The following is very off topic, especially for me, but I offer it for two reasons. First, I have been very busy this week and really haven’t had time to write something on topic, especially since the Super Bowl took a big chunk out of my Sunday routine, and secondly, because this small essay was made possible by our own Steve Steinbock.

It’s the address I gave at my installation as Master of Santa Monica-Palisades Lodge #307, F&AM of California. I hope you enjoy it. —JLW

PSALM 133

by James Lincoln Warren

“Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity! It is like the precious ointment upon the head, that ran down upon the beard, even Aaron’s beard: that went down to the skirts of his garments; As the dew of Hermon, and as the dew that descended upon the mountains of Zion: for there the LORD commanded the blessing, even life for evermore.”

Entered Apprentices are charged with regarding the volume of the Sacred Law as the great light in their profession as newly-minted Masons, as the standard of truth and justice. Freemasons regard faith in Deity as necessary, and men of all faiths are welcome in our Temple. It is not therefore an adherence to the literal truth of any specific holy writings that is important to us as Masons, however fundamental such volumes may be to our respective faiths, but an appreciation of the spiritual and symbolic truths contained therein, their scriptural power for moral guidance and goodness.

This particular passage of scripture is close to the heart of every Mason of every faith, from the youngest Entered Apprentice in the Northeast corner of the lodge to the Worshipful Master in the East. It is the fourteenth of the fifteen “Psalms of Degrees”, which Jewish tradition informs us corresponded to each of the fifteen steps ascending to the entrance of King Solomon’s Temple.

A lodge of Free and Accepted Masons is said to symbolically represent that Temple, and so the relevance of the Psalm to our Craft, with its celebration of the joys of brotherhood and its evocation of that mighty edifice representative of how men of good character should construct their lives, is self-evident. But as with most of the symbolic structure of our timeless Fraternity, it contains valuable lessons in addition to those immediately apparent.

The Psalm compares the pleasures of fraternal unity to the anointment of Aaron, brother of Moses, the first man to preside in the Tabernacle, which was the model for King Solomon’s Temple. Aaron’s significance to the ideal of brotherly love cannot be overstated.

We learn from the Holy Writings that after God delivered to him the mandate of freeing the nation of Israel from bondage in Egypt, Moses expressed doubt in his ability to deliver God’s word.

The Holy Qur’an tells us that Moses told Allah: “And my brother Aaron—he is more eloquent in speech than I: so send him with me as a helper, to confirm (and strengthen) me: for I fear that they may accuse me of falsehood.” To which Allah replied, “We will certainly strengthen thy arm through thy brother, and invest you both with authority, so that they shall not be able to touch you: with Our Signs shall ye triumph,—you two as well as those who follow you.” (Sura 28 “The Narration”, ayahs 34-35, trans. Abdullah Yusuf Ali)

Exodus concludes the story: “And the LORD said to Aaron, Go into the wilderness to meet Moses. And he went, and met him in the mount of God, and kissed him.”

The importance of this meeting is reflected in the Midrash Tanhuma, a Jewish commentary on the meaning of the Torah, or Pentateuch (as those of us raised in the Christian faith call the first five books of the Bible):

It is written: “The Lord said to Aaron, ‘Go into the wilderness to meet Moses.’” (Exodus 4:27). This reminds us of the passage: “O that thou wert as my brother . . . [when I should find thee without, I would kiss thee]1” (Song of Songs 8:1), which is to say that Israel says before The Holy One, “Thou wert as my brother.” But we find so many brothers who hate one another. Cain hated Abel, as it is written, “Cain rose up against Abel his brother and killed him.” (Genesis 4:8). Ishmael hated Isaac, as it is written, “And Sarah saw the son of Hagar the Egyptian, which she had born unto Abraham, mocking.” (Genesis 21:9). Esau hated Jacob, as it is written, “And Esau said in his heart, The days of mourning for my father are at hand; then [will I slay my brother Jacob.]” (Genesis 27:41). The twelve sons of Jacob hated Joseph, as it is written, “they hated him” (Genesis 37:4). But of which brothers are likened to Israel and The Holy One? Moses and Aaron, as it is written, “Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell in unity.” (Psalm 133). They loved and were endeared to one another, thus, when Moses received the Kingdom, and Aaron received the Priesthood, they had no acrimony toward each other, but rather each found delight in the grandeur of the other.

