Guinevere wants me to write about her.
Other characters wait their turn.
Words fail me today, my fast-food-sized menu of a vocabulary and grammaticalarianiamistically-challenged phrases.
The hallowed echoes of a hollow hall, where eight enthusiastic faces sang dressed in black not madrigals, regaled us with their ringing voices last night.
The sanctuary of church has only one purpose for me — meditation upon the infinite.
How you anthropomorphise the infinite is your concern, not mine.
Rather, your concern interferes with my meditation.
A cathedral ceiling should reflect the echoes of pipe organs and windpipes.
Sermons are for those without a voice of their own.
Church was once the social sewing machine that stitched subcultures together at the family and community levels.
Now that recorded music and other aspects of church life are available on a pick-and-choose-at-your-convenience at your local convenience store where wafers (leavened and unblessed) meet your bodily needs, the reasons that some went to church are met away from the edifice.
My thoughts are my sanctuary, my heaven and hell. An author is quoted as saying, “You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.,” allegedly C.S. Lewis the entertainer.
Last night, the Huntsville Collegium Musicum invited the community to hear early choral music in Covenant Presbyterian Church at 7:30 p.m., an invitation I found at 6:30 p.m. while looking online at al.com for events to attend and get me out of a house whose cathedral ceiling echoed with the sounds of recorded television shows.
Grumpily, my wife agreed to go with me, sans (le) dîner.
Happily, I drove her there.
The program consisted of religious and secular music.
There were no church social calendar announcements, no children’s Bible lesson, no Karaoke Jesus, no cappuccino and Christ, and no sermon.
It was heaven on Earth!
I closed my eyes and felt the soundwaves bounce against me (my wife saw colours and emotions dancing when her eyes were closed).
I opened my eyes and watched the physical manifestation of joy on the singers’ faces flow through their bodies and out of their mouths which changed shape to shape musical notes and sung words.
This is the one and only purpose for a church. All the rest — the Sunday school lessons, the social outreach, the weekend retreats — has no meaning to me.
[Except for the one small detail that my wife of 26+ years I met at summer camp (Holston Presbytery Camp in Banner Elk, NC) when we were 12 years old so, yeah, I owe a debt of gratitude to the whole social environment of religion (co-ed summer campers in the woods reading the Bible and sharing sleeping bags? how disgraceful!) that put us two together (but don’t worry, Church Lady, we didn’t kiss until after my wife turned 19).]
After my wife and I ate at a VERY LOUD restaurant called Drake’s, which killed any reverent mood we were in but filled our bellies, we returned home, suffered through many a lame skit on SNL for a few good laughs and turned on the main computer in the living room to play early choral music and listen to the echoes bouncing off the cathedral ceiling.
Some of my neighbours still get up on Sunday mornings to gather socially at whatever version of church they prefer.
This here, in front of a computer screen, is my church, the litanies composed in my thoughts rolled out in the holy text of a limited vocabulary, my wife sleeping with our cats at the other end of our country cabin of a house in the woods, within miles of native American burial mounds and hallowed cemeteries.
To last night’s singers, I salute you.
You make the long, lonely, expensive trip to celestial bodies worth the effort.
Which reminds me, if
killing eliminating others cleanses my soul, what am I going to do if I’m the only living soul on Mars whose zest for living — his savoir–faire, his je ne sais quoi, his fly in the coffee of his petit dejeuner — is so strong that snuffing out Earth-based lifeforms will be his only salvation?
Will you survive to read the next blog entry?
And if you do, will you serve as a humorous aside, hero amidst tragedy, lone wolf , space pioneer, Bright, ascetic, or salt of the earth?
[saving info here for safekeeping until offline storage is available]
Sorry, this may be a little confusing, let alone incomplete, in its current form
James Horace Capps, born 17 Sep 1914 , Union Co., TN, died 1985
|father:||George Sterling Capps (AFN: 3XV3-CDH )|
|mother:||Mary Alice Rucker (AFN: 3XV3-CZ1 )|
|submission date:||12 Feb 2001|
(615) 687-6809. Graduated from the University of Tennessee as an electrical engineer. Later worked for General Electric.
“Pedigree Resource File,” database, FamilySearch (http://familysearch.org/pal:/MM9.2.1/93LQ-V52 : accessed 24 October 2012), entry for James Horace Capps.
