I’m listening to King Crimson playing through these tinny computer speakers from my song widget, and this puts me in my happy place. It evokes such wonderful memories of a happier time – not so much my own happiness, but ours, as a culture. Perhaps it’s just my memory of it, being my son’s age at the time – (and he just turned 15. Happy Birthday, Little Dude, the White Tornado sang.) – but, despite the many negative circumstances present during that time there was a grain of hope that the good might still prevail, and that as a people we were worth the bother.

I read the statements of various Islamic extremists which indict our culture and I agree. I don’t agree with the solution they propose, as it seems to involve our obliteration, but I do agree that the hope of our redemption seems to have fled the building – which is an admittedly simplistic summary of the primary thrust of their opinions. If I were to expose myself (for some masochistic reason) to “reality” television, I would conclude it’s little wonder they want to kill us.

 

But that’s not what I want to write about this morning. (“Too late,” I hear you saying.) On a related topic, I know a woman whose 16 year-old daughter has decided to move out of the house – after a tumultuous few years of power struggles which must seem like an eternity to her infant mind – and this is causing some consternation to the household, as you may well imagine. The parents are quite worldly overall, but Catholic on the surface, and perhaps if they are to be criticized on any particular fault it is taking the values they were so abundantly given for granted, and believing that it is enough to pass them on to their children just as they were passed on to them.

 

But the world has changed. Can we blame them for not being fully aware of this?

 

Well, this post is about being a teenager, a rare breed of creature which is really only possible in a culture’s period of decline – in the case of our own, originating in the 50’s. In a sense, we had reached our pinnacle at that point, and those who had previously been so impatient to achieve it were some of them so busily repeating the already discredited slogans of liberalism which leads to both Fascism and Communism (two branches from the same twisted root) that they entirely missed it, and it is those same people who are chiefly responsible for our imminent destruction today. For all its flaws, soon to be corrected, it was a period of incredible hope, which had been hard-won by a generation of courageous people who had stood up against the monumental forces of all evil, prevailing at great personal cost. And no more would there be such heroism demonstrated by merely human men, for each generation since has become decreasingly human – including my own.

 

Now, what I told my friend – the mother of this hapless little girl – probably offered her no comfort. That little one is not rebelling – no. She is conforming. When my friend and I were young Rob and Laura Petrie slept in separate beds. Why? Because love was more important than bodily functions; love was more important than piss and shit. The opposite is true today. The schools still taught civics, and still inspected the cleanliness of our fingernails. The truth was still told from altars and pulpits in churches which were still well attended. Rebellion for us meant doing exactly what this 16 year-old girl is now doing: becoming sexually active at 14, assuming a mantle of adulthood the weight of which she cannot yet know, (contracepting of course), and rejecting the magnetic North of the moral compass her parents gave her, albeit worn out, neglected, and taken for granted in the bottom of some drawer full of an abundance of material things now obsolete and discarded.

 

 

No, I explained, if we had done what she is doing in our time we would have been rebelling, but she is merely following instructions. She is doing exactly and precisely what the television is telling her to do, what the computer is telling her to do, what the school is telling her to do, the radio, the newspapers, the cinema. She is rejecting very little – hardly a bump in the road of life anymore – rebelling against nothing, for there is nothing of it left to rebel against. To be rebellious is to be virtuous. To be rebellious is to be courageous. To be rebellious is to be self-sacrificing. To be rebellious is to be patriotic. To be rebellious is to live heroically in a way one’s parents only vaguely recall, a way which is no longer held up as a goal of aspiration and has not been for much longer than a mere 16 years.

 

I can’t blame her for doing exactly and precisely what she has been instructed to do. Can you?    

Well, I meant this to be in response to a private communication but as I got going I realized I was writing a post.

 

Yes, I know I have said I don’t visit other blogs without leaving a comment, and that is true. I don’t like to read in stealth. For a number of reasons I don’t like to visit other blogs very often. Mainly it’s because I don’t like to argue. It’s always with a sense of trepidation that I click on one of the links described as my “favorites.” It’s a short list. It’s a list of (usually) safe havens. I find it’s a lot easier to keep electronic friends when they are in my country, my home.

 

But there’s an exception. I read Theology for Dummies every week, but I seldom comment. So I guess I do read at least one other blog in stealth. See, I told a lie when I said I didn’t, but in reality it only occurs to me now. I suppose I don’t count TFD for whatever reason. Perhaps because it is relatively impersonal – not part of a social network.

 

The reason I don’t comment on TFD often is because I don’t feel intelligent enough to comment all that often. That and the fact that I’m not likely to disagree. Why that man isn’t Catholic is a complete mystery, by the way. And the funny thing is I read and understand the writings of Thomas Aquinas. I believe that his was the greatest human mind of all time.

