Category: me

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Changes (part one)

Today marks the one-month anniversary since my wife and I moved to a new apartment. Normally not something to crow about, it’s a night/day change for us. Our previous place was convenient, if slightly pricey, with a number of condo-like amenities.

But, from our first day there, there was something about it which bugged the hell out of me – I just couldn’t pin it down. It was nice enough, sure – recently renovated with new fixtures, free microwave, gas stove, storage, etc.. But I couldn’t write there; I can count on one hand the number of times I did substantial work in that place – and it was probably in the dead of winter, on a Sunday. Otherwise, I preferred to leave the place and go to a nearby bar.

In the summer months, when I’d be on my way home from work, I’d call my wife and we’d make plans to have a drink. Away from the apartment. When we had parties, or simply a few friends over, we found ourselves hyper-focused on what kind of cheese we were serving, rather than, say, having a good time and enjoying the company. I hated that. I didn’t like what we were turning into, and I was afraid that it was us. Us getting older, us giving up on the fact that we were actually artists and not…well…people who worried about what kind of cheese we were serving at parties.

It was mid-way into our second year there that I called it. My wife had brought up some things about the place she had trouble reconciling: the fact that it was stone cold in the winter (this, with two heaters provided by the landlord and radiators that were “timed” to kick-in), that the only significant sun shone through a single window in the kitchen, that we inexplicably couldn’t jell with the other tenants, and that, finally, we felt like outsiders in our own home. I told her the ugly truth: it was a suburban apartment. A bland hole with aspirations about as sickeningly bourgeois as the new bathroom fixtures. On a street increasingly being poached by real estate jackals, flipping postage stamp bungalows for $450,000. And this was Queen and Bathurst!

We made the best decision since getting married: we got the hell out of there.

Fast-forward to now. We ended up finding a new apartment: smaller, not-inclusive, electric stove, a dripping roof, an Alpine-esque staircase, traffic that makes our building rumble, and no storage. Perfect. We have skylights (sun!). We have a patio with a magnificent view of Toronto. We pay less rent. It may sound strange, but we couldn’t believe the difference it made to our outlook. I write at home now. Both my wife and I finally feel that we’re in our element. We regularly have friends over, cheese or no cheese. I’ve traded a few words with my downstairs neighbour, more than I did in two years at the previous place, and he seems like a nice guy. The neighbourhood – on Ossington Avenue – while “up-and-coming” is not in a rush to be at home to Starbucks any time soon. I should hope it never happens.

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Leonard: Thank-You

So…

There I was, sitting in an edit room, trying to output last-minute changes to the show I’m working on. I get a call on my cell. Even with the ringer turned off it bugged the crap out of me – I *hate* interruptions when I’m focusing on technically detailed tasks. Furthermore, I didn’t recognize the number.

Grrrrr…

“Hello, Matt?” says the voice on the other end.

“Yes.” I said, wanting to keep the conversation as brief as possible.

“My name is Leonard. I have something for you. From [the name of a prominent film/tv payroll company].” he said.

I scratched my head…I just got my cheque yesterday and I haven’t even cashed it yet.

“Um…I’m not expecting a cheque – what’s this regarding?”

I was suspicious – this payroll company doesn’t personally deliver *anything*.

“I’m at Queen and Bathurst – are you at home?”

“No – I’m on the east end.” I responded, not appreciating the confusion.

He insisted on meeting, though he also insisted he only had a half-hour until he had to go home. Meanwhile, I’m thinking to myself: what the hell is going on?. We agreed to meet at a mutual location, a post production house @ Adelaide and Sherbourne. All the while, I’m irritated and flummoxed as to who the hell it is and what the hell is going on [sidenote: contrary to what most people think film/tv work is about, this is me: all business].

When I get to the post house, I told the receptionist: “Okay…” I rolled my eyes, “…there’s this guy, named Leonard. He’s got some sort of cheque or package for me – I haven’t any clue. If you could please let me know when he comes in, that would be grand.”

I proceeded to go to my workstation. Soon enough, the receptionist calls. Leonard is here. I go to the foyer, not sure what to expect, and sure enough there is a young gentleman sitting there, smiling. It’s a smile that you don’t attribute to someone I anticipated being a gofer for a payroll company. Then I noticed he was dressed in clothing I would not necessarily attribute to a gofer for a payroll company – a cream coloured vest with matching dress pants.

“Here you go.” he smiled.

