Time attains a different degree in a hospital. It moves at a stranger rate. Even if you are in a darkened room, light from the hallway outside, the world outside, blends in and reminds you that life moves on, regardless. Nurses bop in and out of rooms. There is no sense of night. An artificial glare bathes everything in its own indifferent glow. Racks of ragged paperback books sitting tight on a rack in the lobby beckon to be read, if only to substitute a story for the plodding passage of minute after minute. Who am I to refuse the pleas of such lonely books? While lounging around the Bangkok Hospital last week I took another gander at John Irving's A Widow For One Year, a book I'd read twice before years before, and, like Twain marvelling at how much his father had changed in seven years, I, too, was astounded at how much this particular book had mellowed and improved since 1998. (Not that I'm comparing myself to Twain, of course.)
As an unreserved John Irving junkie, I've always loved his work, but it's only been recently, in the past few years, that I've begun to truly understand what he has always claimed is the most important component of his novels -- or, indeed, any novel, namely: the passage of time. How time affects us. How it changes us. How it allows characters to grow and shift in unexpected ways, and how narrative, too, achieves its own special flavor and slant depending on what happened to who, and when. Especially when.
I'd always taken that remark for granted -- but the more I think about it, the more I agree with it, and learn from it. Time is nothing if not space stretched out, and a novel is full of space. Irving's novels in particular tend to trace the entire arc of characters' lives, and can often take reckless leaps in narrative time that, in retrospect, seem not only bold, but absolutely essential. (One chapter towards the end of The Cider House Rules jumps ahead twenty years -- a surprising, disconcerting decision that is that much more poignant because of its ambition. The film version had to abandon such recklessness.)
It is only through time that we achieve any perspective, or meaning, or resonance, in our own lives and the lives of others, and the best works of art recognize that. Novels can do that so easily; turn the page, and presto-changeo, it's a decade hence. They rarely do so, of course, because that requires patience, and plotting, and the signs of a well-thought out story; in today's contract-driven, book-a-year world, who has time for plot? Who has time for craftmanship?
Film, too, is at a disadvantage, because the experience itself unfolds in linear time. And yet, upon reflection, some of my favorite films from my favorite filmmakers are obviously, even relentlessly obsessed with what time does to us. What time demands of us. The Oliver Stone films I particularly love -- Born On The Fourth of July, The Doors, J.F.K., Heaven and Earth, Nixon, Alexander --span months, years, even decades in the lives of its protagonists, a technique that lends some to argue that much is truncated, much is condensed, much is slighted in the race to cram as much life as possible into the shortest time possible. Fair enough; a valid criticism. But I would argue that it is precisely such 'cramming of life', so to speak, that inevitably creates the boldest, most emotional effects. Only time can tell us about ourselves, and only time can teach us, scold us, spurn us and reveal to us. Only time.
The days are long in a hospital room. I sat in a chair and looked out the window and read my battered copy of A Widow For One year. Took only a couple of days, it did, but within those days and beneath those pages I saw children grow old, spouses die, decades pass and minutes stretch out. Will my life follow a similar pattern? I think of my grandfather, who was my age in 1949. Will I endure a similar span? Who were we, and who are we? Where are we, and where are we going? How do we move on, and how do we retain the best of who we were? These are the questions I asked myself while reading the book, as the nurses made their nightly rounds, and the hallway lights, as always, stayed on.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Friday, November 04, 2005
ON A DOCK
While eating breakfast a few days ago in the restaurant of the A-One Hotel in Bangkok, Thailand, the lazy seventies rock of Steve Miller drifted through the gaps in the morning buffet, taking me back.
Back fifteen, sixteen years, to a lake, and a dock, and a cottage. Near Halliburton, Ontario (where Bill Murray and his comedic gang filmed the first, best Meatballs, back when the world was young), this cottage was (and is). Steve Miller was the music of choice that summer (and the summer before that, and the summer after that), along with Tom Petty and the Grateful Dead, the Traveling Wilburys and the Beautiful South. Us kids would put on the tunes and listen to the beats of our adolescene fade out of tune, one note at a time.
