Wednesday, January 28, 2004 , 11:19 AM
I saw Lost in Translation last night. Good film. Nice to see that patient, quiet moviemaking that trusts its audience can still happen from time to time, and get recognised.
My buddy Patrick and I met the other night to talk about places we’d like to visit this year, and I said that for some reason the East just doesn’t hold an interest for me. This film played right into that. Sometimes I was uncomfortable with the movie’s ‘outsider’ view of Japan, but just when it was starting to look like that stereotypical American xenophobic ignorance, the film would zoom us into a detail of the characters’ lives and emotions, which felt so authentic that my knee-jerk distaste evaporated.
The Americans in the film are characters, where the Japanese are props — but this fits with the tone of the film, a week-long, jet-lagged wander through an alien metropolis. It’s as if you’re looking through two feet of Plexiglas at some unrecognisable, neon-lit thing, trying to figure out what the hell it is. If the Japanese seem shallow and strange, the Americans fare no better, being in such sharp focus that their flaws are readily identifiable, without being cliché.
In the middle of this bizarre foreign world, two people form a kind of friendship, a kind of romance, that exceeds expectations. Rather than portraying a Lolita-esque affair, the film concentrates on exploring that wonderful sensation of finding and cherishing another human soul in the middle of a busy, insane world. The two don’t say anything terribly profound or new, but that feeling of friendly, wordless intimacy is so genuinely displayed that I couldn’t help feeling it and appreciating it myself.
Walking home from the cinema through a crisp night, looking up at Venus (the only ‘star’ I could see) in a black sky over the jagged stone tops of the city, I appreciated that my situation as an ex-pat Canadian here in Scotland is pretty mild by comparison. But it’s long-term exposure.
I sound wrong. I don’t have any access to Scottish culture except as an occasional visitor, and I barely know any Scottish people.
What’s worse, when I go back to Canada, I don’t belong there, either. I cherish the tiny, imperceptible-to-others changes in my voice, the experiences I’ve had, and I know I have so much more to see that I wouldn’t be content there anymore.
Lost indeed.
Friday, January 23, 2004 , 9:18 AM
R.I.P. The 35mm “film” camera.
Kodachrome, they give us those nice bright colours
They give us the greens of summers
Makes you think all the world’s a sunny day, oh yeah
— Simon & Garfunkel
, 12:34 AM
Tonight after I finished writing the e-mail newsletter I write each month for work, I made myself a smoothie (apple juice, soy milk, and a banana), caught up with some friends online, then headed out to see my friendElspeth perform her poetry at an event called “Big Word”. It’s an ongoing event here in Edinburgh, and I’ve seen some great performers there, like Elspeth, who’s kind of like a young Julie Andrews who occasionally uses the F-word while channelling the spirit of the Beat writers. I’ve also seen some utter freaks, like the guy in the red-and-black wrestling mask who yelled at us about his father while pulling apart Barbie dolls and throwing the pieces at us.
Tonight was lovely. Elspeth spoke lyrical possibilities into the space (a basement deep underneath a pub that caters to students). Then she did her lovely kooky thing, with a self-possessed twinkle in her eye that said, “I know this is kooky, but stay with me. I know what I’m doing. It’ll be fun.” She had audience members draw slips of blue paper. One was the poem she’d perform, while the other was the accent she’d perform it in! It was fun, funny, and — cleverly– actually drew more attention to the words she spoke.
Two of the other performers (whose names I forget, because I do that) had broad Scots accents. What struck me as I thoroughly enjoyed their pointed but always funny poems (is this the Scottish voice?) was that, unlike the first Big Word I attended, at which I met Elspeth, I understood everything they said!
A young woman presented a few poems, too. She wore a loose purple scarf, a khaki tie-on top, and a low-slung pair of trousers with a big, beaded belt — a flattering costume that said “I’m young and I travel”. She spoke, and out came that American accent. Her voice see-sawed between two notes — a rich white girl rap? — and we wanted to hate her. There was some talking at the back. But she defied us, and took us to American deserts; to the streets of Washington, DC; to a crowded, happy bus in Guatemala; and to a starchy ride from King’s Cross Station in London. She made poignant remarks about the highs and lows of her culture, and how her Americanness informed her experience of other places. Really, it was the only way she could perform there that night, given the current political climate: to have the conversation out loud. I’m not sure that I liked her, not the way I love Elspeth’s funny lines and her lucid dream encapsulations of emotions. I did respect her, though.
