Words

I came to the other side of the world with the intention of documenting my every move as I navigated the concrete jungle of Beijing and beyond. What followed was a blog post twice monthly until recently when it has almost entirely evaporated.

I told a friend with whom I work that I hate forcing it. While I may be having a great time, and building stories to share, I don't have the drive and I don't see the interest in my daily routine. For the most part, my weeks are fairly commonplace. From Monday to Friday I tend to wake up a little after 7am and get ready for work. Some mornings I have cereal, other times I don't. Some mornings I shower, others I did so the night before; this is usually so I can negotiate a few extra minutes of sleep.

Work goes from 7:50am until 4:00pm (occasionally extended due to meetings). I teach classes to four grade 8 groups and one from grade 6. We talk, we learn, and it's both good and bad; it's like any job in that way. I come home, get supper and may go to the gym...the order is sometimes switched around. Some days I watch a movie or an episode of a television show and other times I go out and see a part of the city, though that doesn't happen as often as maybe it should.

My eyes are drooping.

The truth of the matter is that other than the obvious differences like the language barrier and mega-pollution, life in Beijing is not much different than life at home. It's an adventure and I've had better opportunities for travel -- both to Spain and Vietnam -- but the everyday existence is enjoyable, mundane, sometimes boring, sometimes insane; just like life in Canada. One welcome difference, though, is the weather is getting warmer much sooner.

The problem is that I feel like my writing chops are dulling. It's like any skill, and it requires repetition and practice. It's not quite writer's block. It's more like writer's apathy.

I think I'm trapped looking toward the future. A few weeks ago during a sleepless night (30 consecutive waking hours!) I wrote a monologue about fear. This summer, in Woodstock, New Brunswick, I will be hosting a storytelling event at the fifth annual Dooryard Arts Festival.

This is largely inspired by my love of people's stories and the words chosen to share them. Programs like The Moth, This American Life and WTF With Marc Maron have helped give me a template. The Moth, especially, has given me an example to follow. I have come up with a list of themes for people to share their stories; lost, discovery, and fear.

The monologue I wrote a couple weeks back will be my contribution to the fear theme, and so I don't exactly want to share it here. I'd rather save it for that day. My hope is people will feel comfortable, or at least willing, to open their lives up to the public -- friends, family, acquaintances, and strangers. Sharing your own personal experiences with others can be cathartic. I realize that every day or every week is not going to be possible for me on a blog because I'm more interested in turning it into a conversation; true sharing. I want my stories to be complemented by those of others in a community of storytellers. The truth is we all have stories worth telling and sometimes we just need a little nudge.

I'm hoping it will be a success, perhaps one I will be able to take around to other establishments and events. Is it a pipe dream? Maybe, but anything worth doing usually is predicated by being unsure of whether or not it will fly.


*If you are interested in participating in my storytelling event, or you would like more information, please give me an email at ratedargh@gmail.com. Thank you.

Nostalgia

As I teach a unit on media and the messages presented by media to a grade 8 class in Beijing, I can't help but be reminded of my first real gig as a journalist.

I was partway through my third year at St. Thomas University when I got my first crack at an assignment at an actual newspaper. It led to my first full time job the following summer and to what I thought, at the time, would be a long and fruitful career.

This was incorrect.

About a year after the paper opened, it shut its doors.

I'm thinking about it a lot because I've been using stories from my portfolio as exemplars for my students. They are writing interviews and I am giving them my professional writing as examples of format and style.

I have come a long way. My writing and editing has improved ten-fold and I am picking out errors in stories from 2008 that make me groan in 2012.

I am certainly still proud with this work, especially stories like this one where I spoke with Curt Wetmore about his three-week trip to Thailand among others (links will be at the end...in case you would like to peruse my old words -- I have touched them up a tad).

It's interesting to look back and be reminded of something I once felt very strongly about -- and discovering that it may mean just as much now.

Re-reading my long form final piece from journalism school The Death of the Carleton FreePress I recognize some things that I could have done better with it. I should have spoken to Rob Perkins (the former editor from before I arrived) and I should have fought to speak with someone from Brunswick News, and especially Ken Langdon.

Langdon was too busy at the time I was trying to put the story together. He never answered his phone. Perkins probably could have been reached and maybe if I pressed harder I could have gotten someone at BNI to give me his or her perspective on the happenings.

I made a judgment call to write a profile on the staff and how our relationships formed and how it appeared to us as the paper reached its nadir. I am incredibly proud with how it turned out but it could have been more; it could have been something special.

The Carleton FreePress is mostly forgotten now; a distant memory. It's a casual conversation piece that starts with "remember when." I'm not entirely bitter, I swear I'm not...I'm just disappointed in myself that I didn't fight harder for that career.

