Monday, October 22, 2012

Lessons (A Personal Pseudo-Essay)

"Hunter-32, Hunter-32, this is Fanboy-7 requesting confirmation of target, are we clear to drop payload, over?"

"This is Hunter-32, target confirmed. Fanboy-7 you are clear to drop Some Personal Shit." 
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There was a quote from a movie I watched recently, one featuring the budding comedic genius of Adam Scott alongside the J.K Simmons called The Vicious Kind, which was ultimately a film about people making their choices, and subsequently living with said choices. And it's not a pretty film. There's pretty people, but you get to see the ugliness inside them. It's not that popular, but I'm positive its on Netflix.

Any Adam Scott fan should check it out, because his performance is the best thing about that movie -- you haven't seen his acting range until you've seen The Vicious Kind. Some awesome accompanying songs from Radical Face, who's amazing, to compliment the raw, bare energy of this character drama.

I'm telling you about this because I watched Argo at Rainbow Cinemas on Front and Jarvis a few hours ago; caught the late show after 8 hours of studying today for my midterm tomorrow, that I don't partcularily care about now that I've retyped my five weeks worth of notes. You know, I took Science Fiction for the hell of it, not even sure I'd get the credit. But I took it to learn something. And my professor -- but she likes to be refered to as Doctor -- opened her mouth the first week of class and ever since then she's chipped away at the only thing I really love in life. Thanks, university.

I mention The Vicious Kind firstly because of a quote that's pretty potent in thematic significance that JK Simmons' character says to his son (the one who is not Adam Scott-misogynist-crazy-version).
"Sometimes people do things they know they are wrong, but they just do them anyway. Because doing the right thing would be too painful." 
Thematically, that movie was strong as hell. This quote doesn't relate to the film, it directly relates to my life personally, and (indicating that the writer did their job with this specific line) every other person that watches this film. It's almost a universal truth, in my humble opinion. 

We are humans. We are capable of thinking intelligently -- but intelligently doesn't necessarily mean an objective moral structure of right and wrong dictated by some scripture, or rulebook, or words uttered by a mentor, mother, father, or teacher.

Thinking intelligently is dictated as to what that individual considers intelligent. People are intelligent in different ways, we're wired like that. We can read people well, we can have powers of social manipulation, we can study and memorize with outstanding capability, we can gush out charisma on a whim, or we can sit in a room and ponder life's questions, and be able to actually figure some things out without losing our minds. We are all intelligent in that regard. Some people just use their intelligence stupidly.

I'm being coy because I see it in the real world. Here's where I go into Argo, that, by the way, is Ben Affleck's best film he's ever made, and proves that the man has artistic and directing talent that surpasses a lot of people older than him in the big industry. I won't spoil the details, but I found the themes of the plot centered a lot around the relationship between fiction and reality. Story and life. The fake and the real.

That quote from The Vicious Kind? That's something pretty real. The way it was constructed and manufactured to be communicated to you? Complete fabrication, but it's more real of a sentence you'll here coming out of someone's mouth (let alone JK Simmons') than you've probably ever experienced in your life. I know that's the case for me. While the way it was said is fake, unsurmountably an illusion made by a team of people, what's being said remains true to the core. That is the essence of theme, probably included in the definition of it when relating to storytelling.

But the medium is the message, as they say. What is reality but another media that we percieve the world through? I mean, this day and age, the lines are blurring -- how are your eyes not just another screen you see the world through. How fake is that? How real? My point is, reality can be extremely fake -- it can fool you into believing things, trick you into feeling things, uproot your understanding of things, and change the trajectory of your emotional state, mental state or physical state in a minute, even a second.

We never trust reality, and we rarely trust the characters (actual people) that inhabit that neverending show of This Fucking Life. Unpredictably breeds the desire for reassurance of purpose and direction. Something true amidst all the chaos of fakeness...

Stories. Argo told me that reality and fiction go hand-in-hand in the human experience. One will drive the other, under a symbiotic relationship. Stories can save lives. They can inspire entire passions. They can sooth pain, create excitement, generate genuine emotion. Make those endorphins run rampant through your neuroses. Fire the receptors. Feel something true. It's the drug without the side-effects.

The side-effect of partaking in the experience of a story, is learning something about yourself and the world around you. That comes from a construct of imagination and hard work, made for an audience that craves the drug of feeling and emotion. You sit in a darkly lit room and pay eight dollars for candy and pop for that. You set your DVR in the morning for that. You wait a week for that and complain about it and then come back every week after, for that.

