"You never know what you have until it's gone, and I wanted to know what I had, so I got rid of everything."
-- Steven Wright
One of the seemingly contradictory realizations many travellers come to after spending time in desperately impoverished countries revolves around the fact that poor people quite often seem like happier people.
Happier than us, I mean. And by 'us' I mean people raised in places where there are hot showers, helpful police, paved roads. Places that are designed for our own comfort and convenience. Designed by 'who', exactly, we never really ask, because such comforts are an expected and required part of daily living, and troublesome questions like that need not be spoken aloud. You get in trouble, you call the police. Your sink stops working, you call the plumber. There is a person designed to take of our needs. This person requires money, of course, to fulfill his task, but if you have the coin, he'll do the deed.
In Cambodia, not only is such a person probably not around, but you probably couldn't afford him anyway. If you get sick, there is medicine, yes, but it is expensive, and guess what? It's probably defective. The good stuff is given to the relatives of government workers; the bad stuff makes its way into onto the drug store shelves, buyer beware. If you are driving too fast, or merely driving at all, the police will stop you for imaginary infractions and ask for some cash. If you lose your passport (as I did), you will have to go to the back room of the police station and bribe the official. If, God forbid, you are hurt, and need a hospital, watch out. There will be blood on the floors.
We recoil at such a place.
And yet, look around.
At the people's faces.
At their smiles.
At their kindness.
They look, well, happy.
Back in Canada, most people I see don't look happy. They look stressed, and worried, and frazzled.
But not happy.
I'm not a Pollyanna. I know the savage wound that is festering inside the hearts of most Cambodians, victims of terrible atrocities less than a generation old. I realize that their life expectancy peaks around fifty. Life is harsh and hot and completely unfair.
And yet, still.
They look happy.
They don't have much, but they don't need much.
The Philippines is similar. Desperately poor, people find faith in their God and their families. The government won't help them, so they do what they can, with what they have, and keep on going.
I saw a British chap on Filipino television awhile back. He was rich, a millionaire. Back in Britain he had a handful of expensive cars and a big house, and he always bought the latest gadget as soon as it hit the shops. Then a curious understanding came to him. The more he bought, the more unhappy he became. He was always chasing the next thing. He was always getting bored with the latest car, and thus required a new one. He steadily came to the conclusion that happiness derived from attainment fades. So he chucked the house and sold his Porsche and used the money from the sale of his car to build three schools in a rural part of the Philippines. Happiness is temporary, he realized, but fulfillment, more difficult, but a deeper enrichment, endures.
There is something to be said for living with less.
The quote from Steven Wright at the top of this post is meant to be comedic, and it is funny, sure, but it has a kind of zen, koan-like truth at its core. If what you have defines what you are, then what are you if you don't have you have?
We all strive to reach higher, and that striving is an integral part of our condition, a remnant of evolution perhaps, this desire to be better than we are. But if the striving itself is not connected to something deeper than material comfort, a hollowness will remain.
Here in the Philippines, where I live, there's no shower. Water comes from the tap, and it's cold, and you wash in it, and you know what? You get used to it. Which is not to say that I didn't enjoy my hot showers during my recent stint in Japan, of course, as a hot shower is one of life's true common pleasures.
Now I know that, though. I didn't realize it before. I thought hot water from a showerhead was a given. It's not. It's a privilege. There are people, children, living in the same house as me who have never known what it's like to stand under a hot shower and feel the water fall.
Knowing that, I try to temper my desires. To control my want.
To want more, yes, but more of the right stuff, the good stuff, the stuff that keeps the smiles on the faces of poor children -- goodwill, community, a willingness to stretch and expand our own sense of possibility towards ourselves and others.
I'm trying to remember that within every shiny red Porsche lies a school waiting to be built.
Perhaps when everybody can have both -- the car and the school, the frivolous stuff and the deeper, more human stuff -- another level of understanding will be breached.
After all, it's hard to remember a time when I've been more happy, more pleasurably content, then when I had a hot shower after more than a year of cold-water washing.
Imagine that.
Happiness from a hot shower.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
A ROOM WITH A VIEW
Everyone needs a room of their own.
The twelve-year old in the house has his own room, finally, after a few years spent shacking up with his cousin, and a few months sprawled out on the couch in the living room, across from his uncle on the other sofa, and adjacent to the TV.
Now, solitude.
Toys are arranged carefully on the dresser; comics are neatly stacked; citations from school for work well done are stickered to the ceiling above the bed.
I think back to the two bedrooms of my youth, in houses long left but continually thought of. It's funny. I moved out of our first house when I was seven, the second when I was nineteen, but I still dream about them. Literally. I dream about going back, finding my old bedroom, dining in the kitchen, crashing out on the couch downstairs. In my dreams, though, the houses don't look anything, at all, like I remember them. Completely different. Entirely altered. I've had these dreams for many years, off and on. I go back, and what I remember is not what I see. My old room is no longer my room, yes, but it looks so different, feels so different, that I wonder if it ever was.
Then I wake up, and the pictures of my old bedrooms in my head are clear and pristine and kodak fresh.
For a child, your room is your world. It's the one place you can call your own, infinitely. The place where your dreams are collected and nurtured, day by day. Elsewhere, outside the door, drab rules the day: there are bathrooms, living rooms, kitchens to be cleaned and yards to be cut, adult places, parent places, but there, in that room, everything is the opposite of mundane. You can make of it what you will.
I would look out my window at the distant sight of the CN Tower and the skyscrapers of Toronto, across the lake, an hour's drive and a lifetime away, and I plotted how I would get there. I could stare at the sky and watch the waves of Lake Ontario and listen to the winter wind and lie on my bed and read my comics and believe that such a distance could be breached, given time.
Children need a space to breathe, stretch and imagine. It seems so simple, almost redundant, to talk about the importance of a room of one's own, but in many countries, many cities, in Canada and Cambodia, the Philippines and the Niagara Penisula, space is shared. Dreams are not horded; space is. Even here, where I live, just across from the house, five steps away, another ramshackle shed of brick and tin houses three or four people, together. Each sharing a room with another. Children and adults, too, not given a chance to look at the world in solitaire, for themselves.
A room, for yourself, with a view.
It may not be bliss, but it's a place, private and secure, individually molded, and sometimes, in this world, that's enough.
The twelve-year old in the house has his own room, finally, after a few years spent shacking up with his cousin, and a few months sprawled out on the couch in the living room, across from his uncle on the other sofa, and adjacent to the TV.
Now, solitude.
Toys are arranged carefully on the dresser; comics are neatly stacked; citations from school for work well done are stickered to the ceiling above the bed.
I think back to the two bedrooms of my youth, in houses long left but continually thought of. It's funny. I moved out of our first house when I was seven, the second when I was nineteen, but I still dream about them. Literally. I dream about going back, finding my old bedroom, dining in the kitchen, crashing out on the couch downstairs. In my dreams, though, the houses don't look anything, at all, like I remember them. Completely different. Entirely altered. I've had these dreams for many years, off and on. I go back, and what I remember is not what I see. My old room is no longer my room, yes, but it looks so different, feels so different, that I wonder if it ever was.
Then I wake up, and the pictures of my old bedrooms in my head are clear and pristine and kodak fresh.
For a child, your room is your world. It's the one place you can call your own, infinitely. The place where your dreams are collected and nurtured, day by day. Elsewhere, outside the door, drab rules the day: there are bathrooms, living rooms, kitchens to be cleaned and yards to be cut, adult places, parent places, but there, in that room, everything is the opposite of mundane. You can make of it what you will.
I would look out my window at the distant sight of the CN Tower and the skyscrapers of Toronto, across the lake, an hour's drive and a lifetime away, and I plotted how I would get there. I could stare at the sky and watch the waves of Lake Ontario and listen to the winter wind and lie on my bed and read my comics and believe that such a distance could be breached, given time.
Children need a space to breathe, stretch and imagine. It seems so simple, almost redundant, to talk about the importance of a room of one's own, but in many countries, many cities, in Canada and Cambodia, the Philippines and the Niagara Penisula, space is shared. Dreams are not horded; space is. Even here, where I live, just across from the house, five steps away, another ramshackle shed of brick and tin houses three or four people, together. Each sharing a room with another. Children and adults, too, not given a chance to look at the world in solitaire, for themselves.
A room, for yourself, with a view.
It may not be bliss, but it's a place, private and secure, individually molded, and sometimes, in this world, that's enough.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
LET THAT PERFECT BLUE SUPERBALL INSIDE OF YOUR SKULL BOUNCE, BABY
I will run ninety miles per week. I will scale Mount Everest, twice, naked. I will quit smoking. I will start smoking. I will lose thirty pounds. I will gain thirty pounds. I will go vegan, all-out. I will assassinate all vegans. I will give to the poor. I will try to prevent myself from becoming poor. I will be a better person, periodically. I will be a worse person, probably. I will accept Jesus. (Only to have Jesus reject me -- a first for him, and I can see it coming.) I will renounce all worldly possessions. I will buy a Ferrari. A red one. (Actually, aren't all Ferraris red?) I will do this all over again next December, near the end.
Making New Year's Resolution is a fool's game, I suppose, but we do it, some of us, and it's easy to understand why.
It's rare in life that we get a clean break, a fresh start, a way and a means to start all over again. (You could argue that we do have such opportunities, every day, at each moment, as Penelope Cruz said in Vanilla Sky, but acknowledging those exceptions is a blunt and tireless burden.)
The start of a new year, page one on the calendar, is a marker. A turning point. Traditional and banal. With us from the first day of the first new year of our lives. A chance to begin.
Most of us make resolutions; most of us break them. Or smash them, repeatedly, within the first week or so.
This year I once again have some resolutions, as I'm sure you do, too, but I've decided to keep them secret.
(Not that, um, there were a lot of people clamoring for my intentions for the next twelve months, knocking on my door, harassing me on my, well, non-existent cell phone, but still.)
Somebody once said -- it might have been Pat Sajak, or possibly Twain -- that the minute you reveal your plans, your goals, your innermost dreams, poof, up they go in smoke. There is something sacred about an idea, in your head, illuminated in bright neon for you and you alone. It has weight; it has possibility. You can twist it back and forth, up and down, stretch it from side to side, wondering if it will break.
The thing is, in your mind, it never does.
Break that is.
Or, if it does shatter, you can put the pieces back together again. Crazy-glue the mother whole and complete. Shining, even. Glistening, maybe. There is no one to knock it down again, stamp on it, kick the pieces through the sewer grate then laugh as they fall.
When your goals are revealed, however, when the light of day sunburns the hell out of everything you hold proper and true and holy, something happens. To you, and to them -- your dreams, that is.
They melt.
They come face to face with the blinding sun, and they retreat into the shade, then the darkness, until they become difficult to find, if not impossible. And then you wake up, and it's February, and the snow is deep, and the air is frigid, and you remember, faintly, that you meant to do something and be something larger than you were at the end of December. If only you could locate it, that stem. If only you could bury it in the soil once again, and let the water flow, and wait for the buds to bloom. Ah, well, you say. Next year. As you smack the pillow for a better, plumper comfort.
So best to keep your dreams to yourself, I think. At least for now. At least here, at the dawning of the coming year, when hope springs, if not eternal, at least bi-weekly. Best to believe, for this moment, that all those crazy scenarios inside of your head can and will and must come to fruition.
It's winter, you see, and if you let your dreams out, into the cold, something might happen to them.
And I want your dreams to endure.
So this New Year's, as the clock counts down to twelve, as Dick Clark (or, God help us, Ryan Seacrest), shuffles out to do the inevitable glowing-bouncing-ball thingamajig, I wish for you the endurance of your intentions. I wish that your dreams remain trapped inside of your skull, where they have room to bounce around, where the ceiling has no limit, where all of your hopes can keep on rising, like one of those blue superballs we used to wield like weapons of war when we were kids. The ones you could bounce and have no idea where they would end up, so fierce and spastic were their trajectories.
When the numbers on the clock reach 12:00, I want you to take those dreams, those goals, those wishes, and unleash them, superball-style, inside of your head, the arc of their rocket-like ascent visible for you and you alone.
I want you to wait and watch and see how far that perfect blue orb of a dream will go.
And I hope, for you, in the coming year, that you never even the see the beginning of its descent.
Making New Year's Resolution is a fool's game, I suppose, but we do it, some of us, and it's easy to understand why.
It's rare in life that we get a clean break, a fresh start, a way and a means to start all over again. (You could argue that we do have such opportunities, every day, at each moment, as Penelope Cruz said in Vanilla Sky, but acknowledging those exceptions is a blunt and tireless burden.)
The start of a new year, page one on the calendar, is a marker. A turning point. Traditional and banal. With us from the first day of the first new year of our lives. A chance to begin.
Most of us make resolutions; most of us break them. Or smash them, repeatedly, within the first week or so.
This year I once again have some resolutions, as I'm sure you do, too, but I've decided to keep them secret.
(Not that, um, there were a lot of people clamoring for my intentions for the next twelve months, knocking on my door, harassing me on my, well, non-existent cell phone, but still.)
Somebody once said -- it might have been Pat Sajak, or possibly Twain -- that the minute you reveal your plans, your goals, your innermost dreams, poof, up they go in smoke. There is something sacred about an idea, in your head, illuminated in bright neon for you and you alone. It has weight; it has possibility. You can twist it back and forth, up and down, stretch it from side to side, wondering if it will break.
The thing is, in your mind, it never does.
Break that is.
Or, if it does shatter, you can put the pieces back together again. Crazy-glue the mother whole and complete. Shining, even. Glistening, maybe. There is no one to knock it down again, stamp on it, kick the pieces through the sewer grate then laugh as they fall.
When your goals are revealed, however, when the light of day sunburns the hell out of everything you hold proper and true and holy, something happens. To you, and to them -- your dreams, that is.
They melt.
They come face to face with the blinding sun, and they retreat into the shade, then the darkness, until they become difficult to find, if not impossible. And then you wake up, and it's February, and the snow is deep, and the air is frigid, and you remember, faintly, that you meant to do something and be something larger than you were at the end of December. If only you could locate it, that stem. If only you could bury it in the soil once again, and let the water flow, and wait for the buds to bloom. Ah, well, you say. Next year. As you smack the pillow for a better, plumper comfort.
So best to keep your dreams to yourself, I think. At least for now. At least here, at the dawning of the coming year, when hope springs, if not eternal, at least bi-weekly. Best to believe, for this moment, that all those crazy scenarios inside of your head can and will and must come to fruition.
It's winter, you see, and if you let your dreams out, into the cold, something might happen to them.
And I want your dreams to endure.
So this New Year's, as the clock counts down to twelve, as Dick Clark (or, God help us, Ryan Seacrest), shuffles out to do the inevitable glowing-bouncing-ball thingamajig, I wish for you the endurance of your intentions. I wish that your dreams remain trapped inside of your skull, where they have room to bounce around, where the ceiling has no limit, where all of your hopes can keep on rising, like one of those blue superballs we used to wield like weapons of war when we were kids. The ones you could bounce and have no idea where they would end up, so fierce and spastic were their trajectories.
When the numbers on the clock reach 12:00, I want you to take those dreams, those goals, those wishes, and unleash them, superball-style, inside of your head, the arc of their rocket-like ascent visible for you and you alone.
I want you to wait and watch and see how far that perfect blue orb of a dream will go.
And I hope, for you, in the coming year, that you never even the see the beginning of its descent.
Friday, December 22, 2006
"I GO TODAY TO MY BORDERS"
Sometimes, in Cambodia and the Philippines, the power will go out for no reason. A brownout, it's called. You're typing away, tapping the keys, then boom -- out goes the light, in comes the dark. Sometimes it lasts for a minute; others times, an hour. At all times, annoying.
But what can you do? Call the power company? Complain to the cops?
You simply have to wait.
People living in third-world countries get used to disasters big and small, natural and manmade. Life happens, essentially. Get over it.
Arriving back in the Philippines from Japan, it's not only the heat that's a shock to the system. It's the kids, dozens, hundreds of them, popping in and out of homes, ramshackle and ragged. It's the sense of life being lived, if not on the edge, at least precariously close. Day to day. Week to week. Leaving things up to God for all the rest. Poor and rich living next to each other, sharing the roads, perhaps, but little else.
Recently I finished reading The Fabric Of The Cosmos by Brian Greene, a user-friendly physics book that can totally upend your conception of the universe, if you think about it too much. (And I mean, shit, I didn't even understand most of it, but it still screwed with my head.)
One of the more interesting parts of the book has to do with the notion of parallel universes that may -- or may -- not exist side-by-side with our own, undetected, as their light cannot reach ours, and ours cannot reach theirs. Other versions of ourselves, possibly, playing out different versions of our lives.
Tantalizing to think about it.
Our entire existence may be but one of billions. A billion mes; a billion yous. Side by side, unnoticed.
Space and time are linked, is what Greene is getting at. And these spacetime allotments could hint at another, deeper realm of understand that we have yet to discover, which could possibly render our own conceptions of space, and time, moot. Or limited, at the very least.
So many intriguing notions scattered throughout this book, especially regarding how we intrinsically view time as moving forward-- but, according to physicists, this is not necessarily the case. Time and space are two peas in the same pod, and time doesn't necessarily move anywhere. It just is. Future, past and present -- all slices on the same spacetime loaf of bread that come into existence, yes, but not progressively.
Or something like that.
Which makes sense to me.
We've all had that feeling. You meet somebody you haven't seen in ten, fifteen years, and there you are, finishing each other's sentences, picking up where you left off. As if not time has passed.
Well, it hasn't.
It hasn't moved anywhere.
It's simply there, somewhere within that loaf of spacetime. One slice near the front, one slice near the back, but all a part of a whole. We've moved through space, from here to there, there and back again, but time itself is wrapped up in itself. Which is why we can so easily sink back into our prior selves, our past relationships. They never left us. Nor we them. We were always there, together, further down the line, perhaps, still embedded in the same small space.
My childhood and adolescence, my adulthood in Japan, Cambodia and the Philippines, my observations of the rich and the poor, the high-tech of Nippon and the dirt of Phnom Penh: encapsulated.
And beside me, another me, in another world, asking similar questions, different questions. Taking alternate paths and identical ones.
