Exploring our world through the prism of surrealistic imagery and written opinion with a critical eye towards themes in Western media; striving against instincts to deprive my body (having long followed anorexic tendencies); embracing life's quirky facets and beautiful imperfections ...with a great deal of glue.
Mixed-media collage from late-high school or start of college, early Aughts. Magazine and acrylic on 14" x 18" canvas paperboard.
Outside pressures yield chinks in the rigid armor of OCD patterns as I (literally) attemptrerouting aspects of behavior contrary to a healthy, well-rested regimen.
Lens filter found crushed in driveway, left by Erica (June 12, 2015)
"There is a crack in everything / That's how the light gets in."- Leonard Cohen, Anthem
I simply must curb my self-mandated walking routines, as they are not currently conducive to mounting a productive schedule, nor restoring depleted vitals.
Print under framed glass, one of three by me, with black matting. A December 2002 etching traced from a 1973 design sketch (found in a book on fashion history).
"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall."- Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance A green smoothie paired with ready-made liquid supplement are again recommended as baseline essentials by trusted counsel. As emphasized in prior accounts, the aim is to incorporate items of potent nutritional content into my day, with a greater spectrum of ingredients carrying vitamin benefits.
Kale NutriBlast blended from frozen banana, Maine blueberries, yoghurt, ice, & warm tap water. Also: Orgain chocolate shake, pink Alstroemeria (June 19, 2015)
"To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable."- Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
In a desperate bid for a "quick fix" to correct my severely depleted physical reserves, I permitted a close acquaintance familiar with my situation dare me into drinking a frozen dessert frappe at the local McDonalds. Given that I'm virtually orthorexic, this was no minor effort on my end, although for him it is a no-sweat treat. (He casually pointed-out several menu items routinely ordered as dinner, totaling well over two thousand calories per meal.) My companion likes to frequent food chains like Applebees and smaller stands such as Maine's own Wasses Hot Dogs, preferring "American" cuisine built on meat 'n potatoes. But for Lorena Stackpole, this would be a new and unwanted gesture, although for myself and other strict dieters, there exists occasional interest in whether such concoctions live up to their hype. Let's just say my curiosity was more than satisfied, the product being oddly wan and unquestionably wretched, what with a vein of imitation-chocolate syrup that made me thirst for anything else to counteract such manufactured, hollow sweetness. Needless to say, I would be positively surprised to step foot beneath those ubiquitous Golden Arches ever again. My displeasure was recorded the following day via e-mail exchange with a like-minded confidant. An excerpt:
Q: What friend asked you into drinking that nasty thing from McDonalds? Ugh. Why do people have it so wrong? The object is to eat things that are good for you, or damn tasty at least!!!
A: Oh, you have no idea the agony my gut was in within the hour after taking that horrible poison into my system! I would have GLADLY exchanged it for a coconut-kale concoction with almond butter and ice. My therapist, a lovely and trusted adviser, agreed that I should be allowed wholesome, natural fats and nutrients, not a laundry list of preservatives (as tallied in the official ingredient report).
I concluded with three selfies --two obscured-- in addition to the obligatory image of some random kitten devouring a Coolatta, as encountered on Google Images. Needless to say, the McD slogan of "I'm Lovin' It" was NOT realized in this experience...
A NEW SIX-PIECE SERIES OF DIZZY, DROOLING COLORS HELPS UNLEASH MY APPETITE FOR DESTRUCTION, WITH PIGMENTS AND PAPERS APPLIED IN A ANGRY, SEMI-DETACHED STATE OF AWARENESS
UNTITLED NO. 1
24" x 36" (cropped view, as this one is FAR too busy -- and therefore due to be painted over)
UNTITLED NO. 2
20" x 16" - acrylic on canvas - 3/2015
UNTITLED NO. 3
16" x 20" - acrylic and cardboard paper (from Diet Coke 12-pack) on canvas - 3/2015
UNTITLED NO. 4
16" x 20" - acrylic and paper on canvas - 3/2015 (collage extends slightly beyond frame)
It was in the season of Lent eleven years ago that I first entered a treatment facility to correct habits of starvation and exercise-as-puntive-measure. As it did then, this period of the year carries resounding ironies for an anorexic, especially if it finds that individual in the throes of reinvention, struggling to resist deprivation as a lifestyle direction. In a twist on age-old tradition, such a person would find it necessary to tweak Christ's example, reinterpreting the Church's calls for fasting, choosing instead to suppress disordered urges, to "restrict restriction." It is a laudable notion, and efforts by Catholics and others to demonstrate temperance, reverence, even mindfulness -- a popular buzzword amongst contemporary health practitioners -- mustn't necessarily exclude those with eating issues. Instead, these forty days can be used to provide a window of time in which one launches healthier patterns, abstaining from impulses contrary to recovery.
