Takashi Nagai “attempts a theology born of cruel suffering and painful conversion of heart with his message of love he takes an honored place beside great prophets.”
In the space of a couple of hundred square miles and nine cities, the state of California’s highest and lowest per capita incomes can be found. The winter “snowbirds” clear out in the summer heat for their second (or third) homes. The Palm Springs area boasts more private jets than commercial airlines.
The entire Club is a freewill offering, not promoted on social media and with zero online presence. Neither Shuffy nor Morgan have cellphones. Local people simply stop by and for the rest, email suffices.
We’re almost no longer “allowed” to have fun, or to read anything that hasn’t been vetted for “sensitivity triggers,” or to enjoy our day without taking sides, inwardly arguing, wringing our hands over climate change, bemoaning the misinformation-censorship complex, calling out those who won’t mask — or those who are still masking, as the case may be — or waiting for a civil war to break out.
The people of Omelas have no king, no sword, no stock exchange. They don’t resort to violence. They are joyous. But are they happy? The narrator isn’t taking sides, only observing. “Happiness is based on a just discrimination of what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive.”
Consider, for example, the closing lines of “Desert Fury” (1947), a deliriously over-the-top love pentangle directed by Lewis Allen and shot primarily in Arizona: one of the few noirs filmed in (lurid) color.