"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.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
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.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
TALKING ABOUT CANCER, or, WHY JAMES WOODS HAS THE RIGHT IDEA
For the past twelve months, cancer has been on my mind more than anything else, but I've written very little about it, if only because a blog like this seems like a somewhat inappropriate place to detail the ins and outs, ups and downs of somebody else's illness, but also because cancer is a very difficult concept to talk about in the first place. Anywhere. In any situation.
What might I have written about that didn't degrade or somehow diminish the seriousness of the disease? I suppose I could have charted the day-by-day blows of chemotherapy, or the month-by-month uncertainty, confusion and hope that are par for the course when treating something as monstrously, desperately grotesque as this, paradoxically, exceedingly human (but never humane) condition. You could also argue that every time you share a part of yourself, your private self, somebody reading it will grow, and be enriched, and, in turn, learn a little bit more about themselves, and be a better person for it. That's the People-Magazine-Oprah-Dr.Phil line, anyways, but in this age of celebrity confessional and online blogs, it seems to me that privacy has lost its power. To be private is to be selfish. Better to let everyone know all of your foibles and faults, your dreams and disgraces; better to open yourself up and let it all bleed, psychically split wrists staining the metaphorical bathtub red.
Well, that ain't my style.
Better to pick and choose, I believe. I don't necessarily want to know about your restless nighttime thoughts, and you probably don't want to hear about the aches and pains that carry me through my day. We can all handle only so much, and usually the day-to-day detritus of own lives is enough. We all select what we give, but we often don't get to choose what we take. People tell us information, difficult information, life-and-death information, and we have to respond. In civil society, we've got no choice.
But how do you respond to cancer? How do you bring it up? How do you, well, talk about it?
You just do, that's all. The same way you talk about the Toronto Maple Leafs' latest game, or the weather, or whether or not Britney Spears is ever going to stop pumping out kids at annual intervals.
I'll think you'll find that people with the disease will be more than happy to fill you in on the latest details. Not because they're dying to let it out, eager to expose their innermost agonies, but simply because they're happy that you cared enough to ask. If you don't ask, if you don't come, it's human to think that you don't care. Of course, with cancer, that's not true; we know that it's a difficult topic to bridge, an enormous burden of small-talk to lift. But the conversation is much better than witnessing the worried eyes, the furrowed brow, the sudden tears that well up from nowhere. (Or not showing up at all in the first place.)
And it's good to know that people are thinking of you, and are willing to talk about something so inherently difficult to discuss. I read an interview with actor James Woods this week in the online L.A. Times, and he mentioned the fact that every little word of encouragement and support and thoughtfulness was greatly appreciated in the wake of the recent, unexpected death of his younger brother. He didn't think little things like that would mean so much -- but they did, and they do.
If you know someone that has cancer (or any other illness, for that matter), ask them how they're doing. Ask them if it hurts. Ask them what the chemo was like. You're not prying; you're being considerate, and thoughtful, and caring. The patients will tell you what they want to tell you, anyways -- nothing more, nothing less. If they're going through chemotherapy, go to see them every day and twice on Sundays. (Or, barring that, as often as you can. Yes, it's a long drive. Yes, your day is long. But the hospital room is a cold and sterile place for days on end, and how much Bob Barker can one person take? If you were laying in bed for two, three days in a row, strapped to a machine, watching your hair fall out and onto your chest, wouldn't you be glad, if not ecstatic, that somebody took the time to stop on by, if only for a moment?)
Cancer is a lonely place for the person living with it, and every gesture you make, verbal or otherwise, online or elsewhere, will help alleviate their suffering.
Okay. Sermon over.
Oh, and in case you're wondering?
She's feeling just fine, thanks.
And thanks for asking.
(See? That wasn't so hard, right? In hard times together we can be brave.)
What might I have written about that didn't degrade or somehow diminish the seriousness of the disease? I suppose I could have charted the day-by-day blows of chemotherapy, or the month-by-month uncertainty, confusion and hope that are par for the course when treating something as monstrously, desperately grotesque as this, paradoxically, exceedingly human (but never humane) condition. You could also argue that every time you share a part of yourself, your private self, somebody reading it will grow, and be enriched, and, in turn, learn a little bit more about themselves, and be a better person for it. That's the People-Magazine-Oprah-Dr.Phil line, anyways, but in this age of celebrity confessional and online blogs, it seems to me that privacy has lost its power. To be private is to be selfish. Better to let everyone know all of your foibles and faults, your dreams and disgraces; better to open yourself up and let it all bleed, psychically split wrists staining the metaphorical bathtub red.
