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Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Fruitvale Station Review by Trevor Cunnington

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Fruitvale Station is a special film that does almost all the right things. I find my thoughts returning to the film quite often in the week since I’ve seen it. It takes a familiar narrative, adds a few surprises, bucks the mold of emotional evocation in film, does some daring things, some plain things, and some innovative things all with panache. It acquires a particularly intense gravitas because of its roots in real events in recent history. I saw it in Toronto, in a less than half-full, smallish theatre, and I hope it was less than half-full because it has been running for a while. This hope is particularly strong because of the resonance between Oscar Grant’s murder by the BART police and the recent murder of Sammy Yatim on a street-car in Toronto. Where is the word of mouth momentum?

The familiar narrative is that of the struggling young black man in urban America, and the difficulty of escaping the ghetto. It takes as its point of departure a cell phone video of the real life event of Oscar Grant having his head slammed into the concrete of the Fruitvale transit station in Oakland, California, and then being shot by BART police officers. Thus, it does a daring thing, narratively speaking – it shows the end of the story first. Not only that, but the footage is so jarringly authentic, I must admit it made me feel a little nauseous. (The advantage of this approach is that the film can’t be “spoiled”). Then, it rewinds to the day leading up to this event, and we follow Oscar trying in difficult circumstances to be a better person. Difficult circumstance #1 is he cheated on his girlfriend, with whom he has a young daughter. Difficult circumstance #2 is he has been fired from his job at a grocery store for lateness. Difficult circumstance #3, we find out later, is a troubled relationship with his mother that he tries to mend by taking on responsibility for the success of her birthday party on December 31, 2008.

After a terse interchange about his activities for the day with his girlfriend, he heads out to the grocery store where he used to work to try to get his job back. One of the innovative things about the film is the blending of onscreen action with a second screen: that of his cell phone as he texts and dials various people. Thus, it tries to deal with the opacity of phone interactions in real life to offer a more internal glimpse of Oscar’s life to great effect. The sequence in the grocery store is marvellously executed. He gets his friend to get him some high-quality crab for his grandma’s famous gumbo, and notices a young white girl struggling to make a decision for a type of fish for a fish fry. After some slick signals with his friend, he lets her know he works there, but is on his day off. Then he calls his grandmother, a master traditional cook, to instruct the young woman. The meaning of this scene is lent some interesting ambiguity by the context of his conversation with his girlfriend in the second scene of the film about cheating and the context of his visit to the grocery store. Being that we don’t know a whole lot about the character yet (except that he has the characteristically fatherly tendency to curry favour with children out of the disciplinary reach of the mother), he could either be trying to pick up this young woman, or he could be trying to go the extra mile in customer service to get his job back. When we learn more about his character, the latter becomes the more likely interpretation.

After this exchange, he tracks down the store manager to beg for his job back. The manager refuses, and we see Oscar has a temper as his voice escalates in anger. The sound editing of this part is masterful, with very subtle ominous tones accompanying his raising voice. As a tactic of persuasion, he asks rhetorically and heatedly if the manager wants him selling dope again (marijuana). This makes no difference, as the manager has already hired someone else. Then we see Oscar driving around in his car, alternately listening to music, and making plans on the phone. One of the plans is his mother’s birthday party, so he speaks both to her and his sister, who can’t make it because she’s working (probably a low-paying job). His mother chastises him for talking on the phone and driving, so he jury-rigs his phone under his skully hat so that he has both hands on the wheel, then he pulls over, showing how he is trying to be more responsible. He’s 22, and we can grant him some slack on this front. He also makes a phone call to a drug buyer to make an appointment.

It is on the rocks (the visual symbolism is telling) of the waterfront that he has a memory, narrated via flashback. The memory is of the year before, when he was in prison for his mother’s birthday, probably for dealing marijuana. His mother visits him, and they discuss his girlfriend and his daughter, from whom they’ve kept his incarceration secret. During their terse conversation, which begins with his mother asking about a welt on his face, a leering inmate makes a stray comment directed at Oscar, and Oscar explodes in anger. Presumably, this is the man responsible for the welt. After this explosion, Oscar’s mother implores him to calm down, and then tells him she will not visit him any more. He then erupts again and is restrained by prison guards, but it is not in anger this time, but despair, as he repeatedly yells an apology to his mother as she walks away in the foreground. This scene likewise has great sound editing, with the same ominous tones accompanying his outburst. We can see the absolute no win situation he’s in: if he doesn’t put on his tough front, he’s liable to suffer consequences later, but by putting on the tough front, his mother’s regard for him suffers.

After this memory, we see him take the bag of marijuana, and empty it over the rocks and the water. When his buyer shows up, he hands him a small packet for free and apologizes by saying he already sold the pot. The buyer rolls up and smokes, and then he goes to pick up his girlfriend from work and his daughter from the day care. His girlfriend verbally heckles him for smoking pot in the car before picking up his daughter, and he doesn’t bother to correct her. We realize later that he is probably mulling over what to tell her regarding his lost job. When they pick up their daughter Tatiana, we see him race her to the car, and this scene is tastefully rendered in slow motion with the sun in the background helping to signify the great relationship he has with his daughter.