And yet, sometimes there was stillness; sometimes the music was gone. I remember, vividly, sitting on the dock one morning with my friend Mike, the two of us reading our paperback books as the waves leisurely lapped the sides of the dock, begging to be noticed. The dads were probably out fishing; the moms where most likely inside, cleaning up after breakfast. I read my copy of H.P.Lovecraft's strange and horrifying tales of depravity (purchased because there was a recommendation by Stephen King on the cover -- if King blurbed it, I bought it, period). Mike read the novelization of Halloween IV: The Return of Michael Myers. (In those days, the reality of the world, the harshness of the world, was still a source of innocent, escapist fun, and we revelled in that make-believe terror.)
Out on the water, the first boats of the day, towing anxious skiers ready for the fun to begin, occasionally sliced the silent morning in two, but that was fine; that was what summer was for, after all. A light wind pushed at the water and pulled at the pages of our books. Later that day would come our own bout of waterskiing and fishhooks, campfire and music. Later that summer would come school supplies and autumn shoes, velcro binders and coloured pencils. That was fine, too. Everything had its season, we were learning. You couldn't always stay on a dock. You could learn to appreciate the stillness, though, and we did. We learned.
We sat on the dock, under the blue, feeling the wind, listening to the distant roar of a distant boat, as the waves did what waves do: advance and retreat, rise and fall, collapse and ascend -- almost effortlessly, almost gracefully -- in their own, incremental manner.
Back fifteen, sixteen years, to a lake, and a dock, and a cottage. Near Halliburton, Ontario (where Bill Murray and his comedic gang filmed the first, best Meatballs, back when the world was young), this cottage was (and is). Steve Miller was the music of choice that summer (and the summer before that, and the summer after that), along with Tom Petty and the Grateful Dead, the Traveling Wilburys and the Beautiful South. Us kids would put on the tunes and listen to the beats of our adolescene fade out of tune, one note at a time.
And yet, sometimes there was stillness; sometimes the music was gone. I remember, vividly, sitting on the dock one morning with my friend Mike, the two of us reading our paperback books as the waves leisurely lapped the sides of the dock, begging to be noticed. The dads were probably out fishing; the moms where most likely inside, cleaning up after breakfast. I read my copy of H.P.Lovecraft's strange and horrifying tales of depravity (purchased because there was a recommendation by Stephen King on the cover -- if King blurbed it, I bought it, period). Mike read the novelization of Halloween IV: The Return of Michael Myers. (In those days, the reality of the world, the harshness of the world, was still a source of innocent, escapist fun, and we revelled in that make-believe terror.)
Out on the water, the first boats of the day, towing anxious skiers ready for the fun to begin, occasionally sliced the silent morning in two, but that was fine; that was what summer was for, after all. A light wind pushed at the water and pulled at the pages of our books. Later that day would come our own bout of waterskiing and fishhooks, campfire and music. Later that summer would come school supplies and autumn shoes, velcro binders and coloured pencils. That was fine, too. Everything had its season, we were learning. You couldn't always stay on a dock. You could learn to appreciate the stillness, though, and we did. We learned.
We sat on the dock, under the blue, feeling the wind, listening to the distant roar of a distant boat, as the waves did what waves do: advance and retreat, rise and fall, collapse and ascend -- almost effortlessly, almost gracefully -- in their own, incremental manner.
Friday, October 28, 2005
CARPE DIEM
Helen, the thirty-seven year old Filipino woman I've been seeing for the past sixteen months, mother of a ten-year old son back home, has been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. She had her uterus and ovaries removed a few days ago here at Bangkok Hospital. Chemo to follow, probably in the Philippines.
I'm stunned and sad, angry and confused. I have no idea what I'll write about in the days and weeks and months ahead, but this is a very personal, profound journey, and it's not my place to chronicle it here. I thought I was a pretty philosophical guy before. But now.
Let me just say: If you are a woman, or if you know any women, please dot not ignore any inexplicable weight loss or pain in the lower regions. Ovarian cancer is hard to detect, and when it is, it's usually late in the game.