 

You know I dropped out of school, right? I finished enough credit hours for only one year before drinking became so much more interesting. I suppose one could say that I had already read everything and the college I chose was not a good match for me. That is true. I was an egghead. There was little to offer me challenge in the course offerings at the college I chose. But that really has nothing to do with why I dropped out. That’s my Dad’s opinion – trying to give me the benefit of the doubt.

 

I had to unlearn quite a lot of rubbish before I could begin to re-learn the truth. The process of re-learning was entirely self-guided. That’s why I can say I’m self-educated. I have the education of one who reads an awful lot. But I don’t have the education of a scholar. Among scholars I feel inadequate because I am inadequate. It’s really just that simple.

 

It is very like being able to understand a language which is not your own, but not being able to speak it fluently.

 

So I speak of having a piece of wood between my ears where my brain used to be, and how that piece of wood is infested by extremely intelligent but highly quarrelsome termites. That’s just my funny way of saying I know what I’m talking about but I haven’t any idea how to talk about it. My best posts begin at point A and end up in Outer Space. Well, at least they’re the most memorable.

 

I enjoy them.

 

I am not the Squabbler, but he is with me. He is a co-author of The White Lodge, along with all of you. Every time you post a comment you are a co-author. That’s how I think of you. The Squabbler lives here within reach of my hands. His body is made of paper, and it is always growing. His hands are leaves of paper and there is printed on his hands all the wonders of time.

 

What I do here is in imitation of my 3-D life to a certain extent. I spend my whole day in other people’s homes. I have a collection of keys. I know the alarm codes for very grand houses. In the winter I can have my pick of them – run around naked in them if I so choose. And I would get paid for it, too. Sometimes I write about the Squabbler and his many keys, opening doors to other worlds. Well, my life really is like that. After a while all houses are like one gigantic house. The world is like a house. I am always dreaming of finding new rooms, new wings, new mansions. I lay fires in many places. I’m a professional servant – that’s what I do for a living. I’m invisible. I’m trusted with things you might not believe if you knew about them. I write about this obliquely. But, when the day (and often the night) is done, there really is no place like home.

 

I just stare at my page – see what I’ve done. I don’t re-read what I have written. Sometimes I’ll look it over for typos, but usually I just look at the pictures, listen to the show, the music – whatever.

 

I’ll try to get around more – I promise. I made an effort on Sunday. I visited Sherry and Biggie T., a few others. I behaved myself. I didn’t start any fights. But look at tonight, will you? It’s 11 o’clock. I’m completely knackered, and I could go on writing forever and ever but my eyes are tired and closing. At 4 A.M. I will be awake and about. I’ll stop home again between 5 and 7, shower, shave, answer whatever comments came in. At 9-ish, Elizabeth arrives, and we go out cleaning until around 4. Between 5 and 9 P.M. I have a few offices, and a bank. I also deliver food to a few local Inns.

 

Oh, speaking of books, I netted 56 new volumes so far at the big annual library book sale. I’ve only been twice. It’s a great year. I found some Chesterton I haven’t read yet! You know what I’ll be doing for the next hour, until sleep overtakes me. 

 

 

 

A day at the lake pulled a few pictures out of me, and the sun gave me a nice red burn.

 

A little bit of Beulah for you. This was the second Fibber and Molly spin-off – sort of. I’ll explain further in a minute here.

 

The show had a fairly long run in various incarnations (’45-’54), and appeared simultaneously on TV from 1950, starring Ethel Waters, Hattie McDaniel, and at last, Louise Beavers.

 

Amanda Randolph takes her turn tonight in the role originally created by comedian, Marlin Hurt – most notably on FibberMcGee and Molly. That in itself was an FM&M inside joke – the rotund black woman voiced by the skinny white man. Hurt stood with his back to the mic until his cue, and then when Fibber called for Beulah he would turn around and speak, “Did somebody bella fow Beulah?” The studio audience loved it. Of course, listeners at home couldn’t see what was going on. The laughter seems over-the-top for the line unless you’re in on the joke.

 

Beulah’s more famous line – of which she does variations here – “Looooooove that man!” was copped by Bugs Bunny for a few cartoons. Obviously, if Bugs and Daffy are imitating your performance it’s safe to say you have arrived.

 

My parents used to drink Postum. Awful stuff. But Postum gives Mr. Coffee Nerves the heave-ho - so I hear.

 

It’s not a bad show. It has its moments. Randolph was quite a talented lady. You may remember her TV roles, most notably Amos and Andy and Make Room for Daddy. She also had her own variety show in ’48-’49. That makes her a television pioneer. Otherwise, she was best known for film work. And, primarily, she was a singer.

