lunes, febrero 27, 2006

Our day in song

I was just pondering the thought of buying a PC for I. because she loves math, and received some math programs for her birthday. Plus, she absolutely may not have my computer to fiddle with, so it looks like I am going to have to do something about it. (Clearly hoping for donations from my friendly neighborhood computer maven will do no good).

So, I am slogging through the arduous task of transcribing handwritten notes (yes, I still take most notes by hand) in order to hand in a progress report for a class (now two weeks late) when I. exclaims, "can I sing a song and listen to it on the computer?" she is totally into blogging (frightening thought, I know) but we have fun. So even though the rain and stormy forecast of the day had my mood just as stormy and miserable, there is always a little piece of light to make me laugh (and get over even my own misery).


this is an audio post - click to play


this is an audio post - click to play

O lixo

(Note: This is my first, and likely, last, story in Portuguese)

Na verdade, não me importa que me tivessem apanhado. Tudo valeu a pena, pensar que eu posso ter uma partezinha dela, do seu lixo. Ela tocou, acariciou, sujou-o. Com isso me contento. Essa clemência divina me bastará os fins dos meus dias
Não sempre foi assim. Quando era pequeno, na escola, os meus professores diziam que eu ia ser alguém, que ia lograr grandes metas na minha vida, que tenia talento para a informática, as línguas... Mas tudo isso ficou no passado, em outro país, em outra vida, com outro eu. Agora só tenho uma ilusão, ela.
A vi pela primeira vez fumando na rua Hollywood Boulevard. Tinha um ar de estrela, mas sem importância. Ela tinha segurança, não precisava de ninguém, muito menos dum pobre diabo como eu. Eu limpava a estrada frente a ela. Não me via por causa do uniforme que eu vestia, de miserável trabalhador, estrangeiro, mudo, moreno. Ela brilhava, o cabelo louro, os olhos azuis, os lábios um vermelho perfeito. Aprendi mais tarde que ela usava a cor “Cherry Pie” para pintar-se, muito mais tarde, quando podia revisar-lhe o seu lixo com calma, gostando de cada folha de caderno rasgada, cada envelope aberto pelas suas mãos... mas nesse momento ainda não me imaginava como chegaria a conhecê-la, ao fundo da sua alma, por meio dos seus objetos mais pessoais, queridos, jogados fora.
Ela nunca notou. Jamais reparou em mim. Nesse dia, nem em nenhum outro dia. Sempre saía do estudo à mesma hora, nas mini-saias que somente ela sabe vestir, com as pernas longas, longas e brancas branquinhas, as unhas dos pés vermelhas como o sangue fresco. Só eu a espiava, pequeninha, bonita, sozinha as noites, chegando tarde, muito tarde em um táxi, meio bêbeda, cansada. Só queria que alguém a quisesse, que cuidasse dela. Eu queria. Queria, mas agora não posso.
Senti um prazer quase impossível de descrever. Um prazer secreto, quente, líquido. Um prazer prohibido. Fiquei como idiota a primeira vez que a segui para a sua casa. Não pensei, simplesmente quando entrou no táxi, esquecei-me de tudo, de meu trabalho, da minha mulher grávida em casa. Eu a segui, como maluco, como um ser incapaz de forçar contra a vontade divina. Ela era divina. Não podia resistir. Peguei o táxi seguinte sem pensar em nada. Pedi-lhe ao chofer que me ajudasse, que ficasse perto do carro diante. O taxista não perguntou nada. Só dirigio. Não diz palavra nenhuma depois. Silencio. Ânsia. Temor.
Chegou à sua casa, entrou com as suas chaves, que mais tarde nesse mesmo dia, jogaria no lixo... um erro? Respirava normalmente. O meu coração não parou, mas senti que algo em mim mudou. Toquei o metal frio sem tiritar. Via pela janela dela, meio aberta do segundo andar. Removi a tampa do lixo, meti a mão, suave, lento... encontrei-me com um par de calças velhas e achei que ia morrer no momento da emoção. Cavei um pouco mais e encontrei papéis, papéis rasgados, documentos. O seu nome real não é ***, é Margaret Smith! Não sabia, mas isso não lhe restou nada de bonita, só fez que a amasse mais ainda. Encontrei entre os papéis umas fotos rasgadas do seu “namorado” na televisão. Nunca pensei que a merecesse, certo. Encontrei também, pacotes de comida pré-cozinhada, parece-me que é vegetariana, coisa boa para manter a sua figura tão perfeita. Outros dias deixava restos de jantares grandiosos, vinhos caros, cigarros. Mas sempre que eu a via estava sozinha, parecia ter saudades de alguma coisa, mas eu não lograva saber o que lhe faltasse. Eu pegava os cigarros, os mesmos que ela tinha nas suas mãos, com a sua saliva da sua boquinha linda e os chupava como se fossem de açúcar, como se me dava beijos só para mim, na noite escura, como se me amasse.
Não ia o trabalho, não chegava a casa até muito tarde quando todo mundo estivesse dormindo, chegava com partezinhas dela como si pouco a pouco se fazia minha, desde a cor da pintura das unhas, até as dores de cabeça que iam sendo mais e mais freqüentes, pelo visto do seu consumo de compridos. Não queria fazer nenhum mau a ninguém. Não queria, não queria, mas as vezes essas coisas não se podem evitar. Já não me importa que me tivessem apanhado. Tudo valeu a pena, todo o sangue derramado. Os segredos divinos, só para mim.