As for the title of the post, it may be cliche, but it's not meant to be ironic. Live for the moments, and the people you share them with, because life can be one cruel bastard at times.
I'm stunned and sad, angry and confused. I have no idea what I'll write about in the days and weeks and months ahead, but this is a very personal, profound journey, and it's not my place to chronicle it here. I thought I was a pretty philosophical guy before. But now.
Let me just say: If you are a woman, or if you know any women, please dot not ignore any inexplicable weight loss or pain in the lower regions. Ovarian cancer is hard to detect, and when it is, it's usually late in the game.
As for the title of the post, it may be cliche, but it's not meant to be ironic. Live for the moments, and the people you share them with, because life can be one cruel bastard at times.
Monday, October 24, 2005
OFF TO THAILAND
Life takes us to unexpected places at unexpected times, proof of which is the fact that I'll be flying into Bangkok, Thailand tomorrow morning for a week to ten days, depending on how long my rather-ill friend's surgery goes. (Let's just say that hospitals in Cambodia, even the good foreign clinics that do exist, are not equipped to handle major surgery.)
I've never been to Thailand (other than the airport), despite its proximity to Cambodia, and these are not exactly the conditions under which I wanted to visit it, but so it goes. The writer Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., always quotes his brother's philosophy of life: "We are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is." And this is one of those times.
Expect sporadic updates for the next week, but I'll try to write from Bangkok with a taste or two of urban Thai life.
I've never been to Thailand (other than the airport), despite its proximity to Cambodia, and these are not exactly the conditions under which I wanted to visit it, but so it goes. The writer Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., always quotes his brother's philosophy of life: "We are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is." And this is one of those times.
Expect sporadic updates for the next week, but I'll try to write from Bangkok with a taste or two of urban Thai life.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
___________ ONLY HAPPENS IN ___________
There's a series of commercials that have been airing on CNN International here in Cambodia that feature a number of tourists sampling the sights and sounds that are unique to Madrid, Spain. The food, the people, the vibe, the jibe -- all of it is captured quite well in thirty second clumps of tourist propoganda, and each commercial ends with the vistor enraptured by the city, mourning their exit, wistfully exclaiming: "Madrid only happens in Madrid."
I like that catchphrase. It makes sense. It has heart. It makes me want to quit my job and pack my bags and hightail it on out to Spain to find out what the hell is so unique about Madrid. And it got me thinking: does every city have its own, individual essence that cannot be replicated anyplace else? Fuck that -- does every person have his or her own unique domain?
We're all taught that as kids, right? No two snowflakes are alike, there's nobody else like us in the world, torturing small animals is perfectly reasonable behavior, as long as fire isn't involved. (What, you weren't taught that last part? I can't be the only one.) The thing of it is, som much of life is redunant. The asshole who cuts in front of me is not the same asshole who cut in front of you, no, but they are distant cousins, metaphorically speaking. If you've seen one small town in Ontario, I guess you haven't seen them all -- but after driving through dozens of them, it sure as shit seems that way. Identical modes of being and living are just that -- identical. The details may change, but I'm not sure that every person and every place has a secret heart and sympathetic soul; carbon copies exist. As you grow, you learn that. Sad, but true.
And yet.
'Phnom Penh only happens in Phnom Penh'. The legless female dwarf in the wheelchair. The smell of dust and dirt and shit and exhaust. The morning sun, arrogant and blazing. The row of motodops sleeping in their carts, cloaked by the night. The fast-driving Mercedes, with their fast-driving owners. The smiles of naked children picking through trash. The anger and fear lying just below the surface of the most gentle faces.