Recently I read a book called Lance Armstrong's War, a fantastic chronicle of the Tour De France, and in it Armstrong's main competitor, Jan Ullrich, preparing to commence a particularly demanding stage of a race, states: "I go today to my borders."
What a phrase.
Pushing oneself to one's limits. Seeing what one is capable of.
And yet, to do that, to go to one's borders, we must, inevitably, intersect other's borders as well. Physically, psychically, spiritually, emotionally.
The genius of modern science persists in insisting that perhaps those borders are translucent and arbitrary. The rich and the poor, the clean and the dirty, the hot and the cold, me and you: we can find our borders, and cross them, and see what lies beyond.
When the brownouts come (as they will), and the darkness falls (as it must), it's nice to know, or to believe, that there is another place, another space, where the light still shines bright. A place where you (another you) and me (another me) may meet.
All of this, simultaneous.
Where space and time, light and dark, will compose the same essential state, and where we will find ourselves at each other's borders, eager to enter.
I will wait for you there.
But what can you do? Call the power company? Complain to the cops?
You simply have to wait.
People living in third-world countries get used to disasters big and small, natural and manmade. Life happens, essentially. Get over it.
Arriving back in the Philippines from Japan, it's not only the heat that's a shock to the system. It's the kids, dozens, hundreds of them, popping in and out of homes, ramshackle and ragged. It's the sense of life being lived, if not on the edge, at least precariously close. Day to day. Week to week. Leaving things up to God for all the rest. Poor and rich living next to each other, sharing the roads, perhaps, but little else.
Recently I finished reading The Fabric Of The Cosmos by Brian Greene, a user-friendly physics book that can totally upend your conception of the universe, if you think about it too much. (And I mean, shit, I didn't even understand most of it, but it still screwed with my head.)
One of the more interesting parts of the book has to do with the notion of parallel universes that may -- or may -- not exist side-by-side with our own, undetected, as their light cannot reach ours, and ours cannot reach theirs. Other versions of ourselves, possibly, playing out different versions of our lives.
Tantalizing to think about it.
Our entire existence may be but one of billions. A billion mes; a billion yous. Side by side, unnoticed.
Space and time are linked, is what Greene is getting at. And these spacetime allotments could hint at another, deeper realm of understand that we have yet to discover, which could possibly render our own conceptions of space, and time, moot. Or limited, at the very least.
So many intriguing notions scattered throughout this book, especially regarding how we intrinsically view time as moving forward-- but, according to physicists, this is not necessarily the case. Time and space are two peas in the same pod, and time doesn't necessarily move anywhere. It just is. Future, past and present -- all slices on the same spacetime loaf of bread that come into existence, yes, but not progressively.
Or something like that.
Which makes sense to me.
We've all had that feeling. You meet somebody you haven't seen in ten, fifteen years, and there you are, finishing each other's sentences, picking up where you left off. As if not time has passed.
Well, it hasn't.
It hasn't moved anywhere.
It's simply there, somewhere within that loaf of spacetime. One slice near the front, one slice near the back, but all a part of a whole. We've moved through space, from here to there, there and back again, but time itself is wrapped up in itself. Which is why we can so easily sink back into our prior selves, our past relationships. They never left us. Nor we them. We were always there, together, further down the line, perhaps, still embedded in the same small space.
My childhood and adolescence, my adulthood in Japan, Cambodia and the Philippines, my observations of the rich and the poor, the high-tech of Nippon and the dirt of Phnom Penh: encapsulated.
And beside me, another me, in another world, asking similar questions, different questions. Taking alternate paths and identical ones.
Recently I read a book called Lance Armstrong's War, a fantastic chronicle of the Tour De France, and in it Armstrong's main competitor, Jan Ullrich, preparing to commence a particularly demanding stage of a race, states: "I go today to my borders."
What a phrase.
Pushing oneself to one's limits. Seeing what one is capable of.
And yet, to do that, to go to one's borders, we must, inevitably, intersect other's borders as well. Physically, psychically, spiritually, emotionally.
The genius of modern science persists in insisting that perhaps those borders are translucent and arbitrary. The rich and the poor, the clean and the dirty, the hot and the cold, me and you: we can find our borders, and cross them, and see what lies beyond.
When the brownouts come (as they will), and the darkness falls (as it must), it's nice to know, or to believe, that there is another place, another space, where the light still shines bright. A place where you (another you) and me (another me) may meet.
All of this, simultaneous.
Where space and time, light and dark, will compose the same essential state, and where we will find ourselves at each other's borders, eager to enter.
I will wait for you there.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
EAST IS EAST AND WEST IS WEST
I went and watched two movies in the theatre on Saturday, both in Japanese, one film an American film, directed by Clint Eastwood, the other film a Japanese film, directed by Yoji Yamada, and the American film felt American, and the Japanese film felt Japanese.
Letters From Iwo Jima (which I watched in Japanese, which meant that I didn't exactly understand everything that was being said, true, but hey, war is war, fear is fear, acting is acting, so I got the drift) is a good film, possibly a great one, because it is, like all of Eastwood's films, low-key and understated and suitably laconic. (Much like life, come to think of it, or the best parts of it, anyway, the truest parts, the parts that matter.)
War is bad; nationalism is confusing; suffering is universal. The movie doesn't reinvent the wheel, and there are times when its sole purpose seems to be to inform us that 'hey, the Japanese are people, too', but, the more I think about it, the more I think that people do need to be reminded that, yes, the scared shitless kids on the opposing end of the artillery fire are just like you and me, mortal. Perhaps it's sad that I feel that way, or that one should be thinking thoughts like this in our multicultural world of the 21st century, but thoughts are thoughts and those are mine. And the film itself is a moving, decent and humane story, simply told, filled with Japanese actors speaking Japanese and acting in Japanese ways. Watching it in Japan, surrounded by seniors who may, who knows, have been there, in the movie, on that island, for real, added impact.
But it felt American.
The style, I mean.
The texture.
The compositions.
The framing.
All of that stuff.
You can put the language and the people in the movie, but there's something else. (That's what Thomas Magnum said, 'there's something else', hauntingly so, a line I remember, God knows why, as he, Magnum, was convinced that there was a reason he should stay alive, be alive, as he walked through limbo and the almost-afterlife after an almost fatal gunshot in what was supposed to the final episode of his eponymous TV series, directed by Jackie Cooper, Superman's Perry White, and who am I to disagree with Tom Selleck, as the episode itself, after all, though not the last, ultimately, was still fucking great, and so was the episode the following season that brought him back from the brink of death, Infinity and Jelly Donuts, the name of that episode, that is, and it was clever and honest and true, and consistent with the spirit of the supposed finale -- it brought Magnum back, and it didn't cheat, and it all, made, sense. Life doesn't, of course, but that episode did. We take wisdom where we can find it, and I find it, still in Magnum P.I. Sue me.)
And yet the other movie I watched, Bushi no Ichibun (which is translated here into English as something like Love and Honor, inexplicably, but which actually means something like 'One Part of the Samurai'), feels Japanese through and through. Front to back.
Which means, essentially, that there is an economy of movement, gesture and framing to each and every scene. The takes are long; the movement swift. Small details are evident in each and every moment, and these small things, like the best small things, accumulate, then resonate.
Leaves fall, gently.
Swords slice, swiftly.
Looks are exchanged.
All very precise, and measured.
All very Japanese.
Both films are good films. Indeed, Letters From Iwo Jima has already picked up a couple of critics' awards back home, and it isn't even out yet back there. Bushi no Ichibun, meanwhile, continues to pack the cinemas here in Japan.
But it's interesting to me.
How one can feel a culture's approach to art, through the lens. How some things remain rooted in a time and a place, a tone and a posture.
How culture transcends language and actors. How one can sense its presence in a film, in the choices made by the invisible director, in the style, in the shape and manner of people and objects. In who goes where, and why, and how. Delicately, or with force. Alone, or in groups. Towards, or away from us. All of this, cultural.
The glorious thing, of course, is that cinema, regardless of our origins, can bridge that gap, link those threads, finding a way, sometimes, at the best of times, to make us feel connected. Despite our differences, and, quite possibly, through those same differences, thus unearthing our common, indivisible dimensions of humanity which too often remain buried beneath rumbling rhetoric and colourful, fluttering flags.
Letters From Iwo Jima (which I watched in Japanese, which meant that I didn't exactly understand everything that was being said, true, but hey, war is war, fear is fear, acting is acting, so I got the drift) is a good film, possibly a great one, because it is, like all of Eastwood's films, low-key and understated and suitably laconic. (Much like life, come to think of it, or the best parts of it, anyway, the truest parts, the parts that matter.)
War is bad; nationalism is confusing; suffering is universal. The movie doesn't reinvent the wheel, and there are times when its sole purpose seems to be to inform us that 'hey, the Japanese are people, too', but, the more I think about it, the more I think that people do need to be reminded that, yes, the scared shitless kids on the opposing end of the artillery fire are just like you and me, mortal. Perhaps it's sad that I feel that way, or that one should be thinking thoughts like this in our multicultural world of the 21st century, but thoughts are thoughts and those are mine. And the film itself is a moving, decent and humane story, simply told, filled with Japanese actors speaking Japanese and acting in Japanese ways. Watching it in Japan, surrounded by seniors who may, who knows, have been there, in the movie, on that island, for real, added impact.
But it felt American.
The style, I mean.
The texture.
The compositions.
The framing.
All of that stuff.
You can put the language and the people in the movie, but there's something else. (That's what Thomas Magnum said, 'there's something else', hauntingly so, a line I remember, God knows why, as he, Magnum, was convinced that there was a reason he should stay alive, be alive, as he walked through limbo and the almost-afterlife after an almost fatal gunshot in what was supposed to the final episode of his eponymous TV series, directed by Jackie Cooper, Superman's Perry White, and who am I to disagree with Tom Selleck, as the episode itself, after all, though not the last, ultimately, was still fucking great, and so was the episode the following season that brought him back from the brink of death, Infinity and Jelly Donuts, the name of that episode, that is, and it was clever and honest and true, and consistent with the spirit of the supposed finale -- it brought Magnum back, and it didn't cheat, and it all, made, sense. Life doesn't, of course, but that episode did. We take wisdom where we can find it, and I find it, still in Magnum P.I. Sue me.)
And yet the other movie I watched, Bushi no Ichibun (which is translated here into English as something like Love and Honor, inexplicably, but which actually means something like 'One Part of the Samurai'), feels Japanese through and through. Front to back.
Which means, essentially, that there is an economy of movement, gesture and framing to each and every scene. The takes are long; the movement swift. Small details are evident in each and every moment, and these small things, like the best small things, accumulate, then resonate.
Leaves fall, gently.
Swords slice, swiftly.
Looks are exchanged.
All very precise, and measured.
All very Japanese.
Both films are good films. Indeed, Letters From Iwo Jima has already picked up a couple of critics' awards back home, and it isn't even out yet back there. Bushi no Ichibun, meanwhile, continues to pack the cinemas here in Japan.
But it's interesting to me.
How one can feel a culture's approach to art, through the lens. How some things remain rooted in a time and a place, a tone and a posture.
How culture transcends language and actors. How one can sense its presence in a film, in the choices made by the invisible director, in the style, in the shape and manner of people and objects. In who goes where, and why, and how. Delicately, or with force. Alone, or in groups. Towards, or away from us. All of this, cultural.
The glorious thing, of course, is that cinema, regardless of our origins, can bridge that gap, link those threads, finding a way, sometimes, at the best of times, to make us feel connected. Despite our differences, and, quite possibly, through those same differences, thus unearthing our common, indivisible dimensions of humanity which too often remain buried beneath rumbling rhetoric and colourful, fluttering flags.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
CASINO ROYALE: EFFING GREAT
Seeing pictures of Daniel Craig in a tux on the web, I thought, "This guy is James Bond?", but after watching Casino Royale, all I can say is that this Bond, the Craig bond, is, quite possibly, the best Bond, ever -- better than Connery, better than Moore.
And this is coming from someone who saw Octopussy and Never Say Never Again at roughly the same time, at the impossibly impressionable age of eight, and thus permanently had both actors cinematically implanted in his brain as dual, twin, mirror-image brothers of Britain's most savage secret agent, and thus was never able to view Lazenby or Dalton or Brosnan as anything but feeble imposters to the majestic Moore and the king-like Connery.
But I'm telling you.
This Bond, well.
Craig is lethal and charming, deadly and witty, and proof positive that it's never too late to inject adrenaline into what may merely appear to be a dying, gasping lifeform.
Watch the steady but relentless way he chases down the bad buys.
Look at the erotically intent but simultaneously nonchalant, almost diffident manner in which he casually thanks drop-dead gorgeous check-in-girls.
From the first frames, I forgot that Craig was anybody but Bond -- and I instantaneouslyforgot about all the other Bonds, too.
I wondered, like a freshman: Who is this Bond? What is he holding within? What is he waiting to release?
I'd seen Craig, years ago, in Tom Hanks's Road to Perdition, where he was suitably sly and wimpy, and recently, in Spielberg's Munich, where he was approriately tough and thuggish, but here, in this flick, well.
He's something else.
He's made Bond human and agile, remote and in-your-face. Together, all at once, somehow.
He's an actor, in other words.
Not many men in the movies are, but this guy is.
I'm telling you.
He's that good.
And so is the movie.
And this is coming from someone who saw Octopussy and Never Say Never Again at roughly the same time, at the impossibly impressionable age of eight, and thus permanently had both actors cinematically implanted in his brain as dual, twin, mirror-image brothers of Britain's most savage secret agent, and thus was never able to view Lazenby or Dalton or Brosnan as anything but feeble imposters to the majestic Moore and the king-like Connery.
But I'm telling you.
This Bond, well.
Craig is lethal and charming, deadly and witty, and proof positive that it's never too late to inject adrenaline into what may merely appear to be a dying, gasping lifeform.
Watch the steady but relentless way he chases down the bad buys.
Look at the erotically intent but simultaneously nonchalant, almost diffident manner in which he casually thanks drop-dead gorgeous check-in-girls.
From the first frames, I forgot that Craig was anybody but Bond -- and I instantaneouslyforgot about all the other Bonds, too.
I wondered, like a freshman: Who is this Bond? What is he holding within? What is he waiting to release?
I'd seen Craig, years ago, in Tom Hanks's Road to Perdition, where he was suitably sly and wimpy, and recently, in Spielberg's Munich, where he was approriately tough and thuggish, but here, in this flick, well.
He's something else.
He's made Bond human and agile, remote and in-your-face. Together, all at once, somehow.
He's an actor, in other words.
Not many men in the movies are, but this guy is.
I'm telling you.
He's that good.
And so is the movie.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
MARTIAN WATER; FUJI IN THE FOG, LIKE MORK IN THE TABLECLOTH;
Is there water on Mars?
Yes or no, I want to know.
No more of this 'let's-send-our-miniature-land-rover-and-wait-for-its-kodak-moments-to-be-beamed-back-to-us' stuff that the scientists have got going on, the results of which, as was noted a few weeks ago in the press, have been fruitful, yes, but also, suddenly, dormant. No more photos. No more contact with the little remote-controlled car that snapped pics of that alient planet's dips and valleys. NASA has lost contact with the teeny-tiny car; it's gone AWOL.
All those millions and millions of miles it's travelled through space, that dark and lonely frontier, doing its duty for God and the Queen, and now it's gone, somewhere on Mars, under the silver moon, adjacent to the golden sun, buried, perhaps, under an unending army of sand-coloured rocks.
Silent.
Me, I think it's found something.
The little car, I mean.
I suspect it's stumbled upon a group of Martians kicked back around their own cosmic campfire, chilling, slugging back Coors, roasting some marshmallows, Martian-style. (What that style may actually be, I know not.)
The metallic little goofball that the space agency has invested tens of millions of dollars in has unexpectedly found its own form of friends. That's what I believe has happened, or what I would like to believe has taken place.
I mean, think about it. Hurtling through space. All that blackness. Constantly bordering on the infinite. Not easy, I would think, rubbing shoulders with the spacetime continuum. (A lot of pressure, too. Get the pics. Discover mars. Snap some shots. Show us all that planet has to offer.)
I can't blame the machine for hooking up with his newfound homies. If he has, of course. But, if he has, and if those aliens are getting pleasantly buzzed off of their homemade galactic ale, then that means that the long-held rumors, the whispers, the words of hope and awe are true, and the water is there. On Mars. Maybe just a little; maybe just a drop. But there, wet and waiting.
So send us a taste.
if NASA's little R2-D2 has hit the spot, finished its patrol, called it a career, fine. It's done all that needs to be done, and more, as far as I'm concerned. Let the boy retire gracefully under the soft amber glow of the Martian moon, singing electronic songs with his Martian comrades. Solitary no more.
But the water.
Collect it in a bottle, is what I'm asking it to do. One more task, one more flask, that's all. One last mission. Gather that liquid, and toss it back, mail it back, catapult it back to us, to Earth, to me.
I'm patient. I'll wait. I mean, shit, just e-mail me the co-ordinates, and I'll gladly hunker doown outside, in the desert, on the plains, whereever. I know it may take awhile, but that's fine. I'm only thirty-one, after all, which once seemed quite old, but now seems to have a potential and a grace that I had never suspected would come with age.
I've still got time, is what I'm saying, so I can wait. Five, ten years, whatever. I'll sleep under the stars, if need be, and watch the sky, telescope in hand, ready to spot the slow and steady descent of that magnificent silver bottle. I'll even buy a baseball glove, --new, not used. (Leathery and indulgent with that rich, evocative smell that only baseball gloves fresh from the box seem to possess.) To soften the bottle's fast and fiery descent, I will tuck that glove tight onto my right wrist, lefty-style, and hold it firm. That the silver bottle will not shatter, not after such a long and volatile journey -- this, I swear.
(For silver is how I do, indeed, picture the husk of that bottle, the one with the Martian water. Silver, with a hint of the future. Silver, with a slight smattering of dark and red Martian dust spreading across its oval back. I will rub that dust and touch it with my fingers. Of this I am sure.)
I just want to have it in my hands -- that bottle, and that water.
To know that we're not alone.
