The Threshold

It Comes in Threes: Violence, Justice, Restoration

2012-01-18T19:18:00.000-08:00

ONE:
An afternoon chat with some fine, edu-ma-cated friends, and the discussion of violence came up. That and the objectification of women - though not necessarily in conjunction. The discussion was whether or not the two should be eradicated (again, as their own separate entities) from the face of the earth, and how this would be done.

One of my friends argued for the fundamental shift in how we perceive the world. Instead of saying, "this is the way the world is and it won't change; all we can do is survive it to the best of our abilities," he argued that we should instead perceive a violence-free world, or a world where women are treated with equality, as being wholly possible. In that perception lies the means to change.

I argued that however offensive certain aspects of human nature are - and by Christ there are plenty to be disgusted at - they are in fact necessary to our sense of outrage, our sense of longing (for something better) and pursuit, our desire for social justice. A world void of evil means a world void of its antithesis - and in that tension lies what it means to be a person.

Both arguments are flawed. I'm not willing to follow my own argument to its darkest conclusion, and that makes it difficult to defend. The "nothing is impossible" argument needs work in defining how it can apply to ideals.

And yet, I find myself compelled more by my friend's argument than my own at times.

TWO:
Three stories I encountered today.

First, in the news, a twenty-six-year-old, meth-smoking Mom shoots her kids and then herself, after arguing with her husband. The kids were 17 months and three. Prior to doing this, she records herself on her iPad smoking meth.

Second, my MMA coach posts a video of a group of Chicago youths beating the shit out of an Asian kid. Coach posted the video in outrage, and to impress upon his class the importance of not being a victim. The beating is merciless, the youths taunting the vitcim with N***er (yeah, that makes a lot of sense), stomping kicking, punching him over and over. PLUS, they film themselves doing it.

Third, I finish training tonight and casually chat with another member, a female who, for all tenses and purposes, comes from a rough side of the tracks. She talks blue and tough, but is a softy. You can sense it. She also revealed today that she was curb stomped by her own mother several years ago, and that this same mother thought it funny to plunge a knife through her daughter's hand, into the kitchen table. Her voice is light when she speaks of this and I've never felt so foreign in my entire life.

THREE:
My gut reaction is revenge. Retribution is such an easy response. Good riddance to Meth-Mom, the gang of kids should have their asses kicked in kind, the girls parents ought to be locked up forever. I feel it. I really do. But I wonder now, how retribution amounts to anything of value. The little kids and the mother are still dead, the young Asian lad beaten and traumatized, the girl from the gym still bears those permanent wounds of a childhood void of love. It would appease my own outrage, sure, but that's about it.

I remember an Old Testament class I took over fifteen years ago, in the days of Bible School and black and white morality (neither of which I adhere to much any more). In the class, my teacher talked of restorative justice. You heard me, restorative justice in an Old Testament class. I don't remember how he made the connections; too many years have gone past. His tone, however, has always stayed with me. He implored us that morning, of the importance of restoring a balance between victim and perpetrator, that God's entire structure for mankind was one of restoration. How he reconciled Old Testament verses with this, I don't recall. I doubt it's even possible to do so.

But it still strikes a chord, all these years later. The idea of forgiveness trumping retribution. That love, in its myriad of facets, can somehow spark a deeper revolution than violence.

Heidegger on Creative Action, Art and Melancholy

2011-11-15T06:49:00.000-08:00

The quotes are from separate bodies of text (read: they do not follow one after the other), but they create an interesting context when placed side by side. Hopefully one not too manufactured. What to conclude from Heidegger's supposed necessary melancholy mood for creative action, and the nature of art - the common byproduct of said creative action?

In particular, how he believed art to ground history by allowing "truth to spring forth", so humanity can connect implicitly with what is and what matters.

“Freedom is only to be found where there is burden to be shouldered. In creative achievements this burden always represents an imperative and a need that weighs heavily upon man’s mood, so that he comes to be in a mood of melancholy. All creative action resides in a mood of melancholy, whether we are clearly aware of the fact or not, whether we speak at length about it or not. All creative action resides in a mood of melancholy, but this is not to say that everyone in a melancholy mood is creative.”

“In the work of art the truth of an entity has set itself to work. ‘To set’ means here: to bring to a stand. Some particular entity, a pair of peasant shoes, comes in the work to stand in the light of its being. The being of the being comes into the steadiness of its shining. The nature of art would then be this: the truth of being setting itself to work.”

― Martin Heidegger

Pearl Jam Live 2011 Toronto - Why They're Still Great

2011-09-13T12:21:00.000-07:00

It's a funny thing about those bands who've been around for twenty years. They tend to get a lot better - especially those who take what they do seriously. Pearl Jam is no exception. Their discography - which spans two decades - exhibits, if anything, a clear progression in both musicianship and creative process.

Their music is thoughtful, diverse, and genuine. It translates from the studio to live settings the way all good music should: with a bombastic ease that hides all their hard work. Such was the case this past weekend in Toronto, when they took the stage at the Air Canada Centre.

When your catalog of songs is as long as Pearl Jam's, it has to be nice to choose the ones you love and drop the ones you're a little tired of. Not sure if they'd admit to being tired of certain songs, but I can only imagine their sped up version of Daughter and their electric version of Elderly Woman Behind The Counter in a Small Town were indicative of acknowledging the crowd favorites but wanting to move on as well.

What's interesting though, is how well those songs still translate. The stories they present, the concrete imagery - the sense of longing and awareness. It's remarkable. On stage, the songs carry that same weight, but there's an added context of nostalgia too. I don't think I've ever heard a louder crowd in my life, all the voices singing in unison for entire songs - remarkably on key. At one point Eddie Vedder casually compliments the crowd with "That's some good singing out there," - which, unlike comments from other front men, who pander to the crowd for the sake of noise, seems a sincere compliment.

And you have to like Eddie Vedder as a front man. He doesn't spend a lot of time talking. A quick welcome at the beginning. The occasional quip here and there throughout the concert, and a heartfelt thank you at the end. It felt like the band was up there for the music. When Neil Young came on stage at the end of the concert, to jam with the band on his own song Rockin' in the Free World, the only person more elated than the frenzied fans was Mr. Vedder himself. How can you not admire that?

Of course, there was a bit of promotion too. With the Cameron Crowe directed PJ20 documentary (and and book and soundtrack) around the corner, they wanted to get the word out. But again, unlike say, Iron Maiden, who made their audience repeat the release date of their new album out loud several times during their concert in Vancouver, Vedder presented PJ20 as an opportunity for them to organize two decades of musical clutter and paraphernalia into a unified "it". A means to move on to the next two decades.

The stage set-up seemed simple. Band equipment, lighting, the requisite microphone in the center of the stage. The sound was immense - even for a venue with such bouncy acoustics. McCready's solos were fantastic. Ament, Gossard, Cameron all doing their thing. It was simply a quality show by quality musicians.

It's great to love bands from when you were younger, but at some point nostalgia has to wear off. So, it's even better when those same bands progress through the years the same way you do. They get better, they change, they don't try to be who they were twenty years back. They're motivated by their experiences and by their music. Anything else would be disingenuous.

UFC RIO - Should Chael Sonnen Attend?

2011-08-25T17:36:00.000-07:00

In the world of MMA, Chael Sonnen has polarized audiences with his comments regarding other fighters, agents, and even their respective countries. His brash articulations against Anderson Silva leading up to their monumental fight at UFC 117 carried a lot of levity, but a seriousness too.

And though his career of late is re-starting after some well-documented legal problems, there's no question Sonnen is quite serious about both his approach to fighting and his criticism of those he perceives to be disingenuous.

Now, as one of his training partners and former opponents, Yushin Okami, is set to fight Anderson Silva at UFC RIO, Sonnen finds himself not only unable to corner his fighter for sponsorship-related reasons, but he can't even enter Brazil due to the monstrous distraction it would cause - distraction Okami certainly does not need.

And that's thing about Chael Sonnen: media and mma fans love to glom onto the inflammatory nature of his comments. The sport of MMA is as much about fan favorites as it is skill sets. We attach ourselves to fighters based on personality, antics in and out of the ring, and their sense of propriety (or the lack). I'm as guilty of this as the next person.

When Anderson Silva pranced around like a buffoon against Damien Maia, I loathed him for months afterward. But when he KO'd Vitor Belfort with a front-kick to the face, I was back on the bandwagon.

Many fans puff their chests when Sonnen takes a swipe at Brazilian fighters, or languages other than English. But ask yourself, do you think he's serious? Do you really think someone as articulate as Sonnen, and well-educated, with one-time political aspirations (alright, he's a Republican...but still) would really walk through life carrying superficial, impractical prejudices? How would that help him further himself?

The obvious answer is it wouldn't. I suspect those familiar with the fighting world, with what it takes to promote an MMA event, understand Sonnen's plight a bit better. He is creating entertainment by running his mouth - and he's much better at it than most. But if you place Sonnen's comments and antics alongside other footage or information about him, you find him to be a straight-shooting, serious fighter - one who carries both a respect for the sport, and for his fellow fighters.

He was more than aware of the distraction attending UFC RIO would cause for Okami, and immediately bowed out. But he shouldn't have had to. He should have been able to come in, with his hat pulled low over his eyes, and do his job in the corner. But he can't, and he won't. The question is, which will hurt Okami more?

Don't get me wrong. This isn't really a Sonnen love-in. I've never bought his PR jargon about owning the Silva fight. The fact of the matter is, he lost fair and square and soundly. He worked his plan right up until he failed - which is what every losing fighter does, regardless of how long it takes in the fight. Nor do I think highly of his excuses when it comes to his usage of banned substances of money laundering. There, his rhetoric smacked more of desperation and deflection, than of an honest, contrite assessment.

What I'm responding to is the seeming inability of some fans and media to separate the entertaining, sensational rhetoric of an articulate fighter from the seriousness of the sport. That's where the real distraction lies. MMA is not Pro Wrestling, where the drama takes precedence over the stunts.

The UFC is a well-oiled sports mechanism where fighters are given license to hype themselves, their fights, and take a few jabs at their opponents. It's a universal license, provided to each and every fighter - one that enables them to elevate their stature or dig a huge hole. Either way they put bums in seats, whether live or in front of TV's. The fights themselves are an entirely different matter.

Chael Sonnen's next bout is against Brian Stann at UFC 136.

Eulogy for Robert Bates

2011-08-07T22:55:00.000-07:00

(L-R) Auntie Honey, Myself, Uncle Bob - July 15th, 2011 Grand Forks, B.C.

An expected, but unwanted late-night phone call and the distance I feel from my home town is only traversed by certain memories:

Five years old and I'm standing in front of the doorway to Uncle Bob's wood shop. The combination lock hangs on its latch, and the door is open about three inches. Inside, I can hear the whir of the lathe. I knock and wait. In a moment he's there, clad in blue-gray overalls, a dust-mask over his mouth and nose. He greets me and allows me inside, providing I don't touch anything. I enter and sit on a small chair and watch him work. The room smells of cedar dust and Verethane. I tromp patterns in the sawdust on the floor with my feet.

Seven years later and Uncle Bob is showing me where the old Lawnboy is kept so I can keep the weeds down in the empty lot beside their house. He is my first client and writes me a $16 cheque after each cut, which he carefully records on a form that gets submitted to Veterans Affairs. I have to sign my name too. In winter I shovel the driveway, or clear snow from the roof of the shop, or the low-lying garage. Half way through any job and I'm always invited inside for a break. I sit at the kitchen table with Uncle Bob and Auntie Honey, and my tin of Coca Cola. One summer I get lazy - teenage stuff - and avoid his lawn for a few weeks. He calls our house, asks me if I'd rather the money go to someone else, if I can't handle the responsibility. I cut his lawn the very next day.

I bring girlfriends over to meet them. The serious ones anyway. The one I end up marrying plays the violin. One Christmas Uncle Bob brings out from his bedroom his old fiddle, a cassette player, and a book of old songs he likes because they're played by Don Messer. I sit at the piano, my wife-to-be takes the fiddle, and we butcher our way through several jigs while he records them onto a cassette tape. A tape he uses to teach himself those same songs.

Even later, and we now have a daughter who comes with us on visits. She trundles about, causing small disasters. One time, Uncle Bob gets up from his chair and disappears down the hall. He returns with his fiddle. He tunes it quickly, and plays a fast song for her. His hands are slower now, not quite able to catch the trills. I am suddenly aware that he is not invincible, which bothers me. The thought of either Uncle Bob's or Auntie Honey's absence is unfathomable. As quickly as it came out, the fiddle returns to his room.

Our last visit, three weeks ago, and I find myself standing in their yard, looking at the old wood shop. Uncle Bob comes down the steps slowly. His heart is bad. He can't putter around like he wants to - like he should be able to. And he's aware of his own mortality. We climb into his 1978 Datsun pick-up, which was orange when he bought it but later spray-painted "John Deere Green". We drive into town, my father behind us in the van, and head to Sears to pick up a riding mower. He's worried Auntie Honey won't be able to mow the lawn when he's gone. She's already told him there's no way in hell she'll ever get on that machine, but that doesn't matter. I also don't mention how Dad has been mowing it for years now.

It is one of the finest afternoons in recent memory. 36 years old, and I'm sitting in the same truck I used to, when we'd drive around town and pick up discarded oak pallets for Uncle Bob's wood projects. Suddenly I'm that kid again, waiting for a story about the war, or a bit of curmudgeonly gossip about someone in town who's annoyed him. I'm the kid who thought the world was okay because sometimes even the old people were cool. I'm the kid who could sit for hours in their basement with toys and comics from an era I never knew. I'm the kid who'd ride his bike to their house, crashing it onto the lawn before heading inside to say hello.

As we drive, he mentions that he can barely handle the arm-strong steering now. But he does fine. We joke that if the mower falls off the back of the truck, it'll only hit Dad, who's new teeth haven't arrived yet anyway. We get the mower to the house and each one of us try it out on the empty lot. On a return trip to drop off the ramps we've borrowed, he lets me drive.

The last day I visit Uncle Bob and Auntie Honey, we have to catch our flight back home to Ontario. Our visit to B.C., and Grand Forks, is over. We stand in their back yard, which is a ghost of what it used to be. He tells me he has taken his old shop tools and buried them in the back yard. "No one uses tools like that anymore," he says. "They don't fit with any of the new." It makes sense for him to bury them somewhere. I have no idea if there is sentiment involved. Auntie Honey tells him he's nuts. We say our goodbyes and take some pictures. My daughter tries out his walker and tells him it's very useful.

Backing out of the driveway, I see Uncle Bob leaning against the tailgate of the old Datsun now parked in the garage. Auntie Honey stands off to the side, waving. I roll down the window and shout a final farewell, to which he smiles and raises his hand. A casual gesture, the both of them waving as if we are only heading back down the street to my childhood home. As if we will return the next day and carry on from where we've left off. And my heart is fit to burst. The wood shop tucked away at the back of the yard - nearly out of sight.

House of the Rising Sun - Which Version is Best?

2011-07-22T19:35:00.000-07:00

I suppose there are a few songs in existence that cannot be overplayed, or worn out over time. One of them, by a country mile for me, is Bob Dylan's version of House of the Rising Sun - recorded on his eponymous debut album .

Part of it is the story the song tells, the bitter sadness of it, the weariness of hard-lived and expired lives. To hear Dylan's young voice nearly swallow the last line is to hear the entire summation of the song's context.

Much to my surprise (and obvious ignorance), I discovered Dylan did not pen this song, as he did the outstanding Song to Woody. No, the song's writer is unknown, it being one of those travel-worn ballads that passed around like an old myth. The song was likely brought to America by early settlers; some historians have found traces of it kicking around as far back as the Civil War.

Did the House of the Rising Sun actually exist? Some think the title is a euphemism for any place of ill-repute. But there were some old hotels in the early and late 1800's that bore the name Rising Sun. Whether or not they are what the song refers to is another question.

The song is covered extensively. Most notably by the The Animals, who released it just prior to Dylan, which made some think Dylan was plagiarizing when his version came out. Dolly Parton also recorded a version (terribly, I should say), as did Sinead O'Connor (also terribly). There's also the great Leadbelly's version, and Joan Baez' slow, clear version that I believe came out before The Animals' but doesn't quite ring true (to me).

Dylan's remains my favorite. I think he captured the sentiment of the song perfectly and tragically. Close second is Odetta, and I must confess Muse's swirling assault is pretty damn listenable too. As is the Be Good Tanya's version.

Here are some of the other versions for you to decide. Post comments on who you like and why:

The Animals

Leadbelly

Nina Simone

Odetta

Muse

Writer Envy? Is that Allowed?

2011-05-17T19:39:00.000-07:00

Courtesy of SheWhoSeeks.blogspot.com

This may be the only acceptable scenario where my at-home-father activities cross over to this blog.

Amidst home-made play-dough, crayons, glue (of the non-sniffing variety), and plastic replicas of real food, a conversation unrelated to the inner physical dynamics of the female body drifted about the YMCA Early Years facility.

Two moms standing off to the side. Well-dressed, meticulous with their pronunciation, perhaps a bit gratuitous with their affirmation of each other. The conversation: writing, finding an agent, workshops, completion of first drafts.

The gist, writer Mom goes to a writing conference somewhere (Toronto?) with her finished draft in hand. An editor reads the first chapter and immediately finds a nearby agent. Introductions are made, hands shaken, promises of phone calls given. A few weeks later, book is being devoured by agents. Publication pending.

It's the story you hear every once in awhile from the United States. I've never heard of it happening in Canada. But if this is true, then...well...I suppose congratulations are due? Should I not be happy for the immediate success of this new writer?

I should be, sure. In fact, I should be Mr. Universal-Love-For-All-Writers-Big-And-Small. But if I'm completely honest about my own wretched character, I will confess that I am not. In fact, the conversation gave me slight nausea. Well, that could have been the glue.

Most of my repugnance stems from envy. Envious that people catch breaks like this or envy for yet another person who's moved a step beyond my own current situation. It's a big waste of energy, mind you - and at the end of the day, I have every intention of turning the energy toward the current draft I'm working on.

But seriously? A walk-up at a writer's conference? When I heard this, I immediately thought - "Oh Jesus, she must be one of those literary genius types." Carefully tutored under Jack Hodgins or David Adams Richards. Perhaps a disciple of Alice Munro or an up and coming brilliant mind like Sandra Jensen.

Then I heard the inevitable question, "What do you write?". The answer: "Oh, it's fiction. I write inspirational romance." Well, there you have it folks. Inspirational romance. I'd never heard of this genre and was immediately curious how to differentiate it from "boring romance".

And yet I was envious of the recognition perhaps? An odd moment. But I am now convinced (not really) that several love triangles must be inserted into my novel. Strange ones involving flying monkeys, toupees, and half a dozen slightly cracked farm eggs. That's inspirational, right?

My life in a nutshell, confined to small chairs in church basements with a whole lotta other peoples' mouth-breathing kids. My own daughter not included, of course. She's rather good about the whole nostril thing.

Senator Tom Banks Speaks Out Against Stephen Harper

2011-04-19T14:28:00.000-07:00

I hear a ton of rhetoric against Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper, and though much of it is well-intended it generally breaks down to name-calling and finger-pointing. Not so with the letter coming from Alberta Senator, Tom Banks.

Banks, a musician, actor, producer, composer and politician, offers a balanced but evidential indictment of Harper's subtle but severe changes to Parliament during his time as Prime Minister. It's well worth the read, and it finally gives many sincere anti-Harper voters an intelligent means of discourse, covering all topics from the underhanded cuts to arts funding to the environment.

It's long, but worth the read. As follows,

It's worth noting that Tom was a Conservative when he was appointed to the Senate. If you agree with this food for thought please feel free to send it to your friends of whatever political stripe. The bigger message here is how we want our government to behave, no matter who forms that government. Here's Tom's missive:

"There is only one thing about the outcome of the May 2nd election on which Mr. Ignatieff and Mr. Harper agree. It is that one of them will be the Prime Minister of Canada. Mr. Layton, Mr. Duceppe and Ms. May are not in the running to form a government. They can’t. It will be either Mr. Ignatieff or Mr. Harper.

