"Everything you add to the truth subtracts from the truth."

Alexander Solzehnitsyn

Photo: Habana #9

May (pt. 1: Cuba Libre)

As previously noted, I've had a work-reprieve this month. I cannot remember (outside of a slightly scary 3-month spat of unemployment in late 2001) when I've had more than a week off. So, fittingly, I wanted to do as much as possible with May as I could.

It started with my wife and I taking a well-deserved week's trip to Cuba. I was extremely nervous leading up to it, as the film I'd completed had some last-minute snags ("What's that? The print that went to Cannes has the wrong shot in it? [pause] Oh.") and I had nightmares of me having to check my email and cellphone messages from the Caribbean. Thankfully - and I must make this clear because someone deserves it - everyone has left me alone. It's as if I had a guardian angel come down from heaven and lift someone off the floor by their shirt in some office in L.A., saying to them "You mess with Cahill, and you're messing with Jesus, pal.". Or something like that.

It was my second time in Cuba, and my second at the same resort - a place on the outskirts of Havana province, about an hour's drive from Varadero. It was my wife's first trip, however. Her first trip, as well, to a country that inherently spoke neither English nor French. Of course, on the resort they do (even German - in fact, one of our guides was fluent in Czech). I'm not necessarily a "resort" person (though I will reflexively take the free drinks and snorkeling any day of the week), however I knew that the location of the place was central enough to allow us the latitude of taking day trips to Havana city and other areas. In other words: beach, drinks, sun, snorkeling, and the freedom to escape.

Our first outing was a morning hike, led by a guide, up the hill (250 ft.) that was directly south of the resort. A steep climb that claimed many. However, at the top, we were able to walk through some local farms where they processed sugar cane, fruits, and whatever crops were possible in the bone-dry soil (it being just prior to their rainy season).

Our second outing was Havana. I love Havana. It's hard not to love it there. Yes, it's dirty, sometimes smelly, and some of the locals like to prey on turistas. That said, in many respects, it's a world frozen in time (like much of the country). Beautiful architecture, friendly people.

Our third outing was in a small port city, called Matanzas. It only recently opened itself up to tours and at times we found ourselves being stared at like aliens. As luck would have it, we were there for The World's Longest Rumba. Apparently, a group of people were going across the country, from town to town, performing live rumba. It was amazing, which brings me to another thing I love about Cuba: the music. Even the potentially corny mariachi bands are amazing. Even if you've heard Guantanamera (trans: "girl from Guantánamo") ten thousand times and feel as if you can retire it from your memory, you'll still find your foot tapping under the table when it's played there. Matanzas was a treat. Our guide - the one who was fluent in Czech - took us a local farmers' market; a narrow maze of shacks where vendors sold fresh indigenous vegetables and grains, not to mention cuts of pork. Someone there handed us "ladies fingers" bananas (or "mini bananas") - de-lish-ous.

I love Cuba. It's a country of strange proportions; slightly surreal in the fashion of Latin American "fantastic reality" fiction. There are overpasses on the highway which remain unfinished after decades, old Soviet-era electricity generators which look like rust-bitten sci-fi nuclear reactors, short street dogs which roam the cities in curious packs. Unlike other countries I've been to, I must say that there are very few which can match Cuba for national pride. The people love their country - politics right or politics wrong - and this pride is immediately noticeable, regardless that the average monthly income is 350 Cuban pesos (roughly 15 Canadian dollars).

I wasn't there to investigate politics. No one there knows what to expect from Raul Castro, short of taking his word that he requires a year to generate ideas to take Cuba forward (though tempting, I thought it pretentious to put quotes around "ideas" and "forward"; I've decided to keep it all verbatim). The Cuban people have come out of a very, very dark time. After the fall of the Soviet Union, they were essentially abandoned by their largest trading partner in the early 90s, which meant disaster for a country who's main export was sugar cane; in other words, they were left to fend for themselves - another Haiti, albeit with a better music scene.

