"That Day is Coming"

Awhile back I found this article fascinating and thought-provoking. It doesn't actually even have a title, but it attends to the subject of out-or-not-out gay actors with sobering insight.

Gay Actors in the Film Industry - A History Lesson

After you've read that, hop on over to the LA Weekly News and read this amazing interview and article with Hollywood publicist Howard Bragman, who assists gay performers who want to come out to do so in a sane and effective way.

The Secret Lives of Queer Leading Men

Quote from the article:
The publicist hasn’t brought out an A-list, gay male actor — yet. But Bragman says that day is coming, and after the first superstar decides to reveal himself, a fundamental shift in American acceptance of gay leading men may not be far behind. He’s currently working with a famous musician who’s still closeted from the public, but who will come out next year. And the manager of one major movie star approached Bragman a year ago and asked about his client’s possibly going public, but the actor still refuses to pull the trigger.

“I felt a little frustrated with that superstar,” Bragman says in reflection, “because it had to be ‘handled.’ ”

I have a lot to think about these days. Seriously, there has to be a way to engender support for honesty. There just has to.

I hope you all are well and happy out there. Think about this with me, won't you?

The Fox Goes Out on a Chilly Night

Polanski freed from jail.

Not to clutter up the internet with more words when others have said it better, just want to say I agree with this post, and the subsequent comments are worthwhile reading.



Pic links to Awards Daily's list of signatories and mentions ONTD's impertinent discussion. Image ganked from here, also worthwhile reading.

The Fox
The fox went out on a chilly night
and he prayed for the moon to give him light
For he'd many a mile to go that night
Before he reached the town-o
Source: traditional

No one, in the song, really cared about the chickens, because the hungry pups were so cute. And everyone knows that predators survive on victims, it's the way of the world, the natural order of things. Circle of life, all that.

And everyone feels for the fox who got away, and goes to ground with his prize unpunished, even celebrated for this accomplishment. He lives to steal another day. I guess it's really no wonder some idiots out there confuse this with the basic value of art, or something.

There is, of course, a difference.

The fox steals food in order to survive. Roman Polanski steals innocence and dignity for his own self-gratification. Steals? Yes, steals. Present tense. He's stealing it as we speak, because everyone who reads and understands the root of this story and then looks at his smugly unapologetic face will come away from the experience a little smaller, a little less hopeful, maybe even a little more desperate. It makes us feel sick to know how the system failed here. To say nothing of the victims of his past, who every day have to pick up and go on without the innocence and dignity that he tore out of them to satisfy a manipulative desire for erotic power.

Ugh. Spare us from those artists who would seek to paint this with an equally manipulative and selfish brush, and who thus share equally in stripping humanity of its innocence and dignity. This leaves us all as the children of Dickens, Ignorance and Want, with the same certainty of ultimate emptiness... which, in effect, robs us of the Art, as well. As we watch this year's latest incarnation of A Christmas Carol, we might be thinking about that.

SustainFloyd next Weekend

We visited Floyd last month and really can't wait to go back again.

From friend Fred's blog:

After a successful assembly at the foot of Buffalo Mountain for a drizzly-foggy October 10th “350 climate action”, SustainFloyd now looks ahead to the first community festival of its kind in the county, the SplitRail Eco-Fair, to celebrate ecologically-sustainable aspects of agriculture, arts, commerce, education and life together in vibrant community in a changing world.fragmentsfromfloyd.com, Fragments From Floyd, Oct 2009
Read the rest here

YouTube video of Buffalo Mountain assembly

Really wish I could go, but probably won't make it. It's a rather busy time for me right now - but my heart is there, and I have high hopes for a great weekend for those who can!

Because We Do

The last thing Sam said to his brother Dean at the end of last night's episode (5.04) was, "Because we don't have a choice." But the line that was silently transmitted through the look Dean returned to him was, "No, Sam. It's because we do."

Sam and Dean's journey is all about choice.

Free will sustains the human condition. To succomb to the temptation of blindly following rules imposed by others in order to feel safe, in the right, or morally superior is to give in to the power rush that enables people to do horrific things to one another.

To protect from those who have given in to that temptation is the free choice of those who would seek to also protect the right to choose for all mankind. And that is the sustainable lesson here.



This season is difficult to say the very least. It's the end of the journey, the downhill run. We know where they're going, what we aren't certain is all the twists and turns it will take to get there. But if where we've been with the Winchesters is anything to go on, they're not going without me. I'm so there, hanging on with all my might.

Amen, and even so come.

Check out my friend Marla's excellent Supernatural episode 5.04 recap post at Eclipse Magazine

Rearview Mirror

Well, chickas. It seems that the long and lonely road traveled by the Winchester boys is about to come full circle - again.

I've read with some amusement (a very few of) the proliferation of squee-filled posts and reviews for this past episode, 5.03 Free to Be You and Me chanting the song of the angel - you know, that walking dead thing filled with the spectre of some holier-than-thou ghost.

Good God, Y'all. This is so missing the point. Sorry to break it to some of you, but he's just a vessel. And really, BuddyTV? REALLY? What show have you been watching if you didn't see that coming back - oh, I dunno, halfway thru Season One? Jeebus. If you're looking for a review of this third episode in the fifth season of the greatest show on television that isn't really about website hits and places the side characters firmly in their places, on the sidelines, you've come to the right place.

This, as I really don't have to remind most of you out there, is a show about Sam and Dean.

Firstly, how quickly they forget. There's dearest faithful Bobby, who is literally sidelined for the foreseeable future, having given his body for his son - because family don't end with blood, boy. No, I'm not saying Bobby is really Dean's long-lost Papa. It's just a reference, just a reminder, that in this War that began at the inception of humanity there will always be sacrifices, some of which are very hard to live with because they happen to those closest to us, sometimes to people we don't know how we'll go on without. It's good to see that Bobby hasn't lost his spark, though, and I look forward to seeing him continue to give guidance and even kick Sam and Dean's asses from a vantage point that could actually offer him the chance to see, hear, and maybe even do things that he may have missed from his former standing position. No, really. Watch and see.


Secondly, this loser!Angel. You do realize, that the only reason he's here is to offer some back-up to the boys, and give Jensen & Jared a chance to take a much-needed rest from being two leads in an extremely action-packed, intense fantasy drama. The guys are otherwise going to be completely worn out before their time.

Hmm. I'm sorry he's so annoying, Dean. But is it him or the fact that you'd really rather be doing this by yourself? Yeah, I thought so.

Think of Castiel as a piece of useful furniture. You don't really bond with the furniture. He's provided them with knowledge and cool skeletal tattoos but don't for a second think it's not for his own purposes. He's just as confused as anyone else who can't see both sides of an issue. And don't forget that Dean still has yet to find out just who it was who freed Sam from Bobby's panic room to go kill Lilith and thence allow Lucifer to rise. I really can't wait for when that happens.

But Dean and Sam have parted for the time being, and it's a conscious, deliberate break-up. The brothers had to do this in order to find their way back together. It's in the normal realm of deeply bonded relationships. Dean and Sam need to find out just who each of them is, exactly, and it's much like when Sam went off to Stanford. They were apart for over 2 1/2 years according to the rumors. Think how much each of them grew into his own during that time.

