The other day I received an out-of-the-blue email from an old running friend of mine from high school, Tim Ames, who I hadn't heard from since I was seventeen years old. I even remember the last time I saw him, the day I pulled out of a race at Copps Coliseum in Hamilton because my leg suddenly decided to go bonkers on me. And now here is, twelve years later, alive and well and living in western Canada, engaged to be married, doing well. He survived; I survived.
You remember that line from Stand By Me? "Friends come in and out of your life like busboys in a restaurant." It's so true. When you're young, you meet people, hang out, chill, and then wham -- they're gone, and you usually never see them again, and yet they've somehow been able to carve a little gauge in your heart that, if you're lucky, turns into a scar.
There's that old saying: "There are two kinds of people in the world -- those that leave home and those that stay. The former are usually more interesting."
I agree with that sentiment, but at the same time, it doesn't really matter; if you stay, somebody's leaving, and if you leave, somebody stays behind. There's always the residue of life, its emotions and memories, left behind; there's always a kind of resonance that can still be heard and felt months, even years later. Perhaps it's nothing more than the abscence of an individual whose life intersected with yours.
We all know that growing old sucks -- nothing but work, family, crises, mortgage, retirement and, eventually, death to look forward to. (With some compensations in between, I'm
assuming.)
And yet, there are these other, more intricate layers and circuits that we are never really told about because they form part of an emotional matrix that people take for granted, not properly recognizing these pathways as the pulsing heart of our interior lives.
We are young for so short a time and old for so long (if we're lucky.) We leave behind our childhood and adolescence like candy wrappers dropped casually on a random street, because what other choice do we have, really? We can't stay in the past; our bodies and minds won't let us, and most of us wouldn't choose to to do that anyways. (Pee-Herman, maybe.)
But I think, for good or for bad, that's where we're shaped, during those first eighteen, nineteen years of life. We form views of the world based on people we've met, places we've lived in, teachers we've slept with. (I'm joking, I'm joking.) Our lives intertwine with so many others in so many small and insignificant ways -- the paper boy, the elementary school janitor, the convenience store clerk who smokes and reads Cosmo as if it's Tolstoy.
The refreshing, surprising and oddly reaffirming notion that arises when hearing from somebody who knew you when you were a kid is this: They knew us then, before all the bad and tough and confusing stuff happened. (At least, the adult version of the bad and tough and confusing stuff.) They knew you before anybody else did, and that's how they remember you, and perhaps they're your link to your younger, purer self.
Or maybe it's less dramatic than that. Maybe it's just a simple human thing, this contact with someone who shared a certain portion of your life. Maybe it's just a pleasant diversion from life's grittiness, a blast of nostalgia that could lead to a greater adult friendship, or even just goodwill, plain and basic goodwill, that will linger through the years.
I asked Tim if he knew what had happened to some of our old running buddies, and he wasn't sure; for now, they exist only as memories, even though the real world, I'm sure, has pushed them on and forward. But he said that my brother had mentioned an idea of a 'running reunion' somewhere down the line.
I hope it happens. Because we all know that even busboys in restaurants sometimes hover and linger around your table longer than expected.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Friday, March 11, 2005
DREAM ON
I had a dream the other night that I was back in Japan, visiting my old school, talking to the teachers who were still there, and it was an intense dream, a vivid dream, the kind that you have when you are a kid but not so much later on in life, when dreams become little more than near-empty waystations between sleep and waking, pit-stops for weary minds.
My firm, scientific, educated opinion is that dreams are completely whack. (You can quote me on that.) I'm not sure what the hell they are; I'm not sure if Freud was onto something or not (I think Freud had some issues, personally. I'm sure he got offended when trying to fix people's problems and they'd just look at him and say: "What are you, Freud?" and he'd say, "As a matter of fact, I am.")
I'm starting to believe that dreams are just the minds way of blowing off some steam. We don't really know the mind really works anyways, right? Amazing that we're able to hold ourselves together for the sixteen, seventeen hours we spend each day on our feet, trying to make our way through life without tripping and falling to the carpet and getting rugburn across our chin. (A weird image, a strained metaphor, but I'm going with it.)
Some things I find odd about dreams:
1) We're always the main characters. Usually, anyways. And there's usually a narrative involved. And we're inevitably the main protagonist, active, excited, scared-shitless participants in our own imaginary, nocturnal escapades. Whenever people wonder about why books or novels or comics are so popular, about why we love stories so damn much, I think back to dreams; I think back to what we do every night when we hit the sack. (No, not that -- the other thing.) For some reason, our brains are hardwired to respond to life's stimuli by creating non-sensical narratives for ourselves, that may (or may) give clues as to our true, most secret intentions and wishes.
2) Dreams are freakin' nuts. I used to have dreams where I was riding a giant bagel down a winding, endless waterslide. Or I dreamt (dreamed? dreamt? which one???) that I was streaking alongside a comet through space as the universe hid its own little shuck and jive to my intergalactic beat. Or I dreamt that I watched Star Trek VI before it came out in the theatre, and that was my dream -- me, in the theatre, watching the movie. (And let me tell you, my dream version of the flick was absolutely awesome. Way better than the real version, though I like that too.) And then there's times when I'm dreaming that I'm reading a book, and in the dream I'm actually reading it, and I'm admiring my writing, and then my dreaming self says 'wait a minute, hold on, you can't be admiring this writing because it's actually your writing, and you're not really reading it at all, buddy -- your eyes are closed'. Yes, yes, that's true, but my eyes get tired when I dream of reading, and how is that possible?
4) Dreams are erratic. When I was a kid, I once had a really long, intricate dream that dissolved into thin air when I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, but miraculously, when I went to bed, it was back, unedited, commencing in the same place in the story from where I left it. Swear to god. And then there are other dreams that last for a minute, maybe less, as dream-time, sleep-time, is impossible to register, while other dreams merge and seque into another -- modern-day Ontario, welcome to ancient Egypt...