So what's more real? The reliable versus the unreliable. What you can touch, taste, smell, or what you can feel -- not just on the surface, the superficial experience. The interior, intrinsic. The sinking pits in your stomach, the butterflies, the goosebumps and the lightness in your chest. The true.

We say, "life is sometimes like a movie" because of those feelings that are generated. I ache for the day that my life can resemble the fiction that I read, watch, and play. For a fraction of my existence, there's a structure and a cadence to the rhythm of my actions -- that plot points emerge that I can read and analyze and piece together into a fulfilling final act. Roll credits. Happy ending. And there we go.

Sometimes people do things that are wrong... because it makes them feel things more real than their realities. It alleviates the pain of being stuck with the reality that we have, and take that solace, and that escape, of the possibility of getting something more. Of feeling something else. Feeling like in the movies. 

Feel like the characters we so blatantly worship in boxes with blinking lights and strings of data pieced together for a two-storey blank canvas.

I say this to my friends who are going through a tough time, or a tough break-up, or a tough day.
"Characters are what people want to be." - Anthony Suen, Self-Righteous Modern Messiah
Characters, at their core, have definable, categorizable qualities. They have the perfect balance of flaws and virtues. The weighing of their beliefs against their vices, and a carefully planned out exploitation of those elements to create their path towards their end goal. An objective -- characters have that consicous or subconscious dramatic need that always pushes them to go that extra mile.

People? We're reflections of the lives we inhabit. The realities we're stuck with. Our objectives can change on a whim or a bad night out or a worse morning after. They can be as simple and insignifcant as getting a fucking job or as vague and unattainable as changing who the fuck you are as a person. There's no defined path, no grand writer building our character arcs. As much as we want to be a puppet with a purpose, there are no strings attached to what we have, right here, right now.

The wind has purpose, it blows currents and temperatures to where they need to be and stabilize our climate, hopefully for a bit longer than scientists posit, but they do what they're told to because nature tells them too. So, not even "feeling like the wind" in being aimless and ungrounded in your desires is a fitting analogy. You can "storify" anything with symbolism and meaning because that's our biggest vice as a humans -- we embody the qualities we want, or rather the qualities we can't have, in absolutely everything that exists. Again, that's how we're wired.

Reality is worse than wind, it has no course, and no currents that it follows, no crowning namesakes that you can identify and plot on a map. Personal experience is being in a dark room with oven mitts, earplugs, and a blindfold on trying to find that proverbial needle in a room full of shit-all.

Okay, I twisted that one a bit. But my analogy ("storifying", woo!) gets to how story and life, reality and fiction, need each other on a basic level, in our brains and thought processes. Stories plop in that lightbulb with the hanging little string, that you can pull in that dark room full of nasty stuff, and the one singular needle that could very well be your very own dramatic need.

It grounds us. Anchors us. Much like many of my close friends do. My post a few posts ago talks about not letting go of your past for anything, because your past defines who you are right now, and will inform who you are going to become in the future. The past is your story. History, personal or as public as the entire world's existence, is one big stage play. The world's a stage, just like Shakespeare said.

And we, The Players, are stuck acting for as long as we're on it. So you stick together -- you make the most of the story you're in. The reality and the fiction that you're creating parallel to each other. So when you do the things that are "wrong", you have The Players to anchor you back to the "right" path.

JK Simmons' character is right, in some regard. And Argo as an entire movie has it right too -- it's painful to do the right thing -- the thing that a character, and not a person, would do. Not what your friend would do, your father, your mother, your siblings, the person you slept with, your ex-boyfriend, your secret lover, your teacher or professor, your past crush, your boss...or you.

We struggle to be that character we wish we were. The ideal version of ourselves. The camera-ready, script-memorized, fully in-character fictional representation that always made the right choices, the decisions that turned out well for everybody, the paths in life that lead to the least people hurt, and the most smiles made. The one with a destination. A destiny.

But no, we don't have that privilege, or that luxury. We cope with reality against the hope for something fictitious to occur. Our dramatic need is to survive the lives we live with the ability to say, you did it the way you wanted to. There is control out there, control that you and I have, and it's sitting in reality, waiting. It's not fake. Not like everything else around us, out there.

