Zoo-ology!

We won't die secret deaths anymore!

The Light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it...

in the Heat of the Night

My dearest, sweetest Athenais is in 'heat', or more correctly, estrus. I just grieve for her discomfort. She first becomes rather affectionate, and then begins pacing, and bleating. It is not a 'meow', nor is it it a hiss or snarl, it is, like a sheep, a bleat. If you or I were to say 'hmm' and add a slight clearing of the throat to it, that would be close, but not the sound exactly. There is no sound that is like it, exactly. I believe even amongst cats, no one cries in estrus quite like our dear Athenais Sophie!

I cannot imagine what her tiny body is going through - it wants to make babies, of course. Everything in Athenais' tiny wee body is crying out to perform its natural duty of reproduction. She wants to mate, not for the enjoyment of love making, but because her core being, down to her very molecules, is crying out to reproduce offspring, to perpetuate here gene pool, to give the world more kittens!

I will say that Miss Athenais would make a magnificent mother. Should she have a litter, she would do everything to make certain each little blind ball of scarcely any fur was fed her warm rich milk from her swollen teats, and each then licked and washed to a fare-the-well before curling about her wee charges and sleeping as they slept with her. If one should stir or cry, she would nuzzle the bambino, two or three good swipes of her corse tongue, and push it towards a milk engorged nipple; or let it fall back asleep with it's siblings.

This is the mother my dearest Athenais would make, and somehow, despite the agreement I've signed and the knowledge of countless unwanted kittens who shall never have homes, when I hear my dearest litter girl bleat for her children to be I want nothing more than to rush out and find her a sire.

I will not of course. I will keep my agreements, and as soon as finances permit, I will have my darling Athenais spade. Some fewer kittens will come into an unwelcoming world - and that is a good thing.

But someday, in our life after together, we will do things naturally, and my sweet natured, energetic and life bursting-out-of-her darling Athenais will have the chance to give birth and nurture as she was intended by God's grace to do...

Until then, Athenais and I will bear what we must, together, until this estrus has passed!

of Angels and Men in the Snow

There was magic everywhere. I simply do not have any other description for the experience. Mark and I, with some determination, because we are still not used to the cold, and the slippery conditions made the possibility of a fall and a secondary back injury all the more likely; nevertheless, we went only forward. Leaving the car parked on Fifth Avenue we ventured across the snow-plowed streets and into the Park. The Park. Central Park. It, I suppose, carries many hundreds of thousands of stories in it's memories; but today it was building new ones for me and for Mark.

There was some disagreement, Mark wanting to stick to what he saw was a cleared path, but which limited severely what we'd be able to see, to take in, and I do mean 'take in', because it quickly became about bringing the beauty of the snow covered lawns and buildings into our spiritual beings.

Mark and I climbed a short walk from the car drive near 72ndStreet and came across a great snow covered lawn. Off to one side stood a lovely old red brick building, it's slate roof steeply pitched and bereft of snow at all but the edges, its painted white wooden door and window frames gleaming, providing in the quintessential New England picture. We trudged forward across the new snow, leaving our unfortunate foot marks to spoil the smooth even coat of powdery white crystal ice. And then, for me, it happened. Joy! Just incredible joy! I laughed out loud for the first time, I think, in years, with utter and complete elation; and throwing my arms in the air I ran to Mark and swung my arms about him and gave him a big smacker, right on the mouth! "Darling, this is wonderful!" And waving my arms about, rather like the silly robot on 'Lost in Space' I imagine, I ran forward, snapping pictures, and truly happy, left all cares behind me, at least for a little time..



Ahead of us was the dome of a lovely building. Rising from lower ground than where we stood, it was the dome of the building which we saw best, rising above a long wooden arbor, covered with the twisted, dark trunks of winter's sleeping wisteria. How lovely, the deep dark mysterious branches against the purity of the fallen dusty snow.

Mark called me from the far right end of the arbor, where he had found for us a descent upon ice and snow covered stairs. We both, stepping sideways, and holdingthe old iron and wood rail, managed our way down. No falls! At the bottom we found that our domed building was in fact the back of the Concert Shell, and we paused to take in it's Beaux Arts Neo-classical beauty - then off I ran after Mark, who was cold, and wanting to keep moving, had trotted onwards towards the Bethesda Terrace. Mark had already reached the bottom of the staircase there, and was wandering through the passage, looking upwards all the while, at the newly restored Minton Tile ceiling, when at last I reached him again.