Later, as they plan to go out to the city to celebrate the new year, he suggests staying in. She presses. A sequence of his mother’s birthday party is likewise well rendered with overlapping dialogue and a nice touch of domestic realism. His mother urges him to take the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) instead of drive to San Francisco so they don’t have to worry about being sober to drive. All good advice that ends in catastrophe, with all the tragic implications that the girlfriend and mother must bear afterwards. The train gets delayed, so they are stuck on it when the new year turns. But, never fear! Someone has speakers and an mp3 player, and the subway car erupts in a party. Then, to return to the familiar narrative, Oscar’s prison past catches up to him when the man who threatened him during the conversation with his mother recognizes his name when the woman whom he helped at the grocery store sees him and calls his name. In this moment, his troubled past catches up to him and erupts in violence. The BART police are alerted, and the tense events leading up to the shooting are well-acted on all parts. My favourite thing about this film is the editing in the last few minutes. While Oscar is in critical condition in the hospital, having been shot in his back, the bullet piercing his lung and causing massive internal bleeding, we see a shot of him and his daughter Tatiana, speaking lovingly with each other. Unlike most films, which use music manipulatively in moments like these to evoke emotions, Ryan Coogler chooses to leave this segment totally silent. The result is heart-rending. The last two shots are absolutely gut wrenching, as the director includes in the final shot footage of a shy, downcast real-life Tatiana attending the anniversary of her father’s death. Thus, the film is bracketed by amateur video shots to lend its story an extremely endearing authenticity. This is the only film in the last six years I’ve been to that I’ve heard people audibly sniffling at the end.

For my theory nerds, this film is a great example of Benjaminian historiography; it does important work of salvaging history from the distorted view of the victors by telling it from the perspective of the people who get squashed in its imposing march. It is aesthetically wonderful: it doesn’t shy away from metaphor and symbolism to add heft to the story it tells and it is also daring and innovative. For me, it is a close call between this and The Hunt (Jagten) for best films of the year. Indeed for these two films and The Place Beyond The Pines alone, it has been a great year for film.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Trayvon Martin: A Tragedy provoked by Racial or Class injustice?

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Trayvon Martin’s case, for better or for worse, has fired up the race debate once more in America, and while I think the idea that we live in some post-racial society is naïve and that work still needs to be done for full equality to be achieved, I’m not entirely convinced that race is the most important factor in the tragedy. I would like to suggest that perhaps class and behavioural norms played a greater role in the events that led to young Martin’s death. I do not wish to assert that the not-guilty verdict is faultless (the prosecution botched the case by overcharging Zimmerman, according to some), but neither do I think that Zimmerman deserved a guilty verdict on a second-degree murder charge after I reviewed the facts of the case.

Some media personnel have been fired for misrepresenting the facts of the case for sensationalist purposes, actions which arguably resulted in this case becoming a flash point for the discussion of race in America. NBC in particular aired edited versions of Zimmerman’s call to the police regarding Martin’s “suspicious behaviour,” which included, according to him, cutting behind houses and walking leisurely in the rain. These edits were defamatory and unethical. In one, Zimmerman is heard saying “This guy [Martin] looks like he's up to no good or he's on drugs or something... He's got his hand in his waistband, and he's a black male.” In an even more distorted edit, NBC aired Zimmerman saying “This guy looks like he's up to no good. He looks black.” The exclusion of the dispatcher asking about the race of the suspicious person made it seem as if Zimmerman racially profiled Zimmerman, as if he had offered information about Martin’s race without solicitation. Zimmerman has launched a defamation suit against NBC for airing this questionable edit.

I would like to draw attention to the reasons for Zimmerman suspecting Martin in the first place, before I offer evidence that contradicts the portrayal of Zimmerman as a racist. Zimmerman’s reasons for calling the police were that Martin was not hurrying in the rain, that he had his hand in his waistband, that he was cutting between houses. On the one hand, we have the police call as hard evidence; on the other, we have Zimmerman’s side of the story. We also have various witnesses’ perspectives. The missing part of the story is Trayvon Martin’s point of view and we must not underestimate this. In an interview granted exclusively to Fox news, Zimmerman said “I felt he was suspicious because it was raining. He was in-between houses, cutting in-between houses, and he was walking very leisurely for the weather. ... It didn't look like he was a resident that went to check their mail and got caught in the rain and was hurrying back home. He didn't look like a fitness fanatic that would train in the rain.” In other words, he was suspicious because his behaviour did not fit any of the moulds of Zimmerman’s expectations. Zimmerman was a Neighbourhood Watch Captain, was studying Criminal Justice, and had been mentored by Sanford police. He had trained in the observation of suspicious behaviour by the police, for whom social norms of propertied people are the standards to which they hold all people. This is the subtext of Zimmerman’s comment about the mail. It did not occur to Zimmerman that Martin was cutting behind houses as a short-cut on a rainy night. It did not occur to him that Martin may not even mind the rain so much, that he may even enjoy it. Why not?

Below I have copy/pasted parts of the transcript of George Zimmerman’s call. I have included what I think is important and at least described what I have excluded. My idea of what is important in this phone call lines up with many others.

Zimmerman: Hey we've had some break-ins in my neighbourhood, and there's a real suspicious guy, uh, Retreat View Circle, um, the best address I can give you is 111 Retreat View Circle. This guy looks like he's up to no good, or he's on drugs or something. It's raining and he's just walking around, looking about.

Dispatcher: OK, and this guy is he white, black or Hispanic?

Zimmerman: He looks black.

Dispatcher: Did you see what he was wearing?

Zimmerman: Yeah. A dark hoodie, like a grey hoodie, and either jeans or sweatpants and white tennis shoes. He's . . .[unintelligible], he was just staring. . .

Dispatcher: Ok, he's just walking around the area. . .

Zimmerman: . . . looking at all the houses

Dispatcher: Ok.

Zimmerman: Now he's just staring at me.

(some directions given, unimportant)

Zimmerman: Yeah, now he's coming towards me.

Dispatcher: OK

Zimmerman: He's got his hand in his waistband. And he's a black male.

Dispatcher: How old would you say he looks?

Zimmerman: He's got button on his shirt, late teens.

Dispatcher: Late teens ok.

Zimmerman: Something's wrong with him. Yup, he's coming to check me out, he's got something in his hands, I don't know what his deal is.

Dispatcher: Just let me know if he does anything ok.

Zimmerman: How long until you get an officer over here?

Dispatcher: Yeah  we've got someone on the way, just let me know if this guy does anything else.

Zimmerman: Okay. These assholes they always get away. (gives same directions) Shit he's running.

Dispatcher: He's running? Which way is he running?

