the two best things I watched in 2016

I’m working on my year-end thoughts on all the books I read in 2016 (warning: this it’s going to be a, uh, long post) and while I usually don’t do a year-end list of movies, music or other media, two things I watched this year impacted me profoundly enough that I really wanted to call them out.

The first of these is of little surprise to those who know my taste. The Witch has garnered much critical acclaim, all of it deserved. I don’t really have anything new to say about it—there have been many thoughtful articles on various aspects of the film, in fact this has been one of the pleasant bonuses of The Witch’s success. I can’t remember the last time a horror film inspired so much fascinating discussion, up to and including whether it’s really a horror film at all (which seems to be a point of discussion for any film that reaches a different audience than simply genre fans; see the other fantastic horror film of the decade, It Follows.)

Two things stood out to me in the film: the incredible attention to period detail, including language and a general lack of CGI (what little is used is tastefully done) and the performance of the cast. The journey of William, the father, from a man set in his beliefs to one utterly broken as he is unable to provide for his family struck me deeply. As the movie started, I was prepared to hate his character, assuming it would be another case of extreme religious views leading to doom, and yet by even the midpoint of the movie I felt empathy for him, even when his actions went against his own children. If The Babadook (the third in this trio of fantastic horror films from the last several years) spun maternal (and single) parental fears into a darkly devastating story, The Witch does the same with paternal fears. The look in William’s eyes when he knows he has failed his family: that is every father’s nightmare. That scared me more than anything in the movie because that is real, no matter the era. In a year that has been very trying on a personal level, and has also left me largely unable to indulge in purchasing non-essential material items, I bought The Witch DVD. Even after multiple viewings, the movie still has gifts to offer.

The other great thing I watched this year was not technically a movie (although I’d argue that the line between movies and TV has become largely non-existent—perhaps we need a new term?)  Two years ago I stumbled across the British anthology series Black Mirror on Netflix. A couple of friends had recommended it, so I gave it a go and was blown away. Though only two seasons long for a total of six episodes, it was fresh, thought-provoking and in the case of Be Right Back, emotionally impactful on a level that no TV had been for me since the halcyon days of Twin Peaks. Only Black Mirror was less fantastical and felt very close to real life, glimpses of the future that were just around the corner.

So of course I was overjoyed that Netflix financed another twelve episodes of the series, the first six of which were released in October. The fourth of those episodes, San Junipero, is the most moving and most beautifully done piece of speculative fiction I’ve seen in decades. And that’s not hyperbole—it’s been almost a month since I watched it and I still think about it almost every day. It’s a speculative fiction story and a complex love story. Watching it only a few days after the election, it helped me heal as only great art can do, reminding me of the beautiful potential in us all.

A brief digression: One evening in the spring of 1992, a friend and I drove through the graveyard to a lookout point where the small rural community we lived in (or close to; both of us lived out of town on farms) was visible. We got high, sat on the hood of the car, talked about philosophy and spirituality and girls and all the things young men talk about under clear night skies and under the influence. We looked out over the town, its tiny lights like pinpricks in a black screen. A bit later we sat inside the car and my friend pulled out an old Greenpeace compilation cassette. The first song to play was Belinda Carlisle’s Heaven on Earth. It was a song I already liked, but in that magical moment under those magical skies it transcended its cheesy origins to encompass all that was beautiful and truthful and hopeful about humanity. My life was extremely tumultuous at that stage (less than two months later I’d be in the hospital after a very bad drug trip) but for the length of that song everything was possible. It’s an experience that has never left me, one of the small moments that counteract the struggles and darkness.

So perhaps some of my emotional reaction to San Junipero is due to how it utilizes Heaven on Earth in a way that mirrors my emotional experience on screen: in a hard fought, uplifting way. But to suggest it’s only this factor would be a lie. The whole episode is emotionally complex, and if I have a compliant about some of the coverage I’ve subsequently read regarding the episode it’s that too much of it talks about the pop cultural touchpoints. I guess this is inevitable in any work of art that takes place in an earlier era that many of the audience grew up in. But to suggest this episode merely coasts by on nostalgia doesn’t only sell it short, it misses the entire thrust of the show. At best, it’s an extremely shallow reading that cheats the complexity of the characters and story.

