The Unbidden Voice

We ran until our lungs ached and our legs burned.  We ran until we stumbled, until we crawled, heaving breaths that provided no air at all.  Then we stood again and shuffled on like the extinction on our heels.

Finally we came to a town, one of those half-forgotten highway outposts in the pine barrens.  We had been thankful for the call at first, grateful her phone had picked up the signal all the way out at our campsite.  By the time we arrived in Low Rock, New Jersey, though, there was nothing left in us but bitterness.

I had chased her and waited for her and consoled her since high school.  Twelve years I spent longing for her like some guy from an eighties teen movie.  When she'd gone to college in the city, I had written or e-mailed or called every day.  If she had gotten sick of it, shown some sign of frustration, I might have given up, but she never did.  

Finally, that night at our campsite, after two bottles of wine and two hours of tears, she had realized.  We had done that sort of thing a dozen times.  More.  

"Why are they always such pricks," she'd asked through the tears.  

"I don't know," I said.  I had long since given up on reminding her I wasn't a prick.

It was then that the teary mist over her eyes cleared.  I had waited so long to see her face soften that way.  She coughed, excused herself to a bush.  Over the next three hours, she went from doubtful to curious to coy.  It was almost dawn, we were watching the sky lighten, when she scooted up against me in the cold.  As the sun appeared, she leaned in, I felt her exhalation my neck, like a warm breath after a million years submerged.  

Her phone rang.  I heard the panic in her mother's voice.  We left the tents, the fire, taking only our packs and my rifle.  The truck was an hour's hike east.  East was most certainly the wrong way,; so we took off on foot.  

We heard the first screams an hour later, off in the distance.  We thought they were victims.  We'd seen the movies; everyone had.  They're supposed to moan.  But in real life, they scream like demons.

The first packs appeared about dusk, shuffling toward us like heroine addicts.  We had thought we knew what to expect, but the movies can't prepare you. That's when we ran.

Coming into Low Rock, everything was silent.  We thought we were safe and made for the hardware store.  Our plan was to get some supplies, find a car to steal, and head up into Canada.  It was a good plan, all things considered.  

But as I took aim at the chintzy lock on the back door, Becky screamed.  I spun around to see a pack of them, no, a horde, shuffling madly down the alley.  I glanced behind, thought we could make the fence. we did make it, but as she pulled me up after her, one of them clawed at me and bit me hard, tearing through my Achilles before I hauled myself over.

I came down hard, the breath rushing out of me, my vision already going red. I unslung the rifle, pushed it into her hands.  She shook her head, crying audibly.  

"Go," I said.  She stood up.  I watched amazed as she undressed, right there, the undead shoving each other into the chain link just a couple of feet off.  She was  down to shirt and white bra in no time, kneeling down to rip off my belt.  She pulled my pants down, and in spite of everything-- the fear, the shock, knowing she was committing suicide, I was ready.

And she knelt over me, grinding while she ripped off the last of her clothes.  She leaned in, kissing me, as my vision went crimson.  I tried to push her off, but she locked her legs around mine.  She was moaning into my mouth.

I felt my back arch, my loins throb, my heart stop.  I had saved myself for her: I didn't know what to expect.  I screamed, first in pleasure, then in unliving rage.  I bit her face, tearing the flesh off her chin.  She pushed herself up, leaned back and swung the gun around into my face.  I clawed her breasts as she pulled the trigger.

My vision shifted again, this time to gray scale.  She watched me twitch once more and die, eyes still open.  I didn't understand.  She leaned in and kissed me again before bringing the gun to her mouth, but it was too late.  Her eyes went red-- somehow I could see that among the shades of gray.  The gun clattered to the asphalt.

She rose and shuffled off into the night.  My awareness went with her, leaving my body behind in the alley, smelling of death and sex.

I followed her like that for a year before a squad of marines finally caught up to her pack in the Adirondacks.  There were a hundred of the dead gathered around her by then, but they only lasted a few minutes.

Now I spend my days running from the pine barrens to Low Rock, my nights hovering over her grave.  No-one knew who she was.  Her I.D. had been in the pack, a hundred miles away.  Her family was gone, her birth certificate and dental records lost or destroyed.  

Besides, no one cares about the dead anymore.  Only I remember her for who she was.  Only I know her name.

Having just received (via subscription) and devoured Chris Claremont and Tom Grummett’s X-Men Forever #1, I have no choice but to review it.