I've dabbled in it since, and even had a full time gig at the Bugle-Observer in Woodstock and a freelance one at the Daily Gleaner in Fredericton. Something didn't click. It wasn't the staff, they were incredible. Jim Dumville is the best boss I've ever had in my life. Bryan Tait, Jeffrey Bento-Carrier, Peter MacIntosh, Devon Judge, and fellow FreePress alumnus Allison Adair were joys to work with in the editorial side of things. In fact, everyone at the paper with whom I had regular contact helped make it a great working environment.

Before being offered the full time job, and while I was freelancing for the Gleaner, I applied to education school at St. Thomas University...my alma mater. Ultimately, a few months into my job at the Bugle, I got accepted to school and worked my way through the summer looking ahead to change. It was difficult to keep my head in the journalism game as I thought about the impending finish. I still worked hard but had grown to dislike court reporting (which I did every week) and I'll admit my attitude suffered down the stretch.

I hope it doesn't seem like sour grapes, it's just that I am recognizing my own shortcomings at a job where I still have so much to give. Before moving to Beijing, I had started freelancing again at the Bugle-Observer and I wrote one of my favourite articles yet (hopefully I can grab a copy and post it).

Then I was whisked away to a new, mysterious place half a world away. How could I pass up this opportunity? Easy answer: I couldn't...so I didn't.

As I teach this course, my heart swells with nostalgia. I think of the Carleton FreePress and the incredible feeling it gave me at the time. I think of journalism school, which nearly broke my love of the job but prepared me for it in ways I was possibly unaware of until now. I think of my colleagues who have moved on to God knows where (I can't track down Bob Rupert, my FreePress editor). I think of how I was the first (other than Gleaner reporter Adam Bowie) to get a full time job while in j-school and how many never continued in the business.

I'll return to journalism, I know this. The best part is that pursuing my bachelor of education and teaching english and journalism has helped make me a better writer and editor.

For now I'll bask in the glow of nostalgic feelings as I read old work and shudder at rookie mistakes. It was the time of my life.

STORIES:
Devil's Brigade Commando
Traveling Doc
Vinyl 
Fred Eaglesmith
The Adventures of Josh Gabriel
A Book to Find Solace

This American Life...listen to it!

As my university career comes to an end I have been wondering exactly why I had chosen journalism as the major of my eight-year BA. After several false starts I enrolled at St. Thomas University in Fredericton in a pursuit to be a professional writer, or in a more exciting title, a professional storyteller.

While in recent months my desire to be a journalist has waned a bit, my desire to tell stories is as strong as it has ever been. My first year class with Michael Camp focused on great storytellers and the eras of strong journalism specifically. From the war years to the civil rights movement to Watergate, etc. Writers like Tom Wolfe, Ernie Pyle, Hunter S. Thompson inspired me and caused my general exuberance regarding writing.

The biggest problem is it seemed like we were studying history as opposed to current events, which are the core of journalism. My detachment is understandable considering my feeling that my colleagues and I were entering a world where we would be stuck reporting on procedural happenings like the courts and council meetings.

Until recently, this still seemed like the most likely way of achieving my goal and it wasn't very appealing. Philip Lee showed us a documentary from The Wire detailing the death of newspapers.

"Great," I thought. "I have chosen the hindenburg equivalent of a career."

Then a couple weeks later -- yesterday -- he showed us a brief clip from the television version of This American Life. My friend Veda Stelmanis had told me about the show and its host Ira Glass. She told me it was the best show or one of the best -- I really should avoid hyperbole as much as I use it.

The clip he showed was about inner city kids in North Philadelphia who owned and trained horses. They rode horses throughout Philadelphia. It was beautiful and deliberate. The clip wasn't put together with quick cuts, it was picturesque.

I went online. This American Life has radio podcasts available for free download and I have placed links at the bottom of this page. Check it out for humour, information and even just a way to kill an hour in a semi-productive way.

Also, in case you didn't notice, I have a pod-list of Definitely Not the Opera there as well from CBC. Another good way to kill some time through entertainment and information. Shows like this have rejuvenated my desire to tell stories, but not necessarily in a journalistic forum although it is no longer ruled out either.

Enjoy.

#184: Night on Earth

Night on Earth (1991)
Written and Directed by Jim Jarmusch
Starring Winona Ryder, Gena Rowlands, Armin Mueller-Stahl, Giancarlo Esposito, Rosie Perez, Isaach De Bankole, Roberto Benigni
Original music by Tom Waits

Jim Jarmusch is an odd duck. A very creative and sometimes off-putting odd duck. I can easily see why his films are not everyone's cup of tea. They don't have a strict narrative in cases like this and Coffee and Cigarettes or they move slowly focusing more on character instead of plot.