Well, that ain't my style.
Better to pick and choose, I believe. I don't necessarily want to know about your restless nighttime thoughts, and you probably don't want to hear about the aches and pains that carry me through my day. We can all handle only so much, and usually the day-to-day detritus of own lives is enough. We all select what we give, but we often don't get to choose what we take. People tell us information, difficult information, life-and-death information, and we have to respond. In civil society, we've got no choice.
But how do you respond to cancer? How do you bring it up? How do you, well, talk about it?
You just do, that's all. The same way you talk about the Toronto Maple Leafs' latest game, or the weather, or whether or not Britney Spears is ever going to stop pumping out kids at annual intervals.
I'll think you'll find that people with the disease will be more than happy to fill you in on the latest details. Not because they're dying to let it out, eager to expose their innermost agonies, but simply because they're happy that you cared enough to ask. If you don't ask, if you don't come, it's human to think that you don't care. Of course, with cancer, that's not true; we know that it's a difficult topic to bridge, an enormous burden of small-talk to lift. But the conversation is much better than witnessing the worried eyes, the furrowed brow, the sudden tears that well up from nowhere. (Or not showing up at all in the first place.)
And it's good to know that people are thinking of you, and are willing to talk about something so inherently difficult to discuss. I read an interview with actor James Woods this week in the online L.A. Times, and he mentioned the fact that every little word of encouragement and support and thoughtfulness was greatly appreciated in the wake of the recent, unexpected death of his younger brother. He didn't think little things like that would mean so much -- but they did, and they do.
If you know someone that has cancer (or any other illness, for that matter), ask them how they're doing. Ask them if it hurts. Ask them what the chemo was like. You're not prying; you're being considerate, and thoughtful, and caring. The patients will tell you what they want to tell you, anyways -- nothing more, nothing less. If they're going through chemotherapy, go to see them every day and twice on Sundays. (Or, barring that, as often as you can. Yes, it's a long drive. Yes, your day is long. But the hospital room is a cold and sterile place for days on end, and how much Bob Barker can one person take? If you were laying in bed for two, three days in a row, strapped to a machine, watching your hair fall out and onto your chest, wouldn't you be glad, if not ecstatic, that somebody took the time to stop on by, if only for a moment?)
Cancer is a lonely place for the person living with it, and every gesture you make, verbal or otherwise, online or elsewhere, will help alleviate their suffering.
Okay. Sermon over.
Oh, and in case you're wondering?
She's feeling just fine, thanks.
And thanks for asking.
(See? That wasn't so hard, right? In hard times together we can be brave.)
Thursday, October 05, 2006
RETURNING TO THE PHILIPPINES; RETURNING TO JAPAN?; JET-LAG, IN ALL ITS MUNDANE GLORY
You would think that returning to the Philippines, a country about as far away from Canada as one can possibly get, physically and culturally, would be slightly disorienting, if not disarming, but it's been surprisingly smooth. Sedate, even. I've been here for almost a year, after all, exclusively in one city, one house, and so coming back to this town and this time is almost like returning to a corner of one's own head and heart. You know the streets, the weather, the people. The distance is vast from here to there, but feeling that distance, via air travel, is almost impossible. You get on a plane in one place and get off in another. You don't see the ocean below or the altitude above. You sit down, the windows are closed, the movie comes on, and the plane shakes. Repeatedly. It doesn't feel like you're moving -- just shaking. Travelling by train, or car, you can look out the window and see the world go by: people and cars, woods and buildings, all of it rapidly receding past you, replaced by something else, and something else, and something even more. Plane travel reduces everything to static. You move, and shake, and Canada is replaced by the Philippines. (Or, in my case, Ottawa is replaced by Toronto, which is replaced by Vancouver, which is replaced by Seoul, which culminates in Manila.) I know that over there is quite distant from over here, but now that I'm back, time has shifted to its old acknowledged patterns. I've found I can exist almost anywhere.
