monoceros blogsIt's never too late for anything, people say. As I told a friend - "a rare connection with another person or exhilarating exploration late in life? Take your pick."
Synopsis -
New Yorker Harvey Shine is on the verge of losing his dead-end job as a jingle writer. Warned by his boss that he has just one more chance to deliver, Harvey goes to London for a weekend to attend his daughter’s wedding but promises to be back on Monday morning to make an important meeting—or else. Harvey arrives in London only to learn his daughter has chosen to have her stepfather walk her down the aisle instead of him. Doing his best to hide his devastation, he leaves the wedding before the reception in hopes of getting to the airport on time, but misses his plane anyway. When he calls his boss to explain, he is fired on the spot. Drowning his sorrows at the airport bar, Harvey strikes up a conversation with Kate, a slightly prickly, 40-something employee of the Office of National Statistics. Kate, whose life is limited to work, the occasional humiliating blind date and endless phone calls from her smothering mother, is touched by Harvey, who finds himself energized by her intelligence and compassion. The growing connection between the pair inspires both as they unexpectedly transform one another’s lives.
"Last Chance Harvey" reminds me of "Before Sunrise" but it's an encounter that takes place for the pair a little later in life. Does it matter? The encounter seems to be just as rare and beautiful.
And then there's exploration. Via balloons. Without leaving the comfort of your house. Because if you're 78, why should you give that up? Carl Fredricksen is finally fulfilling the promise he made his wife when they were very young - to travel to South America. But she probably didn't expect him to do it balloon-style.
The Shining, by Badly Drawn Boy (as heard in the trailer)
Tonight We Fly, by The Divine Comedy
In 1998, my father was in Sim Lim Square and came across what seemed to be a popular game, so he bought a copy and sent it to me in Ann Arbor, and I began playing Tomb Raider. Ten years later, I still get the same thrill watching her enter a flame-lit cavern or encounter a nasty undead creature. Now, my brother is tempting me with the latest version - Tomb Raider Underworld for PS3 - but I'm certain I won't be able to complete it by the end of my visit.
I'll just relish vicarious adventures via the trailer, until I get a PC version of the game, or until I set off on an awfully big adventure of my own, though I'm certain I won't get to wander through jungles or dive into underground lakes or handle Uzis or Desert Eagles.
Gorecki, by Lamb
Main theme for Tomb Raider Underworld, by Troels B. Folmann
That first line certainly stopped my heart because of how true it is. I read it in an article by Jeanette Winterson, whose work - The Passion - I read as a freshman in college. I still remember it well.
DSD turned 30 this past Friday and I gave her a book of poetry not for pleasure but for survival - and hope - for the years to come. I love Alain de Botton's The Consolations of Philosophy for down-in-the-doldrums days, but I love even more the hand of poetry that never fails to rise from the page and take my own gently in empathy or grasp and shake me till better sense arrives.
"Art lasts because it gives us a language for our inner reality, and that is not a private hieroglyph; it is a connection across time to all those others who have suffered and failed, found happiness, lost it, faced death, ruin, struggled, survived, known the night-hours of inconsolable pain." ~ Jeanette Winterson
Like many who've already said so or written about it, I thought John McCain's concession speech was extremely gracious, sincere, and moving. In Time magazine, Michael Scherer wrote that McCain ended his campaign as he'd begun it - on his own terms. In between, the brave and decent man Americans drew close to in 2000 was lost. But on the night of November 4th, he returned in full form. How good too, that Barack Obama took time to acknowledge and praise McCain in his victory speech.
Both men ended their speeches with fitting music. I cannot listen to both pieces again without remembering everything I've read and seen in the past day.
And yes - to a friend who asked - those words, and then the music...the combination left me breathless and tearful.
Titans Spirit, by Trevor Rabin, from "Remember the Titans" (heard at the end of Obama's victory speech)
Roll Tide, by Hans Zimmer, from "Crimson Tide" (heard at the end of McCain's concession speech)
I completely missed the moment when the networks began calling the election. I missed the victory speech. I missed the concession speech. I missed the roars of triumph, of joy. I missed the tears, the embraces, the music that played as the president-elect took the stage (imaginary, because in fact, there was none). And all because I was teaching a lesson on adjective phrases and when to use the simple present tense instead of the present continuous.