That is the choice, and it is a very clear – in fact, stark choice. We will choose between openness or secrecy. Between listening or refusing to listen. Between someone who respects Parliament or someone who disdains it. Between things we can and will do now or things that, (provided of course that everything goes well), we might do in five or six years. Between someone who answers all questions from Canadians, or someone who won’t accept any.

Between Mr. Harper who said “It’s past time the feds scrapped the Canada Health Act”, or Mr. Ignatieff who said “ . . . we don’t want user fees. We want universal, accessible, free-at-the-point-of-service health care, paid out of general revenue. That’s just bottom line. Otherwise we get two-tiered”.

Between buying jets or helping vets. Between real early childhood learning and care or Saturday-night babysitting. Between respect for our great institutions or contempt for them. Between helping families or helping big corporations. Between the Canada that we think we have, or the way in which Mr. Harper has already changed it.

Over the past few years Mr. Harper’s government has quietly engineered so many changes that there are some ways in which our country is barely recognizable. Many of us don’t yet realize the extent of those changes, because many of them have been brought about very carefully and gradually – almost imperceptibly in some cases.

This is diabolically clever. If these things had all been done at once, there would have been loud protests and reactions. But moving just one little brick at a time doesn’t cause much fuss – until you realize that the whole house has been renovated. And we’ve hardly noticed.

These are changes that are at the very heart of who and what Canadians are. They are changes to the protections that used to exist against the tyranny of the majority – or against a single-minded my-way-or-the-highway autocrat. These changes are losses to our very Canadian-ness. Let me remind you of some of them:

The Law Commission of Canada was created by an Act of Parliament in 1997. It worked very well. It kept an eye in a sort-of avuncular way, on necessary reforms of the law, including election law. The Commission couldn’t actually change law; but it was very good at letting governments and everybody else know when changes needed to be made and why. It was our legal Jiminy Cricket, and it performed a valuable service for Canada. The Commission was created by an Act of Parliament, and any government wanting to shut it down should have been up-front about it. It should have come to Parliament with a Bill to rescind The Law Commission of Canada Act. That’s what any of our 21 previous Prime Ministers would have done.

But to Mr. Harper, Parliament is an inconvenience. Somebody might ask “Why are you doing this?” But he didn’t want to go through all that Parliamentary trouble; so, rather than proposing the abolition of the Commission (a proposal about which there would have been pretty fierce debate on all sides), they just eliminated all funding for it in the federal budget. Governments can do that. Poof – no Law Commission.

Nice and quiet. Just one little brick. Hardly noticed.

Then there was the Court Challenges Programme, set up in 1994, which was the means by which a bit of legal help could be provided to a private individual or small organization who didn’t have a lot of money, and who was taking on, or being taken on by, the Government of Canada. It leveled the legal playing field a bit. It was a perfect example of fundamental Canadian fairness.

By convincing a tough panel of judges of the reasonableness of your cause, you could get a little help in paying for some lawyers to go up against the phalanx of legal beagles that could always, and forever, and at public expense, be brought to bear against you by the State. In other words, if you weren’t rich, and if you were taking on or being taken on by the Feds, you might have had a chance. But Mr. Harper doesn’t like being questioned, let alone challenged. It’s so inconvenient! Solution? Quietly announce that the Court Challenges Programme is being, er, discontinued. Poof – no Court Challenges Programme – no court challenges.

Hardly noticed.

The Coordination of Access to Information Request System (CAIRS) was created (by a Progressive-Conservative government) in 1989 so that departments of government could harmonize their responses to access-to-information requests that might need multi-departmental responses. It was efficient; it made sure that in most cases the left hand knew what the right hand was doing, or at least what they were saying; and it helped keep government open and accountable. Well, if you’re running a closed-door government, that’s not a good idea, is it? So, as a Treasury Board official explained to the Canadian Press, CAIRS was killed by the Harper government because “extensive” consultations showed it wasn’t valued by government departments. I guess that means that the extensive consultations were all with government departments.

Wait! Wasn’t there anybody else with whom to extensively consult? Wasn’t there some other purpose and use for CAIRS? Didn’t it have something to do with openness and accountability? I guess not. Robert Makichuk, speaking for Mr. Harper’s government, explained that “valuable resources currently being used to maintain CAIRS would be better used in the collection and analysis of improved statistical reporting”.

Right. In other words, CAIRS was an inconvenience to the government. So poof – it’s disappeared. And, except for investigative reporters and other people who might (horrors!) ask questions, its loss is hardly noticed.

And the bridge too far for me: Cutting the already-utterly-inadequate funding for the exposure of Canadian art and artists in other countries. That funding was, by any comparison, already laughably miniscule. Mr. Harper says that “ordinary” Canadians don’t support the arts. He’s wrong. And his is now the only government of any significant country in the world that clearly just doesn’t get it.

All these changes were done quietly, cleverly, and under the radar. No fuss. No outcry. Just one little brick at a time. But in these and other ways, our Canadian house is no longer the kind of place it once was. Nobody minds good renovations. Nobody even minds tearing something down, as long as we put up something better in its place. That’s not what has happened.

Mr. Harper fired the head of the Canadian Wheat Board because he was doing his job properly. He removed the head of the Canadian Nuclear Safety Commission because she wanted to make sure that the Chalk River nuclear reactor was safe.

Hardly noticed.

There are many more things that were hardly noticed: Cuts to funding for the Status of Women, Adult Learning and Literacy, Environmental Programs, museums funding, and more. All quietly, just one brick at a time.

Hardly noticed.

As to campaign promises, everybody in sight on every side is guilty of breaking those. Except the Federal NDP of course, who haven’t yet had the opportunity. (It’s very easy to make promises that you know you will not likely have to keep).

But the government promised to end wait times in health care. They didn’t. They promised to end, once and for all, the whining of some provinces about the non-existent “fiscal imbalance”. They didn’t. They said they had brought final resolution to the softwood lumber problem with the U.S. They haven’t. They promised to create thousands of new child-care spaces in Canada. They haven’t. They promised not to tax income trusts (“We will NEVER do that!” they said). They taxed them. They promised to lower your income tax.

They raised it.

They said they had a good “made-in-Canada” plan to meet our obligations on climate change. They don’t. Mr. Harper has said plainly that whatever the Americans do is what we’ll do too.

They campaign on a platform of transparency and accountability; but they’re now trying to discredit the Parliamentary Budget Officer that they created, because he’s trying to do the job that they gave him. Mr. Harper said that our form of government, evolved over centuries from the 900-year-old British Westminster tradition, was all wrong. We had to have fixed election dates, because otherwise, democratic principles would be trampled. ”Fixed election dates”, he said, “stop leaders from trying to manipulate the calendar. They level the playing field for all parties”.

So Parliament (remember them?) at Mr. Harper’s insistence, passed a law requiring fixed election dates, which Mr. Harper promptly broke.

Somebody once said that we get the kind of government we deserve. What did we do to deserve Mr. Harper? He once said that we should all “Stand Up for Canada”. Well, let’s do that. We just have to decide whether the present version of Canada is the one that we’ll stand up for. Or stand for.

Thank you

Tommy Banks (an Alberta Senator.)"

"Post-Metal" for the Thinking Man?

2011-03-06T18:26:00.000-08:00

Often (unfairly) labeled stoner/doom/grind/sludge metal, Post-Metal is an atmospheric departure from more familiar associations of "heavy metal".

Characterized (though not always) by drop-d tuning, 5/4 time, and a notable absence or minimalist approach to vocals, Post-Metal focuses on riffing and build-up to that sonic darkness that hearkens back to old Black Sabbath or Judas Priest. It's generally considered the "thinking man's" metal.

It avoids emphasizing the typical metal aesthetic: the dark, somber grimaces, the emphasis on guttural vocals that often overpower other instruments. Not to say that these ascriptions don't exist in post-metal, they're just more a byproduct than a manufactured assertion.

Post Metal seems to be about building momentum with music, getting to the immense wall of sound that eventually grinds your ass to powder. But not before some serious seduction first.
Some of the more notable bands I've encountered weave their sound beautifully. In fact, the musicianship is such that you don't notice the absence of vocals. And when they are evident, they don't dominate the production but act more as a background instrument -- a means to create a greater whole.

Perhaps most appealing to me is how conceptual the music can be, often invoking literary influences and abandoning the traditional verse/chorus/verse/chorus motif.

Top Five Post-Metal Bands At the Moment:

1) Russian Circles

2) Io

3) Pelican

**Click on the link for Pelican's "Mammoth" Video on YouTube**

4) Isis

5) The Ocean Collective

Sustainable Eating Plans for 2011

2011-02-24T18:50:00.000-08:00

A LARGE MOTIVATION for our moving to a town with affordable housing was the opportunity to implement sustainable eating habits within our own back yard and community.

Our objectives: to live in a scenario where our food choices (as often as possible) are either home-grown, or derived locally, preferably pesticide and antibiotic free and organic.

We're not a vegetarian family by any means -- in fact, we tend to argue against Veganism as a healthy, ethical endeavor as we feel it is founded more on misinformation and dogma than fact. What we are about is sustainability and knowledge -- a way to know exactly where your food comes from, how it is harvested or killed, and how to minimize the steps it takes en route to our dinner plates.

With this all in mind, here's a list of our Sustainable Eating Plans for 2011:

Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) - This year we bought shares in Creek Shore Farms, located about 10 minutes from our house. We give them the money up front, and over the course of the summer and most of the fall we get a box of organic, pesticide-free produce each and every week. Ontario has a great CSA website that allows consumer to find participating farms near them. Well worth it and surprisingly affordable.
Grass Fed Beef - Also affiliated with with CSA, we purchased a quarter cow from a farm, which we will keep in our freezer for the year. The benefits of grass-fed, wild meat are immense and well-documented. Most industry practices are to corn-feed their cattle to fatten them up -- an almost perversity when considering cows cannot digest corn.
Gardening - I'm rather glad I grew up with a father who loved to garden. While there's work involved, back yard gardening is not as difficult or complicated as you might think. Our backyard -- nicely landscaped as it is -- will soon be invaded by 4x4' gardening boxes hosting anything from raspberry canes to snap peas. The key, of course, being to grow veggies that you're not already receiving through your CSA. And what better way to bond (and learn) with your kids than to garden with them?

These are all steps any person can take in their community. The results will vary, of course. Growing a vegetable garden is not terribly easy when living in a condominium. But finding community gardening plots can be. So can researching local farms to find food that doesn't travel thousands of miles after being sprayed with carcinogens.

At the very least, we want to encourage people to think of the impact of their food choices. What are we endorsing when we make a choice?

Everyone has to hit the grocery store at some point. One of the best bits of advice I ever received about grocery shopping for health is only shopping around the outside of the store (as much as possible). The more you navigate the aisles, the more processed your food is likely to be. The more processed the food, the lousier it is for you -- and the more removed it is from local and ethical considerations.

Writers' Trust Online Auction -- Score!

2011-02-08T18:37:00.000-08:00

Last week, the Writers' Trust of Canada held a fund-raising auction of literary collectibles. Art pieces, postcards, various items signed by authors. In a way it was a bit of knick-knackery that was more for fans than writers -- which is all fine and good.

However, one of the items up for auction -- an item no one else bid on save for myself -- was of particular note, and probably of the highest value. In fact, for any up and coming writer, it was a bit of a gold mine.

The item: a year's subscription to Fiddlehead -- pretty much Canada's elite literary journal, along with a guaranteed edit of 10 pages of your own work. Pretty valuable stuff, as anyone who submits to journals know. Some of the people at Fiddlehead also work in the publishing industry -- if I am to believe what I've been told.

Most of the time, you're lucky if one of your stories gets a quick response informing you your story is not up to the standards of the journal. But a 10 page edit? C'mon!

Anyway, be sheer luck -- and a phone-call reminder from a friend -- I placed my bid in under the wire and a day later Voila! I'm pretty excited -- and grateful, really. I love quality feedback, of which I'm sure to receive here.

For those of you who don't know about the Writers' Trust, they're a charitable organization that supports Canadian writers unlike any other group out there. Certainly more than the current government. From grants to workshops to scholarships, they're a step above.

And now to go get some short fiction in proper order.

Are Music Videos Homogenizing Music?

2011-01-27T19:16:00.000-08:00

Type the name of your favorite music artist into any social media search box and you'll come across a video at some point. Not necessarily a video by the artist either. You'll find 8-bit digital renditions, the clumsy fumblings of wannabe guitarists, high-school bands warbling a tune.

In fact, one could even argue that a lot of new music today is designed more for video than anything else.

It's not that any of these are wrong per se. I found a video of some guy playing death metal on a ukulele once. Rather funny. But it does raise the question of what video does to the original piece. Or better yet, what does it do to how one perceives a musical piece?
There seems to be several layers in which art can be experienced. Think of a beautiful painting, for me Vermeer comes to mind. Now think of a picture of that painting -- say in an art history text book. Viewing Vermeer in the text book seems to leave the viewer one step removed.

What about a drawing of the original? Or how about a picture of the drawing of the original?

There seems to be a series -- not sure if its infinite -- of regressive steps we can take to remove ourselves from the original piece. I say this with a modicum of experience as well. My first time witnessing a Vermeer painting in person at Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam felt far more meaningful than the several times I stared a photo of the same.

Perhaps the same context can be applied to music? We have the original music composition -- be it classical, country, rock, folk (take your pick). Maybe it's Stevie Wonder's "As" on vinyl. You have the harmonies, the piano, the brilliant vocals of the back-up singers, the legend that is Mr. Wonder.

Listening with your eyes closed, you get a sense of this new world. It conjures pictures in your mind, pulses through your body with a certain gravity. It becomes a unique experience wholly your own, and not duplicated in any other person.

Unless you add the video.

I'm not sure if there's an actual video for "As", but we can take any song. And this isn't even to say that music videos are bad. Radiohead's Street Spirit is pretty awesome to watch. It's more how they can wind up dictating the experience.

You're given the images to associate with the song. You picture the band members, the strategically placed lighting, the carefully synced mouthing of words. Video upon video, pattern upon pattern. With the occasional exception they all begin to look the same. A grossly constructed mechanism to manufacture sales.

Today most people will discover music through video. Before they even hear the sound, they'll see the initial images waiting to buffer. They'll be persuaded by an album cover. They'll be told precisely what the experience will be before it happens. This, to me, can be a step away from the actual experience of the music alone. And it's a bit of a shame at times.

Of course, I can't really call it bad or immoral. I suppose one can argue that videos merely create a newer experience, a different one. I suppose this is true. But there's something to be said for that hiss of the record needle, those first notes that charge the air.

A friend once told me she would never watch the Lord of the Rings movies. She didn't want to have her memories of first reading the books tainted by new images from the film. She didn't want them to mingle, or for the former to be detracted from by the latter.

I scoffed a bit at her then. Not so much now.

2010 Wrap-Up -- Films, Books, Music

2010-12-31T13:04:00.000-08:00

A hectic year draws to a close, complete with a change of scenery and writing endeavors. Requisite preface of conceding I haven't seen nearly enough film this year.

And it's getting more and more difficult to even hear about great foreign flicks until after they've been through the awards.

Still managed to entertain a few of my vices regardless. So here's the 2010 Wrap-Up -- meager as it may be.

Favorite 5 Films of 2010:

The American - Superbly acted, minimalist thriller about an assassin (George Clooney) who takes refuge in Italy after being attacked. No wasted scenes, no unnecessary dialog. If such films are allowed to be called works of art, then this sets the bench mark.
True Grit - Say what you want about the Coen brothers, but given the right source material (ie - No Country For Old Men) they know how to tell a story. Such again is the case with their adaptation of Charles Portis' True Grit. Coarse characters, great dialog always laced with oddball humor. A tale of redemption and revenge that sets it apart from usual fare.
The Town - Affleck showing again his directing chops (Gone Baby Gone was his too) with a hard-nosed heist film set in a grim Bostonian neighborhood.
The Fighter - If ever a boxer's story deserved to be told, Mickey Ward's did. And The Fighter does a great job of using the tumultuous dynamic of his family as a means to telling a fine, fine underdog story. Wahlberg and Bale will be lauded for their acting. But Melissa Leo should get top honors for her portrayal as their mom.
The Ghost Writer - Never thought I'd recommend a Ewen MacGregor film, but Polanski (when he's not being chased around the world for statutory rape) directs an intelligent bit of whodunnit here. Careful moments of revelation make for great pacing.

While I bought plenty of new music this year, none of it was produced in 2010 save for Gord Downie's The Grand Bounce (which I love). Notable bands that I discovered this year are Russian Circles, Mumford and Sons, and Katatonia.

Likewise for books, of which I only managed a depressing 19 -- only two of them were from 2010. Paul Harding's Tinkers and Justin Halpern's quite humorous S*it My Dad Says. Both of them are recommended, though the former is clearly of greater value than the latter.

Now time for you to post your own lists. I'm always in need of recommendations.

Sh*t My Dad Says -- The Right Book Review

2010-12-28T07:48:00.000-08:00

After a failed relationship, 29 year old Justin Halpern returns home to live with his Dad and sort out his life.

He begins to document all of his father's crazy bits of wisdom and cultivates a large social-media following with Twitter and Facebook accounts called Shit My Dad Says.

He also lands a book deal.

If that doesn't make every struggling novelist want to choke someone, nothing will.

What makes Shit My Dad Says an entertaining read is how likable old Sam Halpern comes across -- and not in the way you'd expect. You'd expect him to be a hard-nosed, blue-collar auto worker more interested in drinking himself to death than dealing with family.

Instead, Halpern, who spent a career in nuclear medicine, reads more like a man who does not suffer fools lightly. A dedicated, well-educated family man disinterested in (read: annoyed by) social conventions. Beneath the gruff, oft-foul exterior, a motivation to see his family succeed and live meaningful lives.

Even better is how amidst his profane existence, his cut-and-dried breakdown of humanity, he exudes wisdom that reams of Oprah-sogged self-help drivel circle around. That life is about a series of choices, and those choices have consequences. A trait the publishers were obviously aware of.

The books is structured much in the same way a self-help book would be. Each chapter bearing a bumper-sticker slogan of advice, followed by a few anecdotes to tie it all together. It's all a facade, really. Shit My Dad Says is more about the relationship between a father and son than convincing the world of a particular morality. Halpern isn't trying to tell you how to live.

What is that wisdom? In a nutshell, that we are human beings, driven by biological impulses, and a mostly errant method of meeting these impulses. That love, family, loyalty are serious and important, but not so serious and important that one cannot interrupt them with a good shit or latent screw.

I'm not going to post any quotes here. To do so would show the humor of them, but also take away from the book as a whole. The quotes work much better within the context of the book in its entirety.

It's not a work of literary genius. The prose is quite poor -- a hackneyed bit of grammar that reflects a generation spending most of its time quick-quipping online. The book also feels like it could be about 50 pages longer.

Yes, it's one of those fad books. No, I do not usually read them. Yes, my wife got it for Christmas and I stole it to boost my 2010 book list. And yes, it was worth it.

The book is damn funny, sincere as hell. A pleasant surprise to cap off a year's reading.

Winter Driving -- To Suffer Fools Lightly

2010-12-13T19:10:00.000-08:00

To negotiate winter roads in St. Catharine's -- or Ontario in general -- requires a twofold method: patience and the ability to suffer fools lightly.

And they seem to come out in spades when visibility is at a minimum.

En route to the house today, minus ten degrees Celsius and a wind crying havoc across open fields.

I take my time because:
a) unlike the rest of Ontario, I drive a piddly-ass Hyundai Elantra with front-wheel drive and
b) winter tires or not, a tap of the brakes and the car slides with the lugubrious effect of a fat kid on a water slide.

Behind me, brights flashing, an over-sized truck growling its driver's small-penis syndrome. He rides up to my bumper -- close enough to see the car seat, I'm sure. No honking or shaking of fists; only the constant pressure of some dude dissatisfied with the speed limit on a wind-blown rural road in winter.

