It's a recipe for blue, like it's 1862

I wrote a letter down to you,

Like I'm Sullivan Ballou...

It's a recipe for blue,

Like it's 1862

I've spent a lot of time on U.S. Civil War battlefields-- Gettysburg, Antietam, Monocacy, Manassas, Harper's Ferry, and many lesser-known sites are within an hour of my home in Maryland.  Richmond, Fredericksburg, and the Wilderness, down in Virginia, are about a two or so hour drive.  Living in the D.C. area, you're surrounded by memorials to that war and, if you pay attention to the signs, it can get into your blood if you've grown up there.  It wasn't until I was an adult and out on my own and had the means to really explore that I began being fully conscious of it. So I dove in-- Devouring books and magazine articles, and driving, bicycling, and hiking the battlefield parks.  I've read the Shaara trilogy, and listened to Shelby Foote wax rhapsodic in the epic Ken Burns documentary. 

For a while, I idealized Stonewall Jackson, with his destroyed arm buried all by itself and the sweetness of his final deathbed words, “Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees.”  And Lee, who put state before country and sat so regally on his white horse, Traveller.  Long-suffering Longstreet, who took all the blame for the Confederate loss at Gettysburg which should have been directed at Lee.  And Grant, so inept as a businessman but frighteningly effective as a general, who supposedly drank himself into a stupor over the horrific result of his decisions at Cold Harbor.

But then I began reading different sorts of books, focusing not on the battles and the presumably larger-than-life men who orchestrated them, but on the effects of the war.  In the bookstore at Antietam Battlefield Park, I found Too Afraid to Cry: Maryland Civilians in the Antietam Campaign and I learned of what the citizens of that town experienced both during and in the aftermath of the battle, of what they had to go through to put their homes and their lives back together. Then I came across This Republic of Suffering, which describes how our very religious nation had to come to grips with death on a scale it'd not experienced before, death without the salvation of confession or last rites, and loss that decimated families.  The song lyric at the top of this post references a letter from Major Sullivan Ballou to his wife Sarah, written a week before he was killed at the First Battle of Bull Run.  It's a very romantic letter, but only serves to highlight that this was not a romantic war, it was horrible and painful--

My very dear Sarah: The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days — perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more …
I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing — perfectly willing — to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt …
Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me unresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.
The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me — perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness …
But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights … always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again …

Reading things like this opened my eyes to the stark reality behind the gorgeous technicolor "suffering" depicted in films like Gone With the Wind.  And then I read the Declarations of Secession of some of the Confederate states-- Georgia's, in particular, is quite a peach--

The people of Georgia having dissolved their political connection with the Government of the United States of America, present to their confederates and the world the causes which have led to the separation. For the last ten years we have had numerous and serious causes of complaint against our non-slaveholding confederate States with reference to the subject of African slavery. They have endeavored to weaken our security, to disturb our domestic peace and tranquility, and persistently refused to comply with their express constitutional obligations to us in reference to that property, and by the use of their power in the Federal Government have striven to deprive us of an equal enjoyment of the common Territories of the Republic. This hostile policy of our confederates has been pursued with every circumstance of aggravation which could arouse the passions and excite the hatred of our people, and has placed the two sections of the Union for many years past in the condition of virtual civil war. Our people, still attached to the Union from habit and national traditions, and averse to change, hoped that time, reason, and argument would bring, if not redress, at least exemption from further insults, injuries, and dangers. Recent events have fully dissipated all such hopes and demonstrated the necessity of separation. Our Northern confederates, after a full and calm hearing of all the facts, after a fair warning of our purpose not to submit to the rule of the authors of all these wrongs and injuries, have by a large majority committed the Government of the United States into their hands. The people of Georgia, after an equally full and fair and deliberate hearing of the case, have declared with equal firmness that they shall not rule over them. A brief history of the rise, progress, and policy of anti-slavery and the political organization into whose hands the administration of the Federal Government has been committed will fully justify the pronounced verdict of the people of Georgia. The party of Lincoln, called the Republican party, under its present name and organization, is of recent origin. It is admitted to be an anti-slavery party. While it attracts to itself by its creed the scattered advocates of exploded political heresies, of condemned theories in political economy, the advocates of commercial restrictions, of protection, of special privileges, of waste and corruption in the administration of Government, anti-slavery is its mission and its purpose. By anti-slavery it is made a power in the state. The question of slavery was the great difficulty in the way of the formation of the Constitution. While the subordination and the political and social inequality of the African race was fully conceded by all, it was plainly apparent that slavery would soon disappear from what are now the non-slave-holding States of the original thirteen. The opposition to slavery was then, as now, general in those States and the Constitution was made with direct reference to that fact. But a distinct abolition party was not formed in the United States for more than half a century after the Government went into operation. The main reason was that the North, even if united, could not control both branches of the Legislature during any portion of that time.