Think how much that's happened in just one episode.



O hai thur, WIAWSNB scene with Sam-as-Dean. Again.

Which brings me to each of them individually: I'll take Sam first. Because UNF. Jesus Padalecki knocked it out of the park, didn't he? From tearful recognition of not!Jess with his still-curious doubt of her mission tinged with genuine love and regret to gutsy, dirty grappling with two desperate hunters from his own side of the team (you know, the confused side), Jared played the gamut of emotional scale with perfection. If anyone is left who thinks this actor can't play just about any type of role he's given, please just watch this episode. Jared has come into his own, and I won't lessen his accomplishment by tangentially referencing his co-star here. Jared makes Sam a living, breathing soul.

And tell me you didn't stand up and cheer when he spat out the demon blood force-fed to him by the two hunters. If you didn't, go back and watch it again. And don't miss the point this time.

See there? The end of 4.20 The Rapture, re-visited. Only he won this time.

This moment was an epiphany for Sam. It is analogous to the one Dean had in 3.10 Dream a Little Dream of Me, when he angrily acknowledges in his fight with himself that the load his father put on him in forcing him to raise his brother and deny so many of his own emotional needs was more than any kid should have had to bear.

It was humanity, rising from the apocalypse.

No, he didn't need the feather to fly. But the seeds of doubt that were planted in him from the moment he knew he'd been fed demon blood as an infant had fertile soil in which to take root, made lush and rich after Ruby's betrayal. Sam didn't know what the blood would do to him. He only knew he wanted it out of him. His body, his choice. In flinging what was forced on him away and acting to defend the innocent Lindsay, Sam was reclaiming his actual birthright as a fully formed human being. Not devil spawn, not his mother's heartbreak, his brother's responsibility, or his daddy's failure.


Hey there, it's Sam's bleeding heart shirt again. That's a clue.

Now Dean. It's easy to miss the boat completely on Dean in this episode. Before I go too far with this analysis, though, let's examine the function of the two angels we saw here: Raphael and Castiel.

Ostensibly, they are brothers (Cas refers to all angels as his brothers, remember), if not in actuality, certainly in past relationships - both fighting for the same team, formerly trusting each other and working together. Quickly, because I'm sure most of you missed it: Raphael, the seemingly stronger angel, killed his brother Castiel, who rose again and came after him because Raph had information Cas wanted, namely the location of God. Or so Cas believed. Ah, because we believe... but I digress (if only slightly).

This would be a roach motel for angels. What else do you think is going on here?

When Cas and Dean trap Raphael, question him and then leave him in the ring of fire, please God - tell me you did not miss the oh-so-very-obvious replaying of the entire scene in Bloodlust where Sam and Dean leave Gordon in the abandoned cabin to stew in his own juice for awhile, and consider the results of his actions. Helloooo, show hit you over the head that it was coming, weren't you watching?



If you did miss it, please go watch episode 2.03 again. Because you're going to miss other things that are coming up soon and then you're going to be completely b'zuhed after that. I saw some pretty out-of-touch analysis of that scene because people missed that. Hi, the dialogue in parts is almost word-for-word. I suppose I should say it again: Show tells, and then it tells us again, and then it tells us it told us, and then it tells us it told us AGAIN. Sheesh.

Hokay. Where was I? Oh, the telling us it told us already. I saw people missed the point of Raphael's "Waaaah! I'm so tired!" soliloquy, too. Okay, maybe you need to watch the entire second season again. RAPHAEL = DEAN. CASTIEL = SAM. In this particular instance. Don't hold that as gospel as we go forward in the season, because if Sam and Dean can play each other and trade places, you know damn well the angels can do the same thing, too.


But back to Dean. I save him for last because this really wasn't his episode, but he is my favorite. I love Sam with the burning passion of a thousand lustful gods, but Dean is - well, I can't describe my love for Dean so that's how I know it's a leetle bit stronger. But right now? Dean needs that serious beat-down he promised Sam in 4.22. Only, he's not gonna get it until he faces his worst demons (again): his own self. That's in an upcoming episode, but I'm getting ahead of myself here. Dean had an epiphany, too, this time. It was perhaps a bit more obvious than Sam's, but it was pretty damn significant.



Again, Castiel was only a part of the furniture here. He was the vessel, the catalyst for Dean to realize something. When show faked you out and made you think it was forgetting its own canon (because please god Kripke, you didn't really forget that angels don't have sex, did you? Clearly you did not. Ahaha.) and Dean takes Castiel to the brothel (because Dean knows the lat-longs for those things in absolutely every state in the Union, duh) the whole point of that was, to get Dean over himself. While Jensen's half-hearted attempt at a belly laugh as the two characters exited the brothel after Cas totally creeps that poor girl rtf out sounded more like bad gas than an honest exclamation of utter amusement, I choose to think it's more because it's physically been so damn long since Dean did laugh, like he claims. He's rusty. But that amazed chuckle was the sign that something had cracked open inside our intrepid warrior, Dean Winchester. It was the sound of the butterfly leaving his chrysalis.


At that moment, Dean sat up, stretched his emotional wings, and flew free of the responsibility he had carried since the age of four: that of taking care of Sam. From here on, Dean is living his own life, free of that emotional baggage. He finally recognized that he's an individual, and it's not so damn bad to live on your own and take care of yourself. Bravo, Dean. Good job.


Yeah, I know what you're thinking. And you'd be right. It's not the same. But it's not time yet. The river of Sam and Dean is an oxbow right now. Be patient. All rivers straighten out eventually.

So. To recap: In this episode Free to Be You and Me, what did that mean, exactly? Sam accepted his loss and reclaimed his humanity, and Dean learned and accepted the fact that he is an individual. Dean hunting with a disadvantaged idiot savant who blurts intelligences at odd moments and can't button his own collar may feed the fantasies of a certain set of unenlightened minions but it doesn't mean Dean has replaced Sam. In fact, it's quite obvious that Dean's only way of having fun with Castiel is to either make fun of him with obscure pop-culture references or by putting him in impossible situations (where our Sam, btw, would have been right at home). When Cas is in the room, it's easy to ignore him by looking at something far more interesting - like the ceiling, the floor, or the walls. You can listen to what he says as he parrots things past characters or one of the boys has said to each other, you can thank him for his obscure skeletal talisman-tattoos. He's semi-useful like that. But don't be looking for him to replace brother for brother.

In this universe, only what is real stands the remotest chance of survival.


Don't be looking for any of this to happen, either. Much as it may be fun to think about. And really nice job, Mark Pelligrino. I approve of this casting.

