Knighty Night

Looking for something to watch one Saturday evening, we landed on A Knight’s Tale. It’s one of our favourite movies, guaranteed to make us laugh and cheer and all the other warm fuzzy things aroused by an entertaining story wherein an ordinary man overcomes all odds to become a champion. It’s bright, it’s funny, it’s touching, it’s loud; except for a bit of clunky writing in one spot, it’s the perfect popcorn period piece.

“I love that film,” one of us remarked when it was done.

“Me too,” the other replied. “We should do another one next weekend.”

“A knight film?” Since we have a number of them in our DVD library, it seemed a theme might be fun. We began listing titles—King Arthur (starring, appropriately enough, Keira Knightley, bwahahaha), Kingdom of Heaven, Excalibur, even The Court Jester, which led to a round of terrible puns that left us breathless with more laughter:

“Saturday Knight at the Movies.”

“Saturday Knight Fever.”

“Give Me the Knight.”

“Knights in White Satin.”

“Knight of the Iguana.”

“One Knight in Bankok.”

Okay, most of them are song titles, but you get the idea. King Arthur was screened the following week, and Kingdom of Heaven ran last Saturday. Excalibur may be up next, but while pondering further possibilities, I asked Ter if Jedi knights count; if so, the Star Wars saga will prolong the theme for a couple more months. And I almost forgot: Monty Python and the Holy Grail!

It’s likely no coincidence that I am currently writing a story about knights returning from the Crusades, but I do wonder which came first, the story idea or the movie theme. Whichever it was, something has sparked the creative impulse and on my week off, I intend to make it count.

Count. Hm. Ter and I toyed with viewing vampire movies before “knights” fell. Perhaps our next round starts with Dracula ...

Reading Material

I’m one-third of the way through my annual visit to The Night Circus and it’s as magical as ever despite its familiarity. There are no throwaway scenes, no skip-over passages; in fact, there are scenes where I wriggle with delight at what I know is to come. Everything is so beautifully executed. It’s a joy to read.

The best book this year was ML Rio’s debut novel If We Were Villains, and unexpected feast that I was compelled to pick up and subsequently read twice in a row. I finished the last page, then flipped immediately to the first and started over again—in the same sitting! A book that good is always a treasure, probably because they’re so rare. Villains was favourably likened to Donna Tartt’s The Secret History, so I proceeded to read that as well.

It wasn’t the same at all. None of the characters was remotely likable, and the tragic secret that bound them was something I’d have done just because the guy was so insufferably irritating. Nor did I find the professor who supposedly seduced his idiot students into committing the original, accidental, crime particularly charismatic. The whole story left me utterly cold.

But the most disappointing read of 2017 had to be Juliet’s Nurse. The premise was certainly intriguing, especially to a Shakespeare fan who has three different versions of Romeo and Juliet on DVD (and Tybalt steals the show in every one), but the execution fell far short of the expectation. It’s hardly the author’s fault that I’d hoped for a new twist on the tragedy and she gave me more of the nurse’s background than I anticipated. The kids weren’t even born at the beginning of this story. Once I realized that we weren’t starting with the Montague/Capulet conflict in full swing, it was quite engaging, and it was a bonus to meet Tybalt as a child, even if it was never entirely clear why he grew up with such a hate-on for the Montagues. The so-called blood feud was barely explained let alone investigated, but what really bugged me was the portrayal of Juliet as a sweet young thing and Romeo as an awkward stripling suddenly turned conniving traitor to the precious girl’s tender (ha!) heart.

I’m sorry but, hello? Has the author even read the play? Seen the movie? Romeo as a double-crossing womanizer? Seriously? I have never seen him as anything other than a poet with heroic intentions too easily foiled by fate and his own romantic nature. Juliet, on the other hand, is a pampered, impetuous firebrand whose willful passion drives the whole story.

So, toward the end of the novel, I was reading to get it over with, caring nothing for any of the players and bitter that the news of Tybalt’s death was given tabloid drama status and the reason for it never fully defined—except, of course, for that amoral scoundrel being solely responsible. Honestly, when I wasn’t impatient with the nurse’s histrionics, I was snickering at the play by play. I was saved by my library card on this one—I borrowed rather than bought the book, which had been haunting me for some while. In the end, the story I told myself about the story was far better than the story I was told!

It’s good to be reading again, though. Of late, I haven’t been as immersed in words as much as behooves my creativity; I can’t write if I don’t read, as it seems I need the work of other writers to inspire me. I have learned how to write (and how not to write!) through their efforts, for all of which I am grateful whether or not I actually enjoyed the experience. I think now, with few weeks of vacation ahead and my mind turning from mere survival to more pleasurable pursuits, it might be time to renew my passion for my craft and see where it takes me.