Yes. I suppose 'Phnom Penh' only happens in Phnom Penh'. And if this is true, which I believe, than who am I to say such is not the case for all places, every place, all people, every people? The maddening aftereffects of aging, I suppose. We live through the years, and the years live through us. I have been there and I have seen that, we think. Not realizing that a tiny piece of ourselves is being chipped away. Not understanding, even remotely, that we are cutting ourselves off from a kindred soul that could emerge from a flower in the pavement or the hand of a stranger. We look into others' eyes thinking that we've seen them before. What a fallacy! How routine us humans can sometimes be! To think what that particular person has seen and done! And a new town. To imagine what secrets and hearbreaks it contains! Were we to have such concealments exposed in all their human sordidness, surely our hearts and our minds would crumble with the weight of such emotion.
It's a battle, I suppose. A battle against our own boring, mechanized nature. The urge, the temptation, remains, one that still enclouds me (as you can tell by the beginning of the post.) Nothing new under the sun, we think.
Bah! True or not, we must fight such temptations. As long as we are beginning a new day, as long as we can encounter a person or a place that we have not encountered before, there is always the possibility, always the tantalizing prospect, that newness could result.
(Even when some of those small Ontario towns do feel a little bit drab after awhile. I mean, have you been to Barry's Bay?)
I like that catchphrase. It makes sense. It has heart. It makes me want to quit my job and pack my bags and hightail it on out to Spain to find out what the hell is so unique about Madrid. And it got me thinking: does every city have its own, individual essence that cannot be replicated anyplace else? Fuck that -- does every person have his or her own unique domain?
We're all taught that as kids, right? No two snowflakes are alike, there's nobody else like us in the world, torturing small animals is perfectly reasonable behavior, as long as fire isn't involved. (What, you weren't taught that last part? I can't be the only one.) The thing of it is, som much of life is redunant. The asshole who cuts in front of me is not the same asshole who cut in front of you, no, but they are distant cousins, metaphorically speaking. If you've seen one small town in Ontario, I guess you haven't seen them all -- but after driving through dozens of them, it sure as shit seems that way. Identical modes of being and living are just that -- identical. The details may change, but I'm not sure that every person and every place has a secret heart and sympathetic soul; carbon copies exist. As you grow, you learn that. Sad, but true.
And yet.
'Phnom Penh only happens in Phnom Penh'. The legless female dwarf in the wheelchair. The smell of dust and dirt and shit and exhaust. The morning sun, arrogant and blazing. The row of motodops sleeping in their carts, cloaked by the night. The fast-driving Mercedes, with their fast-driving owners. The smiles of naked children picking through trash. The anger and fear lying just below the surface of the most gentle faces.
Yes. I suppose 'Phnom Penh' only happens in Phnom Penh'. And if this is true, which I believe, than who am I to say such is not the case for all places, every place, all people, every people? The maddening aftereffects of aging, I suppose. We live through the years, and the years live through us. I have been there and I have seen that, we think. Not realizing that a tiny piece of ourselves is being chipped away. Not understanding, even remotely, that we are cutting ourselves off from a kindred soul that could emerge from a flower in the pavement or the hand of a stranger. We look into others' eyes thinking that we've seen them before. What a fallacy! How routine us humans can sometimes be! To think what that particular person has seen and done! And a new town. To imagine what secrets and hearbreaks it contains! Were we to have such concealments exposed in all their human sordidness, surely our hearts and our minds would crumble with the weight of such emotion.
It's a battle, I suppose. A battle against our own boring, mechanized nature. The urge, the temptation, remains, one that still enclouds me (as you can tell by the beginning of the post.) Nothing new under the sun, we think.
Bah! True or not, we must fight such temptations. As long as we are beginning a new day, as long as we can encounter a person or a place that we have not encountered before, there is always the possibility, always the tantalizing prospect, that newness could result.
(Even when some of those small Ontario towns do feel a little bit drab after awhile. I mean, have you been to Barry's Bay?)
Thursday, October 20, 2005
LITTLE GREEN MEN, CAMBODIAN STUDENTS, AND JUST WHAT, EXACTLY, DR.PHIL WOULD MAKE OF ALL THESE ALIEN ANAL PROBES THAT ARE APPARENTLY GOING ON
I'm not saying that teaching English in Cambodia and being abducted by aliens are completely compatible experiences, but, if forced, I would argue before a court of existential law that these two diverse encounters with the unknown share a similar sense of fear, awe, wonder, and, occasionally, harmony.