The bright and garish colored tiles are set against the somber brown stone of the terrace's walls and arches. But, as we walkedthrough the dark covered passage, one lost interest in the tiles as the excitement rose, from my heart to my head, pounding, it rose; for as you came to the second set of arches you sucked in your breath as the great water-works came into view, with the mighty angel, Bethesda, crowning the top of the lofty fountain. One could only pause, if one had any sense of beauty, and stare. She, Bethesda, let you know she was waiting there - for you.

The huge bronze and blue stone fountain stands some twenty odd feet or better above you, and Bethesda, herself, stands, wings spread wide as if just that very second she'd alighted, upon the top, holding her staff of lilies; and with a most gentle gesture of her other open hand she beckons us forward. So, forward we came. Where we had stood shoulder to shoulder and arm in arm beneath the brownstone arch, we let slip slowly our grasp, like rolled sleeves loosed and falling, down to our hands and then, gently, fingers parted as we both were drawn without hesitation to our Angel.

She is our angel, you know; she may have once been here to beckon the survivors of the Civil War of this Country, calling those battle weary and broken souls to her healing waters. She surely beckoned those lonely men toward her then as gently and surely as she now, today, calls to me and to my Mark. She is ours now; she is now, for this time, the Angel of AIDS, the Angel of Hope. Hope pushing through the despair, as Tony Kushner wrote: "This disease will be the end of many of us, but not nearly all, and the dead will be commemorated and will struggle on with the living." And, I knew at that moment we were far from alone on the icy cold snow covered plaza, me with my dearest Mark. No, with us all about us were the hundreds of thousands of the lost, all gathered again, hand in hand with us, looking to Bethesda for comfort and for news of God... and it was a moment of utter peace, joy, despair, tears, abandonment and longing. Every emotion I've ever felt in my dark lonely trip with my companion spectre, AIDS, was suddenly filling me, and it was then, without doubt, that Bethesda turned to me and smiling, said, LIVE! I couldn't hear her, and I did not see her lips move, but I was sure of understanding: I felt deeply in my soul the Word. I knew, it was a call to life, a CALL to LIVE. To go on, and to BE GLAD, really glad, for each and every day I, we, still have to swallow cold snowy air in this great hapless city, hanging to the edge of a continent spinning around in space on this little planet, Earth.

And, so, I shook and loosed my grasp of my spectre, and I loosed the grasp of all my brothers who had gone before, and that was hard to do and it hurt, to lose them again; and as the great plaza cleared of the ghosts of the past I stood again presently and present with, Mark, and a few others tha were there hapenstance with us, bundled in brightly colored wraps. And Mark, who was feeling deeply the cold was suddenly hurrying away. My heart was torn, I wanted to stay, to call back my friends, my brothers lost to AIDS who were going, and weeping, tell my story of pain; but Bethesda, well, she laughed. I heard a clear strong bell, pealing out, like laughter. I know I did. Looking up Bethesda smiled, it seemed, to me, and in my heart I heard her: "Love! Love, now! Love him, Love Mark. Don't linger, Donnie, amongst the shadows here...."

I took a huge deep breath of crisp frozen air and scaning the hillside with my damp eyes, saw him, saw my Mark, climbing the path to the hill top. He was cold and alone and I wanted to be with him, to hold him and warm him. After him I chased, my camera still snapping photos along the way; but at last I reached him, sitting in the running car, old George we call it, trying to warm his hands. I took his hands, his beautiful hands, which have touched me for so many years, and I gently rubbed them to make the circulation warm him. And I remembered his hands, his hands of years, his hands which touch my body in intimate places when we make love. Touch me to scratch the unreachable itches!. Touch me, as his hands and arms embrace me when I'm filled with sorrow and cry. And, in a moment I saw how important and beautiful Mark's hands are, the hands he's given to me, to hold, to carry his ring, to grasp when we marry; and all that I have ever dreamed of having I suddenly knew I possessed now already. Completely! My great dear handsome Lover, Husband, Friend and the dearest Man ever there was, frail and full of strength, the Man who has given himself to me.

I promised Bethesda, sitting in that car, rubbing his cold fingers, that I will not forget the gift of our snowy day; that I will hold it in my heart always, and more, I will make it an act each day to care for and bless these his hands, this union, this bond, this marriage of Man and Man, of Mark and Me.

