The island where I was born has untold manifestations in my head. It is tiny and vast, empty and overbuilt, extensions from every building, every building gone, the path across hills and prairies, leading to a barren rocky point that never was.
I’ve circumnavigated the island many times, down from a steep ridge, the water choked with ice, a canoe at the ready. I need to go back for a paddle and watch everyone leave. There’s a menagerie of animals in the water, fish and seal, cats and birds, and a miniature sheep that fits in my pocket. Half asleep, I do the breast stroke to the bottom.
A message from my realtor comes through; someone wants to buy the island. I’ve already left. That’s what I text. I don’t intend to return. I get a question mark back and reply with a meme of the sheep in my pocket.
The shitty (tragic?) parts of my life have tended to poison things that I love, including favorite music. Low, a band I once saw in concert every year, has been off my playlist ever since Mimi Parker, a member of the duo, died suddenly of cancer. It’s been three years now. As much as I miss the music, I can’t listen. Not yet.
Alan and Mimi play Low music in Fargo (2010)
A similar grief hit when my friend Gord Downie, the lead singer of The Tragically Hip, died although I was more prepared for his death, given his prognosis. It wasn’t grief as much as mourning, as Joan Didion differentiated in The Year of Magical Thinking. I attended one of his final concerts, and then he died. As much as I miss him, his music provides comfort.
Gord singing and contorting at Fort Henry in the ’90s
The poisoning is more intense when it comes on a personal level. I very much enjoyed Modest Mouse until a student I associated the music with committed suicide. And then, as they sing on Polar Opposites, I’m trying to drink away the part of the day that I cannot sleep away.
I’ve had a couple of relationships turn terribly sour and drag the joy of the music with them. The death of an ex made The Red Hot Chili Peppers feel dark and awful, while Sufjan Stevens, once a great passion, was dragged into a quagmire of triggering memories. I’m working on getting his music back into my head.
Sufjan plays Christmas Unicorn at The Bowery Ballroom
In the end, this self-cleaning of music, loving it once and then not, allowing it to creep back in, knowing it again, almost feels like wisdom, or at least the closest I will ever get to a thing like that.
Phil plays one of his last shows at The Capital Theatre
I thought it was funny at first, this guy mimicking my every move. He was one of those fake plant people that popped out of nowhere and he got the nervous laugh.
I smiled as I walked away, but he wouldn’t stop, imitating my every step and gesture, every facial expression, always staring back. I wanted him to stop. I told him that. And he said it right back.
“No, I mean it.”
“No, I mean it.”
“I’m not fucking Pee Wee Herman.”
That drew a gasp, especially when he repeated that.
I pushed him, which he did back, and came after me. And so I punched him good and made him hurt. I was the villain and accepted that happily.
The Sacred Whore is a dark comic thriller that digs into the chronic ills of our spastically contradictory world. We care. But we don’t. What better way to address that malaise than through shootouts, car chases and furiously sexy women?
Sean Baker’s magnificent Tangerine, his first film to focus on sex workers
It begins with a tractor-trailer trip across the country during which one of the sex workers, Corinne, assaults a would-be rapist, altering the direction of their journey. Some of the women – led by Ave and Dorothy – decide upon an outrageous plan to kidnap a college basketball team at the Final Four Tournament and demand primetime coverage to air their views on the moral destitution in America.
Others, led by Corinne, Chantal and Savannah, leave for Las Vegas where they confront JP, the queen-pin in charge of the sex trafficking network. The original group, now named The New World Brigade, dress up as cheerleaders and successfully hijack the college team bus. In Las Vegas, after maiming JP and executing her security team, Corinne is badly wounded by a police counter attack.
Chantal and Savannah find themselves in a hostage-taking situation and reach out to The New World Brigade, hoping to obtain leverage. After tense negotiations with the authorities, The New World Brigade returns with the team to the arena where each of the women post video statements on the travails of sex work. Chantal kidnaps a FBI agent, leading to a car chase in which she and Savannah are both killed. Stunned by this tragic turn of events, Ave delivers an emotional speech on live television, the final scene revealing Corinne opening her eyes to watch the broadcast from her hospital bed.