A Creative Life

I am eternally curious about the lives of entertainers. Rock stars, film stars, artists, writers and architects, if there’s a biography on film, I am likely to watch it. Documentaries are fine, but the best ones are those compiled from the artist’s own words, from interviews and articles and performance clips. Naturally, someone whose work I admire is a draw, but I am equally intrigued by the life of someone whose career played in my periphery—David Bowie, for example. “The Last Five Years” of his life was utterly absorbing. I came away with a strong sense of his individuality and his determination to preserve that individuality by reinventing himself with every project. He was brilliant. Not at all tragic, just brilliant.

Mind you, he lived to a fairly ripe old age before cancer took him out. The ones who die young seem to be more tragic, probably because we tend to lament the work they might have done even as we celebrate the work they did. Often, those young ones lived hard, deeply troubled lives and checked out early (either deliberately or accidentally) because celebrity only amplifies what already exists. People like Amy Winehouse and Kurt Cobain were doomed before they started. Fame made it worse for them. Then there were Prince and Michael Jackson, twin geniuses in crippling physical pain, who succumbed in one form or another to the drugs prescribed to alleviate it. Even Chris Cornell’s lifelong struggle with depression must have hastened his end.

Then there was Heath Ledger. Young, strong, successful, talented—and dead at twenty-eight. Surely a tragedy lurked somewhere in his life, right?

Wrong.

I sat down to watch the documentary “I Am Heath Ledger” with the expectation of a common thread that would link him to other famous figures whose lives were cut too short. A dysfunctional family, substance abuse, or maybe some childhood trauma that he never got over; surely something pushed him beyond the brink. But, no. He was a happy kid, a good brother, a loyal friend, a determined actor, a gifted director (he shot music videos for friends in the biz), and was making plans far into the future when his light went out.

And what a light it was. His buddies reminisced about his energy, one even wondered aloud how he could sustain so bright a burn. Another mentioned how strangely aware of mortality he was, how he kept saying he had so much to do and limited time in which to do it. He had known from the start that he would be an actor, and he worked steadily toward it, but he remembered his friends and family along the way. He was warm and generous and loving, and asked nothing in return. It seemed to me that this intense and inherently good soul was operating on a level the majority of us never reach.

The one thing that pinged was his trouble sleeping. When I heard that, I thought of Michael Jackson—there was the common thread. A bright, intense white light, snuffed before the rest of us were ready by prescription drugs and a flu bug that got in the way. A truly tragic accidental death.

Celebrity death is traumatic because our icons are supposed to be immortal. Truth is, they are immortal. Look at the legacy of everyone mentioned in this post. None of them is truly gone when the spirit in their work lives on. I was not so big a fan of Heath Ledger that I followed every move or saw every film he made—but “A Knight’s Tale” is one of my favourites and without him, it wouldn’t be.

Idle Thoughts

One week off is not enough.

Hands up, everyone who’s surprised.

I doubted this would be news.

Truly, I am grateful to have had the time to be Ru. Though I didn’t get everything done that I wanted, everything I did I wanted to do.

I went back to Castasia. I finished the story about Lucius’s twin sister—I started it months ago, so it was good to wrap it up at last—and began another one about his youth, this one from his foster father’s POV and why he (Lucius) went into exile. Geez, this character is a goldmine; I could write Lucius stories forever and never run out of episodes. His influence is so powerful that he even owns the ones that aren’t about him!

I also embarked on a refresh of Orphan Black so I’m primed for season four (expected for my birthday)—no time for a marathon, but I got in a few episodes of season three. I remain an ardent fan of the series. It gets better and better.

And I finally watched the documentary about the late Amy Winehouse that won an Oscar last spring. I could have been a fan if she had been allowed to follow her bliss rather than her path—I had not known she started as a jazz singer before her career went supernova and she went the tragic way of many a broken child whose solace became her undoing. Her story, unfortunately, was the same as too many others—Billie Holliday, Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain to name a few—but in a way it was worse for her because of the relentless media exposure. She wasn’t free to conquer her demons in private. She was forced to do it publicly, because that’s what the public demanded though her battle was deeply personal. As in “none of our business”, yet it became big business for the media. And how quickly the applause turned to derision! Get famous enough in this world and you’re doomed no matter how talented you are.

Her version of “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow” is sublime.

Enjoy.

Feeding the Muse

A quote from form Lily Tomlin 

We have a staff library at work. People bring in books from home and leave them for others to borrow—that’s how I was able to nab a copy of Andy Weir’s “The Martian” after Ter and I saw the movie. I mentioned to Treena that I was looking for the book and she said, “There’s one in the break room.” Serendipity strikes! The film stayed pretty well true to the novel; anything that wasn’t used wasn’t missed as far as I could tell.

