dreams from above

[plugs]

Last Thursday evening, I was up at our new North York office, attending the annual service award party. Even though the whole event was situated in the empty pre-renovated shell, the party was considerably better than last year’s at the Hockey Hall of Fame. Last year we had hot dogs and hamburgers, and I spent most of the time wandering around, plate of food in hand, looking for a place to stand and eat and dodging anyone with a camera. Photo in front of the Stanley Cup with my officemates? No, I’ll pass. This year, we actually had tables and the food was decent. I also got my 5 year service award, reminding me that I had actually survived 5 years, which is a considerable feat, when I remember wanting to quit after the first week of training. At the stage, I forgot to take the duck award as I shook hands with my new VP, and then had to juggle the award to my left hand, when I shook hands with the EVP, who had warmly offered to buy me tomorrow’s coffee at the Starbuck’s where I see him most mornings. The Canadian CEO shook my hand, but I think he called me James.

Quacky, the five year survivor immunity idol

Hot–Lunch was recently musing about jobs and if anyone actually liked their jobs. When I consider all of the people I know, I can’t say I know anyone who sincerely loves their jobs. I know quite a lot of people who loathe their jobs, but love? Maybe like. Maybe just the really ambitious ones. But there is more to life than one’s career. I mean, there’s got to be, right?

It’s also that time of year where my boss (three different ones in two years), drags me into a meeting room to talk about my performance appraisal. I have had no complaints, but this year, it’s time not to just evaluate where I’m going, but actually decide to begin going somewhere. Since starting my work life, I’ve avoided investing a whole lot in my work. I didn’t want to work too hard for fear of being trapped in a career path I didn’t exactly wanted. At the same time though, I’m ambitious and full of myself. I think I know it all, and so it pains me to watch some of my colleagues climb the corporate ladder to further spread their incompetence. Truly, deadwood floats to the top. (Okay, I’m just kidding, but the slight tone of bitterness is indeed sincere.) Where am I going? I ask myself. When I think about it, I realize I’m not going anywhere, because where I want to go, depends on my ability to write. That’s right, I want to write.

I admire people who like what they do. They may not like their employers or they may hate the freelance world, but they are doing what they love. I envy people who get to create and who try to make something of it. I admire people who take risks and follow their dreams. And I don’t mean become the greatest accountant, lawyer, CEO, or what have you, in the world’s biggest transnational blood-sucking corporate empire. (No, I’m not referring to my employer. We’re not the big evil empire. Yet.)

Here are a few people who are doing things I admire.

Last month’s newspaper articles were filled with stuff about Serafin. Serafin is a singer, a songwriter, a playwright and an arts journalist. Talk about multi-talented. We've been corresponding for quite some time, and one day I got to listen to Serafin’s version of The Crying Game. It's beautiful and torchy. His voice is quite moving. (And his newspaper interviews are pretty good too.) I’m often jealous of how immediate song and performance can be. It takes so much work and sweat for the reader just to get through the writing, to arrive at that same point where a song can touch the soul. Anyway, a CD has just been launched. Highly recommended.

Y2 is a photographer. He does commercial photography and has studied at the Tokyo Visual Arts School (hope I got the right link). I think his portraits are wonderful, when he turns his eye to his artistic side. I've been thinking we should get him to do some portraits for the condo. Something interesting with our families and friends. I wish I could do photography well, or even do cinematography. We are such products of a visual age, that I often find myself trying to paint pictures with words.

If you’re looking for a wedding photographer, check out his website, Yasu Photo. You can rent a kimono if you want a Japanese style wedding. If you’re lucky, Y2 will throw in Y as an assistant for free!

Y models something fierce, baby!

Y2 adjusts joe, while joe thinks, "God, I need some hot manservants to dress me for my wedding."

Tyra says I'm not America's next top model. Burn that Tyra mail!

Oh, and the photos were shot by joe and Y. Y2 would've made us look better.