In the last decade they've managed to get back onto their feet economically, but it wasn't without a number of years of extreme hardship. We were told stories of what people subsisted on and it reminded me of what I'd read about the siege of Leningrad: people eating leather for nourishment, cat becoming an ingredient in restaurant food...fun stuff. Canada has become a welcome trading partner since, helping with the development of their oil resources. They now trade their abundance of skilled doctors for petrol with Venezuela. Their greatest export now (aside from educated/skilled workers) is nickel, which they trade extensively with China. Running third is tourism.

I was happy to contribute, as I certainly (and always) learn much in return.

Photo: Matanzas #5

The Best Forum Response Ever Written

So...I've got these speakers. Two tall, black PSB floor speakers, which incidentally choke about 6 square feet of space from our already cramped living room. In a vain attempt to re-purpose them, I thought to myself: wall mounts. That's the trick - I'll mount those two bastards off the floor and thus keep the speakers from being relegated.

So, like a late-20th century consumer, I proceeded to search the internet for said wall mounts (knowing in my mind that it was a lost cause, because I knew they would look ridiculous mounted on a wall - in a recording studio? sure, but not at home). It was then that I came across this thread on Yahoo Answers, where some doofus is asking how he can go about wall-mounting a (cheap) Logitech speaker system (ie. the sort used strictly for computers and not for any serious A/V purpose which requires aesthetics or the discernment of audio dynamics).

I glossed over the details of the first responder - a certain Mr. or Ms. "Faux Real" - only to realise that I was missing something very, very odd. So, I re-read the comment. Slowly. From the beginning. It was only then, snorting and giggling to myself, that I realised I'd found what is possibly the most hilariously sardonic forum response ever written.

At least I found it funny.

Book Review: England, England by Julian Barnes

"Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.". Those are the apocryphal words someone once spoke on their deathbed. I would up the ante and add that "Satire is harder".

As a writer, I've dabbled with satire, having only dedicated a small number of short stories to being "pure satire" (that is, not dipping in and out of some subplot for sake of levity/irony, but keeping the absurdity afloat throughout). On that note, I must continue to paraphrase others; I remember a late night classical radio announcer who was prompted to list his all-time favourite opera. I cannot recall the specific opera he listed as I'd never heard of it at the time. However, afterwards, he assuredly qualified the choice, saying "[...] Because it's very. Very. Short."

Satire in some respects is like opera. The shorter the better (within reason - I'm not lobbying for some new "blitz opera" or anything). The reason for this is that, if one is truly writing a "pure satire" (as I call it, noting that it does not necessarily mean "broad satire", though I would argue that most "broad" satires are "pure" by necessity), then one has to create an entire environment that is somehow consistently out-of-whack, which also means characters who have to live in said environment. In doing so, there is always a tension between the narrative and the audience as to how long we (that is, the audience) must endure the ruse; that the "comedic absurdity" be taut enough to hold our interest, but not so complex that our suspension of disbelief becomes a claustrophobic mess.

While I wouldn't call it a "pure satire", Julian Barnes' England, England is by-the-book enough to warrant leaning more in that direction than any other. It too, tends to suffer from "long opera" syndrome, ie. taking too much of a good thing and extending it into territories where the lightness (and broadness) of the satire seems incongruous to the author's need to explore the interior drama of its protagonist.

The setup is inspired: a wealthy, eccentric industrialist - Sir Jack Pitman - conspires to one last show-stopper to top off his (slightly dubious) career. His idea: use the Isle of Wight as a tourist attraction which distills everything that England is (to the imaginations of "Top Dollar" or "Long Yen" clients; those, in the words of Pitman, interested in "Quality Leisure"), under the pretence that England proper is too large and unsightly to provide a satisfactory arena. As Sir Jack muses early in the going, England's "tits have fallen".

We are introduced to the protagonist, Martha Cochrane, in a prologue, who later in the book is hired onto Pitman's planning committee. We are given a glimpse of her childhood, her streak of perfectionism/competitiveness (revealed between a jigsaw puzzle of England and her county's yearly farm fair), and the hole left by her father's sudden departure from the family.

The consistent conjecture throughout England, England is whether, after time, there is any substantial difference between the authentic article and the replica. This argument is addressed by several characters, from Pitman to his historical adviser (a part-time television host), to Martha - all of them, to Barnes' credit, putting their own spin on what often becomes a profound if aesthetically controversial discussion.

