Into the Archive: Rick and Morty Season Seven

This DVD was released on March 12^th of 2024; the season itself wound up on December 17^th, 2023. Since that time, I have not really cared too much about watching reruns or getting the DVD. The season was only 10 episodes long; it was the season that replaced Justin Roiland as the voice of both Rick and Morty, rather flawlessly, I thought. It was not that. Why did I find it so easy to put aside, so forgettable until a few days short of a year?

Perhaps it was the resolution of several through-lines in the show that had teasingly led us over several seasons, especially of Rick Prime and Evil Morty. Suggested backstories with tantalizing clues were resolved into ‘established canon.’ Perhaps it was the over-use of already introduced characters, sometimes batches at a time. Even Mr. Poopybutthole, quite satisfying as a background character and season commentator, is given a complete episode (along with his family!). Halfway through the season Rick must deal with the sudden flatness of fulfilling his Ahab-like life goal. Episodes do tend to be rollicking roller-coaster rides, but are less entertaining than the saga of the other seasons.

Still, I had to have the season for completeness’ sake, and there are bits and pieces that rise to interest. Perhaps the best ‘new’ character is Bigfoot; but even he seems like a scrambling effort to gather in all weirdness. And there are rumblings about Season Eight, which will come out ‘sometime early in 2025’. The extras on Season 7 are rather scant, a few moments comment by Dan Harmon and other creators on each five episodes on each of two discs. Here’s hoping that they’ll hit the ground running in Season Eight and regain their momentum. ‘At least until Season 10!’

The Lord of the Rings: The Siege of Gondor (Part 3)

The Tale

Pippin and Beregond are suddenly frozen with fear as a shuddering cry rends the air. Pippin recognizes it; he heard it long ago in the Shire when they were fleeing to Bree, but ‘it was grown in power and hatred, piercing the heart with a poisonous despair.’ For a moment they can neither move nor speak.

With an effort, Beregond, who had been staring out when paralyzed, speaks to Pippin, calling him to look below. In the dim air are five wheeling shadows, ‘five birdlike forms, horrible as carrion-fowl yet greater than eagles.’ They come to within bowshot of the wall, then wheel away, concentrating on something moving along the ground.

Pippin mutters that the ‘Black Riders in the air’ are chasing a small group of four or five horsemen. The peril and the hideous shrieking are more than he can handle, and the little hobbit cries out for Gandalf to help against this horror.

There is another horrific screech that is answered by the call of a rising horn from below. Beregond recognizes it as Lord Faramir’s call. At first it seems Faramir will hold his men together and reach the Gates, but the horses go mad with terror and the men are thrown. All except Faramir: ‘he can master both beasts and men.’ He rides back to help his unsaddled men. But one of the foul ‘hell-hawks’ comes stooping at him personally. Beregond springs away and hurries down to help his beloved captain.

Ashamed of himself, Pippin masters his terror enough to get up  and look out over the wall more closely, just in time to see ‘a flash of white and silver coming from the North, like a small star down on the dusky fields.’ It is Gandalf on Shadowfax, and the shadows seem to give way before him, and Pippin hears like an echo his great voice calling.

Pippin cries out the name of the wizard who ‘always turns up when things are darkest’, urging him on like a spectator at a great race that is almost lost.

But the Nazgul are now aware of the White Rider, and one wheels toward him. But Gandalf raises his hand ‘and a shaft of white light stabbed upward.’  The Nazgul gives a wailing cry, then all five wheel and fly away into the grim clouds above, and for a while the Pelennor fields seem less dark.

Pippin watches as the White Rider meets the horseman and they wait for the others on foot. Men now hurry out to join them, free from the wailing terror, and the company pass out of sight below toward the Great Gate. Pippin hurries down to meet them, guessing they will go right to the citadel and Denethor.

He joins a cheering crowd who are calling out for Faramir and Mithrandir; many have watched the race and rescue from the walls. The two dismount from their horses and walk toward the gate of the citadel, Gandalf with smoldering eyes and Faramir swaying like a weary or wounded man.

When Pippin presses forward and sees the face of Faramir he is startled. It is a face of one who has mastered a great fear, proud and grave. But what astonishes the hobbit is how much he resembles his brother Boromir, ‘whom Pippin had liked from the first, admiring the great man’s lordly but kindly manner.’ But he also sees in Faramir ‘an air of high nobility such as Aragorn at times revealed’ but also ‘touched with the wisdom and the sadness of the Elder race.’  Here is a captain he would follow even under the shadow of the stooping Nazgul.