I myself have been endlessly debating if I should be evaluated by specialists with expertise in hypermetabolism, as I have been attempting for some time to navigate what is referred to by medical journals as the "refeeding" stage of weight correction, or a process in which the severely malnourished patient receives aggressive nutritional support, often triggering uncomfortable symptoms (at best), extreme physical complications (at worst). I consider it requital for my family's continuing support and patience that I attack my issues head-on, so as of today I have almost doubled my daytime calorie intake -- the morning, afternoon, and early evening comprising those hours when I have trained myself (since age thirteen) to "wait-out" hunger until a late-night mini-feast might be allowed before surrendering to sleep. (Call it the "one and done" approach to meal planning.) In January/February 2011 I tentatively introduced a small lunch into my routine, but I have rarely managed more than that, convinced that I haven't "earned" supper if my appetite has not been stoked to its consummate standing. Energy expenditure has long been a contributing method for taxing my body to its breaking point, of creating strain under the pretense of healthful exercise, but but my overall frailty of both body and will have put the kibosh on all but local walking errands.
As things stand now I am fearful of what might ensue should I not embrace relatively normalized eating, as I have been increasingly aware of classic indicators of organ failure, most notably of the heart and kidneys. (For "Rena" to face renal failure would indeed be a pathetic ending to this story, despite the opportunity for flawless alliteration.) On an earlier outing I happened to observe The Fugees' Killing Me Softly -- a personal favorite, an achingly beautiful track -- playing over the speakers at the corner market. I had only just at that very moment followed a link on my iPhone detailing the silent signs of cardiac arrest, which in females is often gradual -- or, as the song implies, a gentle assassin. This, combining with the fact that Sunday marks the start of National Eating Disorders Awareness Week, has me connecting the dots to form a pretty clear picture of where this train is heading, for without a sharp turn in its tracks a major crash will foreseeably mark its end.
My previous entry was designed to identify shortcomings posed in adapting Into The Woods from a live show, be it amateur effort or Broadway bonanza, to screen. I now confess that, in my haste to evaluate the gaps between these not-entirely-dissimilar forms, I may have issued a myopic appraisal. A repeat screening of Woods: The Movie is likely in the cards for fans of its varied theatrical incarnations --- as ours can be a biased community, harboring preexisting notions of what it is we expect to see preserved. A film version inevitably guts various "essentials" -- elements from the musical's book that may never be bottled by Hollywood as long as commercial appeal trumps awkward, uncomfortable absurdity, insurgency, out-of-the-box freedoms, dark-as-night implications. Even though the original author-songwriter team of ITW was also responsible for the filming script, it occurs to me that perhaps a more disruptive, innovative voice would have better captured its sense of daring and surprise -- a maverick in the vein of Charlie Kaufman or a onetime-undisiplined Terry Gilliam (who in his own right has become too comfortable, resting, like James Lapine here, on his laurels). And yet, whatever it was that seems to have been lost in translation, the result is in the end a piece of work that deserves to be shown due consideration independent of any previous version one's mind employs as comparative touchstone. That is why seeing it for a second time may be necessary for some of us who take longer to flush entrenched impressions, to clean the palate of a lingering flavor considered especially gratifying, even consummate. Indeed, when we narrow our focus to what something isn't, it becomes difficult to fairly evaluate and appreciate the niceties offered in what it is.
Illustration for "Goblin Market," Arthur Rackham
IN MY CRITIQUE OF THE ROB MARSHALL-HELMED BLOCKBUSTER, I FAILED TO SEE THE FOREST FOR THE TREES. THE SAME CAN BE SAID FOR MY LIFE, IN GENERAL. I HAVE BEEN LACKING PERSPECTIVE, HONING-IN ON A LITANY OF DISASTERS (A VERITABLE HAIL STORM OF BARBED MISFORTUNES) ALL THE WHILE FORGETTING TO ACKNOWLEDGE WHERE I HAVE BEEN BLESSED, EVEN SPOILED. ALL TOO OFTEN, I LOOK A GIFT HORSE IN THE MOUTH, JUDGING LARGE INTRUSIONS AS SOMETHING TO BE FEARED AND INTIMIDATED BY, NOT RESPECTED, NOR EMBRACED...