Screencaps by Marishna


Useful links:
SupernaturalWiki page for this episode
All Supernatural episodes are available for download at Amazon - Checkit! No watermarks, and in HD, too!
Previous metas at susannaheanes' LJ

Carry On

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in, forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day, you shall begin it well and serenely...” --Emerson

Open House, by Elizabeth Berg

Open House by Elizabeth Berg
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I liked it. I felt brave for picking it up, bringing it home, because my husband had just told me he wanted a divorce, and the central character of the book is going through a similarly served entree, and I just felt like I wanted to see what it would be like when someone you really love leaves you. Live it vicariously, see if I was brave enough. Because I was seriously considering jumping off a bridge, and I wanted to see how someone might go through it and actually come out on the other side.Mind you, if hubby hadn't said it, I probably would not have picked up this book. But he did, and I felt woefully unarmed, unable, unwilling to go through all that. So I read the book.I loved the characters, with all their flaws that are not too cliche, too predictable. I love that she made some difficult decisions, fell flat on her face, picked herself up again, tried harder.I love that the person she falls in love with about 3/4 of the way through this book is not perfect.I love that she refuses to be alone as much as possible, by renting her home to a wonderful diversity of human beings, and that when she must be alone, she cries and lives through it. I needed that grounding, that soulful peace.This book is probably not for everyone. This weekend, my husband said he was sorry, that he took it back - and it wasn't too late; I only lived for five days with this grief and worry.Long enough to read this book, and to know that it is not a human failing to want more. And that life is a river, that we all want the same things: to be wanted, to reflect on things and find understanding in another person.

View all my reviews

Creative Minds

Hai guise.

I'm posting here - for a change - because what I have to say fits more in line with what I'd originally set up this blog in order to do: comment on the state of the world at large, and maybe social, geographical, economic and environmental things specifically.

I was asked this morning by my boss to read an article by Richard Florida (The Rise of the Creative Class), published in The Atlantic, entitled, "How the Crash will Reshape America." Our little town of Sumter, SC is participating in Earth Day's "Spotlight Conversations," which is kind of a big deal.

As I read, I found my lips curling as I imagined Jim Kunstler's reaction to the article. Seriously, I wanna toss those two in a room and just listen to what happens. It could be kind of explosively awesome.

Even more awesome would be if Osha Davidson chimed in and gave his 45 cents worth.

hee.

NEW SPN TONITE. At some point I really still need to write that blog post about how the Impala is awesome and may actually save the Universe. No, really.

Also - I never blogged about election day in Horatio, South Carolina. I really am fail.

Learn. Remember. Pass it On.

THE ULTIMATE SILENCE
October 12, 1998



Listen to the mustn'ts, child.
Listen to the don'ts.
Listen to the shouldn'ts,
The impossibles, the won'ts.
Listen to the never haves,
Then listen close to me ...
Anything can happen, child.
Anything can be.

~ Shel Silverstein

Ten years ago, Matthew Shepard was murdered for being homosexual.

What will you do to end the silence?

Click here to post this on your own page or weblog

the plural of impetus

...is supposedly "impetuses." this sounds ungracious to me; not something a southern lady would say in public. but i digress.

Development in Flood Plains Continued after '93 Floods

I just have to underscore the stupidity of purchasing property in - or even near - flood plains, and am very sorry to actually have to say it. People seem to think that it's perfectly fine "because the government approved it," or something equally ignorant. No one realizes - or acknowledges - the fact that the government approves whatever developers (aka private property owners) ask them to approve. It is anyone's god-given right to develop privately-owned property in the United States. Meaning, that line on the map? Actually means nothing. FEMA cannot keep up with how quickly it moves. Picture a sponge, representing the ground, and a massive steel plate being pushed down in the middle of it, representing development (which, for you unimaginative ones and non-scientists, means increased impervious surface. I'm sorry - that would be a big word. It means paving and rooftops where rain cannot percolate into the ground). Water can't seep thru the steel plate. Therefore, what does it do?

Maybe you smart ones might try this experiment at home. Maybe the light will go on. This should not take a degree in hydrology to figure out.

Somehow, however, I doubt it will seep in for most of you, if you pardon the pun. People are just too dense where their land investments are concerned, especially if the particular investment in question represents HOME. But this is why I don't listen to the reports of distressed, displaced property owners any more. I do, however, have a high measure of condolence for those people who purchased their property well out of a flood plain 30 or more years ago, and now find themselves being flooded out because of increased development around them. If you're one of those people? I'm right beside you, loading up my word-cannon, wanting to blast the living daylights out of those greedy-assed creeps. Yeah.

Sorry, I'm a conservationist and a rebel at heart. And I like to shoot things that need shooting. Sometimes shooting relieves the stress that built up over a decade and a half of trying to convince people that building there wouldn't work out in the long run. I talked myself blue in the face, and people laughed and said, "You're crazy."

So yeah - I'm laughing now.

You property owners who purchased property in the past five or ten years or so, thinking you had all the rights in the world to go on imagining that you were safe or the government would protect you because your property was approved? And bitched and complained because the locality or bank made you purchase flood insurance, and the stupid government employee that you hounded down at the building permit office actually did his or her job and refused to write the letter you requested so you could save a measly few hundred dollars a year on your homeowners insurance? Hey, FUCK YOU. I'm fiddling while your proverbial property rights get washed out to sea, baby. Hahahahahahahahaha.

If I had a dollar for every individual who stormed out of my office because I refused to write that letter, lying so that they could close on their house by noon that day, I'd be able to take a vacation in Cancun on the savings. But I don't. Not that I wasn't offered all manner of return favors, and plied with everything from lottery tickets to free lunches to write that letter.

FEMA is not the bad guy. But you government-reform assholes have certaily ensured it is pretty much unable to do the job it was formed to do: Protect property values, water quality, and habitat. You idiots whittled away at government regulation until it is no more than a dancing puppet, unable to do anything but be an ineffective shadow tracing the lines of its original purpose. Don't whine to me, Argentina. You made your bed by insisting we allow you to develop that property to its "highest and best use," god DAMN that term, so now you get to lie down in it, and splash around with the ducks.

The only thing FEMA actually does anyway is approve your ability to purchase government-subsidized flood insurance should you be stupid enough to purchase property in a mapped flood-prone area. FEMA cannot prevent you from building there... they shove that responsibility off to the states, who in turn shove it off onto the localities, who blithely ignore it. It's actually illegal under federal law for participants in the National Flood Insurance program to issue building permits in certain flood-prone areas, for all kinds of excellent reasons that ensure property rights in the long run are preserved. But the administrative wherewithall for ensuring that gets enforced is placed with individuals who have a vested interest in seeing that it is NOT enforced: Tax Assessors and County Administrators, whose directive from the people who hired them (politicians) is: INCREASE THE TAX BASE AND TO HELL WITH GOVERNMENT REGULATIONS.

Who in their right mind thinks about the long run? People are human. The long run means nothing, except when it becomes the short run.

So no, I really, really don't even care about all the millions of dollars worth of property damage out there. You get the government you deserve; your karma, baby. As a geographer, I find it unbelievable that people can't see that water coming years before it gets there. As a person raised under the ideals of common sense, I still can't believe it.

You don't have to be a geographer to understand that when you cover the ground with buildings, pavement, and roads - the water can't seep into the ground. It collects in the low places. And the more you cover the ground, the fewer places it has to collect. It fills the low places, and then creeps up to less low places. Soon, what used to not be designated "flood zone," eventually qualifies, baby. It gets Wet. THIS IS COMMON SENSE.

Or, you could look at it this way: God is Punishing You for Your Ignorant Stupidity. The End is Near. The Apocalypse is Imminent.

I love how these people are always the same mouths who yammered for me to approve their goddamned flood-prone building lots. As if Christianity itself depended upon their getting that return on their investment.

Heh.