Pippin calls out his name with the others and Faramir, hearing his strange voice amid the clamor, turns and is amazed to see ‘a halfling, and in the livery of the Tower!’ Where did he come from?

‘But with that Gandalf stepped to his side and spoke. ‘He came with me from the land of the Halflings,’ he said. ‘He came with me. But let us not tarry here. There is much to say and do, and you are weary. He shall come with us. Indeed he must, for if he does not forget his new duties more easily than I do, he must attend on his lord again within the hour. Come, Pippin, follow us!’

 

Bits and Bobs

Just how ‘birdlike’ are the Winged Steeds of the Nazgul? Some earlier illustrators make them winged horse, ‘steeds’ literally. The beast that the Lord of the Nazgul rides later is described as a creature ‘of an older world maybe’ in terms that strongly suggest a pterodactyl to many readers. Tolkien agrees that it is at least ‘pterodactyl-like’. Are all the Nazgul supplied with similar beasts? They are most often compared to birds, hawks or eagles or other scavenger species. Is that just in shape? In an old draft the Witch-King rides something like a ‘huge vulture.’ Of course, in the Jackson movies they are most like dragons, wyverns to be exact, with only two legs. I’ve heard them commonly referred to as dragons by a lot of first reactors.

Some people who have only seen the movie have asked why Gandalf doesn’t use his ‘magic flashlight’ against the Nazgul more often. Perhaps it’s too draining. More than likely, it was because the Valar had set limits to the use of the wizards’ powers, never to use more than absolutely necessary to overcome situations that the Free Peoples could not match themselves. Enough to drive the Nazgul away and preserve life; not enough to outright destroy them.

Much space is given to Pippin’s first reaction to Faramir. You might say that as Pippin was now pledged to Minas Tirith that Faramir was his ‘ideal’ in the command chain. Something is in him that the hobbit ‘would fain call master.’ We are also given a further insight into Pippin’s attachment, his almost ‘hero-worship’ of Boromir that makes him quick to ally himself to his brother. One can almost imagine Pippin telling Frodo (as he gathers material for The Lord of the Rings) about his first impressions of Faramir after seeing him act to save his men under the terror of a Nazgul attack.

 

Diary 2020: Vacation and the Plague

2020 Diary

3/9/2020: Woke up at 6 AM and decided I was up. Prayed, Bible. Took a shower and got dressed. Grassed the chis, then headed to church. Thanks to the time change it was dark and misty. Put the paper in the mailbox to ensure its’ safety until I got back. Due to the Lenten nature, early hour, and cautions about the coronavirus, things were a little subdued. Came home, ate breakfast (ramen with bread and eggs), started some wash (the sheets under the couch) and at noon started waiting for John, who came at 1 PM. At first we sat and gabbed a while, then we went and got a couple of sandwiches at Schlotzsky’s. Brought them home and ate them, and John broached the idea of us doing a podcast sort of thing, perhaps on Tolkien as a nominal subject but ranging around. I like the idea, largely because maybe we could spend more time together. Almost on an impulse we went to Half-Price in San Marcos. I looked around, but it seemed very sparse for my subjects; I bought nothing, but at least I know now there was nothing to buy. John was able to sell some of Morgandy’s books and found a few things. We came home, by rather a long way as they are now building a bridge along John’s regular shortcut. He dropped me off at about 6 PM and there was still plenty of daylight. I released the Rotts and grassed the Chis. Had some Frooty Loops [a knockoff brand] for supper; got to use up that milk. Still no word from Kelsey & Ryan. Could not stand watching the animation line-up; instead more Like Trees Walking (the Mike Nelson podcast), and then bed, or should I say couch. Legs kind of wobbly from the long day. At least tomorrow I do not have to do wash, get Kam off to school, or make broccoli salad. I do have to allow for the pool man, rotate the dogs, mail Susan’s bill, and put out the bins.

 

3/9/2020: Up about 5:30 AM, prayed, Bible, got dressed. Caught up Diary. Now have to wait until it gets light enough to begin my stuff for the day; could write, I guess, and get a start on that.

Went in at 7 AM, let the Chis out and fed the pets, then lured the Rotts in and penned them up. Vader was very good, but Kylo had to be lured in with her ball. Then I waited out on the front porch for the mailman and maybe hand them the bill. At 9 AM I walked out and checked the box in case I had been distracted and mixed it, and right while I was at the box a mail truck passed by. Didn’t stop, so I decided that was that and started to walk back. Then another truck passed, and finally another that was OUR truck, and I was too far by then to catch him. So then I decided to just walk out to city hall and send the bill, and so I did, and was done with it. Came home and start to wait for the pool guy.