That's just the first paragraph.  The word "slavery" is used 27 times throughout the full Declaration.  Twenty. Seven.  I began to understand the politics behind the Emancipation Proclamation, and just how deluded discussions of this having been a war for "state's rights" really are.  And when Confederate statues and memorials began being vandalized and removed in recent years, I decided that, to quote Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, it was "altogether fitting and proper that we should do this " at this time.  

Full transcript of Mayor Landrieu's speech can be read here.

I've seen defenses of the removal of these monuments that draw comparison to post-WW II Germany, making the point that you don't see memorials and statues to Hitler and the Third Reich because the German people understand that there's nothing romantic about those men or the cause they fought for and they certainly should not be idealized, revered, or memorialized.  Was Nathan Bedford Forrest as inhumane as Joseph Goebbels?  A lot of people don't seem to think so, and it's that sort of belief that contributes to the divides in this country.  

"There is a difference between remembrance of history, and the reverence of it".  How many more generations will it take for us to stop romanticizing this war and instead begin learning from it?

DC to Memphis Road Trip: Day 3, Stories in Tennessee

As is so often the case, my cyclothymic nature is in sync with the weather.  After some heavy rain throughout the night, the sun is breaking through the clouds this morning just like the opening credits of The Simpsons and today feels so much better than yesterday.

I ended up yesterday heading south as far as Chattanooga.  A look at the map showed that it would still be easy to dog-leg west if Birmingham didn't work out, so I figured what the hell.  Maybe I'd get lucky.  One last e-mail before bedtime about one last craiglist listing turned up as a dead-end, though, so this morning I turned my back on B'ham and re-set my sights on the original rendezvous in Memphis. 

As Route 24 outside of Chattanooga followed the curves of the Tennessee River before heading up and over the last of the Appalachians, I popped The Raconteurs into the cd player.  Jack White has mentioned that one of the main things he's gotten out of the Racs is the opportunity to work on his song-writing with a craftsman like Brendan Benson.  Personally, I think he's selling himself short, as is the rest of the world.  I don't play any instruments so I can't speak to the music, but words are my thing and I will say that Jack's incredibly overlooked as a lyricist.  In It Might Get Loud, he talks about wondering whether he could become a member of the story-telling family of the great bluesmen.  If he hasn't proved to himself by now that he's done so, then I'd love to be the one to assure him he has.

Story-telling is the raison d'etre of The Raconteurs.  If you've never looked up the meaning of the word raconteur, it's defined as "a person skilled in telling anecdotes".  The first album, Broken Boy Soldiers, seems like a warm-up for the band in this respect, as it's not until Consolers of the Lonely that both Brendan and Jack break out some serious tales--  Brendan's "The Switch and the Spur" and Jack's "Carolina Drama".  Of the two tunes, "Carolina..." is by far the standout, full of dramatic intensity and a cleverness that's typical of Jack.  Between the fantastic imagery and the question of what the hell the milkman has to do with it all, it's an engrossing song.