Maybe patience and suffering fools lightly are one and the same. Or one's ability of the latter stems from an effort toward the former. The patience I'm referring to is not the sort that usually leads to personal payoff. It's more arrogant, a breath of superiority found in knowing you (for the moment) are taking the higher road (pun intended).

And I wasn't. In fact, I let off the gas a little. I mean, if our proximity is going to be so close, why not get to know each other? Didn't go over well. The truck blasts past, the double-yellow line arguably dotted with all the snow on the road. The drive suddenly quiet.

Like anywhere -- save for maybe my home town -- everyone has to get somewhere in a hurry. In winter, it means charging down gritty, saline-sogged roads. What's surprising is how aggression levels in driving (pdf) do not abate with difficult driving conditions.

I duck out of the snow for a moment to hit up a coffee shop. Fifteen minutes later, back on the road, I pass a scene. An overturned vehicle in a ditch, headlights arcing the blue air. Cop cars and tow trucks. The long wait of single-lane traffic.

The vehicle too buried and wrinkled to be identifiable. But I like to think I recognized it.

Best Art Vinyl 2010 -- Time to Vote

2010-11-29T20:23:00.000-08:00

ArtVinyl.com has once again offered its nominees for Best Art Vinyl 2010. This means you can hit up the website and vote.

The selection is decent, though not quite as spectacular as the nominees for Best Art Vinyl 2009.

The great thing about Art Vinyl is that you're not bound to only vote for the nominated album covers. Here's how it works: a panel makes their picks and offers them to the public to vote on.

You're allowed three votes, but they can all be for albums not yet acknowledged. So if you've got some suggestions under the radar, now's the time to make them known.

Such was the case for me and Gord Downie's latest offering, The Grand Bounce (pictured above). An album cover second to none for me this year. But out of Art Vinyl's 2010 nominations, here are my top five faves.

Check out Art Vinyl's entire list, make your votes, and let me know your picks.

Deftones -- Diamond Eyes

The Chemical Brothers -- Further

Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra -- Kollaps Tradixionales

Anberlin -- Dark is the Way, Light is a Place

Hornet Leg -- Ribbon of Fear

Peace.

Remembrance Day Canada 2010

2010-11-11T09:34:00.000-08:00

To my Opa, Johannes Bernardus van Leur, who fought in the Dutch Resistance, and had to leave his home country for a new life in Canada. Who died when I was nine and took his stories with him, much to my deep regret.

To Robert Bates, or Uncle Bob -- a surrogate grandfather to me. A man who prefers to be anonymous most of the time. Who joined the war because he needed a job. Who told me stories of carting body parts from a bombed-out theater in France to temporary morgues for identification, and still looks at his service in Europe as the greatest time of his life. Who stood at Vimy Ridge.

To the man next to me at the cenotaph in St. Catharines today, who identified the planes by their sound, long before any of us could see them. Who hummed along to the old Protestant hymns being played by the brass band.

To the Highlander who played the bag pipes brilliantly.

To the veteran whose hand I shook after the ceremony. A face so mapped with age, and hands so large I imagine them crushing stones in their prime.

To the local men and women who have never come home. From my home town Grand Forks, or from anywhere else.

All of whom are sources of my Canadian pride.

Returning to the Novel -- Layoffs are Not Recommended

2010-11-10T12:00:00.000-08:00

A layoff of over three months has made my return to my novel a thoroughly distressing challenge. In fact, I'm getting the feeling this may be a bit of a start over.

The hiatus was not intentional. Parenting challenges, a move across the country -- were the biggest culprits of my gentle sliding away. But my own shortcomings also played a role.

Shortcomings that have become more evident as I revisit my manuscript and begin to make decisions on how to proceed.

A re-read of my current work and I'm more than pleased with the writing style, the sense of flow, the way characters interact within their environment. They seem to be uniquely individual, well-textured, and believable -- at least to my limited understanding of character. And most of all the dialog is tight, accurate in the way it should be with such characters.

About three quarters of the way through the 180+ pages, I begin to notice a change in the writing. The story, initially a drama on how a perceived indiscretion in a small town unravels the worlds -- in unpleasant fashion -- for all involved, begins to tear away to functional character responses that show a careless hand. The motivations too obvious, too easily explained away by simplistic morality.

I think I was aware of this three months ago, and rather than attack it headstrong and nip the problem in the bud, I let it bleed away silently -- focused more on word count. When it got to a sticking point that I couldn't easily correct, I shelved it amidst the current personal circumstances that were also taking up so much time.

And of course, returning to the work now is like revisiting it for the first time. My mental processes miles away from where they were when I first started. I've even forgotten a few character names and what their role(s) are in the overall plot.

But maybe this is a good thing. An element of objectivity comes with a substantial layoff. I'm more ruthless with my decisions -- and the fact I noticed the narrative's complacency at all is promising. I'm not convinced I would have noticed the problem to its fullest extent three months ago.

So this week the grind begins again. My daughter is in preschool 3 days a week -- which should mean three days of steady writing. Progress be damned. It's not Giller Prize material -- yet.

Unless I keep wasting time with blog posts like this, of course.

Ontario versus B.C. -- What Happens When one Moves to St. Catharines from Surrey?

2010-11-06T15:53:00.000-07:00

Three weeks in and the initial "oh man, what have we done?" phase is beginning to subside. A move from B.C. to Ontario, benign as it may sound, is a bit like changing worlds. Politics, social concerns, health, awareness...all different.

And while I by no means have a concrete grasp on the varying climes of St. Catharines, where I now live -- it's not too difficult to point out the immediate differences

The Good:

Homes are affordable. Yes, there are still those $700k+ ones that illicit double-takes, but a nice home by the lake, with great walking trails and a cozy neighborhood pub can be found. And for a far better price than you'd imagine.
A great recycling program out here that reduces weekly garbage to roughly one small bag per week. Everything gets recycled, including food waste.
Vinyl stores are abundant. You heard me. Vinyl in downtown St. Catharines (almost an oxymoron). Dusty, cramped stores with meager furnishings. Brilliant.
Pay parking does not require third-party financing. I dropped a Loonie into a meter and it almost gave me an hour. Unheard of in downtown Vancouver.
Farmers' Markets and Local Natural Meats. Because of the surrounding farm areas, the downtown farmers' market boasts some great grocery. Not to mention local chefs who make outstanding food, and probably the best cup of organic coffee I've ever had.
Wineries are abundant, and there are some cool little greasy-spoon diners.
Older towns mean older buildings. Some amazing churches and abandoned factories, old city architecture.

The Bad:

Everyone smokes. Nurses, doctors, magicians, bishops -- you name it. I've seen fathers strapping their kids into baby seats with lit cigarettes pooched on their bottom lips. Crazy. Unlike B.C.'s adamant move towards making smokers social pariah, St. Catharines appears to be their haven.
A good cup of coffee is hard to find. Seriously. Everything is Tim Horton's out here, and even the "urban coffee shops" are a bit lacking. I did find a few Starbucks, but that's only a modest improvement. One exception (aside from the aforementioned farmers' market coffee purveyor) is an old bank that has been converted into Coffee Culture. It's no JJ Bean or Small Ritual, but it's about as close as I'll get out here. Better luck in Toronto, I bet.
Transit is awful. This isn't Ontario in general, mind you. But the buses in St. Kitts are lousy, with limited routes and access. Even if you find yourself in close proximity to a bus stop, don't expect yourself to catch a B-line straight to your work. Say what you will about Trans-link, but their buses seemed to be reasonably accessible.
Property Taxes! Good Lord. Let's say at least double what we pay in B.C., and with no residence discount.
Eco-conscious people are few and far between. It's a city of big trucks and disregard. The "how dare you tell me what to do" mentality. When we finally found a Montessori school for our daughter that exhibited the holistic principles we find important, the relief was palpable. Aside from that, it's been a series of disappointments.
No good, objective news radio. Zilch. It's enough to make you shake your head. So glad I can get Bill Good's shows on the Internet. CKNW, you are missed.
No microbreweries. The madness of this phrase requires no further elaboration.

Who knows how much this list will change in a few months -- especially if I become more familiar with the municipal politics. But we're here now, for good or ill. Now lets get back to more frivolous topics.

BlackDiamondSkye Hits Vancouver -- Alice In Chains, Mastodon, Deftones

2010-10-08T20:27:00.000-07:00

Too Loud! So said the Rogers Arena employee after the BlackDiamondSkye concert last night. A casual comment as we languished on the Sky Train back to the confines of suburbia.

At least I think he said that; my ears were still ringing and I had to read his lips (not recommended on late-night Sky Train excursions, for the record).

And it was loud. Make no mistake. But fans of Alice in Chains, Mastodon, and Deftones aren't looking for a candlelit stage with a baby-grand piano. At least not on this night. And the performances were unrivaled in their sound.

Mastodon - "Minimal movement," as my buddy David said with admiration. With complicated riffs like theirs, standing still is a prerequisite. Cavemen from a forgotten paleolithic tribe, hunkered over their microphones to growl and bellow some of the finest lyrics written for metal today. The exception being their drummer, Brann Dailor, who pummeled his intricate fills while carrying the melody lines with a clear, almost-tenor voice. An impressive set spanning more recent albums and a skill set you rarely see duplicated.

Deftones - Of the three bands, I am the least familiar with Deftones, aside from the few albums I have. But they boast both a wall of sound grinds even the sturdiest of bowels and a dynamic front man, Chino Moreno, whose shrieking capacity is not unlike hurricane force winds. Covering their most popular songs with sincere bombast, Deftones bridged an oft-difficult gap between younger and older audiences.

Alice in Chains - Whew! It's been a long time since I've heard such polished musicianship and expert sound. No question they've been in the business for many years. Comfortable, gracious, and well-practiced.

AIC has been my favorite band since I first heard the Facelift album in high school. Back in the '90's, I had the chance to see them live with Metallica's Summer Shit tour, but they canceled (for already well-documented reasons). So last night, as a much older, slightly rotund, middle-aged man, I expected to be transported back to that nostalgic Seattle era. The era of flannel and jack boots and pewter earrings. The occasional hairy-armpitted woman.

Instead, I experienced a modernized, mature version of AIC -- complete with William Duvall's accomplished voice and style. They were mature, unrelenting, professional. In most cases, I wouldn't like this but with AIC the quality felt appropriate. They are, after all, rebuilding in a new era, after a tragic departure from an earlier one. And how else to do it but through practice and effort and unrequited drive?

Complimentary to their fans, who only numbered around 9000, AIC roared through samples of their entire discography. They played tracks that worked in Duvall's favor, and avoided, for the most part, ones more intimately associated with Layne Staley. Good call. To hear Duvall sing Frogs or Nutshell would not have rung true. As was the case when he sang Junkhead.

The obvious early departure from the stage brought an expected encore. Playing the tribute-track to Layne Staley (Black Gives Way to Blue), followed by Man in the Box, and ending with the superlative Would?.

On a side note, as I departed Rogers Arena I noted two couples walking together. Obviously parents happy for a night out, grinning ear-to-ear. I thought to myself, how nice to see older generations enjoying some rock and roll.

Followed by Oh shit, I am that generation.

Vocals and Music's Seduction -- Harry Tournemille

2010-09-29T22:31:00.000-07:00

Vocal tracks. For as long as I can remember they've been the "make or break" criteria for me when considering a song's excellence.

Take great instrumental work and watch it become spectacular when the vocals are spot on. An unspoken connection between vocals and music's seduction. It crosses genres too.

From the young Bruce Dickinson's brilliant harmonies in Iron Maiden's Flight of Icarus to Lauryn Hill and the Fugees's Killing Me Softly.
Nina Simone's admonishing cover of I Put a Spell On You and Mike Patton's foreboding tracks on Mr. Bungle's The Holy Filament.

A singer claims a song as their own, places a stamp on the arrangements not to be duplicated. A combination of vocals and persona. The notes are given an identity through the vocalist. Or maybe notes become identifiable once they are given a face, or an attached embodiment. The voice (instrument) part and parcel of the player.

When Johnny Cash covered Nine In Nail's Hurt, the Trent Reznor (singer) conceded that the song was no longer his. Cash had made Hurt his own in an undeniably melancholic way.

Likewise, poor vocals can absolutely butcher any song's credibility. Sometimes to the point of parody -- as Mr. William Hung gives evidence for. Or at the very best, sub par vocals can render a potentially great song mundane.

But when a singer gets it right, the song transcends. I think these moments are rare -- at least for me they are. I equate them to a movie scene where every nuance is captured in all its subtlety, to the point where repeated viewing is a necessity.

Bonnie Herman's vocals with The Singer's Unlimited come to mind. Pristine, clear, achingly beautiful. I'd listen to her sing commercial jingles. I hadn't listened to Singers Unlimited since college, but the other day, for some reason I remembered the gorgeous note she hits at the end of Killing Me Softly (yes, that song again).

The kind of note that makes a man want to pledge undying affection. Which I did back then, those many years ago. And do now.

Couture Trounces Tony at UFC 118-- But Does This Solve the MMA/Boxing Debate?

2010-08-29T14:32:00.000-07:00

Last night's UFC 118 was a lop-sided affair -- especially in regards to the two co-main events.

BJ Penn had to concede a reluctant changing of the guard with his second loss in a row to Frankie Edgar and, as to be expected, Randy Couture overwhelmed James Toney within seconds, ending their over-hyped match-up.

The question is: did Couture versus Toney solidify one combative sport's dominion over the other? In my opinion no -- and I say this as a fan who now prefers MMA over boxing. Simply put, it's a case of hype and context.

Here's the most popular argument for MMA's supremacy, as elicited from its enthusiasts:

Boxing, though important, is a single element of MMA and therefor is too one-dimensional on its own. It limits the combatants ability to use all potentially available tools by focusing on one -- which is why pure boxers cannot thrive in high level MMA competitions.

And precisely why James Toney didn't have a chance against Randy Couture and was rightly humiliated.

The argument, though understandable from a MMA perspective, makes a contextual error. It begins with the presupposition that MMA is superior and then argues for dominance from that starting point. We do this all the time in every day life, but it's difficult to establish a fair, unbiased way of evaluating both sides of a supposedly objective comparison.

What the argument also fails to acknowledge is that, if reversed, the opposite appears to be true as well. Because of boxing's singular focus, a top-level MMA fighter -- exhibiting great overall skills -- would not find the same level of success in elite boxing competition.

Meaning, if Randy Couture stepped into the ring for 12 rounds with James Toney, he would face the same humiliation Toney did last night. In fact, I'd wager if it was one of those 3 round knuckle-dusters a-la the old Butterbean days, the result would be similar.

Why? Because the exceptional refinement that comes from training exclusively in one discipline (in this case boxing) cannot be achieved in multi-faceted MMA. It is a singular, pure focus on one element, and the result is a form of excellence that cannot be duplicated.

MMA demands an overall skill set that pushes its athletes to peak condition, but never requires that they be outstanding in one particular aspect. Not at the same level boxing requires. Pure Jiu -Jitsu alone won't cut it. Neither will wrestling or Muay Thai or Karate. No matter how excellent one is at them.

Of course, it helps to be outstanding in one discipline, but this is more for corollary reasons. One can adapt into MMA training with greater ease, having a solid base in a related discipline. Thus the high rate of fighters transitioning to MMA. But this doesn't mean their transition is easy, or even compatible.

Think of figure skating and hockey. Both require reasonably similar footwear, medium (ice), and discipline. But notice how athletes can't jump readily from one to the other -- at least not at the same level of prowess they may command in their native practice.

This isn't an indictment of MMA by any means -- remember, I prefer it to boxing on most days. What this is is a reason why the two sports should be left alone. They truly are apples and oranges and can coexist quite nicely.

In actuality, the Couture-Toney bout was one of media hype and misinformed bias. It made money because there are people foolish enough in both camps to think it could answer an unnecessary, silly question.

In some ways it would have been nice to see Toney knock Couture out, just for the pure absurdity of it. But that was never going to happen. Last night Couture was smart enough (unlike Tim Sylvia) to play to his opponents weaknesses -- which were virtually in every other discipline.

And the result was a mild amount of drama that could never have possibly lived up to the hype.

Notable Performances of the Past Decade

2010-08-20T23:17:00.000-07:00

Instigated by a recent viewing of Scent of a Woman, and Al Pacino's exaggerated but effective portrayal of an indelicate, retired Lt. Colonel.

I thought I'd post some my favorite notable performances of the past decade.

When considering a film's success or failure, for me, the director gets most of the accolades (or criticism). But sometimes an actor's performance is such that to ignore it seems criminal.

In no particular order:

Daniel Day-Lewis in Gangs of New York and There Will Be Blood. There is none higher...and it took a reminder from a friend to remember. The man is to acting what Cormac McCarthy is to setting. Rough-hewn and brooding with violence, but always graceful and beautiful, and wrought with a sense of self.
Ulrich Thomsen in Brothers. Not the 2009 remake, but the Danish original (2004, Susanne Bier dir.). Thomsen simply devastates with his portrayal of an MIA soldier, presumed dead, who returns home to find life having gone on without him.
Ralph Fiennes in The Constant Gardener. Fiennes plays a gentle, almost typical English Man whose wife is murdered during a campaign against exploitation by pharmaceutical companies on Kenyans. Questions arise about her fidelity and integrity, leaving Fiennes' character at odds with the truth. Brilliant but painful performance. Reminded me of his earlier work in Sunshine.
Glenn Close in Damages. A legal drama for the FX television network, but completely unconventional. Close plays a ferocious, manipulative character usually associated with male stereotypes. She does so without losing an ounce of femininity or drudging up expected gender role placement.
Natalie Portman in Goya's Ghosts. Not a particularly great film, but one with sumptuous imagery. Portman deftly plays two different characters, both subjected to inhuman treatment and despair. Her performance alone is what makes the film worth watching.
Ray Winstone in Sexy Beast. Much is said about Sir Ben Kingsley's acting here (and rightly so). But Winstone positively exudes charm and gaudiness and tenacity. He does so with a subtle sense of his character's moral compass that keeps him always in the audience's good favor.
Ulrich Muhe in The Lives of Others. Another prime example of subtlety. Muhe plays a conflicted member of East Germany's Stasi police, who finds himself questioning loyalties while he spies on a writer and his lover. One of the best films I've ever seen, and Muhe was astounding. A huge loss to cinema when he died in 2007, at the age of 54.
Guy Pearce in The Proposition. A violent character examination of moral relativity. Pearce's character is a man facing certain death, and yet compelled by a sense of moral obligation, he follows its path.
Emily Watson in Punch Drunk Love and Synecdoche, New York. My secret crush aside, Watson is one of those rare creatures who can play sweet, lovable female roles without becoming saccharine. She gives them dimension, complexity, a tenuous resolve. A lovely creature.
Philip Seymour Hoffman in Charlie Wilson's War and Doubt. A string of astounding performances where his characters erupt off the screen, filthy at times, but always with clarity. Also a great orator, in the vein of old Pacino.
Ian McShane in Deadwood. Probably the finest character ever to grace television. Dirty and foul and ruthless. But never without a strange sensitivity, a line of compassion that he balks at when confronted with it. McShane is Al Swearengen.

So many more could be placed on this list: Kate Winslet in The Reader or Revolutionary Road; Paul Giamatti in The Hawk is Dying or Cold Souls or The Illusionist.

George Clooney and Tilda Swinton are outstanding in Michael Clayton, and what about Tom Wilkinson's opening monologue? Has to be one of my faves.

Feel free to add your own to the list.

Roger Ebert Comments on BP's Oil Spill

2010-07-26T14:15:00.000-07:00

BP's oil spill has been covered at my work so much that weighing in on it has oft-seemed redundant. Safe to say that most intelligent folk recognize the ecological nightmare this spill is causing (and will cause).

Not to mention just how flat-out silly the comments of those coming to BP's defense -- such as Sarah Palin's blaming of environmentalists for the oil spill. There's a clever lady. Or Fox News' coverage -- which is an oxymoron in and of itself.