(This passage was translated from the Hebrew by my good friend, Steve Steinbock.)

Thus we find another connection to the Masonic ideal, buttressed by the Psalm, and also by the Song of Songs, authored by Solomon, the builder of the Temple, whose significance to Freemasonry is without parallel.

I have always believed that there are three great metaphors at work in all of Masonry. The first is Craft, expressed in terms of architecture and the casting of metal artifacts, symbolizing taking charge of the erection of our own moral and Masonic life edifice. The second is travel, the journey through life. And the third is light, that knowledge that shines.

Aaron, like one illustrious in Masonic history, was a skilled worker in metals. Aaron, like all of his generation, was a traveler in the great Exodus. And Aaron, as High Priest, was responsible for the lights in the Tabernacle, as the Tanhuma reminds us: “Say to thy brother Aaron: Greater than the gifts of the princes is thy gift; for thou art called upon to kindle the light, and, while the sacrifices shall last only as long as the Temple lasts, thy light of the Law shall last forever.” (From the Salomon Buber edition.)

The Temple is no more, but the light endures.

So in the words of the Pirke Avot, from the Mishnah, “Be of the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing peace, loving your fellow creatures and bringing them close to Learning.” (Trans. Steve Steinbock again.)

Let that be our goal, my brothers and guests. Let us all love peace and pursue peace, and love each other, and achieve a closeness to learning, not just over the coming year, which I as your new Master look forward to with great humility and profound joy, but for all our lives, and “even life forevermore.”

1. The brackets indicate a part of the passage not included in the Tanhuma itself; I added them to make their meaning clear to the audience. My friend Steve Steinbock says that Midrash references to scripture only include the first few words of the passage being cited; the reader is expected to know the rest. [↩]

Another MURDEROUS WEEK in PARADISE

by Leigh Lundin

I liked murder mysteries ever since I can remember. Until I started writing, I paid scant attention to real crime. My interest was cerebral, the puzzle, matching wits with Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, and Lord Peter. While writing, I grew curious about the psychology of crime, perhaps because it was alien to me. A man once told me, "You don’t understand evil," days before he killed himself.

Romance authors write about relationships and love. Western authors write about pioneering the Wild West in the early days of our nation. Science fiction authors explore the effects of technology and social issues.

Mystery authors write about violent death.

We entertain our audience writing about homicide, about murder, about taking a precious human life and destroying it. I still like the puzzle, matching wits, but it’s wise to take stock of the topic we’re really talking about.

One More Murderer

With the scope of murder investigations in the Sunshine State leading with the Casey/Caylee Anthony case, it didn’t seem possible to shock jaded Floridians, but a mother of two exceeded our worst expectations.

Julie Powers Schenecker had been a US Army linguist stationed in Münich when she met her husband, an Army intelligence colonel, now stationed in the Middle East. After two years, she left the service and moved to Tampa where she raised their two children, Calyx, now 16, and Beau, age 13.

Last week, after buying a .38 caliber pistol, she picked up her son at soccer practice in her SUV. She shot him twice, killing him.

Mrs. Schenecker returned home and parked in their garage. She went upstairs and found her daughter studying her homework. She shot her daughter twice in the face, killing her.

When Mrs. Schenecker’s out-of-state mother couldn’t reach them, she phoned police the next day asking them to check on the family. Police found Schenecker sitting on the back porch, covered in blood.

As for motive, all she could say was she’d grown tired of the children ‘mouthing off.’

Locally, we feel stunned. It’s harsh to quantify, but this feels worse than the Anthony case. A toddler can’t fathom what is about to happen. A teen not only comprehends the terror, but grapples with the horror of their own mother– mad, bad, or sad– consummating both the beginning and end of life.

Despair and Disparity

What can we learn?

This could be a time to consider how differently we treat male and female perpetrators. Traditionally, if a male murders, we write him off as evil, as wicked, beyond redemption. If a female murders, we ask why? Is she sick? Disturbed? On drugs? What forces and motives drove her to kill? How can we understand her and, perhaps, help?