To believe that what is here can be there, and that life itself, often so fragile and tenuous down on Earth, has a validity and a presence and a sheer, tactile resilience elsewhere, away, beyond what we can precisely see and experience -- this is important to me. Perhaps even essential.
I want to catch that bottle with my glove.
I want to unscrew the lid.
I want to slowly, leisurely, tantalizingly let the taste of that Martian water surge past my teeth and drench my tongue. I will not guzzle, no, but I will gulp, if only once. Life is meant to be gulped.
I want to gulp, and swallow, and lick my lips, and drink once more.
And wait to see how long it takes before the water finally fills me up.
==================================================================
I'm currently reading a very entertaining, if practically incomprehensible (to me) book called The Fabric Of The Cosmos: Space, Time, And The Texture Of Reality by Brian Greene, one of those reader-friendly science tomes that uses X-Files and Simpsons and Chewbacca analogies to make the subject easier for idiots like me, but c'mon, who's kidding who.
(The only time in my life I was pulled out into the hall happened in Ernie Umbrico's Grade 12 Physics class, where I flipped out after getting about ten percent on a test I had studied days for, all to no end. Of course, 'flipped out', for me, meant throwing my test paper bled with red into the air and moaning 'what the hell?' in as loud a voice as possible. Mr.Umbrico, kind soul that he was, currently in a wheelchair but doing fine, from what I hear, took me out into the hall and asked me what was up. I told him that first period was Grade 11 Chemistry, where I didn't know what the hell was going on, every day, all semester, and right after that I walked into Grade 12 Physics, where I didn't know what the hell was going on, repeatedly, all semester. The guidance counsellor had told me it was either Physics or a class called Yearbook; me, not believing a class called Yearbook was even possible, opted for the Physics. Bad call. But I'm still here, and so is Umbrico, I think, so that must stand for something.)
What this book speculates, among other subjects, is that advances in quantum mechanics hint, if not forsee, multiple realities and parallel universes that may, in fact, already exist side-step with our own, individual views of reality.
A lot of scientists and researchers disagree on the subject, of course. I mean, hell, nobody can agree on which Rocky flick is the best, so how could they possibly decide on whether or not alternate universes are a go? (Me, I love Rocky II, always have, although, in my heart of hearts, I know that the first one is the best one. And Rocky Balboa comes out in a few weeks, so I need to reserve judgement until watching this final chapter. As should you.)
Do parellel universes exist?
I don't doubt it.
Just the other day I looked down the street, towards the sky, and it's gone -- Mount Fuji, I mean.
It's not there on certain days. Invisible. Unseen.
On particular days, when winter is fickle, when the air is cool and the clouds are thick, layers upon layers of mist will shroud this, the tallest, grandest of mountains in Japan. Rendering it, well, gone, for all intents and purposes. (Do mountains have intents? Or purposes, for that matter? Just go with me here, okay?)
It's as if David Copperfield decided that the Statue of Liberty wasn't a big enough peak to make disappear and decided, instead, to try his luck with a steeper, craggier target. (Tommy Lee Jones wasn't available, so he opted for Fuji.)
And yet, even when I can't see it, Mount Fuji is there. Hiding. Cloaked. Shrouded.
Which makes me wonder.
What else is here, around me, within me, that can't be seen but must be present?
Like that episode of Mork and Mindy, the one where Robin Williams somehow shrank into Pam Dawber's kitchen tablecloth and discovered another, smaller universe contained within the confines of the molecules of that red-and-white checkered spread of fabric, a world where Steve Martin, in a 'special guest appearance', ran rampant in fields of green and gold.
(Missed that one? You should totally check it out. Completely screwed with my head at the age of seven, and had me checking out various tablecloths on various tables and thinking: "Hmmm...")
Current science -- or what little I understand of it, anyways -- renders the infinite into a somewhat more palatable state of possibility. Fragments of alternate galaxies could be here, now, around us, like Fuji in the fog.
If we're careful, and alert, and awake to the possibility, I'm certain that one day, sometime soon, those worlds will make themselves clear, perhaps even permeable.
We will cross through them, cold and bracing, like fingers pinching snow.
Yes or no, I want to know.
No more of this 'let's-send-our-miniature-land-rover-and-wait-for-its-kodak-moments-to-be-beamed-back-to-us' stuff that the scientists have got going on, the results of which, as was noted a few weeks ago in the press, have been fruitful, yes, but also, suddenly, dormant. No more photos. No more contact with the little remote-controlled car that snapped pics of that alient planet's dips and valleys. NASA has lost contact with the teeny-tiny car; it's gone AWOL.
All those millions and millions of miles it's travelled through space, that dark and lonely frontier, doing its duty for God and the Queen, and now it's gone, somewhere on Mars, under the silver moon, adjacent to the golden sun, buried, perhaps, under an unending army of sand-coloured rocks.
Silent.
Me, I think it's found something.
The little car, I mean.
I suspect it's stumbled upon a group of Martians kicked back around their own cosmic campfire, chilling, slugging back Coors, roasting some marshmallows, Martian-style. (What that style may actually be, I know not.)
The metallic little goofball that the space agency has invested tens of millions of dollars in has unexpectedly found its own form of friends. That's what I believe has happened, or what I would like to believe has taken place.
I mean, think about it. Hurtling through space. All that blackness. Constantly bordering on the infinite. Not easy, I would think, rubbing shoulders with the spacetime continuum. (A lot of pressure, too. Get the pics. Discover mars. Snap some shots. Show us all that planet has to offer.)
I can't blame the machine for hooking up with his newfound homies. If he has, of course. But, if he has, and if those aliens are getting pleasantly buzzed off of their homemade galactic ale, then that means that the long-held rumors, the whispers, the words of hope and awe are true, and the water is there. On Mars. Maybe just a little; maybe just a drop. But there, wet and waiting.
So send us a taste.
if NASA's little R2-D2 has hit the spot, finished its patrol, called it a career, fine. It's done all that needs to be done, and more, as far as I'm concerned. Let the boy retire gracefully under the soft amber glow of the Martian moon, singing electronic songs with his Martian comrades. Solitary no more.
But the water.
Collect it in a bottle, is what I'm asking it to do. One more task, one more flask, that's all. One last mission. Gather that liquid, and toss it back, mail it back, catapult it back to us, to Earth, to me.
I'm patient. I'll wait. I mean, shit, just e-mail me the co-ordinates, and I'll gladly hunker doown outside, in the desert, on the plains, whereever. I know it may take awhile, but that's fine. I'm only thirty-one, after all, which once seemed quite old, but now seems to have a potential and a grace that I had never suspected would come with age.
I've still got time, is what I'm saying, so I can wait. Five, ten years, whatever. I'll sleep under the stars, if need be, and watch the sky, telescope in hand, ready to spot the slow and steady descent of that magnificent silver bottle. I'll even buy a baseball glove, --new, not used. (Leathery and indulgent with that rich, evocative smell that only baseball gloves fresh from the box seem to possess.) To soften the bottle's fast and fiery descent, I will tuck that glove tight onto my right wrist, lefty-style, and hold it firm. That the silver bottle will not shatter, not after such a long and volatile journey -- this, I swear.
(For silver is how I do, indeed, picture the husk of that bottle, the one with the Martian water. Silver, with a hint of the future. Silver, with a slight smattering of dark and red Martian dust spreading across its oval back. I will rub that dust and touch it with my fingers. Of this I am sure.)
I just want to have it in my hands -- that bottle, and that water.
To know that we're not alone.
To believe that what is here can be there, and that life itself, often so fragile and tenuous down on Earth, has a validity and a presence and a sheer, tactile resilience elsewhere, away, beyond what we can precisely see and experience -- this is important to me. Perhaps even essential.
I want to catch that bottle with my glove.
I want to unscrew the lid.
I want to slowly, leisurely, tantalizingly let the taste of that Martian water surge past my teeth and drench my tongue. I will not guzzle, no, but I will gulp, if only once. Life is meant to be gulped.
I want to gulp, and swallow, and lick my lips, and drink once more.
And wait to see how long it takes before the water finally fills me up.
==================================================================
I'm currently reading a very entertaining, if practically incomprehensible (to me) book called The Fabric Of The Cosmos: Space, Time, And The Texture Of Reality by Brian Greene, one of those reader-friendly science tomes that uses X-Files and Simpsons and Chewbacca analogies to make the subject easier for idiots like me, but c'mon, who's kidding who.
(The only time in my life I was pulled out into the hall happened in Ernie Umbrico's Grade 12 Physics class, where I flipped out after getting about ten percent on a test I had studied days for, all to no end. Of course, 'flipped out', for me, meant throwing my test paper bled with red into the air and moaning 'what the hell?' in as loud a voice as possible. Mr.Umbrico, kind soul that he was, currently in a wheelchair but doing fine, from what I hear, took me out into the hall and asked me what was up. I told him that first period was Grade 11 Chemistry, where I didn't know what the hell was going on, every day, all semester, and right after that I walked into Grade 12 Physics, where I didn't know what the hell was going on, repeatedly, all semester. The guidance counsellor had told me it was either Physics or a class called Yearbook; me, not believing a class called Yearbook was even possible, opted for the Physics. Bad call. But I'm still here, and so is Umbrico, I think, so that must stand for something.)
What this book speculates, among other subjects, is that advances in quantum mechanics hint, if not forsee, multiple realities and parallel universes that may, in fact, already exist side-step with our own, individual views of reality.
A lot of scientists and researchers disagree on the subject, of course. I mean, hell, nobody can agree on which Rocky flick is the best, so how could they possibly decide on whether or not alternate universes are a go? (Me, I love Rocky II, always have, although, in my heart of hearts, I know that the first one is the best one. And Rocky Balboa comes out in a few weeks, so I need to reserve judgement until watching this final chapter. As should you.)
Do parellel universes exist?
I don't doubt it.
Just the other day I looked down the street, towards the sky, and it's gone -- Mount Fuji, I mean.
It's not there on certain days. Invisible. Unseen.
On particular days, when winter is fickle, when the air is cool and the clouds are thick, layers upon layers of mist will shroud this, the tallest, grandest of mountains in Japan. Rendering it, well, gone, for all intents and purposes. (Do mountains have intents? Or purposes, for that matter? Just go with me here, okay?)
It's as if David Copperfield decided that the Statue of Liberty wasn't a big enough peak to make disappear and decided, instead, to try his luck with a steeper, craggier target. (Tommy Lee Jones wasn't available, so he opted for Fuji.)
And yet, even when I can't see it, Mount Fuji is there. Hiding. Cloaked. Shrouded.
Which makes me wonder.
What else is here, around me, within me, that can't be seen but must be present?
Like that episode of Mork and Mindy, the one where Robin Williams somehow shrank into Pam Dawber's kitchen tablecloth and discovered another, smaller universe contained within the confines of the molecules of that red-and-white checkered spread of fabric, a world where Steve Martin, in a 'special guest appearance', ran rampant in fields of green and gold.
(Missed that one? You should totally check it out. Completely screwed with my head at the age of seven, and had me checking out various tablecloths on various tables and thinking: "Hmmm...")
Current science -- or what little I understand of it, anyways -- renders the infinite into a somewhat more palatable state of possibility. Fragments of alternate galaxies could be here, now, around us, like Fuji in the fog.
If we're careful, and alert, and awake to the possibility, I'm certain that one day, sometime soon, those worlds will make themselves clear, perhaps even permeable.
We will cross through them, cold and bracing, like fingers pinching snow.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
MY ADVENTURES IN TRANSLATION; IS JAPAN LOSING ITS JAPANESENESS?; THAT CHILD IS LISTENING TO YOU
The following is my (brief) translation of the (brief) prologue to the Japanese book View From A Small Town. (The title is also my translation.)
In Japanese, the follwing four sentences are set apart from each other, read from right to left, descending downward, as is the Japanese reading-and-writing style. No punctuation is used in the original.
Here goes:
This is my town. A small flag stands there.
This is my town. With small shoes I walk.
This is my town. With a tiny voice I sing.
This is my town. A giant rainbow spans its length.
Hmmm...
Not exactly, um, majestic prose, is it. I did my humble best. Pine Grove Public School offered a course in Handwriting, so I took that, instead of the Japanese Translation course they offered. You know how it is. We live with the choices we make.
Here's some of the problems I found myself dealing with.
1) The Lack Of Punctuation -- In Japanese, with its downward structure, the absence of a period is barely noticed. In English, reading left to right, the lack of a final stop would give it a self-conscious, 'arty' tone, which I don't think is present in the original Japanese. So I tacked on the periods at the end of each sentence so that it wouldn't have a pretentious feeling that the original didn't.
2) The Lack Of A Human Subject -- In English, we almost always have to say 'I did this' or 'You did that'; in other words, a person is there, in the sentence, doing stuff, staying active. In Japanese, you don't need a human subject; it's implied, it's obvious, it's better left unsaid. And it's consistent with the collective nature of the people and the culture. Japan was (and is) a very stratified society, with different language being necessary for different levels of rank, thereby downplaying and downgrading the individual, and that's totally reflected in the language.
The problem, though, comes when trying to translate that 'lack of a subject' into our own complicated language known as English.
For this excerpt, there was no problem with the first sentence of each stanza, as, in the Japanese original, there is a subject -- watashi -- which translates, basically, as 'I'. So the repetition of 'This is my town' that begins each section is roughly compatible with the orginal.
But what about the second and third stanzas -- 'with small shoes I walk', ' with a tiny voice I sing', etc. In Japanese, there is no 'I' here -- shoes are being worn, a song is being sung, but nobody specific is doing it. It's just happening.
That sounds quite normal in Japanese. It's one of the cool aspects of the language, offering a nonchalant ambiguity that is imbedded in the way they see the world, in their 'the-whole-is-more-important-than-the-individual' conception of the universe. But were I to translate that directly into English, it would create an odd effect that wasn't present in the original language -- 'small shoes are walking', 'small voices are singing'. "Huh?" the reader of the English version might ask. "Whose shoes? Whose voices?"
Or, I could have thrown in a collective 'we' into the mix -- 'with small shoes we walk', etc., but that would introduce a collective tone that isn't necessarily there, overtly, though it is there, covertly -- in the basic structure of the Japanese language, the collective consciousness inherent in the language itself. But that consciousness is not at all inherent in English, and therein lies the rub. However, given that the first sentence does include -- in the original Japanese -- the overt, obvious presence of the 'I' narrator, I felt it was more important to preserve that voice than maintain a collective one that would deviate from what I perceive to be the author's original, more personal intent.
Whew.
Confused yet?
I am.
The translator of Japanese into English, besides taking on the difficulties of the language itself, will be constantly forced to figure out how to take a language that often omits its main subject from the sentence and somehow transfer it to one where such a subject is almost always present. Four different people could have translated what I did four different ways, depending on how they viewed the original tone, and what they decided was the best way to embody that particular essence in English.
Somebody famous once said that you can't know your own language until you know another one, and I'm starting to believe that. There is a world out there in words other than our own, and it's a fascinating one.
What tone or effect is the author going for? we have to ask. And how can one get that in English without changing too much the taste and texture of the original Japanese?
That's the challenge.
(And the curse, perhaps...)
People ask my why I haven't studied Cambodia's Khmer or the Philippines' Tagalog more than I have.
All I can say is: "Do you know how long it takes me to translate three or four sentences in Japanese?"
Adding one or two more tongues, at this stage, would make the padded room with its comfy straitjacket seem very, very inviting.
************************************************************************************
I remember reading an article last year, in the Philippines, in NEWSWEEK, about how Japan was slowly but steadily losing its Japaneseness, and whenever I read one of those kinds of analyses (published annually, or so it seems), I always wonder what crack the author is smoking, and where they bought it, and whether they've thought about getting their money back.
Of course western culture has invaded Japan, the Far East, the Orient. And certainly the young people are enamored of all things American -- and British, to a certain extent. Canadian, um, not so much. Though the youngsters sure as hell love them some Avril Lavigne, so at least we got that going on.
But look.
At the way the trains run to the minute.
At the manner in which young people past twenty maintain an innocence worthy of the age of twelve, or a teenager at most.
At the language, the sound of it, its density, its prevalence, in bookshops and newsstands where English is banished to a meager, sheltered corner, like a child in a dunce cap at the corner of the room.
At the smells of beef and fish and rice.
At the uniformed ladies in blue, crisply, punctually, metronomically guiding the children safely across the narrow path of the road.
At the generous cushion drivers allow one another at stop lights and crosswalks, themselves set so far back from the traffic lights.
At the machines that ignite when they sense your oncoming, approaching footsteps.
At the tip of Mount Fuji, glistening white in the near distance.
At the neon lights and unending pulse that hint at another, alternate beat, vivid but opaque, impenetrable in its amber glow.
Returning, observing, with alien eyes, Japan, to me, for what that's worth, seems more Japanese than ever. Comparing to Canada, to Cambodia, to the Philippines, it seems more like itself than it ever was.
Finding out what that exactly means is an inquiry best left abandoned. Deciding that a country is somehow losing itself hints at an audacity and arrogance that is not only misguided but somehow inherently corrupt in and of itself, as if the soul of a land can be categorized and qualified, weighed and measured, dismissed and affirmed after cursory glances.
With thousands of years of its own identity hiding behind the glow of that fragile red sun, for better or worse, for good or for ill, I suspect that Japan and all its Japaneseness is present, now, and not going anywhere but here.
************************************************************************************
Sometimes I wonder what the scholars of the future are thinking as they review the endless visual and written date that accumlates, by our own individual seconds, minutes and hours, as the web expands, and us along with it.
Surely all of our blogs and emails are accessible via some monumentally small, skin-implanted microchip somewhere and on someone in the year 2347. The birth of the electronic self has been continuing for the past, what, fifty years, and we are surely still at the root of its laborious entry into all that will come.
And there, after, ahead, centuries down the line, sits a young boy or girl, reading these words, and yours, too, the way we pull dusty books off forgotten shelves. That child wonders what this time, our time, was like, the way we speculate about Dickens' London or the red-stained grass of the American Civil War. Only those in the future, our descendants, will have proof -- blogs, random emails, lists of downloaded songs and photos. Us, virtual, for them. Me and you and this very posting are already there, in the future, being read. The 'me' that is me, now, here, in Japan, and the 'you' that is you, there, in Australia, America, Canada, the Philippines, Malaysia, whereever, is long gone, but your imprint has lasted. Of this, I am sure.