Zimmerman: Down towards the other entrance to the neighbourhood.

Dispatcher: Which entrance is that that he's heading towards?

Around this point in the phone call, you hear the car door open.

Zimmerman: The back entrance . . . fucking punks

Dispatcher: Are you following him?

Zimmerman: Yeah

Dispatcher: Ok, we don't need you to do that

Zimmerman: Ok.

The next exchange is about Zimmerman's information (name, address, etc.) Zimmerman says after he's asked his apartment number "It's a home it's 1950, oh crap I don't want to give it all out, I don't know where this kid is."

The rustling noises on the phone, starting when Zimmerman gets out of the car, settle down a little while this exchange happens, but start again near the end of the call, when the two discuss logistics about meeting the dispatched police. Considering the material of the red jacket he wore that night of the confrontation, these rustling noises suggest to me that he stopped walking, then started again.

Before I continue, it should be noted that three weeks before the shooting Zimmerman called the same police line and reported a man looking in the windows of one of the houses in the gated community where the shooting happened. Although the man escaped, a man was arrested four days later in connection with this incident with stolen jewellery and a laptop in his backpack, and Zimmerman identified the man he saw. If I were Zimmerman, I would feel a little more relaxed after that, seeing that perhaps the culprit for the string of burglaries in the neighbourhood had been caught. Rather than relax, however, Zimmerman maintained the same level of hyper-vigilance.

One of the witnesses, who provides us with only a second-hand version of Trayvon’s perspective, said that she was talking on the phone with Trayvon until moments before he was shot, which is borne out by cellular records. She said that Trayvon told her that a “creepy cracker” was staring at him, and then following him. She said that Trayvon had lost the man, but that he had reappeared again. She testified that she told him to hurry to his father’s house in the gated community, where he was staying temporarily, and this is borne out by the fact that Trayvon’s body was found only 64 metres from his father’s home. The witness testified that after the man following Zimmerman reappeared, Trayvon asked Zimmerman “why are you following me” to which Zimmerman responded “what are you doing around here?” The witness said after that she heard the sound of the two scuffling. The credibility of this witness was severely damaged when the defence showed that she lied under oath about being in the hospital on the day of Trayvon’s funeral after they could locate no hospital records. But the question I have, the one that does not depend upon a faulty witness’s testimony, is how Trayvon could have had one hand full with the skittles and fruit drink, talk on the phone with the other hand and “have his hand in his waistband?” In the transcript, Zimmerman says “Something's wrong with him. Yup, he's coming to check me out, he's got something in his hands, I don't know what his deal is.” How does Zimmerman not recognize that he’s on the phone, and as such, might be distracted, thus explaining why he’s “looking around?” Of course, Zimmerman’s on the phone, so he’s distracted, too. It was incredibly stupid of him to follow Trayvon, whether or not he is an “A” student. It was also stupid that he didn’t identify himself as a member of the neighbourhood watch to Trayvon. Perhaps the dispatcher should have been more assertive as well in instructing Zimmerman not to follow Trayvon, rather than merely say “we don’t need you to do that.”

Many are saying if Trayvon was white, he’d still be alive. That may be true. Race parity in the jury would certainly have been desirable and just. But the problem with the race argument is that Zimmerman may have earlier attended a City Hall meeting to complain about the former police chief of Sanford and how he handled a case where the son of a police officer beat a black homeless man. The leader of the NAACP broke ranks with black leaders such as Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson’s call for escalation in protests, perhaps because of the letter he received from a concerned relative of Zimmerman’s. Another problem is that Zimmerman is Hispanic and himself has African-Peruvian heritage. When it comes down to it, Zimmerman’s ungrounded suspicion may have been restricted to the way Trayvon dressed and how he acted. Had Trayvon dressed in a “classier” way, would there have been suspicion? Had he driven to the store for his treats, would he still be alive? A young man died that night, a young man for whom there was no evidence found that he committed any crime the night of the shooting, and justice has yet to be served. I believe the prosecution did a terrible job. I think a charge of manslaughter was more manageable and more just for all those involved.

Sources and Notes: http://www.foxnews.com/us/2012/04/25/dershowitz-trayvon-prosecutor-overreached-with-murder-charge/?test=latestnews and http://www.palmbeachpost.com/news/news/second-degree-murder-charge-may-be-hard-to-prove-i/nN26Z/ Some feel that the appointed prosecutor felt media pressure for an exaggerated charge in order to get re-elected. The cutoff date for qualifying to run against State Prosecutor Angela Corey was nine days after the Republican filed charges. For more details on this, consult http://www.wtsp.com/news/article/251911/19/Prosecutor-in-Trayvon-Martin-case-wins-re-eleection
http://m.newsbusters.org/blogs/matthew-sheffield/2012/04/23/nbc-news-president-network-should-probably-apologize-air-repeated Note, this source may be tendentious because it proclaims itself dedicated to exposing liberal bias in the media. However, NBC employees were fired and/or disciplined over the misleading edits. For more information on this, see http://www.mediabistro.com/tvspy/wtvj-reporter-fired-for-making-similar-edit-in-george-zimmerman-911-call_b46599
http://thegrio.com/2012/07/18/zimmerman-says-he-was-not-pursuing-trayvon-martin/ Please note that the defense’s decision to grant exclusive rights to the Fox network, known for its conservative bias, strikes me as cynical manipulation. That the Martins hired a publicist to drum up media attention, and the media’s subsequent misbehavior helped no one in this situation.
In none of the seven instances that George Zimmerman called the police did he volunteer the race of the suspicious person until asked by the dispatcher. See http://usnews.nbcnews.com/_news/2012/04/05/11045284-in-police-calls-zimmerman-mentioned-race-only-when-asked?lite.
http://dailycaller.com/2012/04/02/zimmerman-family-member-calls-naacp-racists-says-there-will-be-blood-on-your-hands-if-george-is-hurt/. This story would be easy enough to verify with members of city council. I do not know whether it has been thus verified.
Transcript of George Zimmerman's call to the non-emergency police line:
http://www.motherjones.com/documents/326700-full-transcript-zimmerman
You can listen to this call here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trayvon_Martin