The Sacred Whore empowers and celebrates sex workers as complex individuals, rather than the tropes and cartoonish figures we have become accustomed to seeing. Outrageous truth drives the spectacle.
The pink pickup truck was just ahead, a car and then the truck. I saw it when we turned, better to the left. It got further ahead, and I tried to keep up. What was that voice yelling in my head? Was it a workman on the street? A bad childhood memory?
The pickup glowed in the evening light, like an artificial starfish, the driver waving her arms back and forth in a steady beat. No, that was a dog’s tail. The dog jumped into the front seat. I picked out our family dog when I was a kid. “Not afraid of that one!” That’s what I said.
I needed to see the driver. I knew it was someone I should know. I changed lanes and then back again. I met a beautiful girl in my Feminist Film Theory class. She had heard stories about me and she still liked me. She said that laughing. I really thought it would work out.
The truck caught the light, and I couldn’t keep up. I remembered missing the bus. Shadows glided past as I navigated the curbs. I couldn’t find my phone and then couldn’t get it to work. I thought about that familiar frustration as I watched her go.
I woke early Christmas Eve morning, set on reconciling with an estranged relation with whom I had once had a decent relationship. I composed my email, with a little AI help, at 6:00 am: As Christmas comes, I’ve been thinking about how we haven’t communicated with reflection. I’d really like to leave any past misunderstandings behind us and focus on building something going forward. Even if we don’t understand each other very well, I do wish that we could still reach out to one another, even in the smallest of ways. We live in a difficult age of misinformation and strife, and I look to have thoughtful relationships in my life. It would be nice for that to be something between us. Wishing you a Merry Christmas and a happy, peaceful New Year. With hope, McPhedran
His reply was quick: Hi McPhedran; Merry Christmas to you too. From my end, the problem is that you state your opinion to me, and then when I disagree, you dismiss what I have to say as wrong. You say you want to have “thoughtful relationships” in your life, but then you also say that you want to “leave any past misunderstandings behind us”. These two aren’t compatible for me. If you want to move forward with me, then I have to be satisfied with where things were, and come to some kind of agreement. I don’t feel like you want to do that with me. Just leaving it behind doesn’t work for me. Anyway, have a good Christmas and new year.
There seemed a possibility of moving forward, and so I replied: By leaving things behind, I mean not to dwell on old disagreements. I’m just trying to reach out to find a way to reconnect, nothing more. I hope you feel up to talking again sometime soon. In the meantime, give my love to your family.
The retort came in under an hour: You never admit when you do something annoying/wrong. That makes you hard to deal with. You always say stuff like you are saying now. Do I want to interact more? No. Pass.
I resorted to AI once again to frame a conciliatory reply: I’m open to feedback when it’s constructive, but this message feels more dismissive than helpful. If you don’t want to interact, that’s your choice. I’m available whenever you want to talk.
I thought that might be the end of it, but I was wrong. Yes, that was meant to be dismissive. Not interested in interacting any more.
I attached a voice message in reply: I received your message and I just want to ask that you not be mean in your communications. I don’t deserve that. I understand that we have differences of opinion, and I accept that. But I believe that it is important to be kind and thoughtful to one another. Please avoid the meanness in the future. Thank you.
I listened to your condescending message. Nice job at accusing me of stuff instead of taking responsibility (again). Still not interested in interacting. I will not be answering any further. UNSUBSCRIBE
Our hellish cartoony world would clearly benefit by the Gonzo approach of Hunter S. Thompson…
Not much has been written about the Ibogaine Effect as a serious factor in Trump’s presidency, but word has leaked out that some of Trump’s top advisor’s have called a Brazilian doctor who is said to be treating the president with ‘some kind of strange drug’ that nobody in the White House has ever heard of. The Ibogaine Effect explains Trump’s attacks on female reporters, the delusions and altered thinking that has characterized his outlandish decisions and, finally, the condition of ‘total rage’ that has gripped him in office. It is entirely conceivable that Trump’s brain is almost paralyzed by hallucinations, that he looks over the crowd and sees Gila monsters instead of people, and that his mind snaps completely when he feels something large and apparently vicious clawing at his legs.
