Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts

Tuesday, May 13, 2025

Love in the Ruins is not just Another Roadside Attraction

I awoke thinking of Walker Percy's "Love in the Ruins or The Adventures of a Bad Catholic at a Time Near the End of the World." I finished the 1971 novel late last night. It has a satisfying ending which I won't divulge. It's set five years after the main action of the novel. It wraps things up but I was still left with this thought: This is a satirical sci-fi novel about loss and grief. 

It struck me in the same way as the movie "Arrival." I had to watch the film a second time to understand the ending as well as the beginning and middle. I felt a bit dim that I didn't get it the first time around. The second time I wanted to cry. 

They gave Dr. Louise Banks the same gift the Tralfamadorians gave Billy Pilgrim in "Slaughterhouse Five." She became unstuck in time, gift from the Space Octopoids who came to warn Earth and seek our help for a future calamity. Dr. Banks saw her future tragedy but lived it anyway, a brave thing. 

In "Love in the Ruins," set in some future time, the 45-year-old Dr. Thomas More has already experienced tragedy in the cancer death of his young daughter followed by his wife leaving him. Oh yeah -- he also faces the end of the world. He does his best to assuage his grief and fear with scientific inventions, sex, and gin fizzes. Nothing works. "To be or not to be?" What does he decide?

Percy was the son and grandson of suicides. After a bout with TB during the World War 2 years, he became a doctor and then a mental patient at the same hospital. Percy suffered from Depression and PTSD just as war veteran Binx Bolling does in Percy's 1961 novel "The Moviegoer." 

He is well-known as the writer who helped publish John Kennedy Toole's "The Confederacy of Dunces," another award-winning New Orleans-set novel about an unhinged character. Toole, of course, committed suicide allegedly despondent when nobody would publish his novel. Suicide, I'm told, is more than a passing sorrow. It figures heavily in literature, especially Southern lit.

I almost quit reading this novel. Several times. It's wordy and Percy does a lot of showing off with language. In places, his humor is more Keystone Kops than dark satire. I did laugh out loud in spots. Dr. More keeps getting into messes he causes himself. A Buster-Keaton-kind of hero. 

I first read this novel when I was 23. I am now 74. In 1973, I saw it as a romp, the prof's great example of the dark humor of the ages. We also read Tom Robbins' 1971 kaleidoscopic novel "Another Roadside Attraction." That too was a romp with deep undercurrents and portents. Robbins was born in North Carolina and grew up there and in Virginia. He referred to himself as a hillbilly and his editor called him "a real Southern Gentleman." Both his grandfathers were Southern Baptist preachers. Later on, he discovered Washington state where he wrote his books. 

I should reread Robbins' novel and see how I react 52 years on. It may mean something different to me in 2025. 

Saturday, August 27, 2022

Jane Campbell explores the "persecution of remembering" in her Cat Brushing story collection

The cover of Jane Campbell's story collection, "Cat Brushing," shows a ringed hand sweeping across the fur of what must be a very large cat or maybe the gorgeous gray locks of one of the author's elderly women characters. It could be both as you will discover reading her 13 wonderful stories in the POV of women in their 70s and beyond. This is her first book, published in her 80th year, as it says on the book jacket. I'm nine years younger than her which puts us, approximately, in the same age cohort.  

These tales are quite personal, erotic in spots. Am I surprised that women of a certain age have erotic thoughts and sometimes more than thoughts? No, but as a person in this age group, I am impressed by the directness of the stories. It challenges the idea that women of a certain age must be handled carefully lest they fall and break a hip or leave a pot burning on the stove. It's the "I've fallen and I can't get up" woman sprawled on the kitchen floor who would be lost without her handy Medic-Alert bracelet and her male rescuers. Old and helpless.

Fuck that.

In "The Question," the narrator gulps down a dose of morphine and describes the rush that results. I figured she was a goner, in the last stages of cancer, but she's actually a feisty woman who chased after her cat on a winter night and fell on her porch's icy steps. The idea that she likes the buzz of the morphine helps us get to know this woman in a rehab center who has no intention of staying abed. Tests surprisingly reveal she has no broken bones and only sustained a few bumps and bruises. When released, she asks her male nurse if she can have a to-go portion of the opioid. He genially refuses but as we read the interaction between patient and nurse, we find that she knew him in the past and knows his dark secret. 

The writer has a sure touch in turning tales on their head. In "Kiskadee," a woman lies by a pool in Bermuda and hears the melodious song of the Kiskadee, a predatory tropical bird with a big beak designed for killing. Interspersed are memories of her "special relationship" with her father. She recalls years of touching and cuddling, sleeping together, syrupy words from the father. Story's end has a horrible twist which I won't spoil here.

Most of these women recount loves gained and loves lost. The memories are clear and immediate, no brain fog here.