***********************************************************************************
I'm waiting for the greenlight on a teaching job in Japan. Having returned to the Philippines, oh what do I find in my e-mail inbox but an offer -- or a semi-offer, anyways -- for a teaching gig at a university in Japan. (The company places you at a university somewhere in Japan. This offer is for a school in the Kanto region, which is a broad area but includes where I lived from 1999-2003, so if I'm sent back there, it's either some kind of a cosmic joke or a karmic inevitability.)
They also offered a gig teaching corporate clients and junior-high school students in various sites in various places, but that requires an International Driver's License, and I just renewed my Ontario license back home, and the official one hasn't arrived yet, and besides, I'm not too keen on driving on the other side of the road in Japan. I'm a bad enough driver as it is; visions of Chevy Chase in European Vacation dance through my head...
They told me that it wasn't a formal offer, per se, but that with my high qualifications I had a great chance of being hired, so I said sure, sign me up, count me in, and here it is, Thursday, and I'm still anxiously wondering when they will e-mail confirmation regarding a job that starts next freakin' Friday. Leaving the Philippines is not something I particularly relish, but I do need to make money, and it's impossible to save anything substantial here, and a return to Japan would be a) comfortable, as I've lived there before, and the culture shock of dealing with yet another new culture at this somewhat fragile point in time is not something I think I can handle and b) teaching at the university level in Nippon would be interesting, I think, different than I what I did before in that country. ("Same, but different," as Mr.Miyagi tells Daniel-san in the first Karate Kid, and in a different context, but a noble sentiment nevertheless, don't you think?) I taught university in Cambodia, true, so university teaching is not completely out of my real, but truth be told the words 'university' and 'Cambodia' do not exactly co-exist comfortably with one another.
Nothing to do now but wait.
************************************************************************************
Recovering from jet-lag is mind-numblingly mundane. The symptoms are boring and clear: you wake up fresh at three a.m., and feel sluggish and inert around suppertime. But the sleep you get doesn't refresh you, and you wake up with a slight, unfocused buzz, as if you had been staring at a computer screen for hours on end instead of sleeping and dreaming. (And the dreams themselves are deep and strange and fathomless.) You lay on the pillow and instantly open your eyes, six, seven hours having passed. You don't feel re-energized; you feel, instead, re-plugged. Automated action, I guess you'd call it. A week from now I should be fine, and the precise sensations connected to jet-lag will fade, as all things do, only to reemerge one or two years down the line when the next, long journey makes its mark.
************************************************************************************
***********************************************************************************
I'm waiting for the greenlight on a teaching job in Japan. Having returned to the Philippines, oh what do I find in my e-mail inbox but an offer -- or a semi-offer, anyways -- for a teaching gig at a university in Japan. (The company places you at a university somewhere in Japan. This offer is for a school in the Kanto region, which is a broad area but includes where I lived from 1999-2003, so if I'm sent back there, it's either some kind of a cosmic joke or a karmic inevitability.)
They also offered a gig teaching corporate clients and junior-high school students in various sites in various places, but that requires an International Driver's License, and I just renewed my Ontario license back home, and the official one hasn't arrived yet, and besides, I'm not too keen on driving on the other side of the road in Japan. I'm a bad enough driver as it is; visions of Chevy Chase in European Vacation dance through my head...
They told me that it wasn't a formal offer, per se, but that with my high qualifications I had a great chance of being hired, so I said sure, sign me up, count me in, and here it is, Thursday, and I'm still anxiously wondering when they will e-mail confirmation regarding a job that starts next freakin' Friday. Leaving the Philippines is not something I particularly relish, but I do need to make money, and it's impossible to save anything substantial here, and a return to Japan would be a) comfortable, as I've lived there before, and the culture shock of dealing with yet another new culture at this somewhat fragile point in time is not something I think I can handle and b) teaching at the university level in Nippon would be interesting, I think, different than I what I did before in that country. ("Same, but different," as Mr.Miyagi tells Daniel-san in the first Karate Kid, and in a different context, but a noble sentiment nevertheless, don't you think?) I taught university in Cambodia, true, so university teaching is not completely out of my real, but truth be told the words 'university' and 'Cambodia' do not exactly co-exist comfortably with one another.
Nothing to do now but wait.