The series is hosted by a tall drink of water named Jem Rolls, who’s usually got long, brown-and-grey hair and sometimes a beard. Tonight, he had on a loose brown suit and had neat, short hair. As always, though, his tongue rolled around in his mouth like a roulette marble, and thought-words zing-zinged out as fast as we could catch them (sometimes faster). His voice was no see-saw, but a cleverly-used instrument with a good range, played sometimes staccatto, sometimes with a pause like a cartoon character frozen in air just past a cliff.
It’s truly incredible what we can create for each other with words. That was a great night out.
I also, finally, returned a piece of Tupperware that Elspeth brought to my flat about two years ago. I put Tunnock’s tea cakes in it, and while buying those, I bought myself some sage. (Sage, I’ve learned, is that magical ingredient that makes soup go from good to exquisite.) I reached home a few minutes ago, having walked home through a mild night, under a black sky and lamp-lit wiry winter tree branches, and I put my bottle of sage in the cupboard… where it joined lots of other bottles of spices. Sweet Lord! I’m domesticated! I own spices — and use them!
Bedtime. Night night.
P.S. Anita Govan, Big Word’s sometime co-host, was the last person to present a poem last night. When the main acts were finished, she got up and shared Robert Burns’s “Scots Wa-hey”, in honour of the upcoming Burns Night (25 January), and also as a rousing cheer to the power of the word and our collective Scottishness: though those of us gathered in the room were from Scotland, England, Canada, America, and likely elsewhere, we were obviously united in our love of Scotland by the fact that we were in the place, and the way we laughed with appreciation at moments such as one man’s poem about “bein’ fae Dundee”.
Wednesday, January 21, 2004 , 2:50 PM
The State of the Union address, the Iowa primaries, Blair spinning like a centrifuge so none of the mcuk from his decisions sticks to him — politics is too heartbreaking a horse-race to watch. I’m weary of seeing all the best contenders get shot in their prime, and have their heads and hearts buried in a box.
Perhaps we’ll see a truly visionary statesman or woman arrive on the scene, instead of all these opinion managers and corporate go-fers. In the meantime, I’m tuning out for a while. It’s some time until the next election, and my “Unique Ability” is not best used being an activist.
I’m at the public library, sitting under the giant mustard-coloured dome with its gold oak-leaf features. The huge windows that punctuate the wooden shelves of books are showing a flat, grey sky. It’s winter, but not winter like I’ve known it. I’m getting reports from Canada of what it’s like — minus thirty or forty Celcius, twenty centimeters of snow — and I feel pretty secure in my decision to be here.
I have work to do, and nothing particularly insightful or clever to say here, so I’ll move along.
I just bought a cheapie electric shaver ’cause my other one broke. I tried switching to a conventional blade for a week, but that succeeded in completely messing up my face. I’d forgotten about that: it’s one or the other, and you’ve got to stick with it or pay the consequences. This is about the only thing that sucks about being a man. No menstruation, no menopause, no pay inequity (though I’ve almost always worked for women, so I haven’t seen much of this in practice, though I’m told it happens) — but I do have to shave my face every damned day.
A beard? Did you say “You could grow a beard?” No, contrary to what I’ve said above, my Great Aunt Jen could grow a beard, but I can’t.
Thursday, January 15, 2004 , 12:09 PM
Turns out the book by our client is very good. It’s written in plain, uncomplicated English (thank God — how rare in a work that discusses money), and I think I can actually manage what it suggests.
How weird: I found myself thinking as I read it, “I really should get into a long-term relationship. It just makes sense financially.”
~
Spalding Gray is in my prayers today. He’s a brilliant monologuist whose Swimming to Cambodia was really inspiring to me years ago. I later saw him live in his showGray’s Anatomy. He sat in a chair and just with the power of his words created for everyone there an experience he calls “skull cinema”. It was utterly astounding, powerful stuff: he laid bare his every worry, his every hope, and a string of descriptive prose that transported all of us through the places and experiences of his past several years. Unfortunately, he has a history of depression, has attempted suicide a number of times, and has been missing for several days.
The journals that I read through at Christmas and this funny, wildly creative feeling I’ve had since then link back to the time when I was really into his work. And now this. I know that it’s easy to slip into a space where life seems impossible, but this man also had a stunning way of opening an audience’s perceptions to the wonders of life. I hope he’s not lost.
Wednesday, January 14, 2004 , 8:25 PM
Thinking about money.