5) Dreams are scary. Fear in dreams is far deeper, broader and with a greater overall reach than whatever spooky stuff goes down in real life. When I was a child, I dreamt that I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and noticed something hanging from the chan-
delier that hung over our front hallway. That 'something' was, in fact, multiple 'somethings', multiple bodies, in fact, and they were dead and rotted, distorted and bloody, and when I ran into my parents room I found nothing but an old chest that slowly opened to reveal a black-gloved hand holding a pistol. The hand pivoted, pointed, and fired. I tried to scream but no sound came out, and then the shot hit my face, and I died, which was when I woke up. Whoa. That was scarrrrry, boys and girls. Another time I dreamed I was shot, and I slowly, slowly died as I lay on the street, and as I felt my life slink away, again, I awoke. (Maybe in my past life I was shot? Maybe I was J.F.K.? Or Franz Ferdinand? Or some anonymous, hopeless kid on the six o'clock news, caught in the crossfire back in early '75? It's possible.)
3) Dreams hold the key. If there's another world, an alternate dimension parallel to our own, I think it's in dreams that we access it. If there's a soul, a spritual plane to our existence, I believe that dreams are somehow connected. If there are ghosts, and an afterlife, dreams provide the gatekeeper and the gate. In dreams we are free and wild and scared and proud and young and old and whatever it is that our sleeping selves want to be.
If only life were like that.
My firm, scientific, educated opinion is that dreams are completely whack. (You can quote me on that.) I'm not sure what the hell they are; I'm not sure if Freud was onto something or not (I think Freud had some issues, personally. I'm sure he got offended when trying to fix people's problems and they'd just look at him and say: "What are you, Freud?" and he'd say, "As a matter of fact, I am.")
I'm starting to believe that dreams are just the minds way of blowing off some steam. We don't really know the mind really works anyways, right? Amazing that we're able to hold ourselves together for the sixteen, seventeen hours we spend each day on our feet, trying to make our way through life without tripping and falling to the carpet and getting rugburn across our chin. (A weird image, a strained metaphor, but I'm going with it.)
Some things I find odd about dreams:
1) We're always the main characters. Usually, anyways. And there's usually a narrative involved. And we're inevitably the main protagonist, active, excited, scared-shitless participants in our own imaginary, nocturnal escapades. Whenever people wonder about why books or novels or comics are so popular, about why we love stories so damn much, I think back to dreams; I think back to what we do every night when we hit the sack. (No, not that -- the other thing.) For some reason, our brains are hardwired to respond to life's stimuli by creating non-sensical narratives for ourselves, that may (or may) give clues as to our true, most secret intentions and wishes.
2) Dreams are freakin' nuts. I used to have dreams where I was riding a giant bagel down a winding, endless waterslide. Or I dreamt (dreamed? dreamt? which one???) that I was streaking alongside a comet through space as the universe hid its own little shuck and jive to my intergalactic beat. Or I dreamt that I watched Star Trek VI before it came out in the theatre, and that was my dream -- me, in the theatre, watching the movie. (And let me tell you, my dream version of the flick was absolutely awesome. Way better than the real version, though I like that too.) And then there's times when I'm dreaming that I'm reading a book, and in the dream I'm actually reading it, and I'm admiring my writing, and then my dreaming self says 'wait a minute, hold on, you can't be admiring this writing because it's actually your writing, and you're not really reading it at all, buddy -- your eyes are closed'. Yes, yes, that's true, but my eyes get tired when I dream of reading, and how is that possible?
4) Dreams are erratic. When I was a kid, I once had a really long, intricate dream that dissolved into thin air when I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, but miraculously, when I went to bed, it was back, unedited, commencing in the same place in the story from where I left it. Swear to god. And then there are other dreams that last for a minute, maybe less, as dream-time, sleep-time, is impossible to register, while other dreams merge and seque into another -- modern-day Ontario, welcome to ancient Egypt...
5) Dreams are scary. Fear in dreams is far deeper, broader and with a greater overall reach than whatever spooky stuff goes down in real life. When I was a child, I dreamt that I woke up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and noticed something hanging from the chan-
delier that hung over our front hallway. That 'something' was, in fact, multiple 'somethings', multiple bodies, in fact, and they were dead and rotted, distorted and bloody, and when I ran into my parents room I found nothing but an old chest that slowly opened to reveal a black-gloved hand holding a pistol. The hand pivoted, pointed, and fired. I tried to scream but no sound came out, and then the shot hit my face, and I died, which was when I woke up. Whoa. That was scarrrrry, boys and girls. Another time I dreamed I was shot, and I slowly, slowly died as I lay on the street, and as I felt my life slink away, again, I awoke. (Maybe in my past life I was shot? Maybe I was J.F.K.? Or Franz Ferdinand? Or some anonymous, hopeless kid on the six o'clock news, caught in the crossfire back in early '75? It's possible.)
3) Dreams hold the key. If there's another world, an alternate dimension parallel to our own, I think it's in dreams that we access it. If there's a soul, a spritual plane to our existence, I believe that dreams are somehow connected. If there are ghosts, and an afterlife, dreams provide the gatekeeper and the gate. In dreams we are free and wild and scared and proud and young and old and whatever it is that our sleeping selves want to be.
If only life were like that.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
YOU THINK SO, DO YOU?
It's hard, really hard, to admit when we're wrong.
Right now, a lot of Democrats in America are getting worried. Biting their nails. Nibbling at their lower lips. Reaching for those cigarettes on the nightstand.
Why?
Because things over there in the Middle East are getting...interesting. Elections in Iraq. Upcoming democratic elections in Egypt. Lebanon standing up for itself. Israel and Palestine trying to sort stuff out, and actually, kind of, getting somewhere.
All because of Bush.
Aha!
Instantly, upon hearing the word Bush, you went into a defensive mode. I heard it! His name inspires either revolt or rejuvenation, and I'm betting which side of the fence you fall on, and I'm betting that it's not conducive to Dubya's health and prosperity.
That's fine. That's cool. I'm Canadian, after all, and I can afford to be a little, well, detached from it all. You want to hate Bush, draw swastikas on his newspaper-photo forehead, go right ahead. Or if you want to love the man, chill in Crawford, go for a little fishing with him, fine by me.
What interests me is not the man himself but the way that his actions, and subsequently your reactions to his actions, affects the way that you respond.
Let's put it this way. Right now, things are going (relatively) pretty good in the Middle East.
That makes Democrats uneasy.