Watching DS9 [Deep Space 9], and pool guy came about noon. Let the Rotts out and grassed the Chis. Started brewing a stew with the leftover potatoes, wilting bell peppers, and some of the meat the Hoffmans haven’t picked up yet. What’s going on there? A little drippy, on and off, but not bad. Max Von Sydow has passed away at 90 years old.

For an e-mail to John: You ask, “What good would it do?” and I finally think I have an answer: it wouldn’t have to DO any good, it would BE a good. Like a work of art, or a flower, or an act of kindness even if it really leads nowhere, it is a positive good in itself. In other words, perhaps not utilitarian, but good. Also, 1) it would be enjoyable, 2) it would allow us to spend more time together, 3) it might – conceivably – amuse or enlighten a listener, 4) it could allow us to clarify our minds and opinions, 5) it could make for good memories (you know how difficult it is capture a conversation and here we’d have an actual recording), 6) it would be an act of creation, and so on and so on.

So I paced out my tasks (cleaning out the pool, grassing dogs, taking the bins out, positioning the Rotts for the night) along with my amusements (DS9, the YouTube shows) and I’m pretty much set for the night. Still have the Rosary ahead. And I said it, watched more DS9, and went to bed.

 

3/10/2020: I had most things done by 9 AM, including prayers, Bible, pets, bins, and mail. Meals: cereal, ramen, and sausage patties. John came by at 3 PM and we talked more about a podcast (he liked my idea of the name “Dancing in Chains”). Kelsey came by at 5 PM on their way home and picked up the meat and some pistachios and dropped off some paper for me and a couple of shirts for Susan. Said they’d be back in 2 weeks. Listened to more “Like Trees Walking”, the YT shows, and watched the end of the DS9 saga. It was weird seeing it again. I watched it back in 1999, which was an eventful year in itself. It strayed so much into fantasy territory with the Pah-wraiths. No writing as yet; I may take a little nap here at 8 PM and see what’s what.

Instead I prayed the rosary, listened to some Like Trees Walking (hereon in LTW), and drifted off about 10 PM, I guess.

 

3/11/2020: Woke up about 4:30 AM, wrote down dream, and now record this thought: Perhaps the one unforgivable sin against the Holy Ghost is to refuse to be forgiven. It comprises the pride that won’t acknowledge that you were wrong and the lack of faith that God can forgive you.

Did the usual things during the day, including a Novena for Saint Joseph. The weather was cloudy in the morning, then partly cloudy and warm through the day. “Dusted” the leaves off Susan’s car, along with my other chores. I wrote to John:

 I haven't done much work this week so far, I'm ashamed to confess. There are several reasons why, I think. One is the usual trouble of getting the machinery moving. More than that there's 1) the sort of added stress of being "the man on deck" here, which makes it hard to relax; 2) because I have a fair store of food and money I lack that impetus to try to create; 3) the constant interruption of having to tend to the pool, the dogs, the mail and so on; 4) it's early days yet, so what's the rush; 5) I've got the notes, so it's all scribbling; 6) I have a vision of how it should be, which makes me afraid that my actual writing won't live up to it. [And the time change has upset my inner clock so my delicate balance is haywire.] 

 

The answers to which are: I've got to prime the pump to get it started; 1) so what, utilize that alertness; 2) that should give me more leisure to create; 3) I've written with 'rests' to do chores before, and it can help; 4)  why not get an even further hop on it, because who knows what next week will be like; 5) the notes should make it easier to write; 6) it's a first draft, for corn's sake, you're allowed to be imperfect.  Also: John wants to see it; you find it hard to sleep anyway, so why not use that time; you don't want to be slain by the coronavirus and leave the story unfinished; when you finish ‘King Korm’ you can get back to Bob and The BoS.

 

I don't think one of these vacations goes by that I don't think of a story I think I read in a Second Grade Reader: used to be rabbits had short ears. Then one day a young rabbit was left all alone at home. He was a nervous type. He thought he heard a noise at the front door and stretched an ear out to listen. Then he thought he heard a noise at the back door, and he stretched out the other ear to listen. When his mother got back, she found that he had been stretching his ears so long and so hard in opposite directions, that they had grown as long as a donkey's. And that's why all rabbits now have long ears.