I don’t suggest we write women killers off as we do men. A local defense lawyer, Don West, confided he’d never had a single client who hadn’t had a nightmare of a childhood. A Virginia criminal attorney said killers don’t form in a vacuum. They’re abused, assaulted, tortured, maltreated beyond the ability of a childish mind to absorb without breaking.

But, maybe each of us is just a twig snap from wreaking our own horror.

Social scientists, viewing our astonishingly high execution and incarceration percentages, have long said we could save a fortune– and lives– if we could nip the problem in the bud. Unfortunately, they point out, we continue descending in the wrong direction.

Return of Hope

Not all crime news is dour and pessimistic. Recently, missing children– some from more than two decades ago– have been turning up– alive, Jaycee Dugard and Carlina White, to name two. Another found the strength to turn his kidnapper in after he abducted a second boy.

In a different case a few years ago, Shawn Hornbeck was found as police searched for a more recently kidnapped boy, Ben Ownby. I noticed Hornbeck’s web site his parents set up for his search is still active, this time bringing out the stories of other kidnappings. If you missed Shawn Hornbeck’s tale, it was broadcast on 48 Hours.

Final Thought

Murder mysteries won’t be reduced to mere academic exercises for a long time to come. Perhaps like laughter and song, they help us cope with reality.

DUMB & DUMBER

So if the hero of a story you’re reading proves he’s an idiot by buying a movie ticket for himself and forgetting to buy one for his date, I hope you’ll not only chuckle and feel sorry for him and picture yourself in his shoes. I hope you’ll also wish him well . . .

HATCHET JOB

And in that corner, hash is the shortened form of the Arabic word “hashish,” which comes from an Arabic root meaning “dried up.” (Hashish is also the source of the word Assassin, meaning “hash-eater” and refers to doped-up killers; the relevance of this to the current situation on the Egyptian street we won’t even go into). Like cow, the word hash may have once been used more broadly to include any dried up leaves, and cannabis leaves in particular, and later narrowed to mean the concentrated resin of the cannabis flower. Put that in your pipe and smoke it for breakfast.

MYSTERIOUS EVENTS IN LIFE AND DEATH

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

This past week, three people in my family passed away: My father-in-law, who was perhaps one of the sweetest, most non-judgmental men I’ve known, my mother’s aunt (the last living relative older than Mom in her family tree), and my father’s uncle, who lived to be 99 and might be the oldest relative on that side of the family. Funerals bring up all sorts of mysterious questions as well as the odd assortment of people who come into your life suddenly, like the brand-new-to-the-company mortician taking over the family business and the stately woman in the turban who claimed to have already met me but didn’t want to remind me of her name at the funeral home.

Everyone dies. Or so they tell me. I wonder if there isn’t a true Dorian Gray out there somewhere or if the Twilight lovers are onto something and an everlasting life on earth comes with a price most of us wouldn’t want to pay. Or would we? In Pet Semetery, Stephen King posed the question, to what lengths would we try to bring someone back from the dead? That’s a question theologians have pondered for centuries. We’re told our loved ones have moved onto a greater place than this life. Still, until we are among them, it remains a mystery to consider.

If nothing else, I have decided I need to put in writing exactly what I wish to happen if and when I do die. It’s beyond picking out a final resting place, choice of dress or casket. I’m planning on cremation and want to be set free in the wind. No need for a burial plot or dress and I’m told you can rent a casket for a ceremony if that makes someone happy to have something solid near a podium. I’m not trying to put morticians out of business, but for me, this will work best. As far as I’m concerned, stack my books on the coffin and give them out as mementos. I don’t look on this as being my last appearance, just an opening act for the Big Time.

Of course I want people to miss me a little, but more than that, I’d love them to share funny stories of things we’d done when I was still here. I want laughter and a happy song to be on everyone’s mind as they leave the funeral. A bawdy writer-friend of mine who passed away a few years ago asked that the congregation sing a song together at the end of her service. She chose the Roy Rogers/Dale Evans rendition of “Happy Trails.” I am sure that song and the follow-the-bouncing-ball on the screen was a first in her small Southern Baptist church. We left with smiles amid tears. I can’t hear that song without thinking of Connee McAnear, who wrote some of the most outlandish romance novels that were more erotic than romantic.