Why?
Not because they don't want things to go well in the Middle East; they do. But they don't want it to be because of Bush, and if the tide does start to turn because of the President's actions, that will be a bitter pill that many Democrats refuse to swallow.
Works both ways, though. Let's say this temporary thaw in Middle Eastern hellraising is just that -- temporary. Let's say the proverbial fit hits the shan over the next six months, a year, two years, and the Middle East explodes in violence. Republicans will not blame Bush, despite all of his efforts and interventions; Republicans will point their fingers somewhere else.
That's what we, as humans, do.
Because it's hard to admit we're wrong. Because we're raised in a society that demands that we have a belief, a firm belief, a pretty much fixed belief, and that we stick to what we believe, come hell or high water.
Fine. All well and good. But the world is not a fixed place, so why should our beliefs be?
Because letting go of those beliefs is hard, soul-damaging work; labels are easier. Labels are the way we make our way through the world. I am white and he is black and she is Democrat and he is a Republican, and all of these classfications enable the building of blocks in our brain to allocate our judgements accordingly -- this person goes here, that person goes there.
But life doesn't work that way. People change and shift; so do events.
We have to find another approach to the way we view things, something beyond our initial, judgmental impulses.
Edward DeBono (www.edwdebono.com), who I've written about before, tries to do this, to go beyond what society has conditioned us to think is right and wrong, doable and not-doable, plausible and implausible. So much of the way we are brought up concerns itself with defending our own position, come hell and high water, without logically considering why we are so, so, so protective of our beliefs.
Consider the construction of the modern judicial system. There is a prosectuor and defendant;
each is trying to win. If the prosecutor has information that would help the defendant, do you think he/she would unleash it? And vice-versa. It is set up as a game, with a winner or a loser. Whoever can argue the best, persuade the best, wins. Truth is a by-product, an irrelevant afterthought.
I'm not saying this is completely wrong, or that I have a better alternative. (I'm from St.Catharines, alright?) But I'll steal DeBono's metaphor: It's like the wheels on a car. It's not that there's anything inherently wrong with having a car with only two wheels; it's just not
enough. There's nothing wrong with our courts systems either, or healthy debates between conflicting parties -- but are they enough? Are these kind of paradigms designed to actually find the truth of a given situation, or are they designed as forums for the relentless defense of our own egos?
My point (and I think I have one; feel free to disagree) is that our own thoughts and views on issues are so tied up with our psyche and our peers, our own feelings and emotions and those of our family, friends and compatriots that it's become increasingly difficult to shift perspectives and swallow our pride and admit that we're going about something the wrong way. It's very, very hard to stop; disengage; step back; and consider. It's very, very difficult to admit that, you know what, I'm not really sure about something. Society tells us that if we don't have an opinion about something now, this very second, then we are apathetic drifters.
So, again, I say 'George W. Bush', and, for 99% of you, your mind is made up: savior or saboteur, saint or slimeball. If you think the man is a twit, you will not be receptive to anything positive I have to say about the man; if you think he's doing a good job, any criticisms coming from me will be tossed-over-the-shoulder right away, plain and simple. (I'm generalizing, but you get the picture.)
The advent of the Internet allows us to broaden our minds and consider points of view alien to our own. The danger is that we will just continue to sample that which reflects back our own beliefs.
I think it's important to at least listen to others who believe stuff that we don't. You ever listen to Rush Limbaugh? (Your mind whirs -- judgement time!) I disagree with most of what he says, 80 per cent of what he says, but you know what? He's actually kind of entertaining. Often funny. Uses satire well. I don't implode after listening to him; he doesn't really change my mind about much. But I learn how people different from me think.
It's a brave new world, yes, linked as never before, but filled with the same old two hundred countries. There was just an article the other day about how a lot of people are getting pissed off at the Indians on the other end of the line who man the phones for various different call-centres, the ones who are 'stealing' all the jobs from the Americans. The customers would get ticked off, then tell off, the Indians, insulting their ethnicity and ability.
We gotta get beyond all this. I don't know how we actually go about doing that, but I think it starts by investigating why we feel the way that we do, and acknowledging that thoughts change, that we change, and that we are, in the end, sometimes, like it or not, fallible.
Unless, of course, you try to tell me that Oliver Stone is a hack.
'Cause then you'd just be wrong.
Right now, a lot of Democrats in America are getting worried. Biting their nails. Nibbling at their lower lips. Reaching for those cigarettes on the nightstand.
Why?
Because things over there in the Middle East are getting...interesting. Elections in Iraq. Upcoming democratic elections in Egypt. Lebanon standing up for itself. Israel and Palestine trying to sort stuff out, and actually, kind of, getting somewhere.
All because of Bush.
Aha!
Instantly, upon hearing the word Bush, you went into a defensive mode. I heard it! His name inspires either revolt or rejuvenation, and I'm betting which side of the fence you fall on, and I'm betting that it's not conducive to Dubya's health and prosperity.
That's fine. That's cool. I'm Canadian, after all, and I can afford to be a little, well, detached from it all. You want to hate Bush, draw swastikas on his newspaper-photo forehead, go right ahead. Or if you want to love the man, chill in Crawford, go for a little fishing with him, fine by me.
What interests me is not the man himself but the way that his actions, and subsequently your reactions to his actions, affects the way that you respond.
Let's put it this way. Right now, things are going (relatively) pretty good in the Middle East.
That makes Democrats uneasy.
Why?
Not because they don't want things to go well in the Middle East; they do. But they don't want it to be because of Bush, and if the tide does start to turn because of the President's actions, that will be a bitter pill that many Democrats refuse to swallow.
Works both ways, though. Let's say this temporary thaw in Middle Eastern hellraising is just that -- temporary. Let's say the proverbial fit hits the shan over the next six months, a year, two years, and the Middle East explodes in violence. Republicans will not blame Bush, despite all of his efforts and interventions; Republicans will point their fingers somewhere else.
That's what we, as humans, do.
Because it's hard to admit we're wrong. Because we're raised in a society that demands that we have a belief, a firm belief, a pretty much fixed belief, and that we stick to what we believe, come hell or high water.
Fine. All well and good. But the world is not a fixed place, so why should our beliefs be?