Monday, July 15, 2013

Painting & Film Chapter II: David Cronenberg

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In my imagination, two images have been juxtaposed for a while, conjured by the flights of fickleness engineered by my memory. The one is of the creatures in David Cronenberg's Naked Lunch, a stellar adaptation of a very difficult book to translate into film. Leaving issues of faithful adaptation aside, Naked Lunch stands on its own as a film. The level of difficulty in adapting it as a novel is perhaps only equalled by Finnegans Wake and The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, the latter of which, if you ask me, would make a better television sit-com than a film. Back to the issue at hand. The other image is Max Ernst's painting Napoleon. I have long harboured the suspicion that the mugwamp creatures in Naked Lunch were modelled on Napoleon's weirdly amphibious face in Napoleon. Today, using my google-fu, I decided to test my suspicion, and I show you the results below.


 Mugwamp from Cronenberg's Naked Lunch


Max Ernst's painting: Napoleon


Result: The faces are similar with folds of skin and flattened nose and lips. Colour is roughly consistent. However, the mugwamp has a more beak-like mouth that is smaller. As well, the painting doesn't feature the variegation that the mugwamp has, and of course the eyes are monochrome. The Napoleon figure in the painting also has more pronounced eye sockets, although the size, shape, and beadiness are quite similar. Conclusion: The production designer or costume designer may have been inspired by Ernst's painting. Here is the description of mugwamps from Burroughs: 

Mugwumps have no liver and nourish themselves exclusively on sweets. Thin, purple-blue lips cover a razor sharp beak of black bone with which they frequently tear each other to shreds in fights over clients. These creatures secrete an addictive fluid through their erect penises which prolongs life by slowing metabolism. (In fact all longevity agents have proved addicting in exact ratio to their effectiveness in prolonging life.)


Well, there you have it. I think the similarities between Cronenberg's mugwamp and Ernst's Napoleon are interesting. It is possible that the production designer or costume designer were more influenced by alien designs of science fiction movies and television series such as Star Trek. Regardless, the similarities for me are interesting enough. Incidentally, the mugwamps were originally Republican candidates who supported Democratic candidate Grover Cleveland because of the corruption of the Republican candidate, and thereafter came to mean a political deserter, or an overly sanctimonious politician who scorned party politics. 

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

All's Quiet on the Rural Front

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It’s All So Quiet
Director: Nanouk Leopold
Writers: Gerbrand Bakker (novel), and Nanouk Leopold (adaptation)
Netherlands, 2013. 

In this spare and understated exploration of the often fraught family relationships of the LGBT community, Helmer, a middle aged man returns home to the family farm to care for his sick father. The LGBT community is mostly a hyper-urban tribe, so a film such as this, that deals with the isolation of rural life in such an honest yet sophisticated manner, is very welcome. Nanouk Leopold narrates this film using suggestion and implication much more than explanation and revelation. As such, the film provokes questions rather than providing answers, closure, and tidy resolution. 

Romantic and carnal opportunities knock on Helmer’s door in the form of a grizzly milk truck driver and a svelte young farmhand. Helmer’s resistance to these advances is puzzling, especially considering one of these men’s affections Helmer so obviously and painfully yearns for. A later conversation between father and son provides some psychological context for Helmer’s romantic angst, but it is up to the viewer to flesh it out. This crucial bit of dialogue also provides context for the direction of Helmer’s affection. 

Helmer’s reticent character is given depth and heft by the admirable facial control of Jeroen Willems. The manner in which we come to know the characters in the film is sometimes indirect. Two men deliver mattresses to the farmhouse; we get a point-of-view shot from Helmer’s perspective of the muddy tracks they left in the kitchen. The film then cuts to Helmer washing the kitchen floor with a rag under his foot. Seeing the ineffectiveness of this technique, he gets down on his hands and knees to scrub. We also learn from Helmer’s neighbor Ada that he painted the kitchen and brightened it up. When Helmer shows the farmhand around, the farmhand asks about a manure machine for the dairy cows. Helmer responds that there is no manure machine, revealing his (and his father’s) Protestant austerity. 

The casting decisions of this film are simply impeccable. Helmer and his father share a very similar body shape, giving their relationship a visible credibility. Wim Opbrouk puts in a nuanced performance as the milkman, Martijn Lakemeier captures the all-or-nothing erotic gusto of youth well, and Lies Visschedijk is a breath of fresh air as Ada, the nearest neighbour. A very curious element of this film is the visual absence of Ada’s husband, and the shots of her, Helmer, and her two sons suggest a surrogate family in the most wholesome tones. The casting of Ada’s sons is great as well, as one of the highlights of the film for me is the sheer beauty of the interaction between the one son and Helmer’s farm animals. I’m sure it is no easy task to find a child so ingenuous and gifted in his rapport with animals. 

It’s All So Quiet also uses symbolism very effectively. If you see it, pay close attention to the semantic weight of the weather and the hooded crow, whose significance is perhaps a nod to Poe’s poem “The Raven.” Or perhaps the poem and the film both draw upon an older folk tale tradition. The cinematography is excellent. The opening shots are gorgeous, and the contrast between beautiful, bright, serene exteriors and gloomy, dark, strained interiors is poignant. This contrast creates a paradoxical tension between Helmer’s emotional claustrophobia and the open fields we associate with rural life. There are some close-ups of Helmer’s father’s face so rich and full of detail that they remind one of the poetry Ingmar Bergman found in the human face. There is one scene of Helmer standing in front of a mirror, looking at his own naked body, perhaps contemplating its inevitable decay, that is so beautifully lit, it reminds one of the chiascuro painting techniques of Caravaggio. The minimal piano score suits the film beautifully and it never feels intrusive or manipulative.   