1940 census, Davidson County, Nashville, Tennessee, Ellen Avenue
– Sara (Sam?) Bradley, age 33, head of household, superintendant of construction, , born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Estle (Estelle?), wife (m. 1927), age 33, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– George Capps, father in-law, age 63, married, resided in Knoxville in 1935, laborer, construction co.
1930 census, Union County, Tennessee
– George S[terling] Capps, age 53, head of household, farmer , born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Alice, wife, age 47, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Daughter, Effie, age 17, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Son, Harace (Horace?), age 15, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Son, Charlie, age 13, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Daughter, Gertrude, age 10, born in TN, both parents born in TN
1920 census, Union County, Tennessee, part of 4th district, Maynardville, TN
– George [Sterling] Capps, age 43, head of household, farmer, born in TN, both parents born in TN [born about 27 June 1876], [second spouse: Roda] ((d. 27 May 1957) Had blonde hair and blue eyes. Lived on farm in Hickory Valley in Union County, TN. Farm currently owned by Herman Smith Family. Farm on Hickory Valley Road off Norris Highway between Knoxville and Oak Ridge., buried Lynnhurst Cemetery, Knox Co., TN)
– Alice (Mary Alice Rucker (Rollins?)) Capps, wife, age 35, born in TN, both parents born in TN [born 27 Feb 1883, Union/Claiborne Co., TN], d. 10 Jan 1963 (Mary Alice had black hair and black eyes , buried Lynnhurst Cemetery, Knox Co., TN)
– Son, John, age 17, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Son, Paris, age 16, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Daughter, Estelle, age 12, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Daughter, Ethel, age 10, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Daughter, Effie, age 7, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Son, Horace, age 5, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Son, Carley, age 2, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Daughter, Gertrude, age 8/12, born in TN, both parents born in TN
1910 census, Campbell County, Tennessee, Civil District 2
– George Capps, age 33, head of household, farmer, born [27 June 1875 (1873?)] in TN, both parents born in TN
– Alice Rucker Capps, wife, age 25, [m. 10 April 1901] born [about 1885] in TN, both parents born in TN
– John Rollins, grandfather, age 86 [born about 1824], born in TN, both parents born in TN
1900 census, Claiborne County, Tennessee , Civil District No. 13
– [Sterling] Jacob Capps, age 52, born June 1847, head of household, farmer, born in TN, both parents born in TN [d. 6 June 1934]
– Rachel M[anervy] Capps, wife, born July 1851, age 48, keeping house, born in TN, both parents born in TN, [d. 13 Dec 1922]
– Son, George S. Capps, age 24, born 1877 (or June 1875 [same as one born 27 June 1875 (1873?), died 3 Jun 1975, Knox Co., TN? Father: Jake Capps, Mother: Minerva Caldwell?]), farm laborer, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Son, William M., age 20, born July 1879, farm laborer, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Daughter, Mary F, age 17, born Dec 1882, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Son, John, age 15, born Apr 1885, farm laborer, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Daughter, Cora D., age 12, born Apr 1888, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Daughter, Bertha A., age 9, born Feb 1891, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Jacop Capps, age 29 [born about 1851, died 6 Jun 1937], head of household, farmer, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Rachal M. Cardwell, age 29, wife (born about 1851, m. 19 Jun 1870, d. 1922), keeping house, born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Daughter, Sarah E., age 9 (born about 1871), born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Son, Benjamin J., age 7 (born about 1873), born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Son, George S., age 5 (born about 1875), born in TN, both parents born in TN
– Son, William M., age 1 (born about 1879), born in TN, both parents born in TN
1870 census, Claiborne County, Tennessee , 12th Civil District
– John Capps, age 55, born about 1816, farmer, cannot read/write, born in TN
– Catharine [Catherine “Cassa” Snuffer, m. 12 Dec 1834] Capps, age 46, keeping house, cannot read/write, born in TN
– Rachel Capps, age 32, cannot write, born in TN
– Son, Jacob, age 19, cannot read/write, born in TN [born 23 Jun 1850, Grainger Co., TN, d. 6 Jun 1937]