In the words of a French intellectual Pitman's team hires as a consultant: "[...] Once there was only the world, directly lived. now there is the representation - let me fracture that word, the re-presentation - of the world. It is not a substitute for that plain and primitive world, but an enhancement and enrichment, an ironisation and summation of that world. This is where we live today. A monochrome world has become Technicolor, a single croaking speaker has become wraparound sound. Is this our loss? No, it is our conquest, our victory."

In other words, how is art imitating life any different after time than life itself? Where does its boundaries begin and end? This is ultimately illustrated in a fascinating turn in the plot as, long after the Isle is converted to a exclusive tourist destination complete with WWII fighter pilots, Robin Hood, and an actual royal presence, the actors playing seemingly stereotypical characters begin to accept their roles as real. The farmers begin to farm, Robin's Merry Men make real demands, to the degree that a new civilization is almost formed in the process.

Yet, while I will not hesitate to point out that the first half of the novel, in particular the planning stages of what is to be called "England, England", is satiric gold - in Sir Jack, Barnes' has created a template of outrageous corruption who is not entirely unsympathetic - the rest of the book is a bit of a mess. First, we simply aren't introduced to Martha Cochrane's character - events: yes, personality: yes, history: yes - in a way that allows us to (for lack of a better word) give a shit about her anymore than the broadstroked Sir Jack, which wouldn't be a bad thing if his character were not a duplicitous clown. Martha is given a prologue, an epilogue, and even a love interest. And while there are beautifully characteristic passages relating her inner doubts, it's written so objectively that it seems the reader is being given access to her by proxy of the author (as opposed to the sort of intimacy one would normally expect). It's rather like being slipped notes in class when you wish what you were getting were in the lesson itself.

England, England (ISBN: 978-0375705502) is an odd combination of broad (laugh-out-loud) satire and eloquent philosophical musing on the nature of authenticity. As a whole, it simply doesn't work, but if you can overlook the weaknesses, the satirical side of Barnes' world is formidable and honestly hilarious. It is available at a good independently-owned bookstore near you, or online from any number of vendors.

Scribbled Notes on the Importance of Provocation

"Great art has dreadful manners..."

- Simon Shama

"It is important to have this idea in one's mind, because otherwise one fails to grasp the whole spirit of modern Science-Philosophy. It does not aim at Truth; it does not conceive of Truth (in any ordinary sense of the word) as possible; it aims at maximum convenience."

- Aleister Crowley

The enemy of philosophy is comfort, whether it be the philosophy of Art, Science, or Religion. I believe the aim should be truth seeking and its inevitable provocations, knowing that the process of seeking is fraught with necessary kludges and haphazard experimentation.

Knowledge is painful. Moving forward requires muscles, and muscles require exercise to stay useful. Tango dancers are not born, they practise themselves into being.

In the West, with the rise of the middle class after the Second World War, we increasingly have seen our lives surrounded - nay swaddled - in easy-to-access comforts: emotional, intellectual, spiritual.

Youths strictly consider university and college as a direct line toward employment and the beginning of their professional lives; the knowledge and the knowledge seeking of those institutions reduced to a utilitarian concept for sake of securing a Degree. When you graduate, it's all about your career, which becomes tied to money with the paying of debts, the purchasing of cars and houses, the investments for retirement. Along this linear path, comforts are sought to take our minds off this linearity; these comforts do not refute linearity but provide means to make the linearity easier. The lawnmower, for example.

And if one day, a biologist or a philosopher writes something which reiterates the natural chaos of our human lives, we frown and ignore it. Some of us will demand our money back (whether possible or not) and walk away in a huff to their air-conditioned livingroom/car.

Again, the seeking of truth leads to conceptual provocation and whatever truths we manage to unearth often come without directions for usage. But I will accept the kludges, the orphaned questions begging at the back of my head, if I feel that it brings us one step closer to knowing more about nature and human existence.

Post-Vacation Entry

A quick note for visitors that I'm here, rested, and getting back into the swing. Expect some photos from Cuba, a book review of Julian Barnes' England, England, along with thoughts, missives, and elaborations both benign and venomous.