Let’s start with my initial reaction to the cover: It’s gorgeous.  It’s classic.  It’s Claremont all the way.  Mr. Grummett’s obvious familiarity with Claremont’s previous run on the X-Men property has already served this title well.  Naturally, as with any of Claremont’s work, even the cover raises questions.  For example, why is Sabretooth on the cover and why must I always suffer through the existence of the world’s most pathetic mutant, Gambit?  Ah well.

Inside the book? Even better.  Even more classic, even more iconic and even more X-Men.  After more than fifteen years writing the X-Men followed by more than fifteen years NOT writing the X-Men, Claremont is still on the mutant ball.  The splash page offers everything you want.  It’s a glorious and thought-provoking image not seen since the team first donned piped blue-gray pleather thanks to enormous ticket sales in the theater.  It makes one ask “What the @#&*?!?”  One immediately realizes that this is a classic Marvel comics move—the semiredux.  Let me just say, I couldn’t be happier about that.

If you remember Giant Sized X-Men #1, you’ll find this book nostalgic and exciting.  It revisits the themes of that amazing story and sets the stage for the classic Claremont-esque style beautifully.

“What’s this Claremont-esque style?” some may ask?  It’s a perfect fusion of conflicts.  The action reflects the tension within the team which mirrors the struggle between the team and its foes, both mutant and societal.  This layering is sure to leave those readers more interested in the character than their powers waiting breathlessly for the next issue.  Every comic is sure to resolve on issue and raise a dozen new questions.

Where’s the tenacious love triangle going now?  Where has Wolverine disappeared to, and whose trail is he on?  Will the ever-moral Nightcrawler resolve the good with the fight? Can Xavier rebuild the family and hold it together?  What is Nick Fury really up to?
 
Of course, I’m not your average reader.  I’m the kind of reader who has been dying to see Claremont X-Men for as long as there hasn’t been any.  I was born in 73, and grew up reading these comics.  I remember Chris Claremont’s run on the X-Men as the golden years, a time when character drove the story and powers supported those characters rather than defined them.

Which brings me back to Tom Grummett’s terrific art.  It’s just as classic, just as appropriate and just as illustrative as any of the incredible artists who worked with Claremont in the 80s and 90s.

With all due respect to Fraction and the Land/Leisten team, this book is so much better than the current Uncanny stuff it isn’t even funny.  The story is richer, denser (another Claremont trait: you get a lot of story and character development in your 32 pages) more visually supported and, frankly, more interesting to the adult reader’s mind.

The only things this book leaves me wanting are a time-travel machine (to skip two weeks to #2) and more money (to buy all the other titles that are now looking more interesting in a “phoenix rising” Marvel Comics era).

Buy it.  Twice.

I give X-Men Forever #1 4 out of 4 colors, 5 out of 5 stars and 100% on the Great Comics of Our Time Scale.

Welcome back, Chris.  It’s good to have you home.

So this last weekend, I ventured into well known but nigh forgotten territory with a couple of friends.  In spite of a late start (about 12 1/2 hours late), we made it to the Deep Creek trailhead of the Great Smoky Mountains fairly early in the day.

After a lunch of pizza reheated in foil on the engine block, we double checked our packs and hit the trail.  The noise and blaring colors of the main camp and the river tubers that populated faded quickly as we hauled ourselves and our supplies up the mountain.  The trail was in excellent condition, and the cool mountain air and fresh stream water (filtered) helped me, the least fit among us, make it the four miles through gorgeous mixed forest to the campsite.  With Gatlinburg and Cherokee N.C. not far away at all, we found beauty and peace in the song of Deep Creek herself, rushing past our little camp.

In mere minutes I was in the stream, splashing about and collecting camp water.  We set up our tents, gathered kindling for our very reluctant fire-- we were, after all, in the Smokies, a wet region on the best of days, even without the morning storms.  That afternoon we threw our rations together and made chicken and rice with gravy over the open fire.  There was more than the three of us could eat.  Dinner was followed by three terrific cigars, provided lovingly by my Dearheart. 

The evening lingered gently and slowly into night.  A sprinkling of rain refreshed the forest at dusk, and sleep came easily, even in a tent I could barely stretch out in diagonally.

The next day dawned bright and beautifully.  I rose in what I can only guess was the mid-morning and hit the river again.  Later, my roomie Derek joined me in the creek for yet another splashful expedition.  We traipsed about freely, examiner the river stones, rich with quartz and mica, talked and laughed.