Because letting go of those beliefs is hard, soul-damaging work; labels are easier. Labels are the way we make our way through the world. I am white and he is black and she is Democrat and he is a Republican, and all of these classfications enable the building of blocks in our brain to allocate our judgements accordingly -- this person goes here, that person goes there.
But life doesn't work that way. People change and shift; so do events.
We have to find another approach to the way we view things, something beyond our initial, judgmental impulses.
Edward DeBono (www.edwdebono.com), who I've written about before, tries to do this, to go beyond what society has conditioned us to think is right and wrong, doable and not-doable, plausible and implausible. So much of the way we are brought up concerns itself with defending our own position, come hell and high water, without logically considering why we are so, so, so protective of our beliefs.
Consider the construction of the modern judicial system. There is a prosectuor and defendant;
each is trying to win. If the prosecutor has information that would help the defendant, do you think he/she would unleash it? And vice-versa. It is set up as a game, with a winner or a loser. Whoever can argue the best, persuade the best, wins. Truth is a by-product, an irrelevant afterthought.
I'm not saying this is completely wrong, or that I have a better alternative. (I'm from St.Catharines, alright?) But I'll steal DeBono's metaphor: It's like the wheels on a car. It's not that there's anything inherently wrong with having a car with only two wheels; it's just not
enough. There's nothing wrong with our courts systems either, or healthy debates between conflicting parties -- but are they enough? Are these kind of paradigms designed to actually find the truth of a given situation, or are they designed as forums for the relentless defense of our own egos?
My point (and I think I have one; feel free to disagree) is that our own thoughts and views on issues are so tied up with our psyche and our peers, our own feelings and emotions and those of our family, friends and compatriots that it's become increasingly difficult to shift perspectives and swallow our pride and admit that we're going about something the wrong way. It's very, very hard to stop; disengage; step back; and consider. It's very, very difficult to admit that, you know what, I'm not really sure about something. Society tells us that if we don't have an opinion about something now, this very second, then we are apathetic drifters.
So, again, I say 'George W. Bush', and, for 99% of you, your mind is made up: savior or saboteur, saint or slimeball. If you think the man is a twit, you will not be receptive to anything positive I have to say about the man; if you think he's doing a good job, any criticisms coming from me will be tossed-over-the-shoulder right away, plain and simple. (I'm generalizing, but you get the picture.)
The advent of the Internet allows us to broaden our minds and consider points of view alien to our own. The danger is that we will just continue to sample that which reflects back our own beliefs.
I think it's important to at least listen to others who believe stuff that we don't. You ever listen to Rush Limbaugh? (Your mind whirs -- judgement time!) I disagree with most of what he says, 80 per cent of what he says, but you know what? He's actually kind of entertaining. Often funny. Uses satire well. I don't implode after listening to him; he doesn't really change my mind about much. But I learn how people different from me think.
It's a brave new world, yes, linked as never before, but filled with the same old two hundred countries. There was just an article the other day about how a lot of people are getting pissed off at the Indians on the other end of the line who man the phones for various different call-centres, the ones who are 'stealing' all the jobs from the Americans. The customers would get ticked off, then tell off, the Indians, insulting their ethnicity and ability.
We gotta get beyond all this. I don't know how we actually go about doing that, but I think it starts by investigating why we feel the way that we do, and acknowledging that thoughts change, that we change, and that we are, in the end, sometimes, like it or not, fallible.
Unless, of course, you try to tell me that Oliver Stone is a hack.
'Cause then you'd just be wrong.
DOOMED TO BE DARTH: LUKE SKYWALKER, CAMBODIAN COLLEGE STUDENTS, AND HOW TO REDEEM YOUR PARENTS' MISTAKES
The thing that most people overlook about the two Star Wars trilogies is that they are, at their core, the story of fathers and sons, and although we once thought of these stories as being concerned solely with the evolution of Luke Skywalker, we can now see that that isn't the case at all -- these movies are about Darth Vader, about a gifted young boy who ended up choosing the wrong path in life, only to be later redeemed by his son.
Nobody really likes these new movies, the third of which, Revenge of the Sith, will premiere this May, but I do; they convincingly portray the disintegration of a democracy into a dictatorship in a way that young people can understand and, given that they take place before the films we knew and loved as kids, they also have the added advantage of establishing all kinds of neat little foreshadowings, twists, and thematic layers that give new meaning to what we've seen before. They are able to, in essence, 'mirror' what happens in the second trilogy, creating a wonderful cyclical effect.
Basically, Anakin 'Darth Vader' Skywalker's story parallels his son's own odyssey through life -- a gifted, respected Jedi Warrior who is trying to do the right thing. Only Vader, obviously makes the wrong choice; Luke, faced with similar temptations, does the right thing. Simple. Powerful.
It's a very interesting, bold message, I think. Lucas is saying: Here's a guy who did everything wrong, but his son, faced with similar choices, not only does the right thing, but in the process redeems his dad, too (as Vader, at the end of Return of the Jedi, once again becomes a 'good guy').
You can argue all you want about the aesthetic choices of this new trilogy -- its excitement factor, it's 'coolness' -- that's your call. But I don't think you can deny that Lucas has deepened his maturity and focus; he's talking about interesting ideas that aren't really talked about much in contemporary pop culture, the most subtle of which is: how do we enter into the world that our parents made, and then somehow avoid making the same mistakes they did?
Take Cambodia. The Cambodian university students I taught were, in general, the children of the elite, which, in this country, means that their parents were government workers. Big shots. Not all of the students were rich kids; quite a few had scholarships, and there were many who somehow managed to scrape the tuition money together by hook or by crook. Still, a great majority of university students in Phnom Penh have parents in one Ministry or another, which means, bottom line, that those parents are on the take. Greasing the palms. Passing the buck, literally and figuratively.
Sad, but true. The weird thing is, in a country like Cambodia, where corruption is the norm, can it even be called corruption anymore? You do what you have to do to get ahead, build alliances, forge relationships. If that's what it takes to grease the wheel and climb the ladder, well, then that's what it takes. You call it corruption; they call it survival.