Either way you look at it - apocalypse or science, Shit Happens. We can't go on deranging drainage systems and drying up habitat and paving over flood plain and think God Won't Get Pissed Off Eventually. Or the earth will eventually take back what is hers.

Here's some bottom-line advice: Don't Build There. Buy a park bench and sit on it and enjoy the sunset. Bring your fishing rod, and a cooler of beers. Pitch a goddamned tent. But DON'T BUILD A HOUSE. A few localities that participate in the National Flood Insurance Program do actually refuse building permits for structures that meet certain criteria in mapped flood-prone areas. The reason I say "a few" is because out of the multiplicity of localities and regional governments that I personally have experience working for and/or with across the southern US, most administrators 1) do not understand the requirements for participation and 2) do not give a flying flip about them. Tax assessors routinely push to have building permits issued wherever and whenever they are requested, in order to increase the value of property, in order that taxes may be collected.

I really, really look forward to this day. Except a part of me doesn't actually believe it will happen. Soothsayers Rule #1: The future will be like nothing you have imagined, but when you get there, you will realize it is exactly what you expected.

Prometheans hate spelling things out. But apparently, you asked for it. And I have no doubt, will continue ignoring it. And humanity will survive, in spite of our angst.

Or not.

Blithe Cassandra, that would be me. I've done my duty in warning you, now I'll go back to what I prefer to do with my free time, which is sitting up here in my 18th century house high above the flood plain, writing porn about Jensen Ackles.

La,
S

i can hear: The Black Crowes, Wiser Time
it's my party & i'm: in your face
lost or found: down by the river
stats: sunny & breezy with a touch of headache

Interview with the Bishop

Church Times has unlocked this previously locked interview with Gene Robinson, the openly gay Episcopal bishop for the Diocese of New Hampshire.

I found it interesting and provocative. I've long thought it was a shame the issues had to come to this juncture. I encourage you to read, and ponder. Most importantly, he says to please keep communication lines open. That is the material point.

Earth Day 2008

Image source unknown
Do what you can. Live as you must. Be the Beacon.

"The Star Thrower," A Sermon, The Very Rev. Samuel T. Lloyd III, National Cathedral, Spotlight on Global Warming 2006

Here are a few links to peeps on my sidebar who are doin' it right, or at least doing their best:

Resources:
Awakening Earth: Voluntary Simplicity
Blackle: A Black Google
Chick in the Country
Eat Wild! Your source for Local Grass-fed Foods
James Howard Kunstler
Leonardo di Caprio's Eco Site
Osha Gray Davidson
The Sustainable Communities Network
Treehugger
Urban Agrarian


Passions, Causes, Crusades:
Compassion in World Farming
Congaree Land Trust

Measure your ecological impact at www.conservation.org/ecofootprint!
Earthjustice
Earthskills
Environmental Defense
Environmental Law Institute
International Conservation Caucus Foundation
The Land Institute's Prairie Writer's Circle
Local Harvest
Southern Environmental Law Center
STOP Factory Farming
The Trust for Public Land
Valley Conservation Council


Blogs of Note:
Fragments from Floyd
Method: People Against Dirty
Mossback Meadow
Nature: The Wildlife Blog
Near Sea Naturals Blog
No Impact Man
Working for Change: Working Assets blog

and sunrise greets the dawn

Image courtesy Wright and Associates

Society Hill. Cashua. Darlington.

And - just so you blend in and aren't immediately branded as "you ain't from here, are ya?" - that's Cash-euw-ay. Not Cash-eu-uh. Say it soft and let it roll off your tongue like sorghum syrup, smooth as the serene Pee Dee River itself. I haven't really been there yet, but it's on the list.

Society Hill is the little town where the crew goes for a special meal during the Kolb project. It used to be just the way it sounds - and in a matter of speaking, still is. Gracious folk come out laying platters of barbecue, vegetables, cakes and pies down on a table around which gather the scientists, who for one night are treated like family no matter from whence they hail. Most of them are not from the South, and many are young, in their third or fourth year in a University program, and in general have a slightly bemused attitude toward the natives.

Many are older, and have been here many, many times, or now call our state home. They let them stay, as long as they behave and are respectful of their elders, and don't forget that no matter how long they live here, they will never, never be natives, and there are certain subjects therefore that they will never understand and opinions thereon may be tolerated out of respect for a friendship, but will never be shared.

We know ourselves and our idiocyncracies and foibles, and are comfortable with them. Thank you all the same.

I did not attend this meal, but I always hear about it. One of the ladies makes certain my husband's favorite, Key Lime Pie, is on the menu. They all get a taste of the local 'shine, and are expected to render an honest opinion on its vintage as compared to the previous year. They leave with full bellies and humble hearts. The outpouring is a bit overwhelming, for they are essentially strangers and infiltrators, yet the locals treat them with kindness and hospitality usually reserved for family and the closest of friends.

As little as some have, it is still wondrous to know there are places where a handshake is as good and enforceable a contract as a registered document at the courthouse, and the fact that someone looks you in the eye while you speak means that not only will he remember you, but your words as well, even if several months pass by and you do not speak. So I smiled as I listened to the team still expressing gratitude and astonishment at the bounty spread before them earlier in the week. And I was reminded of arms laced over a community well-fed, bustling with purpose, accomplishment, peace, and generosity.

As previously related, I left early the next morning. In the seat of South Carolina auto racing, I stopped to refuel at a corner market. A neatly hand-lettered sign on the pump caught my attention, and I squinted in the reflected sunlight to make it out:

Welcome to the Corner Connection
Due to drive-offs, we ask
that you please pre-pay for
gas after dark. Sorry for your
inconvenience.

The attention paid to politeness and sincerity was as clearly etched in those words as the pleasant expression on the attendant's mouth as I entered the store. A small man with a merry face akin to a hobbit's, he bobbed behind the counter talking smack with a big man in pursuit of a lottery ticket while I paused at the counter display of pre-packaged donuts, bear claws, and other disgustingly sugary substances. There was no way I could eat that stuff, so I moved over to the aisle where the pretzels were stored, forgetting one major facet of small-town life, even as it was drifting into my ears, my eyes roaming inattentively across the shelves.

"Hey there good morning," the clerk spoke to me, savoring the words with a long, sweet essence of kindness in each syllable. I looked up and waved, then ducked my head down again. Uncomfortable with strangers, especially males, I resolved to get something quickly and get out of there. I could eat real food when I got back home, only about an hour away.

"Gimme one of them educational tickets, the green ones," the big man spoke up.

"Yeah? Gitcha in trouble," was the affable reply.

"I don't care."

The clerk continued to greet each customer in like manner: "Good morning, there." "We sure appreciate your business." "Come back now, anytime."

As I type these exclamations now there is no way to communicate the warm hospitality and plain goodness in the man's speech. I heard it, and it cracked my shell. Tentatively, I approached the counter, laying a bottle of orange juice down and a pack of Orbit gum.

"Do you happen to know where I can get a biscuit around here?" I asked. I gestured vaguely down the road in the direction I was headed.

"Why, we got the best biscuits you'll eat right here," was his reply, and I was immediately struck with my stupidity. Of course they did. This was the "Corner Connection," after all, not a big BP Plaza. I'd chosen it specifically because it was NOT a franchise market, and its neat appearance bespoke respectability and pride in honest work. You find these all over the south, if you'll just look, mind you. You out-of-towners ought to broaden your horizons, and try the local fish. But as I was sayin'.