Illustration: "She Kissed the Bear on the Nose," John Bauer (Sometimes we stand too close to our obstacles to properly assess their kind and quality.)
I have omitted discussion of it on these pages, but my maternal grandmother passed-away the Sunday leading into Thanksgiving, throwning a pall upon the holidays (a difficult period in their own right). My father will learn in one week the results of a PET scan measuring the state of his lymphoma, and when he allows them to, his doctor's reports have the power to persuade his moods up or down, as the moon rules the tides. It is easy for me to forget that, yes, he has been tussling with cancer, but it is a mild form, with chemo rounds widely intermittent, side effects remarkably few. On my mother's recent birthday he was so sick with worry about his approaching test that he had her drive him home from her own party, only to then refuse supper upon arrival. Such obstinacy is a recurring trait with our family, and I am certainly not immune (what with my stubborn, near-crippling adherence to familiar OCD/ED behavioral patterns). But it is hard not to suspect voodoo at play when you witness a death, followed shortly thereafter by the break-down of more trivial things: the kitchen floor tiles cracking, the furnace requiring professional care, the VCR/DVD player becoming jammed with a knotted VHS cassette, the washing machine going belly-up after a solid thirty-year run, sub-freezing air leaving your lips, hands, toes brutally blistered, with water pipes exploding and house flowers turning brown from vacillating temperatures, your usual outdoor exercise routines curtailed in kind. The reduction in walking time permitted by Maine's polar conditions then causes me to tell myself I deserve to eat less, which then devastates my body's blood sugar levels, which in turn leaves me vulnerable to weight loss/depression/off-center thinking... And we're back to the start, to the origin of my woes (or at least how I perceive them) --- the impaired logic and "hanger" of basic malnutrition. In effect, I sew my own blinker hood, trotting into a snarled path when perfectly clear ones remain on either side. It took me until last evening to again recognize life's "little miracles," as a Good Samaritan at the market randomly paid for my small lot of groceries, going so far as to additionally throw-in three avocados "because when I encountered you here a year ago you couldn't afford them." Yes, he wore the stench of tobacco like a cape, but his eyes were kind and his general impression not a far cry from a gristled Bob Balaban. It all brings to mind a quote I saw printed in the paper this Saturday, from the respectable hand of Dashiell Hammett:
"YOU'VE GOT TO LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, EVEN IF THERE AIN'T ONE."
I could easily coast into superstitious deprecations. (After all, today is the thirteenth of the month.) But that obscures so many of the things going right, even if there is, as always, so much pain, be it globally (see: Ferguson, Paris) and at close proximity (my grandmother's absence, my father's tumors, my mother's burdens, my depleted physical/emotional/financial reserves). I know, I know... In a nation of so much privilege, many of our grievances are a matter of perspective, often self-induced.
EARNEST AND REVERENT, ROB MARSHALL'S "INTO THE WOODS" IS AN ADMIRABLE ATTEMPT AT A DIFFICULT TRANSLATION --- YET IT LEAVES ME STEWING OVER DROPPED ELEMENTS AND MISSED OPPORTUNITIES.*
*IT'S ENOUGH TO CRACK A STICK OVER!
Her magic negated by restored youth and beauty, The Witch's staff becomes nothing but mere tinder
If there ever were a piece of popular entertainment capturing the inherent message intended for this site, it would have to be Into The Woods. As of Christmas Day, audiences across the country were gifted a luxe film adaptation of this Tony Award-winning theatrical production, and I cheer the attention it ultimately awakens for this masterpiece of a modern musical. Sure-footed and stately, the film was delivered by the hands of a capable, cautious production team and cast. Nevertheless, I reserve my criticisms, as the play sheds much of its lustre in conversion from stage to screen, with a good part of the wit and daring-do at its core conceit jettisoned with removal from a theater-hall setting. It simply doesn't have the same crackling electricity and excitement I remember, having been introduced to the show in the early nineties via PBS's "American Playhouse," an uninterrupted broadcast of the original production that my mother admirably managed to record for exhaustive review.