In one of the e-mail conferences at work today, someone mentioned a coup for a client of ours, who’s appearing on “Oprah” soon to promote a book he’s come out with. I bought an e-book copy of it, as it’s on personal finance. I need the help.
See, my challenge is that money and I have a funny relationship. We know the other is there, but we don’t go out of our way for each other. It’s generally not a problem: somehow money always works out for me. I’ve got twenty-odd years of working life behind me, and it’s always worked out this way. I’m a frugal person: I buy some expensive things so that I can do my writing, print it out, and post it online, but the rest of my things — the food I eat, the clothes I buy — are generally pretty cheap. My brand of “Bohemian plus” is perfectly comfortable for me, and leaves me free to follow my soul around without worrying about money.
I don’t have any debt. I know the very idea of that is a shocker for many post-millenial folk. But here’s where the trouble comes: I also don’t have any assets. No savings to speak of, no investments, none of that stuff. Why? Because I find money boring. I’m not interested in spending a lot of time thinking about it. Which is why I bought this book. It’s by a client of ours, David Bach, which means that it should fit into things I agree with. I’ve read things by other people, like this Robert Kiosakifella, but his approach seems to be that everyone should get into buying real estate. Zzzz. No thanks. I see the financial model, but when it comes to the idea of chasing after real estate investments, well, I’d rather be writing.
My tendency is to revert to one of three streams of thought:
1) “Hell, I’m going to die anyway, no matter what my money situation is. Why think about it?”
2) “Someday, my writing is going to get picked up, and then I’ll be set.” (I know, don’t laugh; I’m well aware how few published writers actually make a living from their royalties and advances).
3) “Money has always worked out for me, so maybe it’ll just keep on working out.” (which conjures images of me looking for work at eighty).
I went out with someone the other night, and at one point over dinner he said, “Tell me what you’re thinking right now” — a variation on the dreaded “Penny for your thoughts” conundrum: do I actually tell the truth? We’d just been having a conversation about honesty, and I’m proud of being someone who’s been told by several people “You’re the most honest person I’ve ever gone out with. I didn’t know it was possible to be this open with someone”, so I figured, what the hell, I’d tell him exactly what I was thinking. That meant sharing the train of thought that had passed through my head while he was in the toilet:
He left his mobile phone on the table. Gosh, it’s small. These things are amazing. Actually, though, that one’s not so new. They came out a few years ago, and had those stupid ads with the models swimming up to these blue port-holes. He’s a lot younger than I am, and I bet he doesn’t have much extra from this waged job of his. I want to go on a couple of vacations this year. If I was seeing someone, I’d want them to come along. He doesn’t make enough to come with me.
And I actually said this shite out loud. I immediately felt like a money-grubbing jerk. Not only was that idea uncomfortable, the fact that it isn’t true, that I’m this I-get-by writer, makes it worse. I backpedalled as best I could, saying that I didn’t actually care about any of that, I was having a good evening, and so on. But, ugh, what an icky feeling. Families tend to share a “money conversation”, I’ve been told in the past, and I know my family’s conversation is fairly anti-rich, hard-working socialist sort of stuff. So this just played into all of that.
Anyway, we’ll see if I get my act together this year. At work we talk about “Unique Ability” (in fact, we just wrote a book about it), and I’m very clear what I’m on this earth to do. And it’s got nothing to do with financial planning. What I’d love most is to have an expert to hand all this stuff over to.
And that’s what I think about money.
P.S. I just made a wonderful carrot lentil garlic ginger soup. I can cook! Maybe anything is possible.
Friday, January 09, 2004 , 4:09 PM
I’ve been away from this so long, Blogger forgot my user name and password.
I’m a bad blogger.
It’s so odd, because I’m the guy who used to write in his journal three times a day, or run away from a party to write about it. In fact, I ended up digging through my old journals to find a particular one while I was home at Christmas. My friend Kirsten is writing a book about a cycling trip a bunch of us took through Arizona, and she’s been asking me questions about what happened. I have no memory to speak of, so I picked up my journal from that trip. I wanted to bring all the journals back, but the whole gym bag of them must weigh about eighty pounds. Air travel is bad enough without having twooverweight bags. It’s fun to flip through those pages, though, to have these desert places sprawl out in my imagination again, and to share in the thoughts of me-eleven-years-ago.
I have this superiority complex when it comes to past-me. I’m not an angst-ridden closet-case, I have a career I love and which works — and on and on. But when I read some of my thoughts then, I’m surprised at the level of writing I achieved, and how spiritually in touch with myself I was then. In fact, I’d say that’s something I’ve brought back with me from Prince Edward Island. Up until this moment, I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was, but this year, after that time with my family, feels different. I had a good couple of weeks to sit and just live, to let myself off the hook for being productive, and to actively enjoy the company of people I love to bits. I guess we call this quality of life. Sometimes I skip that part of living.