He answered: I understand your reasoning- both in avoidance of, and getting to, your work.  I've been doing a lot of fiddly things around the house- things that need doing, and are good when they are done, but not vital. I have to confess that the uncertainty of the world situation has me on a low boil of worry.  I'm not as afraid of the personal impact of the virus as I am all the societal ramifications, both economic and political.  A lot can happen - a lot has happened- none of it good. And of course, I worry for all of you nutty loved ones. Ah, me. I forgot to tell you, Amazon Prime video has "Mind Your Language" on it- I've watched about half a dozen episodes- very evocative of the time, complete with liberal, nice guy hero. Those quotes were great, they are helping in the back-burner stewing of our mission.  Must keep stewing- eventually will have stew, God willing!

 

3/12/2020: So did all the usual things today (all my prayers in the morning), as well as a trip to FD at 9:30 AM, where I got one jug of Big Red, some Pringles, some cheese doodles, some chocolate graham cookies, and some Ritz crackers. Finished off the jug of milk in the house. Watched the first episodes of DS9 on Netflix, and in the evening wrote four pages of King Korm in script form, which broke my blockage. A warm, sunny day, with oak leaves pattering down all the time. Now at 9:30 PM, when everything is settled for the night, Vader is barking, just to mess things up. Or is something going on? [No, it wasn’t.]

 

3/13/2020: Friday the 13^th. Decided NOT to ride the bus to HEB today. Instead, after morning prayers went to Dollar General (with a side-jaunt to get a TX Lotto). Left at 8 AM and back at 9 AM. I have so many snacks in my pantry that the thought entered my head that if I died right now, people would have a very wrong idea of how my life was lived. THIS IS A RARE SITUATION, only possible because of my $20 writing payment from John and the $20 Susan gave me for emergencies. And since the week is just about up and supplies are low, I feel justified in a bit of indulgence. I certainly paid for it with weary legs, which are already smarting from the extra miles the dogs and the leaves and the pool are putting on. Got almost 2 pages script written this morning, introducing the Watchman.

Breakfast at 11 AM (but what?), then at 2 PM lunch (ramen), then at 6:30 PM fish sticks (it is Friday). Listening to LTW much of the time today. Sheesh. I swept all the porches and ‘dusted’ the leaves off Susan’s vehicles, and 2 hours later they were covered again. E-mailed John:

Yesterday I managed four pages and today (so far) almost two, so my block is at least broken. I did it by using the old trick of scripting, where I set the scenes, then focus on the characters and what they are doing, reveal by dialogue, give stage descriptions of tone and emotion. This shows me all the notes that have to be struck, which can later be elaborated (but not too much) into prose. It kind of cuts the Gordian Knot of "How do I tell this?" by simply showing. And it's fun. 

Still, what I have done has not reached the end of the scene yet; when it does I shall probably send it on to you and then begin the next scene (probably writing again in prose, but who can say for sure), even before I work this scene into prose.

I'm still not sure if the Shanafelt's are going to take that one more day before the parks shut down or just head home. I wonder if they'd call ahead to tell me. I need to clean up those cigar butts and wine bottles before they get back, but I'm too lazy to do it before I really have to. It's sort of a dubious question, isn't it? On the one hand they're already there, on the other it might be better if they left now. And one has to wonder about Yen's livelihood and his situation.

I've been kind of poking my own lungs and wondering. I did NOT go anywhere by mass transit today. And I may not go to church on Sunday which, believe it or nay, I really enjoy. But it may be my duty.

About 5 minutes after I sent that I saw an announcement that Amy has passed along on FB that gathering at church was suspended with a dispensation from the Bishop.

I think you might be confusing the meanings of two different words, “dispense” and “dispensation”. One means to manage without or get rid of. “Dispensation” means exemption from a rule or usual requirement; or permission to be exempted from the laws or observances of the Church. In this case it is the promise to gather and “do this in remembrance of Me, until I come again.” This has been suspended for a short period in time, in charity and reason, and Catholics are being dispensed (another meaning of the word!) forgiveness for being temporarily unable to fulfill this promise.

 

3/14/2020: Up at 6 AM, did all my prayers and Bible, including Novena and Rosary. Went through the day as usual; temperatures in the high 60’s. Sent off KK Mog section to John at 1 PM, but here it is 9:30 PM and I hain’t heard a word out o’ him. Well, it is Saturday, and Joseph Loth’s birthday to boot. When will the Shanafelts reappear? I know not for sure but guess in the middle of the night. Did enjoy the writing I got done. My right leg feels pretty bad. And that’s all I got to say about today in this Journal of the Plague Year.