My next pick was … disappointing. A textbook murder mystery where the law falls for the prime suspect, who is innocent but confesses to protect a loved one. I had the loved one pegged from the third chapter, which hardly made for enthusiastic reading—it took me weeks to skim four hundred pages because I wasn’t hungry to see what happened next when I already knew what happened next. Except I didn’t. A weird twist in the final chapter deflected the spotlight from the loved one to a secondary character whose motivation didn’t, in my opinion, warrant the grisly murder suffered by the sleazeball victim. I wasn’t disappointed as much as bewildered. The twist felt like a deliberate attempt to derail the reader where it would have been, again in my opinion, more honest to let the story end as predicted. I whined to my boy sister, “This was written by a New York Times best selling author!” to which he replied, “Was this the book that made the list?”

Good point, BS. Whether or not the author could do or had done better, this book was mediocre at best.

A mediocre book does two things: it threatens to lower my standards for my own writing and, in direct opposition, urges me to revisit a known gem. Next up: a second run at Station Eleven, a story so gloriously enchanting that I’m delaying the moment simply to relish the anticipation of a truly nourishing read.

A fabulous book will encourage me to stretch my own muscle, and I would rather overextend my reach than settle for “good enough”.

Serial Panda

A fondness for pandas resides in this house. Ter still has the black and white bear she was given as an infant and I have vague memories of a somewhat larger panda being deposited in the bedroom I shared with my sisters when I was a preschooler. Whether or not it was intended for me I don’t recall, but it was most definitely a panda.

Nowadays, a clutch of pandas fights for space among the gang of polar and brown bears who rule our roost like little furry dictators. Fortunately, the pandas are more laid back than their ursine compatriots. It must have to do with them being strict vegetarians. They demand nothing and welcome cuddles.

A few years ago, due to Ter’s affection for the critters, we watched Kung Fu Panda and fell immediately in love with Po, the adopted son of the noodle-slinging Mr. Ping. Played by Jack Black, Po loves kung fu and dreams of joining a crime-fighting quintet known as the Furious Five; how he gets there is a series of misadventures so hilariously presented that I was in tears by the final credits. Laugh-out-loud moments are scarce in animated films—I’ve been disappointed with most of the ones I’ve seen—but something about Po strikes every note with a purity that’s made me a fan.

Kung Fu Panda 2 is equally good, if not a touch darker in that it delves more deeply into Po’s beginning (how did a panda come to be adopted by a goose, anyway?) and he must face the villain responsible for making him an orphan. Tear jerker moments to be sure, but hey, if they’re well done, I will embrace them despite the joke that a cartoon character never dies; the artist simply stops drawing it.

Fabulous as Po is, however, my favourite character is Master Shifu, brilliantly voiced by Dustin Hoffman. Shifu is a Zen master with patience issues, especially when Po lumbers on scene and set about tossing his serenely balanced world on its ear. The dialogue is sharp, the action is paced at warp speed, and the hero is as real as you and me. Not since The Emperor’s New Groove have I enjoyed an animated film so thoroughly. Snappy repartee and non-stop martial arts aside, the beauty of Kung Fu Panda is the simplicity of its 

message:

There is no secret ingredient.

Life is about being who we are as we are, about being our best, and finding peace within ourselves.

Kung Fu Panda 3 is released this weekend. The first two movies are so good that Ter and I are going to brave the knee-high throng and see it at the theatre. With popcorn … and maybe a panda hiding in my hoodie.

Dark Dynasty

Of course I’ve seen the new Star Wars movie! Of course it’s a blast! J.J. Abrams directed and Lawrence Kasdan co-wrote—how can it fail?

It doesn’t … except perhaps in the most critical area of an epic battle between good and evil.

The villain is a petulant adolescent rather than a deeply disturbed and thoroughly traumatized adult.

Sigh.

The kid tries his best to be rotten, but he’s up against a legend, and even if Darth Vader became a pop icon instead of a modern-day Mephistopheles, he still packed a heavier punch in a galaxy far, far away than the reedy stripling who swears to avenge him.

Um, he doesn’t need avenging, kid. He was redeemed at the end of Episode VI.

So here’s hoping that we get some back story in the next movie, because without a darned good reason for his subversive behaviour in this one, I have a problem with a baddie who needs a timeout and a good spanking.

The Empire Strikes Back remains my favourite of the franchise. All hail Lord Vader!

IntroSPECTRE

The best Bond ever?

Take Diamonds Are Forever off the table and I might agree with you.

