Category: me

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Time Flies When You’re Questioning Your Existence

I suppose I’m a victim of my diet.

After finishing Michel Houellebecq’s The Elementary Particles (review forthcoming) on the tails of Eugene Zamiatin’s We, having watched eight episodes of the television series Dexter, combined with a soul-gnawing worklife, I find myself walking around feeling detached from…well, pretty much everything and everyone.

Houellebecq’s novel, while having its flaws, reminded me of some of my own “society has gone fundamentally mad” musings (albeit in a much better package). The TV show, about a serial killer who manages to fit into society, has prodded yet more questions (and I must make mention of Michael C. Hall’s fantastic portrayal of the lead character). I will admit this: I allow my diet to affect me. I want to be affected, particularly when the opposite is the case with work. The film I’m currently attached to (symbiotically) is an ambitious, loud, genre-bending goth musical which seems to spiral into chaos every twenty minutes of the day. And I’m effectively in charge of it, which means that I can’t become creatively/emotionally attached, unless of course I was a masochist, which just takes too much commitment.

Soul on. Soul off. Soul on. Soul off.

The good news is that my wife and I just booked a week’s vacation in May. And after the vacation, I will have a few weeks off before the start of the next film, so I hope to have a splendidly idle period to complete my second novel (or at least a solid second draft thereof). If anyone can suggest any semi-profound “beach books”, I would appreciate it.

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Pleased to meet you…

Okay, so I made the decision that this blog shall display my real name and not the (admittedly appealing) pseudonym I’ve used since I started this blog 171 posts ago.

I’ve been playing with the idea for a while and realised that, while it’s not a question of having ‘nothing to lose’, I don’t have a shitload to gain by hiding my identity. It’s not like there’s a Bruce Wayne/Batman thing happening in my life…well, not outside my imagination.

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Tidings

A warm hello from a cold part of the world (-14 C, without the windchill). Glad tidings to all those who pass by this part of the woods, whether you be regular passers-by or new readers. It looks like 2008 will be an interesting year, if only because I want it to.

As you may have noticed, I’ve been able to post more photographs lately (lest my photoblogs.org membership be contested), even though they were taken last September. I’ve been so swamped with work since then that I was only able to pick up my camera yesterday to take some shots of the new snow. I hope to have some shots up within the next month. For those who don’t know (prefaced here), I’m a traditional analog photographer – I use a Russian-made Leica rip-off manufactured in the 1960’s and shoot slide film. For all you junior rangers, that means shooting the roll, taking it to a lab, getting the slides back, scanning them, formatting/tweaking them digitally, and then uploading. You kids and your fancy-dancy digital cameras…

The new year welcomes, among many assorted developments, a new blog from the man who was my mentor at Humber College’s School for Writers, DM Thomas (author of The White Hotel). Also, as normally happens during the “holiday season”, the new year brings the beginnings of spiralling chaos somewhere in the world – this time it’s Kenya. Normally, the holiday horror is courtesy of a South Asian tsunami or some other badly-timed natural phenomena or accident (I’m looking at you Bangladesh, you and your less-than-impervious ferries). In Kenya’s case, it’s an election, the disputed results of which have inflamed tribal mistrust, culminating in the burning of a church where 50 people – women and children – were taking shelter. They all died. The Guardian has a reasonable summary of what’s going on there. Lastly, speaking of democracy, 2008 offers the possibility of an immensely entertaining spectacle south of the border as Democrats and Republicans in the US sort out their bullshit in public. I can only hope that, some day, the word “Independent” won’t be so distasteful in their political lexicon.

I’ll have more book reviews to come this year, featuring the new translation of War & Peace – but keep in mind that it’s over 1,200 pages, with the original French dialogue intact, with contextualized notes on every page…in other words, if I finish it in 2008, I’ll post a review. But I can multi-task, so there will be books read in the interim period. The previous year saw my completion of reading Solomon Volkov‘s St. Petersburg: A Cultural History – an on/off process that’s taken me a couple of years. One 500lb (226.79 kg) gorilla down, another to go.

Oh, if anyone from one of the three magazine publishers who I submitted to in the late summer of 2007 are reading this, I would appreciate something…anything from you in the mail. Even a rejection letter. It’s the waiting that is hardest.

Take care, all.

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How To Measure Progress When Not Much Is Really Changing

I’m a fiction writer.

This is what I tell people, which is often followed by digging my fingernails into my palms, hoping they don’t ask me if-

“Have you been published?”

No. The answer is no. And no, you can’t tell them that a poem you wrote in high school was published in the local paper – you’re over 30 and nearly twice the age of that (wonderfully talented) kid.

“Um…not yet.”

This is about as affirmative as it gets. It’s like telling someone you’re a bus driver, and when they ask a perfectly normal question like “Oh, where? For what company?”, you reply: “Actually, I’m not driving a bus right now…I’m hoping that someone will allow me to drive a bus soon.”.