I’ve intentionally avoided discussing the plot because honestly, you can’t say much about it without giving too much of the impact away. I can only say that if I could invent even more words to praise this episode—which brought me to tears several times—I would. You need not be any kind of genre fan to love this episode. And consider checking out the rest of Black Mirror. Like any anthology series, not every episode hits, but the ones that do hit hard. Be warned though: San Junipero is not representative in that it’s an ultimately uplifting story. Most of the other episodes of Black Mirror are not, and a few are bleak enough they may be hard to take (such as the second best episode of the current season, Shut Up and Dance.) Yet even the darkest episodes are thought-provoking explorations of a future that is just around the corner…or already here.

meditation

all the language around me
is either lecture or therapy-speak
the occasional stray hair of business-speak
there is no conversation
no communication
just stiff, locked words like soft bricks
they build a wall that sometimes flexes but never gives

not for the first time sitting at a stoplight
i had the thought that i should learn to meditate
followed by the thought that it might be ok
if i never heard a word uttered by the human voice again
or saw a word typed out on a screen again
it's a silly thought, a despairing thought, a frustrated thought
but during stoplight moments it feels like truth

i want to find where language is alive
but i don't know where to search
or perhaps that's an excuse
i often think so
and then i return to silence
so when words do come
they can carry the weight of heaven

but heaven is another form of death
and i'm back to dead language
to no conversation, no communication
as much as i love poetry
it has yet to change the world
and that's a horse
i'm not going to start betting on

meditation
is starting to look good.

two sentence stories: thanksgiving 2016 edition

"I'm just ready for a new identity," she said as the clerk behind the counter at the convenience store removed her arm with a swing of the machete. "And then I want a donut."

A deep sigh escaped her as she pushed back from the desk and stood up, holding the small metallic object between her fingers. Soon he would return to his cube, and the news she had to deliver would change things dramatically.

Following the locusts, he made his way down the highway, climbing over abandoned cars. He stopped only to retrieve a partially torn bag of Doritos that had gone stale.

The exchange is a failed dance, the same as every other attempt for the last seven years. In a public place, the alleys are filled with anxious allies and the battery life of all devices is significantly reduced.

on one week in November in the year 2016

Just shy of three years ago I read, over the course of a month, Richard J. Evan’s excellent Third Reich Trilogy, which “cover the rise and collapse of Nazi Germany in detail, with a focus on the internal politics and the decision-making process.” (Wikipedia.) My motivation was twofold: 1) I wanted to try and understand how something as horrendous as the Holocaust could happen, and 2) I was worried about the current political climate, where I saw less debate, critical thinking and civility, and more shouting, obstructionism and occasional fanaticism and that such things could lead to some new form of fascism taking place. Today, my worries seem both prescient and quaint. I most certainly did not think a few short years later I’d be sitting here trying to wrap my head around a Trump presidency. If I was spot-on to be worried, I was blind to recognize signs. Or I was unwilling to acknowledge them fully and do anything about them. It’s that last that is not leaving my head alone right now.

We don’t live in a fascist state. Not yet. There’s a lot of heated rhetoric being thrown around—this seems to have been the general tone of our public discourse the last 20 or so years and it shows no sign of stopping. One of the things I struggle the most with is how to keep informed of what is actually happening without burying myself in the cesspool. To simply disconnect from all media will not actually solve any of this (though doing so in short bursts is, I think, sometimes necessary for sanity.) Neither will immersing oneself in it 24/7. At some point, you simply can’t win a shouting war. How do we change the conversation? How do we acknowledge our rage and hurt without letting it destroy us? How do we stop the cognitive dissonance?

We (referring here to those who live in the United States) don’t live in a fascist state, but I do believe we live in an oligarchy. I’ve felt this for some time. Perfect democracy may not exist, but if we don’t work to build an inclusive, loving society we will lose what shreds remain. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never liked bullies. They run on insecurity and fear and ugliness. I’ve been beaten up by a few in my time. I learned to fight back. I’m mad right now, and I’m confused, and I’m full of despair. But I’m also energized. And I refuse to give up hope. To do so is to betray my children and their future. To betray the future for all of us.