Problem is, where do all of these university graduates go? They are well-connected, most of these kids; if they want, I'm sure they can get somewhat of an 'in' into the system. And yet it is that very system that I fear, this system that will turn these naive, good-natured (albeit a little bit lazy) students into monetary, bureaucratic survivalists. If there was a Survivor: Cambodia, it would have to consist of a bunch of big-bellied bureaucrats scheming to see who gets to pay off which higher-up first.
But then, once these freshly-minted graduates are allowed into the dance, into the game, what next? How does the process being? How do you get the money, and how does the money exchange hands? Who gets what?
Because the Khmer Rouge killed all of the intellectuals and educated people twenty-five years ago, the people running Cambodia now are not the brightest bulbs in the socket. That may sound harsh, but it's true; Cambodia's educational system wasn't exactly stellar thirty years ago anyways, and the people running the show are woefully uneducated. And here you have their (relatively) better educated children, young and eager and wanting to become a part of the legitimate international community, but unsure of how to go about it.
Will they just inherit their parents' corrupt ways? Is there any other way, besides corruption, to move the country forward, given that those in power sure as hell won't relinquish power? Will the children of Cambodia become their own, authentically Asian version of Luke Skywalker, avoiding temptation by doing the good and noble act, thereby redeeming their great country and their parents in the process? Or is the country doomed to be Darth Vader all over again?
Nobody really likes these new movies, the third of which, Revenge of the Sith, will premiere this May, but I do; they convincingly portray the disintegration of a democracy into a dictatorship in a way that young people can understand and, given that they take place before the films we knew and loved as kids, they also have the added advantage of establishing all kinds of neat little foreshadowings, twists, and thematic layers that give new meaning to what we've seen before. They are able to, in essence, 'mirror' what happens in the second trilogy, creating a wonderful cyclical effect.
Basically, Anakin 'Darth Vader' Skywalker's story parallels his son's own odyssey through life -- a gifted, respected Jedi Warrior who is trying to do the right thing. Only Vader, obviously makes the wrong choice; Luke, faced with similar temptations, does the right thing. Simple. Powerful.
It's a very interesting, bold message, I think. Lucas is saying: Here's a guy who did everything wrong, but his son, faced with similar choices, not only does the right thing, but in the process redeems his dad, too (as Vader, at the end of Return of the Jedi, once again becomes a 'good guy').
You can argue all you want about the aesthetic choices of this new trilogy -- its excitement factor, it's 'coolness' -- that's your call. But I don't think you can deny that Lucas has deepened his maturity and focus; he's talking about interesting ideas that aren't really talked about much in contemporary pop culture, the most subtle of which is: how do we enter into the world that our parents made, and then somehow avoid making the same mistakes they did?
Take Cambodia. The Cambodian university students I taught were, in general, the children of the elite, which, in this country, means that their parents were government workers. Big shots. Not all of the students were rich kids; quite a few had scholarships, and there were many who somehow managed to scrape the tuition money together by hook or by crook. Still, a great majority of university students in Phnom Penh have parents in one Ministry or another, which means, bottom line, that those parents are on the take. Greasing the palms. Passing the buck, literally and figuratively.
Sad, but true. The weird thing is, in a country like Cambodia, where corruption is the norm, can it even be called corruption anymore? You do what you have to do to get ahead, build alliances, forge relationships. If that's what it takes to grease the wheel and climb the ladder, well, then that's what it takes. You call it corruption; they call it survival.
Problem is, where do all of these university graduates go? They are well-connected, most of these kids; if they want, I'm sure they can get somewhat of an 'in' into the system. And yet it is that very system that I fear, this system that will turn these naive, good-natured (albeit a little bit lazy) students into monetary, bureaucratic survivalists. If there was a Survivor: Cambodia, it would have to consist of a bunch of big-bellied bureaucrats scheming to see who gets to pay off which higher-up first.
But then, once these freshly-minted graduates are allowed into the dance, into the game, what next? How does the process being? How do you get the money, and how does the money exchange hands? Who gets what?
Because the Khmer Rouge killed all of the intellectuals and educated people twenty-five years ago, the people running Cambodia now are not the brightest bulbs in the socket. That may sound harsh, but it's true; Cambodia's educational system wasn't exactly stellar thirty years ago anyways, and the people running the show are woefully uneducated. And here you have their (relatively) better educated children, young and eager and wanting to become a part of the legitimate international community, but unsure of how to go about it.
Will they just inherit their parents' corrupt ways? Is there any other way, besides corruption, to move the country forward, given that those in power sure as hell won't relinquish power? Will the children of Cambodia become their own, authentically Asian version of Luke Skywalker, avoiding temptation by doing the good and noble act, thereby redeeming their great country and their parents in the process? Or is the country doomed to be Darth Vader all over again?
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
INTERROGATION
Let me see. Let me think. Just a minute, now. Don't go off, you know, off all, what do you call it, half-cocked. Ready to fire. Playing Dirty Harry and everything. Thirty years is a long time, longer than you been alive. Can't expect me to remember it all at once, can you? You think you could, in a room like this, cold and, and, and gray, you think you could remember something that happened twenty-five years ago just like that? Didn't think so.
What's that?
Yes, we were friends. 'Friends'. Well. Okay. You want to use the word 'friends', that's what we'll use. 'Buddy', 'friend', 'compadre', whatever. I don't know what you young guys call yourselves anymore, anyways. Don't know what the word 'friends' means anymore. Are they people you play video games with? Are those the kind of, you know, the kind of people you'd call friends?
Hey, I'm not the one off-topic here, fella. Not me. I'm not the one who, you know, was talking about the weather and the Leafs and the, and the, and the goddamn basketball scores. Like you care about basketball. You want to get off-topic, fine by me, but don't go, don't go calling me on that, on that very same thing when I'm sitting here, under this light, waiting for the cup of hot chocolate I asked for twenty minutes ago. I'm trying to remember, like you want me to.
Was a while ago, that's all.
Did we fight?
No more beating around the bush, eh?
You want to ask me the question you been wanting to ask since you picked me up?
You want to ask it?
I didn't ask, you know, I didn't ask, didn't say, that I was going to answer it. I asked if you want to ask it.
Good. You got balls. Finally. I had my doubts for awhile.