The one shortcoming of this film is that it leaves too much up to the audience. There is a phone conversation, for example, that is not very well contextualized. The audience is in the dark as to who is on the other side of the conversation, which deals with intimate family matters, and they remain in the dark. Such a strategy for filmmaking, often a conscious resistance to the obvious plots and characters of many Hollywood films, is praiseworthy, but some take it a little too far. Regardless, I would recommend this film for anyone who enjoys arthouse film.     

Monday, February 25, 2013

The Second Coming, Chapter II

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Baal
a ghoul 
holds an awl 
and outside
the owls 
hoot away

the awl's pressure

in wood rests
firm and all's well
that ends oil
in the bottom of the well

sawdust churns onto the floor

an unexpected verb
some rust, a savage sharpening
of stakes
taken to 
you
know
who

crickets chirp

outside a rickety
chair, rocking,
blown by the wind

taken too far

cradle endlessly shaken
in a room overlooking
a lawn

a glass of water waits


and before the awns

are withdrawn on mainstreet
ripples slightly undu
late to the party

hold on 

to your pants
kids.

we're going

to have
a crucifiction.

Friday, January 11, 2013

United Nations Nowhere

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I did this drawing over the Holidays. It is an implausible design for a united nations building. That isn't smoke coming out of the stacks; it is aromatic scents pumped into the urban atmosphere. For an idea of scale, I imagine it about 600 feet tall. Originally I was going to have the pinwheel-like structure in the front be like a windmill to generate power for the building, but I got a little fanciful with it, so now it's just decorative. 

Saturday, October 06, 2012

The Rain's Shoreline

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My mother is the sea;
my father is the earth; 
a creature of the shore
I leave my place of birth

in the cobwebs of those who snore
he speaks, addressing no one
in case his words have some worth
open the blessed, oblique door

blank apostrophe of a drunk surf
the rain falls and hides false ore
it returns mother to father; mirth
rises in our smoky din, more

to come, pour it in a torrid form
shimmering waves over the terrain
mud, tracked onto the creaking floor
meeting the barren wood, reclaimed
and creaking under the dingy storm. 

Driftwood winds its way back and forth
treading the shore’s smooth grey stain
like a tango, forward and backwards
arrows unsheathed, shot towards shards

of light, splitting the horizon; aim
the hunter’s only friend, death’s train
stops in the dark, holding tracks hard
to straight lines plodding from a bard’s
mouth, a thread tautens, caught prey

spins out deadly signals, a spider’s name
echoes in the place where cards cut
amongst the music of the door shut
once more, evacuating his refrain. 

Thursday, August 09, 2012

The Economic Price of Climate Change

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One notices, after reading scads of material on the environmental movement and its skeptics or opponents, that one of the central conflicts in this debate is the notion that taking care of the environment and economic growth are somehow incompatible. This debate, if we accept the premise of the environmental movement – that our bloated consumption practices will lead to the untimely demise of much of the life on earth currently – is arguably the most crucial debate of all. In this push and pull between those who privilege the economy and those who value other species, the health of the oceans and the atmosphere above all else, it becomes difficult to sort out fact from convenient fiction and truth from  falsehood. Mind you, we must take into account that this debate will take different forms, strategies, and approaches depending on where it takes place. In Canada, the primary argument against investing in research and development for renewable energy sources such as wind and solar is that it is not economical. This is a knee-jerk response that is taken as self-evident truth among many people.

Let’s examine what is behind this claim, and the abundant facts that contradict it. Canada, through a rather arbitrary turn of events, happens to have incredibly large reserves of petroleum, locked up in “tar sands.” Make no bones about it, this is the dirtiest form of extracting petroleum on the books right now, except maybe for Venezuelan heavy crude. However, the depression in 2008 hit, and the economy became a grave concern; we can’t afford to not develop the tar sands became the argument of choice. As an exploitable resource for the most important commodity in the world, our oil reserves make for a very compelling reason for Canada to want to disregard the simple fact that extracting petroleum from tar sands is relatively speaking, very dirty and not very efficient. Thus, the Conservative government in Canada spent oodles of taxpayer money for commercials attesting to the environmental safety of the tar sands. You can fool some people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time. But, in a representative democracy like Canada, where a political party can earn a majority of parliamentary seats in the House of Commons with about 25%   (this is a generous estimate) of the total vote, fooling enough of the people turns out to be quite easy and efficient. There is a long line of psychological research that suggests that the more you repeat something, the more the listener will tend to regard it as true, regardless of whether the statement or claim made is true or not.

Granted, there must be some reasonable Conservatives that concede that the tar sands aren’t the cleanest manner of oil extraction, but still maintain the priority of the economy. This is a statement you can’t really oppose. I would be more willing to accept their argument that we can’t afford not to develop the oil sands if it was actually benefitting Canadians. Here I must concede that the tar sands boom has done well for Alberta. However, because Mr. Mulroney privatized Petro-Canada in 1991, the potential benefits to the rest of Canada are slim indeed. After all, Sinecorp and Exxon/Mobil are the main developers of the sands, and they are a Chinese and an American company. To find evidence of this lack of benefit for ordinary Canadians, one simply needs to look at the price of gas at the pump. We are in the top ten producers of oil, and yet we still pay more on average than Americans do for gas. While it is true that we don’t have the refining capacity to turn crude oil into gasoline, and thus incur the costs of shipping it to and from refineries, nothing (that I know of at least) has been done to build refining capacity so that our advantage in oil production would actually benefit Canadians at the pump.