viernes, febrero 24, 2006

What is in a name?

Running into old versions of myself on my hard drive, music that I listened to once upon a time. Music that replaces the silence of late. And I wonder what is in a name? A name that we give ourselves, a name that is given to us. And I wonder what my name is.

This is from an Album that Ara and I used to listen to lying on our backs, in her Sommerville apartment that smelled of cloves, and pot and ashes in beer cans and dirty dishes and human sweat, and joy. Back when I didn't understand this song at all.

October Project:

My name is Ariel
And i want to be free
It is your sorrow
That has made a slave of me
Forgive me
Forgive
But you are all i know
Forgive me for leaving

The day is breaking now
It's time to go away
I'm so afraid to leave
But more afraid to stay
Forgive me
For leaving
The sadness in your eyes
Forgive me

Let the wind and ocean water
Wash across your hands
Wash away a thousand footsteps
Was us all away
Like sand

The sky has fallen
Now the earth is dry and torn
I know your're tired
From the violence of the storm
I love you

I love you
But you are all i know
Forgive me

Let the wind and ocean water
Wash across your hands
Wash away a thousand footsteps
Wash us all away

Let the wind and ocean water
Wash across your hands
Wash away a thousand memories
Wash us all away
Like sand

My name is Ariel

Revolution, revelation or a pre-school primer

I was, just the other day, equally lamenting and finding pleasure in the fact that my child is absolutely a bilingual calque of my own bourgeois upbringing.

Lamenting, because, I fear for the sense of comfort and possible incomprehension of others that don't have as much money, education, culture or opportunities than she will have and has had, and taking pride, well, because she constantly amazes me. I took her to the symphony, and she sat quietly, engaged and listening. During the intermezzo we sat together and discussed the musical instruments that she heard, she had a reasonably sophisticated understanding of how an orchestra works and me, being the sly teacher that I always am, thought I could name something she didn't know. "What's the timpany and did you hear it?" and without flinching, she scrunched up her little brown brow and said, "I think it is a rhythm instrument."

The next day she wanted to eat out, and I suggested Japanese food, but though she likes miso, she insisted on Chinese. I agreed and we sat down to eat, she pulled the chopsticks from their sheath and asked the waiter for a pot of tea. She was fully able to eat her entire meal with the chopsticks (something I hadn't realized) and then I heard myself saying, as she asked towards the end of the meal, after several cups of tea, if she could put sugar in her tea, "we don't put sugar in tea." Did I say that? Yes, I heard my mother come right from inside me, for all those years of eating Sunday dinner at Peking restaurant in the Granite Run Mall (long before there was such a thing as food courts or Panda Express) and I watched (flashback in my own mind) as Mom and Dad showed us how to eat properly with the chopsticks.

I panicked. Oh God, my child is going to be a burguesa de mierda... she'll somehow think she is better than everyone else, she won't understand. But I realized that effectively, from a position of relative comfort and culture (let's be honest, I am officially dirt poor, but that doesn't count because I live in a totally constructed and liberal university community which affords me and her all kinds of social and cultural events that my salary, if it were such under other circumstances, could never afford.) is perhaps the position par excellence to foment and enrich a sense of social responsibility, plurality and justice.

So, I sat on that thought for a few days and we got up this morning, running a little late, too late to take her for breakfast at school (which is free because I am poor, and also excellent because she learns independence from me and makes friends of all ages and walks of life) but we do her last page of math homework and I cheer her on, "You are really great at math!" I proclaim (she actually is quite good), not without my little agenda of inspiring her to believe that being good at math is a feminine quality as well as a masculine one, while being careful to not discuss questions of gender at all, just trying to plant little seeds of self-confidence. She beams at me, (she has been really down on herself lately, and I don't understand why) "I am good, not everybody is good, I've done something right!" She smiles, I smile, we leave the house on time, with no brusqueness nor tears, all is right with the world.