I have the extraordinary comfort of having May off from work (not paid, but I'll take it), so though I may be blogging less whilst traipsing 'cross ye olde city, in the long-run it will be for the better. For both of us.

...

As if the horrific fire which afflicted the Queen West and Bathurst-area earlier this year weren't bad enough, I found myself today doing errands in those parts and, expecting to see the tobacco store - Westside Tobacco on the northeast corner - with its trademark wooden "Indian" out by the sidewalk, I instead happened upon a closed shop with a candlelit memorial in front of the entrance.

I looked up again and saw notes posted by the community on the windows and on the door. It didn't take much time for the tone of the notes to surrender the truth, that the owner was dead.

A note I read, the one which carried the most context for me, was printed from this blog.

The Drawing of Blood

Speaking with my wife last night, we came to the conclusion that U.S. Democratic Party nominee Barack Obama suffers from the same problem as that of the head of Canada's opposition Liberal Party, Stéphane Dion.

They are both intelligent, seemingly well-rounded people, who aim to represent, at least when compared with the rest of the politicians around them at the federal level, a different perspective.

Unfortunately, they both need to draw blood. And soon.

In Obama's case, fascinating though it may be for pundits, the current Democratic primary is turning into a farce. He's been in the lead, with both widespread party and public support. And yet, Hillary Clinton has been gaining on him. The problem is that, in being a nice, measured, principled man who doesn't want to get his hands dirty, he's allowing the other nominee to eat away at his chances to win the ticket. Clinton can get her hands dirty; she has, she can, and she will. This, combined with a persuasive argument that Obama isn't seasoned enough to work on a world stage, means that he must roll up his sleeves and "finish" his opponent. Strike the killing blow. Draw blood, lest he be the one whose blood is drained by her well-managed campaign.

With Monsieur Dion, it's a similar scenario. Elected leader of the opposition after the Liberal Party lost the last federal election to the Conservatives, he was - at the time - if not the most enigmatic choice, certainly the more seasoned, non-conflicted nominee. He's intelligent, savvy, experienced. Unfortunately, he's also wary of cameras, his English pronunciation is weak, and most importantly - thanks to a well-managed campaign by the reigning minority Conservative government - is made to look weaker by a series of "confidence motions" the Conservatives have strategically engineered in such a way as to create a poison pill for the Liberals. If they vote against the government on a confidence motion, there's a good chance there will be another federal election as a result (and all the money, time, and mud-slinging that comes with it). If Dion instructs the Liberals not to vote, they appear to have no backbone. Like Obama, Stéphane Dion must draw blood; an election in 2008, at this rate, is inevitable and he must show that he can punch back (as well as absorbing punches thrown at him).

Is there room for "nice" people in federal politics? Absolutely. There should be more: more disinterested, more historically aware, more cross-partisan politicians. That said, I would be remiss if I also didn't make it clear that no one wants a wimp leading their country, regardless of whether their wimpishness is a question of intelligence or willpower. Like checking out boxers' stats before a fight, we look for one thing and one thing only: can they finish their opponent?

This question looms large over the next year.

Photo: Parkdale Alley #3

Live In Toronto: update

For anyone in Toronto who didn't check out Pas Chic Chic back in April, they are playing tomorrow (May 3rd) as part of Over The Top Fest 2008 (note: there isn't a week in Toronto where there isn't some sort of film/music festival happening). They're at the WhipperSnapper Gallery (587a College St. 8PM. $8 @ the door).

Although I'm not likely to make it this time out due to other commitments, I enjoyed their previous show at The Drake, even though it was barely publicized. Mind you, neither is this one. I don't know what the issue is, and where the finger should be pointed, but for some reason the only publicity Pas Chic Chic gets is from fans, which is unfortunate as you'd think their label (or someone) would have a vested interest in getting the word out.

By the way, I managed to pick up their CD, Au Contraire - it's very good. I'm hoping (hint to anyone out there visiting who knows the band) they decide to share the lyrics with us someday soon, as my French isn't good enough to understand what's being sung half the time.

[May 8: Pas Chic Chic's label has provided feedback in the Comments to this post. Looks like the culprit is more complex than I'd guessed. Thanks for responding, guys!]