Let us now address the contention that renewable energy sources are not “economical.” Denmark has pledged to produce 100% of its electricity from renewable sources by 2050. It already has considerable renewable energy production capabilities. It also has much less unemployment than Canada – nearly half as much less in 2009, a quarter as much less in 2010. Furthermore, Denmark’s youth   unemployment rate was 11.2 % , while Canada’s was 15.3% in 2012. Somehow, Denmark seems to be economically robust while investing in renewable energies. Also, Germany the economic powerhouse of the EU broke records last year by producing 50% of their energy from renewable sources on peak days. Both its general unemployment and youth unemployment rate are lower than Canada’s. Most importantly, both Denmark and Germany’s governments have run much smaller deficits than the Conservative government despite the economic instabilities in the EU. I must be missing something here, because these two paragons of renewable energy seem to be thriving, economically speaking.

Finally, I would like to introduce an issue I have not seen addressed by either side of this ongoing debate, which is the economic damage precipitated by climate change. Climate change has become the rallying cry of the environmental movement. 2012 is sizing up to be the hottest year on record in the Toronto region, and many others as well. Despite the boatloads of evidence supporting the climate change hypothesis, some still deny it. Others admit it exists, but matters little because the world is ending, whatever that means. I hypothesize that increasing  temperatures decrease productivity. Certainly, many places have air conditioning, but this itself is a very energy-intensive technology and will put further strains on the energy sector (these are well-documented and self-evident). Because much of the energy sector depends upon fossil fuels, this in turn increases the rate at which the earth’s climate changes. Also, not all places have air conditioning, and productivity in these places, usually small to medium sized businesses, will suffer in summer heat waves. This argument, mind you, must take into consideration that warmer winters could alternatively see an increase in productivity to balance the concomitant decrease in the summer. However, is there any greater stimulus to activity than a slight chill in the air? These hypotheses need testing, though, which is unlikely to happen in the current political climate of economic cuts for research and development, and a stimulus plan that focuses almost entirely on construction (not all of it even necessary, at that).

Saturday, July 21, 2012

The End of the Line

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Saturday, July 14, 2012

Euclid on Space; Cat watches on.

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Wednesday, June 27, 2012

A Marxist Infographic on Law

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Friday, June 22, 2012

Philosophy Infographic

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Thursday, June 14, 2012

Morning's Glory

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The rhododendrons have grown six inches in the past two weeks. The winter cactus is blooming in spring. Chaz tested the irrigation system of the greenhouse for a leak. When he found it, he daubed a freeze-dry plastic out of a tube to plug the hole more or less permanently. Thank god for chemical engineering, he muttered to himself. He called out to the greenhouse foreman that it would need to cure for thirty minutes before they could turn the system on to water the plants. Some of them near the end points of the tube network were starting to look blanched, wilty.

He made a note to himself not to say that out loud, because he’d come as soon as he got the message. Central booking has been slacking, clearly. He tsked out loud, and a greenhouse attendant who he didn’t notice creeping up behind him asked him if he said something.

After starting slightly, Chaz excused himself and said he got here as soon as he could. The attendant, who introduced himself as Stan Klepton, responded that Chaz had saved the day around these parts, because Stan had noticed his boss’ visible relief when he learned Chaz could come on a Friday afternoon, so they could be all rarin’ to go on Monday without having to front-load the week by having to problem solve at its very outset. Chaz smiled at him and said he was glad he could help.

You know the plants. . . they listen to us you know. They feed off our stress.

Yeah, ok bud, Chaz thought to himself, put off. Who creeps up on person and says such weird shit! He walked past an enormous bulbous cactus that filled the background of the room with menace.

The word stress echoed in his mind after he left the nursery, and made a line for his pick-up truck, his keys jangling in his hand. He filled in the home visit report, and sat there, looking around. A man in the park across the street, dressed in the orange jumpers of city workers, was buzzing the corners with a weed whacker, sending dandelions, ditch weeds and clover flying. Some grass inevitably got in the way, but for how high it was; it definitely was not “friendly fire.”

He put on his bluetooth in preparation for the drive, started his truck, revved the engine a bit to check for odd sounds, and then pulled out slowly into traffic, while putting on his seatbelt. He hit HQ on his speed dial, and after two rings Masia picked up.

Hi Masie, I just finished the Anderson nursery job. It was a simple patch-up, nothing too dramatic. I’m checking in to see whether there have been any more assignments, or am I good to go for the weekend? My monthly report is on schedule.

Ok Chaz, I’ll let Bill know. Nothing has come in at all since you last checked in, and Bill made sure to tell me to let you go for the weekend, and he said to enjoy your weekend in Haliburton.

Great! That’s good news Masie, thanks for the message. I’m in traffic here, so I’m going to wish you a happy weekend too and sign off for the week.

Will do Chaz, see you on Tuesday.

Sure thing Masie, goodbye.

He pulled onto the Allen expressway and made for the 401. He had packed for the long weekend at the cottage; since Jessica was in Boston on business he arranged to meet Jason Kemp at the cottage for a weekend of fishing, beer-drinking, and college reminiscing.  After the kink of the 400 clover leaf, it looked like heavy traffic. Sirius radio was just installed, so there was that. Howard Stern bought up all the shares of that right quick. A slight fatigue grew inside him, swelling behind his eyes. Look forward, he retrained his eyes. Signs, sky, the oak ridge disappearing behind him in glacial mounds, former shoreline of a sea far larger than the present lake. Chunks of rock started to wall in the highway as it traversed the Shield. A slight jaunt west on seven, up 135 past buckhorn lake and he would be there. The fishing show he had just watched, River Monsters, idled in his thoughts as he drove, as well as a youtube video of a pike snapping at a fisherman’s hand. Yawning fish mouths traversed his imagination as he drove. Traffic suddenly slowed, and it was a half an hour wait to get through a bottleneck caused by a severe accident. Blood smeared the pavement lightly, drag marks prominent; EMS was on the scene.

That was a sobering thing, he thought as he merged back into traffic, and shifted in his seat to get more comfortable. The first dirt road he entered was quiet, not even a birdsong, but soon strange shapes started to appear out of the woods. A burnt scarecrow hanging, broken bodied above the road -- he’d been on this road hundreds of times, and he had never seeen anything like that. He hoped a satanic cult hadn’t moved in next door, but he didn’t see anyone as he reached the 1.2 km driveway to his secluded cabin and manouevred his truck slowly down the rocky terrain.