It was an envelope…a cheque was inside. Scribbled on the cheque were the directions I’d given him to the post house. Then I looked at the date on the cheque. Then I looked at him and then it dawned on me…

“You don’t work for [..], do you?”

“No.” he smiled.

It dawned on me that, earlier that day, when I was doling out cheques to the sound editors, I’d tucked mine in my back pocket. It must’ve fallen-out. This man had travelled half-way across town to return my cheque. He didn’t know me. He’d called the production office and they’d given him my cell number. Remembering what he’d said about “going home”, and taking note of his attire, my guess is that he had just finished a work-shift somewhere.

I couldn’t believe it.

I shook his hand in shock and thanked him profusely, not believing what had just happened. I also gave him $20 for travel expenses – it was all the money I had on me.

I still can’t believe it.

It is circumstances like this which remind me how unpredictable, and sometimes miraculous, the events of the world can be. Indeed, it is people like Leonard who set the bar for the rest of us. I rushed to my laptop to post this; it’s the least I can do.

Thank-you, Leonard. Wherever you are.

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Thoughts On Art & Collaboration

I had an interesting discussion with a friend of mine, Derek. He’s a photographer and a skilled, accomplished one at that.

We got to talking about whether there was room for socialism in art – ie. collaboration over, let’s say, ego-driven art making.

My first response was that it really depended upon the discipline. For example, I felt that photography was inherently a first-person ego-driven art form, whereas theatre/film were inherently collaborative art forms.

However, in retrospect, it’s not that easy. For example, the collective General Idea utilised photography (though not exclusively), using each other as subjects in their art – even until death. [side note, please check out the work of A A Bronson, the sole surviving member]

Whereas photography has precedents for non-singular collaboration, I also realised from my own education in film that, even though I still feel that it (and theatre, from which it largely inherits its “legs”) is inherently collaborative, there are (truly) independent filmmakers such as Maya Deren and Phil Hoffman from whose works we can certainly feel a singular, personal vision at play. [another side note – because creating footnotes in HTML is a pain in the ass – there is a chasm of difference between what is popularly referred to as “indie” and what is truly “independent”. Without being overbearing, I encourage people to see the films of Deren, Hoffman, and others, such as Stan Brackhage – if only to understand the difference and to understand what a filmmaker truly is, in my books anyway).

There are multitudinous exceptions, of course, in either argument. I still hold that photography is inherently, nay naturally singular and ego-driven, and that theatre and film are almost beholden to a collaborative effort (regardless of who “stars” in said production, or who “directs” them).

I suppose the reason I bring this up is that it is so easy to fall into the habit of seeing art as being the work of only one person. This unfortunately leads to some artists holding an entirely false sense of reality. Sometimes collaboration is unavoidable, if only to complete a project. Also, there are some artists who take the whole “I have a vision” thing way, way too seriously. There is much to be learned from working with others, just as there is for those who are used to collaborating to be left on their own to create alone.

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What are you doing on Tuesday night?

So…I’m drumming again. In spades.

This Tuesday (April 17th) at The Cloak & Dagger (College & Bathurst) I’m appearing with a rag tag outfit of musicians for a jam night. My colleagues include Shannon Du Hasky (from the Z-Rays) on guitar, Graydon James on bass, and Nancy Brooks on French horn. If all goes well, it could spring into a regular fixture (!).

Context:

The last time I performed live (or even played on a drum kit for that matter) was over 12 years ago…in Thorold no less. It was the end of the band I’d been playing with for several years, a fin de siecle for that part of my life and it was a terrible (nay apocalyptic) gig. It was one of those nights where you grab your gear and run so that you don’t have to remember anything about it. We never played again for various good reasons, although it was nice while it lasted 1.

Fast forward: not only am I part of the jam outfit, but I’m also part of a new band called Behind The Garage (appearing April 28th @ Mitzi’s Sister).

Weird. But damned fun. Like life.

Come on out and enjoy the drink and songs – I couldn’t imagine playing in a better environment with a better group of people. 2

Update: Okay…I looked up the band I used to be in (we were called Spin Tree. We hailed from Burlington.) and found our demo album listed on someone’s Most Underrated Albums of All Time list. Wow. I sent him an email thanking him…it’s a little overwhelming to see yourself on someone’s list with such luminaries as Inspiral Carpets and Arcade Fire.

