days before computer animation and technologically advanced costuming.

Anyone who has seen the film also knows that it is as much of an enigma and riddle as it is straight narrative.

Today I happened upon a rather captivating flash animation called Kubrick2001: the space odyssey explained. Through the use of some nice animation, commentary, and background it tries to answer some of the questions that may be lurking in the back of your mind after watching the movie.

It certainly offered me some insights that hadn’t been apparent, and helped me to understand the film as a whole, and the spiritual underpinning of the story.

To watch the whole project will take about a half an hour. Be sure to turn up the sound.