At one in the afternoon, I wished I were thousands of miles away in San Francisco with my brother, who heard the fireworks go off, or in Chicago, one of my favorite cities in the world, on which, at the moment, nearly every eye - and heart - was fixed. Or Ann Arbor, where old friends thronged in election parties held at cafes I used to haunt.
But I had a class to teach, a test to administer, and papers to grade. I took a quick peek at a video of Obama's victory speech, I exchanged a few lines with an ecstatic Tiggie in Twin Cities, I marveled at the electoral map. Though I yearned to call F, who I expect was in tears in Logan, Utah, I didn't. It would have been impossible to keep the call short.
So I missed out and I was a little disappointed. Yes, there are a number of things within my quiet life that I'm disappointed with but I'm glad for so much that's without, and what it could mean. There is cause for hope. There are possibilities. The world seems new again.
People Get Ready, by Eva Cassidy
A Change Is Gonna Come, by Ben Sollee
Beautiful Day, by U2
"Lessons," by Pat Schneider
I have learned
that life goes on,
or doesn't.
That days are measured out
in tiny increments
as a woman in a kitchen
measures teaspoons
of cinnamon, vanilla,
or half a cup of sugar
into a bowl.
I have learned
that moments are as precious as nutmeg,
and it has occurred to me
that busy interruptions
are like tiny grain moths,
or mice.
They nibble, pee, and poop,
or make their little worms and webs
until you have to throw out the good stuff
with the bad.
It took two deaths
and coming close myself
for me to learn
that there is not an infinite supply
of good things in the pantry.
No, there isn't an infinite supply of good things in any one person's pantry, but I believe there is such a supply in the collective pantry of a community, of a nation, of the world. There will always be at least one good thing you can find outside of yourself and it won't be impossible to receive it. A person can hope, anyway.
Right now, I feel particularly hopeful about the collective spirit of a nation (even if it isn't mine), and heartened by the givingness of the people who are unflappable in their belief in something larger than themselves. There's been so much energy and excitement for the campaign of a transformational figure, a man with a message of hope and change, an intellectual, a family man, a reader of Emerson, a thoughtful and inspiring orator who uses great metaphors in speeches, a man who loves his grandmother, and who has holes in the soles of his shoes but dances (though not quite as well as his awesome wife) sportingly on The Ellen Degeneres Show.
When I talked to F over the weekend, I spoke of how inspired I was reading about the acts of volunteerism for Barack Obama - the canvassing, the donations, the phonecalls - and the numbers that show up to listen at rallies, the unexpecteds who've cross party lines, who've been canvassing with people so different from themselves but don't mind at all because they share a great hope that they can make a difference and create the change they all yearn for. To have that opportunity is so rare.
Even F was moved by it all, not least by the notable candidate himself, who F confessed had nearly moved him to tears with one of his speeches earlier this year. F was voting early, and he remarked on how important an event it was for him, going to the booth and physically placing his vote.
I'm glad I'm here to witness all of this, even if I'm half a world away. I'll be glued to NPR, Salon.com, and NYT updates all Wednesday between my lessons.
A last note on lessons - this mini essay was one of the top stories on Yahoo yesterday. It's about what Jonathan Curley learned when he canvassed for Barack Obama.
I read this essay on Sunday and it engaged my deep belief of the importance of reading. Politicians will have their beliefs and their stands, which I may agree or disagree with, but they'll always have my respect if they number reading as one of their great passions. The respect comes not from having someone else share a love of literary pursuits; it comes from recognizing how reading is able to shape a person - we are what we read.
Through reading we open our minds to new ideas; we learn to empathize and discover we are not alone; we come to greater knowledge and understanding of the world, and perhaps even admire cultures other than our own. Inside a book, we can escape, be someone else, know ourselves a little better, and emerge a better version of ourselves. Every book is an emotional and intellectual journey, and if we keep taking those journeys, we keep alive our intellectual curiosity and imagination, and expand our capacity for wonder and inspiration.