I remembered and recounted to him an encounter in Nashville years before.  It was the nineties, and I was attending an arts ad crafts festival at Centennial Park.  I encountered there several Native American crafters, one of them a Cherokee shaman with whom I had a long conversation.  On parting, he said offhandedly, "Goodbye River Bear, it was nice to meet you." 

The name has always been with me, lodged solidly in the back of my head.  It has only rarely come up in all these years.  At the time, though, it had resonated.

And there, in the serenity and gorgeous green of the Smokies, a place where I had spent many happy, wandering hours in my youth, it returned to me.  The bear is most certainly my totem.  I am indeed a defender and teacher.  There may be some lion in there somewhere, according to a South-African shaman, but really, I'm a bear.  More precisely, a River Bear.

That night, we drank and laughed and finished our cigars.  We told silly stories and had what can best be described as wanton "man fun", wreathed in smoke and primitive celebration.  The next day, we broke camp leisurely and made our way down the four mile track to civilization.  Much of our return trip followed another river, one full of rafters and kayakers, which I intend to visit soon. 

The whole experience was so invigorating it's hard to describe.  It put me even more in mind of myself, which has been a major theme lately.  Another step on the path back to my path has been taken, and I'd like to thank Chris and Derek, and my Dearheart as well, for helping make it possible.  I want to thank the National Park Commission for setting the land aside for such uses, the Cherokee for so carefully and lovingly preserving it before them and the goddess for building the mountains and moving them across the world that they might be loved by we narcissistic, hurried Americans in need of memories old and new.

  

The Tony award winning Wicked is coming to Nashville!  This clever musical, written by Stephen Schwartz and Winnie Holzman is based on Gregory Maguire's innovative retelling of the Wizard of Oz.  It tells the story of apprentice Wicked Witch of the West, Elphaba, and her life before dear Dorothy turns the Land of Oz upside down.  TPAC is holding a special ticketing event for the Nashville performances, running September 2nd through 20th.

DATE:  Saturday, June 6 2009
TIME:  8:00 AM - 10: 00 AM (Come early, it will fill up fast!)
PLACE:  TPAC's Jackson Hall Box Office
   (The line will begin at the bridge on War Memorial Plaza.)

EVENT DETAILS:

Between 8:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m., tickets will be exclusively available at the Tennessee Performing Arts Center’s downtown box office. The line for the event will begin at the bridge on War Memorial Plaza.

Ticket buyers are encouraged to arrive early for access to some of the best seats in the house and special box office opening festivities. WJXA Mix 92.9 radio will be on site with live remote broadcasts, offering prizes for WICKED trivia and karaoke participants. WJXA also will give WICKED hats to the first 92 ticket buyers in line, Dunkin Donuts will provide green “munchkin” donuts and coffee to the first 150 people in line, and Which Wich will hand out vouchers for a free “The Wicked” sandwich to the first 100 people in line, as well as free samples at the event.

Beginning at 10 a.m., remaining tickets will be available online; by calling Ticketmaster at 615/255-ARTS (2787); and at all Ticketmaster outlets, including TPAC’s Box Office at Davis-Kidd Booksellers in The Mall at Green Hills. There is a maximum of 8 tickets per person. For information on offers for groups of 20 or more, call TPAC Group Sales at 615/782-4060.

The preexisting sales to season ticket holders and groups indicate an overwhelming interest in WICKED. It is possible that the Nashville engagement will sell out quickly. Patrons are urged to purchase their tickets to WICKED early.

The WICKED on-sale event will take place June 6, rain or shine. Promotions, giveaways and event details are subject to change without notice.

Visit http://tinyurl.com/NashvilleTheatre

Tarma crept with utmost care along the cave’s perimeter, staying tucked into the shadows like a silver coin in a sock.  Her favorite dagger in her right hand, she picked her way through nearly total darkness, sliding gracefully between loose boulders.  Tarma knew the Baruuk weren’t far behind; she could just hear them grunting and calling out to each other softly in their primitive tongue.  The rocks all around were slick with cold, seeping water and puddles dotted the floor.  Her situation was most precarious.

      Not long ago, there had been four of them.  The Baruuk had appeared out of nowhere, pouring out of the darkness.  Her party’s flickering torches had lit their tusked faces and crude, dark steel weapons as they fell upon the heroes in wave after bloody wave.  Franklin, stout Dwarven warrior of Everhold, had fallen first, his iron chest plate split evenly down the middle.  Only seconds later, the elven brothers Beoryn and Neylsh were overwhelmed, their prayers inadequate to meet the tide of ferocity that crashed upon them. 