"Do you wanna plain biscuit, nothin' on it?" He gestured toward the back and also along the heated window just to his right, where neat packages containing portable breakfasts waited neatly, exactly --and i do mean exactly as my grandmother made, and a few extended cousins still do, to take along to work for those who must do so in the mornings. I knew in those wax-paper wrapped shells lay the melting-hot goodness of homemade biscuits with scrambled eggs, sausage or bacon, and the hot sauce was sitting right there at my elbow if I cared to embellish it a bit.

"I think I'd just like a plain biscuit, thank you --oh," as I saw him walking toward the kitchen, I faltered.

"'Melda - do we have anymore o' them biscuits back there? Nice lady out here wants a plain one." He fairly danced on the tips of his toes. I knew the woman back there, whoever she was, had been up with the sun like me that morning, only with a purpose of mind that led all the way down to her fingers, and in turning out fifty or so breakfasts, she'd already done a days' work, and was in the midst of scrubbing up. I could not do that to her. Or myself. Sheesh.

I closed my mind against things like cholesterol and fat calories. Today was a day. The end.

"No, no, that's all right." I waved at him, staring at the case and spying the answer I was looking for. "Do you have any sausage ones, made up?"

He turned, smiling. "Sure do." He opened the case and a heavenly smell poured out. Ohmygod. Yum.

He grasped a hefty one and popped it into a little brown bag, handing it over with what I knew to be his trademark smile, tho' I'd never seen him before and likely wouldn't again. "That's the local Weinberg's sausage," he added with satisfaction.

"Well, I love that," I responded. I had no idea, which fact added to the word "local" consummated the decision for me at once.

"Do you? It's good, " he said, nodding as he took a bill from my extended fingers. He rang it up promptly and handed me my change.

"We sure appreciate your business. Come back anytime."

"I'll do that. Have a lovely day." And I went out into the morning, a treasure in my hands and heart. In the car, I opened the paper and bit into the softness of the biscuit, reveling in the spicy flavor of the homemade sausage on my tongue. So good. Moist. To hell with factory-sized hog farms. Waste of resources, pollute the watersheds. This was heaven, and you can't get it from industrial hogs. (I should have stopped at the farm-store when I saw it on the way out of town and picked up several packages for the next time I make cassoulet. Nothing better, and there's more in common between the family Provencal and these Darlington-area farmers than you'd think at first. It's all about taste.) These babies were raised spoiled as hell, living fat and happy off the land until the day they died, and the sweetness of their existence underscored for me the expanded meaning the words, "family business" have for me now.

Just as the word, "primitive" now evokes a mindset evocative of grace and peace, where food and goods and services touched by human hands are still evident, "still in the family" means they haven't let go, haven't sold out, someone still rises every day to greet the dawn expending hours of energy in just doing what they do best, working at an honest trade or purpose, where the sounds of birds calling and cows lowing and the wind in the grasses frame a lifestyle where you can still hear the heartbeat of the earth.

Truly the light is sweet
and a pleasant thing it is
for the eyes to behold the sun.

And I started up my car, and drove home, unabashedly poetic about the fact that I'd just put $20.00 in my gas tank. These days of multiple-miles-per-hour travel like this are ending, drawing to a close, and I am saving up memories to recall for the future. I am where I am supposed to be. It is life-affirming to come into contact with people for whom, in spite of the Internet (and I love it so), in spite of rampant commercialism, in spite of the assimilation of a mass-market cultural freakism by so many other places, there still remain those with whom I share a deep cultural connection, with whom it would be silly to compare notes, because even though we are separated to a vast degree by education and political views, we line up exactly to the nth degree on what matters most.

Community is worth saving - and there are so many communities, even those intrinsically associated as Darlington is with a sport like auto-racing, who remain diversified enough, close enough to the ground and still interlinked with their agricultural roots, that they will be saved, they will endure, they will survive and go forward to the next thing that awaits. The keys to their future lay within their past, and in their vast inner wisdom, they never lost it. Again I have to say it: We will be fine.

Amen, even so come, Lord Jesus.

moonset over the pee dee

We woke this morning in the dark, gathering our things and venturing out into the world to find that frost limned the windows with silver lace. I spent a cozy night in a grain silo converted into a dollhouse, or rather a hunting lodge; four floors of airy living that the longer I stayed the harder I knew it would be to leave.

But I was only a momentary visitor to the Great Pee Dee Heritage Preserve, a once-a-year enticement that gives me fodder for ruminations and prose for long months afterwards. Like any foray into the wild, either modern or anachronistic, here is where I re-learn that my connection to the land is temporal and severe.

Image courtesy Johannes Kolb Archaeological Site Public Outreach

Last evening I drove up from Stateburg, entering the Darlington Historic District just as the sun dropped below the horizon, so that the last few miles of the trip were cloaked in gilded splendor, tracing the tender branches of the newly-budding willows that lined the corridor of the river, silhouetting the great Black Angus cattle as they lumbered toward dinner, the glow of new green grass behind them shouting the advent of spring as much as the fecund scent of orchard blossoms.

The Silo

Husband, the archaeologist, has a valid excuse to stay the entire ten days that the annual event is open: he's working. From all over the southeast dozens of volunteers, students, and faculty descend on the property once inhabited by one Johannes Kolb, a farmer of some success in this community that still derives the bulk of its income from agriculture. The site has been studied for over ten years, and has yielded a wealth of information about its former occupants.


But I do not come to study in any official capacity, I come to absorb and wallow in the good company and newly unearthed information. Archaeologists live simply, but believe in epicurean comforts. And there is always music. They incorporate what they have learned into their evening relaxations, as they turn a warm fire into the means by which reproduction earthen pots are kilned, as close as possible to that used by the makers of the shards dug up during the week. The bits are studied as to form, structure, and composition, and copies are attempted.

Some of them are marvelously useful. Others for some reason or other do not make it through the firing, coming from the ashes with deep cracks or scars, but these are still considered useful for what they yield about the process.


So we sat in the dark after dinner, imbibing our choice of refreshment, and laughed and talked and sang to the two guitars that appeared to accompany the evening's quiet melodies from the tree frogs and waterfowl. As I said, they live simple but rich, and anyone who wanted to suggested a song and whomever knew the words would sing. The musicians created fantastical accompaniment, and the frogs provided rhythmic backnotes.


There is a lesson here: everything we have is all we need. They discussed the pits they'd dug, and assessed their uses as aboriginal refrigerators. They showed me how the pots were formed for differing purposes - some for boiling, some for storage, some for carrying. Some of them know how to make cordage from fibers found in the eastern woodlands, they know what mushrooms to eat and what leaves will treat wounds.

One of them can make fire in his hands. I didn't say with his hands, I said in his hands. That deserves its own post, for now I will leave that to your imagination, so you may feel the wonder of the phenomenon in the same mystery as the children for whom it was created millenia ago, and you may think about from whence come magical legends of such things. They weren't as magical, or as mythical, as you may believe. But I'll give you a hint: the aboriginal was a chemist.

The promethean in me laughs up her sleeve at that.