1. We were a goth band. I can say this now because at the time I hated when we were referred to as a goth band. Okay – we were a goth band with non-goth aspirations. We played with some well-known acts of the day, and got to play at such venues as The Opera House and The Drake (before it closed and became what it is now).

2. Until meeting and playing with Behind The Garage and the jam-band (if you have a band name, let me know – we’re dying for one), I’d always equated playing music with friction. This, of course, was an emotional artifact from my early days where there was a lot more artistic conflict – much of it needless. It’s 180 degrees different now – everyone I’m playing with is a *really nice person who also happens to be a really good musician*. Am I lucky or what?

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Note: The "Book of Days Murder" on America’s Most Wanted

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Update: the story is up on the AMW site here.
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For those who have kept an eye on this blog for the last year, you might remember an article I posted, called “Remembering Michael Cahill“. It was linking to a front page article in the Austin American Statesman written by Denise Gamino: “A Calendar Book, A Guitar, And A Very Cold Case“.

On April 13th, 1979, my uncle, Michael Cahill, had his acoustic guitar stolen from his apartment in Austin. In the midst of the foot chase, Michael was shot in the forehead and killed instantly. His guitar was never found, and – like all murders and killings – the event has permanently etched itself into the hearts and minds of those who knew and loved him.

My family’s history is rather odd – not in a depraved daytime talkshow sense – but odd enough. I’m not going to go into details, but I never got to meet or to know my uncle. I was 8 years old and 2,658 kilometres away on the Friday night he was shot. He was in Texas, I was in Ontario. I remember a few occasions being told by my father how much I reminded him of his little brother, especially when I got glasses for the first time.

 

In any case, the reason I’m mentioning this is that America’s Most Wanted is showcasing this story in their next broadcast (this Saturday @ 9pm on the Buffalo FoxTV affiliate, WUTV).

If you’d asked me this time last year whether I would ever be watching the story of a family member on America’s Most Wanted…well, like most of you, doubtful would be an understatement. You certainly wouldn’t take the thought seriously.

Aside from the abrupt tragedy itself, what makes the story interesting for the outsider are the strange circumstances that surrounded it, the centrepiece being a community art project called The Book of Days. It was a calendar showcasing the works of local black-and-white photographers, among them Berkeley Breathed – who would go on to create the Bloom County comic strip. It seems some of the photographers included in the 1978 edition of The Book of Days, some of whom were friends with my uncle, had also had some of their possessions stolen. Investigators believe my uncle’s murderer and the peculiar thief who preyed upon Leica cameras are one and the same person.

To be honest, I have a personal stake in this post: I hope they catch the bastard who did it.

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UPDATE (April 2020): http://imagitude.com/michael-cahill/michael-cahill-coda/

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Stress

It creeps up on you like nausea mixed with fire. Your stomach muscles tighten as if someone has just thrown cold water on the back of your neck. Beads of sweat form on your forehead; your skin feels both cool and feverish. You can’t hear clearly or focus on peripheral tasks.

A rollercoaster you never paid to ride, there is no visible end to the loops in the rails.

You take notice of everything around you that invokes hatred and irritation: crying children, inconsiderate drivers, the playlist on the radio. You try to ignore the rupturing stream in the hope that you can keep it from igniting a base fury rumbling in the darkness of some primal ancestry.

You cannot sleep. You cannot pay attention.

You are immobilized and nothing anyone can say will help.

…but it will pass…

You will survive.

There is no devil manipulating things behind the curtain of consciousness; no wheel of fortune spinning capriciously against you. The day will come when you will wake up and the sun will be shining and you will realise that your world, while unpredictable, isn’t likely to combust as you have feared.

You learn to breathe; you wash your face of worry and watch the dirt whirl down the drain into the blackness of limbo. You realise that the future is full of new days, both dark and light, and that those who succeed are the ones who see clearly, who manage to allow the darkness to pass around them and not through.

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This Blog is One Year Old

My 85th post is to thank everyone for their feedback, comments, intermittent visits, and occasional votes of support.

(insert image of birthday cake, etc.)
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The Steppenwolf Effect, pt.1: Synchronicity

As mentioned in my previous post, a couple of things occurred to me while I started reading Steppenwolf.

As mentioned in a previous previous post (here), I write fiction. I’ve written one novel and have since completed the rough draft of a second. When I started reading Steppenwolf I realised (at the point where Harry meets Hermine 1) that it shared a parallel storyline with my second novel.