WOODSTOCK: Bernadette Peters hemmed in by the premiere troupe
Because I exhausted my patience for writing over the course of my last entry --- and am shamefully behind in composing holiday "thank you's" --- I aim to keep my feelings here brief. But before I invest in further elaboration, a primer for the uninitiated:
Introduced to Broadway in 1987, Into The Woods is composer and lyricist Stephen Sondheim's inventive, renegade mash-up of well-known fairy tales handled with contemporary treatment: bedtime stories tweaked and reworked towards a revisionist's eye. Half a decade before Disney reclaimed its flailing stranglehold over children's fantasy --- and well prior to the smug animated spoofs of recent years, heralded most notably by a cantankerous, bugle-eared green ogre and his wise-cracking donkey --- this intricately woven operetta dared to tear apart (then tenderly reconstruct) our most-recognized fictional heroes and corresponding fables. Of course, fandom for Woods hasn't deluded me into thinking this was the first or final example of story time tropes turned inside-out or spun in a gonzo direction: older generations had Rocky & Bullwinkle's Fractured Fairy Tales, younger ones, Wicked. (I will admit to being unfamiliar with both.) But you'll have to trust me when I say that Woods is like none other. To borrow a line from its own script, Into The Woods carries with it "a magic that defies description."
An example of exceptional stage craft conceived for Woods, from the portfolio of Wilson Chin for the Yale Dramatic Association
Just as productions of Woods most often involve astonishing visuals in the stage dressing alone, with innovative use of space, lighting, and other materials, the elaborateness of its engineering is evidenced in euphonious, tricky lyrics. My mind immediately recalls the climactic Act II double-punch of "Your Fault" and "Last Midnight," wherein a flurry of stinging barbs erupt like hell-bent hornets from a tightly-wound Gatling gun. Writes Michael Schulman in a Christmas Eve essay for The New Yorker: "Sondheim's score is a puzzle-master's trove of overlapping motifs, internal rhymes, wordplay ('We've no time to sit and dither / while her withers wither with her'), and psychological nuance." Cinderella's Act I solo number reveals that she purposefully abandons her slipper as a test and challenge for her royal pursuer, with somersaulting logic and indecisiveness leading into her plan. On this, Schulman observes: "Few musical-theater soliloquies are as elegant" and he samples her see-sawing chess game deliberations: 'But what if he knew what you were when you know / That you're not what he thinks / That he wants?'"
SHE TALKS TO BIRDS: Cinderella (Kim Crosby) sings "On the Steps of the Palace"
The plot itself, while heartfelt and penetrating, is less convoluted, revolving around a patchwork of classic characters first made famous by the Brothers Grimm, sandwiched between composites built from oft-repeated-yet-nameless supporting roles (i.e. The Baker and The Baker's Wife or The Witch/Old Hag). Once assembled, unsung "second-fiddles" take to claim the central narrative along with the usual imperiled females, dashing suitors and the like, effecting the not-entirely-happy proceedings with equal weight.
A sampling of the principles, as portrayed (left to right) by Anna Kendrick, Chris Pine, Meryl Streep, and Mackenzie Mauzy, courtesy Walt Disney Pictures
These archetypes come to interact, mature, and learn (often cruel) life lessons in the liminal space of the forest dividing their respective villages and kingdoms. States The Huffington Post in its review of one 2012 incarnation, played (most appropriately) at an outdoor venue: "The woods can symbolize so much ---sexual awakening, dark forces, knowledge and power." With such elements in play, recognizable figures tumble together, ultimately drawing into a makeshift family unit when wishes, once granted, unfold to reveal their tragic provisos. Actions deliver consequence. Pursuing desires can effect more than ourselves alone, activating a butterfly effect, with reverberations felt across the entire fairy tale community. There are shades of Good and Evil in the world, and witches and giants and wolves and even nameless narrators have feelings too. Life, in other words, is complicated. Sometimes it's easier to remain sheltered in our mother's arms, held close and fast to a busom than to launch into experiences that might circle-back with sticky repercussions, difficulties, responsibilities. The struggle to grow up and out, to shed our downy feathers and take flight, is strongly featured in Woods, and it reminds me of two quotes that I have tucked-away for semi-regular review:
"A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for." - John A Shedd
"In much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow." - Ecclesiastes 1:18
Pair the first with the mother-daughter struggle of The Witch and her beloved charge, Rapunzel, who is eager to experience life outside her tower's solitary limits: "The world is dark and wild / Stay a child while you can be a child," pleads her captor/protector. Arguing on the side of the adventurer-explorers (of which Jack of beanstalk fame also rallies for), Little Red Riding Hood delivers one of the most resounding truths of the production --- and of life itself. After a brush with death teaches her to be wary of strangers (especially ones with big eyes, ears, teeth) she states flatly:"Isn't it nice to know a lot? And a little bit ...not."