I think who we are and where we are at particular points in life and time augment what we are reading. I've always loved stories of alien abductions, both fictional and 'true', and have often been intrigued by the tales of those who claim to have been visited by, or kidnapped by, and rectally probed by, alien invaders.
(You'd be amazed at how common descriptions of rectal probes are in the vast span of abduction literature. Forced masturbation also, uh, pops up more often than would expect. Which is odd, because I never needed any coercion, but I suppose that's another post...)
Soon after graduating from university, I attended a book signing given by horror novelist Whitely Streiber at a New Age bookshop in the trendy part of Toronto. (Yes, I was, and am probably still am, the kind of guy who would go to a book signing by the author of Communion. We are what we are.) And it was there that I got a first-hand look at people who not only believe in alien abductions, but have also experienced them for themselves. Streiber seemingly started the aliens-visited-me boom with his own memoir, Communion, and those attending his lecture were filled to burstin' with stories of ships and probes and spacecrafts resting patiently at the bottom of Lake Ontario, waiting for that pristine, perfect moment to ascend. Each piece of information from the featured writer and the surrounding minions was received with a solemn nod of the head from the other participants, like brethern nodding in time to the beats of a sermon from their pastor that they've heard many times before.
I walked out of that little talk and that little store still not convinced that alien abductions were, but I was convinced that some people were convinced.
And now, after having read John E.Mack's 1994 bestseller Abudction: Human Encounters With Aliens, I've found insights and outlooks that are unexpected and illuminating. (And just plain fucking weird, too, but that's to be expected in these kinds of tales.)
Essentially, the book is a series of descriptions of psychiatric sessions conducted between Mack and patients that have been referred to him, all of who have had alien encounters in some way, shape form. (Excluding Neil Diamond fans, because it has yet to be confirmed that he is an alien, but I have my suspicions.) What makes the book so fascinating (and controversial) revolves around the approach Mack decides to adopt -- namely, treating his patients not as victims of a mental disorder but as people who have been traumatized by an experience every bit as unsettling as an assault or a rape. A skeptic turned believer, Mack allows us as readers to view the abduction phenomenon from a personal perspective. Listening to their stories, you will not necessarily become a believer, but you will start to recognize common human needs and longings that are either brought forth from the aliens, given by the aliens, or else emanating directly from a universal human desire for togetherness and hope all that lies within us all.
Oh, and I'll be honest -- there's a lot of anal probing going on, which leads me to suspect that the aliens aren't getting enough loving at home. I know, I know, they say it's for 'experimental purposes', but still. (God, I can picture Dr.Phil seated before a handful of silvery-skinned aliens with tear-drop shaped heads gazing blankly at him with milky dark eyes as he berates them for our amusement: "You do realize, don't you, that there are some issues in your own bedroom in your own galaxy that need to be addressed before you start deciding to invite little Becky over here in Kansas into your kinda twisted reindeer games. Am I getting through to ya? And don't tell me that because you're an alien you can't hear the whistle I'm blowin', 'cause let me tell ya, I've see Close Encounters, I know you hear the horn I'm playin', so that particular dog won't hunt.")
Once you get past the icky-gooey aspect of these testimonies, complete with cosmic dissections and incisions and strange glowing fluids from questionable sources, you discover that so many of the abductees' see their experiences, diverse as they are, as a common means of discovering more about themselves and the universe they (and we) inhabit. Some see the aliens as trying to teach humans more about unlimited compassion and love, while others see them as warning us as to what our selfish, indulgent, destructive ways will eventually lead to. In all cases, however, Mack sees these alien intrusions as a challenge to our normal, historical, dualistic scientific understanding of space and time, human and other, Bert and Ernie, individual consciousness and collective evolution. Either aliens are trying to eradicate the boundaries between these tradionally dualistic concepts, Mack is implying, or the subconscious desires of a hell of a lot of people demand that we do so. (Mack is not exactly objective, either; he believes these people and their encounters, and suggests we need to reevaluate what we consider 'reality'.)