You want me to say I bashed his head in with a rock? You want me to say that? Want to know the, the, the colour of it, the colour of the, of the blood? You want that? I can give you all that. Confession and everything, I just did. Confessed. But I'm asking for the other stuff. You want that? You want to know what it's like, seeing your best friend go, go away like that? Seeing his, his, well, I don't want to say 'soul', too religious for my tastes, but seeing his life flow out of him? I saw it, same as I see you. Saw his life go...Up. Up up and away, like the guy in blue and red. That what you want to hear? I can tell you all that, if you want. Colours, screams, the whole deal.
Of course I remember it now. Of course I do. But you, you didn't want all this, did you. You wanted 'yes, I did it', or 'no, I didn't'. That's all you want. You want the, how would you call them, details for the judge and jury, sure. But you don't want to think about the nitty gritty too much, young fella like you. Don't want to hear what we can do to each other, us humans. Do to the people we love. Don't want to hear, don't care to hear it. Don't want nothing more than the facts.
Fine.
You got the facts.
I spared you the human stuff. The stuff that, that, you know, you might recognize in your own, in your own mirror. Guy like you probably looks at every mirror he passes by. Vain little, little runt.
Now do I get a cup of hot chocolate or what?
What's that?
Yes, we were friends. 'Friends'. Well. Okay. You want to use the word 'friends', that's what we'll use. 'Buddy', 'friend', 'compadre', whatever. I don't know what you young guys call yourselves anymore, anyways. Don't know what the word 'friends' means anymore. Are they people you play video games with? Are those the kind of, you know, the kind of people you'd call friends?
Hey, I'm not the one off-topic here, fella. Not me. I'm not the one who, you know, was talking about the weather and the Leafs and the, and the, and the goddamn basketball scores. Like you care about basketball. You want to get off-topic, fine by me, but don't go, don't go calling me on that, on that very same thing when I'm sitting here, under this light, waiting for the cup of hot chocolate I asked for twenty minutes ago. I'm trying to remember, like you want me to.
Was a while ago, that's all.
Did we fight?
No more beating around the bush, eh?
You want to ask me the question you been wanting to ask since you picked me up?
You want to ask it?
I didn't ask, you know, I didn't ask, didn't say, that I was going to answer it. I asked if you want to ask it.
Good. You got balls. Finally. I had my doubts for awhile.
You want me to say I bashed his head in with a rock? You want me to say that? Want to know the, the, the colour of it, the colour of the, of the blood? You want that? I can give you all that. Confession and everything, I just did. Confessed. But I'm asking for the other stuff. You want that? You want to know what it's like, seeing your best friend go, go away like that? Seeing his, his, well, I don't want to say 'soul', too religious for my tastes, but seeing his life flow out of him? I saw it, same as I see you. Saw his life go...Up. Up up and away, like the guy in blue and red. That what you want to hear? I can tell you all that, if you want. Colours, screams, the whole deal.
Of course I remember it now. Of course I do. But you, you didn't want all this, did you. You wanted 'yes, I did it', or 'no, I didn't'. That's all you want. You want the, how would you call them, details for the judge and jury, sure. But you don't want to think about the nitty gritty too much, young fella like you. Don't want to hear what we can do to each other, us humans. Do to the people we love. Don't want to hear, don't care to hear it. Don't want nothing more than the facts.
Fine.
You got the facts.
I spared you the human stuff. The stuff that, that, you know, you might recognize in your own, in your own mirror. Guy like you probably looks at every mirror he passes by. Vain little, little runt.
Now do I get a cup of hot chocolate or what?
THERE'S NOTHING HERE
The reason I first came to Cambodia was to volunteer with a Japanese NGO, Children Without Borders (www.knk.or.jp), at a house for street children in Battambang, in the northwest corner of the country, and I decided to fly from Phnom Penh to Battambang, a short flight, less than an hour, less than a hundred bucks, and it was while flying from the biggest city in Cambodia to the second-biggest city in the country (my self and my life suspended in the air), that I looked out the window and realized: There's nothing here.
Nothing but endless fields of rice and winding rivers of brown, like a Southeast Asian Snakes and Ladders brought to life, complete with flimsy huts and zig-zagging paths that I gradually realized were roads. Nothing but bicycles and motos. Nothing but fishermen and their fish, and their families, and their boats lazily floating down the river, all day long. Nothing but young students going to three different universities, hoping for three different B.As. Nothing but prostitutes clad in bright red, from their face to their feet, sitting outside their tiny apartments in groups of five and six and seven, waiting for night to fall. Nothing but dirty, shoeless kids on the street walking from here to there and back again, scavening for whatever leftovers can be used as food, drugs, barter. Nothing but black garbage bags torn in two resting on dusty, damaged sidwalks, the remnants of a government worker's refuse exposed and ransacked for all to raid. Nothing but Royal Palaces and the guards who guard them, with their guns, and their helmets, and their distant, vacant stare, halfway between boredom and vigilance. Nothing but people making their way through the hot and languid day that lies before them.
There's nothing here, I'd thought.
I was wrong.
Nothing but endless fields of rice and winding rivers of brown, like a Southeast Asian Snakes and Ladders brought to life, complete with flimsy huts and zig-zagging paths that I gradually realized were roads. Nothing but bicycles and motos. Nothing but fishermen and their fish, and their families, and their boats lazily floating down the river, all day long. Nothing but young students going to three different universities, hoping for three different B.As. Nothing but prostitutes clad in bright red, from their face to their feet, sitting outside their tiny apartments in groups of five and six and seven, waiting for night to fall. Nothing but dirty, shoeless kids on the street walking from here to there and back again, scavening for whatever leftovers can be used as food, drugs, barter. Nothing but black garbage bags torn in two resting on dusty, damaged sidwalks, the remnants of a government worker's refuse exposed and ransacked for all to raid. Nothing but Royal Palaces and the guards who guard them, with their guns, and their helmets, and their distant, vacant stare, halfway between boredom and vigilance. Nothing but people making their way through the hot and languid day that lies before them.
There's nothing here, I'd thought.
I was wrong.
OVER TIME
"Absolute, true, mathematical time, of itself, and from its own nature, flows equably without relation to anything external."