I turn on the car and NPR bursts forth, she hears them discussing Iraq and she comments, "I bet there are a lot of ghosts in Iraq." (she has been reading ghost stories over the phone with her Bobie and Zadie). And I turn to her, sadly, and nod my head, "because of all the people our government is killing." And she says, "yeah, Bush is a bad person who pretends to be a good person, we aren't more important than anyone else," and I say that that is why we have to vote for change, and why I didn't vote for him in the first place, and she asks who did vote for him, and she concludes that a lot of people believed his lies. And I remind her that it wasn't just that, it was much worse, that some people actually believed that because the people in our country were "Safe" it didn't matter what happened to people in other countries. "That's Wrong!!!" she cried, "Just because this is the United States doesn't mean we are better than any other country." And I agree, and she draws the following analogy: "We need to steal from the rich to feed the poor, like Robin Hood!" and I agree, "Bush is like King John." "Yes, mommy, he steals from the poor to feed the rich! and that's not fair, and it's not right! Maybe we should make our own army against him!" "Well," I temper her fervor, "war should always be the very last option, not the first, we have a lot of work to do before we get to that point, peaceful resolution is always better, that's the thinking that we have to avoid, unlike Bush." "Yeah, who kills other people because they aren't from here." We go on like this for the five minute transportation to school and I secretly smile, ok, I can forgive myself the bourgeois indulgences, because she has a social conscience, and because they aren't really indulgences if I am feeding her spirit, are they?

And I come home, ready to face the day, and all it has to dish out, when I remember the most perfect close to this musing, an ABC primer from the artist John Jota Leaños, that we saw in film class yesterday. And today, at least, it seems that there might be hope for the future. Yes, there is definitely hope for the future.

domingo, febrero 19, 2006

Nationalism and its discontents... or an open letter

Yes, if I could leave the planet, I would. Because no matter what, under any circumstances, people are just horrible to one another, there is no escaping it. Even if they pertain to the same imagined community. Benedetti's Capitán knows, he says to Pedro: "Usted sí puede aguantarlo, porque tiene en qué creer, tiene a qué asirse. Yo no." And Pedro knows that the only way to survive is to dig one's own grave, to be a dead man, to hold fast to the ideal. Something to believe in, the one scrap of power, your "no". And I wish that I believed in something, that there were something else left to believe in, but it all seems so hopeless, and impossible, like every model for change has been stretched to its limit and snapped. Then I remember that change can only happen from within, and radical is in the eyes of the beholder, and that maybe the only thing we can do is in our art, and in our teaching, and in our "no". In our stubborn refusal to accept the status quo, or to fear their wiretaps, or to censor our speech. I want to say to my "fearless leader" and those with whom he conspires: even if you don't pull the trigger, you are still the assassin, even if you don't take your booted foot to another man's genitals, you are the still the torturer, even if you don't violate a woman's womb, you are still the rapist, even if you don't rip bread from the mouth of babes, you are still the thief, even if you don't drop the bombs, you are still the terrorist. And I want you to know that God, if there is one (which is dubious), isn't on your side just because you say that it is so.

this is an audio post - click to play


(some inspirational words from Sinead O'Connor, apropos this particular topic)

jueves, febrero 16, 2006

Death and taxes

Nothing is certain, nothing, not really. Death and taxes, and yet. In the mail sat the two overdue life insurance policies. If you pay now, they say, we can un-lapse your lapsus. Un-lapsing the lapse I say? Yes, indeed. So I sign my name in sparkling blue ink, courtesy of the ultimate beneficiary. If I die before I wake, if I die... if I die... what will be left but a few scraps of paper, a few tenacious ringlets trapped in the foam of my pillow. Fingernails, clipped and forgotten, scabs, ripped from my scraped knees? There will be a person, who says that no matter what I am, will always be with her. I will, I will be with her in the way that she cleans (or doesn't) her house, in the way that she cooks dinner, in the way that she listens to music and in the way that she loves. Of that I am certain. I will be in the way that she loves, she loves like I do, excessively, indiscriminately and with laborious affection. I already see that. Taxes. This year. How shall I do my taxes? The thing about organizing ones financial life is like a time machine, you see? It is not this year, but really last year. Time travel backwards into an abyss? A year of living dangerously? Of unravelling and pain? Of unexpected twists. It is all there in my financial history, in the months of no spending, and the months of large phone bills. It is a story that was told, but it tells itself in a different way. A way somehow foreign to me, while acting as a translation of myself into numbers. Backwards numbers, counting down, one less, one less, one less. If you have never seen the film Onde a terra acaba there is a moment when its object of study, a Brasilian filmmaker whose name escapes me, who made only one spectacularly brilliant silent film and never anything more, Límite, there is this incredibly insightful preoccupation with time, that when a clock ticks instead of saying one more, one more, one more, it is really saying, one less, one less, one less.

