Diecinueve éxitos

Film Review

 

I saw a movie called 'Breakdown' last night. Kurt Russell's in it as a guy who, with his wife, is driving from the east coast to the west coast and going through the desert. He pisses a driver off and then the car breaks down and his wife goes with a trucker for help and then she disappears. "Where's my wife?" He figures out she's been kidnapped and meets the kidnappers who was a pile of money he doesn't have. He gets some faked money and kills a kidnapper. Then he gets to their house and sees his wife there in the barn. "How do I rescue her?" He busts into the kidnappers' house and demands her freedom. He gets his wife back and they drive off in a pickup, chased by two cars and an eighteen-wheeler. Both of the cars blow up, and the eighteen-wheeler loses its trailer. Then Russell and the truck's cab are on a bridge and the cab's trying to force Russell's car off the bridge. The kidnapper falls from the bridge but he's still alive so they drop his cab on him. As the credits rolled, I said: "Wow. Really makes you think."

 

*

 

Slow Time

 

Not going to catch up to me. Too fast for it. Always one step ahead of their game. Don't know what they're up against. Running out of their time. Slip around a corner and never find me. Not making any of this up. Seek me here, seek me there. Got so many tricks up my sleeve. Heading off in the wrong direction, they are. Can see them coming from a mile away, every time. Think they've set a trap for me, but they're wrong. Think they can predict my next move. Can leap over fences, across freeways, speeding buses can't touch. Want to get near me but they won't. Can read their minds, even when they're reading mine. Know what they're reading in me, but they don't understand irony, no. Try and try again, and they've always failed. Not the one who's going around in circles and tail-chasing. Get jets, airplanes, rockets, but don't know I can defy any electronic surveillance. Make myself small, make myself innocuous, make myself invisible. Don't have microscopes powerful enough. Will go to the other side of the world. Won't ever be able to find me. Don't even have to hurry. Slow time.

 

*

 

A Document

 

Everyone thought he had the document, but no-one had actually seen it. He had it concealed somewhere, either on his person or in a secure place. Other than that, he was a perfectly ordinary person.

He had a job, and he went to it whenever he was asked to. He had a wife, and he had two mostly perfect children. He drove moderately, and drank moderately. Nobody found anything to fault him with, except for the issue of the document.

One day, when he was in his incipient retirement years, he was asked about the document business everyone had heard about. "You know: the document no-one has ever seen." The reply was a ambiguous nod, and: "It exists."

Everyone waited for a number more years. Coded references started up here and there, in newspapers, magazines, and books. These were all cases of 'plausible deniability'.

Then came the day he was found dead of a heart attack. After the funeral procession, the hunt was on for the document. His family and friends couldn't find any trace of any document, which caused more speculation. What had he done with it? Had he eaten it? Had it gone up in flames?

 

*

 

No Vowels

 

She was on a game show, videotaped at Burbank Studios, and the quizmaster said to her: "This is for the whole she-bang, understand?"

She knew it already; she even felt a little insulted.

"Yes, sir!" she cried to the audience.

It got a laugh.

She spun the giant wheel of fortune. Round and round she went, and where she landed was on the jackpot. The correct answer, if she could produce it, was worth a fortune.

The lights went like mad and the noise intensified. She was cool inside, though. She was concentrating on keeping her head on straight.

The quizmaster said: "You've won the jackpot!"

She corrected him. "After I correctly answer the question, right?"

"No, no, not tonight," he said, turning then to the audience. "We're skipping the question tonight. It's an automatic win!"

The crowd went nuts. But she wasn't satisfied.

"It can't work that way," she explained to the quizmaster. "I really should answer a question."

"No, sorry!" and he laughed.

"How about a really simple one? Addition or subtraction or something."

"Nope! No more questions for tonight!"

She was forced out some time later; the money had already been put into her account.

 

*

 

The Writer

 

I had a visit from an old friend earlier today. I went to school with him some forty years ago, imagine that. He became a successful writer, with a couple books to his credit. However, he didn't look to be in too good of a shape. He was pale and ghoulish. Me? I'm fit as ever.

I made us some coffee and talked some about the long-time-ago and about who was doing what, so far as we knew. We had a couple laughs, then he got serious.

I got some bad news recently, he said. I got serious cancer. The doctor told me I'll be dead in about six months.

That's awful! I said. After all your success, to be struck down. And so young, too. Relatively.