And that boy. Or that girl. Somewhen. Right now (only hundreds of years later), that child is reading your emails, staring at your photos, wondering what made you tick, why you did what you did, when you laughed and who you loved, where you went and what you treasured, before you were, against your will, forced to leave.
That child is listening to you.
In Japanese, the follwing four sentences are set apart from each other, read from right to left, descending downward, as is the Japanese reading-and-writing style. No punctuation is used in the original.
Here goes:
This is my town. A small flag stands there.
This is my town. With small shoes I walk.
This is my town. With a tiny voice I sing.
This is my town. A giant rainbow spans its length.
Hmmm...
Not exactly, um, majestic prose, is it. I did my humble best. Pine Grove Public School offered a course in Handwriting, so I took that, instead of the Japanese Translation course they offered. You know how it is. We live with the choices we make.
Here's some of the problems I found myself dealing with.
1) The Lack Of Punctuation -- In Japanese, with its downward structure, the absence of a period is barely noticed. In English, reading left to right, the lack of a final stop would give it a self-conscious, 'arty' tone, which I don't think is present in the original Japanese. So I tacked on the periods at the end of each sentence so that it wouldn't have a pretentious feeling that the original didn't.
2) The Lack Of A Human Subject -- In English, we almost always have to say 'I did this' or 'You did that'; in other words, a person is there, in the sentence, doing stuff, staying active. In Japanese, you don't need a human subject; it's implied, it's obvious, it's better left unsaid. And it's consistent with the collective nature of the people and the culture. Japan was (and is) a very stratified society, with different language being necessary for different levels of rank, thereby downplaying and downgrading the individual, and that's totally reflected in the language.
The problem, though, comes when trying to translate that 'lack of a subject' into our own complicated language known as English.
For this excerpt, there was no problem with the first sentence of each stanza, as, in the Japanese original, there is a subject -- watashi -- which translates, basically, as 'I'. So the repetition of 'This is my town' that begins each section is roughly compatible with the orginal.
But what about the second and third stanzas -- 'with small shoes I walk', ' with a tiny voice I sing', etc. In Japanese, there is no 'I' here -- shoes are being worn, a song is being sung, but nobody specific is doing it. It's just happening.
That sounds quite normal in Japanese. It's one of the cool aspects of the language, offering a nonchalant ambiguity that is imbedded in the way they see the world, in their 'the-whole-is-more-important-than-the-individual' conception of the universe. But were I to translate that directly into English, it would create an odd effect that wasn't present in the original language -- 'small shoes are walking', 'small voices are singing'. "Huh?" the reader of the English version might ask. "Whose shoes? Whose voices?"
Or, I could have thrown in a collective 'we' into the mix -- 'with small shoes we walk', etc., but that would introduce a collective tone that isn't necessarily there, overtly, though it is there, covertly -- in the basic structure of the Japanese language, the collective consciousness inherent in the language itself. But that consciousness is not at all inherent in English, and therein lies the rub. However, given that the first sentence does include -- in the original Japanese -- the overt, obvious presence of the 'I' narrator, I felt it was more important to preserve that voice than maintain a collective one that would deviate from what I perceive to be the author's original, more personal intent.
Whew.
Confused yet?
I am.
The translator of Japanese into English, besides taking on the difficulties of the language itself, will be constantly forced to figure out how to take a language that often omits its main subject from the sentence and somehow transfer it to one where such a subject is almost always present. Four different people could have translated what I did four different ways, depending on how they viewed the original tone, and what they decided was the best way to embody that particular essence in English.
Somebody famous once said that you can't know your own language until you know another one, and I'm starting to believe that. There is a world out there in words other than our own, and it's a fascinating one.
What tone or effect is the author going for? we have to ask. And how can one get that in English without changing too much the taste and texture of the original Japanese?
That's the challenge.
(And the curse, perhaps...)
People ask my why I haven't studied Cambodia's Khmer or the Philippines' Tagalog more than I have.
All I can say is: "Do you know how long it takes me to translate three or four sentences in Japanese?"
Adding one or two more tongues, at this stage, would make the padded room with its comfy straitjacket seem very, very inviting.
************************************************************************************
I remember reading an article last year, in the Philippines, in NEWSWEEK, about how Japan was slowly but steadily losing its Japaneseness, and whenever I read one of those kinds of analyses (published annually, or so it seems), I always wonder what crack the author is smoking, and where they bought it, and whether they've thought about getting their money back.
Of course western culture has invaded Japan, the Far East, the Orient. And certainly the young people are enamored of all things American -- and British, to a certain extent. Canadian, um, not so much. Though the youngsters sure as hell love them some Avril Lavigne, so at least we got that going on.
But look.
At the way the trains run to the minute.
At the manner in which young people past twenty maintain an innocence worthy of the age of twelve, or a teenager at most.
At the language, the sound of it, its density, its prevalence, in bookshops and newsstands where English is banished to a meager, sheltered corner, like a child in a dunce cap at the corner of the room.
At the smells of beef and fish and rice.
At the uniformed ladies in blue, crisply, punctually, metronomically guiding the children safely across the narrow path of the road.
At the generous cushion drivers allow one another at stop lights and crosswalks, themselves set so far back from the traffic lights.
At the machines that ignite when they sense your oncoming, approaching footsteps.
At the tip of Mount Fuji, glistening white in the near distance.
At the neon lights and unending pulse that hint at another, alternate beat, vivid but opaque, impenetrable in its amber glow.
Returning, observing, with alien eyes, Japan, to me, for what that's worth, seems more Japanese than ever. Comparing to Canada, to Cambodia, to the Philippines, it seems more like itself than it ever was.
Finding out what that exactly means is an inquiry best left abandoned. Deciding that a country is somehow losing itself hints at an audacity and arrogance that is not only misguided but somehow inherently corrupt in and of itself, as if the soul of a land can be categorized and qualified, weighed and measured, dismissed and affirmed after cursory glances.
With thousands of years of its own identity hiding behind the glow of that fragile red sun, for better or worse, for good or for ill, I suspect that Japan and all its Japaneseness is present, now, and not going anywhere but here.
************************************************************************************
Sometimes I wonder what the scholars of the future are thinking as they review the endless visual and written date that accumlates, by our own individual seconds, minutes and hours, as the web expands, and us along with it.
Surely all of our blogs and emails are accessible via some monumentally small, skin-implanted microchip somewhere and on someone in the year 2347. The birth of the electronic self has been continuing for the past, what, fifty years, and we are surely still at the root of its laborious entry into all that will come.
And there, after, ahead, centuries down the line, sits a young boy or girl, reading these words, and yours, too, the way we pull dusty books off forgotten shelves. That child wonders what this time, our time, was like, the way we speculate about Dickens' London or the red-stained grass of the American Civil War. Only those in the future, our descendants, will have proof -- blogs, random emails, lists of downloaded songs and photos. Us, virtual, for them. Me and you and this very posting are already there, in the future, being read. The 'me' that is me, now, here, in Japan, and the 'you' that is you, there, in Australia, America, Canada, the Philippines, Malaysia, whereever, is long gone, but your imprint has lasted. Of this, I am sure.
And that boy. Or that girl. Somewhen. Right now (only hundreds of years later), that child is reading your emails, staring at your photos, wondering what made you tick, why you did what you did, when you laughed and who you loved, where you went and what you treasured, before you were, against your will, forced to leave.
That child is listening to you.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
THE RETURN OF THE DREADED, UNSTOPPABLE NHK MAN
The doorbell rang.
Me, here less than a week, and not exactly bulging with new acquaintances, foreign or Japanese, was a bit surprised. Who`s that knocking at my door, as Scorsese might have asked.
I opened it.
Ah.
I should have known.
He was back.
The dreaded, nefarious, unstoppable NHK man.
NHK is the Japanese equivalent of PBS or TV Ontario, but, unlike our North American public broadcasting equivalents, the Japanese version is not content raise funds by such puny, pathetic tactics as bi-annual, marathon weekend pledge-fests. No, here in Japan, when they want your support, they don`t wait for you to maybe, possibly, conceivably donate -- they come right to your door to grab your cash.
Suited up in dark blue and sleeky gray like Robocop at his best, with a similar exhaustive, noble and cleansing mission to fulfill -- the NHK man, ready for action.
"Ah," he said, looking me up and down, more than surprised, possibly even perplexed -- this was not in the manual.
"Good evening," I said.
"You're a foreigner," he said.
(Does it sound as awkward in English as it does in Japanese? I think it does, but he said it anyways.)
"That's right," I said, nodding. "I'm a foreigner."
"An American?"
"No, I'm Canadian."
"Oh, I see," he said. "This is NHK..."
I nodded.
"Do you have a television?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, "but I don`t use it."
(Which was technically the truth; I couldn't figure out how to use it, truth be told.)
"I see," he said, drawing out the phrase, looking down at his little calculator-type-thingee.
"Is everything okay, then?" I asked. (Daijobu desu-ka?)
"Yes," he finally said, after a lengthy pause. He then nodded, giving me a strained, perfunctory smile, before heading out on his way. Foiled again.
Phew.
I'm not completely sure what the deal is, although a few days ago, and a few days after my encounter, the newspaper here said that NHK was going to crack down on people with TVs who refused to pay. And since NHK is available on every Japanese television set, and since more people watch more TV per capita here than anybody else in the entire free world, that's, well, a lot of coin they're waiting to collect.
For me, though, the solution seems simple: when the NHK man comes, don`t open the door.
'Cause I ain`t paying.
Of course, I do feel a little bad for the NHK man; I'm not sure what happened to him when returned to the office. Did he get reprimanded by his superior, his co-workers, even his wife? He knocked on my apartment door around six or so, doing the supper-time rounds, I suppose, but most Japanese work extremely late hours, anyway, so I'm betting that those doors he did knock on, other than mine, went entirely unanswered. And so not only was he not collecting their fees, but how did he explain my reluctance to cough up any cash?
"Well, there was a foreigner living in the Leo-Palace apartment," he might have said to his colleagues, as he sipped some coffee and dragged on his cigarette. "You know those foreigners..." And they might have nodded, too, and sipped on their coffee, dragged on their own cigarettes. Another night at the office, that's all.
Not that I minded his sudden appearance. A little more Japanese practice for me; a little novelty in the night.
But still.
The next time my doorbell rings, I'm checking my peephole first.
These NHK men, nice as they are, harmless as they are, can be persistent little buggers. And I'm worried that next time, knowing my resistance, he might decided to bring in reinforcements.
Who knows what could happen then...
Me, here less than a week, and not exactly bulging with new acquaintances, foreign or Japanese, was a bit surprised. Who`s that knocking at my door, as Scorsese might have asked.
I opened it.
Ah.
I should have known.
He was back.
The dreaded, nefarious, unstoppable NHK man.
NHK is the Japanese equivalent of PBS or TV Ontario, but, unlike our North American public broadcasting equivalents, the Japanese version is not content raise funds by such puny, pathetic tactics as bi-annual, marathon weekend pledge-fests. No, here in Japan, when they want your support, they don`t wait for you to maybe, possibly, conceivably donate -- they come right to your door to grab your cash.
Suited up in dark blue and sleeky gray like Robocop at his best, with a similar exhaustive, noble and cleansing mission to fulfill -- the NHK man, ready for action.
"Ah," he said, looking me up and down, more than surprised, possibly even perplexed -- this was not in the manual.
"Good evening," I said.
"You're a foreigner," he said.
(Does it sound as awkward in English as it does in Japanese? I think it does, but he said it anyways.)
"That's right," I said, nodding. "I'm a foreigner."
"An American?"
"No, I'm Canadian."
"Oh, I see," he said. "This is NHK..."
I nodded.
"Do you have a television?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, "but I don`t use it."
(Which was technically the truth; I couldn't figure out how to use it, truth be told.)
"I see," he said, drawing out the phrase, looking down at his little calculator-type-thingee.
"Is everything okay, then?" I asked. (Daijobu desu-ka?)
"Yes," he finally said, after a lengthy pause. He then nodded, giving me a strained, perfunctory smile, before heading out on his way. Foiled again.
Phew.
I'm not completely sure what the deal is, although a few days ago, and a few days after my encounter, the newspaper here said that NHK was going to crack down on people with TVs who refused to pay. And since NHK is available on every Japanese television set, and since more people watch more TV per capita here than anybody else in the entire free world, that's, well, a lot of coin they're waiting to collect.
For me, though, the solution seems simple: when the NHK man comes, don`t open the door.
'Cause I ain`t paying.
Of course, I do feel a little bad for the NHK man; I'm not sure what happened to him when returned to the office. Did he get reprimanded by his superior, his co-workers, even his wife? He knocked on my apartment door around six or so, doing the supper-time rounds, I suppose, but most Japanese work extremely late hours, anyway, so I'm betting that those doors he did knock on, other than mine, went entirely unanswered. And so not only was he not collecting their fees, but how did he explain my reluctance to cough up any cash?
"Well, there was a foreigner living in the Leo-Palace apartment," he might have said to his colleagues, as he sipped some coffee and dragged on his cigarette. "You know those foreigners..." And they might have nodded, too, and sipped on their coffee, dragged on their own cigarettes. Another night at the office, that's all.
Not that I minded his sudden appearance. A little more Japanese practice for me; a little novelty in the night.
But still.
The next time my doorbell rings, I'm checking my peephole first.
These NHK men, nice as they are, harmless as they are, can be persistent little buggers. And I'm worried that next time, knowing my resistance, he might decided to bring in reinforcements.
Who knows what could happen then...
Saturday, November 04, 2006
RANDOM THOUGHTS ON MY RETURN TO JAPAN
The first thing you realize upon landing at Tokyo International Airport is that it is not in Tokyo at all. I knew this, but I had forgotten this. I remembered, eventually, because to get to Tokyo you have to take the Narita Express, an ultra-fast train that will smoothly house, transport and deposit you within ninety minutes in downtown Tokyo. Watching the scenery glide by, a perfect red orb of a sun -- the flag itself, suspended, emerging -- hung in the air, and I was struck by how familiar everything seemed, recollected, not forgotten. Sights, sounds, sensations, waiting to be remembered.
- Perhaps it`s because I live only twenty minutes from where I lived previously (three and a half years ago, for four years), but I`m amazed at how quickly and effortlessly I`ve slipped back into Japan. Away, abroad, it regains its mystical, oriental allure; here, now, it is what it is, a place like every other place, unique only in its own uniqueness. Every place becomes something more when you leave it; returning, it becomes what it has always been. I have a job to do, and so does everyone else; there is little cultural romance, few indulgent emotional excursions, because life itself is for the living, not the recollecting. (And yet even as I write these words, so declarative in their absoluteness, I understand that this is not necessarily the case. I`m remembering what I hadn`t realized I`d forgotten in its absoluteness: the systematic politeness of everyone; the smoothly plastic way all the interlocking parts of this society hum and thrive; the lull of safety the country exudes. One can open one`s wallet in a public place and not worry about snatchers, thieves, delinquents. Even the tough-looking teens are only posing, and they know it too, but a pose is still an attitude, and an attitude is always a statement. Ironic, though, because I have spent over three and a half years away from this country, in poor and dangerous places like Cambodia and the Philippines, and yet where was the only place where I was physically harmed? Why, right here, in Japan, whacked in the gut with a two-by-four by a crazy homeless man. So safety is always an illusion.)
-- You can give a convenience store clerk 10000 yen, the equivalent of a hundred dollars, even if you buy only a five cent candy, and there is no problem getting change.
-- The Internet cafe I`m writing this at has a fucking shower. Make of that what you will.
-- I spent twenty minutes the other night on the phone, with the deliveryman who was supposed to deliver my apartment`s pots and pans, dishes and utensils, only he had my old address, the one my company had already altered before I arrived, and so he didn't know where he was supposed to go, and I couldn't find my new, present address, so I tried to think of what I should do, and so did he, the guy on the phone, until finally, amidst my stack of cluttered papers and pens, I found it, my address, and I read it to him over the phone, and he, comprehending, informed me that my junk would be delivered sometime that night, and after I hung up, I breathed a long and nervous breath and realized that I had spoken entirely in Japanese, every word, and that though I hadn't understood probably half of what he'd said, we'd communicated, discussed, reached an agreement, and I felt almost proud, like a child who has made it through science class without destroying the lab.
--I'm again impressed by the collective whole that seems to coagulate here. Everybody reduces themselves to be part of something bigger -- a society, perhaps. All people in all countries do this, I suppose, but in Japan the insitutionalized civility hints at a larger, more complete symbiosis. Happiness is not necessarily guaranteed, but order certainly is. That must count for something.
-- At times in the past few days I've felt like Rocky Balboa in Rocky V. Broke, back in the old neighbourhood, wife Adrian returning to her job at the local pet store -- the Italian Stallion can hardly believe it. As the metro rain rumbles on by overhead, Rocky calles out to his beloved from across the street, across the metallic grumble: "Yo, Adrian, " he asks, "did we ever leave this place?" She thinks about it. "I don`t know," she finally says. I know the feeling. I feel the same way, now, but I also remember the carefully carved stones dotting the landscape of Angkor Wat in Siem Reap, Cambodia, and kneeling beside Ho Chi Minh`s old Rolls Royce in Sagion, Vietnam, and wading in the perfect-blue ocean of the Filipino sea, and I think: Yes, I've left, been there and back again, to paraphrase Tolkien.
-- It is a nice feeling to be surrounded by mountains.
-- Nice, too, to have hot water, a shower, luxuries not available in Baguio, in the Philippines. My first time in Japan I was struck by the superficial cultural oddities, but now I appreciate and have a context for the everyday wealth of a developed country. After two and a half years in Cambodia, and one in the Philippines, I can see and smell and taste how goddamn lucky our part of the world truly is. To be able to drink tap water; to have paved roads ready for driving. All of this -- here, but not there. I didn`t understand that before, not even a little, but now I do, maybe a little.