Each second is one less second we have to live, and one less second we have to love, and it doesn't really make any sense at all to me that western society should be so preoccupied with the idea of love, and if it really means anything at all anyway. And I decide that it is all a construct, except how to explain that tightening in one's chest? And I sit quietly in the dark with her, I refuse to buy into the marketing crap, and the social construction of meaning around specific, irrelevant dates, but she wins, and I never miss the opportunity to show her how special she is to me, so we brave the darkness and the droves of people and the lines, and we walk past them and seat ourselves in the darkness, with the sound of rotors in the background and I wonder what it would feel like to be bombarded, like in the Presidential Palace on September 11, 1973, and how the airplanes flying overhead would feel, and if there would be a moment of realization that everything was lost, or if it would just be the end. A dignified escape. Bowing out. How do you turn those things off? When is enough enough? When is the urgency that you feel indeed a reality and when is it merely a figment of your ailing imagination? And I hold her hand, and we sit silently. And she asks if it is a helicopter, and I shiver in the cold, and she sits on my lap and tells me that she loves me, and I know that it is true because I can feel her next to me, and I can hold her body next to mine. And I smile at her even though I am tired, and she asks me questions to which I have no answers, or to which I give bad answers, always, often bad answers, like when she asks if it is bad to lie and I say "well... not always, I mean, sometimes we need to tell people things that aren't true if telling them the truth would hurt them, and if it wouldn't change the outcome of the situation." And she looks at me quizically and I want to stomp on my own foot for being such an asshole, because how do you explain situational ethics to a 6 year old? When you don't even know if you believe in them yourself? And you make that face and she laughs and says "silly mommy, you aren't supposed to tell me it is ok to lie." And I agree with her, and she forgives me. She always forgives me, my bad moods in the morning when she won't get dressed fast enough and I rush her and she cries big fat crocodile tears and I feel bad, but not bad enough to stop myself from making "that" face, the one she hates, the mad one, and she says, "I wish I had never been born!" and I feel terrible, and she knows this, and uses it against me, because she's too damn smart for her own good, and I try to talk her out of her own circular logic, but I don't ultimately disagree with her reasoning. Maybe it would have been better never to have been born? No that can't be, but is seems that everything that there was to be hopeful about has been destroyed, and cheapened and sold out, and the vice-president of this country can accidentally shoot a friend and then suppress the release of that information because heck, if you can shoot friends, you can shoot just about anybody, which seems to be this government's motto, and there doesn't seem to be any way out of this black hole, no voting, no hope, and a six-year old child who will spew bits and pieces of pseudo-marxist rhetoric as gleaned from her mother's conversation, her mother who is too selfish and self-serving to really make any real sacrifices, not the kind that need to be made, her mother who has so little that it wouldn't really matter if she gave everything away either, and who is incapable of changing the world in even the most insignificant of ways, and who wonders what the point of certainty is after all, maybe it is uncertainty that makes the human animal function, breathes life into them? Day in day out, the same, the same, the same. I can't live that way either, I can't imagine a life of stagnation, but I know that in and of itself that reasoning is indulgent and bourgeouis, and I hate myself for that, but that is who I am and where I come from and no matter how much I would like to erase myself and rewrite myself between different borders, it is all as ultimately pointless. Every position is no position and no position is every position, and no matter where you stand there are still things that are Right and Just and things that are NOT and then there is the matter of love. And to that there is no answer, there is just sensation and giving and loss.