In restless dreams I walked alone

[silence]

On Remembrance Day Friday, we had observed 2 minutes of silence to remember those who had sacrificed their lives in battle defending our country. While we have witnessed such recent wars as the Gulf war, the war on terrorism and the Iraq pre-emptive strikes, (not to mention Star Wars, the nanny wars and the softwood lumber trade wars), Remembrance Day seems mostly to remember the veterans of World War II. So, as I stood at my desk (we were in the middle of a badly timed impromptu gathering), I observed my 2 minutes silence wondering what other people thought during these two minutes. I thought of our soldiers overseas now in Afghanistan, the veterans at various memorials across the nation, the young recruits in bases training, and I thought of my colleagues, my neighbours, the strangers on the street and I wondered whether they saw the same people, the same soldiers, the same images that flicker across the television screen on the news that evening.

Does anyone say a prayer? How many times do you recite a prayer to make two minutes? Do you remember someone close, who has been touched by war? Or maybe you remember a comrade, who has fallen? Or do you reflect upon the state of the world today, and shed a tear for how far we’ve gotten? Sometimes I just don’t know what to do in the silence.

Growing up, silence was a tool to use in the great war between us, the kids, and the parental units. While my parents gave us quite a lot of space, they still subscribed to the idea that children (no matter what the age, whether 10 or 40) were only allowed to discuss things on the understanding that, well, the kids don’t really understand anything, and that my father had the final word. Mind you, he often didn’t care to have the final word, but when he did, it was like a judgement from the Supreme Court of Canada, without a notwithstanding clause available. I learned quickly that fighting wasn’t as important as choosing the right battles to fight, but being a headstrong, inflexible, opinionated young child/teenager, I had to fight back each time. Giving them all the silent treatment was the most effective passive/aggressive defense I could muster. For many children, the silent treatment meant that the parents needed to redouble their efforts to discuss (and persuade) whatever issues they had with the aggrieved child. In my family, Joe being silent meant back off and let me be in a foul mood, because no matter what you say, I know I’m right. I annoyed the parental units because I would carry on being right, looking down upon them as children who haven’t grown up. Childishly, the final word was my defiant silence.

When Y and I were together, just starting out as two very young and poor students, it took a lot of self-reflection to break that silence. We saw eye-to-eye on a lot of things and we were usually closer in our opinions than oppose, so that we rarely ever fought. When we did though, I found myself mute with anger. Instinctively, or perhaps out of horrible habit, I gave Y my impenetrable silence. He was always willing to listen, I wasn’t always ready to talk. Thankfully, it didn’t end that way. Over time and much thinking during these silent moments, I learned how to say how I felt, articulate the anger in a way that at least helped move us forward, if not solved our issues outright. We’ve continued to be friends because, I think, I’ve learned to hold back that silence.

In writing, I tried to express this silence. In prose, I often found it hard to eloquently use silence to convey that pause, that tide of intransigent refusal to communicate, that moment of awareness that is perfect, all those things that silence can mean. In poetry, I could use the comma, the white space, a perfectly placed word. But how do you write that silence in a short story? In a play, you can just write the word “pause” as instruction. But write in a novel and it can look like trite.

Harold Pinter used his pause to great fame. I’m not a Pinter fan, but definitely a fan of David Mamet. To hear his plays read aloud is like listening to strange music. (His movies, on the other hand, are imperfect pieces.) It is both artificial and perfectly attuned to a certain rhythm of speech. Unfortunately, I borrowed all my Mamet plays from a colleague years ago and have nothing now to refer to. (Christmas present anyone? :-) ) Otherwise, I’d quote something other than from Glengarry Glen Ross to demonstrate how important the pause is. The lines could be read quickly, overlapping, to convey a sense of tension. But pay attention to the pauses, the breaks that the playwright is demanding from the actors. What is the silence replacing?

In writing dialogue, the silent pause can convey so much, a synecdoche of meaning. To say nothing can say so much. Perhaps the function of silence can only be best used in prose that speaks, like dialogue, or in verse that sings, like poetry. Or perhaps I’m simply not talented enough to stay quiet in my fiction.

There is, of course, the other side of silence.

"The cruellest lies are often told in silence." - Robert Louis Stevenson

silent photos

[photos]

The basilica was quiet. The nuns and priests were missing. Some more photos to enjoy from my flickr photostream.

Look up to the heavens.

Ignore the lady in red.