************************************************************************************
Recovering from jet-lag is mind-numblingly mundane. The symptoms are boring and clear: you wake up fresh at three a.m., and feel sluggish and inert around suppertime. But the sleep you get doesn't refresh you, and you wake up with a slight, unfocused buzz, as if you had been staring at a computer screen for hours on end instead of sleeping and dreaming. (And the dreams themselves are deep and strange and fathomless.) You lay on the pillow and instantly open your eyes, six, seven hours having passed. You don't feel re-energized; you feel, instead, re-plugged. Automated action, I guess you'd call it. A week from now I should be fine, and the precise sensations connected to jet-lag will fade, as all things do, only to reemerge one or two years down the line when the next, long journey makes its mark.
************************************************************************************
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
CANADIAN THOUGHTS
While rushing through Pearson International Airport in Toronto to catch my connecting flight to Vancouver I somehow managed to spot Canadian journalist Peter C. Newman browsing in one of those tiny bookshops that sprout up in odd corners of airports -- and even odder was the fact that I had a tattered copy of his 1968 book The Distemper Of Our Times in my backpack, which I asked him to sign, and to which he said yes. I told him I was trying to catch up on Canadian political history -- not an easy thing to do while living in the Philippines, which makes visiting small-town Canadian used-book shops that specialize in Canadian history, social and military, a necessity on trips back home. "Well," he said, "this shows how things started to go downhill for the Liberal Party." I shook his hand and walked away, feeling strangely enriched, the way one feels after somebody whose work has affected your trains of thought and avenues of interest has suddenly materializes right before your eyes -- a sensation that is rarely felt, true, but one which I've been lucky to experience after meeting writers like Norman Mailer, John Irving, Joyce Carol Oates and Paul Auster in person, only hours after being immersed in their philosophical scribblings.
The weird thing is, encountering Peter C.Newman (probably Canada's most famous political commentator, a dubious distinction at best) at Pearson Airport proved a fitting capstone to my time spent at home. In the past few weeks I read my first book by Newman, The Canadian Revolution (which chronicles the changes Canada experienced from the mid eighties to the mid nineties), in addition to inadvertently buying at a second-hand bookstore two copies of the same book by him: one a paperback, one a hardcover; one the Canadian edition, one the American version, albeit with a different title. I also picked up a couple of books on Pierre Trudeau, and a couple on the rise and resurgence of the Conservative Party in Canada.
Asleep yet?
Growing up, no two words carried more potential for sheer, unadulterated, pristine boredom than these: 'Canadian politics.' (Unless it was 'Canadian history'.) It was only by living in Asia for so long that I became interested in world history and culture and commentary, and it's only on my (grossly) infrequent trips back home that I can fill in the gaps (even more grossly huge) that exist in my knowledge of the people and players that bend and shift the politcal currents in my own country, Canada.
Yes, Canada. For years I've been fascinated by the characters and conmen to be found stalking the landscape of modern American politics: Kennedy and Johnson, Nixon and Carter, Reagan and Bush (multiplied). Oddly, even Gerald Ford's story is more compelling than one would at first suspect. (I'll leave, um, Dukakis and Quayle out of the picture...)
But Canada, too, has its own abundant share of oddballs and artistocrats, wackos and wunderkinds of the political realm -- not to mention the towering force of our greatest, most humane P.M., Pierre Trudeau, loved and reviled in equal measure. (And who I accidentally met on Bay Street in Toronto about ten years ago while waiting for movie stars outside of the Sutton Place Hotel -- now that's a hell of an autograph for a Canadian to have...)
It is Trudeau -- prime minister for a towering sixteen years -- who best represents the conundrum of modern Canada. A fierce intellectual whose motto was "reason before passion" but dates Margo Kidder, becomes engaged to Barbra Streisand and marries a twenty-two year old flower child while in his early fifties; a proud Quebecker who disdained his province's desire for independence; a romantic wanderer who wilfully endured years and years of mandatory political drudgery. Born of a French-Canadian father and an Anglo mother, it is Trudeau who somehow embodies the essence of the Canadian spirit -- if such an entity, at our country's young age, could be deemed to exist. (And probably the only leader in the history of the modern world who told a fellow MP during question period to go fuck himself. Asked what he said, Trudeau pleaded innocent: "Fuddle-duddle.")