Five years ago he had bought a small landing between two huge shears of rock, on which there was a small but elegantly designed cabin. The parking area was perched about 10 meters above the cabin, and stairs zig zagged between the rock; the lake's light blue-green susurrated beyond. It was the best purchase of his life, he thought, as he walked down the steps, feeling more and more relaxed. Jason was nowhere to be seen, even though Chaz had seen Jason’s sister’s saturn parked on the side of the driveway. There was a pulley system for moving luggage up and down the granite monolith underneath which, his log cabin sat placidly, complete with hot water and tv; he was proud of that pulley.  As he reached the wrap-around deck that enveloped the house in a hexagram of regular rectangle shapes, seen from above, Chaz remembered the summer he had built the cottage with his father; he used to have strategems to become an architect.

He found Jason at the front of the house, on the deck, looking out over the lake, which was spotted here and there with rugged outcrops of rock:  little jagged islands. The sun hung low in the late afternoon stratum; they were shielded from this apocalypse by a bigger pine-covered island, some of the trees towering over seventy feet above the rock. They could see Cedars spindled about along its edges, their muscular roots clinging to the rock, tenacious. A cloud passed over the drooping sun, momentarily darkening their reunion. Something was very different about his college friend

Some people have the quality of chameleons: their moods, their clothes, their faces, their hair, even their accessories seemed to change so much, and yet despite all this they seem to slip into the background of every gathering; they wear make-up and talons, their faces look this way and that in a maelstrom of expressions. They tended to make others around them feel more powerful. Jason was one such person

He took Jason’s hand warmly, and patted his shoulder, then together they looked out over the lake, commented on its beauty.

Jason spoke first:

Saw some fish jumping the twilight.

I don’t doubt it, I said as I noted the cloud of mosquitoes around Jason’s head, and his periodic swats around the air around him.

These bugs make it hard to enjoy a beautiful sunset. There’s beers pre-chilled in the fridge for you.

Thanks. I'm going to go use that pulley to get the weekend’s supplies down here.

When he returned a beer waited for him in a frosted glass. Jason’s not usually this nice; something must be up. His mother has cancer? His daughter has a fever?

Did you see that scarecrow thing when you came in? Chaz asked as soon as he could. Jason smiled strangely at his friend’s question.

No, what are you talking about?

Hanging in the trees, like an effigy, a burnt scarecrow. Like a scarecrow skeleton.

You need to lay off the drugs, bro!

A chill ran down my spine in the early spring evening air.

You aren’t trying to pull some Blair Witch shit on me, are you?

Jason laughed heartily. Relax, man. The neighbour’s daughter is probably some emo-goth chick and is trolling you hard.

My nearest neighbour is two bays across the lake, I told him.

You’re not going to rape me or anything like that, are you?

You wish!

His quickly emptied first beer was replaced by Jason, who nursed a mojito with the corner of his mouth. The leaves of a huge potted palm in the sunburst lobby at the front of the middle part of the cabin, enclosed by specially treated glass that dispersed light, but insulated well, hung heavily in the room. Jason immediately took the position in the room best for viewing the magnificent palm.

Oh, that reminds me! I brought you a reunion present. Don’t worry if you didn’t get me one, because it’s a pretty ridiculous occasion for a gift. But I remembered you had this wonderful palm, and I saw this new miracle grow formula advertized on television, and I thought it would be a perfect thing for your palm. His speech was quick and unshakeably certain.

Might reduce all the dried leaves; he looked at Chaz sideways. That was among its guarantees, so you’ll have to keep me updated.

Thank you Chaz said, appreciation in his voice mixed with an uncomfortable curiosity.  He strolled into the living room, where the sun burst started, after chipping open another beer. He stared at the birds, in little clouds like schools of fish flicker in and out of the window frames. Behind him, he heard Jason rip open the miracle grow, sprinkle it in the palm’s soil, and then water it.

Chaz fired up the hot tub that was between the cottage and the halved rock behind it; the crickets were out in force. A couple frog songs emerged and echoed off the hard surface above them. He unpacked the groceries for the weekend: some steaks for bbqing, some chicken wings, some cheese and crackers, some veggies for skewers, he stocked up the bathrooms with toiletries, then slid out of his clothes and put on his swimsuit. Usually he would just go naked, but he was a little unsure of that because Jason was here. With a towel draped over his shoulder, Chaz made his way to the hot tub with another beer, and another mojito for Jason, who came out five minutes later. The stars by that point had already come out in their glory; Jason too was naked. Chaz felt a little sheepish about that, so he asked Jason to get a bag of chips from the cupboard above the stove, and he slipped his swimsuit off and hid it behind the control panel for the tub. They soaked quietly for a minute or two, sipping their drinks and staring into the great beyond, arms stretched out, facing one another. Steam rose from the water and hid their faces from one another in a melting mask. After twenty minutes, the heat broke Chaz, and he hopped out carefully, testing himself for dizziness. The cool air against Chaz’s body was invigorating and rejuvenating, as if every evil had been burned from his body and now floated off into the lovely and comforting air; a falling star streaked the sky above the cottage as he re-entered it. When Chaz passed the palm on the way to the kitchen for drink refills, he swore that it had four branches that hadn’t been there before the miracle grow. He saw that Jason had spilled some of the grow formula on the floor, so he swept it up and took it to the back yard to dump it; it was best to reduce the garbage they had to drag all the way up to where the driveway joined the county road. The four extra branches struck him as strange as he wandered wearily back out to the hot tub with a tray that hooked onto the edge. On it he put his beer, Jason’s mojito, and some dip and veggies to accompany their chips. They ate, drank, and listened to the waves lapping the shore on the other side of the cabin before they started to reminisce.

