Instantaneous Communication: Part I

[My journal of alien contact]

Part I: The aliens were coming



The aliens were coming. We just didn’t know exactly when. Instantaneous communication was one thing, but instantaneous space travel was something else completely. We all hoped that by the time the Earth delegation met up with the Sarter delegation in Alpha Centauri A, one of the races would have developed a technology for faster-than-light travel.

We were aware only of some of the risks involved with our current slower-than-light travel methods. First off, there was a chance that one or both of the delegations would never make it to the meeting point. We had the instantaneous communication devices in place, but for all of our preparations, something could malfunction, or, heavens forbid, we could come into contact with a third race that was hostile to all of us. We all wondered why neither Earthlings nor Sartereans had heard from anyone in the Alpha Centauri A system, as it was supposed to meet all five conditions for life as we knew it. So far, Earthlings and Sartereans only had contact with each other, but that didn’t mean we were alone in the universe.

Alone in the universe: what a concept. For years, both Earthlings and Sartereans had sent out signals and satellites in the hopes that someone somewhere would pick up our bottled messages. A long time ago, people said they remembered exactly when the first humans landed on the moon. My grandparents said they remembered exactly where they were when we first received the Sarterean probe. My parents never tired of telling me the first time the the Sarterean music samples were actually released to the public. They quoted verbatim the voiced greetings from the Sartereans recorded in all of their different languages. (How old was the probe? It was old, older than my grandparents, but not as old as the first humans who landed on the moon.)

We were lucky, extremely lucky, in that the Earthlings and Sartereans had developed instantaneous communication around similar points in our histories. Some said that this piece of good fortune was the deus ex machina that made the whole extraterrestrial communication possible. This theory was meant to promote skepticism toward continued funding of such a device, because surely we couldn’t be that lucky. Surely, we were faking it. Then again, there were people who were convinced we’d faked the moon-landing photos. Later on, when we built the sky-elevator, people said we faked that too. There will always be Earthings or Sartereans who cry scornfully (in one language or another), “Deus ex machina!” when the subject of the instantaneous communicator comes up. I prefer the more homespun “Wonders never cease.” It's more truthful. In a universe of laws and logic that sometimes get bent or broken, it allows for wiggle-room.

Next: In which I tell you of my Sarterean penpal.

This story tips its hat many times to Orson Scott Card and Roald Dahl.

Every Seven Years

After writing a few long pieces, I need to fill up the writing well again. In the meantime, here are some more photos taken at seven year intervals. Every seven years, there's a complete turnover of cells in our bodies (not at the same time, though), so the seven year intervals make sense for me. Perhaps I'll think of a story for each photo.


Seven years old



Fourteen years old



Twenty-one years old



Twenty-eight years old

Next year, I'll turn 35, and then voila, I'll be a new person again.

Couch Band

When I showed Lucia this photo, she said, "Swamp bands play in the swamp!" That's a direct quote from Mama Don't Allow, by Thacher Hurd.

Remember...

I appreciate this prayer of intercession, called the Memorare:

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to Thy protection, implored thy help or sought thy intercession, was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence, I fly unto thee, O Virgin of Virgins, my Mother. To thee I come; before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in Thy mercy, hear and answer me. Amen.

It's the first sentence that gets me, the reminder that the reputation of the Theotokos is so reknowned that the person praying has full confidence Mary will deliver once again. I know that there are people suffering all over the world, I know that there are many unfair things happening, and yes, I wish I could do something to help everyone. I know that, no matter what is out there (or within us), the Divine is not Santa Claus who grants wishes to those who are good and delivers coal to those who are bad.

Even so, I am thinking of one particular person (the relative of a good friend) who has suddenly undergone an infection that could be fatal. I am angry, frustrated, and I don't care that life is unfair. As a character in a Madeleine L'Engle novel said, "It's not fair that it's not fair!" Whatever you believe, please add your petitions of hope and good wishes for this person you do not know.

These lyrics from the song Anything, by Sixpence None the Richer, are going through my head:

So hey baby, can you shed some light on the problem maybe?
'Cause we're all crying and we'd like to know
If we should pack our tents, shut down the show.
Yes, we should like to see a burning bush-type sign.
But anything would be fine.