And they just rolled in at 9:35 PM, not 5 minutes after I wrote that and was ready to lay down!

Notes

Apparently I didn't put anything on for the 8th; it must have been a very ordinary day. While I did finish King Korm, I never did get back to Bob's Book 2. 

 

A Gulf of Knowledge

What’s the big deal about the Gulf of America? After all, it is not ‘the Gulf of the United States of America’, our official name. The Gulf (and Mexico) is part of the American continental system, a fact I have been aware of since Donald Duck Sees South America (published 1945 but which I read circa 1972).

“Donald leaned forward and tapped the driver. ‘You know, I’m an American and proud of it.’

‘Me too. Much proud to be American.’

Donald was puzzled. ‘If you’re an American, why do you speak the American language with a foreign accent?’

The driver was getting excited. ‘I do not speak my American language with a foreign accent. I only speak your American language with a foreign accent. You, North American. Me, Latin American.’”

The point may be pedantic and not political, but it is technically correct, ‘the best kind of correct.’ Both Donalds (Duck and Trump) may have made the same assumptions about a name (as are the objectors) but 'Gulf of America' is a nice, if unnecessary, compromise.

Why Saturday is the Worst Day of My Week

The Black Dog

I think the main reason that Saturday is the worst day of my week is what makes it the best day for the people closest to me; they have no work and can do whatever they want. So they’re often off doing something as a family. I am family, of course, but I’m not core family, not spouse or child, so unless I’m included for some specific reason, I feel it would be unnecessarily intrusive if I tried to horn my way into things.

Now during the week, I have a lot more opportunity to interact with everybody and that makes me feel useful and more integrated. I can get the mail, and make Kameron lunch, and cook supper for everybody, and then clean up, having time to talk to Susan and Andy about the business of the day. I feel more comfortable with text messaging John during the week, feeling it might lighten his workday. I never know when to message Kenny; being in Florida, his hours are a mystery to me, and I’m not as plugged into what to speak about with him. He calls me.

But on Saturday, I’m pretty much on my own. I might see Andy a few seconds if he brings me my mail or our paths cross if I go out on an errand and he’s working outside. So, what do I have to do? I have thousands of books and dozens of DVDs, all of which I have delved into multiple times. If I’m lucky, I might have something new to read. There’s very little on TV to amuse me. I spend hours, sometimes, sifting through You Tube for anything to distract me. There’s not much there to set the world on fire, and nothing really engaging that lasts very long.

Saturday is the day I am most likely to overeat, through sheer boredom. And even when I have plenty of food and drink it is very dull stuff, not even engaging to cook. And the Ozempic I am taking has affected my taste, which makes even old favorites seem dull and different, or bringing out the worst undertaste of things. So not only I am tempted to overeat, I very seldom enjoy it when I do. In the old days, I could at least anesthetize myself with a batch of chilimac or spaghetti, and then go into a sort of satisfied coma. Such things are contraindicated by my present diet (not to mention the Lenten fast) and would taste terrible thanks to my Ozempic. So bang goes one of my last pleasures in life, and another distraction.

At least during the week I can walk out, catch a bus, and get around town to ‘beat the bounds,’ as it were. Places that are dull and ordinary to most folks are a sort of adventure to me. I can look for toys or DVDs at Walmart, or see if there is anything tempting foodwise at HEB. I get to see some regulars on the bus, especially Mr. Wade, the bus driver. Buses do not run over the weekend. The most I might do on a Saturday is visit the library bookstore (which only works about once every four months and is a bit of a stroll) or walk over to the limited selection at Family Dollar.

Sunday is much better than Saturday, for there is church. Not only is it spiritually fulfilling, but it’s also socially satisfying. Not that I go gad about visiting with one and all, but there are people I am familiar with, Miss Susan who tells me hello every day, as does the old gentleman who sits two pews ahead of me (another cane jockey), and Father Stan, who has a peculiarly European sense of humor and an accent that always makes listening to him an adventure. Even the wailing of babies and toddlers (there is always some) I find oddly comforting as an indication of continuity between generations. There are many others.  I might even get a ride home from Miss Beth or from Gabriel’s family, and that gives me a very friendly occasion to gab a bit. The rest of the day is redeemed and it doesn’t seem so lonely.