I’m a bus driver without a bus, albeit with a route of sorts and sufficient credentials to do the work without injuring passengers (save for their sensibilities at times). I’ll let that analogy fizzle like a wet campfire. Needless to say, telling people you’re a fiction writer without having anything to show in terms of published work, one feels like an impostor after a while. Gladly, writers naturally feel like impostors so it’s not that bad.

The reality is not quite as depressing as it appears tm. I’ve only been at this seriously for a few years, having spent a few years before that working on a novel which I ultimately decided to shelve, lest I spend years more perfecting something I’d outgrown and was really tired of staring at. Since then, I’ve crafted several solid short stories and have started a new novel. The more I work on short stories, the more improvements I see in my writing overall which then reflects in the novel. It’s a nice arrangement, save for the fact that the time/energy I devote to the short stories are subtracted from what’s going toward the book.

My strategy is that the short stories – the good ones, not the ones I hand people and preface with “It’s an experiement!” – are “easier” to get published, if only because they require less time to write/revise than a novel. Thus, with some sort of publishing precedent, it would be easier to attract a publisher for the novel.

Of course, I’ve yet to have anything of note published. I’m trying to keep at least two submissions outbound at all times, but even that’s tricky because you want to gear the right type of story (stylistically, etc.) to a publisher who will be most receptive to what you’re offering. Add to this that waiting for acceptance or rejection (the latter being all the rage these days) can take anywhere from 3 weeks to 6 months with ethical penalties if you submit the same piece to more than one publisher at a time. So, let’s say you spend two months on a short story – from ink on the page (I still do my rough drafts by hand) to “rev. #12f” on my laptop. If the publisher you submit to (assuming, like what happened to me and the magazine Maisonneuve, the post office doesn’t return it claiming they can’t find the address) takes 3 months to get back to you, that’s almost half a year spent with no dividends to show (aside from the aforementioned improvements in your writing, which, when you receive a rejection letter, isn’t very compelling at all).

Fun.

Yet, if I didn’t think my work was good, I wouldn’t bother. If I didn’t see improvements in my skill, I wouldn’t bother. I have to remind myself that, although I don’t have anything to show for my efforts as regards to getting published, I do have the work itself, which is no small accomplishment by anyone’s measurement. In any case, it’s all I have at the moment – that and will.

And the moniker, “fiction writer”.

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Changes (part two)

I went to a naturopath because I’ve had a nasty ongoing bout of eczema. I was tired with visits to my GP that always ended up with me getting medication that neither necessarily works well nor is without long-term side effects (like, say, cancer). Say what you will about Canadian health care – and the fact that we *have* health care is something to say – I just don’t see how a GP can give anyone any sort of personalized care when they “see” you for all of 10 minutes, sometimes with as many as 30 other patients booked after you. So, with the retirement of my long-term doctor and her replacement with a replicant from Blade Runner, I took the opportunity to check out just what exactly naturopathy could do.

There were two sessions: the first, a consultation, with the second being a post-diagnostic set of recommendations. It went very well, going over my medical history etc., and resulted in her suggesting I start with a detox/reduction diet under the suspicion that my eczema was part of an allergic reaction.

So, a few weeks ago I cut out caffeine, sugar, alcohol, gluten (bread, white rice, etc.), milk, eggs, red meat…and anything else on the list she provided. Most vegans don’t even have a diet this strict. I was to do it for a week (at least) and then slowly add things back to see if my skin flared up.

The process was pretty incredible – in the sense that you don’t realise how many of these things are part and parcel of our everyday (and sometimes every meal) diet. Try going into a restaurant – try a vegetarian restaurant even – and count how many dishes don’t have gluten. You cannot believe how frustrating it is to go out on a lunch break only to find that there’s nothing out there outside of a salad that isn’t going to have bread attached.

The first couple of days were tough, but surprisingly I didn’t miss coffee that much. It was days three and four. No energy, no concentration. I could only focus on a couple of tasks at any given time without being totally useless.

Things are better now. As it turns out, gluten seems to be the bad guy, however I have yet to find out if beer can be ruled out (I pray), since it has yeast. But the process itself was the valuable thing – you pay attention to your body when you detox. You pay attention to what goes in your body and the pace of your metabolism. Particularly when you rule out gluten, you realise how much of a filler it truly is. You value fruits and vegetables, and my water consumption has certainly skyrocketed.

I think a detox/reduction diet is something everyone should try, if just once. However, I do also strongly believe that it should be partially supervised by a health professional.

[if you’re on Facebook, you can check out my Detox Diaries – at least the first five days]

[UPDATE]: I found the solution (for me, at least). It was cutting out (or at least down) processed sugars. I drink a fair amount of coffee and since I always have a teaspoon of sugar, I found this to be the main culprit. After searching long and hard (stevia, maple syrup, etc.) I found agave nectar – yes, the very same plant that produces tequila also produces a sugar-like nectar. In short, not only does it taste like sugar, but it has eliminated my need for sugar or other substitutes. For your reference here is one brand, and another. I recommend either.

I’m extremely pleased to have found a way to combat eczema that doesn’t involve medication, tinctures, or cremes. It may not work for some (or many), but the ideal way to solve the issue to deal with it through your diet, and not through a supplemental ointment.

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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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