This is how I know humanity will be fine, no matter what. This is how I can bury my nose in my books, tend to my children, live my life, with only half an ear to the wind, listening to the wails that beset much of the world obsessed with oil and finance and danger. You tend to that if it pleases you. I'll be as far away from that as I can possibly be, heart dancing in accompaniment to the wind that breathes through my soul.

How can you live like that? I ask you.


Today is Good Friday. Let me tell you why it is ALL good: because everything we have is all we need. And there is only so much we can accomplish if we are listening to angry voices, trying to make up for sadness in which we had no hand, and for which the only answer is to pick up and walk away. And be the beacon. It only took me about 3/4 of my life so far to figure that out - Good God, do you think I want to dwell on how much time I wasted? Wouldn't you rather concentrate on what you've learned and may put to good use, enriching your everyday life and that of those you love?

I believe you would. And so would I.


The definition of wealth contines to evolve, and I am today as wealthy as I've ever been, even though dollar-wise I bring in less than 1/4 of what I did five years ago. I measure my wealth in smiles, and laughter, in peaceful moments around a campfire, in viewing miles of lovely arching trees, old oaks, willows, and pine; in quilted pastures through which creeks tumble in tranquil paths, neat farmhouses set back from the road, brick stores, lumber roads, and a deepest-blue veiled purple morn. And I measure it in better health, and seeing less stress in the eyes of my children. My world is a succinct registry of all that matters.


This morning I had a perfect sky of cerulean blue edged in a silken swath of apricot. Last night I took part in community harmony of the happiest sort, and watched artists at work making useful, beautiful things out of river mud. I was warmed by a red-hot purple-gold fire of wood gathered not fifty feet from where it was built, that served a dual purpose both in beauty and utility. I slept in a building that gives new meaning to the words "adaptive reuse."

PeeDee River at flood stage

It cost me exactly $14.43 in gas money. Everything else was free.

If that isn't your definition of a bargain, I'd really like to know it.

But there is more. Tomorrow I'll tell you all about it. But first, go out and greet the sunrise, say good-night to the moon. That is where it begins.

Note: You can read more about the Johannes Kolb site in this article originally published in South Carolina Wildlife Magazine, Life on a Sandy Knoll, by Christopher Judge.

Archaeologists Chris Judge and Jason Smith

dialogue across a chasm

Statement from Bishop Mark Lawrence in response to the recent ENS article on the Presiding Bishop's visit to South Carolina

I have read the recent article from the ENS regarding the Presiding Bishop, The Most Reverend Katherine Jefferts Schori’s visit to the Diocese of South Carolina. It was a gracious and accurate description of much of our time together. Indeed, there was a warm hospitality which we were most intentional in cultivating through our prayers and our hearts. What the article failed to convey, however, is the depth of the theological chasm that lies between many of us in South Carolina (and others within the church for that matter) and the trajectory of so much of the leadership of The Episcopal Church. To explore these cavernous depths is indeed the great work that lies before anyone in leadership today. Along with showing hospitality and witnessing to God’s work among us, the earnest exploring of this chasm was and remains one of our chief objectives.

--The Rt. Rev. Mark Lawrence

Audio Recordings of the Presiding Bishop's Visit to the Diocese of South Carolina

Go You

Yay. Just YAY. So proud of everyone. Acting like adults!

Applause to the Writers. And kudos to the AMPTP, for being human. Always nice in a person, no matter who you are.



Canadian Film & TV Union donates $18K to Actors Fund

And finally, What We've Really All Been Wondering...

the revelation, himself

i haven't checked the entire flist, but in case anyone hasn't seen this, jensen taped a show in aussie-land today, and apparently it went well, according to a fan who was there for the whole thing.

i'm so glad. i just loved reading that.

also. i haven't really noticed or read very much, but at the edges of my eyelashes have discerned a bit of disappointment-laced discussion about how john was portrayed in epi 3.10. i guess some people thought the show was handling john's parenting skills a bit roughly, and i think one person described herself as "bristling," at the thought of john being at fault for dean's self-immolation exercise. as if the show was pointing the finger at john and saying, Bad, Wrong. You Sucked as a Parent, and It's All YOUR Fault, John Winchester.

and i just thought, as an oldest child and a mother, i might add a thought or observation or two to that.

you know? i saw dean's outburst as very late adolescent rebellion, that was suppressed and withheld because of what they did for a living, what their life was like. out of honest respect for his father. because their situation was wholly desperate at times, and when dean thought about and weighed that with his inner thoughts and feelings, they always came up short, so he pushed them back down again. repeatedly. honestly. when his dad was alive, dean never once questioned him. he *was* the good little soldier. and in his own eyes, his own words, look where that got him.

do try to remember: dean is speaking from a backlog of frustration and denial. what comes out under those circumstances usually is the result of bottling up, twisting and churning. it is almost always WORSE than it started out to be, or that the impetus initially may have warranted.

dean has been carrying questions about his mother's death that he never, ever asked --since he was four years old. remember, he described john to sam in 3.08 as "a superhero." dean firmly believed that, for way longer than he should have, i think.

in light of all this, i understood his anger at his father completely. it wasn't rational, it was quite irrational, and emotional, and honest. from his POV. imho, john did an awesome job as a parent under the craziest of circumstances and with the same puny arsenal of knowledge about parenting that most ex-Marine males of his age and experience would have. yes, he was obsessed. but he was first and foremost a soldier, who went after the enemy just like he did in the Marines. he saw it as protecting his family, and he truly felt they would never be safe if he didn't "go after that thing." parents are programmed to protect their offspring, it was a matter of honor and doing the right thing from his POV. John had failed in this in being unable to save Mary, and his desperation and obsession with hunting was also a message to Dean not to do the same thing (let your loved one die), because it equalled cowardice and failure as a person. he had no idea what little children needed, other than the one thing he couldn't give them: their Mother. still. look at what he and Mary turned out: SAM and DEAN. what we aren't shown are the quality times he spent with them when he WAS around. we only get to see and know about the fact that often he WASN'T.

think for a minute the parallels between john's years and years of inner self-loathing because he "couldn't save Mary," and so he eventually quite willingly sacrifices his life for his son's; and that of that son not only because his father was gone, but also because "he couldn't save Sam."

the sins of the father are visited upon the sons, and imho it was honest of show to give us this in 3.10.

dean should never have idolized his father the way he did for as long as he did. he should have rebelled a long time ago - and gotten over it. but he didn't. and this is what happens. i think this is another way that Sam was more "normal" than Dean - he rebelled and left. Dean never did, and by staying he was honoring his father and his mother, but he was killing himself inside in several ways that eventually were going to come out, and so much more so after the eternal sacrifices that he felt compelled to make, in order to both continue to carry on the family business and save the life of his brother.

there are so many layers here - i need another post at some other time to go into the "Sam is the only thing you've got" angle. let me rest that for now, and continue on my original train of thought, which was: why did Show give us this "John-hate" scene from Dean?

it wasn't "John-hate," actually. it was subverted honest frustration, fear, and silence, that started when dean was FOUR YEARS OLD. an age when emotions and fears are high in any child, much less one who experienced the horrors that 4-year old Dean Winchester did.

i for one was glad to see dean get it out finally. and it's not unusual, actually, for people at the edge of thirty to finally do this. i remember being told by a therapist that the most common ages for people to experience severe depression and anxiety is 28-29. it's like, this is it, baby. if you didn't do it now, once you put another zero in the ones spot? you're history. you're a mature adult, or supposed to be. and it freaks people right the fuck out.