Hey, whatever the title, it’s James Bond, the gentleman spy extraordinaire, played to the 21^st century hilt with steely-eyed panache by the best actor to play our hero since Sean Connery. Light on plot, heavy on action, sardonic dialogue peppered with witticisms, it’s a guaranteed win no matter how hi-tech the projector.

SPECTRE in IMAX would have had me vomiting from motion sickness before the opening credits (which I think rank among the best in the entire series. Sam Smith did a super job with the theme, too!), so the gods be thanked that the film also opened in the old-fashioned regular format to accommodate vintage era fans. Ter and I were planning to wait a few weeks, but couldn’t stand it once we discovered it wasn’t exclusive to the hi-def, 3-D, über-size, holographic, king’s-ransom-admission theatre at the local Cineplex when it was released. We got our tickets online and happily ate popcorn and chocolate for lunch.

As plots go, this one continues from Skyfall and referenced both Quantum of Solace and Casino Royale, threading together the most recent four in the 007 series quite nicely. There were a few “Really??” moments, as are customary in a Bond movie, and the girl fell in love a little too quickly after  insisting that he stay-the-hell-away from her—but that’s picking nits. Overall, it’s a cool continuation of the franchise that got a potent shot in the butt when Daniel Craig signed on in 2006. Less a spy than an assassin, he owns the role simply by standing still. Put him in the field and watch him save the world without employing alien superpowers or stripping down to a blue Spandex onesie.

I do wish he’d quit destroying those Aston Martins, though. I can sit unmoved through a bloody brawl or a screaming torture scene, but I want to weep when the car meets its inevitable demise.

RIP DB10

Michael, My Michael

He turned 73 on March 27. My first screen love. My only love, really. I’ve had brief infatuations and short term affairs over the past forty years, but he has been my one and only movie star, my enduring romance, my sentimental favourite.

Who knows why? Because I was fourteen when he played D’Artagnan. Because I was newly in pain and looking to escape. Because I loved a good story and he was the passionate if inept hero of a dandy. I wanted to write my own swashbuckler and The Four Musketeers got me started—but he’s played more than one character. He was busy in the 70s, too, playing everything from Shakespeare to science fiction, sometimes a bit of a miscast and other times a perfect fit, but always blond, handsome, and gifted with that golden syrup voice.

I could listen to him speak forever.

It was during something like the sixth or seventh viewing, in the scene where D’Artagnan finds Constance dead and sets out to avenge her, when all the requisite factors combined to awaken the giant. He was the catalyst that kicked my imagination into gear and started me writing in earnest. I wrote about heroes who looked just like him, but I started reading, too. Dumas and the Bard, and George Clayton Johnson—if his film was based on a book, I read the book as well. I saw every movie, staying up late on weekends to catch his earlier work in The Strange Affair and Something for Everyone on TV (the days before video tapes and DVDs). I went to the university for the Franco Zeffirelli double-header of The Taming of the Shrew with Romeo and Juliet. I kept a scrapbook of promo pics and articles and “seen around Hollywood” snapshots. I guess I was a little obsessed with him, with the movies, with the stories, with the fantasies of all three combining to ignite my true passion for the written word.

It was a magical time of intense contrast. Every day was a fight to get mobile, of physio treatments and medical appointments, but every day was also a revelation of new ideas, of literary discovery and expanding imagination. It was truly the best of times and the worst of times, and Michael York was in the middle of it.

I did all the stupid teenaged stuff, but four decades later, despite the aforementioned flings and affairs and rock stars notwithstanding, my heart yet leaps when I hear his voice or see his face. It’s more than the remnant of a schoolgirl crush. It is a comfy blend of respect, admiration and gratitude.

It is also—definitely—love.

Bear Repair

the Surgery Triplets

For a woman who glories in writing blood, sex and violence, I am almost comically squeamish. Paper cuts put me into a coma and, to this day, though I have watched the movie a hundred times and consistently include it among my top ten favourites, I have yet to watch the open heart surgery scene in All That Jazz.

So when one of the bears needs an operation, it’s inevitably Ter to the rescue. My aging brown bear, Rufus, needs more paw surgery. He’s already had one foot and his other hand refurbished, and he’s in good company: Elliot needed stitches after a mysterious football incident tore a seam in his leg (a chronic injury that yet plagues him when it’s convenient), and the Emperor Ming, aka “the Big Fat Panda”, had back surgery a few years ago. Ter is meticulous, compassionate, and not afraid of stuffing. Even the most anxious bears trust her. I, on the other hand, would be a basket case and the patient would react accordingly. Like children with a hysterical mother, my bears are more highly-strung than their cousins; bedtime is a nightly circus because I want them to settle NOW and they must have their cuddles and smooches and drinks of water … *sigh*

But back to Rufie’s surgery. He and I have been in denial for a while, but when one of his inner beads popped from his paw the other night, we both freaked out and the appointment was settled.