-- A country is what it prioritizes. In Japan, timeliness is everything, order is everything, alignment is everyting. I sat on the train and watched a young trainee, female in a dark blue suit, bordering on grey, wearing a tie and a hat, learn about the proper way to do whatever it is that Japanese train conductors do. The train puilled into a station; she stepped inside as her superior, early thirties, male, stepped out and carefully studied the black-and-white monitors attached to the guardrails. He looked down the track; looked back to the monitors; a slight nod. Then, back to the train, relaxed, smiling and pointing things out to his young trainee. She looked nervous but intent, wanting to succeed.
-- Yesterday was a series of accidents. My projected thirty minute walk through my rural neighbourhood turned into a ninety-minute jaunt when I took a wrong turn. No matter. The day was cool, the mountains imposing but protective. Everything smelled like the Japan I remember. After a year in the mountains of Bagiuo and a few days in this Japanese countryside, the dusty stench of Phnom Penh seems far away indeed.
-- Later, I asked the policeman manning the police box next to the station for the little bookshop I had found the day before. (Police boxes, or koban, are found in every town in Japan, and are often -- if not primarily -- used as places where one can ask for directions, as buildings in Japan are numbered not consecutively, but according to when they were built, resulting in absolutely madness...) I thought I remembered where the shop was, but I felt like practicing my meager Japanese. The policeman told me to go straight ahead for a few hundred metres, and it would be on my left. I thanked him, went on my way, and then slowly realized that this was not where I went yesterday. Whatever. The place I found was more interesting, anyway. A used-book shop, dusty and compact. I picked up an old Yukio Mishima hardback called 'Nikutani ni Tsuite', or, 'Regarding the Flesh', according to my (most likely) mangled Japanese syntax. I also bought a small paperback Japanese translation of a Ross Macdonald detective novel. (There's no way, of course, that I can actually read either of these books in full, but I can poke my way along, my trusted kanji dictionary by my side.) I asked the owner how old the shop was, and he, thinking, calculating, told me it was twenty-three years old. More Japanese speaking practice for me. Simple, but refreshing. It's been a long time since I've been able to speak what little I can. (A few weeks back, in the Philippines, I spoke Japanese with Helen's Japanese teacher. "Ah, my Nihongo is like a baby's," I said, in Japanese. "No, no, Scott-san," she said. "More like an elementary school student, maybe." It was meant as a compliment -- I think -- so I took it as one.) I walked out of the little used-book store, the honya, already planning to purchase sometime later the Japanese translation of one of my favorite Norma Mailer books, The Fight, his chronicle of Ali and Foreman's 'Rumble In The Jungle'. How would Mailer's electric, elastic, vigorous prose be rendered in Japanese? I won't be able to read it straight through for years -- if ever -- but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or else what's a heaven for?
-- All Japanese cars, every single one of them, at all times, look as if they had just rolled off the lot, been washed and scrubbed, waxed and glistened: pristine, flawless, perfect. I mean, every, single, fucking, one. How is that possible? Does everybody wash their cars every day, right before they head out?
-- I`ve never seen the movie, but my brother's old running buddy, Mike McGowan, past winner of the Detroit Marathon, has become a successful writer and director in Canada, and his last flick, Saint Ralph (featuring Campbell Scott and Meg Tilly) is about a teenager who decides to win the Boston Marathon, hoping that his ambitious quest will somehow cure his mother of cancer. (Or something like that.) Cancer does that to you. It fills you with impossible bargains that God, or the universe that stands in for Him, has no obligation whatsoever to meet, but you make these deals anyway. Because everything else is so completely and totally out of your hands. Part of me has decided that I will continue my fitness kick, and begin to translate a Japanese book, and, by doing so, God, or the universe, will stem the onslaught of Helen's cancer. This is ridiculous, irrational and slightly mad, but so is cancer itself, and perhaps the universe is fond of individual irrationality, and will seek to reward it in some such fashion.
-- So I picked a book at random from the shelves at BOOK OFF, the used-book store chain here in Japan. (The name of which still strikes me as borderline offensive, so closely does it sound like 'Fuck Off' -- but maybe that's just me.) The book's title, translated by me, is THE SMALL TOWN'S VIEW. Or THE LANDSCAPE OF A SMALL TOWN. Or VIEW FROM A SMALL TOWN. It all depends. Shifting languages from one to the other is always mercurial and often arbitrary. I felt a quiet thrill as, with my dictionary, I figured out the name of the book in English. I have no idea whether the book or the author is famous. Maybe it's been translated into English before; maybe it hasn't. Maybe I'm the only English-speaking person in the world who has taken the trouble to render it in my own tongue. It's possible, especially if neither the book nor the writer are particularly well-established. The book itself is far, far, far above my level, but my plan is to read it through once, taking note of what I can understand, not worrying about what I can't. (Japanese is made up of three simultaneously used writing systems -- two of which, hiragana and katakana, are phonetic, and the memorization of these sixty or so characters is not so difficult. The other system utilizes kanji, or Chinese characters, of which there are over two thousand in common usage, each of which has at least two or three possible sounds, and all of which are used in synch with hiragana and katakana. Centuries ago, Spanish missionaries were convinced that kanji, and Japanese in general, was a language created by the Devil to thwart their attempts to convert the locals to Christianity. I'm almost incline to agree with them.) And so, after haphazardly making my way through the book the first time, I'll go back and, page by page, with my kanji dictionary, attempt my own, undoubtedly ludicrous, faulty, misguided and clumsy translation. And, by doing this, and staying physically fit, the universe will comply and keep her cancer at bay. Other people pray. This is my form of prayer.
- Perhaps it`s because I live only twenty minutes from where I lived previously (three and a half years ago, for four years), but I`m amazed at how quickly and effortlessly I`ve slipped back into Japan. Away, abroad, it regains its mystical, oriental allure; here, now, it is what it is, a place like every other place, unique only in its own uniqueness. Every place becomes something more when you leave it; returning, it becomes what it has always been. I have a job to do, and so does everyone else; there is little cultural romance, few indulgent emotional excursions, because life itself is for the living, not the recollecting. (And yet even as I write these words, so declarative in their absoluteness, I understand that this is not necessarily the case. I`m remembering what I hadn`t realized I`d forgotten in its absoluteness: the systematic politeness of everyone; the smoothly plastic way all the interlocking parts of this society hum and thrive; the lull of safety the country exudes. One can open one`s wallet in a public place and not worry about snatchers, thieves, delinquents. Even the tough-looking teens are only posing, and they know it too, but a pose is still an attitude, and an attitude is always a statement. Ironic, though, because I have spent over three and a half years away from this country, in poor and dangerous places like Cambodia and the Philippines, and yet where was the only place where I was physically harmed? Why, right here, in Japan, whacked in the gut with a two-by-four by a crazy homeless man. So safety is always an illusion.)
-- You can give a convenience store clerk 10000 yen, the equivalent of a hundred dollars, even if you buy only a five cent candy, and there is no problem getting change.
-- The Internet cafe I`m writing this at has a fucking shower. Make of that what you will.
-- I spent twenty minutes the other night on the phone, with the deliveryman who was supposed to deliver my apartment`s pots and pans, dishes and utensils, only he had my old address, the one my company had already altered before I arrived, and so he didn't know where he was supposed to go, and I couldn't find my new, present address, so I tried to think of what I should do, and so did he, the guy on the phone, until finally, amidst my stack of cluttered papers and pens, I found it, my address, and I read it to him over the phone, and he, comprehending, informed me that my junk would be delivered sometime that night, and after I hung up, I breathed a long and nervous breath and realized that I had spoken entirely in Japanese, every word, and that though I hadn't understood probably half of what he'd said, we'd communicated, discussed, reached an agreement, and I felt almost proud, like a child who has made it through science class without destroying the lab.
--I'm again impressed by the collective whole that seems to coagulate here. Everybody reduces themselves to be part of something bigger -- a society, perhaps. All people in all countries do this, I suppose, but in Japan the insitutionalized civility hints at a larger, more complete symbiosis. Happiness is not necessarily guaranteed, but order certainly is. That must count for something.
-- At times in the past few days I've felt like Rocky Balboa in Rocky V. Broke, back in the old neighbourhood, wife Adrian returning to her job at the local pet store -- the Italian Stallion can hardly believe it. As the metro rain rumbles on by overhead, Rocky calles out to his beloved from across the street, across the metallic grumble: "Yo, Adrian, " he asks, "did we ever leave this place?" She thinks about it. "I don`t know," she finally says. I know the feeling. I feel the same way, now, but I also remember the carefully carved stones dotting the landscape of Angkor Wat in Siem Reap, Cambodia, and kneeling beside Ho Chi Minh`s old Rolls Royce in Sagion, Vietnam, and wading in the perfect-blue ocean of the Filipino sea, and I think: Yes, I've left, been there and back again, to paraphrase Tolkien.
-- It is a nice feeling to be surrounded by mountains.
-- Nice, too, to have hot water, a shower, luxuries not available in Baguio, in the Philippines. My first time in Japan I was struck by the superficial cultural oddities, but now I appreciate and have a context for the everyday wealth of a developed country. After two and a half years in Cambodia, and one in the Philippines, I can see and smell and taste how goddamn lucky our part of the world truly is. To be able to drink tap water; to have paved roads ready for driving. All of this -- here, but not there. I didn`t understand that before, not even a little, but now I do, maybe a little.
-- A country is what it prioritizes. In Japan, timeliness is everything, order is everything, alignment is everyting. I sat on the train and watched a young trainee, female in a dark blue suit, bordering on grey, wearing a tie and a hat, learn about the proper way to do whatever it is that Japanese train conductors do. The train puilled into a station; she stepped inside as her superior, early thirties, male, stepped out and carefully studied the black-and-white monitors attached to the guardrails. He looked down the track; looked back to the monitors; a slight nod. Then, back to the train, relaxed, smiling and pointing things out to his young trainee. She looked nervous but intent, wanting to succeed.
-- Yesterday was a series of accidents. My projected thirty minute walk through my rural neighbourhood turned into a ninety-minute jaunt when I took a wrong turn. No matter. The day was cool, the mountains imposing but protective. Everything smelled like the Japan I remember. After a year in the mountains of Bagiuo and a few days in this Japanese countryside, the dusty stench of Phnom Penh seems far away indeed.
-- Later, I asked the policeman manning the police box next to the station for the little bookshop I had found the day before. (Police boxes, or koban, are found in every town in Japan, and are often -- if not primarily -- used as places where one can ask for directions, as buildings in Japan are numbered not consecutively, but according to when they were built, resulting in absolutely madness...) I thought I remembered where the shop was, but I felt like practicing my meager Japanese. The policeman told me to go straight ahead for a few hundred metres, and it would be on my left. I thanked him, went on my way, and then slowly realized that this was not where I went yesterday. Whatever. The place I found was more interesting, anyway. A used-book shop, dusty and compact. I picked up an old Yukio Mishima hardback called 'Nikutani ni Tsuite', or, 'Regarding the Flesh', according to my (most likely) mangled Japanese syntax. I also bought a small paperback Japanese translation of a Ross Macdonald detective novel. (There's no way, of course, that I can actually read either of these books in full, but I can poke my way along, my trusted kanji dictionary by my side.) I asked the owner how old the shop was, and he, thinking, calculating, told me it was twenty-three years old. More Japanese speaking practice for me. Simple, but refreshing. It's been a long time since I've been able to speak what little I can. (A few weeks back, in the Philippines, I spoke Japanese with Helen's Japanese teacher. "Ah, my Nihongo is like a baby's," I said, in Japanese. "No, no, Scott-san," she said. "More like an elementary school student, maybe." It was meant as a compliment -- I think -- so I took it as one.) I walked out of the little used-book store, the honya, already planning to purchase sometime later the Japanese translation of one of my favorite Norma Mailer books, The Fight, his chronicle of Ali and Foreman's 'Rumble In The Jungle'. How would Mailer's electric, elastic, vigorous prose be rendered in Japanese? I won't be able to read it straight through for years -- if ever -- but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or else what's a heaven for?
-- All Japanese cars, every single one of them, at all times, look as if they had just rolled off the lot, been washed and scrubbed, waxed and glistened: pristine, flawless, perfect. I mean, every, single, fucking, one. How is that possible? Does everybody wash their cars every day, right before they head out?
-- I`ve never seen the movie, but my brother's old running buddy, Mike McGowan, past winner of the Detroit Marathon, has become a successful writer and director in Canada, and his last flick, Saint Ralph (featuring Campbell Scott and Meg Tilly) is about a teenager who decides to win the Boston Marathon, hoping that his ambitious quest will somehow cure his mother of cancer. (Or something like that.) Cancer does that to you. It fills you with impossible bargains that God, or the universe that stands in for Him, has no obligation whatsoever to meet, but you make these deals anyway. Because everything else is so completely and totally out of your hands. Part of me has decided that I will continue my fitness kick, and begin to translate a Japanese book, and, by doing so, God, or the universe, will stem the onslaught of Helen's cancer. This is ridiculous, irrational and slightly mad, but so is cancer itself, and perhaps the universe is fond of individual irrationality, and will seek to reward it in some such fashion.
-- So I picked a book at random from the shelves at BOOK OFF, the used-book store chain here in Japan. (The name of which still strikes me as borderline offensive, so closely does it sound like 'Fuck Off' -- but maybe that's just me.) The book's title, translated by me, is THE SMALL TOWN'S VIEW. Or THE LANDSCAPE OF A SMALL TOWN. Or VIEW FROM A SMALL TOWN. It all depends. Shifting languages from one to the other is always mercurial and often arbitrary. I felt a quiet thrill as, with my dictionary, I figured out the name of the book in English. I have no idea whether the book or the author is famous. Maybe it's been translated into English before; maybe it hasn't. Maybe I'm the only English-speaking person in the world who has taken the trouble to render it in my own tongue. It's possible, especially if neither the book nor the writer are particularly well-established. The book itself is far, far, far above my level, but my plan is to read it through once, taking note of what I can understand, not worrying about what I can't. (Japanese is made up of three simultaneously used writing systems -- two of which, hiragana and katakana, are phonetic, and the memorization of these sixty or so characters is not so difficult. The other system utilizes kanji, or Chinese characters, of which there are over two thousand in common usage, each of which has at least two or three possible sounds, and all of which are used in synch with hiragana and katakana. Centuries ago, Spanish missionaries were convinced that kanji, and Japanese in general, was a language created by the Devil to thwart their attempts to convert the locals to Christianity. I'm almost incline to agree with them.) And so, after haphazardly making my way through the book the first time, I'll go back and, page by page, with my kanji dictionary, attempt my own, undoubtedly ludicrous, faulty, misguided and clumsy translation. And, by doing this, and staying physically fit, the universe will comply and keep her cancer at bay. Other people pray. This is my form of prayer.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
TODAY IS ENOUGH
"Don't resent growing old. Many are denied the privilege."
-- anonymous
For one reason or another I used to think that it would be in my thirties when things started to happen for me, when life would finally begin to get rolling, when a certain momentum would be established, by me or by others, and I would be carried along with it, riding the waves, finding my voice.
But I began my thirties, last year, by checking somebody out of the hospital after emergency surgery for cancer, spending my birthday saying good-bye to hospital staff and saying hello to the A-1 Hotel reception desk on Petchburi Road, just down the way from Bangkok Hospital. ("No, we're not here on holiday.") Plans were changed; the future became even more uncertain, unpredictable, and almost even unwarranted. (Or so it felt.)
Life does have a way of punching us all in our collective gut, doesn't it. (As if you didn't know that already.)
I gradually realized that my earlier conceptions of 'success', 'making it', 'fulfilling myself', etc, were rather selfish and bizarre, shallow and naive. It assumed that we can control everything, at any time, when the reality is that life all too often circumvents are own carefully determined efforts to thwart its hazardous advances. We have to adapt to life, and hope that somehow our individual will, coupled with concerted effort, can --sometimes -- force life to adapt to us (at certain points in time).
We are all on diverging paths that all too often (thank God) intersect with others, and it is at these points of rowdy intersection that we must make our way and seek our path. If we are all here for a short time, not a long time, and we are all trying to topple others on our upward journey so that we, in turn, can stand on the summit for a brief period, then what is left of ourselves will be diminished and partitioned. A mountain's peak can only hold so many people for so long before it becomes crowded. (Not to mention cold.)
I recently read a fantastic book by William Goldman from the 1960s called Boys and Girls Together, written before Goldman was a celebrated screenwriter and was, instead, merely an up-and-coming young whippersnapper of a novelist. One of the main characters is told by his father that the secret of life is not success, no, but simply making your way through the whole damn thing. Getting through the day. Surviving. Coming out whole somewhere on the other end. (Or words to that effect.) To simply live is success enough; not everybody can manage even that.
This is not to disparage ambition, or desire, or momentum. We all need a guide to where we want to go; we all need a plan. But somewhere along the line, inevitably, plans will be scrapped, acceleration halted, desire squashed. And in those moments of doubt we will discover that everything we need is around us and within us. Ambition will return, but perhaps it will be of a different, more fluid nature -- less ferocious, perhaps, and more encompassing. An ambition that seeks to suck life's marrow however we so choose, and welcome others more freely into our earnings and undertakings.
I've spent a fair bit of time in and around hospitals during the past year, and the experience brings life itself to a deeper, closer perspective. The little details of living become big, even potent. Clutching onto an IV stand as one makes one's way to the bathroom in the middle of a dark and desperate night becomes a symbol of defiance, a middle-finger to the prospect of incapacity itself. (Or so it seemed to me, from a distance.)
Sickness and pain are par for the course in hospital hallways, but so is hope. So is laughter. So is the morning sunlight coming through the window. The drapes are slashed aside. Another day has arrived. Life has been earned once again.
I am now firmly into my thirties, and whether or not the next nine years will be more prosperous than my twenties, or even my teens, has yet to be determined. If cancer can force people to watch the IV drip-drip-drip, than the human will can mount a counter-assault by getting out of bed, dragging the stand to the bathroom, defying inertia and embracing momentum, however stilted, however slow. Each movement forward is an intentional punch into the gut that is life's blatant unfairness, and each step leads towards a richer, more noble place, one usually called 'tomorrow', but life is also here, today, and if tomorrow comes, so be it.
Sometimes today is enough.
-- anonymous
For one reason or another I used to think that it would be in my thirties when things started to happen for me, when life would finally begin to get rolling, when a certain momentum would be established, by me or by others, and I would be carried along with it, riding the waves, finding my voice.