I reread Campbell's second story, "The Scratch."  Nell wonders how she scratched herself, a cut that bled profusely. 

What drawers had she opened carelessly, perhaps knives rearranged, had she handled scissors?

She forgets about phone calls with her grown children. She forgets things even though she writes everything in her diary.

But it's not the forgetting that concerns her most. 

The old barriers behind which she could once shelter... they all tumble down as the years pass. Just as running upstairs becomes a lost art and skipping down becomes impossible, so the capacity to forget is lost. There is a persecution of remembering. Remembering so much. Those midnight hours, dark nights of the soul, where remorse bites hard and the past presses against you.

Nell, in her 70s, forgets how to forget. 

I too, in my 70s, have forgotten how to forget. Memories become crisp and clear, even those I want to forget. This hit me so hard. Since retirement, I've been wondering why old memories come flooding back to me. As an old person, aren't I suppose to forget things instead of them rushing back to me with incredible force? It's not like I'm bored, lazing about in a tepid pool of nostalgia. 

Still, the memories flow. 

As you climb toward retirement, friends and family urge you to be busy when work ceases and you have all the time in the world. People get bored, get sick, get careless. But that's not it at all. Memories can overwhelm your present if you are not busy making more memories. They don't tell you about the "persecution of remembering." We have to leave that up to Campbell and her fictional characters. 

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Out West at the Autry explores "Same Sex Dynamics" among 19-century Mormons on June 16

My friend, Gregory Hinton, grew up in Cody and spent some quality time there last year on a research fellowship at the Buffalo Bill Historical Center. He shared some of his research on these pages. Go to http://hummingbirdminds.blogspot.com/2012/01/gregory-hinton-at-bbhc-in-cody-out-west.html.

Greg, who's creator and producer of "Out West at the Autry" in L.A., always has some unique offerings about LGBT life in the West, especially the rural West. Here's his latest venture:
Dear Friends of Out West:

Please join us at the Autry in Griffith Park this coming Saturday, June 16, 2 p.m., in conversation with scholar D Michael Quinn and USC Associate Professor William Handley discussing Quinn's "19th Century Same Sex Dynamics Among Nineteenth-Century Americans: A Mormon Example," winner of the Herbert Feis Award from the American Historical Association and named one of the best religion books of the year by Publisher's Weekly.
This ranks among our finest programs - twenty-five and counting - in partnership with museums, libraries and universities in ten states. 
I am so grateful to the Autry National Center, Tom Gregory, HBO, David Bohnett Foundation, Gill Foundation and the Gay & Lesbian Rodeo Heritage Foundation for their continuing support. 
I am especially proud to announce that the CIty Council of Los Angeles has formally recognized Out West as an "Angel in the City of Angels!" 
Gregory Hinton, Creator and Producer, Out West at the Autry at
gregoryhinton@earthlink.net

Friday, June 08, 2012

Go cowboy crazy this weekend over Joanne Kennedy's "Cowboy Crazy"

My writing pal Joanne Kennedy debuts her new novel from 6-8 p.m. tomorrow (June 9) at Barnes & Noble in Cheyenne. It's called "Cowboy Crazy" and it's her first novel with a laughing cowboy on the cover. The guys on the cover always look so seriously hunkish. But this one looks positively gleeful (although still equipped with dangerous pecs bared by an open shirt). For years, Joanne was a member of our local writing critique group and I got to know her work well. Not that I'm a fan of studly cowboys, but I am a fan of good writing and of stories well told. Go out and buy "Cowboy Trouble " or "Cowboy Fever" or "Tall, Dark and Cowboy" or... you get the picture.

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Birth control debate provokes sixties' flashback

Catholics of a certain age will recognize Foster Friess’s recent “aspirin solution” comment as a joke from an earlier age.

In case you hadn’t heard, Rick Santorum’s premier contributor, Foster Friess of Jackson, joked last week that back in his day, aspirin was the perfect birth control pill. Women were told (only half-jokingly): “Take an aspirin, and hold it between your knees.”

LOL.

Although we didn’t say LOL then. We said hardy-har-har, or something similar.

In America’s pre-pill era, women, especially Catholic women, were screwed. They were sexual beings who were told by the men in their lives – boyfriends, husbands, priests, politicians – that birth control was not an option. It was their womanly duty to have sex and their bear the consequences – children. It was God’s will. Barefoot and pregnant and in the kitchen was the reality of this “every sperm is sacred” mentality.

The guys were in charge.

That changed with the advent of safe birth control. And the women moved out of the kitchen and went to work and here we are today, debating this subject all over again.

But men, especially older white men, are being threatened as never before by smart and successful women. Minorities, too -- we have a black president! Technology and rapidly changing world events are scary. All hell is breaking loose! Women back to kitchen!

I grew up Catholic and am still, nominally, a Catholic. My coming-of-age was in the sixties. My parents were devout Catholics and they practiced the rhythm method.