 

The reason Beulah wasn’t truly an FM&M spin-off (in the same way The Great Gildersleeve was) is that the character’s history pre-dates Marlin Hurt’s 1944-45 appearances on the Johnson’s Wax Program. Hurt portrayed Beulah for Hometown Incorporated in 1939, and NBC Radio’s Show Boat series in 1940, and it wasn’t until late ’44 that he joined the cast at FM&M – by that time as a character with an established following. Beulah’s stay in Wistful Vista was relatively short, but profitable – securing “her” enough enduring popularity to rate a full program.

 

Originally titled The Marlin Hurt and Beulah Show, the program ran with Hurt voicing its main character (and one of the supporting characters) until his untimely 1946 death. Bob Corley took over for a while, and then at last - and most famously - Hattie McDaniel from ’47 to ’52. But the saga of Beulah voices wasn’t over yet. When McDaniel left the program on account of her failing health, Lillian Randolph took over for about a year. Her sister Amanda Randolph took over in ’53, and – did I mention Louise Beavers?

 

Well, Hattie McDaniel would return to play Beulah on TV, briefly (1952), following Ethel Waters.

 

And – did I mention Louise Beavers?

 

What are we up to - seven Beulahs? And two Louise Beavers?

 

No – it was two Hattie McDaniels, only one Louise Beavers, two Randolph sisters, and a couple of white guys.

 

Oh yes – and Ethel Waters.

 

The White Lodge is up to its armpits in Beulahs today.

   

 

So… it’s Marlin Hurt, Bob Corey, Hattie McDaniel, (and simultaneously) Ethel Waters, Lillian Randolph, Amanda Randolph, and Hattie McDaniel (again).

 

And Louise Beavers.

 

I should win something.

 

Are there any among us who are obsessed with fractals? I am not obsessed with fractals. As smart as I am – and I am pretty smart in a wordy sort of way – I don’t easily comprehend mathematical equations, except perhaps very simple ones. Even the famously simple Mandelbrot Set is a challenge for me. And that’s saying something. I understand it only when it is set to music.

 

The time is coming for deep space travel propelled and guided by music. Mark my words. Certain gifted people will be employed as “singers” who will serve as navigators on voyages across vast distances which will seem to take no time at all. The Squabbler whispers this in my ear even now.

 

God is Love.

 

My Dad tells me Love is the Energy of Creation. If the so-called Big Bang Theory is currently the most plausible explanation for how everything came to exist – ah, I should say “came to be” more precisely – then “God is Love” may be understood not as a sentimental statement (which it really is not) but rather as a math equation: God = Love.

 

Oh that tyrannical verb to be! It is not “God is full of Love,” (as Mary is full of Grace), nor is it “God has Love.” It is not saying Love is one of several attributes of God. It is a simple equation: God = Love. If that is the case, then Dad’s assertion that Love is the Energy responsible for the Big Bang is perfectly logical. The definition of the word Love is, in this case, God.

 

We love – as a verb – in imitation of God’s love, both verb and noun. He is the Creator, we are the creation. It is not the other way ‘round, though it must seem that way because it is only through our own intellect, God-given, that we can approach a comprehension of God. The math equation “God is Love” is one way of comprehending Him, and it just so happens – if one believes its author, Jesus, is Divine – that it was given to us by God Himself.

 

In other words, it’s important.

 

Logic was invented in the process of comprehending God. Math was invented in the process of comprehending God. Science is wholly devoted to comprehending God. As you know, if you’ve been reading right along, I have never held the view that Science somehow opposes Religion. In fact, Science sprang from Religion much as Athena sprang out of the head of her father, Zeus. Science, as we know it, is a creation of the Church. History.

 

I think what happens is that we confuse Science and Religion with Philosophy. There are opposing philosophies which we tend to sprinkle liberally over both, yes indeed, but these are forever changing pieces of flotsam drifting down the Eternal River which gives us life. Scientists may decide to have whatever philosophy pleases them, but Science itself is really no more (or less) than a method of thinking. Any number of philosophies, in varieties which assert that there is a God and varieties that claim there isn’t, may be espoused by those who practice the method or discipline that we call Science. A mind is a lovely thing to waste on trivialities.

 

In the practice of Religion we find that it is much the same. A Fundamentalist, for instance, has a materialistic philosophy – just like many scientists do, while a Catholic is more likely to embrace one which is predicated on belief in a supernatural reality, (just as many scientists have.) It’s a sort of Plato vs. Zeno thing. The Platonic assertion that there is a reality more “real” than appearance, upon which appearances are based, was rejected by Zeno, who believed that all we see in the Natural world is all that is.

 

The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-La!...

