Fury

The rain hat has once again been detached from the telephone box by the furious wind, allowing the rain to dampen its circuits. After going out into the storm and reattaching it, and allowing it to dry as well as it can in a few hours of these conditions, I have been able to get a brief connection to the Internet and log in with the LJ client. If I can get another connection after I've written this, I will post it this morning.

Tonight it has been as though the rain is trying to make up for its failure to fall in the previous storm, and the wind is trying to rush the clouds away before they can accomplish their task. It's a war of elements, and we are caught in the middle. Gusts of wind are rattling the windows, driving the raindrops with such force that they sound like handfuls of pebbles tossed by some admirer. The wind wants me! I hear it in the chimney, too, and feel its cold breath as it snuffles at the door. At times, the downspout is so burdened with runoff that I can feel its vibration when I place my hand against the wall. All the while, the pines howl. I imagine them all over the town, leaning precariously over the utility lines, their roots straining the damp soil, the huge boles likely at any moment to take out the power, leaving me in the dark, the furnace fan silenced, the house growing cold.

Now, another gust and more watery pebbles against the window as the wind booms among the nearby trees. It is a rumble almost like the onset of an earthquake. I wonder what it is like farther up the mountains, where it is cold enough for snow. I envision cabins buried, and deer huddling in the lee of dense pine groves. I am glad that I can soon crawl under the covers and stay warm as the storm passes. But first I must go out and fetch the morning paper, before it is dissolved to inky pulp inside its undoubtedly leaky plastic bag. I hope for a lull in the storm, so that I may do this without being reduced to a pulpy mass, myself. Then I will sleep, without the usual squawking of the early--rising crows today, I think. Even they will have the sense to stay out of this.

Rambling. Too Much Sleep.

I must stop sleeping so late.

Another of my posts got Passion of the Christ spam. No gruesome graphics, this time, though. Awww. No matter. I can see those any time I turn on the television. Scourging! This particular aspect of the movie seems to be drawing a lot of attention. Joe Beltake, reviewer for The Sacramento Bee, said that it ". . . comes precariously close to being a religious snuff movie." And he gave the movie three (of four possible) stars! Heh.

Among other things that Gibson's apparent obsession with the bloodier aspects of the story has brought to my mind is the fact that, following the massive destruction wrought on Europe by the black plague which brought to an end the vibrant and largely optimistic culture of the High Middle Ages, the religious art of the time shifted its emphasis away from the idea of salvation and redemption and began to concentrate primarily on suffering and violence. The serene and usually blood-free (maybe just a hint of stigmata in some of them) Jesus icons of the earlier era were replaced by a tortured and agonized Jesus, writhing on the cross, dripping with gore. The medieval transformation of religious art was understandable in the context of the near destruction of European society at the time, but, despite some serious threats to our well being, modern Christendom has undergone nothing that would justify such a change of aesthetics. Perhaps it is merely another example of the histrionic nature of modern western culture, with its penchant for exaggerating even the slightest problem into something of epic significance. If a hand on a thigh twenty years ago is worthy of such dramatic attention as it has recently received, then why shouldn't a contretemps with the nearly powerless Muslim world, for example, cause Mel Gibson to dive head first into the sort of gory religious symbolism which, a few centuries ago, could be brought about only by the sudden death of half the population of a continent? I mean, we're all so damned important, now, aren't we? At least Mel is, I'm sure.