The Gawgon and the Boy

Imagination is the inspiration born through introverted, innovative thought. We can never create something new; you might say our minds are the greenest place on the planet: every thought is recycled. When any author puts pen to paper, every scrap of fiction, every metaphor, comes straight from experience.

Lloyd Alexander's The Gawgon and the Boy, known internationally as The Amazing Adventures of the Invisible Boy, was not intended to stray far from the author's own childhood experiences. It does not. Having read through every memoir published by the author, it is my personal testament that this book comes as a late reflection of Lloyd's early life, with the perspective and experience of an older individual.

There are two characters of whom we get a complete picture. The Boy, David, is a young teenager wrapped in his imagination, living just a few years after the Great War. His childhood mirrors both the author's, and almost every other young American in that decade and in the decades after. The Gawgon, Aunt Annie, is the second character, the woman, distantly related, who becomes The Boy's mentor when illness drives him (happily) away from school.

The novel is told in the first person, from a child's perspective; but the wisdom is seasoned with experience, and the language is that of wry reflection. We follow The Boy's illness which leads him to a relationship with The Gawgon, through the circumstances of the Great Depression, to a family move and first love. It doesn't really matter what anecdotes are recorded; it could have been any number of things and told the same story. A string of thoughts—memories?—connected by adolescent emotional progress forms the body of the book; here we get the full spectrum: joy, loss, love, disappointment, growing up. The Boy is young, disgusted by and enraptured with the female sex, eager for adventure, and distrustful of anything that could be called school. The Gawgon serves as a mentor, but she is fully human. She's been around the block a few times, experienced great joy and greater disappointment, and comes through it with an understanding of life in her position, and The Boy's. A bond is formed.

The Gawgon and The Boy was published just six years before the author's death; any other memoirs by the author come three or four decades prior. Through the journey we come to feel much for both characters; but below the surface, are they not two stages of the same person?

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What is in a season?

It's turning autumnal here in Maine.  I've already spotted a few trees turning orange at the fringes (the maples in the swamps go first), and friends are boarding planes for college, and the mornings are cold and strewn with mist, and I'm sweating less than I was a month ago.  I find myself standing at the end of one season, on the doorstep of the next, and trying to decide if I want it to come.  The autumn weather is welcome, but not all that autumn means.  If only I could pick out the good bits and then move on to Christmas.

The word season comes to English from French, and to French from the Latin "sationem", meaning "to sow".  As a noun it came to mean the time of sowing.  From there it evolved to mean one of the four periods of the year: summer, autumn, winter, spring.  Then it took on also the meaning of "seasoned"--weathered, time- and-trial tested, true--or sown with salt, both to preserve life and to add flavour.

Life, as the year, is a series of seasons: a series of times when the weather changes, when different things are being sown, when some things are dying and some only appear to be, but have deep roots still pulsing and live, when salt is being added to the dish.  To each season its own:
 
"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted:
a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war and a time for peace." (Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 ESV) 

It is easy to hear half of this word:  I would love to say, "This is the time to be born, to plant, to heal, to build up, to laugh, to dance, to gather stones, to embrace, to seek, to keep, to sew, to speak, to love, to bring peace!" and take my red pen to strike out the rest.  This summer, for me, was such a season.  Though I look forward to the autumn, I think I may spy a few more hardships, a few more sufferings, a few more self-denials.  Nothing massive, but the little things, when totaled, weigh a good deal as well.  If I stand on tip-toe and peer over the top of autumn I see the winter, and Christmas, and everything it holds, and ache for that: but it is not yet.  Things come in time.  Right now, the time may be the dying, plucking, killing, breaking down, mourning, casting away, refraining from embracing time.  It may be the time for war.  It is not nearly as tragically poetic as it sounds.  It's grueling.  This may be the season to hope, to wait, to hang on.  It is probably not entirely one or the other--the usual blend is a little bit of both.  Every season, however dark and cold, holds many heights of joy.


From my view on the doorstep of autumn I cannot see far, but I can see the one who is sowing, and salting, and weaving every circumstance, and he is someone entirely worthy of my trust.  

The Bourne Legacy

Rich in scenery but heavy in incomprehensible pseudo-scientific terms, the opening half of this film leaves one wondering if it was worth the money, even if it was a gift card. But, as with many things, it gets better.

It takes a quality few possess to be a leading man; taking the screen requires charisma, talent, and a good script. Jeremy Renner performs his first real lead role admirably, even under pressure from fans of the previous Bourne films.

Though you shouldn't expect Matt Damon, everything else fits the Bourne bill, and exceeds at least several sets of expectations. It grows on you, I suppose; there's a pack of wolves, an excellent motorcycle chase, a beautiful woman rescued from danger by a man with arms like brick walls, with very little for even the most conservative individual to raise a ruckus about.

Normally, I don't like pseudo-sequels that switch characters and make a money play. In this case, though I'm well aware it's a ploy for cash, I also know that for those involved on the project that wasn't the only thing on their minds. Rachael Weisz holds her own as to be expected, and like his character, Renner meets every challenge set before him.

I can't give the story away; even if I didn't care about spoilers, I would have a hard time getting my head around just exactly what story the film is trying to tell; then again, even that is right in line with the previous Bourne film. The most disconcerting thing of all is the presence of Bourne in the title, and his absence during the 2hr 15m thrill ride that just might give Mr. Damon a run for his money.

My biggest complaint was the overuse of scientific or political language that was so obviously intended to impress us but made absolutely no sense to us viewers who don't give a loo that Sandstone and Meerkat Lodge are government programmes all with the intention of using de-emotionalised men as international assassins.

Saving that, I cannot actually offer any griping; there are many unsolved puzzles by the end, but if this makes enough money I guess they'll put up another one to answer a few. It was low on my radar before I went, but after stewing over it I've decided I certainly wouldn't object to viewing it a good few times in my life.

-TheEDP