Jason was quite the player back then, so most of the stories were about his sexual adventures in which either I or one of his other friends played the wingman.

Chaz sometimes tried to change the topic of conversation by asking about Jason’s wife. Divorced last year, apparently. He asked him if he intended to resume his player lifestyle, and suggested he needed a new wingman because Chaz’s relatively new familial responsibilities almost automatically disqualified him. Kids change the way you smell, and single women can smell it on you. When that didn’t work, he asked if Jason had run into or heard from Glen, another one of our college buddies. This launched him on to his Vegas adventures with Glen, but he ended up admitting he had lost track of Glen too.

Do you think he’s married by now?

Pshhhhh! Glen? Do you remember how awkward he was with women?

Do you think he’s gay?

No, he’s just one of those forever alone people. Undateable, but a great friend to either gender.
After our fourth drink, Chaz suggested getting out of the hot tub before we passed out, and either going for a walk along the small pebble beach skirting the rock wall, or watching a movie. Jason surprised Chaz by endorsing the latter option. They brought a bottle of tequila, a barbeque lighter, some paper for a fire, and a couple logs for a fire, thrown haphazardly in a canvas rudsack.

Wandering out on to the windy beach, they walked sloppily on the smooth pebbles with their loads. Just past the point where the rock rescinded into dark woods, where strange hooting and muted bellowing periodically emerged and disappeared, they found a familiar alcove in the rock, with fallen trees that had washed up on the beach after travelling on the longshore drift. These logs formed perfect benches between which they could build the fire.

Jason made a stone circle, dug up the sand to make a hole, and Chaz went to collect kindling from the woods for the fire. The air was quite cool by now, so he hurried about his task and soon brought an armful of kindling, dumping it beside the ring of stones. Jason had placed sticks parallel and perpendicular, making what they called in boy scouts a log cabin. Inside, Chaz placed a teepee of dried grass, twigs, and small branches. Around the whole thing, they built a much larger teepee with bigger branches, and then Chaz lit the kindling; they watched the fire consume their elaborate construction.

Orange fire-cules wafted up on the mysterious air movements fire makes with the wind. The tequila slowly disappeared and their laughs drowned out the coos and riddles of the woods’ inhabitants. A loon called out in the night’s darkness. They did their damnedest to imitate them, blowing wind through different configurations of their fingers, like their friend Glen used to, but the most they could manage was an eerie whistle. Mostly it just resulted in them falling over laughing.

An osprey called out in the accumulating mist, and a chill went down Chaz’s spine again. Two hours later,  their conversation slowed and stopped, replaced by intermittant snores, but the movement of their bodies easing off the log always caused them to wake up again. Finally, they decided it was time to return to the cabin for bed, and they noted a mist had enveloped the entire lake; Jason estimated he could only see two metres into the heavy fog. They left their garbage, promising to collect it in the morning.

Chaz woke up once in the night; through the skylight, towards the hills rising on the other side of their little bay he saw a scarecrow, on fire. He blinked, and light traces of it remained. But it was not the same. The windows were open because he was like a furnace at night. He heard people calling across the lake, scared. A local air raid siren bleeped and then fell silent. He sat as still as he could in his bed, listening for new developments, daring hardly to breathe. But nothing; sleep came easily again as his liver worked out his stupor. He dismissed it as a nightmare as he dozed back to sleep.

Chaz woke to a scream; he practically jumped into a pair of clean underwear, and rushed into the sunburst. Before he even got there, he saw undulating forms pass through the opening of the stairway. Jason screamed again, horribly.

Chaz called out his name, hesitant to go down to where those slithering and wriggling stems were doing god knows what to Jason.

Jason called Chaz desperately. Chaz ran down the stairs, and faced his palm, which had doubled in size over the night:  the leaves seemed alive, swallowing Jason in tight rolls. It looked like a terrible hydra spreading out of his solarium to occupy the living room as well. Luckily, the stairs to the basement were right around the corner from the stairway to the bedrooms upstairs. He could get some weaponry from the basement – a spade or a pick, or something. A chainsaw.

He slipped around the corner, glued to the wall, and opened the door to the basement. He jumped down the stairs three at a time, scanned the room in a frenzy, and found his chainsawt. He tested it; two pulls of the cord passed before the grating noise revved through the low empty basement. He let it settle to a malicious growl, and then he ran up the stairs, opened the door, and flung the chainsaw against the first plant limb he found. The plant dropped Jason, all its tendrils aimed towards the source of the hurt. Chaz withdrew quickly, not wanting to anger the creature his palm had become. He hugged the walls, holding the humming chainsaw up in front of his chest. Jason was hurt; he didn’t get up. He had stopped making sounds altogether, actually.

The plant limbs danced in front of Chaz irritably, and he leaned the chainsaw under the kitchen table, before rolling out and crawling towards Jason. He got him by his armpits and dragged him to the hiding spot under the kitchen table, so he could get his weapon again if necessary. Apparently, it wasn’t necessary because the plants limbs were slithering only around the one decapitated end, confused by pain’s first little explosions.

Chaz shook Jason firmly to resuscitate him. He woke up, but he was groggy, as if the plant had drugged him.

Jason, we gotta get out of here.

Before he could finish his sentence, a limb flashed out like a whip and seized Jason by the ankles, dragging him mercilessly towards the palm, and his head hit everything behind him. A giant mouth in the trunk of the palm tree swallowed Jason whole. Chaz sprawled over the floor, rolled and broke out into a run out of the door to the hot tub and the stairs. As he passed the threshold, however, the morning glory on the trestle hanging from the upper-level deck grabbed him and stung him with electric poison. He called out for help as loud as he could, and he heard a response a few moments later from across the lake.

Plant problems, son?

It was the last thing he heard before the morning glory, in collusion with the solitary pine in his back yard, made a meal of him.

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Photographs of Found Alphabeticals: Z

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Photographs of Found Alphabeticals: T

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