Paging “Doc” Ter!

Write or Die

Cook Street Moka House - Home of the Mythical Asian Mist

No Asian Mist today, alas. A sweet milky drink a day for the past week has weakened my lactose resistance, so I’ve decided to lay off the lattes for a bit, at least until my bout of “milk gout” dissipates. I did, however, push my afflicted knee to indulge in my flex-Friday flânerie and got some cool pictures to support future writing exercises. It also gave me a subject for today’s “live” post.

Almost everyone who learns that I am a writer will ask me: “Are you sending anything out?” as in, “Are you trying to get published?” Well, since disqualifying for an online writing competition because the piece I planned to enter was originally posted here at CR, my pat reply is now, “I write a blog, so technically, I am published.” The other day a co-worker asked “the question” and this time, the truth popped out.

I said, “I don’t care about getting published. I write because I’ll die if I don’t.”

There’s a great scene in the film Anonymous where the Earl of Oxford’s wife discovers he’s been writing again and goes slightly ballistic because everyone knows that writers are possessed of the Devil. The Earl’s response is a scary truth for any artistic spirit: the voices inside will drive him mad if he continues to ignore them.

I was also reminded of J. C. Hutchins’ recent post over at terribleminds.com, where he gives all sorts of reasons why unfinished projects can stack up (I’ve got a bunch of the darned things), but counsels against abandoning any of them. Even if a piece languishes for years, eventually it will find its way back to the spotlight. I was vexed with myself because “Black in Back” has stalled, so remembering that advice helped me to move on.

Moving on today means going back to the unfinished novel. Reijo’s romance has been in limbo for so long that there’s dust on the half-finished hard copy. That doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned it; in fact, the voices have begun whispering again and this weekend, I’ve decided to ramp it up once more. I might drop it again next week, but as long as I’m writing something, I’ll still be alive.

Swashbucklers

The Musketeers 2014

Plumed hat—check.

Boots—check.

Cloak—check.

Sword—check.

Pistol—check.

Open sea—

Open sea?? Bah. Forget pirates. When my swash wants buckling, give me the King’s Musketeers.

My fondness for the elite among Louis XIII’s military began with Richard Lester’s movie version in the 1970s. I saw The Four Musketeers something like 14 times because my then best friend was crazy nuts for the actor who played Aramis. Subsequently, I fell for Michael York, who played d’Artagnan (but that’s another story). During the course of flowering hormones, I delved into the Dumas novels and discovered a world that I couldn’t imagine had existed, a world without modern convenience, where hats were plumed and pistols played backup to rapiers. The Musketeers were a joyride in writing and on film. My imagination never recovered.

Though other attempts have been made, I’ve stayed true to the Lester films. Thanks to his direction, and to George MacDonald Fraser’s scripts, they still number among the best movies I’ve ever seen, and feature what remains one of my favourite lines of dialogue—Porthos playing cards with Aramis and lamenting that, “Either your priestly intentions have got all the saints on your side, or you’re cheating.”

Whether or not Aramis seriously intended to join the priesthood I don’t recall, though the theme continued via Jeremy Irons in The Man in the Iron Mask some thirty years later. One thing’s for sure: Aramis is the most romantic in the group. I’ve always been partial to d’Artagnan because of Yorkie, but these days it’s hard to choose a favourite.

The Musketeers are back, this time in a TV series produced by the BBC. Ter an I caught it this spring on Showcase and, yup, we got hooked. It’s the best spin on the legend since the Lester films 40 years ago; the writing is quick, the delivery is quicker and the actors playing the iconic foursome have each made his character his own. Particularly good is Tom Burke as Athos, who was the least appealing Musketeer in my teens, but now that I’m older, has assumed the perilous allure of dark water—a deceptive stillness that could all too easily pull me beyond my depth. But truly, the whole cast is brilliant for bringing the characters to such vivid life that there are no boring moments.

Once again, I am inspired by a good story peopled by distinct and unique individuals set in a time that feels like home. I would dearly love to pay homage to my heroes, but how does one write a good swashbuckler without it turning into a hokey bodice-ripper?

As with all good stories, it starts with a character …

The Edge of the World

There’s nothing beyond the lone outpost marking the edge of the world.

That’s what we think.

It’s what they think, as well—the people on the other side of the edge of the world.

* * *

Ter dropped me in the village this morning so I could return “Passengers” to the DVD shop and get my walk in early. The movie was a welcome break from fighting through the headache yesterday, and it wasn’t too taxing on the intellect, either. Once I got past the size of Anne Hathaway’s eyes, it kept me interested, curious, and whether I was dulled by drugs or the writers did a truly superior job, I was not ready for the twist at the end. I’m ready for next week’s Philosophy Quest, though. Life after death, death after life, the thinning of the veil and ripples in the matrix—bring it on; I have an opinion and everyone is entitled to it.

