Eulogy

It was an interesting week for me last week.  Over the course of seven days the Peacock's dog, Cass, died; the Tigress' cat, Loki, died; I was given three literature assignments, all of them revolving around death; my literature paper revolved around the repercussions of a death; and after a few other omens of foul repute my psychology professor gave the week's assignment: to write my own eulogy.

So, yeah, I was careful crossing the street for a while.



Now that the flitting souls have finally tired of whispering that Faustus is damned and that my sons shall be king, though I be none . . . I thought I would share my eulogy with you.  Odds are it'll be the only one you ever need to read.  It takes place, as one would expect, many years in the future . . . for those of you who know me, of course, there will be no surprises.

IN MEMORIAM

Before we begin, I would like to thank all of you for being here, especially those of you who had to come by ship.  These have been hard times for us all, with the war just behind us and the wounds from it still fresh.  I’m glad to see that even now we can come together, even if it’s for an occasion as solemn as this.

I never personally met the decedent, though I’m told Coyote always hated funerals.  He saw them as generally pointless exercises in morbidity and flagellation.  However, since as with all subjects of a funeral he is not here to protest, we are free to carry on.  Moreover, as a member of the clergy, I am completely comfortable with telling his closest friends and family all about him.

Coyote was born at a very young age.  He liked to say it was a very traumatic experience for him: naked in front of a roomful of masked strangers, he was held upside-down and spanked.  Born somewhere in New York – he was never quite sure where – and raised on Long Island, Coyote had a fascination with self-mastery and the martial arts from about the age of six.  He was also a writer, author of a variety of works and co-author of the famous O4S series, along with his writing partner and friend of many years, best-selling author Lauren Scharhag.

Coyote was never publicly compared to such historic geniuses as Leonardo da Vinci, Isaac Asimov, Benjamin Franklin, or Nikola Tesla.  However, he was known to compare such men favorably to himself from time to time, and that ought to count for something. 

He also loved laughter.

            

            In the course of his life, he wrote a variety of books on subjects ranging from metaphysical theory to science fiction and fantasy, from psychology to martial arts training.  He wrote fifteen children’s books and seven poetry anthologies.  Several of his children’s books won Newberry Awards, and his work on the impacts of societal symbolism on human development simultaneously won him his Nobel Peace Prize and his first Pulitzer Prize.  

             When the book series he and Lauren wrote together was finally made into a cable series, The Order of the Four Sons not only won a staggering thirteen Emmys over the course of eight seasons, but inspired several anime-style spin-offs from further books he and Lauren had written in the same universe.  Added to this was the Hugo Award for Best Novel the two of them got for Book III of the series: Where Flap the Tatters of the King.  Coyote did voice work for several of the characters in the animated series, as well as all the audio books, and many of the novels that Lauren wrote on her own. 

Through it all, he continued to meditate, study, and teach martial arts.  Many people credit him with contributing more to proper martial arts training than anyone since Bruce Lee.

While Coyote never attracted a following such as those enjoyed by Jesus, Mohammed, or the Buddha, he was always ready to point out that he was more sexually attractive than all three combined.  Point of fact, some of you may recall that was part of his acceptance speech for his Nobel.  He never said whether he did that because he thought it was true, or just because he thought it would be funny.  Probably a little of each.   

Coyote is survived by friends, his children and grandchildren, and he always enjoyed alternating entertaining and terrifying the kids with stories he would tell them before bed.  I see some of you nodding.  You can probably remember some of them, and if any of you would like to share them later I’m sure he would be pleased.

Most people don’t know the work he did, small things here and there, towards securing freedom of speech and press to those countries where it was least tolerated.  His arrest in China made the news, though.  Some of you may remember that, when he was caught harboring political fugitives from the Cyber-Papacy back in 2045. 

Less publicized was his arrest in Washington.  Even though the place is now a museum, apparently it is still illegal to measure the Pentagon in hopes of arranging an exorcism.  However, Coyote later went on to portray Abbie Hoffman on stage in a one-man-show that local critics heralded as nothing short of brilliant.

An eccentric anarchist, Coyote had become something of a national treasure even before the revolution that gave New Hong Kong our independence.  He was respected not for fighting in the revolution – which he never did – but for helping people keep to their own values when things were at their worst, and for helping negotiate the final peace between ourselves and the UN.

But most of all, Coyote was himself.  He enjoyed doing what he wanted, and encouraging others to do likewise.  He enjoyed being the center of attention, and he enjoyed being recognized wherever he went.  But he also treasured his solitude and was fiercely protective of not only his own but of others’.  When asked about his religion, he often said that while he distrusted any label or organization, he did enjoy wearing Emperor Norton’s old clothes from time to time.  He lived, loved, and laughed, treasuring not only his own freedom but that of others.  He always urged others to build themselves up, never to tear each other down.  And it was in that spirit that he helped us make this place what it is today.

