The British Man I’d Most Like to Kiss

Spin, spin, spin
Spin around, spin around
The harlequin dances
in a costume of green
Spin Around
But under his makeup
his age can’t be seen
Spin Around

But where are you spinning?
When will you know
that life is for living
that it isn’t a show?
“Spin, Spin, Spin” by Jim and Ingrid Croce

When I was a kid, I took a year of figure skating lessons and several years of baton twirling. I loved spinning. Twirling round and round on the ball of my foot or on the tip of my toepick gave me a rush I have never experienced since. One slip, one tiny mistake, and the spin would be broken. And that was where the rush was for me: just barely on the edge of losing control of my body or whatever it was holding.

Now, I was not a graceful child, so more often than not, I lost control and spun way out of my original position. But when it was right, when I could hang onto that control and execute the move properly, well, there was no one who could spin like me. By the end of my year of figure skating lessons (I had no idea it was the only year I’d have), I’d tried, and successfully performed 5 different spins, albeit inconsistently. Unless you have felt the wind whip through your hair and lash against your body in ever-tightening spirals, you cannot appreciate just how much force your body can generate.

For baton twirling, most of the spinning took place in the fingers, and not so much in the entire body. Less control was needed, but definitely more practice. Even years later, I can do finger curls and spinning platter throws that defy physics (sometimes) because over 15 years of practice trained my fingers to do the movements with little to no direct concentration on my part.

Right now, I feel like I am spinning, spinning, spinning in my classes, just barely hanging on, barely doing what is required. One slip and I will lose it, one mistake, and I could jeopardize my whole year. Somehow, the rush in spinning has gone…

Jeepers, what a weekend! Friday night was a lot of fun. We didn’t get the turnout we had expected, but more than just the exec came, so that was good. Yesterday, I had a great conversation with one of my successors to the Film Festival (I was one of the directors last year), and pretty much slobbed about.

As a result, I have a lot to do today.

I miss Esso.

At 38, I am easily the oldest full-time student in the Film Studies department. I am older than at least one of our professors, something he and I joked about a little last year. By virtue of my age, I am looked at as a leader in nearly every class, and in every extracurricular activity WUFS plans. Taking, or being asked to take, a leadership role is nothing new to me. As the oldest of both my parents’ children, AND my grandparents’ grandchildren, taking charge comes very easily to me, and I’m much happier having some measure of control over the circumstances—especially when I feel passionate about whatever it is we’re doing. When others lead, I can always see a handful of ways (big and small) I would do differently. Sometimes seeing someone do things “wrong” makes me mad, and I inwardly seethe as others blindly follow them. All in all, though, I am usually good in group situations—academically, that is.

Socially…things get a little awkward for me. I rarely hang around with people my own age anymore, and most of my social interaction with them consists of visiting with Esso, R-dot and Deesh, whom I love…but it’s a pretty quiet circle. I miss dancing with my friends, and although R-dot likes to dance, nights with him, Deesh and Esso usually revolve around board and card games or a movie I’m making them watch.

The irony of this is, when I get invited out to the bars with my classmates, I NEVER dance. Sometimes, I will sway or lip sync, but actually dance? Hells no. I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of total strangers. I’m not so worried about my classmates (if they’re inviting me out, we’re more likely “friends”), but the atmosphere at Western is pretty effing snotty about appearance. If you’re a little wider, shorter, taller, with out-of-date styling, not wearing enough make-up, or too many clothes, have saggy anything, or are older, you get laughed at, ridiculed and have to suffer the drunken catcalls and snide comments. When you’re my age, regardless of your dress or attitude, you get called a “cougar.”

Hey man, I just came here to have some drinks with my friends, don’t be a dick. If I was looking for one, you’d be first on the list. Fucker.

Tomorrow night, WUFS is having a house party, with the intention of going out to the bars/clubs after. I’m thinking I might beg off after the party itself is over.

Then again, I might just say “fuck it,” and let it all go. Let ‘em gawp, let ‘em think I’m trying to pick up some young dude. Who cares, right?

(I do.)

Oh, right, EYEBALLS.

So much to do in the next few weeks! Three group projects (I HATE THESE), three papers, hundreds of pages of reading (not for the papers), one quiz, one longer test, one composition in Italian, WUFS activities, and to top it off…both my final exams are on the same freaking day!

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again….

GGGGGGGGGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Canadians have a strange relationship with the films made in this country. Unlike in France and other European countries, many Canadians resent the use of tax money to fund filmmaking projects, and yet, without that funding, our films would never be made, never be seen. We just do not have the infrastructure to support a film industry to compete with Hollywood.