Gila Cat ready to pounce
The root of the Trump magic is a cynical, showbiz instinct for knowing exactly which issues would whip a hall full of beer-drinking factory workers into a frenzy – and then doing exactly that by howling down from the podium that he had instant, overnight cure for all their worst afflictions. Whatever it is, Trump assures his supporters that the solution is actually really simple, and that the only reason they had any hassle with the government at all was because those greedy bloodsuckers in Washington didn’t want the problem solved, so they wouldn’t be put out of work.
Trump raged incoherently at the tube for eight minutes without drawing a breath, then suddenly his face turned beet red and his head swelled up to twice its normal size. Seconds later – while his henchmen looked on in mute horror – Trump swallowed his tongue, rolled out of his chair like a log, and crawled through the plate glass window.*
(*Culled and adjusted from Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail ’72)
I dreamed of being an adult when I was a kid. Then I would no longer have to put up with the nonsense of being bullied and ignored. I dreamed of being in the world of sense and fair play. Yes, I know. I couldn’t have been wronger.
Dreaming of getting out of the cage
Everyone struggles with the fact that we’re like every other living thing. We aren’t noble. We aren’t wise. We aspire to have more so that we can have more. We consume energy and expel waste, nothing more. I mean, forget Trump and all of the childish horror that he and his cronies spin. The misinformation and anger is everywhere; it’s in my workplace, my family and dreams.
Camus and company offered us a path out: have a cigarette and accept the dire situation. But we can’t. We need our emperor to have clothes, the confetti canons to spout, the scribe to get one more quote. Listen to me! Please listen to me! But we can’t. Our feed is calling.
Listening to Jafar Panahi speak about his filmIt Was Just An Accident made me think about my life, the things that I do, the things that I say I’ll do, my half-baked words and actions, the things that make me the regrettable quagmire of contradictions that I am.
I know one thing and one thing only: time passes. No matter the tastes and pains, the magic and nothingness-eses, that’s what it does. It passes.
I’m on the side of a narrow, cold channel. The lighthouse is in the distance. I take off my boots and socks and make my way across the kelp and rocks, expecting to fall, my body to wash out with the tide, found in the years to come, a human interest story on the northeast tip of Sanday Island in the Orkneys.
It is not as difficult as I imagine and brush the sand off my feet as I examine the small bird skull. The path winds beside a fallow field. The nettles are thick. I look back, wondering if the tide is already rising and I will be stuck here for the night. The lighthouse is fenced in and fully automated.
I return along the coast and am dive-bombed by oystercatchers. They screech and shit, and I scream back and throw rocks. They terrify me.
The tide rises, and I walk in the knee-deep water. There is an ancient tomb at the side of the road, but it has been covered over. Sheep stare back, their bodies oddly sheered and painted blue. I want to write, but I don’t know what about. Something true and real. Something fantastic and simple. Something about what I was doing here. Can oystercatchers be trained? And who will play me?
I was searching for the answer on my phone and clicked on a Studio Ghibli advent calendar. I got one of these for my students last year, and they loved it.
I descended into the advent calendar rabbit hole – chocolates, gummies, ornaments, squishy things, space ships, fishing lures, beers, wines, spirits and cheese – and settled on the Lego, Mochu things, toy spaceships and cheese.
The Lego calendar never arrived because I forgot to submit my data. The Mochu Squishy things was a success. The cheese too, thank god there was only 12 days!
And then there was theThe United States Space Exploration 68th Anniversary Advent Calendar sold by forlovegifts.com for $70.98. (Ad on left, and what I got on right.)
I demanded a refund, was offered 50% and accepted that. All of which goes to show advent calendars are not the answer. Or maybe…
24 drawers of Dior gifts for only $8,200? Old and rare whiskeys for just $14,999!? Let’s go!!