      Only her familiarity with desperation had saved Tarma.  Though young, lithe and beautiful, life had never been easy on the rogue.  Her parents had been killed when she was only seven: she knew not why.  What she did know, even then, was that life in the care of lecherous priests or slavers was no life at all, and so she had taken to the streets with only a torn dress and sharp wit.  When she saw the elves fall, Tarma pushed the loss of her lovers down deep within and found a way to survive.  Falling, as though slipping in the blood of her fallen foemen and friends, she reached into her belt pouch and scooped a potion towards her mouth with almost supernatural quickness.  As she hit the ground her teeth bit the cork in half, in the very nick of time.  Just as the bitter but always welcome brew passed her lips, two heavy spearheads found their way deep into her back.

      The Baruuk ripped their weapons from her flesh and raised them over their heads, loosing a triumphant roar.  They did not see the wounds close just as they did not see their kill vanish as she slipped a ring onto her left small finger.

      She slid quietly away from the pile of fallen, stopping only to seize a key from Beoryn’s pouch.  By the time the Baruuk noticed her gone, she was hundreds of yards away, still unseen, creeping quickly but quietly onwards.

 

      Though exhausted and on the verge of tears, Tarma knew she had to press on.  She and the others, known to the Heroes’ Guild as The Children of Norrin’s Dream, had been given a heavy deed, some months ago at the guild complex in Ravennia.  They were to travel north to the Iceclaw Range, delve deep into the Underworld and locate a secret Baruuk enclave.  What they found there chilled their very souls, for they knew it meant a true horror was soon to be visited upon the free peoples of Ravenna.  There in a dank, filthy cave, they came upon a pool of blood, bubbling forth hot from the very earth.  And as they watched, a dozen Baruuk, adorned not in the usual leather armor, but instead in hooded robes of black entered into the cavern and began a terrible ritual. 

      But as the heroes moved to stop the dark magic, a man-like thing, with skin of ebon black and eyes red as the pool from which it emerged, stepped forth.  The Children of Norrin’s Dream knew not what they saw, but it was evident that it saw them.   It roared its rage at them as they fled, and the heroes felt it’s presence close on their heels as they tried for weeks to escape.  The Baruuk, however, always found them.  The party had no rest, no peace at all as stone orcs fell upon them in packs, always seeming to know where to find their prey. 

      There had been no time to prepare a report.

 

      And now it was left to poor, shaking little Tarma, all fiery hair and breath, but no real knowledge.  She could only barely read, much less write.  But she knew if she could somehow get onto parchment the story of her beloveds’ death, there would be vengeance.  She knew, also, that if she could not, the consequences would be dire indeed.

      Her ring only worked it’s magic for an hour each day, so she had conserved it, using it only when she saw no other way.  With its aid, her noteworthy skill and no little amount of sheer luck, Tarma had managed to gain distance from what she and her friends had come to call Blood Hold.  For eleven days she had fled alone, and she knew she was coming to the end of her strength.

      But she carried on, moving with as much stealth as her wearied and beaten frame could manage.  She could hear now that the voices of her hunters were fading; she was pulling ahead yet again.  This time she had to make it count.

 

      Three hours later, she finally stopped.  Activating her ring, Tarma gathered dried moss from the cave walls and pulled two sheets of parchment, ink and a bent quill from her pack.  She ate some dried fruit as well, chewing slowly to savor the rich flavor, and washing it down with fresh, cool water.  Then, Tarma cried.  She wept quietly, shaking a little by her unlit fire, knees drawn up against her chest.  Her tears flowed until her head felt ready to burst.  Just as the magic of her ring dampened away, she drew a deep, heaving breath and steadied herself. 

      Tarma lit the fire quickly as she could, and laid a pair of broken arrows against it to char.  She smoothed the parchment out against the cavern’s rough floor and began laboriously to draw.  On the front of the first page, she scrawled her company’s symbol, a sword jutting downwards through a golden crown.  Her red hair fell in vexing curls around her eyes, and sweat dripped always from her pale face as she worked.  On the back, she wrote the names and birth dates of her companions, then the day of their deaths. Drops of sweat upon the page were joined by tears.  The second page was a crude map, showing as well as she was able the location of Blood Hold.  Upon the back of that leaf, she drew a picture of the chanting, dancing Baruuk, and the demon, or whatever it was, that rose from the pool as best as she was able. 

      She thought it a feeble effort indeed, but as she was considering another option, she heard them.  The Baruuk were coming fast around a bend not nearly far enough off,  straight toward her little fire. 