But Saturday … Saturday is not much. Nobody needs me, nobody notices me. There is nothing special to do, not even get the mail, which Susan and Andy usually do. I float along like a rather sad single pickle in a jar. I’m writing this on Saturday evening with half an ear listening to the writers and director’s commentary on the Extended Edition of The Two Towers for about the 10^th time. Nice, but not particularly engaging. I might just make a bag of popcorn, quite an indulgence. Rather naughty and unlikely to be pleasurably satiating, but so it goes.

 

"Good? Evil?"

Friday Fiction: Timmy (Part Five?)

The next ten minutes were taken up with what Dad called hauling and hoisting. He was visibly tired by the end and definitely less enthusiastic but still amused by Timmy’s excitement. He paused before he left the room, eying the six clunky bins hunched in the corner of the room.

“Remember, kiddo, your Mom wants you done going through this stuff within the month, and she tells me there’s a lot more coming. It might be good if you could at least get a start on this batch before tomorrow. We’ll be wanting the garage back too, eventually.”

“Sure, Dad.” Timmy cracked open the lid of one battered bin; it was the same one he had peeked into before. He’d made sure that that one had remained at hand, close to the top. “Thanks.” He already seemed a little distant, preoccupied with his new hoard. Dad lingered for a moment as the boy began unpacking the contents, gazing curiously at what he had allowed to be unleashed in their home.

“Wow,” he said eventually as he stirred to leave. “This reminds me of when I was a kid.”

“What do you mean, Dad?” Timmy was distracted, making sure that books that were obviously part of a series remained together as he unpacked.

“Well, there were a lot more books around back then, though my Dad was already saying they were thinning out. And there was a lot more fantasy and crap around, in movies and things.” He shook his head. “It’s not so popular anymore.”

Timmy looked up. It wasn’t often that Dad talked about when he was a kid.

“Why do you think that is?” he asked.

Dad laughed a little nervously.

“Oh, I don’t know. There were the troubles there in the late Twenties, and then the Little War, and suddenly dreaming was out and Real Life was in. I don’t know. I’m no historian; I’m no pop blogger either. Alls I know is, dragons were gone, and survival was everywhere. Ultra-competent adventurers adapting to everything that came their way by facing facts and making tough decisions.” He chuckled. “I heard Roy at work say it’s just as imaginary, but with a lot less Metamucil to make it go down.”

Timmy was puzzled.

“Metamucil?”

“Or some word like that. Metaphoric? Mutagenic?  Anyway, you have fun.” He waved vaguely good night, gesturing at the bins. “I’m gonna have a beer and hit the hay. Back to the grind tomorrow, you know.”

“Night, Dad. And thanks again.”

“Sure thing, kiddo. Good night.”

Notes

The word Dad is trying to remember is metaphysics. ‘Roy at Work’ is obviously a pop blogger, or at least a wannabe, in his own right.

Uncle Samuel, ere he passed, would no doubt have told you that the eclipse of Fantasy was a good thing, even an expected thing. It helped eliminate the undergrowth that has been growing like barnacles on the hull of Fantasy, to mix a metaphor: writers who have been churning out product with the perceived trappings of Fantasy because it is a genre that’s made a lot of money, especially in the wake of J. K. Rowling’s success.

Such eclipses happened in the wake of both World Wars, when generations faced the horrors of conflict and material hardship, both times resulting in a rejection of what were seen as dangerously airy-fairy visions of patriotism or romance or daydreaming, resulting in the backlash of the ‘Ash Can School’ or ‘Kitchen Sink Realism’. During eras of peace and prosperity Fantasy flourishes unchecked, as adventure and meaning must be sought in ever attenuated realms of thought. Between such times, a real balance between ‘Materialism’ and the ‘Metaphysical’ can be approached.

As Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote in A Psalm to Life:

 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

   Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

   And things are not what they seem.

 

Life is real! Life is earnest!

   And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

   Was not spoken of the soul.

 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

   Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each to-morrow

   Find us farther than to-day.

 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

   And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

   Funeral marches to the grave.

 

In the world’s broad field of battle,

   In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

   Be a hero in the strife!

 

Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!

   Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,— act in the living Present!

   Heart within, and God o’erhead!

 

Lives of great men all remind us

   We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

   Footprints on the sands of time;

 

Footprints, that perhaps another,

   Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

   Seeing, shall take heart again.

 

Let us, then, be up and doing,

   With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

   Learn to labor and to wait.

Or to quote Herman Munster, “Life is real,/ Life is earnest;/ If you’re cold/ Turn up the furnace.”