I'm not sure if there's a point to this story

But I'm going to tell it again

And like just about every other tale

Someone's gonna die in the end

It was a junk-house in South Carolina

Held a boy the age of ten

Along with his older brother Billy

And their mother and her boyfriend

Who was a triple loser with some blue tattoos

That were given to him when he was young

And a drunk temper that was easy to lose

But thank god he didn't own a gun

Well, Billy woke up in the back of his truck

Took a minute to open his eyes

He took a peek into the back of the house

And found himself a big surprise

He didn't see his brother but there was his mother

With her red-headed head in her hands

While the boyfriend had his gloves wrapped around an old priest

Trying to choke the man

Billy looked up from the window to the truck

Threw up, and had to struggle to stand

He saw that red-necked bastard with a hammer

Turn the priest into a shell of a man

The priest was putting up the fight of his life

But he was old and he was bound to lose

The boyfriend hit as hard as he could

And knocked the priest right down to his shoes

Now Billy knew but never actually met

The preacher lying there in the room

He heard himself say, "That must be my daddy"

Then he knew what he was gonna do

Billy got up enough courage to get up

And grab the first blunt thing he could find

It was a cold glass bottle of milk

That got delivered every morning at nine

Billy broke in and saw the blood on the floor, and

He turned around and put the lock on the door

He looked dead into the boyfriend's eye

His mother was a ghost, too upset to cry, then

He took a step toward the man on the ground

From his mouth trickled out a little audible sound

He heard the boyfriend shout, "Get out!"

But Billy said, "Not till I know what this is all about"

"This preacher here was attacking your mama"

But Billy knew that she was caught in the drama

So Billy took dead aim at his face

And smashed the bottle on the man who left his dad in disgrace

The white milk dripped down with the blood

And the boyfriend fell down dead for good

Right next to the preacher who was gasping for air

And Billy shouted, "Daddy, why'd you have to come back here?"

His mama reached behind the sugar and honey, and

Pulled out an envelope filled with money

"Your daddy gave us this," she collapsed in tears

"He's been paying all the bills for years"

"Mama, let's put this body underneath the trees

and put Daddy in the truck and head to Tennessee"

Just then, his little brother came in

Holding the milkman's hat and a bottle of gin singing,

La la la la, la la la la, yeah

Well now you heard another side to the story

But you wanna know how it ends...

If you must know the truth about the tale

Go and ask the milkman

Back to the road...  I-64 runs east-west through southern Tennessee and is apparently  in the process of being converted from a two-lane blue highway into a four-lane thru-way.  I'm glad I had the chance to drive it before the work was completed--  While the newer sections were wide and smooth and perfect for picking up some speed while still retaining a rural feel, they definitely didn't have the same intimacy of the narrower, older portions.  The road squeezes down into 2-lanes as it rolls through each small town it hits.  Two common elements I've noticed throughout these towns are giant crosses on the water towers and gun permit classes at the local civic centers.  One of the largest is Lawrenceburg, home to both Davy Crockett and actor/senator (same thing, really) Fred Thompson, where I stopped for a quick lunch and realized that I'd crossed into the next time zone. 

But even that extra hour didn't leave enough time for a thorough tour of Shiloh battlefield.  I've mentioned before that I'm a U.S. Civil War buff, and Shiloh was my goal for today before the Birmingham idea got stuck in my head.  As much as anything else, these preserved battlefields appeal to me for their beautiful landscapes and the monuments erected to honor the men who fought and died on the land. 

As I walked through the national military cemetery and the older graveyard at Shiloh church, another Jack White connection came to mind.  Back in 2003, Jack had a tiny bit part in the film Cold Mountain (good flick, but be sure to read the novel).  He was also tapped for the soundtrack, for which he performed four traditional songs and wrote one original.  The tune he wrote, "Never Far Away", is another example of his lyrical abilities, as it's a synopsis of the movie in a handful of beautiful verses.  It's not used in the film and apparently barely made it onto the soundtrack album (according to Jack, it was added as "favor" to him), which is a shame.  Thinking about the people who lived and died around the time of the battle of Shiloh, both this song and the old folk tune "Great High Mountain" played through my head, fitting accompaniments to the scene.