Saints as Action Figures, Part II

Today's assortment of saints as action figures veers from the traditional and reveals through modernity that the saints are for All Time. I've noticed that the saints whose stories I find most intriguing are constantly coming up as apocryphal or (perish the thought) legendary. For example, Catherine of Alexandria, most famous these days for how she was tortured, i.e. the Catherine Wheel, is no longer on the calendar of saints. Most famously, St. Christopher has been removed from the calendar as well, provoking the ire of many people who wear his medallion.

1) Like St. Christopher, Catherine of Alexandria is one of the Fourteen Holy Helpers. She is my favorite patron saint of librarians, as she is much more of an approachable figure than the brilliant but curmudgeonly St. Jerome. In my book, Catherine of Alexandria gets her own action figure:



2) Amand of Maastricht, the patron saint of beer brewers and wine-makers, is a Frenchman. However, as I designed his action figure, he turned into an English bartender. His traditional accessories are a chair, a church and a flag. As an action figure, Amand holds two pints of ale.



3) The Archangel Gabriel is the patron saint of telecommunications. Traditionally, he plays a trumpet, but the only brass option in the Mini-Mizer was a baritone horn. The modern device in his left hand is a nod to the ubiquitous nature of mobile-phones. (Warning: wings are not detachable.)



4) Frances of Rome, patron saint of motorists, gets a complete makeover. Thus far, she is the only action figure saint to come with her own set of wheels. Note the tire-changing tools in her hands. As an action-figure, Frances of Rome is the very model of capability on the road.



5) I had never heard of Lydia Purpuraria before starting my research on this project. "Purpuraria," I learned, means "purple-seller." Lydia is St. Paul's first known convert, and is the patron saint of dyers.As soon as I read about this saint, I knew I had to make a purple action figure. The next time you decide to transform a shirt with a box of RIT, remember Lydia Purpuraria.

Saints as Action Figures, Part I

Lesa Bellavie of The Magdalene Review linked an article from the New Yorker called The Saintly Sinner, by Joan Acocella. While I am always interested in articles about Mary Magdalene, it was this particular paragraph about saints that caught my eye and made me laugh out loud:

A religion, in order to succeed, must offer a little fun: stories, symbols, rituals. The Catholic saints, however ill-founded their biographies, are a vivid group, each with a certain kind of hair and a certain hat, and accompanied by a lion or a dragon or something else interesting. They are like a collection of dolls or superheroes, or like the Hindu pantheon—full of color and variety.

It's true! We need our dollies or [hem, hem, important dignified coughing] action figures. While one can find certain saint statues, they're more for display than for play. The Seattle-based novelty store, Archie McPhee, does its best, but I shall humbly submit a few additions to the collection. It was Hitman J who introduced me to the ridiculously addictive Mini-Mizer and gave me cause to dream of action figures of my own.

1) Starting off the grand opening of Saints and Spinners Action Figures is none other than Mary of Magdala, known to many as the patron saint of hairdressers, glove-makers, and penitent sinners. As an action figure, the Magdalene is depicted here in her role as the Myrrhbearer:



2) Caedmon of Whitby, about whom I wrote recently, gets a whole tableau to make up for the lack of saint medallions commemorating his contribution to English poetry:




3) Lucy of Syracuse is often depicted with her eyes on a plate, and yet with both eyes in her head. With a little tweaking, I was able to come up with the appropriate symbolism (and of course, the eye-patch is a nod to my own daughter's early adventures with her eyeball, when we thought patching the strong eye might help the PHPV eye):



4) Lawrence of Rome, the patron saint of chefs, was roasted alive on a gridrion over a slow fire. At one point, he allegedly said "Turn me over; I'm done on this side!" If anyone deserves a "Good Sport Martyrdom Award," it's definitely St. Lawrence:



Let me make one thing clear: had I been in St. Lawrence's position, I definitely would have complained.


To be continued...

Caedmon's Hymn

St. Caedmon has no officially assigned patronage
(and in fact, isn’t even a formally canonized saint), but I think of Caedmon as the patron saint of sacred lyrical poetry. Although history has retained only eight lines of Caedmon’s verses, the Venerable Bede said that Caedmon composed many more wonderful pieces. I believe the Venerable Bede.