Yes, well. You have to play with the cards you're dealt. Anyway, I wanted to clear some things up.

What's on your mind?

It's about your writing. I just want you to know that, well ... it's pretty terrible.

I shrugged. Yes, I'm aware of that. But what can I do? In any case, I'll be writing something good soon.

Oh? When will that be?

In about six months, I said.

 

*

 

Snappy Title

 

We watched the sun go down behind the trees on the other side of the bay. (It was a big bay. Some people referred to it as a lake. I don't know what the massive maps say. I once consulted, at the University of Toronto, the biggest map of Canada. It filled a room, with flat and wide drawers along three walls and a massive table in the middle. I can't recall the scale exactly, but it was something like ten inches to every mile.) A tiny sliver was left, and then it was gone: the sky above it flowed out in rays of purple and red. (I suppose the view we had there, of all these rays running away from the sun, is where we get the idea of the monarch's crown, with the metal rays running off from the monarch's head. Or, speculatively, the sun is imitating the monarch; I've heard tell of certain philosophies and religions arguing just that. In either case, the connection is rather poetic, don't you think? I'd almost call it a rhyme. Maybe there's some other figure of speech that better describes it.) We were quiet for quite some time, watching.

 

*

 

Creative Expression

 

‑We got her here now.

‑Thank you! You're very kind.

‑No, you're too kind.

-Where were we?

‑Ah! So--we got her here now.

‑Oh, the mother! What's she like?

‑She's angry. I don't know anything about her background, but I suspect there's some trauma in there.

‑We've all got scars. Send her in.

*

‑Is he locked up?

‑Please, madam, have a seat. Would you like an ethically-sourced coffee?

‑I asked: Is he locked up?

‑He is being cared for, yes.

‑He's a monster!

‑We don't believe in monsters anymore.

‑He killed his foster father.

‑We see destruction as a form of creation around here.

‑I'm not going to get anywhere with you. [Spits.] Fucking police!

‑Madam, language! Hate speech! We could arrest you!

‑As long as that evil child gets the chair, that's fine by me.

‑You're being unrealistic.

‑Something has to be done!

‑We serve and protect.

‑Strung him up like a deer.

‑Using very creative knots, you should add.

‑Strung him up like a deer. Covered himself in blood.

‑We call it 'body modification', and it's to be honoured.

‑Put him away!

‑We'll act.

‑And what?

‑We'll come to an agreement with the boy.

 

*

 

Film Review

 

Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, so I read from the Criterion Collection capsule, made The Small Back Room right after making The Red Shoes.

I don't have any "evidence" or "facts" in the matter, but I believe it didn't do very well. I consider myself well-versed in the Archer movies, and I can't remember but the title ever being mentioned; thus, it didn't make an impact, and it's a failure.

The plot isn't what I want to mention here, however. My schtick here is about collaboration.

(Plus, it's all without evidence!)

A Canterbury Tale, Black Narcissus, I Know Where I'm Going! They can all be broken down into four or five storylines.

THUS and because of this evidence I ASSERT they collaborated using the time-worn method of the authors of The Witch of Edmonton; namely, they wrote an outline together, divided the storylines, then parted to write four or five scenes from their assigned storylines. Then they came together again to do some stitching. Once they had the screenwriting done and agreed upon, they divvied up 'producing' and 'directing' (Powell and Pressburger respectively but not exclusively) and got the job done.

(However, no-one was interested in science drunks.)

 

*

 

Love All

 

I was in a cheap restaurant, sitting at a booth, reading Roald Dahl stories. Behind me I heard a couple. The woman was sitting with her back to me, and the man was facing her. I heard all.

He said: "It's interesting being here, caught between two empires. I've been through republic A, and you hardly hear anything about B. Meanwhile, in monarchy B, you hardly hear anything about A."

I muttered: "Don't fall for it."

She said: "Ah."

He continued: "That's just a common observation. There're more interesting things in the world. Do you know the exact difference between the word less and the word fewer?"

I muttered: "Really? There's a difference? No!"

She said: "I know them enough to use them."

He continued: "Anyway, there's lots of places I really want to go to. France, Italy, Spain, Germany. I think that covers the first load."

I muttered: "Speaking of loads...."

She said: "Fine places all."

He continued: "Some things I like too much. Like this apple pie. The apples are stewed just right: soft, but crunchy. And the crust is just."