I clearly remember starting to sweat, followed by some muffled swearing.

If there was anything that freaked me out at the time, it was the fear that I was going to open a book (whether it be a novel or a collection of short stories) to discover that something I’ve written had been, as they say, “done before”. In retrospect there isn’t much reason for this fear – unless one is directly influenced by something it would be a hell of a coincidence to write something that was so similar to a previously published work that you should have to worry – particularly if it’s something as complex and individualistic as a novel.

But I was concerned; I thought to myself: F*!king bastard Hermann Hesse and his f$~king storylines. But I digress…

I turned to my writing group 2. I asked them: has anyone opened a book to discover some freak-assed psychic parallel to something you’re currently working on? The answer, surprisingly, was yes – all the time, in fact. Synchronicity happens more often than we think, as it turns out.

Thinking about it, it makes sense; assuming we aren’t forced to read the books that we do (as in school) we end up reading those works which appeal to us – as readers and perhaps subconsciously as writers also. So it should come as no surprise to find narratives, plots, or characters that ring familiar.

1. Harry & Hermine sounds like the name of a Hollywood adaptation.

2. I’m blessed to have such a good writer’s group – most of us were students of DM Thomas at the Humber College School for Writers.

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Blogger Update


Blogger, the blogging portal through which this site exists, has upgraded to a new version. I’ve been reticent to switch, particularly as it has been interminably stuck in a Beta stage (“beta” being the latest buzzword for “it doesn’t work but because we’re a publicly traded company we need to produce output for the sake of keeping the price of our shares consistent”). However, apparently, it’s out of Beta so I will be switching to it today.

What scares me is that the template – those bits of code which I’ve been polishing like gemstones for the last year – will require upgrading. I don’t have as much time to polish as I used to, so I hope the changes aren’t too heinous (let alone the hope that my site simply doesn’t break in half).

In any case, here it goes…

P.S. Coming Up: book reviews!

Update (05/01/07): the switch wasn’t too bad, but now that bloody Blogger Nav-Bar is at the top again. Bastards.

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To want to be alive

You have to lose
You have to learn how to die
if you want to want to be alive
– Wilco, “War on War“

I had this song going through my head all weekend, the last weekend of my vacation (and sorry for the lack of updates recently). It’s probably one of the best songs I’ve heard in such a very long time. Like Guided By Voices’ “Game of Pricks” and Roxy Music’s “Mother of Pearl“, it’s one of those tracks that I have to listen to again and again and again because somewhere in it is a phenomenal beauty that is as elusive as it is sublime.

It’s uplifting but with a hurt core – the capitulation that “you have to learn how to die if you […] want to be alive”. I’ve been coming to terms with this theme over the last while, admittedly transposing it onto something it probably was never intended to be 1.

After four-and-a-half years, I gave notice today that I was leaving my full-time job. Steady pay, benefits, desk – gone, so that I can work as a freelancer.

Without going into sordid detail, I felt the need/want/desire to leave, but for the longest time I was paralyzed with fear about going freelance. This in spite of the fact I often came home despondant…that it was harder to write/revise my fiction when the best chunk of the day was spent in a chaotic environment…that with every passing week I felt I was missing out on a different yet possible life.

I don’t believe there is any more effective way to conquer a fear than doing so knowing that failure is also a possibility. You have to float on a raft to get over your fear of water. The chance of failure must be present, otherwise all you can achieve is a virtual success – in which case you might as well play a video game simulation of it rather than tackle the real thing. Playing blackjack against a computer will allow you to learn about the rules of blackjack (and probability mathematics) – it will not prepare you at all for a table full of experienced players in Vegas staring at you like a idiot because you’ve never had to deal with intimidation.

In other words, you must be prepared for the chance that, no, things may not go well. That is, after all, the way life works: at the dawn of time mankind signed no such contract which promised we would die unbruised. So, if an amount failure is inevitable (whether it be due to chance or fault) the best you can do is inform yourself as much as possible before taking any big leaps. The rest is going to happen whether you intended it to happen or not.

I needed more flexibility in my life. More freedom to do what I want without collaborating with a single entity that could never realistically put my needs before its own. Now the responsibility is mine: I can’t blame anyone anymore if things don’t pan out. However, I can tell you, in facing the unknown there is something very, very liberating.

1. I think it’s wrong for there to be a finite explanation of what any song “means”, however I also feel protective of songs whose themes are misconstrued/manipulated by others.

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