Endings, Beginnings

In the New York Times to-day, reading about the closing ceremonies in Beijing (since I will not watch them later on this evening), David Barbosa, author of “Olympics Close With a Bang and a Double Decker Bus” writes in the opening paragraph:

“With another dramatic fireworks display Sunday evening at the National Stadium here, the Beijing Olympics came to a dazzling close, ending two weeks of spectacular athletic performances during an Olympic competition that was surprising free of protests or the disruptions that some, including Beijing, had anticipated.”

Surprisingly free of protests? Really. Surprising? In my opinion this is about as irresponsible a sentence as you can write as a journalist on staff of the Times. Do we not understand that the Chinese government is a Communist, repressive, totalitarian government? Are we really surprised that protests and disruptions never materialized? That the Communist Party itself is pleasantly amazed? If we are, we deserve to get run over by Soviet/Russian tanks, Georgia-style. We have got to be the most naive, egocentric, internationally-inexperienced citizens on this globe, save those obscure tribes in the Amazon (which, I’m quite sure are being slaughtered or pushed out by deforestation). This is what the Central Committee of a Communist party does: makes issues go away. Erases problems. People disappear for merely whispering. Or gathering. Even octogenarians get sent to be re-educated. No one’s safe. We better wake up and stop using froo-froo, laudatory language and kid gloves on this country. Call it for what it is: repressive, reprehensive, a relentless abuser of human rights, totalitarian. I fully realize that, politically, we have a different game on our hands, but the media ought to go full steam ahead and cut into China. We have a free press and so it must do its job. Let the politicians pussyfoot around and draft accords and protocols (which will be violated anyway, given the Chinese track record). The few articles I have read on abuses and crackdown by the Chinese government are relegated to page 7 or 8, and they often take a bit of a condescending tone, portraying those who protest as disturbers of the peace or militants or liberal “bleeding hearts.”

Despite my disgust, I watched enough Olympic Games to be revolted at the way this Awakened Giant comported itself on the world stage, and at the way we let it get away with it in the press. From the age controversy of its female gymnasts, the ridiculous apology of Liu Xiang, China’s gold medal hope in hurdles, who was injured and unable to defend his title in the 110-meter hurdles, to its obsession with the medal count and its #1 standing in gold medals won. Imagine having to apologize to an entire country for a chance, unforeseen injury. Imagine having let down your motherland because you’ve twisted your ankle training, and being held responsible for somewhat shaming your country by not even competing. But that’s what the Chinese government demands. Expects.

The focus now moves to London, in 2012. During the closing, Jimmy Page made a special appearance cranking out “Whole Lotta Love,” and Beckham took a football from a little girl’s arms in a presumed “handing over of the games” metaphor. Even a red, double-decker bus made an appearance in the infield, escorted by a bizarre trio of cyclists. Can we trot out any more stereotypes, please? How about a mob of hooligans armed with two-by-fours who proceed to beat the living daylights out of the spectators? How about a Yeoman Warder (a Beefeater) with his furry hat marching down, exchanging keys with the mayor of Beijing. A British judge donning his oh-so-recognizable wig and holding tightly to his leather docket. Hell, bring out the Queen. But wait. The Queen Is Dead. Unfortunately, the Olympic flame lives on. And so it goes. The world sporting attention now moves to New York City and the U.S. Open Tennis Championships. I’m rooting for Federer, but something tells me Nadal will swipe it all. It’s all right by me. I love the Spaniards. I love this passionate (and compassionate) kid. And so for Nadal here it goes: Vamos, cabron!

Summer is un-officially over around these parts and frankly I’m happy. Although the unrelenting heat will not dissipate until late October, this at least signals a change coming. I’m happy daylight hours are shorter. I’m happy my daughter is going back to school, back to a more structured environment of learning than summer camp. I’m happy at one point the leaves will turn and the temps. will drop (last year trees went completely bald by late November!!). Momentofchoice and I swung a quick little trip to the beach this past weekend and re-charged the batteries. You can go over to her joint and see what we did. We worked really hard, believe us. This autumn, I promise to come back with more fiction and less personal stuff. I’m also working on putting together the book of shorts. There will be some familiar stories, but they’ll be re-tooled and more material will be added to round them out better. We will publish it ourselves and you’ll be able to either buy an extremely affordable finished product, or simply download the manuscript for free in a .pdf file. I’m excited at the prospect. There is another project after that in the works.