Jarmusch is certainly a virtuosic filmmaker. His work is hard to swallow and to this day he has not made a film designed for the popcorn munching crowd. Some could call him elitist or snooty, but his films are undeniably fascinating whether you like them or find them to be pretentious drivel.

Night on Earth was a great experience. Because I was a fan of his more recent work I ordered Night on Earth from the Criterion collection website last summer when I had a job and thought I would have disposable income for a while.

"Why not invest in my film collection?" I asked.

So I ponied up the cash and waited.

Working at the newspaper, I didn't exactly have fixed hours when I had to be working. If nothing is going on or nothing is scheduled we didn't have to be at the office non-stop to save face with management. At the time, the arts scene in Woodstock was one of my main beats. Like any arts scene, what was going on usually happened at night.

My afternoons were filled by reading at Fusion (the local coffee shop where a bunch of live music happens, usually on Saturdays) and watching movies. Night on Earth was a pleasant surprise. It's really five movies taking place in the same night in five different taxis across the globe.

Two in the USA -- LA and New York, so they might as well be different countries -- one in Paris, Rome and Helsinki. The beauty in the film is Jarmusch doesn't just put a jumble of comedic stories together. They're all slices of life but none are quite like the one preceding it.

The best of the five is the Helsinki short. It's tragic and moving without the melodrama that ruins many of the mainstream big budget tear-fests. It works so well because the characters are realistic and earnest and it bookends the lighter fare.

As we delve deeper into the night across the globe as the viewer the subject matter gets deeper and has more weight to it. There is a progression like any night or any week or any lifetime. This film lives and breathes with its characters.

The setting of the taxi cab is particularly effective because we take the role of passenger. I'm sure you've all been in a cab. And since you've been in a cab you've likely had a conversation with a cab driver. I bet it was at least interesting if not a bit disturbing.

In the spirit of the film I will share two quick cabbie stories...neither of which happened while I was in a cab but a cab driver was involved. Both involve my friend Garrett.

A few winters ago I was in Halifax. Garrett and I went to Bayer's Lake for a double feature. I think it was when The Ring came out or something, but that was October 2002, and I'm pretty sure this happened in February 2003. In any case we get out of Bayer's Lake and it's late, close to midnight. We think the buses are done but we see one coming around the corner.

We raced for that sucker and just barely got on and paid the fare. I think he paid the fare for both of us because I had no change on me. One of my worst habits is using my debit card for everything.

The bus took us to two stops and the driver turned around and said "end of the line." The bus had taken us farther away from the end destination of Seymour Street in the city so we were left with a choice, hoof it or cab it. I discovered I had left my gloves in the movie theatre but we decided to walk anyway. I had this irrational fear of cab drivers at the time, don't ask me why.

So we walked through Mount St. Vincent University. The air was deathly calm and the mid February night was chilly but there was no wind. On the bare tree branches surrounding the campus were hugs black clouds. Well, they weren't clouds. The branches were full of crows. I was a bit uneasy when I said "a murder of crows" so we hustled out of there.

After two hours of walking and some getting lost in some shady looking neighbourhoods -- Halifax can be a daunting place late at night -- we finally reached a familiar territory, Quinpool Road. Walking down a side street parallel to Oxford I saw a parked cab with a cabbie sitting in the front seat leaning back. As Garrett and I walked closer we saw a girl's head pop up from the cabbie's lap and she got out of the car and ran into the house it was parked in front of.

I smiled at the driver and gave him the thumbs up. He turned on the car and drove away. Nothing like catching a cabbie collecting payment orally.

The second story is from just over a month ago when I was in Halifax again, this time for my friend Bill's wedding. I agreed to help Garrett take some sound equipment to the hotel where the wedding was being held. Garrett was doing sound and taking care of the music but had no car, so I decided to help him avoid cabs for the day. Yeah, sure.

The street where the hotel is on is narrow. There was a parked cab in front of the hotel and I was coming from the opposite direction. To park legally I would either have to drive around the block and come in the opposite side or do an illegal u-turn in the narrow street. I elected for the u-turn.

I thought if I pulled the nose of my car in behind the cab and backed up we'd have time. I swung nose first in and then the cab started backing up. If I tried to swing out it would have caused a bit of damage to both of us. I honked at the last second and he bumped my fender. I backed out.

Then out out of the cab climbs this 6'6" monster of a man with a scowl to match. He looks at his bumper and looks at me and nods. I roll down my window and ask "we good?" He nodded again and got in his cab and drove away. I drove around the block and came in the opposite side.

In any case, watch Night on Earth and think about interesting encounters you've had with cab drivers. Share them with me if you like.