I muttered: "Don't take the bait."

She said: "No thanks, really. What time is it?"

 

*

 

Occupational Hazard

 

"You're here because there's been some complaints about you," said the assistant manager of the Funny Farm, who had with her two women from the H.R. department. "Have a seat."

I sat down and asked: "I've done something wrong?"

"Let's just say: You're not acting much like the rest of the fellow funny farmers."

I couldn't understand, and it showed on my face. "Is this a formal hearing?"

She laughed. "No, not yet, not yet are we going to bring it to the Funny Farm board. This is preliminary. It need not go any farther than these four walls."

"I only see three."

"Turn your head."

I turned my head. Indeed, there was a fourth wall.

I said: "Is it something I've done? or is it something I haven't done?"

She read over the sheet before her. "You are not, and never have you, done any of the following. You haven't walked through town screaming obscenities, you haven't passed out half-naked in the street, and you haven't heard voices in your head."

I had to admit it. "Yes, I haven't done any of those. But: what have I done?"

She leaned forward to whisper. "You've written Internet things."

 

*

 

Record Store

 

A record store in a distant town is a wonder to behold. What foreign treasures it may hold, with local tastes exhibited prominently, while its reduced-to-move stock consisting of one's own town's prominents. The chintzier the better, for the walls are slung with memorabilia and posters and paper inserts.

The crowded party continued in the next room while I scanned the walls for the treasures of the Flying Watermelons, say, or indeed for any musical act from my side of the river and interest. A small pin-button with the logo of The Namby-Pambys caught my eye; I wondered how to approach it, for if its owner caught me in raptures surely the price would instantly double. I went back into the party room to consider the problem.

I looked for someone. I looked for someone I had once known, and whom I had been surprised to see on the guest-list, for surely I'd heard she'd died. I thought I could interest her in the button, and perhaps we could come up with a method of deceptive attack. I pushed through the yammering crowd to find her. She was in a back room, with the button of The Namby-Pambys.

 

*

 

The Brat

 

I was on a bus earlier today and I saw something called 'a new one on me'. A kid about seven was yelling at his younger brother who wanted something. The seven-year-old wouldn't stop yelling. He was disturbing everyone on the crowded bus. I looked at the kid and he looked at me with hatred in his eyes.

I said: "You're one little shit, you know that?"

He stuck out his tongue.

I said: "You better watch yourself, kid. You don't know how the law works."

He said: "Bleagh."

"You know there's no crime about killing children, right? You know you're not protected until you're twelve, right? Oh sure some sad sacks get pulled up in a trial but they're always acquitted because everyone knows what shits you all are. It's a bit of a joke, really."

He was listening.

"I can do anything I want to you. I could pitch you out of this bus, under the wheels, so you're crushed, and everyone would get a good laugh out of it. I'd be a local hero, saviour of transportation. I'd get a medal, garbage child."

He was quiet from then on.

As if it happened that way.

 

*

 

Missing Days

 

Where had she been yesterday? Somehow, it was Thursday. Surely it should be Wednesday. Had she been aware it was Tuesday yesterday? Had she noticed? Had she looked at a calendar? What about Monday? Had she known it was Monday on Monday? Again: had she looked at a calendar? Any kind of a calendar? Had she asked anyone? For that matter, Was Sunday Sunday or Saturday? How often did this have to happen to her? Could she have likewise lost entire weeks? Did she know the month? Was it June, as she believed? Or was it May, or was it July? Where did these days and weeks and months go? Could they have gone into someone else's life? Back to the matter at hand, she thought: So, it is really Thursday? Couldn't it be that the newer information was wrong rather than the former? Did she lose hours in the same way as she thought she lost days and weeks? Did she have some other, smaller, life, into which all this time went? Was she on the edge of a whirlpool of time, with parts of herself slipping in?

A voice: "Prisoner 275-435: You're talking to yourself again."

 

*

 

The Television

 

The world is full of dates. For example: the television show Endeavour and the one about his colleague whose name I don't recall. For a very natural reason, I thought Endeavour was made before the other one, during which I thought: "This is much more primitive than the other one." After checking a couple dates, I discovered the other one was made before Endeavour. (It was also hard to understand how Endeavour could take place in the sixties while the other one took place in 2006.) It was then that I realized was indeed a sequel, but not to Endeavour: it's the sequel to a series I've never seen which I believe is called Inspector Morse. I remember hearing the words bandied about on PBS many years ago. I believe it was a long-running show, so it could have been at any time prior to 1999, since the other show (the sequel to Inspector Morse) begins five or six years after the death of Inspector Morse. So far so good. Maybe I'll look up this Inspector Morse show on the Internet some day. As I figure, it ran for a long time. There must be something to it.

