So the USA is ending its war with Iraq.
At the same time, the President is set to sign a bill that allows the military to detain American citizens indefinitely on American soil without trial or any semblance of due process.
I believe we now know who won the Iraq war.
Hint: not the USA.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
We get letters...
I have been cleaning up my filing system, throwing things out, perusing old manuscripts, rereading letters sent and received.
Most writers are familiar with weird correspondence, simply because there are so many weird people out there.
I submit, for your consideration, a letter sent to my English publisher by one Dominic Pickin, of Brighton. It is dated October 9, 2000. It was then forwarded to me, and I have cherished it in secret for more than ten years.
But that was selfish of me.
So here we go. My transcription is faithful, misspellings and all:
Dear sir or madam, to whom it may concern.
Re Stephen O'Sheas book The perfect heresy.
The general thrust of his argument seems to be if you're sympathetic to the Cathar position your a fool, a crank or even a Nazi. This is reminisent of a point of view I've often heard in nightclubs when a woman declines a mans offer of sex and he says to his mates 'she's a Lesbian' Could you please refrain from giving a platform to appologists for genocide. Thanks.
Yours sincerely
Dominic Pickin
Most writers are familiar with weird correspondence, simply because there are so many weird people out there.
I submit, for your consideration, a letter sent to my English publisher by one Dominic Pickin, of Brighton. It is dated October 9, 2000. It was then forwarded to me, and I have cherished it in secret for more than ten years.
But that was selfish of me.
So here we go. My transcription is faithful, misspellings and all:
Dear sir or madam, to whom it may concern.
Re Stephen O'Sheas book The perfect heresy.
The general thrust of his argument seems to be if you're sympathetic to the Cathar position your a fool, a crank or even a Nazi. This is reminisent of a point of view I've often heard in nightclubs when a woman declines a mans offer of sex and he says to his mates 'she's a Lesbian' Could you please refrain from giving a platform to appologists for genocide. Thanks.
Yours sincerely
Dominic Pickin
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Question of the Day
Beautiful, sunny, warm, creepy December day, and I am walking back home from a seaside park. To get to my place, I have to cross a wide pedestrian bridge spanning an eight-lane interstate.
At mid-span, I notice two young women standing to one side, holding a large sign that can be seen from the roadway. They are post-hipstah twentyish, a bit of hardware in their faces, but not of the Home Depot amplitude popular a few years ago. Their bare arms are purple-green tattoo canisters; their faces, white and impassive.
“Hey!,” I say. “What’s your sign say?”
Dutifully, they maneuver the huge sign to face me. It reads:
Sometimes Saying I Love You Is Not As Good As An Anal Plug!
“Wow!” I exclaim, genuinely impressed. “That’s quite a sign.”
They nod, bored.
“Have you been showing it around town?”
A shake of the head. “No, we just found it.”
“You found it?! Where?”
“Over there.”
A Stieg Larsson arm points further up the bridge to a stone bench, deserted save for two empty beer cans.
We exchange glances. “Well, do you agree with it?,” I ask.
Shrugs. “Seemed like a good idea.” Obeying some unheard signal, the girls then proceed to turn the cumbersome sign back around to face the highway.
I return home.
Now my question is this: Don’t you think these two young women are more socially useful than Lloyd Blankfein?
At mid-span, I notice two young women standing to one side, holding a large sign that can be seen from the roadway. They are post-hipstah twentyish, a bit of hardware in their faces, but not of the Home Depot amplitude popular a few years ago. Their bare arms are purple-green tattoo canisters; their faces, white and impassive.
“Hey!,” I say. “What’s your sign say?”
Dutifully, they maneuver the huge sign to face me. It reads:
Sometimes Saying I Love You Is Not As Good As An Anal Plug!
“Wow!” I exclaim, genuinely impressed. “That’s quite a sign.”
They nod, bored.
“Have you been showing it around town?”
A shake of the head. “No, we just found it.”
“You found it?! Where?”
“Over there.”
A Stieg Larsson arm points further up the bridge to a stone bench, deserted save for two empty beer cans.
We exchange glances. “Well, do you agree with it?,” I ask.
Shrugs. “Seemed like a good idea.” Obeying some unheard signal, the girls then proceed to turn the cumbersome sign back around to face the highway.
I return home.
Now my question is this: Don’t you think these two young women are more socially useful than Lloyd Blankfein?
Monday, November 28, 2011
Musical Madeleine
A few weeks ago my elder daughter had her sixteenth birthday.
Sweet.
But bittersweet, too.
On that day seven years ago – on her ninth birthday – my mother (her grandmother) died.
This year we did not celebrate her birthday on the proper day. Why? Her youth orchestra was performing a concert. A piano virtuoso from Russia had been flown in. The piece to be played was Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 4.