Coyote has been missing for over six months now, and has been ever since the regulator accident.  Here on Mars, any colonist can tell you that everything is as safe as we can get it, but no more than that.  New Hong Kong is no exception.  When the east bank of terraformers went, it took a lot of section nine with it.  Seventy-three people are still missing, and forty-seven of the bodies could not be positively identified.  So, probably Coyote has moved on at last.  Only two percent of those in the area survived, and of those only two percent were relatively unharmed.

Still, it is worth noting that he had been nominated for Governor last month.  Earlier, I overheard some of you who knew him best, saying that if anything might drive him to fake his own death, being threatened with a government position just might do it.  He once said, “A bad politician is a burden on everyone, himself included; a good politician has power over the lives of others and none over his own.  I don’t care to be either.”  So, maybe, just maybe, he’s still out there somewhere.  I like to think he’s waiting for the fuss to die down, or perhaps just enjoying the quiet and the solitude that only the still beauty of our red world can offer.  And I like to think that if he has died, well, he’s probably doing much the same.

So, after the service today, this casket – and the Life-Model Decoy within it – will be treated as he had wished his remains to be treated in event of his death.  They will be cremated, then scattered in a park somewhere where children play.  This is a hard time for a lot of us, so I will leave you with one of his earlier poems.  Under the circumstances it seems appropriate.  It is entitled simply, Sonnet:

Count Basie and His Orchestra the fun’ral service play

Let cats cut rugs as flappers kipple till the break of day

Let vodka and tequila flow with whiskey through the crowd

And every thought be spoken and each speech be laughed aloud

Release the clowns!  The dancing bears!  Have Nero play his lyre

Confetti streets and motorcades and factories on fire

Shall light the way for mourners come with sparklers and balloons

No thorny walls, no teardrop falls, save for in old cartoons

I am not a dying gate, Porphyria yet lives

The maelstrom is a thing for fools who ledger as they give

And shout demands with silent looks, and club with flowers, cards and books

I can yet travel by the day and cross the running brooks

Be damned to rivers!  Tributaries never brought me joy

In anything!  Cast down the ocean!  The kraken is a toy

For old Greek ghosts who kill their hosts and sieve for water at the coasts

Those who go outside and live are those who ‘member me the most

Seal me in and face me down, dry wood and broken bone

If I am to be interred, best if I go alone

Sometime Again,

--Coyote.

(Funeral pic courtesy of bbc.com, and the characters within are (c) Paramount Pictures; lightsabre-toting beatles are courtesy of djgreedyg.proboards.com.  All rights reserved by those who rightfully reserve them.)

Laughs, Then Leaps Underfoot

The Tigress' cat, Loki, has finally passed on.  It was about midnight, but he'd been slipping all day.

He came to the house when he was just a kitten, and was well-named for his mischievous nature.  Actually, the above image is a pretty good likeness.  He was a comfort in times of strife and a source of strife in times of too much comfort.  He would unplug students' alarm clocks, and lick away the tears when someone skinned their knee.  A guardian to our children when they were infants and to our house, he would curl up with them as they slept or sit at attention for hours on end outside our door, daring any nightmare or fiend to come close.  

Tonight he is gone, old age having taken him at last.  He was eased into his journey by the presence of friends and family, and buried in the back yard next to the medicine wheel.  After the rest of the house was asleep, I went outside and mourned in private.  And now I honour his memory.



Good journey, old man.

--Coyote.

(Tombstone pic courtesy of devientart.com, original artist ~Jessception.  All rights reserved.)

Wretched, Wretched Movie: Coyote's Lord of the Flies Film Review

Today in psych class, I sat through the 1990 Lord of the Flies.  Which I suppose I would rather do than have an enema, though an enema would be quicker.  I am supposed to write a two-page paper on the piece, drawing on aspects in psych for reference.  Toward this goal, I took my usual careful notes:

Close-up on unconscious blonde boy drowning, saved by darker haired boy.  Blonde must be the villain later.  Likely kill the other kid or try to.

Movie - kids are from military school, nothing peaceful or upper class.  Highly authoritarian, war-oriented background, corporal punishment and disdain for "weakness" already instilled.

Mid-teens = adolescence.  see p.61.

Chain of command maintained. "Sir."  Maslow's hierarchy of needs.  Water, then food.  Safety?

Conch trumpet - keeping old social signals alive.  Everything is a pissing contest.  Darker haired boy is Colonel.  Trying to keep things positive, but everything is a bloody confrontation.

Group looked to the Captain - then wanted more rules, and a leader.  Colonel: "It doesn't matter who's in charge."  He'll get turned on: too sane for the plot.  All immediately chose someone to pick on: the FNG is the smart one, so chose him.  Total outsider: new, smart, and not a total waste of flesh.  Contributes helpfully to every discussion he can.  Can't have that.