But I began my thirties, last year, by checking somebody out of the hospital after emergency surgery for cancer, spending my birthday saying good-bye to hospital staff and saying hello to the A-1 Hotel reception desk on Petchburi Road, just down the way from Bangkok Hospital. ("No, we're not here on holiday.") Plans were changed; the future became even more uncertain, unpredictable, and almost even unwarranted. (Or so it felt.)
Life does have a way of punching us all in our collective gut, doesn't it. (As if you didn't know that already.)
I gradually realized that my earlier conceptions of 'success', 'making it', 'fulfilling myself', etc, were rather selfish and bizarre, shallow and naive. It assumed that we can control everything, at any time, when the reality is that life all too often circumvents are own carefully determined efforts to thwart its hazardous advances. We have to adapt to life, and hope that somehow our individual will, coupled with concerted effort, can --sometimes -- force life to adapt to us (at certain points in time).
We are all on diverging paths that all too often (thank God) intersect with others, and it is at these points of rowdy intersection that we must make our way and seek our path. If we are all here for a short time, not a long time, and we are all trying to topple others on our upward journey so that we, in turn, can stand on the summit for a brief period, then what is left of ourselves will be diminished and partitioned. A mountain's peak can only hold so many people for so long before it becomes crowded. (Not to mention cold.)
I recently read a fantastic book by William Goldman from the 1960s called Boys and Girls Together, written before Goldman was a celebrated screenwriter and was, instead, merely an up-and-coming young whippersnapper of a novelist. One of the main characters is told by his father that the secret of life is not success, no, but simply making your way through the whole damn thing. Getting through the day. Surviving. Coming out whole somewhere on the other end. (Or words to that effect.) To simply live is success enough; not everybody can manage even that.
This is not to disparage ambition, or desire, or momentum. We all need a guide to where we want to go; we all need a plan. But somewhere along the line, inevitably, plans will be scrapped, acceleration halted, desire squashed. And in those moments of doubt we will discover that everything we need is around us and within us. Ambition will return, but perhaps it will be of a different, more fluid nature -- less ferocious, perhaps, and more encompassing. An ambition that seeks to suck life's marrow however we so choose, and welcome others more freely into our earnings and undertakings.
I've spent a fair bit of time in and around hospitals during the past year, and the experience brings life itself to a deeper, closer perspective. The little details of living become big, even potent. Clutching onto an IV stand as one makes one's way to the bathroom in the middle of a dark and desperate night becomes a symbol of defiance, a middle-finger to the prospect of incapacity itself. (Or so it seemed to me, from a distance.)
Sickness and pain are par for the course in hospital hallways, but so is hope. So is laughter. So is the morning sunlight coming through the window. The drapes are slashed aside. Another day has arrived. Life has been earned once again.
I am now firmly into my thirties, and whether or not the next nine years will be more prosperous than my twenties, or even my teens, has yet to be determined. If cancer can force people to watch the IV drip-drip-drip, than the human will can mount a counter-assault by getting out of bed, dragging the stand to the bathroom, defying inertia and embracing momentum, however stilted, however slow. Each movement forward is an intentional punch into the gut that is life's blatant unfairness, and each step leads towards a richer, more noble place, one usually called 'tomorrow', but life is also here, today, and if tomorrow comes, so be it.
Sometimes today is enough.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
A CHANCE TO DIGNIFY YOURSELF
A word of warning:
If you ever find yourself in Manila, needing to get into the Japanese Embassy, arrive early. Very early. Like, pre-sunrise early.
(Hey, you never know -- this could be you. Life is strange. You might very well end up there someday, just like me, south of the American Embassy on Roxas Boulevard in downtown Manila, just up from the Pasay bus station. It's possible. At one point in time I was a geeky kid running the streets of St.Catharines, Ontario, and the next minute I'm in the Philippines, waiting under the sun, trying to get a working-visa for Japan. One of those moments where you scratch your head and look around and mutter: "Huh?" I turn around to share my bewilderment, but everybody else is a Filipino, and they look like they know exactly where they are and what they are about to do.)
They come out in force, the Filipinos do. Hundreds of them. Waiting patiently outside of the Japanese consular building. Everybody carrying FED EX packages from Japan, most of which carry working contracts, certificates of eligibility, the proof that they will not, in fact, defy the law. Proof that they will be good citizens.
And I'm one of them. Carrying the necessary documents. Hoping that the disciplined dudes inside the embassy will give me what I need, seek, desire: a stamp in a passport. That's all. Nothing more, nothing less -- but which means, for all intents and purposes, everything.
The way it works, the company in Japan sends you your contract. You sign it and send it back. They send you a certificate of eligibility, most of it in Japanese, and then you take this magic piece of paper to the embassy in Manila, all in exchange for a green visa placed precisely within the margins of the pages of your passport. A simple process, exhausting in its bureaucratic complexity.
Me, being the experienced world traveller that I am, having lived in Japan for four years, two and a half year in Cambodia, and one in the Philippines, me, being worldly and sophisticated, dare I say dashing and debonair, not to mention wise to the ways of the international working experience, me, that person, figured I could just show up at the embassy, stroll right in, mutter some Japanese and be on my way, freshly minted and legal to work in the land of the rising sun.
Um, no.
Sometimes I marvel at my own naivety. (Or stupidity, to be more precise.)
You have to line up for hours and hours if you want a good place in line. Under the darkened sky that shifts, slowly, to sun. Then, at the appointed time, they let you in. The gates open. Mecca has been reached, all praises due to Allah. They give you a number. You sit in front of a row of windows, behind which sit the blandly pleasant people who will determine your fate. When your number is called, so are you. You walk up, feeling like the kid called by the teacher to the front of the room, and they ask you such complicated questions as: "What is your name?" and "When is your birthday?" Then they take your passport and tell you to come back in three days.
So I did. And now I'm official. Back to Japan, and not more than half-an-hour from where I used to live for four straight years -- which, if it isn't karmic destiny, or a cosmic accident, is, at the very least, kind of funny.
If you want to, or try to, you can always learn something from foreign places, and what I learned last week is: work is special. Work is not something to be sneered at. Work -- decent work, work that actually pays -- is few and far between here in the Philippines. (Not to mention Cambodia. Mama mia.) People in the west complain about the lack of jobs, and it's true -- good work, sustaining work, is never easy to find anywhere. But in countries like the Philippines and Cambodia, you're already born behind the eight-ball, to a certain extent. Getting decent work that pays well is very difficult to do, so if it means leaving the country to find it, you leave. You leave your parents and your families and your children. You go where the work is, period. Everything else in your life, including your life, is secondary.
It's a very odd experience, lining up like cattle (or amusement-ride riders, I suppose), doing what you're told to do, trying to be polite and amenable, if only because they could, these scary-stern-embassy-type-people, turn you down with no explanation whatsoever. When you need a job, you are at the mercy of others, and all cockiness, all confidence, suddenly seems superfluous. What matters is not your exterior facade but the lines on a paper, the signatures on a form, the stamp in a book. You are reduced to your pleasantries and your record. You do what you have to do.
Nobody likes work, and those that say they do are probably lying. But the possibility of work, the desire for it, the need for it, is a thirst-like craving that, when quenched, is enormously satisfying. Because all you have to do, as you walk away from the embassy, papers in hand, sweat on brow, is take a look behind you and glimpse the faces of all those in line, all those others so much like yourself, patient and willing and nervous. When you look at them, you realize: Work is a privilege passed out to a selected few. Those that are rejected will have to walk home, take the jeepney home, slouch home. They will have to face their families, and sit at the kitchen table, and try to figure out another course of action. They will need to summon their reserves of strength and convince themselves, again, of their own worth, even though it has just been rejected by those in power.
Which, for me, makes a line-up here and there, even for hours, even under the sun, a small price to pay for a chance to dignify yourself.
If you ever find yourself in Manila, needing to get into the Japanese Embassy, arrive early. Very early. Like, pre-sunrise early.
(Hey, you never know -- this could be you. Life is strange. You might very well end up there someday, just like me, south of the American Embassy on Roxas Boulevard in downtown Manila, just up from the Pasay bus station. It's possible. At one point in time I was a geeky kid running the streets of St.Catharines, Ontario, and the next minute I'm in the Philippines, waiting under the sun, trying to get a working-visa for Japan. One of those moments where you scratch your head and look around and mutter: "Huh?" I turn around to share my bewilderment, but everybody else is a Filipino, and they look like they know exactly where they are and what they are about to do.)
They come out in force, the Filipinos do. Hundreds of them. Waiting patiently outside of the Japanese consular building. Everybody carrying FED EX packages from Japan, most of which carry working contracts, certificates of eligibility, the proof that they will not, in fact, defy the law. Proof that they will be good citizens.
And I'm one of them. Carrying the necessary documents. Hoping that the disciplined dudes inside the embassy will give me what I need, seek, desire: a stamp in a passport. That's all. Nothing more, nothing less -- but which means, for all intents and purposes, everything.
The way it works, the company in Japan sends you your contract. You sign it and send it back. They send you a certificate of eligibility, most of it in Japanese, and then you take this magic piece of paper to the embassy in Manila, all in exchange for a green visa placed precisely within the margins of the pages of your passport. A simple process, exhausting in its bureaucratic complexity.
Me, being the experienced world traveller that I am, having lived in Japan for four years, two and a half year in Cambodia, and one in the Philippines, me, being worldly and sophisticated, dare I say dashing and debonair, not to mention wise to the ways of the international working experience, me, that person, figured I could just show up at the embassy, stroll right in, mutter some Japanese and be on my way, freshly minted and legal to work in the land of the rising sun.
Um, no.
Sometimes I marvel at my own naivety. (Or stupidity, to be more precise.)
You have to line up for hours and hours if you want a good place in line. Under the darkened sky that shifts, slowly, to sun. Then, at the appointed time, they let you in. The gates open. Mecca has been reached, all praises due to Allah. They give you a number. You sit in front of a row of windows, behind which sit the blandly pleasant people who will determine your fate. When your number is called, so are you. You walk up, feeling like the kid called by the teacher to the front of the room, and they ask you such complicated questions as: "What is your name?" and "When is your birthday?" Then they take your passport and tell you to come back in three days.
So I did. And now I'm official. Back to Japan, and not more than half-an-hour from where I used to live for four straight years -- which, if it isn't karmic destiny, or a cosmic accident, is, at the very least, kind of funny.
If you want to, or try to, you can always learn something from foreign places, and what I learned last week is: work is special. Work is not something to be sneered at. Work -- decent work, work that actually pays -- is few and far between here in the Philippines. (Not to mention Cambodia. Mama mia.) People in the west complain about the lack of jobs, and it's true -- good work, sustaining work, is never easy to find anywhere. But in countries like the Philippines and Cambodia, you're already born behind the eight-ball, to a certain extent. Getting decent work that pays well is very difficult to do, so if it means leaving the country to find it, you leave. You leave your parents and your families and your children. You go where the work is, period. Everything else in your life, including your life, is secondary.
It's a very odd experience, lining up like cattle (or amusement-ride riders, I suppose), doing what you're told to do, trying to be polite and amenable, if only because they could, these scary-stern-embassy-type-people, turn you down with no explanation whatsoever. When you need a job, you are at the mercy of others, and all cockiness, all confidence, suddenly seems superfluous. What matters is not your exterior facade but the lines on a paper, the signatures on a form, the stamp in a book. You are reduced to your pleasantries and your record. You do what you have to do.
Nobody likes work, and those that say they do are probably lying. But the possibility of work, the desire for it, the need for it, is a thirst-like craving that, when quenched, is enormously satisfying. Because all you have to do, as you walk away from the embassy, papers in hand, sweat on brow, is take a look behind you and glimpse the faces of all those in line, all those others so much like yourself, patient and willing and nervous. When you look at them, you realize: Work is a privilege passed out to a selected few. Those that are rejected will have to walk home, take the jeepney home, slouch home. They will have to face their families, and sit at the kitchen table, and try to figure out another course of action. They will need to summon their reserves of strength and convince themselves, again, of their own worth, even though it has just been rejected by those in power.
Which, for me, makes a line-up here and there, even for hours, even under the sun, a small price to pay for a chance to dignify yourself.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
TO READ OR NOT TO READ...
Back home in Canada a few weeks ago I contemplated buying three or four books about Shakespeare and his times, one of which was yet another new biography of him, another a comparison of various Shakespearean critics and their diverging theories, another doubting whether the man we know as the playwright really wrote the texts at all, and the last being a chronicle of a year in the life of the British Bard -- but then I thought, wait a minute: Maybe I should actually read some more of his plays before I read more about him.
I've always been intrigued by Shakespeare, but scared shitless to read him. I remember as a teenager being stunned to discover that all of my favorite lines in Oliver Stone's brilliant film J.F.K. were lifted from good old Willie. ("One may smile and smile and be a villian...") And there's a scene where Costner, comparing their current national crisis to Ceasar's own conspiracy, asks his colleague, played by Michael Rooker, if he reads his Shakespeare. ("Yeah, boss," he says. "I do." Which made me think: Damn, maybe I should too...)
I mean, I'd read some of his stuff; you can't finish high school without tackling the stuff, and I did go to high school, as did you, so I've read my fair share. Let's see: Julius Ceasar, Othello, Macbeth, Hamlet. In university: King Lear.
And, um, that's about it. (I don't suppose watching the movie version of Much Ado About Nothing, the one with Michael Keaton and Keanu Reeves and Kenneth Branagh and Denzel Washington, kinda sorta counts? And though I've never actually, you know, read Richard III, I did see Al Pacino's version of it, the one he brought to the Toronto Film Festival ten years ago, where I managed to shake Pacino's hand, so that right there's gotta get me some theatrical brownie points, is what I'm thinking.)
I always tell myself that I'm going to dive into Shakespeare, and yet I never do. Part of it is because I've always seen the language itself as being a barrier into the story. It takes hours and hours to make your way through the plays, and half the time I have no idea what's happening. I guess I could read numerous summaries and synopses before I begin, but that would take away half the challenge. The stuff's supposed to be hard. Therein lies the satisfaction when you finally figure out what's going on.
So, recently, for no reason whatsoever, I decided to try and read as many of his plays as I could over the next year. (And given that I'll be moving back to Japan -- at least for a little while -- starting next week, this may put a crink in my plans, but we'll see what happens.)
Last week, while on the bus to (and from) Manila to apply for my working visa at the Japanese embassy, I managed to make my through The Taming of The Shrew and A Midsummer's Night Dream. (My only previous exposure to the first play was Rodney Dangerfield's classic line in that classic film Back To School, when spots Sally Kirkland, his hot new English teacher, and says: "I'd like to tame her shrew!" Does that make me cultured?)
I managed to understand about, oh, sixty, seventy percent of Shrew, and not once did I look at the meanings of the words down at the bottom of the page. (Of that I'm proud.) A Midsummer's Night Dream was a little bit more difficult; I got about forty percent, maybe, and then near the end of the play something happens and I'm not sure where the hell the story goes but I didn't go with it. Of that I'm certain.
I've realized that I'm going to have to read each play at least three times before I begin to get a true sense of what goes where, and who says what, and why. Once without the notes, once with the notes, and once one more time to see if it all comes together.
Strangely enough, the language -- which before seemed like such an impediment to comprehen-
sion -- is now the main reason why I'm reading the stuff to being with. How does he bend words; how does he twist them; how does he gain insight by balancing various modes of expression? If words constitute meaning, then what do these words, in this order, signify? That's what I'm after. I figure, if I can't figure this stuff out at thirty, I'm never going to be able to take a crack at it.
Another odd notion: The book I'm reading now, The Anatomy of Dependence: The Key Analysis of Japanese Behavior, is also intensely concerned with words and what they do to us -- as humans, as cultures. The author is a Japanese psychiatrist who has built his entire, book-length analysis around the significance of a single Japanese word -- amae, which means, roughly, the feeling of warmth, security and comfort a baby feels at his mother's breast, a word that has no rough equivalent in English, but can, apparently, explain almost everying in Japanese culture. And related to this word are a number of other words that play off of, bounce off of, and link themselves to other notions of society and identity and bla bla bla.
How does this circle back to Shakespeare?
Mostly (in my mind, anyways) because with Shakespeare you can't take the words for granted. They leap out at you in their inventiveness and dexterity. You're forced to figure out why they are there, and what they're supposed to do, and to what ultimate end. And his medium of choice (or necessity) is English. And here is this Japanese writer writing about one word, a single word, and how it has shaped and defined a millenium of people. It's hard enough following his argument about this solitary word; comprehending Shakespeare's use of thousands of them is mind-blowingly intimidating in comparison. But both writers -- the famous playwright, the not-so-famous Japanese psychiatrist -- are using language to make sense of who we, as humans, sometimes, rarely, often actually are.
In other words, words matter. They do things to us; they make us think, or act, or isolate ourselves from one another. Or sometimes they bring us closer.
Anyways, we'll see. I'll either abandon Shakespeare's plays and dive into the various biographies and non-fiction works on his life and his craft, or else I'll plug along at irregular intervals and see what there is to see in his multiple plays. I probably won't finish them all until I've shuffled off this mortal coil, but that's okay. Gives me something to shoot for.
Or, just to make myself really crazy, I'll try to read Romeo and Juliet in English, side-by-side with its Japanese translation.
Which will make me truly want to eat my words, of that I'm sure.
I've always been intrigued by Shakespeare, but scared shitless to read him. I remember as a teenager being stunned to discover that all of my favorite lines in Oliver Stone's brilliant film J.F.K. were lifted from good old Willie. ("One may smile and smile and be a villian...") And there's a scene where Costner, comparing their current national crisis to Ceasar's own conspiracy, asks his colleague, played by Michael Rooker, if he reads his Shakespeare. ("Yeah, boss," he says. "I do." Which made me think: Damn, maybe I should too...)
I mean, I'd read some of his stuff; you can't finish high school without tackling the stuff, and I did go to high school, as did you, so I've read my fair share. Let's see: Julius Ceasar, Othello, Macbeth, Hamlet. In university: King Lear.