Arrived in Memphis early in the evening and achieved four objectives in short order: Locate my hotel, scope out Minglewood Hall (venue for tomorrow night's show), find the old cemetery behind the Piggly-Wiggly up the street from Minglewood, then eat some amazing bbq ribs at Cozy Corner. I don't know if it was the spicy sauce on the ribs or just mounting excitement at what's ahead tomorrow, but it was well after 1:00am when I finally turned out the lights and tried to calm down to sleep.

The full collection of photos for this trip is here. 

Random babblings: Of Elephants and things

Despite a gloomy pall spread across the mid-Atlantic states by four days of rain, the first morning of Daylight Saving Time found me feeling pretty good.  There's been much dukkha lately, much wanting to think about changes that should be made for future happiness and security, and just as much avoidance of thoughts on that subject.  The result has been a lot of time feeling anxious and sorry for myself, and then feeling annoyed at myself for sinking to such depths.

My current infatuation with Jack White has both helped and harmed in this situation.  His music's become, depending on the tune, a wonderful release, an escape, a comfort, and a distraction.  But learning about the man himself has been a tad confounding.  He's apparently a kinetic fount of creative energy with a work ethic that's renowned in the industry.  And there lies the rub.  I'd like to be inspired by him, but instead his example makes me feel ashamed of being such a lazy sod who can't get off her duff and figure out what to do with her life, who'd rather play than work at stuff that doesn't have at least some element of fun, or at least interest, to it.  I imagine White's photo in the dictionary next to the definition of "Type A personality", and that just ain't me.  But there are times when perhaps it should be.  

So today's indulgent escape was a drive up to Gettysburg National Military Park.  The US Civil War's been an interest of mine for years, ever since I moved to Maryland and began exploring the state.  Sitting as it does between Virginia & Pennsylvania, MD's surrounded by Civil War history and multiple battlefield sites:  Monocacy, Antietam, Manassas, Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg are the most well-known of the bunch.  Amazingly, the area around Gettysburg hasn't yet fallen to the developer's axe.  In the years I've been going there, I've noticed the addition of a couple of shopping/movie complexes and a few industrial parks, but none of the rampant house building that's spread so virulently closer to home.  The place seems to still be largely agricultural, and that makes a visit to the battlefield feel, to at least a small degree, like a step back in time.

I hung out for a while at Devil's Den, within view of Round Top and Little Round Top. Some of the most brutal fighting of this three-day battle took place in the space called the Valley of Death, between the Den and the Round Tops, when Confederate troops swarmed over both the rocks and the Federals who'd been holding ground there.

Civil War soldiers spoke of going into battle as "seeing the elephant" and the elephantine, rain-slicked boulders of the Den fit the expression well.  Fortunately, the rain that soaked the rocks also kept the tourist crowds at bay and only a few were climbing about, having their photos taken to look as if they were holding up the gigantic formations with only a fingertip.  So I was able to wander and shoot and attempt to imagine the carnage.  I've read a bunch of books and articles about the Civil War, but I've yet to find anything that satisfactorily explains what motivated the men on either side of the conflict to engage in killing each other in such a barbaric manner.  I understand it from a psychological perspective.  It's fairly obvious that the vast majority of the lower troops just plain had no clue what they were going to face, that some atavistic, testosterone-driven urge excited them to sign up and serve the cause of their chosen side.  Imagine their surprise when the fearsome form of the elephant first came lumbering towards them.  Yet from an empathetic standpoint, I just don't get it.  The men leading the troops had all faced war before, and they didn't hesitate to do so again when Sumter fell.  Robert E. Lee himself famously stated, "It is good that war is so horrible, or we might grow to like it."  I think that Lee understood even less than I do.

Appropriately, I popped The White Stripe's Elephant into the cd player on the way home.  This is the album that apparently launched the Stripes into the stratosphere and it's a fantastic collection displaying the diversity of Jack's genius.  From angry to tender, bragging to entreating, these songs "dedicated to, ...for, and about the death of the sweetheart" cover a gamut of human relations.  Perhaps it's due to the subject matter, but these seem to be some of White's most direct songs.  He's apparently a big fan of metaphor, but the stories on this album are all clearly and coherently told, and his use of imagery is compelling.  Some highlights:



Apparently written about the issues that fame caused for him amongst the Detroit music scene, which prompted his subsequent move to Nashville, there's no mistaking the message that Jack's not to be trifled with-- 

And I'm talking to myself at night
Because I can't forget
Back and forth through my mind
Behind a cigarette
And the message coming from my eyes
Says leave it alone...