Tim Martin Gleason and Julie Morgentaler in 3D Theatricals' May 2014 run. Needless to say, sometimes it's better not to grow-up too fast... (image: Stage And Cinema)
Thankfully, all of this remains in the film and therefore lies outside my central beef with its direction. For no other reason than that I am admittedly lazy and pressed for time, I am going to excerpt the e-mail I issued to a tight circle of friends (all Woods aficionados) the morning after a Boxing Day late-night screening This quasi-review handily represents my primary complaints.
Date: December 27, 2014
Subject: KNOCK ON 'WOODS': sounding-off on the movie makeover of Sondheim's meta fairytale romp
Daryl and all:
I opted for a late screening of the 9:45 show only just last night and have to say I was ...underwhelmed. Yes, it may pass as a decent incarnation for the modern silver screen, but it pales in comparison to the inspired brilliance of the original Broadway production. Also, the ingenuity of the stage shows (be they small-town or touring) isn't preserved in a realistic, literal setting --- the sumptuous and sculptural wardrobe pieces of Colleen Atwood the only real visual treat provided. I missed the backlit shadow screens, the hokey birds-on-wires as Cinderella's confidants, the gag of "feeding" the ingredients to a listless, wooden Milky White. Chris Pine, Emily Blunt, and Anna Kendrick are superb, but Meryl ain't no Bernadette Peters, whose coos and cackles and wry deadpan (not to mention sheer, sparkling in-her-prime radiance) is sorely missed by anyone raised on a VHS copy of the '87 company (see eBay and other similar buying options).
My biggest qualms are probably that Jack is too young (it's funnier if he's a Jim Parsons man-child, more of a stunted and sheltered dim bulb), and that the narrator is mostly only heard in voice-over and therefore not as much a member of the cast (whose reveal as the baker's long-absent father --and original bean-stealer/curse instigator-- makes for more of an impact at the end when he's finally handed an identity and given an explanation for being out there in the woods to begin with). For what it's worth, I was reminded of why I am so much in awe of the musical and it's daring novelty and subversiveness. After all, this was before TV shows Once Upon A Time (ABC), Grimm (NBC), next month's Galavant miniseries (also ABC), and movies such as Hoodwinked (2004), The Brothers Grimm (2005), Tangled (2010), Mirror Mirror (2012), with of course Shrek and it's sequels (2001, 2004, 2007, 2010) --- all of which have made twisting and lampooning conventional bedtime stories the, well, convention. And how often has a play dared mortally surrender its characters --- some its strongest leads --- either 3/4 of the way in by their own volition or as victim to madness or giants (or both)? I am grateful to have had its impact as an impressionable child and only pray that this release encourages the greater population to somehow catch the premiere company on video/DVD, having obtained a copy online for a few coins (or golden eggs). Which makes me wonder if there aren't clips of such scenes on YouTube? I may have to investigate and enter those darkened wilds of the virtual forest-lands.
Oh, and one last thing: Johnny Depp's cameo as the BBW might have provoked squeals of glee from yours truly had it not been expected, having been heavily promoted in trailers. And I hate that those responsible for casting failed to repeat the clever gimmick of utilizing the same actor as the wolf AND Cinderella's prince. Given how much the charismatic Pine managed to do with the latter role (the sparkling noble whose superego succumbs to a prowling "naughty" side), I'm positive he would have brought a similar measure of exuberance and hilarity to that more campy, cartoonish carnivore.
But now I'm off. If only I had a pragmatic partner issuing basket and scarf, for its a frightening place, these woods.
Yours ever after,
Lorena
One friend, a lifelong regular of The Great White Way who makes annual pilgrimages to all major marquees, dismissively wrote of the duel role approach to The Big Bad Wolf and Prince Charming as "a common theatrical contrivance," citing How To Succeed... and Young Frankenstein. Despite this stance, I cannot be persuaded that omitting the trick is not a disservice to both author and audience. What can I say? I find it deliciously cheeky.