One scene remains in “The King’s Man”—I think it’s the final, but in truth, this one has surprised me at every turn. That ballroom scene I thought would be a dandy? I barely brushed the silks in the crowd. It turned out to be less important than what happened after the ball, so a brief description of the event itself was all the story needed. The characters are reminding me, it’s about them. Not me. Not painting sunsets or indulging myself in lush sensation. They’re keeping me honest. Focused. I’m thrilled about it, really. When I go back to work on Monday, I’ll be able to say that I actually wrote a complete story, not “almost finished” one as usual.

But that’s three days from now. There’s a lot left to cram into those three days so I’d better get started. Oh, wait. I have started … with this post!

Tsarry Night

Good progress yesterday. I got the opening “crystal mist” scene done, and a second scene that has paved the way to the ballroom scene I plan to write this morning. Discovering a ballroom scene was an unexpected delight. I love to write about parties; they’re loaded with pocket dramas and now that I’m getting familiar with the characters, there’s potential for all sorts of fun and games.

A few blanks have been filled in, as well. Without offering any spoilers, Andrei’s younger brother is named Yuri. I can’t yet tell if he’s a good guy or a bad guy, but he’s a snappy dresser so maybe that’s a hint. There’s something dark about him, though it could be nothing more than sibling rivalry. If not for an accident of birth, he might have been the Tsar.

That’s another thing. The story’s working title is “The King’s Man”, but it turns out that the piece is set in a period styled after Imperial Russia. Dress swords and military braid, empire waists and lots of fur. I don’t know much about Russian history (so where is this coming from???) except that the head cheese was known as the Tsar rather than the King. I could change the title to “The Tsar’s Man”, but it doesn’t sound quite right. “Tsarry Night” sounds worse. The title stays as is for now, as telling the story is more important.

Of equal import, however, are the writerly accoutrements. My sense is that Imperial Russia calls for black tea, but I don’t drink black tea while I’m actually writing. Black tea is reserved for my afternoon break. Drat. Good thing I’ve topped up my stash of gyokuro imperial green—hey, it’s got the word “imperial” in its name, so maybe it applies after all!

I’m writing to the “Ritual” CD by cellist/composer Adam Hurst. The first track blew me right into the middle of a Russian winter, which has set the tone nicely. If I can wait out the city works truck that’s growling and banging outside my window, I’m hoping for as successful a session today as I had yesterday.

Since I’m also on vacation, I’m taking this afternoon off to stroll into the village for pistachios, “Passages” and a paleta—the pistachios are part of an energy bar that Ter asked me to get for her, “Passages” is a movie that Boy Sister asked me to view so we can discuss at our next Philosophy Quest, and paletas are simply artisan Popsicles (“paleta” is Spanish for “on a stick”) that are made in town and so freaking good that I dream about them. I can grab one at the local market and enjoy it on the walk home.

I almost always feel incredibly fortunate. Today I feel it a thousandfold. My quantum physics test is working in my favour—but that’s another post. Right now, I’d better blend up my smoothie and get to work.

From pseudo-Russia with love,

Random Ramblings

Recent ramblings of an idle brain …

The German word for stupid is doof—and I’ve lately had so many opportunities to use it that it’s already become a permanent part of my vernacular.

Citrus juice is an enemy of open wounds—I already knew this, but I’d forgotten it until my molar was pulled. As part of my liquid diet, I decided to treat myself to a fresh fruit smoothie and ordered one with mango, banana, orange and lime. It’s called a solar flare, and that’s what happened when it hit the extraction site. Doof!

I was actually prepared to become a temporary NY Rangers fan until Montreal beat the Bruins in Game 7. I may think I don’t care which team wins a playoff series, but it comes clear when the first goal is scored that I do have a preference. *&%$ (chink!)

My body can be a healthy weight and still be waaaaaaay out of shape.

No matter which version or how many times I watch it, I always hope for a different ending to Romeo and Juliet. I claim I’m not a romantic. I’m starting to wonder about that … and by the way, Leonardo diCaprio played a fabulous Romeo in Baz Luhrmann’s 1996 offering of the eternal tragedy. Ter and I watched it last week and I was gone the whole time. Just fell into the kid’s eyes and bled for him. Doof mushpot.

Long weekends are the best weekends! Enjoys yours.