And, um, that's about it. (I don't suppose watching the movie version of Much Ado About Nothing, the one with Michael Keaton and Keanu Reeves and Kenneth Branagh and Denzel Washington, kinda sorta counts? And though I've never actually, you know, read Richard III, I did see Al Pacino's version of it, the one he brought to the Toronto Film Festival ten years ago, where I managed to shake Pacino's hand, so that right there's gotta get me some theatrical brownie points, is what I'm thinking.)
I always tell myself that I'm going to dive into Shakespeare, and yet I never do. Part of it is because I've always seen the language itself as being a barrier into the story. It takes hours and hours to make your way through the plays, and half the time I have no idea what's happening. I guess I could read numerous summaries and synopses before I begin, but that would take away half the challenge. The stuff's supposed to be hard. Therein lies the satisfaction when you finally figure out what's going on.
So, recently, for no reason whatsoever, I decided to try and read as many of his plays as I could over the next year. (And given that I'll be moving back to Japan -- at least for a little while -- starting next week, this may put a crink in my plans, but we'll see what happens.)
Last week, while on the bus to (and from) Manila to apply for my working visa at the Japanese embassy, I managed to make my through The Taming of The Shrew and A Midsummer's Night Dream. (My only previous exposure to the first play was Rodney Dangerfield's classic line in that classic film Back To School, when spots Sally Kirkland, his hot new English teacher, and says: "I'd like to tame her shrew!" Does that make me cultured?)
I managed to understand about, oh, sixty, seventy percent of Shrew, and not once did I look at the meanings of the words down at the bottom of the page. (Of that I'm proud.) A Midsummer's Night Dream was a little bit more difficult; I got about forty percent, maybe, and then near the end of the play something happens and I'm not sure where the hell the story goes but I didn't go with it. Of that I'm certain.
I've realized that I'm going to have to read each play at least three times before I begin to get a true sense of what goes where, and who says what, and why. Once without the notes, once with the notes, and once one more time to see if it all comes together.
Strangely enough, the language -- which before seemed like such an impediment to comprehen-
sion -- is now the main reason why I'm reading the stuff to being with. How does he bend words; how does he twist them; how does he gain insight by balancing various modes of expression? If words constitute meaning, then what do these words, in this order, signify? That's what I'm after. I figure, if I can't figure this stuff out at thirty, I'm never going to be able to take a crack at it.
Another odd notion: The book I'm reading now, The Anatomy of Dependence: The Key Analysis of Japanese Behavior, is also intensely concerned with words and what they do to us -- as humans, as cultures. The author is a Japanese psychiatrist who has built his entire, book-length analysis around the significance of a single Japanese word -- amae, which means, roughly, the feeling of warmth, security and comfort a baby feels at his mother's breast, a word that has no rough equivalent in English, but can, apparently, explain almost everying in Japanese culture. And related to this word are a number of other words that play off of, bounce off of, and link themselves to other notions of society and identity and bla bla bla.
How does this circle back to Shakespeare?
Mostly (in my mind, anyways) because with Shakespeare you can't take the words for granted. They leap out at you in their inventiveness and dexterity. You're forced to figure out why they are there, and what they're supposed to do, and to what ultimate end. And his medium of choice (or necessity) is English. And here is this Japanese writer writing about one word, a single word, and how it has shaped and defined a millenium of people. It's hard enough following his argument about this solitary word; comprehending Shakespeare's use of thousands of them is mind-blowingly intimidating in comparison. But both writers -- the famous playwright, the not-so-famous Japanese psychiatrist -- are using language to make sense of who we, as humans, sometimes, rarely, often actually are.
In other words, words matter. They do things to us; they make us think, or act, or isolate ourselves from one another. Or sometimes they bring us closer.
Anyways, we'll see. I'll either abandon Shakespeare's plays and dive into the various biographies and non-fiction works on his life and his craft, or else I'll plug along at irregular intervals and see what there is to see in his multiple plays. I probably won't finish them all until I've shuffled off this mortal coil, but that's okay. Gives me something to shoot for.
Or, just to make myself really crazy, I'll try to read Romeo and Juliet in English, side-by-side with its Japanese translation.
Which will make me truly want to eat my words, of that I'm sure.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
YOUNG TRUDEAU
Young Trudeau is one of the most interesting biographies I've ever read, if only because its aims are nothing short of monumental: to subvert all that we know, or think we know, of former Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau and how he came to be, and to do so merely by examining the notes he made on the writers he loved (and loathed) during his early twenties.
Covering the first twenty-five years of his life, the book seeks to disrupt everything that makes Trudeau, well, Trudeau. The eternal iconoclast, rebelling from a young age at the rigid French-Canadian, Catholic hierarchy he'd been born into; the constant rebel, determined to do and think as he pleased, when he pleased.
Well, no.
Not according to husband-and-wife authors Max and Monique Nemni (and French-to-English translator William Johnson) who convincly detail that Trudeau was, in fact, typical of his time and place in pre and post-World War II Quebec: fiercely Catholic, intensely Quebecois, even, somewhat astonishingly, a fairly intense segrationist who believed in the future of an independent Quebec separate from Canada, and was planning a revolution to achieve that unlikely goal. (A goal he would end up vigorously battling in his later years as Prime Minister.)
There are a few revealing interviews with friends and family members (including his sister, Suzette), but the majority of the books' conclusions stem from the authors' perusal of the texts he wrote (in term papers, school newspapers, magazine articles, etc.) and notations found in the margins of his favorite authors.
It's an interesting way to examine an extraordinarily well-lived life, and possible only because Trudeau gave them complete and total access to his private papers. (Initially, the authors intended to write the biography ten years ago, but they ended up taking over the editorial reigns of Cite Libre, the French-Canadian political publication that Trudeau himself founded -- and Trudeau's own passing a few years ago prevented any further, personal collaboration between the pair and their fallen friend.)
Their descent into his private collection reveals Trudeau to be a prolific, prodigious reader, in both French and English, examining works of philosophy and economy, French-Canadian nationalism and Catholic history, English literature and modern social theory. He read widely and deeply, and his notes and essays do indeed show a restless, independent, firecely driven intelligence.
However, this keen insight and raging intellectualism, so startling for someone barely into his twenties, was very much rooted in who he was -- French Canadian first, and Catholic, second. (Though some may dispute that order and its importance.) Based on his report cards, he was a diligent student all through school; based on his writings, he not only advocated a fierce form of French-Canadian patriotism, but he also endorsed, and was planning, nothing less than a full-on revolution, the revelation of which is nothing short of amazing, considering Trudeau's legacy as a Prime Minister: the leader who finally allowed Canada to break free of her monarchal chains and defended, indeed demanded Quebec's role within it; the man who gave us, at last, our own constitution, and hence our pride, not to mention our nation.
Vigorously researched, yes, but there is a fault to the authors' methods. Is it truly reliable, or really dependable, to rely for psychological insight on pencilled notations in textbook margins? To be sure, these reveal Trudeau's thoughts, but that's just it -- they are thoughts, nothing more. Speculations, disagreements, hyperbolic assertions of assent or dismissal, made by someone not far removed from his teenage years. To rely only on these markings as a means by which to examine the formation of a personality, let alone a future political leader, is limiting, to say the least. Intriguing, certainly, but more than a few times the authors speculate and extrapolate when they should be keeping their lips zipped, letting us make up own minds.
Still, this is, for fans of Trudeau (or even enemies), a riveting work. Trudeau, the ladies' man, dating Margot Kidder, engaged to Streisand; Trudeau the fierce defender of Quebec's role within Canada; Trudeau the confident, vigorous world-traveller, the engimatic mystic -- this Trudeau is nowhere to be found in these pages.
And yet, he is there, remarkably so: between the pages, waiting to be born. Trudeau -- as a man, as a legend, as a myth -- now begins to make sense. We see where he came from, and how far he had to go. We see what he thought and why he thought it; we see, before our eyes, the evolution of a political consciousness that will, in turn, undergo amazing metamorphoses in the months and years and decades ahead.
Indeed, perhaps the most startling revision of Trudeau's much-explored life-saga is saved for the final pages, where Trudeau's entrance-letter to Harvard University is reprinted, and where we see, from a young age, no more than twenty-five, that Trudeau had in mind a career in politics, a goal as a statesman.
Trudeau, the reluctant politician; Trudeau, the independent, who joined the Liberal party only his late forties, and even then, hesitatingly. Trudeau, in his twenties, after much contemplation and deliberation, declaring the necessity of politics as a means of social change and thus his intention to serve the world in the political realm --wherever that might lead.
Remarkable.
The book is subtitled 'Son of Quebec, Father of Canada', and Volume I does, indeed, show us the boy who was raised and redeemed by his native province;Volume II of this work will explore the intervening years, when he developed the world-view that enabled him to compose the Canadian framework he envisioned: Trudeau at Harvard, Trudeau in England, Trudeau coming back to the Canada and Quebec he left beind, and finding much in the society's social framework to be desired.
And, as if that weren't enough, there's another new, mammoth biography of Trudeau by John English out in stores right now, volume one of which is entitled Citizen Of The World, which covers similar ground, I'm sure, as Young Trudeau, and which also benefits from the author's access to Trudeau's personal papers.
If you want to understand Canada, you have to understand Trudeau, and Young Trudeau is a good place to start. Despite the book's inevitable scholarly limitations, the authors are still able to slowly reveal a young, determined mind as it develops and shifts, as our playful protagonist slowly commits himself to a physical, spiritual, psychological transformation that will take him further and deeper than he or any of his countrymen could have possibly imagined.
Covering the first twenty-five years of his life, the book seeks to disrupt everything that makes Trudeau, well, Trudeau. The eternal iconoclast, rebelling from a young age at the rigid French-Canadian, Catholic hierarchy he'd been born into; the constant rebel, determined to do and think as he pleased, when he pleased.
Well, no.
Not according to husband-and-wife authors Max and Monique Nemni (and French-to-English translator William Johnson) who convincly detail that Trudeau was, in fact, typical of his time and place in pre and post-World War II Quebec: fiercely Catholic, intensely Quebecois, even, somewhat astonishingly, a fairly intense segrationist who believed in the future of an independent Quebec separate from Canada, and was planning a revolution to achieve that unlikely goal. (A goal he would end up vigorously battling in his later years as Prime Minister.)
There are a few revealing interviews with friends and family members (including his sister, Suzette), but the majority of the books' conclusions stem from the authors' perusal of the texts he wrote (in term papers, school newspapers, magazine articles, etc.) and notations found in the margins of his favorite authors.
It's an interesting way to examine an extraordinarily well-lived life, and possible only because Trudeau gave them complete and total access to his private papers. (Initially, the authors intended to write the biography ten years ago, but they ended up taking over the editorial reigns of Cite Libre, the French-Canadian political publication that Trudeau himself founded -- and Trudeau's own passing a few years ago prevented any further, personal collaboration between the pair and their fallen friend.)
Their descent into his private collection reveals Trudeau to be a prolific, prodigious reader, in both French and English, examining works of philosophy and economy, French-Canadian nationalism and Catholic history, English literature and modern social theory. He read widely and deeply, and his notes and essays do indeed show a restless, independent, firecely driven intelligence.
However, this keen insight and raging intellectualism, so startling for someone barely into his twenties, was very much rooted in who he was -- French Canadian first, and Catholic, second. (Though some may dispute that order and its importance.) Based on his report cards, he was a diligent student all through school; based on his writings, he not only advocated a fierce form of French-Canadian patriotism, but he also endorsed, and was planning, nothing less than a full-on revolution, the revelation of which is nothing short of amazing, considering Trudeau's legacy as a Prime Minister: the leader who finally allowed Canada to break free of her monarchal chains and defended, indeed demanded Quebec's role within it; the man who gave us, at last, our own constitution, and hence our pride, not to mention our nation.
Vigorously researched, yes, but there is a fault to the authors' methods. Is it truly reliable, or really dependable, to rely for psychological insight on pencilled notations in textbook margins? To be sure, these reveal Trudeau's thoughts, but that's just it -- they are thoughts, nothing more. Speculations, disagreements, hyperbolic assertions of assent or dismissal, made by someone not far removed from his teenage years. To rely only on these markings as a means by which to examine the formation of a personality, let alone a future political leader, is limiting, to say the least. Intriguing, certainly, but more than a few times the authors speculate and extrapolate when they should be keeping their lips zipped, letting us make up own minds.
Still, this is, for fans of Trudeau (or even enemies), a riveting work. Trudeau, the ladies' man, dating Margot Kidder, engaged to Streisand; Trudeau the fierce defender of Quebec's role within Canada; Trudeau the confident, vigorous world-traveller, the engimatic mystic -- this Trudeau is nowhere to be found in these pages.
And yet, he is there, remarkably so: between the pages, waiting to be born. Trudeau -- as a man, as a legend, as a myth -- now begins to make sense. We see where he came from, and how far he had to go. We see what he thought and why he thought it; we see, before our eyes, the evolution of a political consciousness that will, in turn, undergo amazing metamorphoses in the months and years and decades ahead.
Indeed, perhaps the most startling revision of Trudeau's much-explored life-saga is saved for the final pages, where Trudeau's entrance-letter to Harvard University is reprinted, and where we see, from a young age, no more than twenty-five, that Trudeau had in mind a career in politics, a goal as a statesman.
Trudeau, the reluctant politician; Trudeau, the independent, who joined the Liberal party only his late forties, and even then, hesitatingly. Trudeau, in his twenties, after much contemplation and deliberation, declaring the necessity of politics as a means of social change and thus his intention to serve the world in the political realm --wherever that might lead.
Remarkable.
The book is subtitled 'Son of Quebec, Father of Canada', and Volume I does, indeed, show us the boy who was raised and redeemed by his native province;Volume II of this work will explore the intervening years, when he developed the world-view that enabled him to compose the Canadian framework he envisioned: Trudeau at Harvard, Trudeau in England, Trudeau coming back to the Canada and Quebec he left beind, and finding much in the society's social framework to be desired.
And, as if that weren't enough, there's another new, mammoth biography of Trudeau by John English out in stores right now, volume one of which is entitled Citizen Of The World, which covers similar ground, I'm sure, as Young Trudeau, and which also benefits from the author's access to Trudeau's personal papers.
If you want to understand Canada, you have to understand Trudeau, and Young Trudeau is a good place to start. Despite the book's inevitable scholarly limitations, the authors are still able to slowly reveal a young, determined mind as it develops and shifts, as our playful protagonist slowly commits himself to a physical, spiritual, psychological transformation that will take him further and deeper than he or any of his countrymen could have possibly imagined.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
LIFE AT TWO; ALL THE REST IS COMMENTARY
The (almost) two-year old in my house has discovered that those hair-barette-type-things pinch your skin when pressed against flesh. This creates a sensation that can be painful, if pushed, or pleasant, if lightly tapped. When it's pleasant, she laughs as if it's the newest, brightest feeling in the world. Then I realized: For her, it is. (I'm slow with these kinds of dawning realizations, I know; in fact, for me, they don't dawn -- they kind of evolve, or emerge, or melt from intellectual/emotional ice.)
Everything is new. When you're two, realizing that the thing that is shoved into your hair for unknown reasons by known adults can also be plucked against skin is a shocking revelation. Who freakin' knew? What else is out there, she wonders, waiting to be unearthed? Putting your hands in front of your eyes, then taking them away -- that's hysterical! Hiding behind a see-through curtain, then poking back out again -- cause for rolling-on-the-floor hilarity!
The flipside, of course, is that heartache and horror are merely a spilled-juice away. For a two-year old, each day is a constant battle between unadulterated ecstasy and mind-blowing terror. Half the time she looks and acts like Pacino at the end of Godfather III when his daughter's been blasted by the bullet meant for him. The rest of the time she either bounces around like some kind of Filipino sprite, or else hovers in some mystical, practical state somewhere between joy and outrage, perplexed at the unfairness of the world.
It's never fun to watch someone shriek their brains out. Unless they're (almost) two. Then it's not fun, no, but it is kind of funny, actually. Seeing how easily heartbreak can morph into that peculiar form of everyday hedonism reserved only for toddlers. (And madmen, I suppose.)
***********************************************************************************
I just sped-read through a tattered paperback copy of William Goldman's late sixties analysis of the Broadway theatre scene entitled The Season, and it's a fascinating time capsule; Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams and Elia Kazan are still on the prowl, Streisand is an up-and-comer, Jason Robards a new kid on the block, but what made it truly interesting for me was Goldman's take on critics -- theatre critics in particular, but a perspective that can equally be applied to anyone who analyzes the arts. (Or overanalyzes, as the case usually is.)
Roughly, Goldman argues that in-depth, high-falutin' critiques inevitably serve to foster the critics' own egos, providing an outlet for frustrated artistic ambitions that never came to fruition.
And almost all of it is horseshit, because, essentially, what critics do is try to articulate how well particular artists have themselves articulated the themes of their play. And when you get right down to it, what 'themes' are we talking about here? Think of the best movie you've read, the best movie you've seen, the best play you've watched: the bottom line is, the basic ideas they espouse are pretty, well, basic. I'm not saying they're trite, or unimportant, or not worth stating; far from it. I am saying that good art is clear, and its philosophies are not subtle. (Nothing in life is subtle, if you're paying close enough attention.) Dr.Strangelove, The Thin Red Line, Platoon: War is hell. Eyes Wide Shut, Kramer Vs.Kramer, The English Patient: Love is complex and tragic. A Clockwork Orange, 25th Hour, The Departed: Crime doesn't pay, we're all going down, eventually, and rehabilitation is futile.
You could, of course, substitute your own one-sentence analysis for any of the above flicks, but when you think about it, most works of art, be they comedic or serious, outrageous or solemn, can essentially be boiled down to the essentials: Love hurts, love exults; war sucks; crime is terrible; life is wonderful; life is horrible. That's it.
When we cut down individual works of art, or raise them up with praise, we're basically judging how well, how skillfully, how covertly, they've enacted principal themes of humanity in various elaborate, aesthetic ways. If it's all artifice and obviously manipulated, we scorn; if it's more subtle, we weep. Either way, the themes themselves are always common, ordinary, and, well, obvious.
And critics can rationalize and argue and pontificate all they want, but I'm starting to believe that, in art, and possibly even in life, one of George Lucas's dictums bears repeating: It either works or it doesn't. Period. A zero-sum game. A mathematical equation.