So the women at the next table sit with their daughters, one does not want to talk to her father, who has called from far away, and the heavy set mother says, "no chicken wings, they're too fattening," as she nods at her lithe preteen daughter, and the skinny ones says, "Oh come on, who cares about fattening, this is supposed to be special," and the heavy one agrees resignedly, and the daughters both ask for milk instead of soda and I try not to listen but one mother tells the daughters in a didactic manner that "you don't call your ex-wife on Valentine's day unless you miss them," and the other starts talking about the new wife as a tramp and the mother, the skinny one, admonishes her for the years of positive father imaging that she has tried to create, the sense of forgiveness and they look over at me, suddenly, and say, "you must be a single mom, too." And I wonder, is it that obvious? and the other asks, out of duty, or embarassment, "or is your husband working?" And I keep smiling calmly, "newly single," I reply, laughing inwardly at myself and wondering how true this particular statement actually is, and the blond one, not the skinny one, in pink and gray sweat suit comes over in a gesture of comforting (which I don't think I need) and says, "oh, honey, it gets, better... " and I don't know if I imagined this or if it really happens but she rests her hands on my shoulders, and I start to panic, because I realize that I have to make some sort of decision about how exactly I am going to file my taxes this year, and what that will mean? Married filing jointly? Married filing separately? Time travel, time travel... and I smile politely because I am quite certain that I have nothing in common with these ladies, who are well meaning and ask questions about my beautiful daughter. Yes, she is beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, even if that word starts to lose its meaning. To me she is the most beautiful creature on the face of the earth, and she will always be my first child, my very first, but perhaps not my very last. Death. Life. Where does that cycle end, and where does it begin, every life must be tainted by death, stained, just a little, in its own decay, and every day children die of malnourishment, and I feel guilty because I can choose what my daughter gets to have for dinner, and she eats fish, and we discuss the nutritional benefits of omega-3 fatty acids and her brain is strong, and her will is strong and there are children who eat mandioca mush while my government and all those that emulate it, sell the patrimony of the poor to eachother at exorbitant prices for astronomical profits for what? for what? for what? Potable water and no protein deficit, is that such a dream? And I am amazed by how tenacious life truly is, how it clings to itself like tiny beads of water on the underbelly of a leaf, or the roots of a succulent in the middle of the desert, and how the flowers still spring forth in adversity and pain. And I want to believe that there are other things that are certain in life, not just death and taxes, that everyone will be granted dignity and happiness and the ability to feed their children, and fair wages for fair work and equality and social justice.... And I know it is just a dream, and I humbly walk back to my car, ashamed but consuming petrochemicals nonetheless, even though their use means the torture and humiliation of other human beings. And she smiles at me, with her toothy grin and I wonder if I were asked, would I choose to give her food to another person's child that needed it more? I would like to think that I would, like Yolanda, who is my one and only hero, who gave her children's medical vouchers to the men and women who walked 10 kilometers to her door because there was no one left to ask, or to listen. Yes, I want to believe that I would do the right thing, and the just thing, and the loving thing, but sometimes I know, yes, I know with certainty that I am just not that good.

lunes, febrero 06, 2006

A well deserved rant

Why in God's name can no one in the nebulous universe of the health industry be even vaguely competent? Why, I ask, shaking my fist at the skies.

It is the yearly check-up time and my child is due for her maintenance and tune-up, so I realize, oh yes, no health insurance, must do.

I log on to the low-income insurance site for the State of California, and I see, happily, that there is an e-application. Easy. No. I call because I know that I had a previous attempt at signing her up between insurances, and was denied for unknown reasons, but ignored this. The kid on the other end of the line doesn't know that there is such a thing as an e-app (note to self, best send things through the mail). I inquire as to the ramifications that having a previously denied application will present with relation to this new one, now that my household has mutated. He says there should be no problems. And, by the way, I have a $36 credit. A fucking credit!!! Oh yes, the state has a habit of cashing checks for people that they subsequently deny coverage. WTF? Whatever, I won't need to send a new check. (This makes me a bit uneasy, but I will ignore it for now).

Step 2: call the doctor's office to A) make yearly appointment and B) ascertain which insurance plan will be accepted. I call at 11:45. I get the answering service (that doesn't offer to take a message). I say I would like to make an appointment, and they say, oh, well this is the answering service. Yes, I am fully aware. Call back at 1:30 - they left for lunch. Who gets a fucking 2 hour lunch??? Ah yes, just the entire staff (has no one thought of a staggered lunch break? clearly that would make too much sense, and it isn't like children's health is important to anyone anyway). When I call back, I will undoubtedly not be able to get an appointment for several weeks to several months. Good thing my kid is healthy. And I will have time to get the insurance in order by then too (I hope.)

domingo, febrero 05, 2006

A brief musical interlude (or the temporary adventures of supermom!)

Let's just get this straight. I hate the conventionality of birthday parties. The obligation, the ridiculous expenditures (though I kept the cost under $200 this year, and I paid for it with the on-the-side translation work I took on, so I can forgive myself this indulgence) etc. That said, it makes them so damn happy, I can't seem to find it in me to not give her a birthday party, and this was no exception. Note to self, if every party were this stress-free, I might not approach them with such trepidation. Three and a half hours and no one's feelings were hurt, everyone won the games, they got wet and dry, ate appropriate amounts of both fruit, veggies and pizza before cake and presents were opened in an orderly fashion, with no howling or whining. Not bad for my first solo party... I think there must have been a temporary enchantment or suspension of reality, or the gods smiling down on me from above. But I'll take it...


Globos de agua

Mom! enough already...

Al burro!

Priceless expressions

Qué miraditas

La festejada

Burn baby burn!