With love,

Bibliography (Part 3)

“The Book Thief” – Markus Zusak

Nicole sent me this book for my birthday last year. From the first page, I understood why she loves it so—it’s written as if by a poet, with a language and symmetry that defies the rules of regular prose. The story is told so beautifully that the sadness in it makes one almost wistful. For there is sadness here, as well as loss and fear and war. There is also love and joy and courage and peace. And death. Heck., Death tells the story, and that creates another facet to this gem. It turns out that the Reaper isn’t such a bad guy. He’s just doing his job, sometimes with resignation, sometimes with wonder, never with joy. He tries to be impartial, but occasionally he encounters a remarkable human and can’t resist following that human’s path. It’s marvelous.

A few weeks after my birthday, Nic zapped me at work: “Look what we have to look forward to!” Attached to her email was a pic of a movie poster for The Book Thief. My response was, “I’d better get reading.” That I would see the movie was apparently a no-brainer, though I missed it at the theatre. I also, after reading the novel, expected it to do something at the Oscars, but it was only nominated in a minor category and lost to its competition.

Ter and I watched it on-demand the other night. I like watching movies with her when I’ve read the book and she hasn’t—since I am cursed to notice where the film strays from the page, she is my gauge for continuity, and she loved this movie. So did I. We both enjoy a good spy or sci-fi flick, but the writer in me and the humanist in Ter truly appreciates a well-told story. This film was so good that I want to read the book again. That it stayed with me after the first reading says something about the power in the story, in the characters, and in their relationships with each other and with the world. It’s a brave book about brave people and I am ever so grateful that Nic opened my eyes to it. Best of all, the movie did it justice.

The one thing we have to learn about each other is how alike we are. Stories like The Book Thief serve as good reminders.

Oscars Wild

There was a time when I watched the Academy Awards to see how my favourite movies fared. These days, I watch them to see what’s worth seeing after the fact. And to see who’s wearing what, of course, and if the host can do better than Bob Hope, Billy Crystal, or Steve Martin did in their time. Awards as rule mean little to me, but the Oscars are an event. Even when they suck, they’re still the Oscars.

Ellen DeGeneres made them more fun, this year. Movies are magic and she has the right blend of humour and wide-eyed wonder to let the starts shine in their designer best. Her face in the “selfie that crashed Twitter” says it all: “Look, Ma! An ordinary kid in the midst of a constellation!” Honestly, I loved it enough to post it and copyright be hanged. I’d happily have Ellen host into the next millennium.

Alas, there were no real surprises among the winners except for the original song. I was stunned when Let it Go from “Frozen” beat out U2 and Pharrell Williams. I was dancing to Happy and bobbing to Ordinary Love, so was floored when neither of them scored the little golden guy. I thought for sure the political nod would go to U2 for their song (featured in “Mandela”), but “Frozen”, I am told, is also political. It’s the first Disney animated pic where the heroine is rescued not by the traditionally strong and handsome prince, but by another girl (her sister)! Oops. Well, having being enlightened, the song still left me cold.

Same for the naysayers who question that the selfie and pizza segments were staged. Um, these people are actors, folks. Staged or not, their job is to make us believe it’s for real. So buy in and enjoy, for Pete’s sake. Besides, if it was a staged promo, it failed because I’m not running out to buy a Samsung iPhone. As a spontaneous show of fun, however, they knocked it out of the park.

I love the movies. I don’t go to them as much anymore—too many explosions and too little story—but the cinema had a powerful influence on my budding creativity (not to mention my hormones) when I was a teen. It can still inspire me to rend my garments and wail, “I wish I’d written that!”

Hey, I’m only 52. I may yet write that Oscar-winning screenplay, perhaps adapted from my own original work.

“I’d like to thank God, my family, and the Academy …”

All You Need

Following “I Am” is “Happy”, a documentary about the science of happiness punctuated with stories of people following their bliss. Turns out that wealth and status account for a whole 10% of our happiness quota. 50% might be DNA-related, which leaves a full 40% of how to get happy up to the individual.

The most powerfully memorable scene in the film featured a comic addressing a junior high assembly. He asked for volunteers who’d been teased or bullied to come forward and tell the other kids how they felt to be on the receiving end. The braver kids actually stood up and shared; by the end of the session, everyone was in tears and the bullied kids were heroes. The voiceover stated that the best thing we can do is teach our children to love.

I thought, Kids are born loving. We have to stop teaching them not to love.

Because that’s what we do. Intentionally or not, love is taught out of our kids and replaced with judgment, jealousy, anger, and fear. It takes time, but eventually, love becomes a commodity or a condition rather than a freely given right of birth.

Ter related an experience she had at the grocery store on the weekend – she met a toddler in the produce department who was happily offering high-fives to everyone he saw. Most people ignored him. Ter didn’t. She leaned in, smiled at him, and gently smacked her palm to his. He loved it. They shared a moment, then went their separate ways.