So for Christmas I played videogames with my nephew. I laughed with my brother (who has a variation on the same sense of humour I do). I ate my sister-in-law’s amazing Christmas treats. I worked out computer stuff with my mother and chatted with her about the ultimate meaning of life. And Dad — Dad was kinda just there. He’s not really in-your-face with his participation, but he’s always a presence. We had some good talks about politics, and we even joked about his Parkinsons, which I took as a good sign. We didn’t talk about it directly, because once I was there it was clear that there wasn’t really anything to talk about. His movement is reduced — both he and our old dog shuffled on their walks along the snowy street — and sometimes he has to pick up his leg and move it to get it started. Sometimes I think he’s frightened, and sometimes it’s just another adjustment in life. I guess what struck me the most is that he’s still the same man he always was; even if his body is weakened, he’s still the strongest person I know. This is a challenge for my mum, though: with this new development, he’s keeping to himself even more, reading voraciously on the couch while listening to classical music. This is the side I see in myself when I spend a whole week in Edinburgh without talking to people, and don’t notice that that’s a bit weird.
This kind of a health development in the family seems like a horror when you hear about it over the phone, but in person it was, as I said, just an adjustment. With each new chapter in our collective story, my family just gets closer and closer, defying what I thought was possible in terms of warmth and affection. So I return to Edinburgh respecting that, and realising its enormous value in my life. As I look to the year ahead, I’m resting in the knowledge that my projects will get done (the novel, for instance), but that I have to make room for people, and to cherish them. Usually it’s the other way around: the projects take priority, and the people fit into the extra space. So “inwardness and affection” would be what this year is about, I’d say. Everything’s pointing that way, in the things I’m noticing and reading. Even the stupidReturn of the King — that long, drawn out ending-full-of-endings was so wistful and lovely, because it was all about the relationships that had been forged between these characters — much more interesting than all the battles, and all that suffering Frodo had to do while Sam greeted over him. I’ve never liked watching characters suffer for too long without any payoff. In my own books, I try to give some moments of levity and satisfaction to justify why the characters and the reader are bothering to go through all this.
I spent the first week in Charlottetown working from my folks’ place. I love the portability of the work I’m doing now. I don’t think I could go back to being strapped to a desk again. My mother indulged my brother and I, buying a WiFi transmitter so we could both connect wirelessly to the Internet at their place. That meant I could do all my work on my Pocket PC without having to bring any extra gear, and it meant that we actually sawmy nephew, who could do all his slack-jawed teenage web stuff in our company.
In my search for my old journals, I also found some Betamax tapes. Two of them were shows I was in, one was home movies that had been transferred to video, and another was of the Arizona bicycling trip. I suppose, now that I think about it, having watched that video would explain why the trip is so fresh in my mind. It was interesting to watch the theatre gigs on tape, too. One of them was the last professional job I did. I was pleasantly surprised how really good I was in it. It was like watching a favourite actor in a role; I really liked how that person came across, and what he did with the part. The other video was of the first paying gig I did, and I was shocked to see how bad I was in it. My singing voice was weak, and I was like a piece of wood being moved through the show. Granted, my character was a fresh-faced, green, innocent WWII pilot, so there wasn’t a lot to do with it. But that’s making excuses. At any rate, I got to see the span of my acting work, which was neat. Talking lately to Kirsten, whom I know from theatre school, I realise how much that training informs everything I do, even now.
Unfortunately, I got the flu the day before coming back. So I suffered on the already-dreadful flight back (no screaming babies this time, thank you God), and was barely present to meet a friend of mine from Toronto who happened to be connecting through Edinburgh when I arrived. The next five days, which were supposed to be bonus catch-up time to work on the book and get everything in order for this year, were spent instead with me curled up on my couch (including the evening of Hogmanay). In a funny way, though, this was more reflective of the way this year is starting off: I had time to relax, to think, and to enjoy myself (well, except for the sickness bit). I’ve gotta live if I’m going to have anything to write about. And I’ve got to stay connected to my soul if I’m going to truly be able to see through to the heart of this world, rather than just catch the outer bits that are on show.
<
p>Tonight is the first night this year with the Tapatistas. A Friday out with friends after a week of fulfilling work seems like a good start.
