the never-ending hitchhiker's guide, and a sleeping child

_Two movies in one night - ridiculous? Probably. But here's what they were: "The Never-Ending Story" and "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." The former was a childhood staple of mine that I'd nearly forgotten, rediscovered at the library; the latter is a film based on a book that I'd semi-recently absorbed with a mixture of amused incredulity and profound disappointment.
_"The Never-Ending Story" has its flaws, pervasive and hard to ignore. Outdated special effects, for example, along with a messy hodge podge of convincing and crummy acting, reasonable and ridiculous dialogue, good morals and morals with no more foundation than a zephyr. All things taken together, it's not that great a movie - but there's still something captivating about it; something that rings true and makes my heart nod and chuckle contentedly. Something essentially and delightfully childish. Maybe this feeling stems from nothing more than an incoherent fondness for the fraying threads that wind back through my life and tie this silly film to my own childhood. Maybe I'm just off my onion. But I think that, in the midst of a certain amount of confused babbling, "The Never-Ending Story" has something important and true to say about the vital necessity of imagination, and about the unique power of story.
_I hate trying to write positive media reviews (ergo, my nearly consistent failure to ever do so). In the act of trying to describe and explain what's good about a thing, and why, I always end up feeling like a painted clown pantomiming Shakespeare - exaggerating it and ruining it and killing it. So I'll just leave you with that to chew on for now, and maybe you could watch the movie sometime and see what you think.
_So after I finished watching the above-mentioned film with Eli and Sam, I went downstairs and found the rest of my family watching "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." I watched the last half with them, then went back to the beginning and watched the first half - a fitting approach, I thought, to a tale of such a consummately pointless and wandering nature. For book and movie alike - though the writing is witty and imaginative; and though I cannot deny the existence of periodic goldmines of hilarity therein; and though the narrative is amusing in its absolute failure to make any sense - all this withstanding, in the end the whole thing boils down to little more than a bitterly cynical, despairingly laxadaisical commentary on the ultimate meaninglessness of life. Douglas Adams glories in nothingness. "Eat, drink, and be merry - for tomorrow we die," as they say. So long, and thanks for all the fish.
_Unfortunately, I tend to enjoy writing negative reviews of popular media; but I'm going to cut this one short, because that's not really my point.
_What I really wanted to say, is something like this. Last night I watched two movies, both of them based on the whacked-out imaginations of two very different, yet similarly wide-eyed, lunatics. (I use the term only with the greatest respect and affection.) But neither tale can afford the luxury of being just an empty narrative. One is an angry fist shaken desperately at God and much of what He has called good. The other, though stumbling often over its own feet, leads us gently outside and points out the flickering stars, whispering how beautiful they are, and making us wonder Who put them there. Oh, beware of ever saying something is "just a story." You're living one right now. Stories matter.
_I wandered upstairs after the movies were over, and found the light on in my room. We have bunk beds, and Sam was curled up asleep on the lower one, which is Cami's. On my dresser was an unwrapped chocolate coin with two bites taken out of it - underneath was a yellow sticky note, and in a child's mom-aided scrawl, written "For Tierney. Love, Sam." I guess my heart melted a little around the edges, and I might have either laughed or cried if anything had happened just then; but nothing did. I slid him to the edge of the bed and picked him up, warm and a little sticky where he'd been snuggled against himself. He stirred and opened his eyes just a bit as I carried him across the dark hallway, but he didn't make a sound, and he rolled right over and was still when I laid him in his own bed.
_And I thought, this is why we tell stories. I'm not exactly sure what it is, but this is it. Something in that infinite trust, that warmth and vulnerability, that absolutely childish wonder at this marvelous world we're a part of. The vitality and the joy of making up stories is something that, given the opportunity, most children embrace easily; and it's something that, tragically, most of them seem to forget as they morph into adults. Grow up, to be sure - but never so much that you lose your child's heart. God made us to need stories. That's remarkable.

skin deep

A city on a hilltop stood,
with gleaming walls all round;
and all within were fair and good-
but none remembered there, who should,
that sickness lurked within the wood
that did their walls surround.

Ah, foolish women, foolish men
that gave away their lives!
The gates thrown wide, they let it in.
It came, it saw, it conquered then;
no plague like this had ever been.
They would not long survive.

O'er ruined streets, 'neath crumbling gates,
a stranger came alone.
The cure he knew, and would not wait
a house of healing to create,
to save them from this deadly fate-
return them to their own.

To those he healed he gave to stay
and labor in his stead.
He taught until they knew the way,
then took himself and went away,
but promised to return one day-
when life was made widespread.

Full zealously they started out,
to call the dying in.
With heartfelt pleas, with hopeful shouts,
they all the city went throughout
and left no room for any doubt
that life was offered them.

Many sick came to their door,
and none was turned away.
Some would not drink, and still abhorred
the life that could have been restored-
ah, ignorance! that brays for war
when peace is on its way.

Yet others came, gave up the fight,
and drank the healing draught.
Not one was lost, all faults despite-
their strength restored, regained their sight;
they longed to spread this great delight-
and learned the doctor’s craft.

But slowly, something strange occurred:
the doctors lost their zeal;
and, safe amongst themselves conferred,
to fill the air with empty words.
The anguished cries outside, unheard-
men died alone, unhealed.

The healers learned to be afraid-
though naught deserved their fear.
Their dread of failure: shadow-made;
of re-infection: fancy-played.
From windows turned their eyes away-
they held their lives so dear.

The patients’ beds stood often bare,
so few were brought inside.
But one gray eve, a young man dared
approach the steep, unwelcome stair;
collapsed outside and begged for care-
“Please, help me live!” he cried.

The doctors stopped and stared, appalled-
this mound of filth, alive?
His bleeding flesh with maggots crawled;
a sight like this none could recall-
so long they’d hid behind their walls-
could their skills, unused, revive?

Said one, “I can’t recall the name
that used to set them free,”
while some knew how, but still refrained-
afraid, repulsed, embarrassed, drained-
but most just looked away in shame,
pretending not to see.

And so it was, ‘neath walls of white
that housed life’s very breath-
the ones who knew the way of light
refused to venture out one night,
and, silent, watched man’s futile fight
engulfed instead by death.

Oh, shame! to those who, washed in blood,
can never die again;
yet fear this world’s transparent flood-
a shackled prince the source thereof-
and blush to speak the name of Love:
of death the only end.