Having said that, Canadians have made some great films, which win international awards, including Academy Awards. I present a very biased list of my 10 favourite Canadian films. Not all of them could be termed “classics,” but the bulk of them have had some success, either here or abroad. More than anything else, these are films that have spoken to me in one way or another about what it means to be a Canadian. I’ve also tried to limit it to films that have been made in the past 20 years. While I appreciate films like Mon Oncle Antoine and Le declin de l’empire americain, I have only seen them years after, and in a context of analysis, rather than because I wanted to see them.

10. Termini Station (dir. Allan King, 1989)

This film was my first introduction to Canadian film. It was filmed in and around Kirkland Lake, in northern Ontario, where my biological father and his family live. He was so proud that his his town had been a movie set, and he took me to see it twice. Megan Follows plays Micheline, a young woman trapped in a small northern town. She has a problematic relationship with her mother, and longs to leave. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen it, but some scenes and impressions have stayed with me. It was also really neat to recognize locations in the film.

9. My Winnipeg (dir. Guy Maddin, 2007)

Guy Maddin is probably on the vanguard of Canadian feature-length experimental filmmaking. All of his films have a touch of the antique about them, either in setting, or in the use of materials which harken back to the silent era. Of all his films, though, (and I realize, by some Maddin fans, I’m considered an idiot) My Winnipeg is the most interesting to me. In it, he explores his personal history, his memories of the city where he grew up, and laments that change comes to all of us. This spoke to me on a personal level, for the places we come from never leave us, no matter what happens to them. For the Maddin neophyte, I think My Winnipeg is also his most accessible film.

8. One Week (dir. Michael McGowan, 2008)

Starring Joshua Jackson, One Week starts out with a bombshell: Ben Tyler has stage four cancer, and probably doesn’t have much longer to live. In order to come to grips with this news, he sets off on a cross-country motorcycle ride, and along the way, he sees the breadth and depth of Canada from Toronto to Trefino in British Columbia. What I love about this film is the breath-taking photography. If you’ve ever wondered what Canada looks like going westward, there is no better film for seeing the physical beauty of my country. It’s also darkly comic, too.

7. waydowntown (dir. Gary Burns, 2000)

Sadly-I’m-Bradley has a permanent shrine in the WUFS office in the form of a 2L pop bottle filled with marbles. waydowntown takes place in an office/apartment/retail complex of linked buildings where it is possible to live your life without ever having to go outside, and that’s exactly what the characters try to do. This is a “small” film, in scope and success, but my friends and I had a lot of fun watching it, and it left me thinking (long after the credits finished rolling) about the nature of cubicle farms and the monotony of corporate life.

6. Bon Cop, Bad Cop (dir. Eric Canuel, 2006)

After Porky’s, this buddy cop flick is the most financially successful film in Canadian history. It has everything good and bad about Canada and Canadian film in it: classic Canadian satire and comedy, Francophone stereotypes, Rest of Canada stereotypes, hockey fanaticism, our obsession with regionalism which is overcome always by a bigger threat. So, if it’s so great, why isn’t it higher on my list? Because, as fun as it is (and it is incredibly fun), all of the elements I’ve listed above make it a very superficial film. It is possible to walk away from seeing Patrick Huard and Colm Feore (who is one of my favourite actors, bar none, in this or any other country), and leave them in the dark of the theatre. It is, however, a wonderful romp!

5. The Sweet Hereafter (dir. Atom Egoyan, 1997)

Frankly, the fact that this film did NOT win the Academy Awards it was nominated for ticks me off, even if Titanic and L.A. Confidential were stiff competition. The lyrical beauty of this sadly allegorical film will take your breath away. The acting is pitch-perfect, the characters and the story stay with you long after you’ve seen it. Egoyan has made other, more accessible films, but never one as beautiful and heartbreaking.

4. C.R.A.Z.Y. (dir. Jean-Marc Vallee, 2005)

The music and times of the 60s and 70s serves as a backdrop for the eponymous sons (Christian, Raymond, Antoine, Zac and Yvan) of a tough French-Canadian father and his loving, harried wife. The film largely follows the second youngest, Zac, as he struggles with growing up Quebecois and homosexual. Zac’s need for his father’s approval and love leads him to question how and where he fits in in his family, and in the world. There is a beautiful sweetness about this film that I love.

3. Last Night (dir. Don McKellar, 1998)

The world is going to end tonight. You know it. Everyone knows it. It was announced on TV ages ago, and all evidence points to the veracity of the reports. What do you do on your last night on Earth? In mood and humour, it is much like waydowntown, and I find that the two make a very interesting double bill. Both films feature Don McKellar in tragi-comic roles, and both left me thinking long after. In the case of Last Night, I wondered if I would spend all the last day with my family? Would I try and follow Craig’s example? Would I crawl into bed in a fetal position and just read and cry? What would you do on your last day on Earth?