'cause the truth is: we are never any different, if we are completely honest with ourselves, than we were at age 14, 15, 16. and the issues we build up over the years eventually come to a head and explode, more or less, in our late 20s. we realize, not kids anymore, phooey. time to grow up FUCK THAT. and then we get over it, and go on. that is, those of us who fall in the range of normal do.

those of us --which would include dean --who do not address these feelings of anger and frustration and childish feelings of betrayal that come from recognizing that your parent(s) is/are fallible and human (which is a source of adolescent rebellion) --run the very real risk of doing exactly what dean did: bottling it up into feelings of worthlessness, rebelling physically by being promiscuous and taking a higher level of risks, and feeling themselves becoming cold, dead, empty inside.

surely you all know this. i can't be saying anything new, not to alot of you. those of us who climbed over that age-30 hill have surely experienced some of this parent-shunning, recognizing-they-didn't-know-everything, separation-of-self-image-from-parent stuff. it's worse if we didn't do it as teenagers, but it is very, very necessary for us to discover who we are inside.

don't forget that dean was fighting himself. and that the image a son gets of himself often comes from his father, or adult who served that role on some level. it must be rejected in order for him to find out who he really is.

dean is, essentially, a late bloomer on the adolescent emotional stage.

seriously. tell me you didn't stand up and cheer (at least on the inside) with tears raining down your face when he screamed, 'I DON'T DESERVE TO GO TO HELL!' yeah, sylvia, i was right there with you. (link to sylvia bond's recap at pinkraygun.com)

btw, jensen's acting deserves its own post. this one is for DEAN.

not over yet...

it's not over 'til it's over, y'all.


New York Times on Negotiations Between Writers and Studio Heads

eyeing the soapbox

you all know i am not a pundit. i do not run my mouth (or my fingers) very much about politics. i can't predict the immediate future, only basic trends over time. so i'm never very much good at saying anything useful about mundane things like political primaries.

but after yesterday, i just have to say: YOU GO, GIRL. Here are the numbers. for the first time, we are sending a woman to the convention who has an actual chance of making it.

this is important.

our society has a history of squashing women who do not fit the mold we make for them. hilary, unfortunately, too often for my taste DOES fit that mold. she's a tough, unyielding bitch. good for her. we made her that way. but you know what makes me happiest, and makes me really feel good about liking her?

she didn't forget how to feel, when it mattered. thank you, mrs. clinton, for NOT being too big to cry. you had me worried there for a bit, i was sure you were too much one of the boys to remember how to find your own feelings. here's a hug, and a pat on the back.

congratulations, you earned it.

happiest of holidays

having a nice evening at home with friends tonite, people are milling about and coming in and out. jason cooked a wonderful venison ham, and we had collards, rice, okra & tomatoes, black eyed peas, cornbread, and that was just the main course. before that we had several kinds of appetizers that people had brought, then shucked oysters in the yard, and afterwards, desserts and coffee.

rachael and i had put in the supernatural season 1 dvds to play in rotation, sortof as background for the evening's activities. like subliminal induction, hoping to indoctrinate friends. before too long a couple of people had actually started watching, and then saying, "hey, I know this show. one of the brothers is supposed to maybe go darkside, right?" and then we all had to sit down and watch ...hee! it's like roofies, see.

if i weren't so tired and this was not a mackintosh am certain i'd be writing something erudite and uplifting. as it is, i can only think about how dark the sky is outside, how the stars shine so unspoiled by city lights up on this hill in the middle of nowhere, how we can hear fireworks from a mile or so away, and the friends who'll be spending the night are laughing downstairs to some hysterical story my husband is telling. these are nuggets of life here at Hilltop, the Borough, in Stateburg. if you haven't been here, you should visit. it's a world away from anywhere else, there is no place like it on earth.

Wednesday i start my new job across the street, as parish administrator for Holy Cross. hey, you cannot possibly beat the commute. plus, crunchy things for my brain.

happy new year, everyone.

amen, and amen.

transitional dynamics

feeling the worth this morning of reporting on things that get into the meat of necessary change. so often what is out there is so much fluff, which is why we luddites and deep thinkers must just pass over it or puke. but some people are apparently getting it, even though the vast majority are still either caught up in the sparkly bits, or hiding their collective Gucci-clad heads in the sand.

it will affect us all some day. it affects us now, you know. why do you think we rush so hard to get to the computer & log on to check everything in the morning? is it because we half-way believe it might not be there, maybe sooner than later?

i am not here to convince anyone to do anything other than think. and to do that, you'll have to --ahem --educate yourself. not going to recommend any books, papers, or websites. you have access to blackle and you are a smart person.

zut, alors.... have to slap a certain website on the wrist this morning, howsomever. since when is it more "green" to buy French than Carolina or Virginia wines if you live east of the Mississippi? i ask you. the subject didn't even come up.... the choice as far as they are concerned is, napa or europe. and lo, papa, stop whirling in your proverbial urn. you know it's positively true that if you were alive today you'd be sipping virginia merlot dripped from right up the road at chateau marmoset morissette. or jefferson's meritage, say 2001. that is some yummy stuff. goes with the venison hubby bow-shot last weekend quite well.

meant to include linda's recipe for carolina venison chili and my apple tart recipe this morning. that will have to wait, out of time.

rest easy, papa. and you greenies? wake up and smell the local vintage, for chrissakes.

standing down

I am *not* going to whine about the effect this work stoppage could have on The Show. Stop me if it looks like I'm about to Start. This goes for all future posts until the issues are resolved and the strike is over. (Inside? I'm wibbling alot about this tho', so am certain reminders will be in order.)

At the same time I am educating myself about the issues, I strongly urge us to show strong support for the striking members of the Writers' Guild, and
especially those who are kind of caught in the middle, at this critical time.

I am especially not going to whine about the effect this could have on any of my own writing aspirations. Everything in good time. All things come to good for those who wait. I joined the WGA-East as an associate, and may my membership fees go to buying Lots of Placards and Hot Coffee for the strikers.

Meanwhile? I have six novels in various stages of completion, one in final re-draft, a book of poetry to finish editing, and there are articles and fanfic to be written. None of this is going to pay for awhile anyway, if ever.

I need a list of struck companies, though - to be sure I don't try to pitch a book or write an online article for or to any entity that is connected to any struck company. At least I think that is what I should do, anyway.

This is somewhat confusing for little me. I mean, I have a book that one day I'd hoped to make into a screenplay that would maybe one day become a movie. I assume I can continue to polish that and try to find a publisher. Right? As long as the screenwriting part isn't dealt with until the strike is over?

Obviously I have alot of work to do in any case. I just want to reiterate my support for the Writers' Guild, and hope and pray for a speedy and authentic end to the unpleasantness. I am on their side, and will stay there.

Addendum: Today is Guy Fawkes Day. Somehow there is more than a little irony in that fact.

Supernatural Article at Helium

My article on the series has been published at Helium. Please click & rate it, thanks!