– Daughter, Rachel, age 18, born in TN
– Daughter, Esther, age 13, born in TN
1850 census, Claiborne County, 7th Subdivision
– John Capps, age 34, farmer, born in TN
– Cassa [Catherine “Cassa” Snuffer, m. 12 Dec 1834] Capps, age 29, born 1824 (Claiborne Co., TN), d. 5 Aug 1886, Claiborne Co., TN
– Daughter, Rachael, age 13, born about 1837, born in TN
– Son, Michael, age 11, born about 1839, born in TN
– Son, John, age 8, born about 1842, born in TN
1840 census, Grainger County, Tennessee
– John Capps, head of household, [born 1816, d. 1880, Claiborne Co., TN]
– 1 free white male under 5
– 2 free white males 15-19
– 1 free white male 20-20
– 1 free white male 50-59
– 1 free white female 10-14
– 1 free white female 15-19
– 1 free white female 50-59
– 1 person employed in agriculture
– 2 white persons over 20 who cannot read/write
– 5 free white persons under 20
– 1 free white person 20-49
– 8 total free white persons
– 8 total all persons – free white, free colored, slaves
– Williams Capps Jr. 1788-1840, Grainger Co., TN
– Mary Botts (m. 1830), 1795-1850, Grainger Co., TN
– William Capps, Sr., born 1762 (Hickory Valley, Union Co., TN Colonial era), died 1840 (homestead on Black Fox Creek, Union Co., TN)
– Rachel Smith (m. 3 Feb 1781, Union Co., TN), born 1765 (Orange, Chatham Co., No. Carolina, Colonial era) d. 1840 (homestead on Black Fox Creek, Union Co., TN)
– Thomas William Capps, born 1762 (Mecklenburg Co., No. Carolina, Colonial era), [marriage to Lovy Barrington, 5 Feb 1784], d. 1785 (Thorney, Thorn Hill, Union Co., TN)
– Elizabeth Jane Wagstaffe (m. 10 Apr 1748, Dean, Bedfordshire, England), 1723-1783
– Thomas Cave Capps, born 1700 (England), d. 1731 (North Carolina, Colonial era)
– Elizabeth Lucas, born 1699 (Bedfordshire, England), d. 1766 (North Carolina, Colonial era)
Hey, movie fans, this is Neau Tahm Toulouse here with Entertainment Tweetly.
In political news, the governor of Tennessee today signed legislation banning scratch-n-sniff cards in children’s toys. The legislation is called the “gateway drug prevention” bill by the press. The governor countered that the new bill also contains subsections that approve the issuance of government IDs like social security numbers and voting cards but not driver’s licences to online personalities, keeping kids more strongly glued to their gaming devices in the hope that obsessive video gaming will act as a form of abstinence from physical contact with other humans, let alone any gateway sexual activity such as breathing the same air as another young adolescent in the room with you.
The Solicitor General has already posted a notice that the new Tennessee bill will probably be challenged in lower courts, so the Supreme Court took the preemptive move to issue an immediate comment about the Tennessee legislative act, stating that with one state recognising the legal right of virtual citizens, corporations now have the right to vote in elections, the corporations’ voting power (i.e., number of votes per voting district) proportionate to their monetary size, number of employees, superPAC donations and former legislators/judges/executives on their consultant/lobbyist payrolls and/or board of directors.
The governor, son of the founder of a large corporation, responded, “He who laughs last usually has his vast wealth in offshore accounts and trust funds.”
I caught Julia Roberts in a moment of regret and sadness during a recent interview, who was bemoaning the fact that she’s almost forgotten and reduced to playing the role of mean, wrinkled witches because she’s considered past her prime. She admitted that she had wanted to perform nude or topless scenes in film but had been discouraged by her agent because Julia’s breasts are asymmetrical in shape and audiences weren’t ready for mainstream stars to have imperfect bodies displayed larger-than-life. I only had my cell phone, which has a lousy microphone but I believe she also said, “younger actresses are lucky — audiences are so jaded they don’t pay attention to nudity anymore, as common as it is on the Internet — exhibitionism is expected, not shocking. Getting a job via the casting couch has changed, too, now that women are sitting in the director and producer chairs these days.” Julia wouldn’t elaborate when I asked her for details about that last comment.
This is Neau Tahm Toulouse, returning to his hopping spot in the French Quarter. I gotta take a break and read some real literature. This pop news reportin’ is ruinin’ my vocabulary and eloquent speechmakin’.
While our friends in another part of the world — a part-time merchant marine and a being from another planet — sort out where they’re going, let’s take a break, shall we?