Story versus life. Reality versus fiction. The make-believe versus to actual. What's the damn difference?

Me and you. Your experience and my experience. What's inside there, past the organs and the brain signals. The butterflies and the daydreams. It's not about difference, it's about similarity.

There's a story in everything and everyone. Just pick up a pen and write it.

Sunday, October 14, 2012

EPIC Everything About This of the Week

 Science. 

YouTube's server just crashed from the traffic of watching the live stream of Felix Baumgartner, Austrian pilot and parachutist, breaking the world records for highest balloon ascent and highest freefall, funded by the Red Bull Stratos project.

A man jumped out of a tiny capsule, into empty space, with the curvature of the Earth in his line of sight. If there is any image that represents singular human ingenuity, courage, willpower and inventiveness, it could be this one. But hey, an Olympic athelete ran track with prosthetic legs and we have a robot on Mars collecting valuable space things. So add this to the list.

The world's a shitty place, which makes moments like these all the more sweet. History was made today.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Field Report DES-17734R "Memories"

I've been back and forth between Toronto and Missisauga this week because of Ryerson University's random scheduling this year to include a Reading Week five actual weeks into class. YOLO, one can only assume on the account of whatever asinine leprechuan is dictating how I piece together my life around barely related coursework and pompous, arrogant professor-doctor-authorities.

I digress. I feel like turning this into a personal blog. Because, why the fuck not?

Thanks to a friend for some inspiration on the matter, however. I don't feel like repressing my emotions today, at least not digitally. The internet shall embrace my feelings. I demand it.

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Disjointed Memory from High School #1

Sandra offers me some Honey Nut Cheerios, key word being "nut" and I take up the offer because it's food and I didn't have lunch that day. Shove some in my mouth, I'm a happy camper. Then I realize the nature of the word nut and how my body may not actually agree with the fact that I'm eating something I'm supposedly deathly allergic to.

Kevin just laughs at me, Sandra freaks out. Ms. McInnis goes into Teacher Protocol Crisis Mode, but I tell everyone to chill out, nothing's happening. And nothing did happen. But it was funny for a few minutes. Yearbook class was always consistently funny.
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Disjointed Memory from High School #2

She walks with me down the pathway from the mall towards her house. We stop by the sometimes-seedy Wendy's/Tim Horton's combo complex by the stoplight.

She calls me a dick. She hadn't done that before. I was being a dick.

That's all I clearly remember. I remember standing there, not knowing what to do. What I do recall was a sinking in my chest, a foreign feeling that crept up into my brain and seemed to invade it with anxiety and discomfort that drove me into a quiet chaos that stayed with me the whole while I stood there.

She was angry. When my best friend's angry with me, that means something I did was wrong.

So I fixed myself.
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Disjointed Memory from High School #3

I trek up the west hallway stairs -- I'm not even sure if they were West, I just refered to them as which classes were always there, so probably "Math Hallway". I see Lauren with her friend - I'm going up there to ask what mark she got on the artist statement I decided to write for her out of a little crush I had in tenth grade. She got really good on it, and my own artist statement was considerably worse. The irony still hasn't escaped me after five years. Tenth grade was rough.
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Vague Memory from High School #1

I get spots of it. Pizza Pizza. The trees with bare branches and my Chucks were new-ish at that time. No holes. But there's holes in this. I remember a kiss, feeling bliss. Like I understood the world. I didn't. Didn't matter though -- at that age the world is as big as the moment you're living. Then and there. Nowhere else.

I was a shitty kid.

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Vivid Memory from High School #1

Ms. McInnis and the eleventh grader are snapping pictures every few seconds while I take a step or raise a limb or open a locker and freeze for the photo. We're going to put it together through stop-motion. And I'm going to make up for the self-dissappointment of not contirbuting enough during Grade 12 Yearbook, a class that sticks with me to this day.

We take at least an hour. There's hundreds of photos but I'm excited to sift through all of them. Ms. McInnis saw the lyrics I wrote, the silly scribble that I did as a joke, an afterthought, and she managed to pull my talent out of that. I'm eternally grateful.

We shoot it after school, and it's fun. The most fun I've ever had doing something school-related. It lifts my chest instead of sinking it. Makes everything okay. Everything that sucked, for four years, is okay. I have something here. Keep it.
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Vivid Memory from High School #2

"I'm gonna write you a break-up letter in this."