Standing in front of a classroom in Cambodia, attempting to explain to my ESL students my own thoughts pertaining to the Prime Minister's latest crackdown on anyone who dares to criticize him or his totalitarian policies, I suddely felt a sudden emotional alignment with these abductees. For what has my adventure been, both in Japan and Cambodia, if not an encounter with the unknown, an unconscious attempt to link myself with something larger and grander and denser than my own puny mind?
The tangents of life inevitably end up being the teachers of life. One need not see a streaking saucer light up the ink-black sky, symbiotically bond with female extraterrestrials or discover that oneself is actually the spawn of little green men to benefit from what a certain sense of displacement can offer. Relizing that I was giving my students my own, admittedly naive, opinion regarding Cambodian domestic politics vis-a-vis South East Asian political machinations, I realized, too, that I had, in my own, specifically human way, had a cosmic and spiritual evolution that challenged my notions of day-to-day reality, of what is right and wrong, mundane and far-fetched. My Japanese experience certainly bore little relation to my Canadian upbringing, and my time in Cambodia has done much to expand a small-town consciousness that knew little of life that had not been gleamed from the multiplex-glow of the silver screen or the pages of a comic book.
So, yes. I will keep scanning the skies, dreading and hoping that one day, some day, I might spot a definitive glowing sign that we are not alone in the cosmos. But I will also keep scanning the eyes of my students, trying to keep in mind that what is alien and foreign is subjective and personal, and that transcendance need not coincide with a spaceship's door drawing open. After all, for the moment, the door to my classroom is near enough.
I think who we are and where we are at particular points in life and time augment what we are reading. I've always loved stories of alien abductions, both fictional and 'true', and have often been intrigued by the tales of those who claim to have been visited by, or kidnapped by, and rectally probed by, alien invaders.
(You'd be amazed at how common descriptions of rectal probes are in the vast span of abduction literature. Forced masturbation also, uh, pops up more often than would expect. Which is odd, because I never needed any coercion, but I suppose that's another post...)
Soon after graduating from university, I attended a book signing given by horror novelist Whitely Streiber at a New Age bookshop in the trendy part of Toronto. (Yes, I was, and am probably still am, the kind of guy who would go to a book signing by the author of Communion. We are what we are.) And it was there that I got a first-hand look at people who not only believe in alien abductions, but have also experienced them for themselves. Streiber seemingly started the aliens-visited-me boom with his own memoir, Communion, and those attending his lecture were filled to burstin' with stories of ships and probes and spacecrafts resting patiently at the bottom of Lake Ontario, waiting for that pristine, perfect moment to ascend. Each piece of information from the featured writer and the surrounding minions was received with a solemn nod of the head from the other participants, like brethern nodding in time to the beats of a sermon from their pastor that they've heard many times before.
I walked out of that little talk and that little store still not convinced that alien abductions were, but I was convinced that some people were convinced.
And now, after having read John E.Mack's 1994 bestseller Abudction: Human Encounters With Aliens, I've found insights and outlooks that are unexpected and illuminating. (And just plain fucking weird, too, but that's to be expected in these kinds of tales.)
Essentially, the book is a series of descriptions of psychiatric sessions conducted between Mack and patients that have been referred to him, all of who have had alien encounters in some way, shape form. (Excluding Neil Diamond fans, because it has yet to be confirmed that he is an alien, but I have my suspicions.) What makes the book so fascinating (and controversial) revolves around the approach Mack decides to adopt -- namely, treating his patients not as victims of a mental disorder but as people who have been traumatized by an experience every bit as unsettling as an assault or a rape. A skeptic turned believer, Mack allows us as readers to view the abduction phenomenon from a personal perspective. Listening to their stories, you will not necessarily become a believer, but you will start to recognize common human needs and longings that are either brought forth from the aliens, given by the aliens, or else emanating directly from a universal human desire for togetherness and hope all that lies within us all.