 

*

 

Man Overboard!

 

There you are, down at the ferry dock, sitting on a concrete bench, and waiting for a boat. Someone is beside you. You're not certain who he is. You met him a year or so ago, at something or another, and he was a friend of someone's, and you're hungover. He's seems to be trying to convince you of something, but he's not getting even close to a point so you're looking, waiting for the boat to appear from behind a peninsula. It's not that you don't like him; actually, you're quite indifferent to him. His words float in the air with no-one receptive enough to disentangle them. You can't figure out if the ferry is going to take you to the island or the mainland. You can't remember being on a ferry recently, that's to say, yesterday or the day before. "Are we going to the island?" you ask, and he is forced to stop mid-sentence to reply: "Yes." "Are we going to get married?" "I think so, yes." "On the island?" "Do you want to get married on the island?" "I think so." It's settled. You're going to the island. The rest of it's anyone's guess.

 

*

 

I, Masher

 

*

 

Random, The

 

I've heard a half-dozen records of Verdi's Otello. By the way, I saw the Scottish National Orchestra do his Requiem three or four weeks ago in Glasgow, experience of which was suitably bone-shaking.

Oh yes I've got playing Otello 1960 Tullio Seraphin.

I must go back to my Tosca anecdote. I listened to the CDs, thought: "Well, isn't it nice how all that turned out!" without realizing that people get killed in it. I was surprised to hear the plot.

I had an idea about my Kindergarten pals. Where are they? I abandoned the inquiry, since Woody Allen got the gag in Annie Hall.

Neighbourhood Watch News. Rachel came home. Thus, Stanley did not murder her and bury her in the basement.

Across the street, Wilbur just told someone he had dental surgery, and he was praised for surviving it.

We have a back alley.

Airbnb took us to two tenement houses, one in Glasgow and one in Rothesay. Maybe I'll summarize my reflections soon.

Why did the tenement architecture not reach Toronto? They're in London, Toronto, and NYC. I've never seen a tenement in Toronto.

In the end Otello is horrified by himself and he stabs himself.

 

*

 

Big Book

 

A big book is a big burden. There's nothing like it, for it's a book that will make you cry at the end, because you're so relieved it's finally over. I've read a good many of the big books. (By big I mean in excess of 800 pages.) I've still got some big books to go.

Compilations. Compilations are burdensome too, but there's few compilations that exceed four hundred pages. I think I have Yeats's Anthology of Modern Verse which exceeds five hundred pages, but it's Yeats, so it's an acceptable thing, its length.

How someone can dedicate many years to a single work is beyond me. There must be some serious planning beforehand; me, I don't really plan ahead as you've no doubt noticed. I'm a nature boy, a modern boy, so I think planning is not needed, and my work suffers for my beliefs.

The Mahabharata was pretty much the longest one; eleven volumes, somewhere in excess of 5,000 pages. But it had a banger of an ending, as I've discussed elsewhere, so all is forgiven.

Somewhere, Proust talks about his novel as a cathedral. It's unfortunate he didn't finish it; should be 500 pages longer.

 

*

 

Don't Disturb

 

The great bear is sleeping in its cave: hibernation, the act is also called. Perhaps it's safe to go in.

There's little light in the cave but lots of smells. You know you smell too, smelling like a person. You wonder if the great bear will be able to smell you, even in sleep.

There's a puddle here, of water dripping off stalactites. The puddle's full of wet dirt. You smear it all over your body. That should work as a good disguise.

You have to listen to find the bear. You can hear lengthened breaths some thirty feet away. The sound is muffled, though: you find you have to duck down for five or six feet to get to something of a room, and the bear in the room.

This is your moment. You lie down on the ground and, inch by inch, slide closer and closer to the bear. The bear's breath you can now feel on the back of your neck, and you keep slowly sliding closer and closer.

You hit one of the bear's enormous paws, and stop. It's tricky now. Slowly you back into the bear, until she's cuddling you, o fake beast.