2. Le Violon Rouge/The Red Violin (dir. Francois Girard, 1998)

Simply put, this film restored my fascination with Canadian film. It is beautifully shot, epic in scale, lush and riveting. The Red Violin is a coveted object, not only for its storied history, but for the passion it inspires within the people who wish to possess it. The film follows the history of this violin through Italy, where it is created, to Austria, China, England, and finally, Montreal, where all the threads are tied together. For me, the setting of the end auction is particularly telling: Canada as a nation represents a place without much past where threads of a life can come together and help an immigrant forge a new identity, a new relationship with the world. Unlike in America (and I realize I could anger a few readers), Canada does not expect those threads to disappear in the light of the new identity. Such is Samuel L. Jackson’s Charles Moritz. Like everyone before him, he is entranced by The Red Violin, but his appreciation is manifested far differently. As a viewer, I felt The Violin was finally being placed in a position where it would be appreciated for itself, and not for what it can offer. We all need that.

1. Cube (dir. Vincenzo Natali, 1997)

It’s hard to clarify why I love this film in an easy way. It’s incredibly low-budget, it’s science fiction (not my favourite genre), and the acting is hit and miss. However, it’s an inventive, paranoid futuristic nightmare, and it features the inimitable David Hewlett (on whom I have a bit of a crush, to be honest). Again, this is the kind of film my friends and I could make, and yet…not. The characters seek to escape the confusing set of rooms they find themselves in, discovering clues to the nature of their puzzle, and each other, as they move through each room. There was one simple set, lit from the exterior, with a variety of coloured gels to give the idea that it is several rooms they are exploring. The practical aspect of making this film would be relatively easy enough to recreate, but the mood is impossible to recapture. You have to see it!

It’s been a tumultous week. On Wednesday, Mom got the happy news that she does NOT have lung cancer (for the record, neither of my sisters nor I thought it was), however, this relief was short-lived, because on Thursday morning, unimproved from basic care, my Dad took her to the Emergency room at the hospital. She was admitted for aggressive treatment of emphysema (COPD—Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) IMMEDIATELY. She was there until yesterday afternoon.

The bulk of her care has administered in the Cardiac unit, which is one of the two areas of the hospital where a machine called a BI-PAP can be used. Essentially, the BI-PAP (and it’s little sister, the C-PAP) forces oxygen into your lungs, while “sucking out” the carbon dioxide damaged lungs hang on to. My mother’s carbon dioxide levels upon admission were so high, she set new hospital records. None of the respiratory doctors had ever seen anyone walk in with levels that high. For the first time, she was truly frightened for her life.

I don’t know much of this fear will last. She already seems to think life will go back to normal now that the scariest part has been dealt with. In my mind, in the minds of my sisters and Dad, based on things the doctors treating her have said, this is just the beginning. My mother will need oxygen therapy for the rest of her life. She needs to completely quit smoking, and to learn how to breathe properly. Most of us take breathing for granted; even I, with my asthma, don’t think a great deal about it. My mother cannot afford to do so ever again, or she will die.

Dad is talking about taking his (8 months of) accrued vacation now, and then retire in April so he can look after her. Mom kinda needs a babysitter. Through this, we have tried to keep a sense of humour, despite our fear and sorrow. I’m not worried about losing my Mom—at this point, it’s a foregone conclusion—I’m more worried about how much time I have left with her. This means I have to begin seriously dealing with my shit where she is concerned.

It’s all too easy
to take so much for granted
oh, but it’s so hard
to find the words to say.
Like a castle in the sand
the water takes away
but how can life
ever be the same?
‘Cause my heart is broken in pieces
yes my heart is broken in pieces
since I’ve lost you

~”Since I Lost You~ by Genesis

Today was a good day of school for me. First, I was able to help out my (very late for class) prof, by getting the screening underway in Contemporary Canadian cinema, and then I found out that most of the WUFS exec, and a few other people I really like are in my Theories of National cinemas class. I’ve even already been asked to join a presentation group!

Mom went to the doctor, and had some preliminary tests done. She has another appointment this week for more tests, and is really taking it all seriously. We will see how serious she is when the doctor tells her (AGAIN) that she must quit smoking.

All in all, I am a happy j-girl.

A situation seems to be rearing its ugly head again. Last autumn, my sister, P, and I had a very bad falling out over my inability to cope well with her frequent calls about the same goddamn crisis. It’s happening again.

She’s never had a very good track record with men. First of all, she seems to think that a) attention from a man will complete her life, and b) the men she picks are as perceptive or as open-hearted as she tries to be. It is really sad to watch her, knowing that she is missing telltale signs that fairly scream “RUN!!!” to anyone else who hears her talk/whine/bitch about the circumstances.

This series of (relatively understandable) missteps is compounded by her determination to make whatever the relationship is into something lasting and permanent. It is just painful to be in her support network when the relationship hits its inevitable rocky parts, or finally breaks down altogether—she just talks and talks and talks about it until I get fed up.