It haunts me that we can lose people’s creations so easily. I think of the desecreation of the Royal Library of Alexandria, and more recently, the National Museum of Iraq. What can I say? There is nowhere I can even begin to do justice to commemorate what we have lost.

However, I can tell you about Caedmon, and then you will know another story. By the way, “Caedmon” was what we chose for our baby’s name were we to have had a boy. I am guessing that most people will think our child was lucky she was born a girl (that "ae" is a difficult dipthong that is open to interpretation depending upon which language rules you follow), but I still think of “Caedmon” as Lucia’s boy-name.



Caedmon's Hymn, or "What Shall I Sing?"

Caedmon was a cowherd for the great monastery of Whitby. He was shy and slow of speech, but he loved the cows and often talked to them. While he was courteous and pleasant to the other farmhands, his shyness kept him from becoming good friends with them.

At the end of the day, all the farmhands would gather together and sing songs about the great heroes of the past. They passed the lyre from one farmhand to the next, but Caedmon always let the lyre pass him by. The very thought of singing in front of everyone made his knees wobble and his mouth dry up.

It was different in the barn. Sometimes, Caedmon would make up a little song and sing it to the cows. One song he had was only a line long:

“Living Lord beginning made—ah…”

It was a little song, but it was a good song. The cows listened, and perhaps the angels listened too, but Caedmon didn’t notice that, as he went about his work, the other farmhands began to overhear the song too. They joked to each other, “Caedmon’s in the barn, chewing the cud, just like the cows!” but they didn’t bother him, for they knew he was shy.

However, one night, after the a great feast in the farmhand’s dining room, the lyre went around the room, and someone called out, “Caedmon, it’s your turn to sing something for us!”

Caedmon’s knees shook and his tongue dried up in his mouth. He stumbled to his feet and ran to the door. “I’ve got to look out of the cows!” he said. Once Caedmon reached the barn, he felt better. He checked on all the cows, and then curled up in some hay and fell fast asleep.

Caedmon dreamed. In the dream, a man appeared before him and said, “Caedmon, sing me something.”

“I don’t know how to sing,” Caedmon said. “That is why I ran away from the feast.”

“You do know how to sing,” the man said. “You sang for the cows, and now you shall sing for me.”

“What shall I sing?” Caedmon asked.

“Sing to me of creation,” the man said.

Caedmon opened his mouth and began to sing. He didn’t think about what he should sing, and the words just came out of his mouth:

Now hail we heaven-kingdom’s Lord, the
Measurer’s might, and His mind’s thought, the
Wonder-father’s work! Of all things He the
Living Lord beginning made—ah!
First He raised heaven’s roof on high, that
Holy Shaper, for sons of men—ah!
Middle-earth then mankind’s Lord, the
Living Lord, with all life filled, for
All men’s sons, Almighty God, ah!*

When Caedmon woke from his dream, he felt a confidence he had never had before. He decided he must tell his dream to his boss, the reeve who ran the farm. When Caedmon sang, the reeve said, “We must go to the Lady Hilda and tell her your dream.”

“Lady Hilda?” Caedmon asked. “The Abbess?”

Caedmon’s newfound courage began to waver, but the reeve said, “Yes, the Abbess will want to hear about your dream.”

When the Abbess Hilda heard Caedmon’s song, she called to all of the monks and nuns to listen. “The man who appeared to you in your dream was an angel,” Abbess Hilda said.

“Yes,” Caedmon replied, and bowed his head.

The Abbess Hilda asked Caedmon to sing other songs. Someone read aloud the story of Adam and Eve, as Caedmon himself did not read. Caedmon mulled it over during the night, and in the morning, had composed another song. That is how Caedmon spent the rest of his days. He became a brother in the monastery where he listened every day to the sacred stories. After he listened, he chewed over the Word as cows chew their cud, and when he was ready, he brought forth new songs.


It is recorded that Caedmon died on February 11, AD 680. There is a carving of Caedmon (pictured below the Abbess Hilda) on a cross in Whitby, Yorkshire North Riding, England. Below his picture are the words:

Caedmon
To the glory of God and in
memory of
Caedmon
The Father of English
Sacred Song
Fell asleep
hard by 680

*Caedmon’s story comes from Bede's History of the English Church (Book IV, Chapter 24) . My short version is heavily influenced by Robert P. Creed’s storytelling, and the actual hymn translation is directly quoted from Creed's version of the story, “How Caedmon Got His Hymn.” You may find Creed's text version in Best Loved Stories: Told at the National Storytelling Festival.