I'm only waiting for the proper time to tell you
That it's impossible to get along with you
It's hard to look you in the face when we are talking
So it helps to have a mirror in the room

Absolutely unequivocal.  After this point in the album, though, the anger and cynicism begin to fade and Jack turns to longing for love.  



The sweetest moment of the album is contained in this song. Though the lyrics portray a man who suffers from a mild case of misogyny, the tenderness of Jack's simple vocals tugs at the heart-strings and turn it into a romantic ode to the desperation of love.

Nobody ever told you that it was the wrong way
To trick a woman, make her feel she did it her way
And you'll be there if she ever feels blue
And you'll be there when she finds someone new



One of my favorite things about this album is the track order. To follow the delicate romance of "...In Your Pocket" with the arrogant swagger of "Ball and Biscuit" is nothing short of brilliant.  This song, like "Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground" or "Death Letter", is a showcase for Jack's insane talent on the guitar.  But it also stands out as one of the few instances of blatant sexual braggadocio that he's indulged in.  Supposedly inspired by the "ball and biscuit" microphones used in the studio where the album was recorded, Jack very cleverly sings about "getting clean together" and then proceeds to get absolutely filthy on his guitar.



The final cut on the album is a whimsical little number with guest vocals from British singer, Holly Golightly.  While it could easily be dismissed as fluff or filler, the humor in the tune makes it a gem.  It's a nice touch, after beginning the album in anger, then traveling through yearning and boasting, to end things with a smile.

Tea and impermanence

My Sunday’s have become fairly predictable this winter. To break the routine, I took the bold step of ordering a tea at Sharazade’s that I’ve never tried before: Smokey Russian Caravan, a blend of China black and Lapsang Souchong teas. When the pot was set in front of me, I poured a cup and let it sit to cool a bit while I waited for my food. Just before my fritatta was served, I became aware of an unusual odor and wondered if they were burning a pig in the kitchen (nothing on the menu would indicate this as a possibility, though). Then I picked up my cup and took a few sips of the tea. The taste was a fairly typical tea flavor, mellow and smooth but with, as the name suggests, a definite smoky element. And then I realized it… The smoky odor I had noticed was coming from my tea. I sat there trying to think of it as the smoky aroma of burning wood, but just kept coming back to that first impression of burning pig flesh, kind of sweet & smoky at the same time. It made for a very weird tea experience, to munch on an English muffin with jam and a sage-sausage fritatta, while occasionally getting whiffs of that perfectly acceptable-tasting tea that smelled vaguely of a charnel ground. Was it perhaps highly appropriate to be drinking and smelling this tea while reading a Buddhist magazine? Didn’t Siddharta Gautama, on his way to Buddha-hood, practice with monks who, inspired by the Hindu god Shiva, meditated in charnel grounds in order to fully grasp the concept of impermanence? Don’t Hindu monks still smear their bodies with cremation ashes as a reminder of the impermanence of all things? (And yes, I realize that I’m blurring the lines between Buddhism and Hinduism. For me, interest in the latter led to studying the former, so they’re inextricably linked in my mind.) I don’t know that I could ever acquire enough of a taste for Smoky Russian Caravan to make it a regular part of my tea repertoire, but it might be a good one to drink every now and again as an alternative to smearing my body with cremation ashes in a charnel ground…

Noticed an ad in the magazine for a book titled The Cosmos in a Carrot: A Zen Guide to Eating Well. The pairing of the words "carrot" and "eating" caused me to grin, seeing as how I’d just the other day been listening to T00l’s "Disgustipated":