      In a speed born more of duty than terror, Tarma dug into her pouch and produced the key.  Turning it in the air as she knelt and saying quietly “Shindahl”, a chest appeared around it, emerging out of the very air.  She quickly pulled the lid open, threw her pages in atop the already present contents and slammed it shut again.  She turned the key back and repeated the word of power. 

            Tarma stood, beautiful and defiant in the firelight as the chest vanished.  Whatever came now was not her concern.  Her duty was done, and her life would soon be over.

Being 36 as of 45 minutes ago, the Terminator property is one dear to my heart. The original Terminator (1984) was a tremendous influence on my then-blossoming idea of manhood.  In a general way, action movies of that era and their descendants are the only action movies I care for.  Naturally, the Terminator series is heavily sci-fi oriented, but that has historically been a thin veneer, which peels off in minutes, like the T-800's organic sheath. 

One is a fool to expect anything less than phenomenal effects from a Terminator movie, and Salvation fulfills that hope and then some.  Sure, giant human-shaped robots make no sense, really, but we love them anyway.  What I really want to know is why any post-apocalyptic setting seems to require random fires all over the place.  Wreckage and rubble, sure, but constant gas leaks lasting for decades are a bit much.  The machines, in spite of their inherent and requisite design flaws are marvelously rendered.  Their audible representation was also excellent, fitting in nicely with Danny Elfman's excellent if predictable score.

The acting is also predictable.  Largely lackluster, the dialogue is delivered in that typical action movie style; reminiscent of a can of Coke left open overnight.  The numerous hands that touched the script are also fairly obvious.  Only J. D. Brancato and Michael Ferris are credited, but word on the web is that at least four other scriptwriters worked this project, further proof that Hollywood is a lopsided beast that despises the very foundation upon which it is built. 

Those lines most vital to an action script (i.e. one liners) received some attention by director McG (Joseph McGinty Nichol), but like the rest of his name, the vital relationships and supporting characters were ignored if not forgotten entirely.  The end result is merely typical action movie fare. 

A major complaint is the ending, of which I will say only this: If it annoyed you, you must not have seen it coming.  I am therefore led to believe you have utterly ignored everything every English teacher you ever had tried to teach you.  Read a book

Overall, I enjoyed the movie a lot, but must still consider its flaws in rating.  I give T4: Salvation 6 of 10 points.

Let it be known that I wouldn't be posting this here if I had the brains to avoid traveling light.  I left my journal at home.  Then again, maybe that's a lie.

So I went out today to take care of some assorted business, and the next to last thing on that list was fresh carrots for Harvey.  The store I had gotten previous batches from didn't have the kind I needed, with the tops still on, so I tried other grocers, to no avail.  I wound up at the Kroger's nearest the theatre and as I'm parking, I'm listening to "Ariel" by The October Project.  Combine any in-depth knowledge of me and the previous post and you see where the serendipity is kicking in.

"My name is Ariel
And i want to be free,
It is your sorrow
That has made a slave of me.
Forgive me,
Forgive me,
But you are all I know.
Forgive me for leaving."

As I exit my truck, who do you suppose I should happen to see approaching the store entrance?  None other than my exgirlfriend, with whom that song is deeply associated, and who is partially responsible for my most recent post and the disintegration mentioned therein.  I tend to call her Maus online.

I wasn't certain it was her, but I had to go in anyway (which she might tend to consider stalking), so I did, and browsed about until I saw her again.  Observing her habits from afar, I became more solidified in my recognition.  She ruminated her cheek and tapped at the counter as she ordered her prescription.  She had the same style of glasses, wore her clothes and carried her purse the same way.  She was disshevelled.  I dug half-heartedly through the discount movie bin before turning away to locate carrots.

Though not entirely certain, my stomach and soul were by now churning.  Maus did not look happy.  Her jaw was set, her nerves obviously on edge-- perhaps because she had seen me, perhaps not.  Either way I'll always wonder.  In any event, I have found myself angered, wounded and worried over the encounter. Is she unwell?  Is she unhappy?  I know she hates me passionately, which is frankly a feeling mostly returned, but that does nothing to alter my concern or the storm of emotions rampaging through me now.  I doubt I would feel any different had we exchanged what surely would have been uncomfortable, bileful words.

Maybe it wasn't actually her but that hardly matters.  I am, after all, the faithful quantum observer.

They didn't even have the right carrots.  We'l just have to do without the greens tonight, I'm afraid.  I won't be entirely myself tonight (or perhaps it's the inverse that's true), so if I am rude or distant, I beg you not to take it personally.