I have many questions and few, if any, answers. I have never been afraid of learning or of hard work. Both will be needed.

And I will continue to create. Art is empowering and art heals. In the wise words of Neil Gaiman: “Make good art.” The world needs it.  

Gato Negro

We bought wine by the case, then
Gato Negro, acidic and cheap, little plastic black cats
Hanging from a red string
Trapped by the seal
You collected those cats in a chipped dish on the windowsill
When you had enough you strung them together
And hung them beneath the window
By the time we got a real cat, tortoiseshell not black,
They were gone
I never asked what you did with them
You might have told me
Probably I have forgotten
Your eye for detail
Was always much better than mine
As was your ability
To put things away
When they were no longer needed.

forecast and failure

Earlier this week word started to spread that there was the potential for a major, damaging windstorm in the Puget Sound region. The remnants of a typhoon out in the Pacific, it was expected to bring up to 70mph winds and lots of rain. As we had plans to drive to Portland to visit friends for the weekend, I spent several days agonizingly studying forecasts and following the track of the storm to try and gauge whether we should postpone the trip. The worst of the storm was due to hit Saturday night. At 6 p.m. Friday night I had decided to go for it, leaving Saturday morning and coming back Sunday afternoon. Two hours later I changed my mind, ultimately uncomfortable about the chances of I5 avoiding some major flooding.

Well, the storm didn’t happen. Oh, we got plenty of rain—I spent Saturday morning unclogging gutters in a torrential downpour, a singularly unpleasant experience—but the expected winds never materialized. There were few power outages and little damage. We could have gone to Portland and it would not have been a big deal. Yet I’m not angry or even annoyed.

Two things come to mind. The first is I made a decision based on what I thought the probability of bad conditions were at the time. I understood that it might not turn out to be a big deal, but in the end knowing I could reschedule the trip it didn’t seem worth the risk. If I was going to be worried about conditions the whole trip, it would defeat the point of relaxing with friends in the first place. Second, I learned a lot following this storm so closely and seeing how the forecasters adjusted, how the media covered it, and how it was communicated.

People want certainty with forecasts, but by their very nature they can’t be certain. I don’t view what happened as a failure on the part of the forecasters. They could have communicated the idea of probability better, and the actual TV news coverage (which I watched as an experiment, given that I rarely ever watch TV news) definitely built it into a hype event, which unfortunately is largely what TV news does. It’s a ratings game and in that sense, they did their job well. Sober discussion of uncertainty doesn’t have a place in the news cycle, which is one of the reasons we are in the mess we are in these days (but that’s a whole ‘nother topic.)

There’s a lot of bitching and moaning today about how the forecasters “failed.” But I’m not so sure they did, and even if they did—failure is not a bad thing. I’m guessing they learned from this. The next time such a scenario occurs the forecast will be that much closer to an accurate set of probabilities. That’s how we progress, whether we are forecasters or writers. “Failure” is an important teacher…and a misnomer. I have boxes of “failed” stories and poems—but every single one taught me something. Each one is a stone on the pathway to become a better writer. In that sense, they aren’t failures at all.

I have no great point with this ramble. I guess I just wish we were better at accepting that failure is a crucial part of learning. I find it weird to demonize forecasters just because your plans may have gotten cancelled/changed. It’s this rush to judgment that leaves me so deeply uncomfortable in 2016. When we lose the ability to discuss and learn, we have only open mouths and white noise.

16 Lines, Tuesday Afternoon

You begin with discipline
One of us cannot be poor
You begin with a question
One of us will ask for more.

This is how it is divided:
Yours, mine, theirs
A house with four corners,
Three levels and no stairs.

For each mention of health
Seven candles are lit
We feel the dissolving inside
The bones no longer fit.

We thought that we had years
Stretching before us, warm and strong
We have found the path to be cold
One of us always wrong.