At the checkout, she spied the little guy in the lineup two tills over. His dad was paying for the groceries and he was sitting in the cart, looking around. When he saw her at a distance, he broke into a grin and thrust his open hand high in salute. High five, lady! He remembered her. They had connected.

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. I usually thumb my nose at it, but that was before I realized that the day is a celebration not only of lovers, but of love itself, in all its many forms. Love, love, love. It’s what we are, what connects us, what surpasses barriers of language and culture and social status. Children don’t care what you’re driving or how many vacation homes you own. They only know the person behind your eyes. Ter connected with the little guy at the grocery store. He won’t remember her in years to come, but he recognized her in that moment.

 

High five!

Random Acts

What a week! Mercury is in retrograde, the full moon is looming, and Valentine’s Day urges love to conquer all. Yeeeeah—good luck with the third when the first two are in effect.

But seriously, folks, February 9 to 15 is “Random Acts of Kindness Week”. I know because the Rumi calendar in the kitchen says so, not because it’s been widely publicized. And why is that? It should be publicized. Kindness should be encouraged rather than regarded with deep suspicion. Our souls are by nature generous, compassionate and loving, inclined to kindness without prompting … yet our combined intellect has created a world of harsh planes and jagged angles, the “eat or be eaten” culture of status and greed and aggression.

If only we weren’t so darned intelligent.

Recently, I saw a documentary called “I Am”, the story of a successful Hollywood director who sustained a critical injury that started him on a journey to learn what the world is all about. I’m giving you a crummy Coles Notes summary; the show should be required viewing in high school and college classes throughout the western world, then shown with subtitles everywhere else. I loved it. One scene in particular inspired me, and if I had the courage, I’d re-enact it at the inner harbour or at the mall.

This pilgrim in pursuit of his true self made up a sign and offered free hugs to anyone who wanted one. People were practically lining up, laughing and blushing and crying over something as simple and loving as the human touch. Wow. Imagine how much happier we’d all be if we were hugged more often. I’ve heard that three hugs a day is the minimum to maintain a healthy self-esteem. Many of us don’t see three hugs in a week.

I love hugs. I happily give big, double-clutching, full frontal body hugs on request. But could I offer them to strangers? What if I offered and nobody accepted? I could do it in a group, for sure. But on my own? Nice idea, Ru. Let’s just keep it that way.

Still, kindness needn’t be a contact sport. It needn’t even go beyond home, beyond yourself. Seek opportunities to be kind—to friends, co-workers, family, the Bucky’s barista or the kid corralled in a shopping cart. Heck, be kind to yourself. You’ll find it spreads pretty quickly.

Wherefore Art Thou, Romeo?

More care to stay than will to go ...

Romeo and Juliet are like vampires: a permanent fixture in popular consciousness who lie dormant for a while then, when the cycle comes full circle, are revived once more. The latest version of Shakespeare’s homage to star-crossed love is adapted by Downton Abbey’s Julian Fellowes and produced in part by Swarovski Entertainment—the crystal people. Ter and I saw it on the weekend and yep, it’s a gem.

I’m a big Shakespeare fan, but not such a snob that I have issues with a writer tweaking the lingo. “Adaptation” suggests that a script will differ somewhat from the original, and what tinkering Fellowes did with the dialogue worked fine for me. The scenery was stunning, the plot true to form, and the lovers were indeed young enough if not to be actual teens then to be taken for them.

My benchmark production is Franco Zeffirelli’s 1968 version with Leonard Whiting and Olivia Hussey—that film boiled over with the tangled emotions of new love blooming amid ancestral hate. This one fell a little sort in that regard despite some serious smouldering by the fabulously hot-tempered Tybalt and the poetic portrayal of Romeo himself. The kid who played him made this movie more than a pretty bauble. He was Romeo: the sweet, ardent, honorable fool of Fortune. The guy who played Friar Laurence was equally good.

No complaint about anyone else, either. They all wielded Will’s words with relative ease. No society ever spoke in iambic pentameter, so it was refreshing to hear the iconic lines delivered with an everyday rhythm that made them sound natural. The one thing I would change—and Ter didn’t notice it, so I may be picking nits—was an overused soundtrack. There were scenes where the music was unnecessary and even, so I thought, intrusive. That said, this is easily the most beautiful version of the story I’ve ever seen, and I’m watching for more of Douglas Booth (Romeo) in future.

Zeffirelli’s masterpiece still trumps them all, and Baz Luhrmann’s modern-day version with Leonardo diCaprio and Clare Danes sits firmly in second place, but for sheer gorgeousness as well as a decent effort, this one is a hair more than too flattering sweet to be substantial.