LOL.

This was the only birth control method available to church-going Catholics. Abstinence, too – can’t forget that. Thus, most Catholic families engendered multiple offspring. In the case of the Shay family, that was nine children (with two miscarriages). My mother used to joke, “I was pregnant for 15 years.” That would have been longer had she not had twins. In the end, she had a hysterectomy and that was that. She died at the young age of 59, two years younger than I am now. She lasted only 18 months after an ovarian cancer diagnosis.

My parents urged their children to be careful and judicious when it came to sex. My mother, a nurse, urged birth control upon her offspring. In the emergency room, she regularly saw the depredations of unwanted pregnancy. She cast a jaundiced eye on church fathers that urged sex-for-procreation-only and then turned their backs on the results. On the other hand, she was mightily offended whenever people would look down their noses at her brood. “Nine kids – heavens to Betsy!” It usually wasn’t elitist secularists and liberals making these remarks. In the South, it tended to be our Protestant brethren and sistren. They tended to have smaller families, whether the result of birth control or abstinence or sheer cussedness I cannot say. As I look back, I remember that we were a large family even among my Catholic high school friends. Three kids tended to be the norm, with a few in the five-seven range and some of us with whopping big numbers. But we were rare.

What kind of birth control did I practice in high school? Fear and guilt kept me from toiling in the devil’s workshop. We joked about the rhythm method or the aspirin-between-the-legs or chastity belts or whatever. Meanwhile, we only had lust in our hearts. Nothing could be done for it. In our senior year, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed head cheerleader got in trouble, courtesy of the football star. She was sent away to live with her aunt in Ohio, and she missed graduation. The football star did not. Both of these people were my friends. From what I hear, both have had more than their share of life’s struggles. But their fate could have easily been ours. Just say no! And that’s what I did until I was 21.

Catholics of a certain age know the tragedies behind the church’s procreation policies. There are tragedies repeated today, in a time when science has given us an array of dependable birth control, a time in which college students can purchase morning-after pills along with Twinkies in student union vending machines. Birth control has given us all more freedom. Women, especially. And they should have all possible means available to them.

What has happened to my brothers and sisters? Surviving members (we lost a brother in 2010) all seem to be leading useful and productive lives. Among the nine of us, we have 19 children. My two kids have plenty of first cousins, although they live far away in Florida. None of my siblings are devout Catholics, although some go to church. When my brother Patrick Kevin Shay (my son’s godfather) died in 2010, he had a secular ceremony in a park. I officiated. Good ol’ secular liberal me. There were remembrances and even a few prayers. We partied later and remembered the dead. We even argued politics, which we consider a contact sport.

Even when I was a practicing adult Catholic, I paid no attention to the church’s pronouncements of matters that were none of its business. The church cannot tell me whom I can sleep with, appropriate procreation methods, which candidate to vote for, what books to read, etc. Church fathers make it their business but they are regularly ignored, if recent polls can be believed. It’s interesting to note that most Catholics who have to live in the real world regularly ignore those who don’t.

Mr. Friess can joke about the aspirin solution all he wants. We know that it’s not a joke to most women. Women who vote, women like my wife Chris of 30 years, do not consider Foster Friess a comedian. They see him as a tired old man living in an imagined golden age. That’s the way she sees Rick Santorum, too, and all of his fellow travelers. They are throwbacks to another age. This is their last hurrah and they are being as loud and as obnoxious as possible. It’s up to us to ignore them, and then go to the ballot box to vote for people who believe in a future filled with intelligence and empathy and choice.

Sunday, January 08, 2012

God says: Keep those hands out of your pockets or risk an eternity in hell!

I am assuming that this is one of those fake photoshopped church signs (I pulled it off of Facebook). I do remember a seventh grade "sex ed" class in which the priests at St. Francis Catholic School in Wichita told us boys that it was a mortal sin to put our hands in our pockets. I still get illicit chills when I put my hands in my pockets, especially on a cold day.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Got wood? A modest proposal from Digby

Digby is the Jonathan Swift for our times:

I have a moral objection to paying for any kind of erectile dysfunction medicine in the new health reform bill and I think men who want to use it should just pay for it out of pocket. After all, I won't ever need such a pill. And anyway, it's no biggie. Just because most of them can get it under their insurance today doesn't mean they shouldn't have it stripped from their coverage in the future because of my moral objections. (I don't think there's even been a Supreme Court ruling making wood a constitutional right. I might be wrong about that.)

Many of the men who are prescribed this medication are on Medicare, so I think it should be stripped out of that coverage as well. And unlike the payments for abortion, which actually lower overall medical costs (pregnancy obviously costs much, much more) banning tax dollars from covering any kind of Viagra would result in a substantial savings.

For more, go to http://digbysblog.blogspot.com/