The seeming passivity of Obama's administration and the lack of accountability by anyone is also pretty damned frustrating too.

Piecing it all together isn't easy. Corporations are great at deflection and confusion. And I never thought I'd be quoting a film critic and essayist on BP's oil spill. But in his essay BP's Tree Fell on My Lawn, Roger Ebert provides thoughtful -- albeit simplistic -- observations on the events surrounding this mess.

And mess is being nice about it. Sort of like comparing the effects of the atom bomb on Nagasake to microwaving a bowl of soup.

At the heart of Ebert's article: accountability and misleading rhetoric. But I think also, a wholly necessary indictment of corporate greed -- the willingness to put everyone and everything at risk for personal gain.

An excerpt from Ebert's article:

Let me begin with a tiny anecdote. We've had strange weather lately, as you don't need me to tell you. A big tree blew over on our property. That was an act of God. Parts of it landed on my neighbor's property. Another act of God. It was my responsibility to pay for its removal. If I'm going to go around growing trees, I have to pay if they get blown over. You can be sure my neighbor will pay if one of his trees blows this way. And if my neighbor could prove that I was trying to cut the tree down (for fuel, let's say) and it fell the wrong way, he'd have grounds for a lawsuit. Especially if it fell on his house and he could no longer live there.

BP had a very big tree that blew down in the Gulf. It was not looking after it properly. It ignored or evaded safety regulations. It possibly bore criminal responsibility. The tree fell on my property. BP should have to pay to remove that tree, right? What if it enlisted cops to prevent me from even walking over and taking photos of what they were doing on my property? What if they issued statements saying it wasn't such a large tree, and my property would soon recover? What if it landed on my house, and BP said it wasn't much of a house in the first place?

Hendrick's Gin Please

2010-07-12T19:48:00.000-07:00

Alright, a Sunday afternoon in the pub makes one feel a little more European. I suppose if I had gone to mass beforehand...

Watching the World Cup Finals and sipping assorted drinks, my friend, and pub manager extraordinaire, queried if I had tried a Hendrick's gin and tonic.

I had. A few times. With positive vibes afterward.

But, he amended, had I tried it with cucumber? How unusual in such times.

What followed was a string of identical drinks, downed with great aplomb and luxuriated over as if some long-forgotten key to universal pleasure had been found.

Nevermind that Oranje behaved atrociously and deservedly lost to Spain.

There, on the dark wood table, amidst the careless flirtations of servers and customers alike, the requisite jokes about barbiturates and border crossings -- there lay a drink as fine and brilliant as... well you get the idea.

God caressing your tongue, I said to a friend nearby.

The anthropomorphism required to piece that into an image too great a burden.

On the Subject of Fathers

2010-06-20T11:57:00.000-07:00

In an interview a few years back, the big yin, Billy Connolly spoke about his tormented upbringing, outlined in a biography written by his psychotherapist wife, Pamela Stephenson--a book about healing more than anything else.

The abuse was terrible: abandonment, sexual, violence. But in the interview--which covered far more than his tumultuous upbringing--he was adamant about not harboring resentment about his past, nor being portrayed as a victim.

When asked about his father, who sexually abused him for several years, Connolly spoke on forgiveness, and how it allowed him to continue to love his father now as he did growing up. How the betrayal that occurred was not the dominant feature of how he saw his dad.

The interview was remarkable to me because of how difficult forgiveness comes to many (myself included at times). How easy it is to carry resentment deep in your gut and allow it to color the way you see the world. Especially when it stems from such scarring trauma.

My life in comparison to Mr. Connolly's is almost innocuous. I had caring parents who did their best to raise four children. My father worked too hard for too little and that made him tired and short-tempered. But there was never any doubt that he was dedicated to his family--that the lack he felt in his own upbringing would not carry over into the one he helped create.

He wasn't perfect--wasn't easy to please. But he was and is a great teacher. Even today, kids gravitate towards him, his strange and silly humor, his willingness to engage with them at their level. And his capacity to forgive and not be tied down by resentment is paramount to this.

It's difficult to place value on these traits, but when I look at my daughter--the single greatest achievement of our lives--I know I take these traits to heart. Somewhere, in the convoluted world of parenting, I know a few things will stand true.

Anyone Up for Some LARP?

2010-06-16T19:13:00.000-07:00

LARP, as defined by Wikipedia, is a form of role-playing where the participants physically act out their characters' actions. The players pursue goals within a fictional setting represented by the real world, while interacting with each other in character.

The outcome of player actions may be mediated by game rules, or determined by consensus among players.

Cornwall Park, Bellingham (pdf)--a series of trails and playgrounds under the cover of cedars, elm, and the occasional maple. On a whim, I stopped there to hike one afternoon, wife and daughter in tow. After negotiating a well-worn trail we found ourselves on a small incline, looking down on an oblong and asymmetrical grass field.

At the base of the incline, directly below us, a cluster of people. Larpers--at least thirty. All of them dressed in peculiar fashion, and carrying weapons--of the home-made sort. Now, if this were Los Angeles in the 60's, we'd be buried at the park somewhere by now. But in 2010, the weapons were...well...odd.

Large foam jousts, duct-taped to hockey sticks. Papier-mâché swords, helmets with sagging viking horns, capes made from shag carpet, wiffle-ball bats, plastic katanas. One guy had a makeshift spear that would have given Goliath a hernia. The best item: an old pair of goalie pads, wrapped in tape, colored with jiffy markers, and sporting two handles not unlike those seen on a pommel horse.

Such refined weaponry only begged closer scrutiny. We stared at the herd of combatants now trying to assemble into two opposing teams. Again, Los Angeles in the 60's and we'd see muscular, tattooed bad-asses, dividing on lines of colored handkerchiefs. The people on Cornwall Park field? Not so much.

Basement dwellers, but not the, "hey it's all I can afford" kind. I'm talking those people who prefer the dark, stuffy confines of their parents homes, where the only light permeating their finger-smudged glasses comes from an out-dated CRT monitor. Slender wrists and Cheeto-bellies. Side-parted hair and a bespectacled unfamiliarity with sunlight. Harmless, friendly geeks with a penchant for choppery.

Why so many of them would find it acceptable to meet together, I'll never know. Safety in numbers perhaps? They divided into groups based on proximity and I think who had the most Dungeons and Dragons clout.

A few minutes later and two wheezy troupes had formed. Some "maidens" remained near several large coolers, no doubt harboring Jolt Cola and Slim-Jims. Someone yelled an incomprehensible word. Klingon perhaps. And all nerd-hell broke loose.

Lumbering towards each other they flailed with their swords, rammed their jousts into doughy mid-sections, and shouted phrases not unlike those imagined in Tolkein's personal diary. Some feigned heinous deaths. One fellow, upon being battered in the back, clutched his head and collapsed to the lawn, bemoaning his scalp.

By now a group of bemused walkers stood with us. And I heard the query, "what in the holy hell?" upon the arrival of each new spectator. A legitimate question, when you think about it.

But such shows are short-lived. Especially when put on by those who rarely traipse into the outdoors. Within four minutes, the battle was over--ending with a prolonged, confused murmur. Most of the nerf-warriors collapsed around the coolers, begging for grog. A few sat in the field, waiting for Mel Gibson to ride up on a horse and lug them to safety.

Perhaps the strangest thing I have ever seen. Coincidentally, perhaps the most entertaining too.

The Times They Are a Changin'

2010-06-02T07:27:00.000-07:00

The irony of finding counsel in the Conan O'Brien's Tonight Show farewell speech is not lost on me.

Most of it was standard stuff. Good humor and requisite gratitude to staff and audience alike. But a couple of lines, right at the end, stuck with me.

And all I ask is one thing...and this is...I'm asking this particularly of young people that watch...please do not be cynical.
I hate cynicism. For the record, it's my least favorite quality.
It doesn't lead anywhere.
Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get.

Cynicism. Too many of my posts are full of it, and frankly it's all rather dull. I've been updating this blog for a few years now--and if it's boring the shit out of me (which it is) then by cracky it has to be sending the three or four of you who read this into apoplexy.

My interest in hacking out commentary about writing and literature has been exhausted. I'm not an English major, nor have I ever wanted to be one. In fact, I hold that the continuous focus on deconstructing other peoples' writing inhibits one's own ability to construct something of value.

Plus, I'm not very good at it (the deconstruction part). And I'd rather be using my time for my own writing. This is not to denounce the need for Literary Criticism--just that emphasizing it is detrimental to my own writing.

I've also noticed a trend in blog land: a perpetually angry shaking of fists at everything under the sun. And very little of it is constructive. This sort of blind, slightly self-righteous anger is too seductive for me--and the end result is a sort of ostracizing rather than an open forum.

Some things require a necessary outrage: environmental disaster, political corruption, religious scandal...and on.

Literature? Not so much. At least not for me. A person can read whatever the hell they want, as long as they engage with it in a meaningful manner (for them). Yes, some of it is crap. The Shack, for instance, will forever leave me feeling less of a person after reading it. But at the end of the day, how much energy is wasted lambasting it or other books of equal or lesser value? And is that energy better placed elsewhere?

In this spirit, The Threshold is undergoing some changes--yet to be determined. A new look and a different direction. I'm going to focus less on writing and literature (though not abandon it completely), and look for a broader scope. Hopefully I'll find something interesting, maybe geared towards a larger audience. Not sure what, though.

No celebrity gossip or long-winded gaffs on Lord of The Rings.

Until then...

John Steinbeck and Setting

2010-05-24T18:48:00.000-07:00

Been thinking about setting a lot lately, especially in my own work. I'm also reading Steinbeck's Once There Was a War which is providing a lot of necessary musing. Setting, or at least its implementation in a story, can be tricky at times--but it seems to have a direct relation to the believability of a character. A way to make them more present.

I tend to use setting as a means to convey an immediate context for a protagonist's actions. Generally, my stories take place in the same town--an older, darker version of where I grew up. I establish social lines and divisions, often using the town's geography and physical landscape as a way to make them more believable. Whether that works or not is up for grabs.

But setting is not just geography or weather or texture. It is also comprised of the social structure within it, the interaction, beliefs, and idiosyncrasies of its inhabitants.

I don't think a writer can afford to take setting for granted. One cannot simply announce the city in which characters are interacting and expect a comprehensive knowledge from the reader. I find a precise picture is necessary, with intentional details with an agenda (though the agenda can be ambiguous at first). At least that's what I gravitate towards.

An overlapping commentary on how setting relates seems to help as well. Washington Ave. may be full of gangs, but knowing their motivations (for at least some of them) helps prevent the sense of broad-stroke generalizing.

Steinbeck's non-fiction accounts of his experiences during the Second World War bring it together nicely for me. In particular, a description and summary of the people of Dover (small UK town facing France along the narrowest point of the English Channel):

Dover, with its castle on the hill and its crooked streets, its big, ugly hotels and its secret and dangerous offensive power, is closest of all to the enemy. Dover is full of memory of Wellington and of Napoleon, of the time when Napoleon came down to Calais and looked across the Channel at England and knew that only this little stretch of water interrupted his conquest of the world.

Then Hitler came to the hill above Calais and looked across at the cliffs, and again only the stretch of water stopped the conquest of the world. It is a very little piece of water. On the clear days you can see the hills about Calais, and with a glass you can see the clock tower of Calais. When the guns of Calais fire you cans see the flash, while with the telescope you can see from the castle the guns themselves, and even the tanks deploying on the beach.

There is a quality in the people of Dover that may well be the key to the coming German disaster. They are incorrigibly, incorruptibly unimpressed. The German, with his uniform and his pageantry and his threats and plans, does not impress these people at all. The Dover man has taken perhaps a little more pounding than most, not in great blitzes, but in every-day bombing and shelling, and still he is not impressed.

Jerry is like the weather to him. He complains about it and then promptly goes about what he was doing. Nothing in the world is as important as his garden and, in other days, his lobster pots. Weather and Jerry are alike in that they are inconvenient and sometimes make messes. Surveying a building wrecked by a big shell, he says, "Jerry was bad last night," as he would discuss a windstorm.

FX's Damages - Good Legal Drama For Once

2010-05-15T15:56:00.000-07:00

A friend recommended Damages to me years ago. Finally getting around to watching it now, and it's good. Really good. Dare I say scary good?

The show isn't hard-hitting a-la HBO's best efforts, but it boasts a cast of quality actors (Glenn Close and the Slovenian marvel, Zeljko Ivanek, unloading some fine chops) and relays several ongoing story lines effortlessly.

And the big seller? No William Shatner with his pants down, waxing homoerotic about James Spader and sounding--most likely--the death knell for an already saturated legal-drama television market.

Damages avoids the "hey, let's make lawyers affable by giving them pompous courtroom speeches, behavioral ticks, and ineffectual judges for fodder" writing. It revels in minute revelations of detail and positively menacing characters. Not to mention a serial story that is executed damn near flawlessly.

What makes the characters work? Motivation. Multi-faceted and morally flexible motivation. In this case, most of it is ambition--but the wealth of character arcs that can come from ambition are endless. And Damages capitalizes on it, using the legal system--and timely court scenarios--as a backdrop for how characters function under unique stresses.

A great find.

Hermann Hesse

2010-04-30T15:06:00.000-07:00

"I do not consider myself less ignorant than most people. I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books. I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me. My story is not a pleasant one; it is neither sweet nor harmonious, as invented stories are; it has the taste of nonsense and chaos, of madness and dreams--like the lives of all men who stop deceiving themselves."

Ian McEwan, Global Warming, and his New Book "Solar"

2010-04-16T18:18:00.000-07:00

St. Andrew's-Wesley United Church was packed to the nave Thursday night (April 15th) with fans of Ian McEwan--probably the UK's most prominent contemporary writer.

And this in spite of game one of the Canucks' playoff run on televisions throughout the city.

McEwan is most known in North American for Atonement, which was also adapted for the screen--quite successfully in my mind. He was in Vancouver to read from his latest book, Solar, which uses Global Warming and environmental science as a backdrop for a brutish, sex-preoccupied philanderer, and much-lauded scientist who's trying to simultaneously boost his career and get himself out of some sticky marital situations.

What I liked most about McEwan's reading and conversation with Jerry Wasserman was his humor. Self-deprecating at times, but always coming from obvious intellect, McEwan kept the entire congregation--err, audience--chuckling with a variety of anecdotes ranging from quiet musings on the undisciplined methods of humanities students to his fascination with the sexual proclivities of his characters.

The section he read from his book were impressive. Fine, fine prose but positively charged with humor--the laugh out loud and shake your head kind. The kind most of us would die to be able to write.

Above all, he spoke with clarity--especially when talking about the farce of the "Climate Gate Scandal," the silliness that occurred at the Copenhagen Climate Conference in 2009, and his experiences over the past four years, working with scientists (who can be a "competitive, jealous bunch") and reading reams of data re: the looming changes occurring in our climate.

McEwan is quick to defend the necessity of skeptics, but point out that the term is grossly misused in media. A skeptic is someone who questions a given set of opinions, but remains willing to be persuaded otherwise if a better argument than his prevails. The are essential to the betterment of science.

Climate Change nay-sayers are not skeptics--though they try to pass themselves off as such. They are there to cause confusion by trying to change what is "consensus" to "controversy".

It was one of the more enjoyable readings I've attended, if not for its subject matter than for the opportunity to listen to someone who possesses such unmatched talent in the world of writing. 19 Books and counting, screenplays, librettos--he does it all. And to the highest degree of craft.

Bukowski - Crude truths?

2010-04-12T09:10:00.000-07:00

Is it ironic that Bukowski made such commentary on other persons? I don't know. But there are days when I am sympathetic to his indictments.

“There is a time to stop reading, there is a time to STOP trying to WRITE, there is a time to kick the whole bloated sensation of ART out on its whore-ass.”

"There's nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don't live up until their death. They don't honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can't hear it. Most people's deaths are a sham. There's nothing left to die."
—The Captain Is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over the Ship, 1998

“Show me a man who lives alone and has a perpetually clean kitchen, and 8 times out of 9 I'll show you a man with detestable spiritual qualities.”

A Meeting With Joel Thomas Hynes

2010-03-24T18:54:00.000-07:00

Met Joel Thomas Hynes today and had a nice chat about writing. The guy is as stand-up as they get. No bullshit with him and if you've read Down to the Dirt you know he's from a rough side of the tracks and unlikely to coddle you when you sit down with him.

What I like about meeting people like him, people with hard, knuckle and bone pasts, is how perceptive they are about others. Not to mention how much empathy they often have for humanity in general. A universal acceptance not always evident from those of us with less-difficult upbringings.

Before we met he read several pages of my latest project, tailoring his advice to what he saw. It appears I'm on the right track (whatever that is), but I thought I'd mention a few suggestions he offered--at least this is how I understood them:

1) Write your ending and paste it into the body of your piece--no matter where you are in the story. Even if the ending changes by the time you're finished, write it into the story anyways. Why? Because it marks an end point, a goal to progress towards.

Writing a story is not always a linear process, so write the ending down as soon as you have an idea of what it is. If you have it and the beginning, you essentially have your story. What is left is bridging the gaps in between.

2) When you get bogged down, try changing POV. Move to 1st person for awhile, even if the rest of the story is told in 3rd. Perception is key--not just how your protagonist perceives others, but also how others perceive him/her.

Often helps flesh a story out, by incorporating the viewpoints of several characters, perhaps making a particular event more (or less) reliable by revealing it through the eyes of many instead of just one.

3) Pare down every sentence to the bare essentials. Man I know I need to work on this more. Consider each sentence and reduce it.

4) Play on the readers' emotions and fears. Whatever you're working on, there will be people who identify (for good or ill) with what your story is conveying. Work with that, make the story use this potential to your advantage. Not pandering to the reader per se but realizing the emotional connection. The trick is to avoid the sentimental or melodramatic. Easier said than done.

5) Find your real title. Seriously. It should embody your entire work down to a few words. I'm working on this right now and it's proving to be more difficult than I anticipated. It also makes me wonder--especially when I look at some book titles on shelves--how many people don't spend enough time on this.

General advice, in some regards, but important I think. Check out some of Hynes' work, if you're interested:

Down to the Dirt
Right Away Monday
Down to the Dirt (film)

HBO's The Pacific

2010-03-14T09:57:00.001-07:00

Couldn't be more excited about The Pacific, really. Band of Brothers still remains one of the very best television series I've ever viewed--the sort carrying an unforgettable authenticity.

Where Brothers covered specific stories of the European effort during WWII, The Pacific tackles the relatively unknown Pacific conflicts: Guadalcanal, Saipan, Wake Island, Iwo Jima etc. I'm not a history major so I will not bastardize the stories with any summary on my part. Hell, I don't even know where most of these places are on a map.

But I will say that my favorite war film of all time is The Thin Red Line, Terrence Malick's adaptation of James Jones' novel on the Guadalcanal battle. Moreso because of its unflinching examination of how men internalize and rationalize what they do and see in horrifying circumstances than anything else.

But Spielberg has never been good at this sort of introspection. His films always fall into melodrama whenever he tries. I'm curious whether The Pacific will be able to even test those waters.

A lot of the directors from Brothers worked on The Pacific, as well as a slew of A-List directors from the elite shows like The Wire and The Sopranos. Should be grand.

Read Nancy Franklin's Hell on Earth - a thorough analysis of the show in the New Yorker.

Vinyl Sweet Vinyl 2 (Thanks, Sandra)

2010-03-09T20:39:00.001-08:00

Baroness "Blue Record" (Click Here to Listen)

Earthquakes and Shorter Days

2010-03-02T20:51:00.000-08:00

Two of the largest recorded earthquakes on our planet have occurred in the last decade. 2004's 9.0 shaker in Sumatra and the recent 8.8 in Chile. One also can't forget Haiti's disaster.

In an article from National Geographic, NASA geophysicists claim these quakes (and others) have shortened the length of a 24-hour day. Chile's quake to the tune of 1.26 millionths of a second, Sumatra's in the range of 6.8 millionths of a second.

All because one tectonic plate shifts underneath another, reducing the earth's mass ever so slightly, making the earth spin faster.