“You’re going to like it, Daddy,” she said after emerging from the final rehearsal that morning. I was surprised, for she never hypes any of her performances. Usually, you can’t get even the shadow of a sneak preview.
So as I took my seat in the auditorium and the birthday girl took hers onstage, I was prepared to be transported.
And I was. Within the first few measures – the spectacular sprint of a beginning to the concerto – I was in Montreal, in the early 1960s. I was sitting in my shorts, playing with a red firetruck. I was the lone child in the house, as my older brothers now went to school. On the other side of room, standing at the ironing board, my mother, her coal-black hair swaying a little as she hummed along to Rachmaninoff.
The LP was Romantic Piano Concertos. She did housework to the strains of such pieces as Variations on a Theme by Paganini, as I studied and restudied the album cover on the floor, in my dad’s armchair, on the sofa (or chesterfield, as they called it). Slashing, vertical, black and white photographs of pianists in ecstasy.
The piece ended. My mother came back to herself, smiled at me from across the room, her lipstick scarlet.
I was on my feet, applauding my daughter.
Thank you, Sergei.
Sweet.
But bittersweet, too.
On that day seven years ago – on her ninth birthday – my mother (her grandmother) died.
This year we did not celebrate her birthday on the proper day. Why? Her youth orchestra was performing a concert. A piano virtuoso from Russia had been flown in. The piece to be played was Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 4.
“You’re going to like it, Daddy,” she said after emerging from the final rehearsal that morning. I was surprised, for she never hypes any of her performances. Usually, you can’t get even the shadow of a sneak preview.
So as I took my seat in the auditorium and the birthday girl took hers onstage, I was prepared to be transported.
And I was. Within the first few measures – the spectacular sprint of a beginning to the concerto – I was in Montreal, in the early 1960s. I was sitting in my shorts, playing with a red firetruck. I was the lone child in the house, as my older brothers now went to school. On the other side of room, standing at the ironing board, my mother, her coal-black hair swaying a little as she hummed along to Rachmaninoff.
The LP was Romantic Piano Concertos. She did housework to the strains of such pieces as Variations on a Theme by Paganini, as I studied and restudied the album cover on the floor, in my dad’s armchair, on the sofa (or chesterfield, as they called it). Slashing, vertical, black and white photographs of pianists in ecstasy.
The piece ended. My mother came back to herself, smiled at me from across the room, her lipstick scarlet.
I was on my feet, applauding my daughter.
Thank you, Sergei.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Medieval Pole Dance
For those of you who live near or close to the pulsing center of the universe, please be informed that you are cordially invited to a reading/lecture to be given by me in Providence at Books on the Square, at 7 p.m. on Thursday, October 20.
I will be talking about my new book “The Friar of Carcassonne: Revolt Against the Inquisition in the Last Days of the Cathars.” So far reaction has been fairly postive to this latest histo-excursion of mine; I invite you to visit my website – stephenosheaonline.com – for more information on the book.
Suffice to say that it’s a tale told by a fool for history, full of ephemeral victories and changes of fortunes, peopled by malevolent inquisitors, venomous courtiers, and one very very brave man: Brother Bernard Délicieux.
It ends badly. That’s because it’s a true story.
I will be talking about my new book “The Friar of Carcassonne: Revolt Against the Inquisition in the Last Days of the Cathars.” So far reaction has been fairly postive to this latest histo-excursion of mine; I invite you to visit my website – stephenosheaonline.com – for more information on the book.
Suffice to say that it’s a tale told by a fool for history, full of ephemeral victories and changes of fortunes, peopled by malevolent inquisitors, venomous courtiers, and one very very brave man: Brother Bernard Délicieux.
It ends badly. That’s because it’s a true story.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Today's Reading
"Dean had a sweater wrapped around his ears to keep warm. He said we were a band of Arabs coming in to blow up New York."
Jack Kerouac, On the Road, 1957.
Jack Kerouac, On the Road, 1957.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Shock Treatment
Montreal’s left-winger is about to take a slap shot…
No, wait.
I feel a gentle breeze on my face.
Strange.
I open my eyes. Yes, there is a breeze.
Not again! I look out the window from my bed, expecting to see trees bending in the gale.
The darkness of 4 a.m. Nothing but silence, the glow of streetlights.
Streetlights?!
Then I hear it. A gentle whir.
I look up. In the dimness, the blades of an overhead fan turning and turning.
Electricity! For the first time since Sunday.
Thanks for nothing, Irene.
No, wait.
I feel a gentle breeze on my face.
Strange.
I open my eyes. Yes, there is a breeze.
Not again! I look out the window from my bed, expecting to see trees bending in the gale.
The darkness of 4 a.m. Nothing but silence, the glow of streetlights.
Streetlights?!
Then I hear it. A gentle whir.
I look up. In the dimness, the blades of an overhead fan turning and turning.
Electricity! For the first time since Sunday.
Thanks for nothing, Irene.
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