Sometimes life knocks you one

haute tension

Piñata

Shakti

El mejor regalo, la amistad

The aftermath

Too much of a good thing

Meeting with a professor the other day, he referenced a book Women who love too much which I recall hearing about perhaps 20 years ago? It was a socio-psychological study of women in dependent relationships, which was apparently a cross-over hit (into the realm of tradebook) given the fact that its title still rings familiar to me. Apparently, it turns out, that the study was done here, in the Santa Ynez area. Curious indeed. Some things come around to haunt us, it seems, like ghosts that linger long past their welcome.

Loving too much. Once upon a time in the recent past I received a request for some sort of explanation about the difference between love and need, or a treatise on loving too much. I was, at the time, unable to articulate my thoughts in a cogent manner (as is wont to happen), and more likely than not, I am still equally incapable. Nevertheless... nevertheless.

Is it possible to love too much? Or to need too much love? Are they the same thing, inverted back in on themselves? Is it the same thing to love one person too much or to love too many people (but not enough)? Is that even possible? Where does dependency on another person end and actual love begin? How does that feeling of fear of loss correlate to some kind of mutual understanding? Does knowing another person's idiosyncracies inside out and (presumably) forgiving them provide sufficient substance on which to base a life? Where do the universes that we each carry with us go when we learn that they are not acceptable within the framework of another's image of us, and our own image of how we should be? Is there really a way that we should be?

No, no answers, I am not paid to give answers, just to raise questions (and that in and of itself is rather poorely remunerated)... but these were a few that popped into my head under somewhat disquieting circumstances. Some of us like danger. Some of us prefer comfort. And still others of us prefer the guise of danger under the umbrella of comfort, or the guise of comfort in the eye of the hurricane. No need to mention who we are, most of us know the answer. Last night's film, though strangely discomforting , was less uncomforatble than certain extenuating circumstances... Like the umbrage that was taken because I was speaking with a stranger who dared to be male... or like the woman to my right who was shooting me death-looks because I hit her with my hair (it would seem) several times prior to the commencement of the film, as I turned to talk to not one, but two co-incidental movie-goers. Sometimes one sets out to do things on one's own and collects baggage along the way. It was a beautiful film, but slow and hard to watch, and at the end credits, we two, who know eachother so well, stood almost simultaneously and headed towards the door.

Noticias lejanas Dir. Ricardo Benet

Beautiful camerawork. I loved the color pallette of the film, a dusty opaque heavy on the yellows and green-blues. It was a story, of so many, about misery, true rural isolation in a Mexico that is oft forgotten in light of the slick new Mexican cinema of fast paced urban beat music and microbuses. I didn't know what exactly to expect, and it seemed to borrow heavily from the starkly contrasting early photography work of Modotti (I say this because of the images of the indigenous women). There was some creative flashback and forward that sort of fell apart about halfway through the film. The actual narrative line was relatively simple - Boy returns looking for the place of his youth, but is complicated by the intervention of his brother's memories and perceptions. It was slow moving, which, in and of itself is not a crime, but in this case its pacing failed to ever pick up... and the moment of climax had no real build-up, nor denouement.

(Aside: the guy I was talking to in line about the Italian film actually liked what I had to say about it, but was joking that the director might well say, "make your own movie and then tell me about it." Agreed, it is very comfortable to be a critic, and much harder to actually do, let me state for the record that I have the utmost respect for anyone who can pull off a project of such magnitude, and, I still have a right to opine (or as a certain person I know likes to say: "opinions are like assholes, everyone has at least one" and as I like to respond, "I seem to have a collection of them.")

Gorgeous images of the windmill, out in the salt flats near Veracruz (we thought). Interesting development of the character, Martín, who leaves his family because there is literally nothing for a young man there, no industry nor agricultural prospects, he is unwelcome by his step-father, and plagued by guilt over the death of his younger brother when he was a child, but so terrible, overwhelmingly depressing. Not that life isn't, at times, an eternal beating, but, what I felt this film lacked (that, say, the last did not) was a touch of humour. Even the most miserable human beings still find pleasure, if briefly (and often in bad taste), but they find it nonetheless. Here there was not a hint of joy, not one. There were only two places in the film that even ellicited a chuckle on my part (and I think we three may have been the only ones in the room that found them funny) where the indigent man at the shelter explains the obvious failure of Martín's quest to find his long-lost father because he needs to add a 5 - which, come to think of it, at the time I didn't notice, but after the end of the film, I realized, was either an unmistakeable anachronism (or perhaps a sly wink at DeFectuosos everywhere?) - based on the fact that the character Beto was a child when Martín left - and then a middle-aged man in present day Mexico - the issue with the 5's is from about 6 years ago as DF expanded its telephone-user base) or else it was a failed attempt at demonstrating the elliptical nature of time and history (as in Milcho Manchevski's Before the rain which actually did acheive what it set out to do).