 

This difference in philosophy has everything to do with the differing Biblical interpretations between the fundamentalist model and the traditional, or orthodox, canonical one. Both fall squarely within the category of Religion, surely.

 

If God = Love, it must also follow that Love = God. So, if that is the case, what is the meaning of the word “love” in this statement? Obviously, the myriad definitions of Love which we commonly use are inadequate to the task of defining it in this sense, but we may speculate that these usages in some way allow us to approach a better understanding of God. An equation is a totality. But this totality is comprehensible only in a theoretical way. So it is not as simple as – for instance – the totality of 4 = 2+2, which is as easy to understand as the totality of water in a vessel of a particular size. But God = Love is a totality of concepts with a value which cannot be measured in a vessel.

 

Speaking of which, let’s look inside a gallon of water, the totality of which can be measured – in other words, finite rather than infinite – and take a look ‘round what’s in there. We know that there are molecules which make up the substance we call water, and we know that within these molecules there are atoms, and we know that within these atoms there are protons and neutrons, and photons, and quarks, and Love knows what-all. Let us pretend that this video is taking us inside that gallon. It isn't - it's just a computer generated fractal zoom, but let's pretend anyway. Let's pretend that we are taking a visual tour of the particles of matter within that water. What we will see is space within space within space, shapes within shapes. It may seem to go on forever. 

 

And then, once we have fully grasped everything that finite quantity contains, we’ll turn our minds to the task of contemplating the Infinite.

 

The excursion train hosts a “Blues Express” every month. I can hear the opening number from my porch. The fellow’s singing his heart out. Then there’s a nice long guitar bit. It’s pretty darned good guitar playing too. I’m grooving. The song ends, the dude speaks. My Lord, he’s excited. I might be listening to a big stadium concert. He says, “Hey! I just wanna… blah blah blah!” And the crowd goes… mild.

 

I guess the “Blues Express” isn’t very well attended tonight. Hearing it now makes me wonder, what must it be like to perform on a moving train? And, since the train happens to be moving right at this moment, I wonder how long it shall take for the sound of the music to fade away entirely? Well, if I bought a ticket and boarded the “Blues Express” I suppose I might be hearing the rest of the song even now, but in that case I wouldn’t be writing this. (What a loss.)

 

So.

 

I’ll let you know. Right now it’s sort of ambient. I can hear the bass, that’s about it. No, it’s gone now. The train whistle is much louder than the band.

 

Today was another great day for industry – somebody’s industry – well, no, also mine. It wasn’t bad. That’s right – I speak of my day in the past tense at 9 P.M. because the days of my going out on a Saturday night until 3 in the morning are now a vague and fuzzy memory.

 

I’ll bet money the WT is looking down a pool cue right about now, her hair spilling out like root beer on the green felt of the table. I know what it must look like. Everybody and his brother – and quite possibly my own brother – is gathered around behind her in a semi-circle or horseshoe shape, just watching. And they’re not watching the silly ball. That’s funny.

 

What do bars smell like without cigarette smoke? The last time I went to a public house we were still smoking, ashtrays every couple of feet on the bar. I can’t think of the smell without cigarette smoke. Yes, I know we’re not all New Yorkers here. Smoking is illegal in the bars in New York State, or has been for… however long. Not too long. Long enough. Whatever. You get the idea…

 

I don’t have a point, so I’ll get right to it…

 

I guess I must feel my age. I don’t look it. I don’t think it. But I feel it. I’ve never acted my age – good Heavens, no. But I sure do feel my age today.

 

I wonder if the band will still be playing on the return trip? Then I can hear it fade in.

 

Fade out, fade in, fade out, fade…in.

 

Check One, Two. Is this thing on?

 

It’s an interesting stage of one’s career in music to be playing on a moving train for a small handful of people whose applause are inaudible from two blocks away. I’ll bet there’s a girl dancing in a black spaghetti string top, arms up in the air, lips drawn, and so on. Dark brown hair. In her… 30’s? Yes, but she is dressed just as she would have been dressed ten or so years ago when she first discovered this band. It could even be the same outfit, or pieces of it. Time stopped for her then. She is a “groupie.” By the sound of it, this band should rate one or two groupies, don’t you think?

 

Oh that’s right – you can’t hear it. You’re imaginary.

 

I’ve always wanted to stop time. The trouble is choosing exactly where to stop time – at what point in time? I must choose carefully.

 

Now there is a moth on my monitor – ah – computer screen. It is currently obscuring the letters o-n-g in the word “long.” I think it is the sleepy time moth. What? You have never heard of the sleepy time moth? Sho’ now… One day I must tell you all about the sleepy time moth.

 

Until then, farewell.

 

 

John Dickson Carr returns to take writing credit for this 1943 Suspense! broadcast, "The Customers Like Murder," with the star Roland Young.