A bottle-shaped volume of Founders Dry Hopped Pale Ale (35 IBU’s, 5.4% alc. by vol.) finds its way down my gullet, gulp by gulp.
Young men are completing their requirements for Eagle Scout.
A young woman is completing her winning entry in the Science Fair (Wait! Don’t tell her that she’s won — the judges haven’t critiqued her entry yet.).
People are poised to tour low Earth orbit or take a trip around the Moon, mere years away.
And an actress gives money to help starving people in the Sudan, yet another celebrity sealing her place in history as a person who’s assisting those “over there somewhere, but not in my backyard.” Some would call it spreading the gospel, evangelising, or doing one’s duty to serve a mission, share a vision and teach civilised survival skills.
These are mere words. They are the humble expression of my education, my subcultural training.
In the larger culture, the main channel where innumerable ideas flow past before I can blink an eye, many subcultural practices and beliefs influence my thought patterns.
I return to old thoughts that belong to Rick, the former writer of this blog:
Am I the grasshopper or the ant? Am I the Eagle Scout who displays behaviours consistent with the moral and ethical teaching of the subculture in which I was nourished, where women were objectified as almost virginal in their demeanor and respected as nonsexual mothers/daughters/sisters, or am I the boy who sneaked peeks at the Playboy magazines hidden in the top of my father’s closet, where women from all walks of life were objectified as sexually desirable in their posed photographic fantasies?
When the genders are equally participating in a fun game of sexually explicit skits on stage, should objectification of any sort sneak into my thoughts?
In that ol’ nature-vs-nurture discussion about the formation of personalities, what are the patterns, the personality archetypes, that lead some people to a life of church-based conformities and others to life without rules that discourage comfortably displaying the body, au naturel, and the actions bodies take to relieve sexual desires?
When two subcultures meet, such as the two described above, how do individuals of different subcultures first greet one another? What are their ordinary social interaction behaviours in office/school/outdoor environments?
I know I have traveled this path of words before but did I make any conclusive observations?
I have no grand, sweeping statements that try to box all personality types together, forcing them to operate under a set of rules for homogeneous behaviour.
I know better than that.
What can I say? Tonight, I enjoyed the simple pleasure of watching the performance of local actresses on stage, who sang original songs (accompanied by two male musicians), read original stories, and danced in levels of dress (or undress, if you will). Forgetting the lyrics once or twice, hitting the occasional note offkey and not on purpose.
Burlesque in the land of cotton and spaceships.
Creativity without question.
The main singer with the stage name of Rosie Profane, sounding like Laurie Anderson at times and looking like a grownup Miley Cyrus, was assisted by Pan Asian Cuisine (Christina Sanderson) and the Lovely Aunt Sofonda Peters (apparently a popular character actress of the Posey Peep Show, exemplified by the warm applause and wolf whistles she received).
Other than the staged reading of the Vagina Monologues (which always makes me want to say the Martian Chronicles, for some reason), I rarely get to read, hear or attend a public event where one is asked to think up a new euphemism for female masturbation such as occurred earlier this evening.
The title of this blog is one such poetic cliché for relieving the former medical condition of hysteria. Another one shouted out tonight was “freeing the slaves,” a reference with historic meaning here in the Heart of Dixie so soon after Juneteenth but also more generally in terms of feminine empowerment.
At the end of the workweek, I had the choice of listening to a tribute band perform the tracks for the album “Back in Black” by AC/DC, a band I never really cared for in my secondary school days, or seeing Rosie Profane bare her personality, her bosom and her derriere, a performance for which my father’s Playboy magazines prepared me.
Dad never cared for rock-n-roll.
Tonight, Dad, I raised a flask of Bushmills in your name while Rosie Profane-ly declared full freedom of expression by singing a song for a military member serving this great country of ours, where an Eagle Scout can watch a striptease act without an ounce of guilt and later write about it for the [uncensored] world to read.
With mass media outlets around the world reducing their staff, including our local newspaper, the Huntsville Times, blogs like these, as well as other social media formats, become the voice of the people.
As a cartoon caption recently stated, “He’ll keep doing it for free as long as we call him a content provider.”
Here’s your free, friendly mention of a local staged musical performance in a former cotton mill, just short of a full-fledged critical review, courtesy of humble ol’ me.
My choice of euphemism? Hmm…how about ripening the peach?