I don't even know how to fathom such minuscule numbers. But--if my butchered attempts at Math are alright--every 11-12 days or so, we'd lose a second of time? Right?

It takes 11 days, 13 hours, 46 minutes, and 40 seconds for one million seconds to pass. So, around this time, the "shortening" of 1.26 millionths of a second would accumulate to a full second? Is that right?

Don't quote me on this. More of a question, really.

Every once in awhile I feel we're living on the unwinding spring of one shaky bastard of a clock.

National Geographic Article Here.

Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympic Roundup

2010-02-28T18:12:00.000-08:00

Just like the opening ceremonies peaked with K.D. Lang singing Cohen's Hallelujah, the closing ceremonies did the same with Neil Young's Long May You Run.

Not a bad Olympic experience for me, though I didn't go to any events. The television was on pretty much round the clock and I got to watch most everything--my favorites being those I only hear about every four years: biathlon, skeleton, ski cross. Too good.

I'd be a liar if I didn't concede getting a little misty-eyed over some of the Canadian athlete performances. Medalists of course, but also the cross-country guys who placed 5th in the 50km event. That was so hard-core I was out of breath just watching it. Plus, the Slovakian woman who scored a bronze with three broken ribs and a punctured lung? Good Lord.

Still, I don't know what to make of the "red mittens, red shirts--Go Canada, Ra ra ra--we're so awesome because we wear red shirts and awesome is awesome so we are that" stuff. There's something rather phony about that sort of nationalism. Or maybe all nationalism in the Canadian context is phony--I don't know. It felt great to cheer for our athletes, and to do so with a host of like-minded people. But for the life of me I don't see how that qualifies a country's greatness or importance, especially when it does nothing to make one distinct.

I don't buy the "corporate takeover" complaints--our athletes rely on that sort of support (which doesn't really come from anywhere else) and have to acquiesce to the obvious irony of selling products they likely never use. But I see an equally ironic, manufactured quality in the notion of Canada coming together during the Olympics. Once they are done (and they are done now), we all go back to our usual distinctions, our geographical and cultural divides, our pockets of habit.

I think what we see during the Olympics is an opportunity for people to cheer en masse for what we wished our country would embody: the purity of individual effort, discipline, and achievement that stands above the regular world. All of this manifested in athletic prowess, a fitting metaphor in some ways, but perhaps also too easily reduced.

The media went a sad route, taking on all the qualities I've disliked about American network coverage--the over-emphasis of our own athletes above and beyond the successes of others. To be expected, of course, but with the "We are Canadian" theme of the ceremonies, it came across as an apologetic--not a welcoming of nations. I think the world gets it. Vancouver is in Canada, and Canada is a country. 'Nuff said.

Regardless, it was a treat to witness the highlights of physical excellence--from everywhere. I won't be forgetting Crosby's overtime goal any time soon. Same with Norway's Petter Northug's crazy skiing, or Germany's Maria Riesch. And what about our Canadian speed skaters? Awesome. It was a pleasure to be able to make the illusory claim of such individual effort as being, on occasion, "our own".

The People You Meet...

2010-02-21T15:13:00.000-08:00

I understand (good) story-telling as a forced collision between characters in real, but exaggerated worlds. And how does one write about such worlds but through their own experiences--equally exaggerated, mind you, altered by necessary liberties.

I don't buy that a person can write a great story in a setting they've never experienced. If your story takes place on the streets of New York but you've never made it passed Chilliwack, you story will falter as soon as you try to depict the unknown world.

There must be something to all the commentary on the importance of travel. Steinbeck followed soldiers around England, North Africa, and Italy during the Second World War, sending dispatches to the New York Herald Tribune that culminated in the Pulitzer winning Once There Was a War. Hemingway's experiences at war, in Spain, on the green hills of Africa also resulted in works of unparalleled brilliance.

Hell, I think it's fair to say any great novel I've read is steeped in personal experience--much of it stemming from travel.

So, what does a week-long trip to San Diego offer me? Not much, considering the brevity of my trip, but the people I saw/met seem to be forming into potential characters--albeit rough sketches.

The San Diego civil engineer with his careful, clean appearance, sitting on a plane with a stack of official documents on his lap. His fear of flying evidenced by a constant shuffling of paper, repeated adjustments of his shirt collar.

A Mexican maid at a resort, grinding through her days folding wealthy people's clothes, making their beds, cleaning up their piggish messes. She feels no guilt when stealing the left-behind travel bottles of shampoo and body wash, all the while picturing her thirteen-year-old daughter miles away at home by herself yet again. The threat of her husband returning, finding where they've fled to, always at the forefront of any activity.

The surfers in their wet-suits, standing along the beaches of La Jolla, watching the waves with uncertainty, knowing this is not a good place to surf--too risky. But wanting to do it for some unspoken glory between them, a conquest shared with no one else.

Also on the cliffs above La Jolla cove, a fiercely tattooed father who has been granted visitation rights with his child--a young, timid boy who does not want to be here with him. The father's love intense and violent--the only way he's ever known how to handle such complex emotion, mixed with anger at his ex, the courts, the world in general. Everyone to blame but him. But the power now in his hands as he stands along the cliffs, his grip on the scruff of his boy's neck. The waves crashing below them.

What to do, what to do...

2010-02-12T22:41:00.000-08:00

Could be the weather, or maybe the tasty porter I just had, but I've got a hankerin' for some good ol' ruckus movie action.

Some Badass Benicio:

Or how about McNulty from The Wire?

Or we could always watch some futuristic organ harvesting:

Or a re-hash of a re-hash of a re-hash

Reading For Writing

2010-02-07T12:13:00.000-08:00

A part of the mentoring deal I have with a prof of mine is I have to read several books over the course of our time together, and discuss them within the context of what can I take away as a writer. This requires, apparently, a shift in the way I usually read; a search for craft rather than pleasure. I must confess I find this difficult.

My gut response to reading is pretty much the same as my response to film. I react on an emotional level first, but not in a whimsical way (at least not to me). I respond to what I perceive the author's intentions to be (if the writing is effective, that is). I feel the desire for vindication or the stomach-churning tragedy, the elation of a brilliantly human scene. A great example is how distraught I was after finishing Mercy Among the Children by David Adams Richards--a wretchedly beautiful bit of morality.

It's what has always drawn me to books, the way they wrestle to evoke genuine responses. But, in now trying to do the very same myself, I have to move away from the "what" and start banking on the "how".

I have about a 30 page threshold with any given book. If I don't find myself engaged by that many pages, I'm usually done with it. Too many others waiting. When I asked my prof what her threshold was, she informed me most times it was one sentence--maybe a paragraph. For her, that is all the time an author has to truly convince the reader of her books merits.

I suppose this coincides with my question to her of how she reads fiction after so many years in the business of literature. Her response: she reads predominantly as a matter of craft. Every book she reads she stops 5 pages in and asks "why do I care about this character and the story". If she can't come up with a good reason, the book is done. She repeats this throughout her reading, 50 pages in, 100, 200.

So, of course there is some semblance of emotional response (she does care) but the main concern is to try and find out what the author is doing to make the reader care.

For now, I think there's something tragic about no longer having that initial visceral reaction. It might be overly romantic, or nostalgic--perhaps linked to how I can never abandon buying physical books for digital versions (Kindle, Sony Reader etc.). I need that smell of old paper, the bulk in the back pocket when I head to a coffee shop. Even the arrangement of text on the page. All important--for now.

But perhaps the reading process is twofold. One has the initial reaction and but then seeks to know why the reaction is so vivid (or why it's lacking).

I am curious how other writers out there view a book when they read, now that they're entrenched in the process. Writing is theft, I believe that. Necessary theft. And perhaps we are always on the hunt.

J.D. Salinger in the New Yorker

2010-01-31T21:10:00.000-08:00

Yes, he's dead. Not that it makes much difference when you think about it. For a man who disappeared from view--at least in the "I want to be with my adoring fans sense"--decades ago, and whose writing disappeared with him, people sure make a fuss.

But that's not to say he couldn't write. Hell, even if you don't like The Catcher in the Rye, you can't take away from its impact on American culture--its ability to speak to the disillusioned on a massive scale. I assume Salinger lived off of the income from this one book alone, as it continues to sell thousands of copies every year.

If you want to see what else he wrote, you're better off heading over to the New Yorker's JD Salinger Archives, where he published thirteen short stories from 1945-1961. I haven't read through them all yet, but it's always a treat when rarities are posthumously offered for public consumption.

I'm sure Salinger would have consulted his lawyers already, trying to find a way to prevent such an affront to his good name--which is what he seemed to consider any effort to circulate his work.

But what a way to create demand. Tell the masses they can't have something and that's precisely what they scramble to get. And you have to admire a man who carried so much disdain for those who wanted what he had to offer. Can you imagine writing something like Catcher and then dealing with the continuous aftermath of disenfranchised youths making pilgrimages to your front door? I'd become a recluse too.

Or maybe that's part of the myth. There are plenty of accounts that indicate Salinger was not the recluse the rest of the world wanted him to be. He probably just got sick and damn tired of being hounded--maybe felt his work was being exploited somehow (I don't know). So he became solitary, which is cool. He wasn't a jerk or a hermit. People in his town knew him--and protected him too. It's an important distinction: solitary vs. seclusion.

But none of that matters now.

Heritage

2010-01-24T20:34:00.000-08:00

The Mennonite Historical Society asked me to write a small blurb about what it was like growing up as both a Doukhobor and a Mennonite. That's right, you heard me. I was born half the former and inherited the latter via upbringing in the church. Your guess is as good as mine what this makes me--especially considering I have virtually zero connection to either community these days. But the request piqued my interest.

These two cultures are similar to the point of absurdity at times, but their theologies are such that there is very little shared ground. Whereas Mennonites (Anabaptist) have a heavy emphasis on the "risen Lord", Doukhobors deny this tenet and suggest a working God within all humanity; each person being a reasonable incarnation. So, being asked to somehow identify with both is not an easy thing to rationalize. Well, if I'm focusing on theology at least.

The piece I wrote, a 1300 or so word synopsis, emphasizes the manufactured quality of how one typically views their family heritage--and by heritage I refer to things we inherit from our ancestors (physical attributes, recipes, a propensity for rye etc). A person will arrange their understanding of this heritage in a way that suits them and present it to others as a living mythology--something that explains their inherent traits. But the importance is whatever they want it to be. The weight added solely by their opinion and the historical back-tracking merely a malleable context.

One can say the historical violence of their people has hardened them against compassion. Another with the same story may find themselves overwhelmed with it. The uniformity being in word alone, though each conclusion appears to be valid.

In the Mennonite circle, there is the oft-played game of trying to find a common relative (much like 6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon) when you meet someone--family being an essential part of Menno identity. If you understand their history and the shit they had to go through, it makes sense--though it can annoy the hell out of you when they make that the hinge point for their existence. Oddly enough, the Doukhobor community carries many of the very same historical traits. And they play the name game too.

When I was growing up, I remember being stopped by complete strangers who had stories about my father--a volunteer fireman who walked into a burning hotel to rescue someone and never came back out. In their stories would be these minute connections: so-and-so's 2nd cousin, how I looked just like my father, how he came from good people, sang in the USCC choir etc. It was alarming then, as I knew nothing of him and had almost no contact with his side of the family, but now I think I get why they wanted to stop me.

Heritage is linear in its chronology. It is a means for those of us in the immediate to retain something of potential from the past. In doing so we add to our own sense of identity. And some of this requires speaking it aloud. But I think what is also important, and sadly lacking from my own perspective, is that one has to remain immersed or connected to this possible past. They have to live their immediate lives with the gravity of those who lived before them. But I don't really do that.

It is of no use for me to say "I am Doukhobor" and demand these words to attach me to the history of these people. Do you know how much Russian I speak? Da, nyet, spaceba, semechki, zhopa. That's it. I love borscht--could it eat every day for the rest of my life. I believe in treating the earth as a living entity, not a commodity. I have short-ass legs and broad shoulders. Doukhobor traits, to be sure, but is that enough to say I am?

If anything, the side of my family I pridefully champion the most is being Dutch. And that's directly because of my Oma and mom, and the exposure I had to their experiences. So maybe that's it then? Exposure. One is connected by the exposure they have to their possible past?

I don't have an answer.

What I do know is that in writing the piece I found myself curious about the aspects of cultural history I didn't know, and somewhat flippant about the stuff I did. I don't look back on my church upbringing with animosity, but I don't exactly aspire to retain any of it. Yet when confronted with the stories of people separated from their loved ones for decades, their children placed in orphanages for "correction", their lives scattered and held together by a singular flame of faith--I am moved to tears.

Maybe that's the heritage yes? That we are sentient and emotionally aware of others stories, and their weight implores us to make sure others hear them too.

Anonymous Postcard In the Mail

2010-01-18T19:03:00.000-08:00

Arrived today, with the quote "Arrivederci". But I recognize the handwriting on the back.

Coffee Culture and Writing

2010-01-14T19:38:00.001-08:00

One of the more obvious instances where my cynicism points out my own hypocrisy. The coffee-shop writer. Be it Stardick's or an establishment of a less-contrived nature--they're easy to pick out of the crowd.

Note the person with rounded shoulders, their Mac Notebook decorated with various anti-whatever decals. See how they type with great fervor for a good solid seven minutes before looking up to see if anyone sees that they see what they see when they see...oops, I've lost myself here. They like attention. They want someone to come up and ask what they're working on.

Hypothetical Conversation:
Excuse me, I couldn't help but notice you sitting in front of a computer. I've never seen someone do that before. Are you a writer?

Oh indeed. *scrambles to find his paper BC Federation of Writers free membership card*

She points to his screen. Is it a novel?

Why yes! I've created a world where little bum-tickling gnomes commit heinous crimes in a burned-out, 18th Century European city.

I see.

Thankfully, there's a really keen detective-type who just happens to have a knack for solving said crimes, accompanied by his possible-lover and sidekick. Not to mention that he has a penchant for Absinthe and is double-jointed in both wrists (something his sidekick approves of, no doubt).

Oh my, do you...

Oh, and I should mention that I'm writing this all in the past-past tense with flashbacks coming from the future and intermittent snippets of a few poems I wrote to a girl in high-school acting as chapter breaks.

And on and on. The complete stranger now frantic for escape, fakes a sneeze, a seizure, a bout of gout, and exits stage left. But the writer, now smug, feels strengthened by the conversation, his bold reality of carving out a brave new world for literature now bolstered. He grips his skinny-vanilla-latte with both hands--hands shaking with a palsy we call self-gratification. He sips and muses, chuckles wryly at some inside joke, and turns back to his Tetris game.

Now, the problem is, I love to write in coffee shops. Seriously. I face away from the windows, my back to the populace, fire up the XPS, and get a surprisingly amount of good (to my estimation) work done.

It helps that a large latte sits next to me, from which I occasionally sip and ponder whether I've just given away too much information in an opening paragraph. It helps, dammit. But no one talks to me. It might be the fuck off sign I hang over my shoulders. Or the will hump your leg for food I keep as back-up. But I get a lot done. And I like the fact that someone else has to clean up after me.

Plus I wear flannel shirts and baggy jeans and usually one of those boxer caps that make me look more artistic than I actually am. Why? Because I am just as much a bastard of invention as the rest of you. Or, maybe it's just me and the rest of you are legit. Who knows? But I do like me some coffee mixed with that there frothy milk stuff.

Canadian Lit Ain't So Bad & Guided Studies

2010-01-06T19:03:00.000-08:00

I have a friend. Surprising, I know. He is a fine chap, intelligent as they come--well-read, insightful. Funny as hell, too. But he has a hang-up when it comes to books written by Canadians. He dislikes with a passion any and all things associated with them.

I presume this stems from the myriad of lousy reading choices proffered by various professors over his academic career. You know those kinds of books: long-winded, introspective, condescending, and void of any overt narrative. Great for waxing eloquent about but shite for sitting down on a Sunday afternoon and pouring over.

But not all Canadian Literature is like that, dear Sam. You just have to trust a reliable source--such as myself: an unassuming, mild-mannered, sedentary fellow with a holistic approach to all things qualified as art. cough cough...

Yes, that's the best I've got for a transition.

There's more. As I start a significant writing project, under the critical eye of a great author, I've had to compile a reading list to use for close examination while I write. At first I just grabbed several novels from my bookshelf that I'd been dying to read--thinking it would be a great excuse. Vetoed. Harshly. Note to self--never mention Forsters Passage to India when trying to break down contemporary fiction.

The list I finally came up with, encouraged by my mentor, looks promising. And some are CANADIAN.

As follows:
1) Three Day Road by Joseph Boyden - I've been dying for a chance to read this a second time. A story of two Cree brothers who wind up being snipers in the First World War. Still on my top ten of all-time reads.

2) The Good Body by Bill Gaston - I haven't read this yet, but if his short-stories are any indication, this won't disappoint. His writing is on another level.

3) Amongst Women by John McGahern - Nothing really to say here. I'd never heard of the guy until a few days ago.

4) Down to the Dirt by Joel Hynes - The excerpts I've read are impressive. Raw, filthy, violent characters and the prose to reflect them.

5) Mercy Among the Children by David Adams Richards - Another one I know very little about.

Okay, so this doesn't exactly present a knock-out rebuttal of Sam's concerns. In a perfect world, I would have added Guy Vanderhaeghe's The Englishman's Boy or The Last Crossing. Those would have helped.

But someone's gotta get this guy to enjoy a book from his mother-land.

Last Call for 2009: Film, Music, and Books

2009-12-29T20:31:00.000-08:00

No way I can post any definitive lists this year. Raising a 2 year old does not allow for a ton of free time. There were so many films I didn't get to see and most of my viewing was spent catching up on what I missed in 2008.

But I did catch a few great ones. Heard a few brilliant albums. Read a few outstanding books.

Books (None from 'o9; just ones I read this year)

1) Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being - Posits humor, sex, and some damn fine philosophy into a great humanist piece. His Theodicy of Shit is brilliant.
2) Cormac McCarthy, Suttree - A god of prose, McCarthy's characters and settings shudder with a deep sadness. Consistent with his other books, the always-present theme of human choice.
3) Erik Larson, The Devil In the White City - Big surprise for me. Non-fiction paced like fiction. Larson comprises a narrative arc by showing the connection between one of America's defining moments in history (Chicago World's Fair) and also its first serial killer.
4) John Steinbeck, The Pearl - Steinbeck re-creates old Mexican folklore and puts together some impressive mythology. Great descriptions with his usual grasp for story.
5) Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle - Unlike anything I've read before. Murakami plays with chronology and dual-realities without traipsing into silly fantasy. Subtle at times, but always with the tension of beauty and violence.

Film

1) The Road - Hillcoat's astonishing recreation of McCarthy's novel is only overshadowed by Viggo's acting.
2) State of Play - Great dialogue, pacing, story-lines. Intelligent political commentary.
3) District 9 - Sharlto Copely put on the acting job of the year, in my books. Plays with themes of identity and refugee and manages to foster real empathy for CGI aliens. Worth every penny.
4) Coraline - What happens when Pixar takes a tab of acid. Dark, luminous story-telling with gorgeous effects. Stop-motion animation at its finest.
5) Two Lovers - A sedate, strangely realistic romantic film that focuses more on human decision than trying to manufacture a pretty ending. Some great ambiguity here.

Music

1) Mastodon, Crack the Skye - Moody and progressive with great story-telling. Avoids most "metal" cliche--not to mention the best album art in the past decade.
2) Pearl Jam, Backspacer - Great form that hints at their earlier work without sounding immature.
3) Magneta Lane, Gambling With God - An example of Canadian Arts Council funding going somewhere worthwhile. The lead singer's voice somehow bridge's the gap between two vastly different eras of female vocals.
4) Baroness, Blue Album - In the same vein as Mastodon. Well crafted, ambient metal that borders on being literary.
5) Alice in Chains, Black Gives Way to Blue - heavy, morose, and with a new vocalist that seems up to the task, though likely forever singing in someone else's shadow.