Books - of fiction and non-fiction - enlarge our knowledge of the landscape within us and the world without. We would all do well to know ourselves better, and when so much of the world without - from Qatar to Myanmar to Brazil - has links to even a small island nation, when citizens of other countries come to live among us, when we leave for other shores, knowing just a little bit more about the world - wanting to know more about the world and its people - is no small asset. But schools here have cut back on literature classes and I can't remember any local politician who took the time this year to talk about a book he or she loved (I'd love to be corrected on this; I will also say that in an interview with Time magazine in 2005, Lee Kuan Yew enthused about the 17th-century Spanish novel Don Quixote, which is wonderful, but how many Singaporeans read the interview?).
The library has reading campaigns, but if they really want the public to start reading or read more, they should have several notable (beloved or feared, depending on how you see it) politicians talk about the books that have inspired them. This will really get the nation going, seeing as how we too often look to the government for guidance and assistance. Of course, it would be terrific if our politicians didn't just mention Machiavelli or The Art of War but also listed literary titles - fiction, philosophy, memoirs - that show they are capable of understanding the everyman plight or what it means to be human and fragile in this culture and others. If we had politicians who could display even an ounce of passion about reading literature from little and well-known cultures, it might inspire the people of our sheltered city-state to learn about the world beyond our shores and not be trapped within the small worlds we've constructed for ourselves.
Even parents can disappoint. They may harp all they like about their children not reading but if they have no passion for it themselves, they can hardly expect their children to pick up a book. If they don't leave spaces for books around the home, they can't expect their children to make reading a part of their everyday lives. Busy Singaporean parents may not appear to have a lot of time to read, but they're setting a bad example if they don't make the time to read. Or read voraciously.
Perhaps parents - and some teachers - see reading only as a tool to construct academic success. But reading shouldn't be an educational commodity; it should be embraced and loved for more than that, for the reasons stated above. If parents and teachers understood this more, they would read more and find it much easier to enlarge the reading appetite of children, as would any politician concerned about the emotional and intellectual well-being of Singapore's citizens.
"The habit of reading is caught, not taught," said Joan Anim-Addo at the Royal Society of Literature Review's discussion of "Literature for Life." The people in positions of authority - politicians, parents, teachers - need to have passion for reading in the first place before they can pass it on to children. And they need to show it. Children are experts at detecting false and insincere behavior, so there's no point in telling them to do something we don't already do or actually appreciate for the right reasons.
The following advice is aimed at children, but I think it's just as applicable to adults in their choice of reading material, be it their umpteenth selection or their very first.
Ben Orki - 10½ Inclinations
1. There is a secret trail of books meant to inspire and enlighten you. Find that trail.
2. Read outside your own nation, color, class, gender.
3. Read the books your parents hate.
4. Read the books your parents love.
5. Have one or two authors that are important, that speak to you; and make their works your secret passion.
6. Read widely, for fun, stimulation, escape.
7. Don't read what everyone else is reading. Check them out later, cautiously.
8. Read what you're not supposed to read.
9. Read for your own liberation and mental freedom.
10. Books are like mirrors. Don't just read the words. Go into the mirror. That is where the real secrets are. Inside. Behind. That's where the gods dream, where our realities are born.
10½. Read the world. It is the most mysterious book of all.
Getting an interview on NPR is akin to hitting gold. Sales of books or albums usually rise after the author or musician appears on NPR. But in the case of Ximena Sariñana, excitement in the indie world began a little earlier when iTunes offered one of her songs as a freebie. Her debut album is called "Mediocre," but the lyrics - I read a translation, of course - of the title song are anything but so; they pointedly express the tragedy of mediocrity and a lack of individuality.
As an indie singer-songwriter who's on the crossover path, Ximena has a nice mix of influences in her music - jazz, rock, and a little pop (but minimal; it's almost subversive pop). Her voice, sans vibrato, packs a wallop, which may come as a surprise because Ximena is a pretty small person. Perhaps I like her all the more because of it. And I certainly like how she makes this quirky rendition of "Volare" completely hers. She just about eats up the song.
Mediocre, by Ximena Sariñana
Un Error, by Ximena Sariñana