Her latest situation is with a man she has been lovers with on and off for a year. This time last year, she decided she was tired of being a f*cktoy for someone who wasn’t as into her as she was into him, but it took her at least three months to cut off contact. During these three months, she phoned me every day to talk about it. No matter what feedback she got (and believe me, she asked for it), she always found excuses not to give it any credence, and to harp on the same way she had when the phone was answered. When school started, I needed to concentrate on my studies, and simply didn’t have the time or interest in listening to the same complaints, assertions, excuses (both for her and him). I’m afraid I wasn’t very diplomatic.

Our problems with each other came to a head on our Girls’ Weekend to Montreal to see NKOTB. I’m not going to go into detail. Suffice to say, we stopped talking to each other until just before Christmas time. It was both terrible and a relief not to have to field her calls everyday.

She started seeing this guy again sometime in the late spring, and despite the fact that their relationship went from f*ckbuddies to almost-boyfriend/girlfriend, his treatment of her remained the same. Until a month ago, I had no idea this was going on (ignorance is bliss). She and I were able to have good conversations, and to develop our own relationship in supportive, loving ways. I was beginning to regain the trust I had in her before last autumn, and then, the bomb dropped. She told me what had transpired and that their relationship is, for all intents and purposes, over. But, if text messages are to be believed, it’s not. And her calls to me have begun repeating themselves, only slightly varied from their previous entities.

As I did last year, I attempted to let her know I didn’t enjoy these conversations, that I found them distracting from the more important concerns—for example, our mother’s health. This I did without any success. When I told her she was repeating herself and it was getting annoying, she told me she was still “processing” the end of their relationship, and to give her some slack.

I wonder if she’s able to process her problems without me as her audience?

I honestly do not know what to do. Keeping my mouth shut and suffering in silence doesn’t work, because eventually, I burst, and not in the most appropriate ways. Being up front doesn’t work, either because I am incapable of subtlety that she can grasp, or because when that fails, and I need to be blunt, she becomes angry.

All I can really do, is screen my calls. However, with things being what they are with our mother, I’m not sure I can afford to ignore her calls all the time.

And before a certain smartass on the West Coast starts trying to draw comparisons, let me say I am aware of the irony. It’s much easier for you to walk away, however, and you have.

Esso has just left my apartment on his way back to the Atom Mill town and the kitties. I will not be seeing him, except in extremely rare circumstances for about 2 months, and probably longer.

This is because he is working another outage, where the reactors are shut down for cleaning, scanning, maintenance and whatever upgrades are necessary to the equipment. Esso’s job this time gives him added responsibility, and that will mean an extra 1/2 hour per day of work beyond what anyone else on his shift is expected to do. He brought me his schedule, and he doesn’t have a weekend off until at least October 17—and even that is debatable.

I wasn’t expecting to need him as much as I do right now, especially in person. The rapidity of the decline of my Mom’s condition is making me question so many things right about my return to school. I have one more year. I need to graduate. I also need my Mom able to take care of herself. I wonder sometimes if my education is more important to me than my mother. My knee-jerk reaction is, “of course not,” and I toy with the idea of taking this year off if Dad needs my help. The idea upsets me in so many conflicting ways, both selfish, and selfless.

Most of last week, I had trouble sleeping, trouble eating, trouble concentrating on anything at all. With my ADD, you’d think a lack of concentration on things would be a regular state of being, but this was so much worse.

As a mind/body/Zen experience, I do a lot of cross stitch. I put in a DVD, pull out my project, and stitch to movies and TV episodes I’ve seen time and again. It relaxes me, and allows me to think better than any physical exercise ever could. Last week, I didn’t do any cross stitch at all. Nor did I read much beyond research on emphysema. I did watch the first 3 discs of Lost, season 2, but didn’t care enough to pay a whole lot of attention to them.

In short, I was numb and barely able to function.

Through this, a “friend,” informed me through his blog that he doesn’t want to be there for me. This isn’t the first time. He wondered what it made him. In my world, when you don’t want to be a friend to someone who is in great distress, it makes you a pathetic friend. A fair weather friend. I probably shouldn’t have said anything to him, because we are now not talking to each other. It’s more stress, another relationship I am in danger of losing along with my mother. The timing is crap, and I’m trying not to think about it.

I do have friends I can talk to. R-dot is going through medical issues with his own mother, but that good lady knows what is wrong, and knows she needs regular, in-house help. His wife, Deesh, has been a great listener, and so has My Hyphenated Friend from school, although MHF is quite young, and has yet to experience a health problem of this magnitude in her immediate family.

I’m hoping school will help me to focus on something I can have some control over, and drive away the crippling fears that I get carried away with.