The unrelenting misery is often too much to digest, the character is practically desexualized, robbed, then abused (or disabused of) his trust. He finds a woman, briefly only to be tainted by her own infectious mental malaise, perhaps analagous to the eternal desire and movement towards the center of a falsely constructed modernity. It was an interesting take on D.F. simply because it unfolded the city through the eyes of a person who had never seen it before, but, in my humble opinion, the strangeness could have been heightened and deepened, and there could have been a little less wide-panning back history of the endless and unchanging salt flats... or at least a better balance between the two distinct locales could have been struck for the purpose of contrast. Was it worth the watch? Clearly, few movies are not (at least after the requisite pre-sifting is done). Would I run out to see it again? Not so much. Some times too much, is simply that: too much.

viernes, febrero 03, 2006

Sexless showers of the eternal movie-goer

Rather poetic title for a relatively unpoetic day. Work in the morning. Meeting midday. And then to the movies.

Why the title? Just thinking about how I am learning to do things by myself. Go to movies. Take showers. I had forgotten the pleasures of a solo shower, (despite heartily missing certain components of unmentionable showers). Eat at a sidewalk café with a stack of papers to grade. That was my afternoon, not in that order. I even indulged in a Bohemia, because the sun felt so good and I am really starting to like a nice cerveza al sol...

It felt like old times, though I must admit standing under the inclement UV rays cannot possibly be beneficial to my skin. You meet the most interesting people when you are alone, as if you were a free radical, an unlinked carbon bond, an electron heavy atom. The elderly woman sitting next to me, incidentally, was a porteña, and a Jew, living in NY who just happened to be in town, and the strangest thing was that she (well not that strange, I guess) spent every summer of her youth in Miramar, and she knew Swarthmore (my youthful stomping grounds) because her husband (on the other side of her) was from Philadelphia too and his cousin taught at the college. It never ceases to amaze me how truly small the world is, or how strangely linked certain people seem to be. The nice thing about being at the movies alone is that when you can't sit still (like me) or pick one position, there is nobody immediately next to you to be bothered by your readjustments, or if they are bothered, they are strangers enough to politely ignore you through their annoyance. But there were a few people just behind me that wouldn't stop whispering throughout the entire film, and part of me wishes that I would have had the energy to turn and glare harder than the few brief over-the-shoulder pointed glances. Then of course you realize in what a small community you actually live as you practically (literally) run into not one, but two of your (unassociated) professors waiting for the following screenings.

So about the film.
God it sounded just like Spanish. I firmly believe I could get by understanding a good 85% of what I hear if people were to speak Italian with that particular accent. (Question to self of amusement: "virgula" is "comma" in Italian too (perhaps not spelled like the Portuguese) but funny, I wonder what they would call the little voice clouds which demarcate speaking that come out of the mouths of the pre-Colombian figures in their glyphs, would they also be, as in Spanish, "vírgulas"?)


Quando sei nato Dir. Marco Giordana

This film on the whole was solid. It told a manageable story, it explored questions of race and class from the interesting position of an over-privileged yet sweet and likeable pre-pubescent boy; it was plausible in its demonstration of the clandestine immigration problems that plague (I imagine) most of the more developed EU countries. There were certainly moments of brilliance. Some beautiful shots, of note, on the boat of illegals, from underneath with feet hanging down from the upper gallery and the closing shot on the streets of Milan with the little boy and the little girl, divested of their innocence in very different ways, sitting together, quite literally breaking bread but with a tense triangular distance between the two. Beautiful, really.
There were also several humorous tension releasers, throughout, truths too embarrasing not to be recognized by all, being humilliated in front of cute girls by Dad, being recognized as that boy that fell of the boat... The adult characters were not despicable, but their foibles were unabashedly displayed, the acting was steady but not exceptional.

But I felt that the film could have used some editing, not only because it was about 20 minutes too long, but because it could use some reorganization of narrative. Sure there were tension building scenes in which we, the audience, knew (or thought we knew) what was going to happen, and we were inwardly begging the characters on the screen to shake themselves from the ignorance in which they were trapped - but this is a tool that if abused, grows stale. There were a good many superfluous scenes which could have been cut down or condensed, like the filming of the girls in the shower at the refugee center, it had no parallel structure nor explicable narrative function beyond a director's wet dream (which wasn't to say it wasn't a lovely one, just extraneous). Also, though I am apt to cry at films, and this was no exception, I didn't feel like I truly, deeply cared for the characters, or connected enough with them, and I am not quite sure why, only that, for example, the scene that examines the parents' grief at the loss of their son carries no emotional weight whatsoever, despite showing exactly how their relationship was doomed to fall apart after such a tragic event, precisely because as audience, we already knew what they didn't, and so we didn't care that the mother didn't want to be touched, or the father was hallucinating the last moments of his son's life, those were moot points. A missed opportunity, I thought, and I also thought that not enough deep character work was done with the reassimilation process after they discover that their son is indeed not dead and comes home. It was as if nothing had changed, when in reality, everything had.