Curtain Call (Five Final Notes):
Buzzfeed has managed to distill the basics of ITW with a competent guide outlining the major roles, and although I hesitate to endorse any breed of Cliffnotes in which character motivations are so broadly reduced, the YouTube clips assembled by the author are well worth your time.
As far as vampy and venomous grey-haired beauty queens go, Ursula of 1989's The Little Mermaid and Mother Gothel of the more recent Tangled (also of Disney manufacture) owe an enormous debt to Bernadette Peters, as each CLEARLY sampled her DNA when finding the sweet 'n sour voice of their respective spider-woman vixens. (These venomous prima donnas might also trace their roots to the purr of Eartha Kitt, the fiery will of Sunset Boulevard's Norma Desmond, the desperate-for-relevancy of Mama Rose in Gypsy.) There obviously is a connection, something The Daily Dot picked-up on last June, as the voice actress for Gothel, Donna Murphy, also played Bernadette's role when Into The Woods staged the summer 2012 revival referenced earlier. (I have to say I would have gladly given my shirt to be seated in that audience, what with Amy Adams as The Baker's Wife...!) As for conveying the grandeur of Peters to readers, I'll again defer to New Yorker theater critic Michael Schulman, whose experience mirrors my own: "The moment I first saw Bernadette Peter singing 'Last Midnight' on PBS, circa fifth grade, was a formative one. It wasn't just that she looked like a fabulous goth diva or her peculiar, warbly way of delivering punch lines. It was Sondheim's articulation of the witch's alienation and moral skepticism that was so riveting. Also, her hair."
I'm going to issue an appreciative shout-out to Marshall's Visual Style Team --- in particular his makeup crew --- for the choice to NOT "age-down" Streep's naturally striking features when she regains her glamour. Surely, Photoshopping in the vein of Benjamin Button might have been employed easily via movie magic to reverse her years. But, really, Meryl is still the stunner in her mid-sixties; we don't need to borrow her face from older movies to prove. No one needs to see Into The Silkwoods. Nope, as-is she's Meryl-aculous.
Lucy Punch is wickedly delightful as conniving step-sister Lucinda. Take note of her blinged-out, retro-style specs in the second half. I welcomed the levity and sparkle she gave to such a dreary landscape.
Have to applaud that in the township of The Baker --- and also amidst the Prince''s Court --- men and women stroll in colorblind unions. I appreciated spotting mixed-race couples arm-in-arm in two crowd scenes. Clearly, Selma isn't the only holiday release to stand against segregation. A kingdom free of prejudice --- wishful thinking?
* * *
CODA
Before I leave you to the uncertain effects of this Last Midnight --- hurrah for 2015! --- I feel obliged to share a minor revelation from my waking hours. Something dawned on me, quite literally this a.m. ...If and when I indulge in ritual impulses of an OCD quality it is because, in my deluded, paranoid mind, I aim (like The Baker/Wife team or The Witch) to "lift" curses I vaguely perceive as placed on my head or in the sphere of my affiliates. Ridiculous, I know -- but I've long held sway to the influence of superstition. And this leads me to wonder: might preadolescent exposure to Into The Woods have helped plant notions in my subconscious of a vulnerability to spells that require active reversal? I always attributed my fears of amassing bad karma to castoff lessons from my father's religious upbringing, which frightened me, what with Catholicism's manner of tagging transgressions due for repentance. As far as I could ascertain, sins can be measured, like a fisherman's daily haul, by their size and kind; some thrown-out entirely for slightness or oddity. Under the church's scrutiny a price might be levied, with instruction issued for restoring balance to the soul, or for it and your household's protection. The Baker was not the generator of his misfortune --- that was instead the doing of his father (having stolen beans from a witch). Could it be possible that bad voodoo is inheritable, like a cancer, or that it might be crossed involuntarily, stepped-in like animal feces? Should we be on guard to pay for the misdeeds of our parents or previous incarnations? Can we doom ourselves and those we love without knowledge or intention? Is there a fault in our stars? And what of the ramifications? Is it narcissistic thinking to assume responsibility for soured luck of one and all? Do hexes follow us like black flies, and do they postpone arrival on our skin? Or is a life wasted in fear the ultimate irony --- a self-contained, self-perpetuating burden? Such thoughts flare when most vulnerable to anxiety, and I wrestle them off dismissively despite my greater age, on the precipice of a new and different year.