-- Newton
"If, for instance, I say, 'That train arrives here at 7 o'clock, I mean something like this: 'The pointing of the small hand of my watch to 7 and the arrival of the train are simultaneous events...
"To those of us who believe in physics, this separation between past, present and future is only an illusion, if a stubborn one."
-- Einstein
"Whoa. This is heavy."
-- Marty McFly,
Back To The Future
I've always been interested in time-travel stories, mostly because I think that our present-day concept of time itself is illusory, that the past and present and future are all somehow interrelated, folding in on themselves, overlapping, blending into each other. Whether in movies or fiction, time-travel tales offer a different, more palatable perspective. They say: "The past? Oh, that's just over there. The future? Just up ahead. You wanna go? Let's go, hop in, take a seat, don't forget to buckle up." The past, present and future thus become tangible destinations; you can actually go there. You can touch the land. Smell the breeze. It has a tangible, physical, emotional weight.
In (what we call) reality, time and physical weight? That, I'm not sure of. Emotional weight? You bet your ass.
As you get older, your life grows shorter as your memory grows longer, and the past continues to hold sway over your present, while the future hides in wait, refusing to show its cards. They are all co-conspirators, these past, present and future schemers, and we are the victims, while I suspect that the ultimate con is a simple one: the transparent illusion of time itself. (Maybe that's why I find reincarnation, as a concept, so neat.)
And yet, I truly believe that time and aging are all within the confines of our minds, malleable to our will. I'm 29, but I don't know if I feel 29, or 46, 0r 11. I am what I am what I am, as Popeye said. (And, for the record, I think Robin William's Popeye movie from 198o is freakin' great. Vastly underrated. Just had to get that off my chest.) Our bodies start to creak a little more as the days and weeks do their traditional dance, but within this progression comes wisdom, perspective, and regression, too, the ability to see our childhoods a little more clearly, understand our past selves with a more tender level of empathy and awe. The physical declines as the mental gains new altitude.
Having said all that, back to my main point -- time travel stories are freakin' cool. I love the Back to the Future trilogy (so much so that that will have to wait for a later post -- you've been warned). Loved Quantom Leap. Loved Christopher Reeve's Somewhere in Time and the Jack-the-Ripper-in- 1970's- San Francisco- flick Time After Time. Loved Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home. Loved an early 1980's show called Voyagers, where a young man and his protege travelled through time. (Anybody remember that one?)
All these flicks inevitably led to the archetypal on-the-lawn, sipping-lemonade, looking-at-the-stars-question: Past or future? Where'd you rather go?
For me, there was no real choice. It was always the future.
Not to say that visiting the past wouldn't be awesome. It would. You could check out the pyramids of Egypt and Angkor being constructed. You could see Dickens' London up close and personal. Be there when Marilyn Monroe sang 'Happy Birthday' to J.F.K. Witness the Titantic leaving its port for the first and final time.
The allure of the past, for me, aside from all that cool historical debris, is to see and fell and taste and here what it was actually like.
Future generations will able to see, on film, a complete and total record of life in the 2o and 21st century -- our fashions, our trends, the way we looked, the way we talked. They will be able to view our presidents and prime ministers, watch their speeches, analyze their actions by way of honest-to-god footage; they will be able to study M*A*S*H and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and Star Wars and Saved by the Bell: The College Years to find out what we liked, and why. (Did Screech end up graduating?) God knows what they'll make of all this stuff, but it'll be there for our great-great-great grandchildren to at least gawk at, if nothing else.
But we, us, my fellow citizens of the 21st century, don't and can't really know what the past was like. Not really; not truly. We can't view it or listen to it. Everything before photography is speculation, really. It was there, the past; it happened. We know that. Books tell us that. But its very presence, devoid of solid, concrete proof, renders it somewhat...inert. Lifeless. Stale. To me.
Ah, but the future...
The future is nothing but blue skies and mystery, mystery, mystery. (The human mind thrives on mystery; it craves it. It hordes it. Who is the new girl that moved in next door, and what will my new boss look like, and why does my Uncle Sal always pick his nose then flick it when he knows that people are looking at him, what with his lazy lefty eye and all, and how did all those Desperate Housewives get so desperate in the first place, and who will be the next president, Hillary or Condi or McCain or Oprah, and what will this restaurant's burger taste like, I've heard it's good, but I have my doubts, their fries blow, and will my path in life be stable, steady, happy. We need mystery to keep us going, and the future is nothing but.)
At the end of Back to the Future, Marty Mcfly and his girlfriend Jennifer and Doc Brown fly off into the year 2015, and then...nothing. The picture ends. Time to go home and wipe the goobers off of the soles of your sneakers (a legacy of that sticky-floor feeling composed of spilt Coke and stale popcorn, a sweet and synthetic velcro, I remember it so well from all of St.Catharines' cinemas, and what a memory to cherish, but I do, I do...)
Whaaaaaaat? How could they do this to me? You can't, can't, can't just have them go into the freakin' future and not show it!
I had to wait four years, for the sequel, to find out what Hill Valley looked like, all those years from now.
But it gave me time to think, that gap. To wonder. The year 2015...wow. And now here we are, only ten years from that wondrous date, and while I could be wrong I don't think that there will be flying cars soaring through the skies, or tiny Pizza Hut pizzas that magically inflate and expand jumbo-like after ten seconds of cooking.
Oh, but that's inevitable, isn't it, this downplay of expectations? The year 2001 was once a magical and mystical realm of possibility, sheer, glimmering potential -- and now? Now, it's remembered as the year a group of young Saudis carried a bunch of box cutters onto a couple of planes.
Reality has a way of first diminishing, then eradicating, what was once regarded as prophecy.
No matter.
The important, resilient idea is this: When we think about the future, dream about it, write about it, we're projecting hope, plain and simple, no matter how nihilistic or craven our visions ends up being. If there's a future, it means, at the primal level: Life has survived. We've made it. And we want to see and feel what this new reality will be like because it means, fundamentally, that we, as humanity, endure. We survive. We exist. Where will we go? How will we get there? Will everybody still love Raymond? This desire to see the future simply links us back to our most basic human desires: We want to know; we want to touch the mystery.
We want to see how it all turns out.
