"The further a society drifts from the truth, the more it will hate those who speak it." – George Orwell
This Orwell quote has been floating around Facebook Nation lately. I keep seeing it, again and again, which isn't particularly unusual. (That's what FB memes do; they multiply.) What is unusual is that the adage keeps popping up on the pages of people who have very different values and, frankly, very different ideas about "truth."
It's Friday morning and deadline day for this sprawling thing I euphemistically call my column. It's also the second day of spring – March 21st – and all of creation has risen to the occasion. Outside my window, the "we need you, we need you" bird has returned to seduce me from my grim task. (My old pal Jim Tatum tells me that's the cry of the Carolina wren, and I have no reason to doubt him.)
My husband and I were watching a news report from Ukraine the other night, and I said to him, "Having lived here in my American bubble all my life, this stuff seems almost unreal to me. It's like I'm watching a movie."
"If my father were here today, there would be two words running through his head: Good grief." The speaker at the lectern laughed along with her audience. "Seriously, he'd wonder what all this fuss was about!"
Traditionally, mid-February is when I write my annual Movie Column. During this grim, bleak, shabby excuse for a month, it always cheers me to look back at the year in movies and comment on the new batch of Oscar nominees. This year, it has somehow come to pass that I've only seen three of the nine films nominated for Best Picture. And I call myself a film buff? Disgraceful.
Greetings, reader. It's a Tuesday morning, and I'm writing from my kitchen, wearing flannel pajamas, a heavy sweatshirt, a brown cape that my husband loathes, and my daughter's fuzzy pink pig slippers. (They're actually fuzzy pink lamb slippers – I know, I bought them – but she insists they're pigs, and you have to pick your battles with 12-year-olds.)