As always,

Starlit and shattered,
Torn but not tattered

I find myself wondering, from time to time, how like other people I am.  Naturally, everyone is unique (which is just another way of saying no one is) in spite of themselves.  Knowing this, I have been repeatedly enraptured by the fascinating traits of others, almost universally to my detriment in the long run, since it turns out that the differences lead only to disintegration.

Disintegrate: –verb (used without object)

1.	to separate into parts or lose intactness or solidness; break up; deteriorate: The old book is gradually disintegrating with age.

Let me tell you, I've done a lot of that.  The constant struggle to build a life with security and meaning has been a long, hard fight indeed.  It surely can't help that those I chose to do it with have had no real understanding of me.  Sure, they've understood my passion, my creativity, my erudition even, but rarely has anyone successfully contemplated the whole.

Some facts about me:
 

• I am a troubled soul, but that doesn't make me a loser, no matter how hard one tries to manifest that belief.
• My personal evolution has slowed to a crawl more than once, but has never halted or failed.
• Hopefulness and realism are forever battling within me, but my neural pathways know what is true in my quantum reality.
• That your reality is not my own does not make you a superior individual by any leap of logic or faith.  The inverse is also true.
• I do in fact hold a grudge.  Moreover, I nurture and feed a grudge until it bifurcates infinitely into a veritable army.  More importantly, however, I have reasons for my grudges, and should those reasons be allayed, I will certainly and gladly forgive.
• I am a source and subject of inspiration, and this is perhaps the sole factor in my life's worthiness.  Without that, all my loves and works would be for naught. 
  

The depth of my reflection turns out to separate me significantly from the masses. It separates me even more from those with whom I have sought connection, as those fascinating variations in human nature that draw me like moon to earth have never been balanced in such a way as to maintain gravity until very lately. 

As I have previously mentioned, I do not deal well with disintegration.  While there are many arenas in which the inevitability of change is welcome, my personal life is not one of them.  What I am really getting at is that I have never fully disintegrated at all, which has left me in need of impossible reintegration, which I neither expect nor want, but nonetheless leaves a vacancy of spirit. 

In the end, there is no way to alter this reality.  I seem to have managed the only possible positive reaction, which is to embrace it.  While the immediate effects are generally destructive, I eventually learn more about myself and, by extension, everything else.

But, having reflected and processed, I do not forget.  I never forget.  In fact, I never complete even the internal integration. 

Though it pains me, I'm OK with that.

There.  Self-indulgent post complete.  For now.

I would like to apologize to my loyal readers (all seven of you) for my reticence of late.The play (see http://tinyurl.com/Harvey09) has had me busy beyond my expectations.  Tonight is the last show of our opening weekend, which has been an unmitigated success. 

My cast and crew have exceeded all of my expectations, and I am proud and grateful.  My co-director has been a joy to work with as well.  More at my Nashville Theatre Examiner column here: http://tinyurl.com/NashvilleTheatre.

More soon, my friends.

I am now officially getting sick of the weight of Christianity pushing down on me.

Yesterday, at what I am strongly encouraged to think of as the theater, but is in fact a church, someone I had heretofore rather liked referred to evolution as "a theory that's never been proven."  He said it pointedly, with bile.  Let's not even go into the number of ways in which that statement is ludicrous. 

It came about as the natural outgrowth of an Inherit the Wind conversation.  Oops.

Uncharacteristically, I kept my mouth shut.  I was after all in a church, and outnumbered.  More importantly, I'd like to keep getting along with my cast and crew until the show is over.  Not enough to be completely oppressed, apparently, but hey, I am what I am.

My stance, however, is this: Creationism is fine, but less than academic.  Keep it in the Christian schools, and let the rest of the kids learn their science in class and their religion in church.  Who am I to argue with people who want to base their entire worldview on an omnipotent imaginary friend?  It has always seemed to me that religion in lieu of fact is the very essence of extremism. Isn't that what fundamentalism means?

What bugs me, though, is that I know that several of these people will likely refuse to work with me once they become aware of my religion.  It seems unfortunate, but whatever.  I'm told I make a fine director, a good actor, and can build a helluva set.

But, hey never mind that I believe in the Christian god.  What's important here is that I believe in the rest of them too, and "Thou shall not suffer a witch to live" after all.

I really hope I'm wrong.  I'd like to think that the general level of enlightenment is higher than that, but this is where faith has always broken down for me: evidence to the contrary.