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Disjointed Memory from High School #4

It's my last year in Model UN. Wenhan's become the leader of the club. It's tripled in size since Grade 10. Seeing her lead something is funny. Seeing her do it well makes me proud as hell.

Vivek and I push forward an amendment to wipe Chile off the map with an bomb strike, or an artifical earthquake, can't remember which. Jason is pleased -- the bleedover from last year's Bhutan escapade gives him some smiles, which is good. We should all smile more, it's our last year.

We go legitimately argue on the podium. I'm no longer bothered by staying after school for things.
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Significant Memories from High School #1-15
1) I mash paper in a giant tub with my hands.
2) Ms. McInnis guides me through the pen tool in Adobe Illustrator.
3) I get confused by Final Cut's interface. Mr. Fraser laughs at us.
4) I record lyrics in the back room of the CommTech classroom with Kevin.
5) We skip class to go get burgers.
6) I get into a limo with all of my friends.
7) I enter through the doors of John Fraser Secondary School, and it's bigger than I could have ever imagined.
8) I show my portfolio to Ms. McInnis. She helps me better it.
9) "Hey, Reesha, do you know what this means?"
10) "Is that a hickey? My name's Vivek."
11) "I'm Ashley, kind of new here."
12) "Can I join your group?"
13) "Oh yeah, she's so glad she transfered to RTA. You should think about it."
14) Four of us on the beach at night. All I hear is waves. I'm drifting apart from all of you.
...
15) "Anthony Suen is now studying Radio & Television Arts at Ryerson University."
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The Unforgettable Memories from High School #1-4
It takes all my courage to type out those stories. I text her a time to meet outside school. I drag her away from the rest of them, and we start walking home. She's always lived in the same direction, and I never walked home with her. Because I was a coward, and it was the only thing I thought defined me.

The small talk is excrutiating. I get to it before I lose it. Take the pages out, they're bent at the sides, it bothers me, but I hand them to her. I explain my case. Ignore the craziness of my actions. She turns the corner, says goodbye out of respect. I stand there.

I just stand there.
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We lie in her backyard, staring at each other. It's cold, but we keep each other warm. The blades of grass tickle our skin. I just keep looking at her eyes.

She starts crying, talking through tears. About losing me, losing it. Afraid of lasting.

Tears start welling up for me too. It surprises me. I console her, I do my best. I'm still the same kid. 
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We stand outside the Guidance office, big backpacks on, large jackets, middle of autumn. We laugh at lame jokes, make fun of each other. I remember the feeling of not needing to be anywhere else. I remember the weight on my shoulders being slight, soft. Lessened because of the strength of companions. Simplicity. Normalcy. Routine. Friendship.
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Tim Horton's at 1 in the morning. We sit there, playing staring games. Talking about nothing. Not high school anymore, not the same kid. For that moment, I get the same feeling though. Everything's alright.

I play the fool and let it trick me into believing so.
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Present 
I sit in the den, my desktop transfered to my interim basement apartment for twelve months. Laptop connected to the ethernet port, addicted to stable internet. I write this blog post with a transparency I've never wanted to commit to before. A mixture of feelings swells inside my brain and body -- coming back here gives me comfort, going back there gives me convenience. The time for opening up is long gone. I have worked on myself and now it's time to play gatekeeper for who's let in and who's left at the door.

The cycle of people continues to make its way in and out. Those who've anchor themselves have become my anchors. They're irreplacable. Some transients I wish had stayed. Clocks don't work backwards. Right now I wish they did. So I could witness that release of weight off my shoulders again.

I've worked on myself exclusively. I've studied everything about me. I'm an expert now. I damn well know the kind of person I am and want to become.

So these disjointed, cloudy and clear images have done their job properly.

Never look back on it? Never dwell on it?

No, always look back. Every day. See what you were and you see what you can become. Keep those cards close, and always long for something different, always dream for repeats and reoccurances. Chance encounters and reonciliations. Pain away at wishful thinking and nostaglic recollection. Because it hurts to remember the scenes you love. You appreciate what you miss and what you didn't miss equally. It's there. And it feels like it's outside you, it's away from you, but it is you.

This is you. Force yourself to stare at it. Never look away, and just keep walking.

And when I stop, when I put down everything I've looked at, I want to know where I've ended up.

Inevitably, it will be the right place. I hold onto that.

You are the culmination of the people you meet and make memories with. Go see for yourself.