Music was a highlight, (especially because it included gypsy music and my very favorite song from Madredeus on O Paraiso) though the "drowning scene" which I also felt, though beautiful, relied too heavily on similar scenes from other films (damn, no good example comes to mind, but there are so many) and I was distracted by the music which was from the original score of Jane Campion's The piano. When you make such a direct citation of another film score, especially one with which the music was of utmost importance, you run the risk of having that movie superimpose itself on the one that you are making, and in this case I could only see the Maori face of Harvey Keitel and the sweeping hands of Holly Hunter, and the emotion didn't seem to fit... (simplemente no cuadró).

All told, it was an ambitious film (and I wish I could say I had read the narrative on which it is based, but alas, I have not) that merits an attentive watching for its beauty, for the spectacular acting on the part of the children, and its occasional sparkles of brilliance.

jueves, febrero 02, 2006

Gearing up for the film festival

Today I watched Memorias del saqueo directed by Solanas, all about the politics of systematic dismantling of the Argentine economy by Alfonsín then Menem and their respective cronies. Bola de hijos de puta. I guess I knew, on some level, having lived there in the Menem years, just how corrupt the goverment was, corrupt in that way that everyone jokes about las manos en la lata, but the laughter is tinged with rage or resignation. But, and of course this is the same Solanas that made La noche de los hornos and who wrote the Third Cinema Manifesto, the blatant and unapologetic impunity, the heartless disregard for human life, well... it is hard to watch that and not be outraged. God damn IMF, God Damn Yankee, French and Spanish bastards, gouging the public, laundering narco-traffic dollars, and children die of mal-nutrition. Agh. I know it was meant to make me (one) feel that way, and it did, and I couldn't help but feel a little guilty for being so oblivious, or so unable to penetrate beneath the surface when I lived there. Of course, I do remember being perplexed by the political rallies that offered choripan and vino, luring the hungry in, feeding their kids with red meat for the night, only to ultrajar su voto y traicionarlos.

Perdón, I'm having language problems today, not sure why. My class notes are a royal mess, I take notes in three languages or a mixture thereof and I can't seem to articulate real complete thoughts, but I have had a few complaints about my lack of written production of late ;) so I am trying.

So yes. Films. The film festival began today. I am not nearly important, or pretentious enough to go to any opening night events, instead I took I. and Peregrine to the supermarket where the proceeded to drive me a little batty as one clung to the far end of the cart and the other stood on the near end between my arms and pushed and pulled, braking with their feet every few meters. We managed to obtain dinner, snacks for I.'s school (which had become depleted) lacteos and the likes... I bought esparragos and artichokes (the only green vegetable that I. will eat in a non-soup form), one bag of mesclun (not mescaline, though I have seen this advertised at restaurants, now there would be a hot marketing tip, lexical error and all) which will undoubtedly last me the entire week, multi-colored bell peppers to make my life more colorfull, a box of clementines, and a cantaloupe. I think I must be subconsciously be missing beta-carotene in my diet. And after all that I cooked a spectacular dinner of mac n' cheese and chicken nuggets for I. and P. Sigh. Sometimes it is best not to push the status quo (do I really believe that? I guess I might just be tired of fighting).

Yes, films.

I am told that I don't absolutely have to watch difficult films, that I could just go and watch some mind candy. I suppose that is one option, but I don't think it suits me. First, I don't tend to enjoy frivolity, unless it is of my own generation (meaning, I make it myself, then I love it, but that is a different story), and second, I like to get more bang for my buck, so since I rarely indulge (never) in going to the cinema by myself, and there is rarely anything worth seeing at the cinema, I feel I need to take full advantage of the hard to watch films that I love and that I don't ever get to see on the big screen, but most of all, I am able to do intellectually challenging/ emotionally taxing things on my own, better than relaxing. I don't relax well, not at all, and especially not alone, I need someone else's hands to knead the knots from my shoulders and back before I can relax (which might explain my tension of late). So, as that isn't an option, delve right into the pain, I say. I am actually kind of excited to be alone in the world. Well, not totally alone, but almost, and for a few hours I can think about other people's pain, which should alleviate a little of my own.