Link to article

Full text of article is below, in case it disappears:

Spread the Gospel

At Comic-Con '07 this past summer, series creator, writer, and executive producer Eric Kripke related to fans the news that his show, Supernatural, came within a hair's breadth of being cancelled after the Season 2 final episode. While this may not have come as a complete surprise, his words had the effect of galvanizing a dedicated fanbase like a Winchester punch in the gut. "Go forth and spread the Gospel of Supernatural," Kripke exhorted.

"Tell your friends to tell their friends," added Jensen Ackles, who plays Dean Winchester alongside Jared Padalecki as his brother Sam. With a team of writers, directors, producers and technicians that reads like a who's who of the science fiction and horror movie genre, including writer and producer Ben Edlund, who worked with Joss Whedon on Angel and the short-lived but critically-acclaimed series, Firefly; Kim Manners and John Shiban, director and writer, respectively, from the X-Files; talented writers Sera Gamble and Raelle Tucker; and Robert Singer, producer and director, who was the executive producer of Lois & Clark: the New Adventures of Superman, as well as producing Cujo, Independence Day, and the TV series Dracula, the team charges forth each week with a heart-stopping, stomach-churning, breathtaking ride with the Winchester boys through the back roads of American myth.

Joined by Jeffrey Dean Morgan, who guest-stars periodically as their father John Winchester; Jim Beaver, who plays veteran demon hunter Bobby Singer; Samantha Ferris as the dedicated and street-wise Ellen Harvelle, Sam and Dean not only take up the challenge of saving innocents from things that go bump in the night, but battle evil in the form of demons, poltergeists, vengeful spirits and horrifying mythical creatures that spring from modern urban legend and ancient religious lore from all over the world. None of this is paying work, you understand. The boys live under the radar as best they can, on credit card fraud and hustling pool. It's all part of the hero/anti-hero premise, much like that described in Joseph Campbell's Hero's Journey. With humor and heady passion, the brothers' journey is a headlong rush into the unknown and unpredictable, where they struggle with almost as many internal demons as those "real" ones sent from the depths of hell. Goaded at first by revenge over their mother's and Sam's fiance's deaths at the hands of the Yellow-Eyed Demon, Sam and Dean followed their father through the American countryside, tracking signs of demonic activity and gathering clues from cryptic messages left on cell phones and in the pages of the journal he left behind. The demonic plague on their family threatens to consume them, as first Sam and then John Winchester fall victim to otherworldly possession.

But here's where Supernatural shows itself to be something more than a mere story: the ties that bind the Winchester family seem to be stronger than death itself. Be it the saving of souls through exorcism or the selling of their own to Satan's ilk, nothing, no sacrifice is too great for this family. And the angst! Oh, the angst. Enough honest-to-goodness real-life conflicted soul-torturing for the most die-hard Oprah fan, this show skillfully walks a fine line between "no chick-flick moments" and the unfathomable yet irresistible enigma of true martyrs. Sam and Dean are at times typical bickering siblings, who band together at the moment of truth to become larger-than-life warriors at the gates of hell, soldiers who will stop at nothing to protect the innocent and those whom they love.

Dean's is a tortured soul; the streetwise elder brother who describes his first kill at age sixteen in detached yet somehow awe-struck terms. He is hedonistic, a smart-alecky wisecracker, whose love for his brother knows no bounds. Unbelievably at times, his tears will flow in honest hope, love and occasionally regret. He is a man of extremes, a risk-taker who moves with calculated precision. Sam, who left law school, raised mostly by his elder brother as Dad was off hunting demons, researches cases on the 'net and stays away from the frivolous pleasures sought after by Dean, for fear of hurting or causing another death either by tragedy or association. Both are formidable fighters and their well-choreographed teamwork in planning and execution are just plain awesome to watch.

The brotherly banter abounds and the two are not above making practical jokes on each other, but nowhere on television will you find a more devoted, intractable and firmly cemented relationship between two characters. The chemistry between Ackles and Padalecki as Dean and Sam is palpable. These two talented actors have created a phenomenon that has inspired one of the more explosive and dedicated fandoms in recent years, causing stats on the Hey Neilsen website to rise 7000% in 24 hours when notices shot through the boards at the CW, LiveJournal, TwoP, and many others to go out and show support for "their show." In addition, the fandom has used websites, email campaigns, and even a charity fundraising initiative, all to broadcast "the Gospel of Supernatural" to the masses.

Their daily lives a whirlwind, few quiet moments exist for these two outside of motel rooms and their beloved '67 black Chevy Impala, a legacy left to Dean by their father that is often described as the "third character" on the show. The car's expansive trunk holds an arsenal of ghost and evil-fighting equipment. Listening to Dean's classic rock cassette tape collection, the brothers travel steadfastly from town to town in search of their next "gig." They pick up clues from newspapers and local tips, then follow them resolutely and skillfully to the ultimate confrontation: be it a Reaper summoned and controlled by a warped member of a religious flock, a genie hulking in an abandoned warehouse greedily sucking the life from its victims, or trying to help a disturbed young man with paranormal capabilities, counteracting the latest threats from an overzealous FBI agent called Henrickson, or even a rabid demon-hunter who is convinced that Sam is the anti-Christ, the brothers thread the needle to find solutions that will hurt the fewest innocents while confronting the demons in their own psyches. This season brings even more challenges in the form of a demon named Ruby who claims to be able to help save Dean from his crossroads deal, and Bela, a mercenary who is in the market for stolen goods -- including some of the artifacts and talismans the Winchesters must use in order to win in the fight to save mankind in the coming Apocalypse.

It's a thrilling, often shocking bloodbath when these two let go in a battle to conquer evil. It's just as heart-stoppingly inspiring when Dean cuts down a victim who has been left to die, saves a drowning child, or Sam places a calming hand on Dean's chest after an especially stultifying close call. When these two get onto a metaphysical level and confront issues of their own self-worth and destiny, it's nothing less than a lesson in the purely redeeming alchemy of human empathy. Each vowed to stop at nothing in order to save the presumably doomed other: Dean having sold his soul and left with one year to live, Sam being possibly the heir to a kingdom of which he wants no part. Each has his own lessons to learn, his own wisdom to share, and demon asses to kick. In this time of waning consumption of fossil fuels and the yawning threat of the end of the American dream, in the face of fear, despair, and the sure knowledge of impending doom, there is in the American psyche an unwillingness to give in to all of this. So perhaps the best thing about Supernatural is the emphasis it places on the preservation of hope, love, and ideals. There are still wide open highways to roam together in a kick-ass muscle car. Saving lives. Hunting things. The family business.

And I, an avowed environmentalist and social activist who not too long ago totally eschewed television, plan to be right there with them every step of the way. Somewhere bound up in all of the work that the show's creators do, there is the timeless theme of humanity's search for what is good, right, and honorable in all of us, perhaps especially the not-so-perfect. And that is an important and worthy thing for television to be doing nowadays. So yes, I'm spreading the Gospel of Supernatural, one of the finest pieces of collaborative art to brighten the universe in a long, long time.

Susannah Eanes writes, dances, bakes bread, tends a flock of heirloom chickens, is mother to five living with her archaeologist husband on an eighteenth century plantation in rural Carolina, and is a total Dean Girl.