On My Own Work & Two Kinds of Writers

2009-12-07T19:13:00.000-08:00

Right...that's what this blog was supposed to be about. Long-winded diatribes exaggerating my limited knowledge of writing to avoid actually having to do any.

Lately, I've found talking about my own projects detracts from their need to be written. Not a universal need, of course, just a personal one. If someone asks what I'm working on--a rarity in itself--a hasty, manufactured response is all they get. Anything more and the story is lessened somehow. I think this has to do with "speaking" the story too much before it is written. At some point the story gets told too soon.

But I will say that I have a larger project in mind, one I hope to start in January. My prep has been intermittent, and was heading down the wrong track before an all-important conversation with a friend. I had been working on a time-line, story arcs, chapter breakdowns--a skeleton of what the plot was to be before I began writing out. The problem was, the entire process felt completely disingenuous.

Speaking this aloud to a friend, she mentioned her opinions on novel writing methods. For her, writers of novels fall into two camps: those who work from a plot-driven framework and those character-based.

The plot-driven writer is compelled to sort out the bones of her story beforehand--as best she can for a first draft. The story is then a matter of adding flesh to the bones. Or maybe it's a matter of dredging the body out of centuries-old peat bogs. Difficult to say. Tweaking comes later.

Character-based writing, to my understanding, follows a protagonist (at first) through an ordeal. It can be existential, or merely an unraveling, prima facie event that requires challenge. But the writing, for the author, is exploratory--a delving into the mind of something or someone other.

Both methods are completely legitimate--and both produce great literature. But what is produced differs greatly. For example one can read hard-hitting crime/detective novels that deliver fine prose, but focus on the mechanics and complexities of the story arc. I presume the authors of such works to write from the plot-driven method.

On the other side, experimental pieces that study the human-ness of a character and, in deceptive fashion, pull away from traditional structures. A character moves through the world and becomes a living, intuitive mechanism in their own concentric plot. It's not that plot doesn't exist, but it doesn't take main stage. It can even seem too simplistic because the focus is on character choices, and the arrival at such choices. The focus seems more microscopic.

I like to think I can tell which method an author employs as I'm reading their book. Probably not true--at least not entirely. I've read great books from both methods, though. And, as to be expected, those sadly less-than-impressive.

Why All the Remakes?

2009-12-01T20:39:00.000-08:00

No question that film adaptations of books are big money, and often result in some outstanding movies. But I can never figure out why remakes occur so frequently. And lately, we have films coming out that are remakes of films only a few years old.

Take 2009's Brothers directed by Jim Sheridan. I haven't seen it yet, so it might be a corker--and given the cast the performances are bound to be decent. But why Sheridan would feel the need to remake such a recent film is beyond me. What is gained?

2005's Brothers, directed by Susanne Bier is one of my favorite films. Tremendous performances. Bier is one of those careful directors who knows how to pull complex emotion from her actors. She creates unimaginable tension in this story of close family bonds separated by infidelity and war. It doesn't need to be remade.

Sheridan's list of credits is about as impressive as they come. Director of My Left Foot, The Boxer, In America, he is one of those film makers who takes his time choosing a project and truly delivers once he finally does. Which is why his decision to remake an already great film surprises me. He, of all people, should recognize the need to let original work to stand on its own. And what of Bier--also a great director (Open Hearts, After The Wedding)? Would she not have to sign away the rights to her film in order for it to be made?

I pose this as a real question, as I don't know what is required for remakes to be authorized.

Sheridan is not alone. Think back to 2002's Insomnia with Al Pacino and Robin Williams--a daft, silly piece that did no justice to the original Danish Insomnia (starring Stellan Skarsgaard) made in 1997. Lars Von Trier's The Kingdom, a truly creepy television mini-series also fell victim to a horrible network remake by Stephen King, called Kingdom Hospital.

Maybe someone in the film industry can explain this better to me. Are there no more original ideas out there? Does all of filmdom consist of adaptations and remakes?

I don't want to see great films remade into different, probably lesser projects. Let a film stand on its own. If it's a matter of gaining a wider audience, North American distributors need to ball-up and work aggressively to get the originals into the theaters upon their release.

The Road - It's Finally Here

2009-11-26T13:57:00.000-08:00

A great piece of fiction, for me, is gauged by how effectively it devastates. This not only comprises of story and character, but how the piece speaks to the human condition, the bonds between persons, the metaphysical and existential questions surrounding existence. And, of course, prose.

Cormac McCarthy's The Road cuts to the quick. Dark, harrowing, unrelenting in its grief and hope. I read it right after my daughter's birth, in two days, often with her curled up asleep on my lap. This book is very much a love-story.

A great director like John Hillcoat (his The Proposition is a must-see) ensures a certain loyalty to the source material, and a refusal to engage in the sentimental. The cast is immense and capable, the few trailers I have seen look rightfully grim. But what no director can capture, especially in the context of a writer like McCarthy, is the texture that comes from prose.

Nonetheless, I'll be damned if I don't see this film half a dozen times before the year is up---just to be sure.

More The Road Info

Best Vinyl Art 2009

2009-11-15T21:35:00.000-08:00

Art Vinyl has posted their nominees for the best album art 2009. Unlike fiction, where I often find myself removing hardcover book jackets to avoid being influenced, I am forever drawn to album art for vinyl.

Half of these albums I doubt I'd ever listen to, but I wouldn't be surprised if I picked them up because the covers looked so great.

So, based on Art Vinyl's nominees, here are my top ten picks (click to see art):

Advice to Writers: Read Poetry

2009-11-12T19:48:00.000-08:00

I've been told over and over, if you want to be a great writer--not good, but bloody great--you have to read poetry. Or at least sit close to poets every now and then. So, I try.

Case in point: an evening with Aislinn Hunter and Miranda Pearson where each launched a new book. Great readings, but I would need several hours to write on both. So I'm only going to tackle one.

Aislinn's latest, A Peepshow with Views of the Interior: Paratext, is a diverse, thoughtful collection of essays on our understanding of and relationship to objects in the material world.

For the record, I don't think I've ever conversed with a more intelligent person than Aislinn. Her ability to listen and respond in a sincere, informed way often leaves me breathless--if not a little intimidated. And this is evident in her new book.

A Peepshow... displays her wealth of knowledge, her understanding of philosophy and how it pertains to the world around us. Experimental in its forms--using everything from poetry to footnotes as a creative medium, but never lacking clarity--I consider the essays imperative for every writer, or artist for that matter.

A quote from the book:

Few of us have the stomach for obliteration. We want some semblance of our having-been to reel out behind us. Want to see oneself seen. This is the conundrum of the rock garden: raking the stones to erase our footsteps but taking comfort in the tracks of the rake. How it takes a storm to come and shuttle the stones into a place that bears no trace of us. Truth of the matter is we cannot begin to say something from the void of nothing. That was the first lie: In the beginning was the word. No: In the beginning was Form. An utterance needs a body to speak to or speak from. As for the dead, they become formless, but leave a trail of pebbles behind them.

Another item worth noting--and a testament to both Aislinn's and Miranda's apparent sincerity-- a few of their students also came forward and read from their own works. My good friend, Nelia Botelho, and a fellow student Kistie Singh were among the readers, and both were in great form.

Nelia and Kistie each compiled related poems from their own collections into respective chapbooks. Great-looking books with impressive poetry within. Nelia in particular (not to take away from Kistie) impressed me greatly. A poem from her chapbook, Undone:

Autumn

Autumn reveals itself
In the skins of split fruits,
the burden of berries,
in the crackle of cornhusk
gilded in senescent light
the dry curled hollows of a husk unfurl
as scrolls before a great revelation

Autumn defines itself
in the silhouettes of crows
perched on pumpkins' thick ginger hulls,
whose sable feathers fold
like pious hands,

and in the stitched burlap
of a scarecrow's lips,
the vigilant eyes.

I think Nelia has a few chapbooks left if someone wants to purchase one. $7 (includes shipping), if you email her at: neliabotelho(at)shaw.ca

Miranda Pearson's latest is called, Harbour, and focuses on a person's drive to create territory in whatever space available. Look for it.

Remembrance Day 2009

2009-11-11T08:09:00.000-08:00

At the going down of the sun and in the morning. We will remember them.

Also, check here for war poems written by combatants and their families. Many from WWI and WWII.

Apocalyptica

2009-11-06T20:30:00.000-08:00

Been years since I thought about these guys--4 cellists who started out covering old Metallica, Pantera et cetera, before moving on to their own compositions. It used to be just the four lads and their cellos, but now it appears they've reduced their numbers to three and play with accompanying drummers and vocalists. I prefer the old ways.

Apocalyptica are more than a little hokey. They embody all the typical "metal" cliches, including trying way too hard to look the part (long, flowing hair flapping in the wind as they play). But one has to love it when people do the unexpected with an instrument. They might not be as provocative as say, Mike Patton and his voice, but they can shred. That or I'm a sucker for nostalgic attachment.

A few samples:

Music For Muse - Hans Werner Henze

2009-11-03T19:44:00.000-08:00

In conversation with a professor several years ago, I found him difficult to believe when he said he wrote most of his work(s) with music playing in the background. Was that not a distraction? Quite the opposite, he had explained. It was muse and colour, texture and nuance. Music affected his writing in unexplainable ways. This said to a young protege who wrote most of his half-assed stories in complete silence.

Years later, as I gather my notes together to begin a large, hopefully successful project, the gravity of the discussion is not lost on me. Writing in silence is important. The mind needs to clear, to rid itself of the immense amount of bullshit it collects and filters and stores. This must be why the first hour or so of writing heaps up in the trash--that necessary, humbling process that finds its yield in the pages to follow. But silence, much like music, elicits a certain response--one that is not always what the author is looking for.

So, in part an experiment and in part a need to pursue a particular character to his true, basic depths, I have been playing music while I work. Not raging metal (God bless it) or even my usual fare of acoustic protest songs, but unusual compositions that wind and unwind, spread desolate and forlorn across the floor of my kitchen, and settle at my feet. Enter Hans Werner Henze, and his Guitar Music Volume 1 (samples).

Henze is an interesting chap--still alive, I believe. Of German descent, but now living in Italy as his politics and social viewpoints were not popular at the time of his post-WWII departure (1953), he is a man at odds. His upbringing also carries complex variables (check the link above to find out). In return, at least to my limited perception, his music reflects the same complexity: madness, apathy (atonal), longing...and on. Things I also equate with some of Benjamin Britten's work. But I'm a hack when it comes to music, so what the hell do I know?

What I know is whenever I'm working or thinking of the main character in my next project, I find Henze to be his soundtrack--at least the Guitar Music CD of his I have. And I fondly think of my conversations with that old professor, whose wisdom chastises me to this day, a gentle but relentless pressure to progress.

Such is the artifice of art? One cannot escape their life's influences through the process of creation. But one can draw from the bones of another's skeleton and, in mimicry, fashion themselves fiction.

Climate Cover-Up

2009-10-29T13:38:00.000-07:00

Those of you who haven't visited DeSmogBlog.com should do so. A great site that works with diligence to source out and debunk the host of lobbyist-funded climate change skeptics causing confusion in the world of media.

Chances are you've come across a host of them. If you're at all skeptical about climate change, you've been suckered in. Any and all climate scientists will tell you that dramatic change is happening to our climate, and we have something to do with it.

Anything else is carefully-planned confusion by big energy groups who stand to lose a ton of money.

A new book called, Climate Cover-Up: The Crusade to Deny Global Warming by James Hoggan and Richard Littlemore, exposes the global-warming denial campaign in vicious, irrefutable fashion. This book isn't some silly bit of finger-waving by activists, but a concise, well-researched (thanks in large part to my friend, Kevin Grandia) piece of journalism by people who have been immersed in the PR industry for decades.

These people are qualified to call shit...well, shit.

Here's a quote from a review of Climate Cover-Up in The Vancouver Sun:

"Climate Cover-up: The Crusade to Deny Global Warming is a remarkable deconstruction of what he (Hoggan) argues is a carefully orchestrated propaganda campaign whose goal is to set the agenda in climate policy by discrediting legitimate science and manipulating public perceptions of the scientific evidence.
This isn't a book about the science behind global warming scenarios, it's an analysis by a well-informed insider of how the debate was skilfully framed by public relations experts to call that science into question, exploit the media's weakness for a good controversy and ultimately to sow confusion and doubt in the public's mind."

The Passionate Eye

2009-10-19T20:31:00.001-07:00

The date rolled by this year without so much as a second thought from me. The horror of what happened on Sept. 11/2001 now displaced amongst news blurbs, the shitty "9/11" pseudo-pun, the massive amount of conspiracy speculation. Kind of bothers me how my weariness of rhetoric also makes me callous.

Last night, 102 Minutes That Changed the World (also known as 102 Minutes That Changed America) played on CBC's The Passionate Eye. If ever there is a reason to keep CBC alive, it's The Passionate Eye. That and Rick Mercer.

The "102 Minute..." documentary covered the events of Sept. 11 from the impact of the first jet into the World Trade Center, to the collapse of the last remaining tower--almost entirely from raw footage gathered from over 100 sources. No commentary from imbecilic news reporters, no manipulative agenda (that I could see). Just the events cobbled together from personal videos, phone videos, sound bites, phone calls, CB radio between firefighters and central hubs etc.

Watching it I felt like I was being repeatedly kicked in the balls. The footage (some not seen anywhere else) made me queasy: a mother behind the camera, telling her kids to go lie down in the other room while her and her husband watch out their windows, as the buildings fall a few miles away. Young adults--about the same distance away, though in a different direction--musing at what we know to be people leaping to their deaths from 80 odd floors up. They could be chairs, they must be chairs. And then, mid-sentence, the second jet hits, windows rattle, the people in the apartment scream, the camera's scope fills with fire.

Another moment--this one a sound clip--has a dispatch operator telling a lady who's managed to get through on her cell phone to stay put. Help is coming, don't go down the stairs, they may not be safe. The woman, so close to panic but trying to stay positive, talks of injured people, smoke. Break a window if you have to, she's told.

The entire time I watched, and listened, I thought any other context and this shit would be entertainment, right? I mean, we'd pay money to watch a movie like this, its drama and horror and unresolved pathos. Yet because I know this actually happened, two months after I got married, and my first day back to college after 4 years--the irony is weighed down with a certain gravity--which may be nothing more than proximity, really. A crude form of self-concern? How odd.

On The Subject of First Drafts

2009-10-11T20:59:00.000-07:00

Returned to a few short stories this week, after taking a hiatus of about three months. One thing that became immediately clear was how in order for the stories to move from "good idea" to "great bloody story" they had to be re-written. Completely. Tweaking the original text, fixing the grammar, finding better word choices, bulking up a metaphor--all good, but insufficient.

The first draft has to disappear. Best advice I've been given claims the writer should take their first draft, be it novel or short story or screenplay or whatever, and shelve that bastard. Hide it in a drawer, jimmy up a loose plank of flooring and stuff it in the crawl space, seal it in a baggie and submerge it in your toilet's water tank. Just keep it out of sight. And start the hell over.

Don't believe me? Go back to something you've written, say a year ago--something you've spent time tinkering with and hoped to submit for publication. Something that is a well worked-over first draft complete with red ink from continuous revision. Read it out loud to yourself--yes, do it out loud. You'll get pissed off at how wretched it sounds. Nature of the beast, if it's a first draft. You can't get around it.

The first draft is for you, no one else. It is your exhaustive attempt at getting the story out, in all its convoluted, manic glory. It hurts like hell to write it, late nights with a back-lit keyboard making your chin glow in the dark of your kitchen. It reeks of those daily, initial hours of writing which are utter garbage but necessary to "hitting your stride" once you've warmed up.

Oddly enough, it also hurts like hell to get rid of the first draft and start new. Too much like disowning a baby...a harlequin baby with cleft palette and bulbous...oh nevermind, what a horrible analogy.

I'm familiar with the pain as I've now confined three stories to a filing cabinet and have begun writing them from scratch. Same with a screenplay. I haven't thrown them out. They're simply no longer part of the next stage.

The new draft starts out on its own, the story now dredged up and left glistening in its afterbirth.
And what I've found is the second draft comes in a hurry--as does the awareness of subtlety (or the lack thereof) and word choice. Now the real work starts.

Anyone else at the same point? Maybe you disagree?

Review: Alice In Chains - Black Gives Way to Blue

2009-10-02T19:36:00.000-07:00

Preface:
Grade 10 and a schoolmate hands me a cassette tape--one of the new, clear kinds that allow you the benign pleasure of watching the ribbon unwind from one spool and load up another. Facelift by Alice in Chains. I played that bastard until the tape warped. By the time Dirt came out, they were my faves and all subsequent releases only solidified this. Why? Their dirge-like power chords, the sorrowful harmonies, the fucking wretched sick that was Staley's voice. How often does one get to listen to a band where the singer's voice actually physically embodies the misery he sings about?

Staley's Death:
Expected but tragic nonetheless. I remember phoning my wife at work when it happened, just to talk. I was gutted, feeling like I lost some of my own identity with music--silly as that sounds. Spent the day playing the old albums quietly and writing. I remembered when John Lennon was shot and the hush that came over the parents of my friends. Wondered if my own petty responses were of the same ilk.

The New Album:
When I heard mutterings this was going to happen I thought I couldn't listen to it. No reason to. But I caught clips of the music from time to time, the fat hooks, the familiar harmonies. I got excited about it all and now, CD in hand, I've cruised through the tracks on Black Gives Way to Blue twice.

It's good, really good. Ethereal, gliding, moody as hell. Beautiful sound, outstanding harmonies. Parts of the album border on greatness--especially the ones where all you can do is imagine Layne's voice singing, as if the melodies are rightfully his (which they are not, of course). It's a bit tragic, really, and I think this is a significant, though understandable, problem.

William Duvall has a good voice; good control, nice range. But it doesn't always come out on this CD. The vocal tracks often sound over-produced, I suspect in an attempt to try and re-create a Staley-esque type of aesthetic. The whole album isn't like this, only a few tracks. Perhaps it makes sense, as this is a segue album to a potentially new era for the band. But on the other hand, it's unnecessary.

Cantrell has always written most of the songs, the band really being more a product of his talents than Layne's--and I say this not to downplay Staley, whose voice was and is the most haunting and beautiful thing I've ever heard. But I don't think his death necessitates the end of the band's sound, nor do I think they need to try too hard to recreate it on their new albums. Cantrell's song writing brings out the familiar AIC sound. Duvall's voice should be new and inviting--which it often is. But not always.

I will say this: Duvall is the right replacement. His voice is congruous with the music, works with it, sounds professional without any bombast.

I can't remember the last time I ventured into a music store with the excitement only brought to a person who knows exactly why they've walked through the door--and for what. All the shit I hear on the radio today--my sad recognition that I'm no longer on the up and up when it comes to current music. Today is different. A nostalgic grail, the sounds of the greatest era of music for my generation, the kind that puts an ache in my chest--just a little.

Did I mention I also purchased a new flannel shirt?

Art vs. Entertainment

2009-09-29T18:46:00.000-07:00

I've spent the last few years crafting a hard-nose, cynical stance on entertainment for entertainment's sake. Part of it is meant as an indictment of pop-culture and the brainless shits I encounter in my meanderings. The other part I attribute to years of church indoctrination that seems to hang around my subconscious--even when I do my damnedest to rebuke it. It's not a perfect stance, but it generates the appropriate amount of misery to suit my temperament--which obviously is not shared by everyone around me.

Over sushi, a most-astute friend mentioned her enjoyment of horror films--how she simply loves the exhilaration associated with feeling scared shitless. This came after I pontificated about how I loathed art being abused solely for entertainment. Her response, though simplistic in its delivery, is actually kind of complex. Defining entertainment and art requires more time than I can muster. But what really matters is that her statement actually negates my hard-ass opinions. Aesthetic experience? Probably not. But she's experiencing something similar, perhaps--and from a schlocky horror film.