"You are fabulous creatures. and I bless you: MORE LIFE!

The great work does indeed begin, now, again, with each one of us. With mark and with Me. Blessings, Bethesda!

Angels in America, a Meditation

by Tony Kushner

THIS DISEASE
WILL BE THE
END OF
MANY OF US,
BUT NOT
NEARLY ALL,

And the dead will be
commemorated and will struggle
on with the living,

AND
WE
ARE
NOT
GOING
AWAY,

We won't die secret deaths

anymore.

The world only
spins forward,

WE WILL BE CITIZENS.
THE TIME HAS COME.

Bye now,

You are fabulous creatures,
and I bless you:

MORE LIFE.

THE
GREAT
WORK
BEGINS!

Artworks:
aaaaaa
Ghosts of Sutro Park, Enhanced Digital Photograph, 2003, D. Larson
aaaaaaaa
Vous has AIDS, Oil on Canvas, 36" x 48", 2001, D. Larson

Bethesda, Angel of the Waters

This is the lovliest area I've seen in New York to date, and will become, is already, where my mind and heart lie and rest in this tumultuous city. It of course holds a special place in my heart as it is the setting for several scenes in Tony Kushner's play; Angles in America. This play has been riveted into my heart and psyche; it is the most beautifully told story of the AIDS epedemic I have ever read or scene enacted. It has several scenes which always make me weep, for those lost to us and for myself, if I'm honest, as so much of the play reflects in every way my life as a gay man who acquires AIDS,

The fountain was designed and sculpted by Emma Stebbins in 1868 and is made of solid bronze set upon a basin and columns of blue stone. It is an ethereal thing to me, despite it's visual (and real) weight, it seems almost to me as though at any moment it might disappear - or at leat Bethesda will suddenly lift herself up and shoot lke a star into the heavens as fast as an arrow on the wing.

Today is the first time I have actually gotten to be with Bethesda, and for about an hour I viewed her from all sides. The weather had turned cold and icy; the rain which swept through earlier seemed to be now falling in the tiniest bits, and was almost frozen, so that when it touched your face it felt as though you had been struck for a moment by a tiny bit of sharpest diamond ice cold and burning hot all at the same instance. That is the spell of her.

Should you visit New York City you must spend some time with Bethesda, she has become more than a statue in a park; she has become a legend. A legend, which may still be seen, and if you have the heart, felt. Deeply felt.



The Official Site for Central Park says this about Bethesda:

"In their 1858 Greensward plan, Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux called the architectural heart of the Park "The Water Terrace," for its placement beside the Lake and the grand fountain in the center. Once the Angel of the Waters fountain was unveiled in 1873, however, the area became forever known as Bethesda Terrace. At the dedication, the artist's brochure quoted the Biblical verse from the Gospel of St. John 5:2-4: "Now there is at Jerusalem by the sheep market a pool, which is called… Bethesda…whoever then first after the troubling of the waters stepped in was made whole of whatsoever disease he had."

Do come and visit her. Bring whatever is magical and spiritual with you for she will find a way then, to speak to your heart!

FROM THE PLAY, the CLOSING VERSES:

"This disease will be the end of many of us, but not nearly all,

And the dead will be commemorated and will struggle on with the living

And WE are NOT going away,

We won't die secret deaths anymore,

The world only spins forward.

WE WILL BE CITIZENS>

THE TIME HAS COME.

Bye Now, You are FABULOUS CREATUREs, and I BLESS YOU;

MORE LIFE.

THE GREAT WORK BEGINS!>

of Presidents and Preachers

I am leaning towards John Edwards as my choice for Presidential candidate for the Democratic Party. Of the major contenders at this point he is the strongest voice against remaining in Iraq, and is opposed to allowing a further escalation of troops. Will he stick to these principals? Only time will tell...

However, I am still unaware of his position regarding same sex marriage. Both Hilary and Osama are opposed - so I am opposed to them; at least until one of them becomes the only choice between a single serving of evil versus a triple decker deluxe order...