Oh, and I'll be honest -- there's a lot of anal probing going on, which leads me to suspect that the aliens aren't getting enough loving at home. I know, I know, they say it's for 'experimental purposes', but still. (God, I can picture Dr.Phil seated before a handful of silvery-skinned aliens with tear-drop shaped heads gazing blankly at him with milky dark eyes as he berates them for our amusement: "You do realize, don't you, that there are some issues in your own bedroom in your own galaxy that need to be addressed before you start deciding to invite little Becky over here in Kansas into your kinda twisted reindeer games. Am I getting through to ya? And don't tell me that because you're an alien you can't hear the whistle I'm blowin', 'cause let me tell ya, I've see Close Encounters, I know you hear the horn I'm playin', so that particular dog won't hunt.")
Once you get past the icky-gooey aspect of these testimonies, complete with cosmic dissections and incisions and strange glowing fluids from questionable sources, you discover that so many of the abductees' see their experiences, diverse as they are, as a common means of discovering more about themselves and the universe they (and we) inhabit. Some see the aliens as trying to teach humans more about unlimited compassion and love, while others see them as warning us as to what our selfish, indulgent, destructive ways will eventually lead to. In all cases, however, Mack sees these alien intrusions as a challenge to our normal, historical, dualistic scientific understanding of space and time, human and other, Bert and Ernie, individual consciousness and collective evolution. Either aliens are trying to eradicate the boundaries between these tradionally dualistic concepts, Mack is implying, or the subconscious desires of a hell of a lot of people demand that we do so. (Mack is not exactly objective, either; he believes these people and their encounters, and suggests we need to reevaluate what we consider 'reality'.)
Standing in front of a classroom in Cambodia, attempting to explain to my ESL students my own thoughts pertaining to the Prime Minister's latest crackdown on anyone who dares to criticize him or his totalitarian policies, I suddely felt a sudden emotional alignment with these abductees. For what has my adventure been, both in Japan and Cambodia, if not an encounter with the unknown, an unconscious attempt to link myself with something larger and grander and denser than my own puny mind?
The tangents of life inevitably end up being the teachers of life. One need not see a streaking saucer light up the ink-black sky, symbiotically bond with female extraterrestrials or discover that oneself is actually the spawn of little green men to benefit from what a certain sense of displacement can offer. Relizing that I was giving my students my own, admittedly naive, opinion regarding Cambodian domestic politics vis-a-vis South East Asian political machinations, I realized, too, that I had, in my own, specifically human way, had a cosmic and spiritual evolution that challenged my notions of day-to-day reality, of what is right and wrong, mundane and far-fetched. My Japanese experience certainly bore little relation to my Canadian upbringing, and my time in Cambodia has done much to expand a small-town consciousness that knew little of life that had not been gleamed from the multiplex-glow of the silver screen or the pages of a comic book.
So, yes. I will keep scanning the skies, dreading and hoping that one day, some day, I might spot a definitive glowing sign that we are not alone in the cosmos. But I will also keep scanning the eyes of my students, trying to keep in mind that what is alien and foreign is subjective and personal, and that transcendance need not coincide with a spaceship's door drawing open. After all, for the moment, the door to my classroom is near enough.
Monday, October 17, 2005
SIMPLE
Simple things are better. This is what I'm starting to believe. Simple food, simple sun, simple stories. We live in an age that appreciates complexity and endorses the maze. I like mazes too. But in the end mazes get you to the same place as a straight line.
This is not to say that simple things have to be simplistic. I would even argue that the more clearly and simply something is told, expressed and conveyed, the more complex it is. Once things are streamlined, we retain the essence but lose the appendages. The absence of those offshoots thus allows us to view what we see and hear with an imaginative exploration that would be unnecessary had everything been explained and dissected in exhaustion.