Use military exercises and chants as bonding and identification.  The smart one immediately called "Piggy," bullied by everyone.

Fire dance supposed to be creepy (music + cinematography).  Apparently the director fears primitivism.  Then horrible out-of-control fire because they didn't listen to the smart one ("Piggy").

Contemptible little vermin, constantly vying for dominance.

The Blonde doesn't want rescue ("Jack" - figures.  At least he isn't "Murdock" or "Lucien.")

All horrible male stereotypes are worshiped here.  Assembly is still obeyed.

Problem of law.  Thieves.  Demerits?  They have spent their lives being disciplined, thus not gaining any discipline.

Blonde Jack starts gathering followers and looking constipated in all his close-ups.  Called it.  Cruelty - one of his followers killed a pet.  Plans to kill the Captain (token adult taken ill).  He flees in the night.  Clothes found.  Jack painting faces with pig blood gives him authority.  No meat yet.

Chopper went by, but fire was out.  The worst of them go with Jack.  War is inevitable.

They relight the fire.  How is the smart one staying overweight through all this?  What's he doing, eating the script?

A hunter finds a cave, kills the Captain.  ("MONSTER!")  As usual, it's a pissing contest.  Jack's the last, but they all run.

Jeez, why not just take us to the monkey exhibit?  Oh, right, because monkeys are smarter than this.

Jacks takes fire from the other group, tells them about the Beast.  Demands the knife, but no.  Takes it by force, breaks the smart one's glasses.  I hate this movie.

Ceremonial pig hunt is also supposed to be scary.  Writer / director afraid of tribal too?  Dissonant music.

The smart one is the only smart one.  Twins in denial.

Hysteria, whippings.  Problem from Jack's childhood.  He was raised like this.  He uses fear of the Monster to hold his tribe together.  Idiots.

Storm - need for more shelter.

The smart one goes around, gathering people together after.  Shows how the storm gives access to fruit.

Aaaaaand now the tribe is terrorizing the smart one and stealing his glasses to make fire.  The smart one wishes Jack was dead.  

I hate this movie.

Smart one: "We did everything like the grown-ups.  Why didn't it work?"  Yeah.  So did they.

More pissing matches.  The smart one is talking sense, so he'll have to die if this is going to keep being dark - yeah, there we go.  No shock.

So does Colonel Ralph become the monster?  Probably.  Flies in the pig head.  Bet that actually meant something in the book.

The youngest ones are 10.  See developmental stages.

Jack's tribe chase Ralph with fire, hunting him down to kill him.  Called it again.  The twins are the only ones who resist, however passively.  At age 10.  Oh, look: rescue military.  "What're you guys doing?"  And none of them know.

Oh, now you're crying.  

Finally over.  Like a kidney stone, lo, it has passed.

There are ways that a student, if they take notes regularly, can get paid a small stipend to share their notes with disabled classmates.  This is a highly valuable program and an opportunity to help out others.  I have never been accepted into that program, however.  Probably my fancy handwriting.  It isn't for everyone.

Ultimately, I do not recommend this movie, and I could wish I'd never seen it.  As I understand it, the book was meant to challenge the reader, asking what the meaning of civilization really was.  There is also a blurb that says that evil is in the nature of every human, especially children.  Yet throughout the film, every character in the movie does exactly what he was taught to do.  The trappings change, but that's all.

Cloth uniforms are traded in for body paint.  Corporal punishment stays, and follows Jack's extremism - the movie makes it clear he had a criminal past before being sent to the school.  With dominance no longer determined by an outside source (the academy), the kids, being scared, fall back upon force.  Force, or the threat of it, was how dominance was asserted in the "civilized" world anyway.  The one character who was taught all his life to be mature (the smart one) dies because he was urging the rest to be mature - and they were shoving him and telling him to shut up during the first two minutes of the movie anyway.

In their essence,  none of these kids deviated from what they'd been taught, so any argument as to what the movie might say about their nature is moot.  Without significant philosophical deviation, their natures cannot be addressed.  Without opportunity to address the characters' natures, the movie fails in its alleged point.  One could argue that civilization is just chock-full of candy-coated evil, or encourages it, or doesn't address it . . . but none of these seem to be what the movie is trying to say, either.  Even the author, Jay Presson-Allen, didn't like it.  She was allegedly so dissatisfied with the final result she used a synonym in the credits: Sara Schiff.

Bad movie.  Bad.  No biscuit.

And now I have to analyze this thing for a psych class.



As an aside: there will be no post this coming Monday, due to my being out of town all weekend with Random Wit and Rapier Twits.  But I should have tales to share afterwards.

Sometime Again,

--Coyote.

(Lord of the Flies, the 1990 movie, is currently owned by MGM.  If they still want it.  Angel in mourning courtesy of mute-the-silence.blogspot.com.  All rights reserve by rightful, or at least legal, owners.)