An evangelical pastor, the Rev. R. Albert Mohler Jr., has upset both evangelicals and those of us who support GLBT equality in the civic arena. How? He has thrown on the table for the religious right that there may well be genetics involved in whether a person is homosexually orientated - that's a big 'no, no' for those who want to tell us that homosexuality is a choice, and that with enough prayer anyone can be cured. In this respect, Mohler's words are good news to those of us who believe a person's sexuality is indeed biologically based, and not a matter of choice.

However, Mohler, goes on to say that it would be well within a Christian parent's rights, upon discovery that there unborn child has a gay gene, to manipulate the fetus in order to eradicate in the unborn child that which is considered to be morally tainted.

Wow! this is just horrific on so many levels - are we to presume that anyone can isolate the cause of a person's sexuality so precisely that it can be eradicated or changed in vitro? I don't think so. So, the Christian right begins thoughts of 'playing God' with unborn children! If there was ever any doubt that the movement of the so called 'faith based communities' to change homosexuals was NOT based only in a blind rage to continue presenting the world it's own myopic view... well, your doubts should be put to rest. They are so anxious to prevent us being around that they'll experiment with fetuses! Good going, Dr. Mohler, another shining example of God's love expressed through His flock! NOT!

God gave me my sexuality as a gift - as surely as He gave my parents theirs. It is my individual right to decide how God wishes me to use that gift... and it is my burden to face Him at the end of my life with the fruits (no pun is intended!) of my labor, good or bad.

Methinks that it is time for a great number of 'holy' people to go back to their scripture basics, something about removing a log from their own eye before the splinter in mine... yes?

YOU! F#@@*T!

"...tolerance is just one degree lighter than intolerance."

The above quote of Rupert Everett's does rather make the point. The whole idea of being 'tolerated' is hardly akin to being anything like loved and wanted, or held in esteem and with pride. The idea that as gay and lesbians we should settle for 'tolerance' when it comes to citizenship is ludicrous. It clearly establishes a second class status, which when wants a home or a job or to marry just won't 'do'. Whether one likes homosexuality or not is not the point; when you are designated 'second class' it's OK for those designated as 'first class' people, those who think they are "first class", like Ann Coulter, to call whomever they please a 'f-----t'. Not acceptable in my book. The only one who gets to call me by that word is me, as a way to 'own' this derogatory and negative concept. I used to think it was OK to use it amongst a group of gay men, jokingly, but I think considering the current climate of inclusion (none) that it isn't; and that as a group, we homosexual gentlemen need to make it clear that you - and you, and you, and you - cannot call us names, and especially not this particularly offensive word.

Words can never hurt me is such a childish untruth - though the reply to verbal taunts is of course to pretend - PRETEND - they have no effect; but frankly, I remember being called nasty names eluding to my sexuality quite clearly: each instance from grade-school on is etched like laser monograming in my memory. Words do hurt. They do injure. They cause harm. My word! If they didn't, pundits like Coulter would be out of a job!

I CAN take a ribbing. I can laugh at gay jokes and be amused by depictions of gay men in all our foibles and stereotypes. We need to be able to laugh at ourselves, to take a joke with good humor and to not take offense where none is given. But, whoa, when offensive is not only given, but delivered with a good couple of sharp, hard twists of the knife, well, then we had all better stand up, be counted and shout loudly: "NO WAY"!

Coulter calling John Edward's a f-----t, presumably because of his statement saying that "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" is antiquated and harmful,( not only to gays and lesbians wishing to serve, but to our country in need of those who WANT to serve ), is one of those attacks which must get a "No Way!" from all of us: Gay and Straight, Democrat and Republican. Why? Because it damages ALL of US.

This is an attack which is multi-barbed deliberately to injure as many people as possible simply to please a core of frustrated, angry bigots who must hate to enjoy living. Coulter can pander to these people as much as she wants, and I can assure you she will continue to do so. (I don't think she has the capacity to either learn about or understand anyone with whom she disagrees; not anymore, and that is a sad thing for her. Really.)

But, while I can write in this blog that I disagree with Coulter, that I don't think much of her misuse of whatever education she has achieved and even that I actually feel a strong dislike for the woman, despite the fact I know her only from her political jargon; well, it is very, very different than calling her, say: a vile, man-eating little C*#T. (I typed it out, and realized I couldn't leave it in print - I guess Ms. Coulter will relish what she'll mistake in me as the ineffectual musings of a F#GG*T). I can't call her THAT and remain a fully vested human being.