Like most people enduring summer in southern United States, I suffered through an intellectual malaise infused and fed by triple-digit temperatures and overall indolence (maybe genetic, but we’ll swiftly dispel that notion and blame it on the heat).

I’ll see you on the other side of summer.

Manufactured Landscapes

Photo: J. Chapman

My writing, or rather, my ideas have always been tied to painting and photography. I went to film school in the late 80s and in a way I was taught to see or visually observe first, before anything. Cinematography classes didn’t work so well for me because they were way too technical, but one thing I retained was the idea of a good photographer working to remove or subtract light from a scene, rather than add it. It’s sort of how I approach my writing; a healthy dose of Hemingway’s Iceberg Theory (7/8 of the story is underwater) mixed in with cinematography theory. And so photographs and paintings always start off my ideas. The piece from yesterday has a certain visual look in my head, if I were to shoot it on film. It’s not made clear necessarily in the narrative, but then again it wasn’t written in film script form. It’s the entire picture that’s bizarre and absurd to me, but still; give me a camera and I can deliver something along the lines of what I’m describing.

I’m writing this because the last year or so I’ve been hyper-aware of and interested in what we’ve been doing to our environment; particularly through extraction (mining) and damming rivers. Last night my wife and I watched this, which in my opinion is vital viewing for all people, especially during these Olympic Games, when Beijing and China in general seem to be on everyone’s mind. If you get a chance, please invest an hour and a half of your time and watch this dynamic documentary. It puts everything that you (and I) do in perspective and makes you re-think your wasteful actions and re-tool your ideas about finding solutions. Although very much pro-environment, I am not a fan of Al Gore’s film, which preaches and educates while wagging an accusatory finger. I also found his film devoid of any concrete, believable sources, and so I look at it with a very skeptical eye. The wonderful thing about “Manufactured Landscapes” is that not many people speak. No one delivers sermons or holier-than-thou opinions. The images are left to tell their story.

I am attracted to this kind of filmmaking because it’s what I strive to do with my writing. Put a story out and let the readers form opinions—although most of the time you can guess where I stand. It’s what I was striving to do with my little documentary, which I shot and put together in 1989 (“The District”) and which recently resurfaced in the form of a 16mm reel found in my childhood home, at the bottom of a drawer. I promise I will transfer the emulsion onto digital format and post it here soon. It’s not much, it’s raw and dirty and nasty, but it was a statement on my particular environment and the social events at the time which shaped it, that I was hoping to make, even then—almost 20 years ago. I recently viewed it (I have it dubbed onto VHS tape) and, although rudimentary and devoid of any cinematic tricks, CG or any of that slick nonsense we’re used to seeing from film, it still holds.

The photo above was shot by my wife’s cousin, Jason; an extremely-talented artist who has embarked on a tough mission, documenting our receding natural landscape and raising awareness of the destruction caused by our carbon footprint. It’s this kind of art which inspires me to write, and which gives birth to the stories that you read on this web log. I know it may sound strange, particularly since none of my fiction explores environmental concerns overtly, but you must trust me when I say that particular images yield a certain mood which I then attempt to transfer into a written piece. Anyway, you can learn more about Jason and his thoughts on the matter on his environmental site here and check out his photography here.

Although I often shudder at the times in which I live, I am so grateful for mediums such as these (blogs, journals, flickr sites, etc.) and people like Jason—unknown, talented artists who struggle to push important ideas to the forefront of our daily discussion and our daily lives. I adore documentary filmmaking and photography; it speaks to what I’ve always tried to do with my writing. And I adore artists and altruistic people who undertake seemingly impossible missions for the greater good of humanity. They inspire me.