Zigger Beans

August 9, 2011 note to readers: for liability reasons, I cannot send you scanned pages of my copy of Zigger Beans. Our best recourse at this time is to petition Scholastic to reprint this book.


John the mouse was feeling mean,
Until he ate a zigger bean.
It made him sing a zigger tune
A ziggering beneath the moon.
A zigger-zigger-ziggering
beneath the golden moon.

As a child, the book Zigger Beans, written and illustrated by Diane Redfield Massie, was one of my favorites. I can quote it by heart. Ten years ago, my mother found the family copy and gave it to me. I wish I could link the book title for you, but it's so "unavailable" that the only copy I saw on Amazon.com a year ago was going for a lot of money. It's not fair. It's simply not fair. I don't want to sell my book for a lot of money-- I don't want to sell it at all. I just want it to be in print so I can use it for storytimes. It would be unfair of me to share the book in storytime, and then have people want to check out copies or buy them.

I finally got around to scanning the pages for my own personal use. If something happens to the physical copy of the book, at least there would be a back-up copy. I should figure out how to go about petitioning a book to come back into print. If I had my own publishing company, I'd be set.



John the mouse put on his skates
And rolled across the dinner-plates.
His mother said, "Good heavens, John!
Whatever are you rolling on!"

"I'm zigger-zigger-ziggering,
I'm ziggering," said John.

Three other out-of-print books that really should be in print:

*"I Can't," said the Ant, by Polly Cameron
*The Pumpkin Man and the Crafty Creeper, by Margaret Mahy, illustrated by Helen Craig
*Dinner at Alberta's, by Russell Hoban, illustrated by James Marshall

Please add to the list.

Third Wish

I have lots of notes and background material* for stories. More often than not, they remain as notes. Every now and then, I think one is actually worth pursuing. Other times, I enjoy thinking about the story more than I believe I would actually enjoy writing it. These notes about a genie in a bottle falls somewhere in the middle:

The Genie in the bottle can give three wishes (of course). The story is totally from her point of view, perhaps. There is a curse, of course, and she has to be in the bottle. She can grant three wishes. During the period of the three wishes, she can enjoy the world, but when the third wish is done, she has to return to the bottle. The person who had the bottle has to throw it back into the water or within three days, will lose the three wishes (and more). The genie points out each time that one of the wishes can be used for her freedom. Some people promise, but in the end, they all (to a point) use the third wish on something else. The genie says she doesn’t begrudge anybody this, but as the years pass into millennia, she begins to grow frustrated. Is this story first person? I think. But the genie can tell stories of past bottle-possessors as third person narratives.

There has to be someone who will set the genie free. The genie passes through many hands throughout the ages. Some people try to steal the bottle. There are ground rules. There are penalties for certain kinds of wishes. The wisher has to be wise enough to figure out what they are. A lot of people cheat by asking for unlimited wishes. That wish negates all the other wishes they’ve had, and something wretched happens. The bottle cannot be broken. Once the genie has given three wishes, she goes back to the bottle, and any attempts to uncork her lead to disastrous results. The bottle must be found, it may not be given. It must be placed in a body of water.

People expect the wishes to be instantaneous. They aren’t.

Some wishes:
1) to have one’s desired person fall in love with the wisher
2) money
3) flight
4) ability to forsee the future
5) someone wants his pet to come back to life
6) rule a country
7) a pony

Eventually, the bottle falls into the hands of someone interesting, and that person is the other main character of the story. This could be my response to The Giving Tree [one of the few books I actively hate so much I'm not even going to link it, though I would not be so cruel as to deprive you of Shel Silverstein's website].

The character-boy doesn’t immediately wish for something obvious and external. He says rather galliantly that he will set the genie free with his third wish. The genie nods. She’s heard this before. The boy doesn’t immediately start wishing. He asks, what are some of the other wishes people have asked for? This could be the frame tale for more stories. I love frame tales! I really do.



*This is a euphemism for daydreaming on the page to the point of procrastination.