Perhaps the Irish have the best idea and we should plan a wake. Only I hate to miss a party, so I’d want to be there not just in spirit. Maybe we’ll have that party sooner rather than later. We’ll celebrate the life, and not the death, which is how I would want things to happen following my demise.

If I sound a bit morbid, it may just be that I am saddened, but even as this bleak weather day matches my mood, I know spring will soon be here. The fresh growth of buds, leaves, and the new grandbaby due this April prove there is rebirth following a death and our family tree is being replenished.

Every experience brings new mysteries to question . . . and new ideas to explore. On the way home, I couldn’t help thinking about the turbaned woman and what a delicious character she could foster. Somewhere I will use the setting of the mausoleum or the cemetery and the feelings we shared at my father-in-law’s funeral on a dismal, dreary day where a silver coffin was covered with long-stemmed roses and his fireman’s helmet nestled on top as if waiting for him to grab it and put it on, and head out to save someone’s life and home as he had so many times in the past.

Perhaps all the mysteries of life will be answered someday. I hope so. I’d really like to know the answers to all the “Why’s”.

I am content to wait a while longer. There’s so much more to do here yet. Books to read. Stories to write. And friends to cherish while we can. We are blessed with today, strengthened by our yesterdays and renewed with hope for our tomorrows.

WHEN THE THEATRE GOES DARK, IT’S NOIR

by Rob Lopresti

At the bottom of this column you will find the answers to the last half of my movie quotes page from two weeks ago, but as long as we’re discussing flicks, I thought I’d discuss a couple of good noir-ish movies I saw recently.

Frozen River (2009) stars Melissa Leo, who some of you may remember as the red-haired detective from the wonderful TV series Homicide. She plays Ray, an upstate New York woman who is not having a good year. Her gambler husband has just run off with the money she was saving to move her two kids into a double-wide mobile home.

While trying to track him down Ray meets Lila, a Mohawk Indian played by Misty Upham who needs money to get her newborn son back from her late husband’s mother. Lila has a proposition; they can make a lot of money using the trunk of Ray’s car to move people from one end of the Mohawk reservation to the other. Why would that be worth money? Well, you see, the U.S.-Canadian border runs straight through the rez . . .

So they find themselves in the people-smuggling business and things get messier by the minute. You know this flick ain’t gonna end with them winning the lottery and moving to Malibu, but the ending is satisfactory, and the acting is powerful.

The Lookout (2007) is about Chris Pratt. In high school it looked like he had it made: a handsome hockey star with a rich father. Then he caused a stupid accident that killed two of his friends and left him with severe brain damage.

Four years later he is working as night janitor in a small-town bank, sharing an apartment with a blind man. One night in a bar he meets and makes friends with Gary. Turns out Gary is a bankrobber, and he has plans for Chris . . .

We watch Chris getting sucked into a plot that can only lead to disaster, and then watch him to try to dig his way out with no tools except the pocket notebook he uses to remember even the simplest things. Character-driven suspense.

And speaking of character, what I like best about this movie is that, except for a few of the bad guys, nobody in this movie is one-dimensional. A minor tyrant turns out to have a kind side. A total schmo is absolutely heroic when put to the test. People are complicated.

Joshua Gordon-Levitt (of Third Rock) plays Chris but I was more impressed by Matthew Goode as the Mephistophlean bank robber, and Jeff Daniels as the blind roommate who alternates between crazy schemes and dark cynicism.

My one complaint is the ending which I thought was too optimistic. Ray’s fate in Frozen River is easier to swallow.

And now the movie quotes . . .

26. There’s no retirement home for assassins is there? Archery at four. Riflery at five. –Julian Noble (Pierce Brosnan) The Matador

27. –Look in your heart! Look in your heart!
      –What heart? –Bernie (John Turturro)/Tom Reagan (Gabriel Byrne) Miller’s Crossing

28. –So Jimmy, when was the last time you saw Dave?