And the angel of the lord came unto me, snatching me up from my place of slumber. And took me on high, and higher still until we moved to the spaces betwixt the air itself. And he brought me into a vast farmland of our own Midwest. And as we descended, cries of impending doom rose from the soil. One thousand, nay a million voices full of fear. And terror possessed me then. And I begged, "Angel of the Lord, what are these tortured screams?" And the angel said unto me, "These are the cries of the carrots, the cries of the carrots! You see, Reverend Maynard, tomorrow is harvest day and to them it is the holocaust." And I sprang from my slumber drenched in sweat like the tears of one million terrified brothers and roared, "Hear me now, I have seen the light! They have a consciousness, they have a life, they have a soul! Damn you! Let the rabbits wear glasses! Save our brothers!" Can I get an amen? Can I get a hallelujah? Thank you, Jesus.

You really have to hear the perfect mid-western preacher twang with which Maynard delivers these lines to get the full impact of "Disgustipated." The above is followed by a minute or so of Maynard chanting "This is necessary… Life feeds on life feeds on life feeds on life feeds on life feeds on…", etc, etc.

I’ve decided that I want a t-shirt that reads "Let the rabbits wear glasses!!"

After breakfast, I headed back across the Potomac River for a hike around The Cornfield at Antietam National Battlefield Park. I’ve been coming to this battlefield for years. Surrounding the town of Sharpsburg, MD, it’s a beautiful area of rolling hills between South Mountain and the Potomac River. The driving tour is excellent for bicycling and the hiking trails, while short and easy, make for some great meandering. This history of the place is not nearly so pleasant. The battle of Antietam began at dawn of September 17th, 1862, north of Miller’s cornfield. Over the course of the morning, 15,000 Federal soldiers converged on the cornfield. As they filed through the 6 or so foot tall stalks, they met the Confederate army, approximately 9,200 men, on the other side. Within four hours, roughly 10,000 of all those men were no longer standing. Union General Joseph Hooker later wrote in his official report, "In the time I am writing, every stalk of corn in the northern and greater part of the field was cut as closely as could have been done with a knife, and the slain lay in rows precisely as they had stood in their ranks a few moments before." There were two more phases to the fighting at Antietam that day in other areas of the battlefield. By the end of the day, more than 23,000 men had died as a result of the battle. The official website for the battlefield puts it in perspective:

Not only was this the first major Civil War engagement on Northern soil, it was also the bloodiest single day battle in American history.
To view the magnitude of the losses, consider that Antietam resulted in nine times as many Americans killed or wounded (23,000 soldiers) as took place on June 6, 1944--D-day, the so-called "longest day" of World War II. Also consider that more soldiers were killed and wounded at the Battle of Antietam than the deaths of all Americans in the Revolutionary War, War of 1812, Mexican War, and Spanish-American War combined.

And that’s not even taking into account the toll this battle took on the citizens of Sharpsburg. Apparently, before, during and after the battle, there were almost 1,000 soldiers in the area per each resident of the town. The day after the battle, Lee’s troops packed up and headed back across the Potomac into Virginia. McClellan’s troops, though, remained in and around the town for two months, in order to "rest the army’s horses", as McClellan put it in a communication to President Lincoln. First, the battle ravages and destroys the majority of the farms in the area, then the town and local homes become a great big field hospital, then 80,000 soldiers take over for two months. It had to be a harrowing experience that left many citizens in ruin and poverty.

I followed up my hike by heading back to Shep’town. I had noticed as I was heading to Sharazade’s that the local movie theater (and we’re talking a real theater here, not any behemoth multi-plex) was showing Pan’s Labyrinth, a movie that I’d been hearing a lot about. If you have the chance to see this film while it’s still in theaters (or multi-plexes, if that’s all you’ve got access to), do so. It’s engrossing and beautiful and gory and disturbing and moving, and it deserves to be seen on a big screen. I’ll probably end up buying the dvd anyway, though, when it comes out, ‘cause it’ll still be good on a small screen. And it was a fitting way to end the afternoon, considering it was yet another exploration of impermanence (though the ending really goes both ways, with impermanence contrasted to everlasting life…).

And now it’s time to once again celebrate impermanence, by ending this post.