Does it work? Does it make me believe, if only for a modest duration, that life sucks/is wonderful, love hurts/is glorious, peace is inevitable/peace impossible?
It either does or it doesn't.
Like the priest who boils down the essence of his religion to The Golden Rule -- everything else is commentary, he says.
Sometimes, in the arts, we forget that the commentary is just that: commentary. Does it work? That's what we should ask. Did you get the point? That point may be simple or it may be dense -- that's where the fun of arguing comes in -- but if there's nothing there, well, there's nothing there.
That's all you need to ask.
What matters is what's there. What you're left with. The result. You feel good or bad, sad or happy, exalted or diminished. That's what art's there to do; it works or it doesn't.
Like life.
Did the car start or not? Did you get to work on time? Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you? Did you finish the race? Did your son graduate from high school? Did you punch the dude or didn't you? Do you love her or don't you? Bottom line. That's what matters.
All the rest is commentary.
Everything is new. When you're two, realizing that the thing that is shoved into your hair for unknown reasons by known adults can also be plucked against skin is a shocking revelation. Who freakin' knew? What else is out there, she wonders, waiting to be unearthed? Putting your hands in front of your eyes, then taking them away -- that's hysterical! Hiding behind a see-through curtain, then poking back out again -- cause for rolling-on-the-floor hilarity!
The flipside, of course, is that heartache and horror are merely a spilled-juice away. For a two-year old, each day is a constant battle between unadulterated ecstasy and mind-blowing terror. Half the time she looks and acts like Pacino at the end of Godfather III when his daughter's been blasted by the bullet meant for him. The rest of the time she either bounces around like some kind of Filipino sprite, or else hovers in some mystical, practical state somewhere between joy and outrage, perplexed at the unfairness of the world.
It's never fun to watch someone shriek their brains out. Unless they're (almost) two. Then it's not fun, no, but it is kind of funny, actually. Seeing how easily heartbreak can morph into that peculiar form of everyday hedonism reserved only for toddlers. (And madmen, I suppose.)
***********************************************************************************
I just sped-read through a tattered paperback copy of William Goldman's late sixties analysis of the Broadway theatre scene entitled The Season, and it's a fascinating time capsule; Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams and Elia Kazan are still on the prowl, Streisand is an up-and-comer, Jason Robards a new kid on the block, but what made it truly interesting for me was Goldman's take on critics -- theatre critics in particular, but a perspective that can equally be applied to anyone who analyzes the arts. (Or overanalyzes, as the case usually is.)
Roughly, Goldman argues that in-depth, high-falutin' critiques inevitably serve to foster the critics' own egos, providing an outlet for frustrated artistic ambitions that never came to fruition.
And almost all of it is horseshit, because, essentially, what critics do is try to articulate how well particular artists have themselves articulated the themes of their play. And when you get right down to it, what 'themes' are we talking about here? Think of the best movie you've read, the best movie you've seen, the best play you've watched: the bottom line is, the basic ideas they espouse are pretty, well, basic. I'm not saying they're trite, or unimportant, or not worth stating; far from it. I am saying that good art is clear, and its philosophies are not subtle. (Nothing in life is subtle, if you're paying close enough attention.) Dr.Strangelove, The Thin Red Line, Platoon: War is hell. Eyes Wide Shut, Kramer Vs.Kramer, The English Patient: Love is complex and tragic. A Clockwork Orange, 25th Hour, The Departed: Crime doesn't pay, we're all going down, eventually, and rehabilitation is futile.
You could, of course, substitute your own one-sentence analysis for any of the above flicks, but when you think about it, most works of art, be they comedic or serious, outrageous or solemn, can essentially be boiled down to the essentials: Love hurts, love exults; war sucks; crime is terrible; life is wonderful; life is horrible. That's it.
When we cut down individual works of art, or raise them up with praise, we're basically judging how well, how skillfully, how covertly, they've enacted principal themes of humanity in various elaborate, aesthetic ways. If it's all artifice and obviously manipulated, we scorn; if it's more subtle, we weep. Either way, the themes themselves are always common, ordinary, and, well, obvious.
And critics can rationalize and argue and pontificate all they want, but I'm starting to believe that, in art, and possibly even in life, one of George Lucas's dictums bears repeating: It either works or it doesn't. Period. A zero-sum game. A mathematical equation.
Does it work? Does it make me believe, if only for a modest duration, that life sucks/is wonderful, love hurts/is glorious, peace is inevitable/peace impossible?
It either does or it doesn't.
Like the priest who boils down the essence of his religion to The Golden Rule -- everything else is commentary, he says.
Sometimes, in the arts, we forget that the commentary is just that: commentary. Does it work? That's what we should ask. Did you get the point? That point may be simple or it may be dense -- that's where the fun of arguing comes in -- but if there's nothing there, well, there's nothing there.
That's all you need to ask.
What matters is what's there. What you're left with. The result. You feel good or bad, sad or happy, exalted or diminished. That's what art's there to do; it works or it doesn't.
Like life.
Did the car start or not? Did you get to work on time? Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you? Did you finish the race? Did your son graduate from high school? Did you punch the dude or didn't you? Do you love her or don't you? Bottom line. That's what matters.
All the rest is commentary.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
WHERE WE ARE AND WHERE WE'RE GOING
"Gee, this is a long time ago."
-- Comedian Gilbert Gottfried, wondering how people in Ancient Rome
pondered their position in life
Two scenarios, similar but different:
1) A group of women, elderly, probably grandmothers, possibly widowed, gather together in a wide and brightly lit room. They are dressed in clothes that are colourful and flowing. They lavish boxes wrapped in paper on particular woman. There are no men in the room, though they may arrive later.
2) A group of women, elderly, almost certainly grandmothers, very likely widowed, gather together outside in a wide and brightly lit space. They stand in a row, wearing only gossamer sheets tied around their chests. A group of people empty buckets of cold water on their head, while the crowd, dozens in number, if not hundreds, cheers warmly and appreciatively.
What's going on here?
I would argue that the first example would be that of a birthday party in Canada, America, England, the West, for one particular middle-class lady getting on in years, surrounded by her friends, the men downstairs watching football/hockey/cricket.
I would suggest that the second example is very similar to what I witnessed one hot summer day about an hour from Phnom Penh, Cambodia, where the elderly women of this particular village were given the honor of having copious amounts of frigid water dumped on their bodies. Repeatedly. To much laughter and general good will.
What was going on there, exactly?
Not a fucking clue.
And I think that if you were to gather those same old ladies, book them on a plane, take them off to Toronto and drive them out to the suburbs of Aurora or Ajax to a senior citizens' birthday party, they would be similarly clueless. General emotions might translatable; the scenario, after some thought, might be discernible. But the specifics, the reasons, the WHY: that would remain foreign.
It seems to me that most of the world's problems, complex as they are, can be reduced to a single, common paradigm: the inability of small groups (be they cities, societies, races, countries, whatever) to see themselves as being products of a particular time and place that, by the very nature of its temporal placement and geographical location, inevitably fosters a mind-set that tends towards a limited, stringent view of themselves and the world, instead of an elasticity of compassion and understanding that is necessary to figure out who we are and where we're going.
Let's put it this way. We judge things, usually, that are able to be integrated into our own conception of what society's norms happen to be at a given moment in time -- be they linguistic, familial, morality-based, what-have-you.
I imagine a teacher in Hamilton, Ontario giving out an assignment for his English class -- a short story, let's say. One of this students, a new immigrant from Vietnam, for example, duly hands in his homework the following day. Written completely in Vietnamese. The teacher, raised in Renfrew, does not speak nor read the Vietnamese language. And, considerin that this is, after all, an English class, and this is, after all, Hamilton, not Hanoi, the student gets zero. Or is simply asked to do it again. In English, please.
Reasonable, right? Sure.
But what if that student was a prodigy. A fucking genius linguist of the Vietnamese language. A wunderkind of Asian insights and culture. All of which cannot be determined by an English teacher in Hamilton, Ontario.
And rightly so. We can't be expected to understand anything and everything that comes across our desks and into our lives. Life is only so long, and there is much to know and little time to learn it. (Let alone absorb it.)
Yet this Vietnamese boy, an undeniable genius in his own mother tongue, is left hanging in the Hamilton wind. Because he cannot be integrated into the presiding system, a genuine talent is abandoned.
Everything we do -- whether it be art, architecture, science, or medicine -- is borne out of a particular time and place. It must be integrated into what we know, or it is readily dismissed. I cannot assess the artistic, aesthetic validity of a Vietnamese short story, as I do not read Vietnamese; ergo, out goes the story, into the wind. A Christian scholar is ill-equipped to pass judgement on the latest developments in modern interpretations of the Koran. A dentist assessing current fashions in carpentry is at a loss for words. The new information cannot be integrated into present systems. Therefore it is (almost has to be) disregarded. Something is lost.
Extrapolate this outward, into the world, and this is how I see modern society as a whole, a collective whole, a global whole, operating. Everybody's trying to integrate everything into everything else, but we don't know how, because we are limited by our own pre-conceived beliefs, which in and of themselves are developed from pre-existing limitations. A mother in rural Oklahoma, a fundamentalist Christian, cannot reconcile the Harry Potter books, abundant as they are with obvious incarnations of black magic and witchcraft, with her own sincere beliefs. A young Korean student, raised to despise the Japanese because of their wartime atrocities, finds it hard to believe that modern-day Japanese people can actually be good, kind citizens of the world. Canadian teenagers, rather ignorant of ancient history, dismiss Oliver Stone's Alexander or Shyamalan's Lady In The Water because it bears no relation to anything that forms or has shaped their own particular view of the world. One hundred years from now, everything we consider to be certain and cool, hip and artistic, valuable and trustworthy, will, inevitably, be put in its proper historical place. Everything you think is good -- be it medically, artistically, scientifically -- will, in less than a century, be considered primitive and outdated and archaic. We are adrift in our own indulgences, not caring that they are temporary, and, at the very least, inadequate to our growth as humans.
If an MP from rural Saskatchewan were to dropped into the middle of Mongolia, would his political status bear much clout? I don't know. If Kazakhstan's Chief of Defense were to immigrate to Toronto, would his considerable political clout back home get him a job as a manager at McDonald's? Can one way of being possibly adapt and enfold another?
The point being, we seem to believe that what is here and now is the be-all, end-all of human knowledge and wisdom and certainty. There are expressions and modes of being outside of ourselves around the very next corner, should we seek them out. And, finding them, we would, of course, be confused, like the Ontario educator confronted with the Vietnamese language; like the Canadian teacher witnessing Cambodian women drenched in water; like the Cambodian grandmother watching Ontario grannies exchange birthday gifts. We would, though be forced to expand our comfort zones and acknowledge that differing perspectives offer alternate routes to enlightenment. And that these enlightenments, in turn, are transitory, limited to who we are and when we are.
But they're the best we've got.
I keep thinking of Gilbert Gottfried's Ancient Roman character, or some dude back in, I don't know, 1329, or 1256, or 1123. He thought he had it going on. His clothes were stylin; when he got sick, he was bled by leeches on a daily basis. The world was flat, so he knew not to go too far from home. Everything was around him, assessed, figured out. He knew what the world was all about.
From our point of view, he didn't have a fucking clue.
And somebody, right now, four hundred years from now, may be reading this blog on some collective-galactic-interplanetary server and marvelling at how ignorant us twenty-first century lifeforms were. Thinking that we knew the deal. Wondering why we were so close-minded in the way we approached our likes and dislikes, beliefs and judgements. Yet grateful, too, that we were somehow able to hack our way through an endless array of differences and emerge on the other end, centuries from now, still limited, still enclosed, but searching, seeking, refusing to allow our own differences to doom us to a future of lazy containment and self-satisfied certainty.
-- Comedian Gilbert Gottfried, wondering how people in Ancient Rome
pondered their position in life
Two scenarios, similar but different:
1) A group of women, elderly, probably grandmothers, possibly widowed, gather together in a wide and brightly lit room. They are dressed in clothes that are colourful and flowing. They lavish boxes wrapped in paper on particular woman. There are no men in the room, though they may arrive later.
2) A group of women, elderly, almost certainly grandmothers, very likely widowed, gather together outside in a wide and brightly lit space. They stand in a row, wearing only gossamer sheets tied around their chests. A group of people empty buckets of cold water on their head, while the crowd, dozens in number, if not hundreds, cheers warmly and appreciatively.
What's going on here?
I would argue that the first example would be that of a birthday party in Canada, America, England, the West, for one particular middle-class lady getting on in years, surrounded by her friends, the men downstairs watching football/hockey/cricket.
I would suggest that the second example is very similar to what I witnessed one hot summer day about an hour from Phnom Penh, Cambodia, where the elderly women of this particular village were given the honor of having copious amounts of frigid water dumped on their bodies. Repeatedly. To much laughter and general good will.
What was going on there, exactly?
Not a fucking clue.
And I think that if you were to gather those same old ladies, book them on a plane, take them off to Toronto and drive them out to the suburbs of Aurora or Ajax to a senior citizens' birthday party, they would be similarly clueless. General emotions might translatable; the scenario, after some thought, might be discernible. But the specifics, the reasons, the WHY: that would remain foreign.
It seems to me that most of the world's problems, complex as they are, can be reduced to a single, common paradigm: the inability of small groups (be they cities, societies, races, countries, whatever) to see themselves as being products of a particular time and place that, by the very nature of its temporal placement and geographical location, inevitably fosters a mind-set that tends towards a limited, stringent view of themselves and the world, instead of an elasticity of compassion and understanding that is necessary to figure out who we are and where we're going.
Let's put it this way. We judge things, usually, that are able to be integrated into our own conception of what society's norms happen to be at a given moment in time -- be they linguistic, familial, morality-based, what-have-you.
I imagine a teacher in Hamilton, Ontario giving out an assignment for his English class -- a short story, let's say. One of this students, a new immigrant from Vietnam, for example, duly hands in his homework the following day. Written completely in Vietnamese. The teacher, raised in Renfrew, does not speak nor read the Vietnamese language. And, considerin that this is, after all, an English class, and this is, after all, Hamilton, not Hanoi, the student gets zero. Or is simply asked to do it again. In English, please.
Reasonable, right? Sure.
But what if that student was a prodigy. A fucking genius linguist of the Vietnamese language. A wunderkind of Asian insights and culture. All of which cannot be determined by an English teacher in Hamilton, Ontario.
And rightly so. We can't be expected to understand anything and everything that comes across our desks and into our lives. Life is only so long, and there is much to know and little time to learn it. (Let alone absorb it.)
Yet this Vietnamese boy, an undeniable genius in his own mother tongue, is left hanging in the Hamilton wind. Because he cannot be integrated into the presiding system, a genuine talent is abandoned.
Everything we do -- whether it be art, architecture, science, or medicine -- is borne out of a particular time and place. It must be integrated into what we know, or it is readily dismissed. I cannot assess the artistic, aesthetic validity of a Vietnamese short story, as I do not read Vietnamese; ergo, out goes the story, into the wind. A Christian scholar is ill-equipped to pass judgement on the latest developments in modern interpretations of the Koran. A dentist assessing current fashions in carpentry is at a loss for words. The new information cannot be integrated into present systems. Therefore it is (almost has to be) disregarded. Something is lost.
Extrapolate this outward, into the world, and this is how I see modern society as a whole, a collective whole, a global whole, operating. Everybody's trying to integrate everything into everything else, but we don't know how, because we are limited by our own pre-conceived beliefs, which in and of themselves are developed from pre-existing limitations. A mother in rural Oklahoma, a fundamentalist Christian, cannot reconcile the Harry Potter books, abundant as they are with obvious incarnations of black magic and witchcraft, with her own sincere beliefs. A young Korean student, raised to despise the Japanese because of their wartime atrocities, finds it hard to believe that modern-day Japanese people can actually be good, kind citizens of the world. Canadian teenagers, rather ignorant of ancient history, dismiss Oliver Stone's Alexander or Shyamalan's Lady In The Water because it bears no relation to anything that forms or has shaped their own particular view of the world. One hundred years from now, everything we consider to be certain and cool, hip and artistic, valuable and trustworthy, will, inevitably, be put in its proper historical place. Everything you think is good -- be it medically, artistically, scientifically -- will, in less than a century, be considered primitive and outdated and archaic. We are adrift in our own indulgences, not caring that they are temporary, and, at the very least, inadequate to our growth as humans.
If an MP from rural Saskatchewan were to dropped into the middle of Mongolia, would his political status bear much clout? I don't know. If Kazakhstan's Chief of Defense were to immigrate to Toronto, would his considerable political clout back home get him a job as a manager at McDonald's? Can one way of being possibly adapt and enfold another?
The point being, we seem to believe that what is here and now is the be-all, end-all of human knowledge and wisdom and certainty. There are expressions and modes of being outside of ourselves around the very next corner, should we seek them out. And, finding them, we would, of course, be confused, like the Ontario educator confronted with the Vietnamese language; like the Canadian teacher witnessing Cambodian women drenched in water; like the Cambodian grandmother watching Ontario grannies exchange birthday gifts. We would, though be forced to expand our comfort zones and acknowledge that differing perspectives offer alternate routes to enlightenment. And that these enlightenments, in turn, are transitory, limited to who we are and when we are.
But they're the best we've got.
I keep thinking of Gilbert Gottfried's Ancient Roman character, or some dude back in, I don't know, 1329, or 1256, or 1123. He thought he had it going on. His clothes were stylin; when he got sick, he was bled by leeches on a daily basis. The world was flat, so he knew not to go too far from home. Everything was around him, assessed, figured out. He knew what the world was all about.
From our point of view, he didn't have a fucking clue.
And somebody, right now, four hundred years from now, may be reading this blog on some collective-galactic-interplanetary server and marvelling at how ignorant us twenty-first century lifeforms were. Thinking that we knew the deal. Wondering why we were so close-minded in the way we approached our likes and dislikes, beliefs and judgements. Yet grateful, too, that we were somehow able to hack our way through an endless array of differences and emerge on the other end, centuries from now, still limited, still enclosed, but searching, seeking, refusing to allow our own differences to doom us to a future of lazy containment and self-satisfied certainty.
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