      –The last time I saw Dave . . .       –Yeah, Dave Boyle.
      –Dave Boyle . . .
      –Yeah Jimmy, Dave Boyle.
      –That was twenty-five years ago, going up this street, in the back of that car.-Sean Devine (Kevin Bacon) /Jimmy Markum (Sean Penn) Mystic River

29. –Oh dear
      –Why oh dear?
      –You ARE in love.
      –Is that bad?
      –For a monk, it does present certain problems.-William of Baskerville (Sean Connery)/Adso of Melk (Christian Slater) The Name of the Rose

30. You gentlemen aren’t REALLY trying to kill my son, are you? –Clara Thornhill (Jessie Royce Landis) North By Northwest

31. Is this your first time being robbed? You’re doing great. –Jack Foley (George Clooney) Out of Sight

32. –I can’t get over it. What kinda creep wouldn’t catch a baby? If it was real it coulda been crippled for life.
      –He wasn’t paid to bodyguard the baby.–Irene Walker (Kathleen Turner)/Charley Partanna (Jack Nicholson) Prizzi’s Honor

33. We find the defendants incredibly guilty. – Jury foreman (Bill Macy) The Producers

34. –I love you, Pumpkin.
      –I love you, Honey Bunny. All right, everybody be cool, this is a robbery! –Honey Bunny (Amanda Plummer)/Pumpkin (Tim Roth) Pulp Fiction

35. –He killed a dog last night because the dog was scratching around in the garden. You know why? Because he had something buried in that garden that the dog scented.
      –Like an old hambone?
      –I don’t know what pet names Thorwald had for his wife.– Jeff (James Stewart)/Lt. Doyle (Wendell Corey)Rear Window

36.–You’re an animal!
      –No, worse! Human. Human! –Sara (Rebecca De Mornay)/Manny (Jon Voight) Runaway Train

37. Do I understand this correctly? I’m being marked down? I’ve been kidnapped by K-Mart! – Barbara (Bette Midler) Ruthless People

38. I won’t let you be happy, why should I? –Don (Ben Kingsley) Sexy Beast

39. We begin by coveting what we see every day. –Hannibal Lector (Anthony Hopkins) The Silence of the Lambs

40. I love hitmen. No matter what you do to them, you don’t feel bad. –Marv (Mickey Rourke) Sin City

41. –Remember my nickname in the joint?
      –The Brain?
      –The Brain. That’s what the guys used to call me right?
      –But, Ray, that was sarcastic! –Ray (Woody Allen)/Benny (Jon Lovitz) Small Time Criminals

42. We must never forget that we are human, and as humans we dream, and when we dream we dream of money. –George Land (Ricky Jay) The Spanish Prisoner

43. Buckle up for safety! –Jerry Blake (Terry O’Quinn) The Stepfather

44. What was I supposed to do—call him for cheating better than me? –Doyle Lonigan (Robert Shaw) The Sting

45. Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you, Mr. Haines. It might disturb Mother.–Bruno Anthony (Robert Walker) Strangers on a Train

46. Don’t Worry. I know how to handle a gub. – Virgil Starkwell (Woody Allen) Take The Money and Run

47. “What’s this? I don’t see many O-Levels there, Earl old chap . . .” –Ronnie (Robert Buchanan) That Sinking Feeling

48. I also remember a movie your husband made. He shot 12 guys with a 6-shot revolver. I ain’t gonna argue with that kind of marksmanship.–Harry Ames (Paul Newman) Twilight

49. I don’t think Mozart’s going to help at all. –Midge (Barbara Bel Geddes) Vertigo

50. –Do you think you were framed, like Dreyfus?
      –Dreyfus was guilty! –Journalist (Jacques Perrin)/General (Pierre Dux) Z

NOTES TO MYSELF

by Melodie Johnson Howe

My husband does must of the grocery shopping. He hunts. I cook. This weekend he was playing tennis and asked if I could do it this time. Now I’ve been on a writing binge and haven’t been out of the house for a while so I’m experiencing MWD. Mad Writer’s Disease

When I have MWD I lose contact with reality or what I call “that other world”. The best thing for someone experiencing MWD is to be eased back into to “that other world” slowly, like bringing up a deep sea diver to the surface. You don’t want to get the bends. But there was no time for a slow reentry. So I slapped on my sunglasses, forgot to comb my hair, grabbed my purse, the grocery list, and got into my car.