If I'd left it there to read who would have been injured? Coulter? Hardly! ( And I can tell you she hates that word in the way every woman hates it, and maybe more so because... because she will see an element of ownership in that description. ) If it were even so simple as my calling her that name where only she could hear it, doing so would injure gravely. I honestly would have a difficult time not saying it to her, but if I did, if I did such a low, miserly, nasty thing I would regret having done so, even to the She-Devil. But more than that, the word injures all women, demoralizes and strips women of their dignity and equality - and that's why using it against Ms. Coulter, however tempting, isn't worth it. Because, even she, Ms. Coulter, is created in the image of our Creator, and so deserves, despite all her profoundly immoral words and actions, to be seen as a human being and of value.

Your opponent has value. To God. To a husband or a wife. To a son or a father. Value. And that is why using words like 'F#@@*T'or N#@@%R or K#@E or C*#T is hateful, is harmful and is without any doubt, completely unacceptable in the language of our political speak. They are not 'jokes' or 'humorous', they are vile and dehumanizing.

If we fail to see what is human, even in our enemy, than we fail to be human. And, well, I don't need to expound on what happens when a group of us stops being human, but I'll throw out a few words:

"Guantánamo" "Serbia" "Auschwitz" "Dachau" "Rwanda" "Chechnya" "Bosnia" "Darfur"and it goes on and on: will Ms Coulter and her ilk be responsible for the list coming to include "America"?

Yes.

And we will also be responsible. Responsible for allowing her, and those like her, to go unchallenged. There are no words which cannot be given the power to injure mortally and destroy utterly. And Ms. Coulter is awfully proud of the ones she uses to do just that. Let's remind her we don't like it: "NO WAY!"

Padre Pio's Prayer

Stay with me, Jesus, for it is getting late and the day is coming to a close, and life passes, death, judgement, eternity approaches. It is necessary to renew my strength, so that I will not stop along the way and for that, I need You. It is getting late and death approaches. I fear the darkness, the temptations, the dryness, the cross, the sorrows. O how I need You, my Jesus, in this night of exile!

the Catchers of Birds and Mice and Hearts

So, they are here, with me, these dainty darling furry creatures, chasing colored feathers on a stick and green foam balls across the hardwood floors; with golden eyes they watch me, my every move observed, waiting should I cast a toy or wave the feathers for them to chase and pounce and kill! At night, beside me, they lay curled in balls of blue; dreaming of chasing flittering birds and catching small soft juicy mice, and they are happy and content, except when dinner is wanted! Then they ponder my every move, and study every motion of my hands, my feet, my eyes - and when I speak they lean in to see if it will be to them, to say to them, Babies! Darlings! Are you hungry now?! Do you want your mousey now? And, without a sound, they know and follow me to the cabinet where lays the storied cans of mouse, all yummy, wet and good, and when they see it, piled upon a plate and lowered to the floor where they shall eat, they are simply, deeply happy. But better yet for me they come afterwards to wash and curl and nap with me, my darling catchers of birds and mice, of foam and feathers, of hearts and minds and souls and dreams!

Sage & Roses

The velvet padded leaves of sage last longest of all the herbs with a little care in the ice box; and hung upside down with roses in the air, dry beautifully. My dear friend, Julia, has blessed my home with sage, wrapped and dried, and then lighted, wafted about the wisps of scented smoke to perfume and purify our house in Amsterdam. Not having a priest handy for a blessing, it was a beautiful ritual which Julia borrowed from Native Americans, as a way to clear the space of negative spirits and influences. Since then, I often keep dried sage nearby, to remind me of Julia and her gentleness, along with roses, to remind me of her sweetness and laughter and humor. All of which I believe no doubt has had as much influence on dispelling evil from my home, and anywhere she graces with her presence, as the ritual of the sage.

MORTE

When do we begin to die? A scientist will perhaps say it is the moment we are conceived that life begins inevitably to ebb from us. A priest may say it is when we ignore God. A doctor when the brain no longer functions. But I think it is more personal than any of these; death begins when we no longer hold a willingness to survive. And, that, despite rumors to the contrary, is not a place as easily reached as many believe.

It is a mysterious prosepct, this holding on and not letting go. Fingers must be pried from the sill. However much one may wish to die, what one is more likely to be saying is that one desperately wishes that life's present circumstances will change. It is only when we throttle all hope of the present becoming the past that we finally do concede, some place deep in our souls, that it would be better to be gone from the suffering we endure.