-- Newton
"If, for instance, I say, 'That train arrives here at 7 o'clock, I mean something like this: 'The pointing of the small hand of my watch to 7 and the arrival of the train are simultaneous events...
"To those of us who believe in physics, this separation between past, present and future is only an illusion, if a stubborn one."
-- Einstein
"Whoa. This is heavy."
-- Marty McFly,
Back To The Future
I've always been interested in time-travel stories, mostly because I think that our present-day concept of time itself is illusory, that the past and present and future are all somehow interrelated, folding in on themselves, overlapping, blending into each other. Whether in movies or fiction, time-travel tales offer a different, more palatable perspective. They say: "The past? Oh, that's just over there. The future? Just up ahead. You wanna go? Let's go, hop in, take a seat, don't forget to buckle up." The past, present and future thus become tangible destinations; you can actually go there. You can touch the land. Smell the breeze. It has a tangible, physical, emotional weight.
In (what we call) reality, time and physical weight? That, I'm not sure of. Emotional weight? You bet your ass.
As you get older, your life grows shorter as your memory grows longer, and the past continues to hold sway over your present, while the future hides in wait, refusing to show its cards. They are all co-conspirators, these past, present and future schemers, and we are the victims, while I suspect that the ultimate con is a simple one: the transparent illusion of time itself. (Maybe that's why I find reincarnation, as a concept, so neat.)
And yet, I truly believe that time and aging are all within the confines of our minds, malleable to our will. I'm 29, but I don't know if I feel 29, or 46, 0r 11. I am what I am what I am, as Popeye said. (And, for the record, I think Robin William's Popeye movie from 198o is freakin' great. Vastly underrated. Just had to get that off my chest.) Our bodies start to creak a little more as the days and weeks do their traditional dance, but within this progression comes wisdom, perspective, and regression, too, the ability to see our childhoods a little more clearly, understand our past selves with a more tender level of empathy and awe. The physical declines as the mental gains new altitude.
Having said all that, back to my main point -- time travel stories are freakin' cool. I love the Back to the Future trilogy (so much so that that will have to wait for a later post -- you've been warned). Loved Quantom Leap. Loved Christopher Reeve's Somewhere in Time and the Jack-the-Ripper-in- 1970's- San Francisco- flick Time After Time. Loved Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home. Loved an early 1980's show called Voyagers, where a young man and his protege travelled through time. (Anybody remember that one?)
All these flicks inevitably led to the archetypal on-the-lawn, sipping-lemonade, looking-at-the-stars-question: Past or future? Where'd you rather go?
For me, there was no real choice. It was always the future.
Not to say that visiting the past wouldn't be awesome. It would. You could check out the pyramids of Egypt and Angkor being constructed. You could see Dickens' London up close and personal. Be there when Marilyn Monroe sang 'Happy Birthday' to J.F.K. Witness the Titantic leaving its port for the first and final time.
The allure of the past, for me, aside from all that cool historical debris, is to see and fell and taste and here what it was actually like.
Future generations will able to see, on film, a complete and total record of life in the 2o and 21st century -- our fashions, our trends, the way we looked, the way we talked. They will be able to view our presidents and prime ministers, watch their speeches, analyze their actions by way of honest-to-god footage; they will be able to study M*A*S*H and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and Star Wars and Saved by the Bell: The College Years to find out what we liked, and why. (Did Screech end up graduating?) God knows what they'll make of all this stuff, but it'll be there for our great-great-great grandchildren to at least gawk at, if nothing else.
But we, us, my fellow citizens of the 21st century, don't and can't really know what the past was like. Not really; not truly. We can't view it or listen to it. Everything before photography is speculation, really. It was there, the past; it happened. We know that. Books tell us that. But its very presence, devoid of solid, concrete proof, renders it somewhat...inert. Lifeless. Stale. To me.
Ah, but the future...
The future is nothing but blue skies and mystery, mystery, mystery. (The human mind thrives on mystery; it craves it. It hordes it. Who is the new girl that moved in next door, and what will my new boss look like, and why does my Uncle Sal always pick his nose then flick it when he knows that people are looking at him, what with his lazy lefty eye and all, and how did all those Desperate Housewives get so desperate in the first place, and who will be the next president, Hillary or Condi or McCain or Oprah, and what will this restaurant's burger taste like, I've heard it's good, but I have my doubts, their fries blow, and will my path in life be stable, steady, happy. We need mystery to keep us going, and the future is nothing but.)
At the end of Back to the Future, Marty Mcfly and his girlfriend Jennifer and Doc Brown fly off into the year 2015, and then...nothing. The picture ends. Time to go home and wipe the goobers off of the soles of your sneakers (a legacy of that sticky-floor feeling composed of spilt Coke and stale popcorn, a sweet and synthetic velcro, I remember it so well from all of St.Catharines' cinemas, and what a memory to cherish, but I do, I do...)
Whaaaaaaat? How could they do this to me? You can't, can't, can't just have them go into the freakin' future and not show it!
I had to wait four years, for the sequel, to find out what Hill Valley looked like, all those years from now.
But it gave me time to think, that gap. To wonder. The year 2015...wow. And now here we are, only ten years from that wondrous date, and while I could be wrong I don't think that there will be flying cars soaring through the skies, or tiny Pizza Hut pizzas that magically inflate and expand jumbo-like after ten seconds of cooking.
Oh, but that's inevitable, isn't it, this downplay of expectations? The year 2001 was once a magical and mystical realm of possibility, sheer, glimmering potential -- and now? Now, it's remembered as the year a group of young Saudis carried a bunch of box cutters onto a couple of planes.
Reality has a way of first diminishing, then eradicating, what was once regarded as prophecy.
No matter.
The important, resilient idea is this: When we think about the future, dream about it, write about it, we're projecting hope, plain and simple, no matter how nihilistic or craven our visions ends up being. If there's a future, it means, at the primal level: Life has survived. We've made it. And we want to see and feel what this new reality will be like because it means, fundamentally, that we, as humanity, endure. We survive. We exist. Where will we go? How will we get there? Will everybody still love Raymond? This desire to see the future simply links us back to our most basic human desires: We want to know; we want to touch the mystery.
We want to see how it all turns out.
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