My car is about a year old and as car age goes that is still new, at least to me. My new car is nothing like my old one. And I mean nothing. It doesn’t have a gearshift; it doesn’t have a hand break; and it doesn’t need a key to turn on the ignition. However I do need to have a key somewhere on body or in my purse make it run. I’m thinking of getting a key implant.

What I do have is a start/stop button. When I push that (you must have your foot on the brake, not on the gas otherwise it won’t start. And if it does you will go through the wall and into the kitchen) Once I have hit start (think of this as rebooting) up pops a giant silvery knob. This is my gearshift. When this knob pops up, the air conditioning/weather vents open. I usually like this because it’s as if my car is lifting its heavy eyelids and waking up. But when I have MWD all these new things are annoying and go against everything I’ve learned abut driving.

I throw my car into reverse. Sorry, I turn it into reverse and begin to back out of the garage. Suddenly the car is having a hissy fit. It’s screaming at me with all its dongings and beepings. l look at the computer screen which usually shows me what I’m about to back into. But the garage is dark and I can’t see it very well. Dark? Why is the garage dark? I look in my rear view mirror which thankfully does nothing but reflect images. There is big white thing behind me. What the hell is that? I crane my head around my very large protective headrest and peer out my narrow rear window. That big white thing is the garage door and it’s closed. Okay. I obviously missed a step. MWD can do that to you.

Our local market is called Lazy Acres. The name fits the sun-and-surf-hey-dude Santa Barbara lifestyle. But the parking lot is like the 101 Freeway at five o’clock in the evening, only with the elderly and the young wandering around with their earth bags and carts. I have come to the conclusion that neither of these age groups have a conscious brain. And they are certainly oblivious to an oncoming car driven by ruthless women experiencing MWD who is looking for a parking space. Forcing a bearded young man eating an energy bar to jump out of the way, I find one between a Prius and an Escalade. Good bless America.

In the market I whop out my grocery list and push a cart the size of a Smart Car down an aisle. I check the first thing on my list: Smart Crazy. What’s that? Looks like my handwriting. Maybe a new kind of Gatorade that Bones wants. Something he can drink while playing tennis that’ll make him deviously clever. I wonder if it would be good for writers.

“Excuse me.”

I peer over my shoulder at woman, her face screwed into a knot, leaning on her cart. “You’re blocking the aisle.”

“Do you know what Smart Crazy is?”

Her face unscrews a bit and she thinks. “Sounds like a TV show.”

“TV show? Oh, my God, now I know what it is. It’s a title I wrote down. I mean, I made it up first and then wrote it down.”

“I would like to get by, please.”

I push on, she’s nipping at my heels with her cart. I speed up thinking does Smart Crazy sound like a TV show? Veering down another aisle, I checked the next thing on my list.:

“I bet you feel like you’re in one of your movies.” He said, holding a gun on me.
“No. I don’t. Believe me.”
“I always feel like I’m in a movie.”

Dialogue I scribbled down for my novel. I scan the entire list. Leaving Sunset. What does that mean? Another title? It does conjure up images of driving on Sunset Boulevard with the sun in my eyes. But I doubt it would conjure up those images for readers who haven’t driven on Sunset. The entire piece of paper is filled with my jottings of dialogue, descriptions and title ideas. I’ve brought the wrong list.

“Excuse me.”

A man stares at me. I stare back. He doesn’t say anything. He’s a man. And I’m in the wrong world. Then it dawns on me he wants by. I awkwardly edge my cart sideways and he squeezes past, shaking his head at me. I want to clout him. I bet he has the proper list made out properly by his proper wife. I begin searching my pockets and purse for the grocery list, but it’s a futile effort. I turn the only one I have over. Written in big letters is EASY OFF. And it’s in Bones’ writing. Great. I can buy that! Or is that a title he wrote down for me? Easy Off. Not bad. I push the cart aimlessly. Easy Off. I think it has possibilities.