Boring, bland Canada had for a time a leader as shockingly intelligent, profound and charismatic as any world leader currently on the stage. The worst we can say about the current PM, Stephen Harper, aside from the usual reactionary Conservative policies, is that he's, um, well, let me think. Got it. His haircut is kind of lame.
The fact that I've even writing about Canadian politics, for me, is a sign of maturity. A few years ago I wouldn't have known who the hell Peter C.Newman was, let alone had a copy of his book in my bag, and I sure as hell wouldn't have been rushing for his autograph in an airport. (Hmm. That doesn't sound so mature after all...) Keeping current with Canada's leaders (and wannabes) is a way of planting one mental foot on my native soil. It allows me to vicariously examine where I grew up, and where that place is going (with or without me) from a more nuanced perspective.
And it gives me an excuse to chase down seventy-something writers in aiports, which is always a good way to kill time between flights, truth be told.
The weird thing is, encountering Peter C.Newman (probably Canada's most famous political commentator, a dubious distinction at best) at Pearson Airport proved a fitting capstone to my time spent at home. In the past few weeks I read my first book by Newman, The Canadian Revolution (which chronicles the changes Canada experienced from the mid eighties to the mid nineties), in addition to inadvertently buying at a second-hand bookstore two copies of the same book by him: one a paperback, one a hardcover; one the Canadian edition, one the American version, albeit with a different title. I also picked up a couple of books on Pierre Trudeau, and a couple on the rise and resurgence of the Conservative Party in Canada.
Asleep yet?
Growing up, no two words carried more potential for sheer, unadulterated, pristine boredom than these: 'Canadian politics.' (Unless it was 'Canadian history'.) It was only by living in Asia for so long that I became interested in world history and culture and commentary, and it's only on my (grossly) infrequent trips back home that I can fill in the gaps (even more grossly huge) that exist in my knowledge of the people and players that bend and shift the politcal currents in my own country, Canada.
Yes, Canada. For years I've been fascinated by the characters and conmen to be found stalking the landscape of modern American politics: Kennedy and Johnson, Nixon and Carter, Reagan and Bush (multiplied). Oddly, even Gerald Ford's story is more compelling than one would at first suspect. (I'll leave, um, Dukakis and Quayle out of the picture...)
But Canada, too, has its own abundant share of oddballs and artistocrats, wackos and wunderkinds of the political realm -- not to mention the towering force of our greatest, most humane P.M., Pierre Trudeau, loved and reviled in equal measure. (And who I accidentally met on Bay Street in Toronto about ten years ago while waiting for movie stars outside of the Sutton Place Hotel -- now that's a hell of an autograph for a Canadian to have...)
It is Trudeau -- prime minister for a towering sixteen years -- who best represents the conundrum of modern Canada. A fierce intellectual whose motto was "reason before passion" but dates Margo Kidder, becomes engaged to Barbra Streisand and marries a twenty-two year old flower child while in his early fifties; a proud Quebecker who disdained his province's desire for independence; a romantic wanderer who wilfully endured years and years of mandatory political drudgery. Born of a French-Canadian father and an Anglo mother, it is Trudeau who somehow embodies the essence of the Canadian spirit -- if such an entity, at our country's young age, could be deemed to exist. (And probably the only leader in the history of the modern world who told a fellow MP during question period to go fuck himself. Asked what he said, Trudeau pleaded innocent: "Fuddle-duddle.")
Boring, bland Canada had for a time a leader as shockingly intelligent, profound and charismatic as any world leader currently on the stage. The worst we can say about the current PM, Stephen Harper, aside from the usual reactionary Conservative policies, is that he's, um, well, let me think. Got it. His haircut is kind of lame.
The fact that I've even writing about Canadian politics, for me, is a sign of maturity. A few years ago I wouldn't have known who the hell Peter C.Newman was, let alone had a copy of his book in my bag, and I sure as hell wouldn't have been rushing for his autograph in an airport. (Hmm. That doesn't sound so mature after all...) Keeping current with Canada's leaders (and wannabes) is a way of planting one mental foot on my native soil. It allows me to vicariously examine where I grew up, and where that place is going (with or without me) from a more nuanced perspective.
And it gives me an excuse to chase down seventy-something writers in aiports, which is always a good way to kill time between flights, truth be told.
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