I don't think I can make such a clean break between art and entertainment; they are too intertwined. I can merely ascribe adjectives like shitty, pathetic, mundane to particular pieces (a device I take from another friend). But to completely brush entertainment off as superficial devalues an experience too similar to the aesthetic response I might have to something more commonly considered art.

Something I had to ruefully acknowledge last night after watching-and enjoying-the latest Wolverine movie.

Should Book Titles Warrant Capital Punishment?

2009-09-22T19:31:00.000-07:00

In line at the local drug store, I made the perilous mistake of scanning the book shelves next to the tight-lipped cashier and her green fingernails. Poor girl needed to use the bathroom, I think.

Best sellers, apparently. And the titles, oh the titles...sweet mother of Mary, the titles. Enough to make a grown man want to chew his own elbow. All under the auspicious banner of "mass-market fiction", which I quickly looked up online to find even more gems. Let us consider...

1) From Dead to Worse
2) Club Dead
3) Dead as a Doornail
4) Dead Until Dark

I should note, all these come from the same author, all on the bestsellers. Kaching! But I digress...

5) Altogether Dead
6) Definitely Dead

Uh...still same author. I need to get more creative.

7) Heat Seeker (no euphemism there)

Uh oh...

8) Dead to The World (you guessed it...same author as 1-6)

I'll think I'll stop here. I'm feeling a little...

Pavel Grigorievich Chesnokov - Basso Profondo

2009-09-12T12:55:00.000-07:00

Unravels sinew from the bones of the dead. Makes me weep. I've been trying to find Russian Orthodox choir music (Chesnokov or other) on vinyl for a long time. No luck. Will have to make do with this.

Gabriel Appeared (crappy recording)

Do Not Forget Me In My Old Age (excerpt)

Cormac McCarthy - A Lesson in Dialogue

2009-09-10T19:26:00.000-07:00

Out of my league and unable to articulate the immensity that is Cormac McCarthy, I'll simply post two excerpts: one a snippet of dialogue from the overwhelming Suttree, the other a segment from an impressive essay re: McCarthy's focus on the paradoxical choices in his character's day-to-day lives.

Dialogue:
Two men stand in front of a watermelon patch, late at night, from which a third has recently fled.

Two pairs of brogans went along the rows.
You ain't goin to believe this.
Knowin' you for a born liar I most probably wont.
Somebody has been fuckin' my watermelons.
What?
I said somebody has been...
No. No. Hell no. Damn if you aint got a warped mind.
I'm tellin' you...
I don't want to hear it.
Looky here.

They went along the outer row of the melonpatch. He stopped to nudge a melon with his toe. Yellowjackets snarled in the seepage. Some were ruined a good time past and lay soft with rot, wrinkled with imminent collapse.

It does look like it, dont it?
I'm tellin ye I seen him. I didnt know what the hell was goin on when he dropped his drawers. Then when I seen what he was up to I still didnt believe it. But yonder he lay.
What do you aim to do?
Hell, I dont know. It's about too late to do anything. He's damn near screwed the whole patch. I don't see what he couldn't of stuck to just one. Or a few.
Well, I guess he takes himself for a lover. Sort of like a sailer in a whorehouse.

From the essay: Cormac McCarthy's Paradox of Choice by Scott Esposito for The Quarterly Conversation.

From the very beginning, McCarthy has been an author fascinated by the give-and-take between modern-day humans and the multiple systems they are exposed to in day-to-day life. These systems react potently with McCarthy’s other great novelistic concern: the alienated individual and his ultimate recognition (with McCarthy it is invariable a he) that no one can stand outside of human society, and that our codes and bureaucracies decide for us far more often than we actually decide for ourselves. McCarthy’s novels are built around the rare moments of genuine decision-making when the swell and swirl of the world pulls back to relinquish agency to the individual.

In this way, the work of Cormac McCarthy strikes deep into the heart of American literature, as his books are always rooted in that most American of themes: the search for identity. In McCarthy it is often seen as an obsession with borders: of personal identity, of physical place, and of spiritual position within an existential realm of conflicting value systems.

In exploring these borders, McCarthy has carved out what is perhaps a unique place in all of American letters; he has overseen the decline of a traditional way of life in the American South while also personalizing and reframing the rise and fall of the romanticized American West. His protagonists, so similar and yet so different, have revealed the overlap between what are generally understood as two discrete historical phenomena. And in his final novel to date, McCarthy has even showed an ability to project these typical concerns into purely speculative territory, to improbably yet powerfully fuse his earthy immediacy with the lightness of fantasy. Throughout all of this, McCarthy is grounded by his interest in moments of choice and their attendant moral consequences.

The Shack - Final Criticism

2009-09-06T15:42:00.000-07:00

An old prof once mentioned the importance of speaking to a particular work's strengths before presenting a critique. I failed to do so in a previous post on W.P. Young's The Shack, moving straight to an indictment of its abhorrent writing. While I stick to my original comments, it still behooves me to make note of the book's merits before concluding my thoughts.

What Young (and his three other co-writers) do well, is introduce a conceptual theology that, though victimized by its own rhetoric, moves away from hierarchical constructs of divinity. They want their divine being to be genderless, wrought with unconditional love, and enveloped in a holistic relationship with its counterparts (the remaining two of the trinity) and potentially mankind.

The book pulls away from judgment-based or guilt-based ascriptions and suggests humanity's independence--or their desire for independence--is what sullies the potentially perfect relationship with the divine. It also is a flagship for forgiveness--the person-to-person kind, and I greatly admire that.

I like these ideas for two reasons: first, it unloads a lot of unnecessary dogma brought to the table by traditional and cultural ideology. Second, it actually allows for the removal of religion from the equation of a human-divine relationship. The second reason appears to be contingent on the first--but there are probably careful distinctions to be made.

Bearing these merits in mind, the book is, quite sadly, one of the worst I've ever read. Not only does it fail as a work of fiction, it derives most of its momentum through morally-repugnant manipulation. The scenario of an abducted and brutally murdered child elicits from the reader certain emotional responses (I had them too), but nothing further than that. Certainly not a place of change because of how the character responds.

I think the author(s) began with an agenda and tried to fabricate a story around it. In other words the "message" came first, rather than the narrative arc. Instead of gleaning meaning from the story, the reader is "told" what to glean through pages of one-sided, underdeveloped commentary mixed with functional and subservient responses by the protagonist. Fiction is about the story, about the characters moving towards change via action and consequence and a hell of a lot of narrative ambiguity. None of that exists here.

As Fiction, The Shack reads like the third draft of a first-year college writing assignment. How do I know this? Because I've written shitty stories before. All the hallmarks of juvenile writing: dialogue that sounds like no person I've ever met, every action followed by an unnecessary, leading explanatory sentence. God is a black woman--big fucking deal. At no time does this bear any weight in the story, so why use it at all?

What really is of concern though, is how careful the book is to avoid the real questions. One can ask the question of "why does God allow evil" but often what is required is the questioning of why Her great plan cannot be achieved without it? Young begins to address this, but falls short.

The independence that supposedly removes man from God also seems to include critical thinking, intelligence, questioning--all important, good character traits. To my mind, independence, then, would have to be a quality of God, whose image man is made in. I'm not sure evil (however Young wishes to define it) can be removed from God as such. And as soon as one asks the question of whether or not God should be held accountable for said evil, the hierarchy Young wishes to avoid (or refute) comes into necessary existence. A divine exemption always exists in monotheism.

Also, in order for this so-called fictional book to be at all fluid, the reader must assume certain presuppositions: the existence of a literal trinity, Creationism, a more-literal-than-not interpretation of The Bible (see you later, metaphor), and the existence of miracles. I'm not denying these--I don't need to. But these assumptions--in my mind--negate all the good intentions of the merits I first made note of. The rhetoric is impossible to miss.

As Billy Connolly once noted in an interview, people spend too much time "focused on the what, rather than the how."

Of course, the best comment to throw back in my face is "Wow, for such a shitty book, Harry, it sure had you thinking". Quite true. It's not so much the message that confounds me, but that the writer(s) could not use their craft to bring it to its fullest potential. The acknowledgments at the end of the book state three major rewrites before the book went to press. That's right, three. Should have been at least fifteen.

I was originally baffled how this book made it into publication. Some quick research revealed that it was self-published--which explains a lot. Young also procured the help of three others (one a filmmaker)--all from the Christian community.

Would it not have been better to seek out secular and perhaps more objective help? By doing so Young probably could have brought the story to the forefront instead of the "message". Or, at the very least, someone could have taken him to task and forced him to work through the questions he posed in a more thorough manner.

Kseniya Simonova (Україна має талант) - Sand Animation

2009-09-03T19:33:00.000-07:00

Oh the despair of those made of stone...

Shakespeare + Vinyl = Badassery

2009-08-29T09:17:00.000-07:00

Radiohead - No More Full Length Albums

2009-08-26T14:46:00.001-07:00

A friend mentioned Radiohead's movement away from full-length albums to more creative, one-off type projects. Sure enough, the announcement was made here. If this is the case, I can't think of a better album to finish of such endeavors with. I listen to it on a regular basis and it never fails to impress me with its aesthetic--due in large part to the melody lines and ambient guitars.

Great song: Reckoner

And a not-so-subtle but still interesting cover by Gnarls Barkley

From Murakami to...The Shack?

2009-08-24T14:50:00.000-07:00

Upon completing Haruki Murakami's The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles, I realized I had entered into a realm of fiction I'd never experienced before. No genre can describe it. Murakami places his characters in dual realities, allows them to go back and forth (or at least attempt to do so), and does so with a quiet confidence that betrays a complexity I've never seen duplicated. Characters seem to embody certain mythical qualities, acting as metaphors for the vastly layered and convoluted Japanese culture (both present and past). And the whole book seems to be a metaphor for something as well--though I can't articulate what it is.

What's strange is I'm not sure I really love this book.

The prose is, at times, over-simplified--perhaps due to something being lost in the translation from Japanese to English. The similes seem forced. Entire sections could be reduced to a strangely benign you have the power; it's all in you New Age philosophy. Yet there are so many unforgettable scenes--some of mind-numbing violence, others of a fascinating tranquility.

I couldn't put the book down. Something about the way the story progressed, the way everything seemed to be disparate, yet connected, had me chomping at the bit to continue reading. And the ending is a fine, fine bit of writing.

What now? *groan* I almost don't want to say.

I'm going to read The Shack. I don't really bloody want to. It's not on my list of summer reading. I've read snippets of it and the writing is utter shit. But a friend of mine, who's opinion I tend to value--though not always when it comes to literature--said it turns conventional theology on its ear. My wife, who is one of the most well-read people I know also said the book had some value--albeit remedial.

But the writing is such balls. Weak cliches and lousy transitions and on and on. I'm of the opinion that the value of what a person has to say doesn't always mean they should write a book. If you can't bother to treat what you do as craft or art, then find a different medium. Don't write. Don't insult those people who actually agonize over what they do.

But I'm going to read the cursed book, damn it.

I hope my brain doesn't implode in the process.

Ben Affleck's Book Picks

2009-08-20T19:48:00.000-07:00

Alright, I get ridiculed enough already for thinking highly of this guy. I mean, let's face it, he's made some dumb-ass movie choices over the years--as far as artistic quality is concerned. But a recent interview I happened to read cited his logic behind some of his more maddening decisions. He basically said he was more than happy to take high-paying, crap-acting jobs that meant 6 weeks of work and the rest of the year off to be with his family and work on personal projects. Makes sense to me. Now if only I could be afforded such a luxury.

I'm not doing myself any favors by posting a link to Affleck's book picks. The link goes to that cursed befouler of television, Oprah, and her ridiculous magazine on which her wretched mug is pasted. Not my fault! If there was a better link with the same info, I'd use it. Everyone knows I attribute the general decline of North American intellect to Oprah's television show. Add Dr. Phil to the mix and the world becomes a slack-jawed beast of burden.

However, Affleck's book picks are pretty damn impressive. Moreover, his articulation of his choices is even better. Say what you want about his prissy films (and I'll probably agree), but the man is well read. And I dig that.

Affleck's Top Five Books

Again, sorry for making you go to one of Oprah's website. I should be skinned alive for that.

Les Paul (1915-2009)

2009-08-13T12:55:00.000-07:00

The man's biography says it all.

There are roads to immortality; some more impressive than others. One is to follow a narrow path emblazoned by gods. The other is to provide gods with their instruments of fire.

Les Paul did the latter.

Random Conversation...

2009-08-11T12:51:00.000-07:00

...with a lady today, at the park, while my daughter searched the grass and tried to eat bright blue fertilizer pellets that looked like Nerds.

Lady - What do you do?

Me - I write.

Lady - Really? Fiction?

Me - Sure, sometimes.

Lady - I love to read.

Me - Good habit.

Lady - Do you study Literature.

Me - Somewhat, in the past; I love to read.

Lady - My husband did his degree in literature and he says it's all a crock.

Me - Oh?

Lady - I mean who needs to read Shakespeare and Chaucer? It's like, you know, there's so many other things to read and learn. Newer stuff. Leave the old stuff alone.

Me - ...um...

Lady - Ken Follet is great. His last book was over 1000 pages.

Me - I see. I think most Literature degrees cover a reasonable spectrum. Not all of it is medieval.

Lady - Have you studied writing?

Me - Yup, along with some philosophy.

Lady - Oh, you like philosophy? Then you must love Eckhart Tolle

Me - ...

Lady - Seriously, he has so many powerful things to say.

[pause]

Me - Oh, my daughter needs a snack, nice chattin' with you.

The day was too short to stick around and find out her thoughts on Deepak Chopra.

A Darkening Spire - No School This Semester

2009-07-29T21:04:00.000-07:00

With the fall semester of school up and coming, I have decided not to return to Kwantlen. At least not this semester. Reasons are varying. In part, I've almost exhausted all the Writing courses I can take and the Philosophy Department's meager offerings do not fit my schedule.

Another, more complex, reason is the sense I get of how disingenuous certain aspects of college are for people who want to write professionally.

Let's face it, the money is shit in writing. Absolute shit. Novelists and poets alike clamor for teaching jobs, writer in residence gigs, honorariums, grants, and conference gigs to support themselves. The government is less-than-interested in promoting the arts--that is unless they cater to some fabricated and witless idea of "Canada" that doesn't even exist, save for in promotional videos and the minds of some dipshits in hockey arenas. So, what does it mean for the student studying writing for a degree--a degree, by the way, that Kwantlen continuously puts off bringing to fruition?

Craft is the big reason. The faculty of the department are outstanding. My writing has improved tenfold in the past two years. But I wonder what motivates a teacher to encourage a student who wants to enter into their arena and thereby potentially take away from their own chance of earnings? Case in point: a teacher of mine was hesitant to mention a copyright website where published writers could register their work and thereby qualify for a yearly share of copyright profits. Why? The more writers who know and register, the wider the pot has to stretch to compensate everyone. I signed up immediately.

While I empathize with her sentiment, mostly because it's absurd how so many great writers have to scrape out a living--or any artist for that matter, it does create a particular "lens" through which I now consider any instruction I receive. I find myself second-guessing the motivation behind advice--whether I'm correct or not. Are they being honest about the current industry? Is it even possible to be a new novelist given the way publishing houses have changed over the years? I don't have the answers, and I suspect they're not too sure themselves. And they can actually create jobs for themselves by perpetuating this confusion. Classes on How to Sell Your Work to Publishers or The Ins and Outs of the Writing Industry are many.

I think I need to step away for a semester and just write and send my shit out and see what happens. At this point writing for grades, or a certain teacher's preferences (and believe me, the amount of contradictory opinion in the writing department is severe) does not make for substance.

Another reason for pulling away from school is I've found a gig writing for Energyboom, a great website focused on environmental change at a global scale. Pays reasonably well (better than writing novels or short stories ever could) and with the niche market its carved out the potential for advancement is significant. It's great work and hella interesting, but it doesn't dig at my guts the way writing a short story does. So, it's clear I need to do both.

There you have it. The next few months in a nutshell: Taking care of my daughter, writing for Eboom, finishing up a screenplay and a few short stories.

HBO's True Blood

2009-07-26T16:41:00.000-07:00

I've been debating for weeks about writing on this show. Unlike Six Feet Under, where Alan Ball and his team consistently produced great writing (with maybe the exception of the third season), True Blood is about as hit and miss as shows come.

Some episodes are a horrifying concoction of humor and gore, interesting story lines that flirt with pagan myth and southern voodoo. Others wallow in some "southern" sentimental sense of romance that comes across (at least on screen) like a high school prom date gone wrong.

Evidence of HBO's massive decline in quality programming? After all, these are the guys who nixed both of David Milch's genius shows: Deadwood and John From Cincinnati, without closing off any of their story lines. But this is Alan Ball's creation, and he's pretty damn good at what he does. So what's the problem?

It wasn't until the last two or three episodes of Season One that I started to pay more attention. Suddenly everything about the character arcs, the narratives etc all amped up a notch. Twists were introduced, interesting emotional connectives between characters, bad-ass vampires that made you recoil a little. Good stuff. Season Two started off with the same grit. But then this past week, much like the first three quarters of the first season, an episode of such boring vitriol arose I questioned whether I had lost my mind. What the hell is wrong with this show?

I'm not a vampire fan, by the way. Just a good story fan. The problem lies in the nauseating romance between the two main characters: Sookie Stackhouse and Bill Compton (the old-school vampire with good ol' fashion morality). Right so, Anna Paquin delivers her lines like she has downs syndrome, but that's not the real problem. I mean, John From Cincinnati had some wooden acting at times too, but no show is of finer craft.

The problem is how stupid Sookie and Bill's romance is. Based on absolutely nothing, driven by nothing, when it takes the forefront of an episode, everything grinds to a methodical, mundane halt. No greater cliche exists than romance without basis or believable connection.

However, when the organic, not-so-subtle but oh-so-entertaining subplots take center stage, the show explodes. Shape-shifters, strange mythical, pagan creatures, relational tensions, vampires abducting humans to keep them as feed-pods--it all works. And what surprises me is how deftly the writers create empathy for what normally are cartoonish and idiosyncratic characters. Not so with Sookie and Bill, though. For some reason, the main characters simply do not function at the same level.

Thus the inconsistent quality, I suppose.

And look how low I've had to stoop. Writing about vampire television shows. Sheee-it.

HBO! Bring back David Milch, you idiots.

More Upton Sinclair

2009-07-12T10:10:00.000-07:00

Almost finished the book, which has been a highly interesting, but often description-clogged read. Sinclair captures the pulse of universal greed and his indictment of capitalism, the oil industry, and the ultimate dissatisfaction of wealth is astute. Mind you, he does take the pulpit a little too often for my tastes, but he treats all his characters with great empathy--something I marvel at.

Considering the book was first published in 1926, the relevance it carries today is a little overwhelming:

"...I say to myself, that is world diplomacy. A wrangle over an oil lease! Every nation hating every other one, making combinations and promising to stick together--but they've sold each other out before night, and there's no lie any one hasn't told, and no crime they haven't committed."

What impresses me about this statement is not its veritable truth (though, I believe it carries a fair amount) but how its sentiment has been consistently carried over time, usually by the same demographic of people whose voices get lost in the mad capitalist shuffle.

Like Sinclair's The Jungle, which resulted in huge changes in labor policy in the U.S. and also lumped Sinclair along with other socialist-like writers into a newly coined category called "muckrakers", Oil follows in the same spirit. The novel is journalistic, full of a certain propaganda that, like its political counterparts, adds to the complexity of an issue rather than detracts. I mean, the guy wrote over 90 books for the love of Pete. He must have been on to something.

Michael Jackson

2009-06-26T20:26:00.000-07:00

The media is saturated with Michael Jackson's right now and I think his death deserves the attention (some of it, anyways). He wasn't just a music icon; he redefined what iconic meant. He influenced mass media (MTV didn't play black pop-star videos before his time), he established an image and professional template for so many pop-stars to come--all of whom have never come close to him, and he wrote some damn good music back in the day. I get that. I appreciate that. Billie Jean is one of the best pop songs ever written.