Sometimes, we reach this dark abode in transit, and it is then that a soul must not tarry. Swiftly, choose to move! Nearly anything will do. Even taking a shower may save one from the utter hopelessness of it all. Just stand, disrobe and step into the streaming water and wash away the moments death.

Threshold of Revelation

Sitting in the blue light of the rainy morning with windows open I am quick again; in the cold wetted dawn is revival.
Crisp somehow.
Unmarked somehow.
It lets one breathe again a little while, before cool wettish fingers will oblige the window close, before the light broadens too greatly, before the blue is gone and the morning is just grey and wet;
For a few moments all is peace and still and good and you can smell the dew and the damp blooming.

The Great Work Begins

I wonder down here on the ground so far from the stars and so far from where the Universe is apparently expanding this very moment effortlessly, what I was born for, for what do I live and of what shall I become when only my thought remains? Will I cherish and hold onto all this suffering? I wonder when I lie in bed and cannot scratch my back what it will be like when I can do nothing but think, and watch as my body decays? Will my mind be fluid and effortless and expansive as the Universe? Will I be free and traveling without fear or care, in hand with a Creator and a God I have sought for so long? Or will I be what I fear most? A small, infinitesimally small mind, grown stale and rank feeding on it's own fear and self-loathing until nothing is left of love? Is that not then, Hell, to have lived and learned nothing of what it means to be great and broad and full of possibility? If this is to be my fate, that I should bind myself to such a Hell and to such an end, instead of pressing always to the new beginning, then let it be said again as it was said before: better had I never been born! If I have nought the courage to wrestle my Angel than better far be it had I never been born. So, God, where are you? Creator, where? Will you reach out and take my hand and run with me through the starry sky, keeping pace with my thousand thoughts a second as crashing and exploding the Universe and We keep rushing ever forwards? Or will I leave you, let go your grasp and leave myself spinning only slowly around and round on this one small world in one small galaxy in my one small mind, rotting in my one small body, writhing and scratching, and wondering why?

Surely, I was never given a mind to destroy itself with such doubt and self loathing, nor a heart to rake only with fear, nor a soul to damn for all eternity? Surely, I was given such gifts to brazenly stoke the Fire and catch the flying embers, every one, with the grasp of these small pale hands of bone and flesh, and with these eyes of temporary sight, and with this lesser mind of men; I am still to count and value and hold each firey end so that it ends not, but travels faster than I can see, laughing, to You.

______________________________________________________

If there is a bedrock principle of the First Amendment, it is that the government may not prohibit the expression of an idea simply because society finds the idea itself offensive or disagreeable.
—Justice William J. Brennan

Unjust laws exist; shall we be content to obey them, or shall we endeavor to amend them, and obey them until we have succeeded, or shall we transgress them at once? Men generally, under such a government as this, think that they ought to wait until they have persuaded the majority to alter them. They think that, if they should resist, the remedy would be worse than the evil. But it is the fault of the government itself that the remedy /is/ worse than the evil. /It/ makes it worse. Why is it not more apt to anticipate and provide for reform? Why does it not cherish its wise minority? Why does it cry and resist before it is hurt? Why does it not encourage its citizens to be on the alert to point out its faults, and /do/ better than it would have them? Why does it always crucify Christ, and excommunicate Copernicus and Luther, and pronounce Washington and Franklin rebels?

-- Henry David Thoreau, On the Duty of Civil Disobedience

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our Light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to manifest the Glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own Light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

-- Neslon Mandela

A schoolmaster will prefer to have a couple of dumbheads in his class than a single genius, and if you regard it objectively, he is of course right. His task is not to produce extravagant intellects but good Latinists, arithmeticians, and sober, decent folk... As their personalities develop, they create their art in spite of school. Once dead, and enveloped by the comfortable nimbus of remoteness, they are paraded by the schoolmasters before other generations of students as showpieces and noble examples. Thus the struggle between rule and spirit repeats itself year after year from school to school. The authorities go to infinite pains to nip the few profound or more valuable intellects in the bud. And time and again the ones who are detested by their teachers and frequently punished, the runaways and those expelled, are the ones who afterwards add to society's treasure. But some--and who knows how many?--waste away with quiet obstinacy and finally go under.

-- Herman Hesse, "Under the Wheel"