Think of Million Dollar Baby. Love it or hate it, the movie has a pretty simple story. A young boxer coached by an aging boxer. Tragedy results. People are changed. A lot of people who slagged the film slagged it because they had seen it all before, it wasn't original, yada yada yada. Well, perhaps. But as John Irving once said, after you forget the machinations of the plot, what you remember about a story is the emotional resonance that the characters created for you. You may not remember what they did or how they did it, but you remember the feelings the author instigated in your own heart. I can't remember scene-by-scene what happened in Million Dollar Baby, but boy do I remember the effect. Why? Ordinary people in a difficult situation. Bad things happen to them. I feel their pain, as Clinton would say. Simple.
It's not cool or hip or fashionable to acknowledge the simplicity of sentiment, but it's sentimentality that makes the world go 'round. I sometimes think that people don't apply the same standards to art that they accept in life. Meaning, we demand that art be rigorous and cynical, deep and multi-layered, complex and multi-faceted, but what moves us the most in life? The homemade birthday card your kid gives you for your birthday. The rise of the sun on a winter morn. The feel of the first raindrop on your palm. This is what makes our day and deepens our lives. The simple things.
I like a long book better than a short book. I like big movies with big themes and extended running times. But what I remember most from these experiences are the simple scenes and moments that serve as anchor for all that has come before or will follow. Kevin Costner choking up in the courtroom in J.F.K. Rocky pointing out that the trunks on his picture don't match the real shorts he will wear, and the promoter telling him: "It doesn't really matter, does it, Rock? I'm sure you'll give 'em a good show." The look in Eastwood's eyes when he realizes what Hillary Swank is asking him to do. Kevin Costner at the end of No Way Out wistfully quoting exiled Russian writer Solzhenitsyn, thereby succinctly explaining his entire rationale for remaining on the run throughout the film. Al Pacino in The Godather Part III shly telling the priest at the Vatican that it's been a long time since his last confession. Small moments. Simple moments.
The only ones worth remembering, really.
This is not to say that simple things have to be simplistic. I would even argue that the more clearly and simply something is told, expressed and conveyed, the more complex it is. Once things are streamlined, we retain the essence but lose the appendages. The absence of those offshoots thus allows us to view what we see and hear with an imaginative exploration that would be unnecessary had everything been explained and dissected in exhaustion.
Think of Million Dollar Baby. Love it or hate it, the movie has a pretty simple story. A young boxer coached by an aging boxer. Tragedy results. People are changed. A lot of people who slagged the film slagged it because they had seen it all before, it wasn't original, yada yada yada. Well, perhaps. But as John Irving once said, after you forget the machinations of the plot, what you remember about a story is the emotional resonance that the characters created for you. You may not remember what they did or how they did it, but you remember the feelings the author instigated in your own heart. I can't remember scene-by-scene what happened in Million Dollar Baby, but boy do I remember the effect. Why? Ordinary people in a difficult situation. Bad things happen to them. I feel their pain, as Clinton would say. Simple.
It's not cool or hip or fashionable to acknowledge the simplicity of sentiment, but it's sentimentality that makes the world go 'round. I sometimes think that people don't apply the same standards to art that they accept in life. Meaning, we demand that art be rigorous and cynical, deep and multi-layered, complex and multi-faceted, but what moves us the most in life? The homemade birthday card your kid gives you for your birthday. The rise of the sun on a winter morn. The feel of the first raindrop on your palm. This is what makes our day and deepens our lives. The simple things.
I like a long book better than a short book. I like big movies with big themes and extended running times. But what I remember most from these experiences are the simple scenes and moments that serve as anchor for all that has come before or will follow. Kevin Costner choking up in the courtroom in J.F.K. Rocky pointing out that the trunks on his picture don't match the real shorts he will wear, and the promoter telling him: "It doesn't really matter, does it, Rock? I'm sure you'll give 'em a good show." The look in Eastwood's eyes when he realizes what Hillary Swank is asking him to do. Kevin Costner at the end of No Way Out wistfully quoting exiled Russian writer Solzhenitsyn, thereby succinctly explaining his entire rationale for remaining on the run throughout the film. Al Pacino in The Godather Part III shly telling the priest at the Vatican that it's been a long time since his last confession. Small moments. Simple moments.
The only ones worth remembering, really.
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