What's tragic about Michael's death is not the denial of future music to the fans. It was painfully obvious he was no longer in a capacity to create and perform like he used to. No, the tragedy (in my books) lies in how lost the man seemed as a person, with fame and without it, for his entire career. I say this from a limited perspective, of course.

All his erratic, strange antics seemed to stem from a deep yearning for his youth. A theme park for a home, surrounding himself with younger kids, fathering children with people it seems doubtful he loved, acting absurdly playful for cameras at times. Even his court antics during his child-molestation hearings (showing up in his pj's etc) carried a childish quality to them. Not to mention his spending habits, attire, means of travel etc.

In my mind Jackson was, in effect, trying to create his world to incorporate a childhood he never had. William Blake writes about how experience forever alters innocence. Jackson's childhood was unfortunately full of that sort of experience. He was hurled into the public eye, managed and manufactured into an entity that changed the music world for the better, but left him with an apparent void. A lack.

The truth of the matter is, we all still have his music. Crying and lamenting his death doesn't change that. There was never going to be a new album that would catapult him to his former reign. Hell, I doubt he would have been up to all the concerts he recently signed on for. His best work is at our disposal. Always will be.

No, what should move us is how a man, at 50, could seem so lost amongst everything the world had to offer him. And he had everything, we all know this.

Except for the chance to be a kid in that true, one-time-only sense. When his life would have sang to him, rather than vice versa.

Badass Movie Trailers

2009-06-23T19:11:00.001-07:00

Been awhile since I've gotten excited about some films coming to the theater. Now that they've supposedly got a lock on the release date for The Road, I can start snooping around for other notables. Pure speculation, of course. But wouldn't it be nice if I went 4 for 4.

Shutter Island
Always a Scorcese fan. First time I've seen him delve into this sort of genre. I don't think Cape Fear counts quite like this might.

More Shutter Island Info

The Road
One of my all time favorite novels. I can only hope John Hillcoat-the mad director behind the outstanding The Proposition-hasn't bitten off more than he can chew. Test screenings of The Road so far have not been pretty.

More The Road Info

Thirst
Um...right. I'm not a vampire kinda guy, but this premise is so shocking, so depraved by its very virtues (or the lack thereof), I'm grotesquely curious. Could prove to have some real commentary. Badass director too. Chan Wook-Park's Oldboy is legendary.

More Thirst Info

Sherlock Holmes
Popcorn. But I dug Downey Jr. in Iron Man. Good for some shits and giggles, I reckon.

More Sherlock Holmes Info

Upton Sinclair's Oil/ PT Anderson's There Will Be Blood

2009-06-19T15:01:00.000-07:00

Upton Sinclair's Oil is proving one of my more pleasurable reading experiences this summer. A little over half way through and I've been compelled to go back and revisit the film adaptation There Will Be Blood to see what new context has arisen. Plenty, I should say. Anderson really focuses the film on one of the book's larger, but not most prominent themes (social commentary on religion). But I think in part it is a necessary means to getting the story across on film. The way Sinclair writes, the way the narrator speaks from an intimate and fully understanding perspective, I am wary to surmise how anyone could take all the subtext and make it work on screen.

An interesting comparison article called "Blood and Oil" by Anthony Arthur is worth a read.

Now is there a finer bad-ass character actor than Daniel Day-Lewis? I bloody think not. In the two clips below, though removed from context, you get to witness first his self-introduction as an oil prospector (a scene taken almost verbatim from the book) and also the dual nature and power-struggle of a coerced but strategic baptism.

Alcohol And The Survival of the Fittest (Cheers)

2009-06-11T12:45:00.000-07:00

On Drinking and Intelligence...

"Well you see, Norm, it's like this . . . A herd of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo. And when the herd is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first. This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members.

In much the same way, the human brain can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells. Now, as we know, excessive intake of alcohol kills brain cells. But naturally, it attacks the slowest and weakest brain cells first. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine. And that, Norm, is why you always feel smarter after a few beers."

Kundera's Theodicy of Shit

2009-06-04T19:46:00.000-07:00

I finished The Unbearable Lightness of Being last week. My wife's assessment sums it up best: it's the kind of book that embeds itself in your mind, and plays out little by little, for weeks and weeks after. My gut feeling is that Kundera's writing is of a quality unlike any other. In this book he, as the narrator, steps right into the scenes and halts them, physically prevents them from continuing until after he finishes a particular thought. It's as impressive as it is infuriating at times. I have no idea how the movie adaptation works with this dilemma.

One has to wonder what is left when all the commentary is removed. What are the character arcs and how, if at all, are they reached? I'm not sure I have an answer. I know I love the book, but resent it a little too. It's pretentious in parts, some scenes clearly written to provide the author a soap-box. But my resentment is also in knowing he speaks of things with an authority beyond my grasp. I know I will return to this book again and again, each read providing something new.

That being said, there are reams of quotes worth mentioning. Most of them already lurking about different blogs. One that has stayed in my brain since I last put the book down is Kundera's ponderings on God, humankind, and shit. To put the quotes in context (to the best of my knowledge), Kundera the narrator is examining the existence of shit, and the need to defecate, and the seeming unacceptability of the act (by persons) because of a strange shame attached to it, and how it poses a problem with the basic theological tenets of God's relationship with man.

Kundera (as a child) imagining God:

He was a bearded old man with eyes, nose, a long beard, and I would say to myself that if He had a mouth, He had to eat. And if He ate, He had intestines. But that thought always gave me a fright, because even though I come from a family that was not particularly religious, I felt the idea of a divine intestine to be sacrilegious. Spontaneously, without any theological training, I, a child, grasped the incompatibility of God and shit and thus came to question the basic thesis of Christian anthropology, namely, that man was created in God’s image. Either/or: either man was created in God’s image — and God has intestines — or God lacks intestines and man is not like him.

The ancient Gnostics felt as I did at the age of five. In the second century, the great Gnostic master Valentinus resolved the damnable dilemma by claiming that Jesus “ate and drank, but did not defecate.” Shit is a more onerous problem than evil. Since God gave man freedom, we can, if need be, accept the idea that He is not responsible for man’s crimes. The responsibility for shit, however, rests entirely with Him, the Creator of man.

Kundera explaining how the denial of shit is kitsch:

As long as man was allowed to remain in Paradise, either (like Valentinus’ Jesus) he did not defecate at all, or (as would seem more likely) he did not look upon shit as something repellent. Not until after God expelled man from Paradise did He make him feel disgust. Man began to hide what shamed him, and by the time he removed the veil, he was blinded by a great light. Thus, immediately after his introduction to disgust, he was introduced to excitement. Without shit (in both the literal and figurative senses of the word) there would be no sexual love as we know it, accompanied by pounding heart and blinded senses…
Behind all European faiths, religious and political, we find the first chapter of Genesis, which tells us that the world was created properly, that human existence is good, and that we are therefore entitled to multiply. Let us call this basic faith a categorical agreement with being. The fact that until recently the word “shit” appeared in print as s— has nothing to do with moral considerations. You can’t claim shit is immoral, after all! The objection to shit is a metaphysical one. The daily defecation session is daily proof of the unacceptability of Creation. Either/or: either shit is acceptable (in which case don’t lock yourself in the bathroom) or we are created in an unacceptable manner.

It follows, then, that the aesthetic ideal of the categorical agreement with being is a world in which shit is denied and everyone acts as though it did not exist. This aesthetic ideal is called kitsch… Kitsch is the absolute denial of shit, in both the literal and the figurative senses of the word; kitsch excludes everything from its purview which is essentially unacceptable to human existence.

Ebert on Von Trier's Antichrist

2009-05-27T12:46:00.001-07:00

Thought I'd post a link to Ebert's careful analysis of Von Trier's Antichrist film at Cannes. Thorough and objective; a better review you will not find. He places the film in the context of Von Trier's sense of spirituality and his belief in Catholicism. Read it.

Roger Ebert's Journal Entry on Lars Von Trier's Antichrist Film.

Lars Von Trier's Antichrist (in anticipation).

2009-05-21T20:26:00.000-07:00

With the exception of Manderlay, which I found a little ham-fisted, I've yet to be disappointed by a Von Trier film. Breaking the Waves, Zentropa, Dogville, and all their flaws included, are amongst the finest viewing experiences I've ever had. Dogme 95 tenets aside, Von Trier brings a strange metaphysical blend of the supernatural and the temporal to his pieces. He takes a clear, physical premise and works it into a gut-wrenching display of moral abandonment. And he is fearless. Who else can set a film on a sound stage with chalk outlines and a few props (Dogville) and make it sing with bloody vindication?

His latest film, Antichrist, which had been in production for what felt like eons, appears to be broaching that same taboo margin. Premiered at Cannes, Antichrist was received with a fair amount of derision from mainstream audiences. No surprise, considering how they've shat on his other pieces too. But I am constantly amazed at how many people, critics included, seem to be grossly unable to interpret his work. Even Ebert (whose written reviews I often side with) completely missed the mark when he reviewed Dogville. For God's sake, if films about torture, rape, kidnapping, and sodomy, can bombard our Western theaters, why is Von Trier's unsettling subject matter so deplorable? I don't deny it makes one uncomfortable (it certainly does for me). But that in itself is of immeasurable value.

I haven't seen Antichrist yet, but I can only speculate that the lack of sensationalism in Von Trier's films may be the culprit. Western film viewers (myself included) are willing to accept any amount of horrific details so long as they are "hyper-real" or glamorized. Note the cartoonish qualities of the blood in the Kill Bill films, or the gaudy stupidity surrounding the violence in 300. It allows the audience to suspend the tiniest filament of disbelief while retaining their perceived rights to grim fantasy. It acts like a safety mechanism.

Von Trier rebukes this. He raises his middle finger in a hearty "fuck you" to it most of the time. His horror, and I assume Antichrist is a horror film here, tends to lie in human confusion and a look into the black corners of psyche. Even when the most absurd of events take place, he implements them without pretense. It's what makes his art, art: the lack of pretense--or at least a confidence that hides it.

So, if Antichrist is considered shite by every American critic, the Pope, Bill O'Reilly, and that ever-retarded Rush Limbaugh, I'll still go out of my way to see it. If Tipper Gore fires up the PMRC and starts a campaign to blame Von Trier for teen suicide in America, I'll still go see this film. If Dr. James Dobson releases a rebuttal film called Christ, Your Auntie, and convinces all of right-wing Christendom to ban it alongside Harry Potter and The Da Vinci Code, I'll still go see it. Why? May I point you to my middle finger...

But something tells me American studios will try to impede Antichrist's showing in North America. After all, what we really need is another film about some idiot kid who goes to sleep one night and wakes up twenty years older, unsure of what to do with all those new hormones.

Rejection, Sweet Rejection

2009-05-18T17:06:00.000-07:00

Several months ago, I wrote a story about a man and a woman's visit to Bruxelles. Several drafts, great advice from Genni Gunn, more drafts. The Writers' Union of Canada's annual Short Prose Competition for Developing Writers was around the bend, so I fired the story off--not really expecting anything in return. Far too many great writers submit to this competition.

This week I got a letter from the union. A nice letter. A rejection letter of the sort a young writer (not in age, but in experience) loves to get. An excerpt as follows...

Dear Harry,
Congratulations! Your story was on of approximately 115 that made it to the second round of the 2008 competition. As a means of encouragement, I am enclosing comments on your story from the competition readers... ...I hope they help you in developing your writing.

Comments: A well-written, skillfully constructed story about a couple at the crossroads of their relationship. Characters are intriguing, well captured through their telling details and their concerns matter. I like the crisp language, good dialogue, fine psychological insights. A promising voice.

I don't know what the story is supposed to mean. The dissolution of a relationship, but no focus or hook to it.

It's a rarity to get an annotated rejection letter. Even though the comments were nothing more than a sparse paragraph, they accomplished two things: 1) provided some much-needed encouragement by letting me know I'm progressing and 2) provided astute observations on what was missing. What more could I ask for? A prof mentioned during a lecture that when you get a rejection letter with comments, someone likes your work. Kinda cool.

Billy Connolly - Colonoscopy

2009-05-13T12:56:00.000-07:00

The man can tell a story.

Milan Kundera and Vertigo

2009-05-06T21:13:00.000-07:00

Anyone whose goal is "something higher" must expect some day to suffer vertigo. What is vertigo? Fear of Falling? Then why do we feel it even when the observation tower comes equipped with a sturdy handrail? No, vertigo is something other than the fear of falling. It is the voice of the emptiness below us which tempts and lures us, it is the desire to fall, against which, terrified, we defend ourselves.
~The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Years ago, I climbed the Squamish Chief with a few friends. Upon its summit, some of us crawled to the edge of the 900 foot bluffs. We rested our chins on our hands and peered down the cold slate rock to witness mist, a winding highway with sluggish vehicles, the impeccable dots of century-old trees. I remember the advice of one of the more seasoned hikers, to keep our chins on our hands, not to stand up and face the openness below. Why? Because we would want to jump. Like lemurs. Like zealots. Like lovers. So we inched backwards, on hands and knees, our eyes aching to see over and below one last time, our minds fighting the urge to hurl our bodies loose.

Blackstrap Hawco - Kenneth J. Harvey

2009-04-28T12:52:00.000-07:00

Called a transcomposite narrative--a term coined by the author, from an earlier work of his--Blackstrap Hawco (BH) uses a host of historical events, characters, poems, stories and weaves them into a fictionalized perspective. Fictionalized in that Harvey has re-constructed the aforementioned to fit his characters, to suit their arcs and the narrative flow he's provided. I see these historical references, in whatever form, as anchors (no pun intended). The sheer metaphysics of this piece, the constant in-and-out point of view, the seeming numerous deaths of a single character, rely on "real" events and people to ground the story, to keep it from being completely elusive.

The story is centralized on one Blackstrap Hawco and his family history as they arrive, live, and die in Newfoundland. Centralized is almost an inappropriate term here, as there is nothing linear about Harvey's story-telling. BH swirls like a mist entering the harbor. At times we are in the head of a character, and the severe limitations of his or her perspective. Other times Harvey pulls back with astounding clarity and plays the role of God. What is truly impressive is the variety of voices he employs while he writes. Short, terse, choppy sentences for one person, a series of impressions or feelings, all gelled together for another. And physically on the page, Harvey utilizes the presence of text to his advantage. Entire pages all lower case, or at the end of the novel--which was a bit frustrating to sort through--the instant messenger short-hand to immerse the reader in a newer, sadder generation.

Harvey knows how to bring the supernatural into the natural without becoming cliche or trite. The interactions are never a collision as much as a slipstream in which both worlds intersect. A character can go from being "physical" in one section, to "ethereal" in another...and the transition between the two is always there, always presented to the reader--though it may pass them by as they read. All these facets make BH a departure from traditional written story-telling. It's as if Harvey wants the book to read in the oral tradition, to reveal the dissolution of the protagonists mind in a physical way. In earlier sections, Hawco family history is given, which becomes completely different in meaning when re-told by Blackstrap himself years later. This is the nature of oral tradition: the continuous shifting from story to legend to myth.

All this complexity though, does not make for an easy read. Topping out at well over 800 pages, several sections of BH had me questioning their necessity. So many complex characters, all interacting, all supposedly intrinsic to the protagonist's understanding of the world. Somehow that cohesiveness doesn't come out. There are so many beautiful moments, some drenched in horror I've yet to read elsewhere, others full of a humanity that took my breath away. But what is the thread that keeps it all going? I'm not sure--which could be a result of my own shortcomings. In the last few sections, I felt Harvey was perhaps scrambling to tie up some of the loose ends--perhaps out of necessity? Perhaps the story was so immense, he felt he had no other choice? By the time I was finished, I felt like I had been privy to the raw, bloody history of a family and their tragic lives, but not necessarily to why the story was important. I'm not sure I can articulate this properly. Suffice it to say, somewhere in the gorgeous mix of worlds, I felt a lack.

Blackstrap Hawco seems to be garnering a ton of praise these days. Not being in the loop of the literary elite, I have no idea what such praise is worth, aside from much-needed funds getting to writers. I'm glad I read this book--though there were times where I wanted to quit. Harvey's prose is not so much a delight as it is a lesson for critical readers. Wrought with complexity and unrelenting in its delivery. I admire what he is trying to achieve--or what I perceive he is trying to achieve. I'm not sure it succeeds completely, but when is that ever the true weight of a book's value? No, I think a book's value can often be found in what makes it memorable, what forces the reader to recognize something "other" than the story itself. In this respect, Blackstrap Hawco's value is overwhelming.

Another Semester Closes

2009-04-25T19:03:00.000-07:00

Finally remembered to check my final grades for the semester. Better than I expected, considering the balancing act I pulled this year. Screenwriting mark should have been better, though.

Short Fiction (A+) After a somewhat mediocre couple of first submissions, I wrote the hell out of my revisions. Thankfully they pleased my prof, who is as merciless as they come with critiques. I think I'll send them out to journals, once they're ready. And I'll wear this grade like a badge of honor.

Screenwriting (A-) Great prof with a lot of helpful insight into craft, but to this day I have no idea what his criteria are for marking. I say this after having him for two semesters, back to back. When I sent him an email inquiring about what needed to be done to improve my grade, his response was: I wouldn't worry about it. So I didn't. Pfff.

Confronting Moral Issues in Ethics (A-) Par for the course. Exams, papers, all the same marks straight across. I wonder if the prof's keyboard jammed up and he could only press certain keys. Highly interesting course, but I put the academics of it on the back burner, opting to focus on the writing ones instead. The reading alone for this class was worth the tuition.

Exit school. Enter deep brooding phase of summer. How many semesters left? Damned if I know.

Greenin' Up the Place

2009-04-17T19:38:00.000-07:00

After my recent post on Suzuki, Hobbes, and Going Green, I thought an update might be in order. Too easy to sit back and become the armchair moralist. So, in an attempt to both document my (and family's) attempts at change as well as hopefully motivate others to do the same, I'm posting a list of changes we've made in our own lives. I'll preface the list by saying we're not the hardcore, all-or-nothing, staple ourselves to a tree to save the spotted owl sort of folks. The changes we've made, while stemming from Suzuki's book, are more about recognizing a) our actions have consequences, many of them long-lasting, and b) it is impossible to lead a life of good moral value and simultaneously ignore what is happening in the world.

I'll also say that I owe a lot to my parents. I consider them some of the most conscientious and decent-hearted people in the world--something I don't normally say about "churchy" types. My father gardens every year, loves composting, has a deep connection to working the earth. My mother is outspoken about social injustice and works hard at leading a healthy, meaningful life, while also loving her gardens. They are rarities in the dark shallows of religion, and I am grateful for their influence.

The list of changes we've made:

Moved all of our investments, meager as they are, to Ethical Funds. There are other companies out there as well. The premise: investment companies must meet certain "ethical practice" guidelines to qualify.
For the most part, reduced our meat consumption to once a week. If we're out visiting company and they serve meat, we of course eat it. Not the type of people to wave-the-moral-flag whenever varying scenarios arise.
"Greened up" our home. Changed bulbs where possible, installed digital thermostat, no portable air-conditioners, no chemical-based cleaners (for the most part), shorter showers, cloth-shopping bags, recycling like fiends, donate clothes et cetera so they don't end up in landfills, purchase things second-hand.
Organic produce delivered to our home. Local-based (when possible), free from pesticides and long-haul travel. Some non-organic foods travel over 250,000 miles before reaching store shelves. Completely unnecessary.
Wife takes transit to and from work. Simone and I walk everywhere, unless driving is necessary. We manage to only refuel the car once, sometimes twice a month.
Lots of outdoor activities. We may not venture far into the wilderness, but we make it a priority to be outside in the world.
Avoid fast-food for the most part. Large contributors to global waste.

Those are the major ones so far. Plenty more on our list, such as finding ways to compost in townhouse communities and moving towards zero-waste solutions. But this all takes time. What I love about moving towards this way of living is that one becomes less consumer-oriented. So many people acquire shit for no reason. There's an interesting video on the origin of "stuff" which explains it well, though perhaps a little to "after school special" in delivery.

Any other ideas for going green? Let me know.