Eight years with Maty Bombay

Wedding day, 2006

Maty and I were married 8 years ago today, in the lobby of the Lloyd Center Doubletree Inn.

Last year, on July 9th, Maty left Portland and me bound for Dakar, Senegal to visit her family. I wrote her this letter and gave it to her on the drive to the airport, with instructions not to read it until she was in the air.

My dearest love,
Words cannot express how much I love you. You are the light of my life and I can never be complete without you.
I am very happy that you can go to Senegal to see your family. I wish them love and respect.
I will miss you every day you are gone and I will never stop thinking about you. Always remember that I love you. Never forget that.
I will be happy for you while you are in Africa. And every day I will look forward to the day when we will be together again.
You are my love. You are my life.
Your loving husband,
Dade 

Maty would be gone for 37 long days. It was the longest separation we've endured in the 8 years since we've been married.

They say that once you've developed a taste for caviar, you can never go back to canned sardines. The truth of that adage was brought home for me in the time she was gone.

Eight years! Can you believe it, honey? Eight years!

Feeding the hippos in Zinairé, 2007

Thai food with the families, 2008

Hangin' at the house with Sister Chae, 2009

At a friend's birthday party, 2010

Happy couple, 2011

Anniversary dinner, 2012

Anniversary dinner, 2013

Going strong 8 years later, 2014

Movie review: Her

Spike Jonze must have landed some influential funders for his newest effort, "Her." This flick has benefited from a load of promotion. And I'm sure it will do very well at the box office.

And why not? Given the contemporary subject matter the movie is bound to pry away the attention of thousands of forlorn and bewildered souls from their iPad screens. We are legion.

The film stars Joaquin Phoenix as Theodore Twombly, a lonely writer living in Los Angeles in the near future. Theodore is wrestling with despair. His job is to write customized love letters for clients (much like Gabriel Garcia Márquez's Florentino Ariza). Love seems to flourish all around Theodore, but his own life is desolate and bleak. When he discovers an advanced operating system that is designed to conform to the desires of its user (imagine a highly-advanced Siri), things seem to brighten up. The operating system behaves like an artificial intelligence, developing a personality. Theodore's perfect companion, "Samantha," is born. A love relationship develops between them.

The attraction of this film, frankly, was its pathos. Theodore is a character toward whom it is easy to identify in this techno-isolated society. I went to the film expecting an examination of the relationship between those two human but often contradictory needs: companionship and identity. The idea of a love relationship evokes longing. The reality of a love relationship can be smothering. This conundrum is certainly worthy of examination and today's hyper-technical diversions seem a perfect lens through which to view it.

But the film just doesn't work. As the story unfolds, the relationship between Theodore and Samantha comes more and more to resemble "normal" human relationships: mismatched expectations, hurt feelings, insensitive remarks... you get the picture. Other than Samantha's ethereal-ness, there's nothing that distinguishes the relationship as unique. That may have been Jonze's point, but I don't think so. He gestures at the birth of artificial intelligence as a new life form, but it seems like an escape valve for a story that has nowhere to go.

Hats off to Joaquin Phoenix. To the extent that the film succeeds, it is because of his touching performance. And there are some artful montages throughout.

But the film is based on a far-fetched premise. And in order for something like that to succeed, the story has to be nailed down in all four corners.

Sorry, Spike. Thumbs down from me.

River (Pt. XVII)

Jonah holds forth:

El Cocodrillo led them up a muddy switchback that climbed from the bottom lands into the wooded hills. After him came Eligius, disarmed and despondent. The tatterdemalion mob, hooting and chattering like a band of unruly monkeys, followed.

"Given what you've no doubt heard about me, I can't blame you for being afraid," said Cocodrillo. He waved his arms as he spoke, the plume on his hat bobbing in time with his stride. "They'll have told you I'm a cutthroat and a warlock and that I've sold my soul to the Devil." He shrugged. "I know well enough what is said about me." 

Eligius said nothing. His mind was on the hearth in the manor and Lupe's firm and loving hand, and forlorn, gentle Dolores.

Cocodrillo continued. "Whatever you've heard, I can assure you that my reputation surpasses my reach. If I had done but half of what they say I would be the greatest man in the New World. Never mind the Aztec priest-kings or Guayana Capac in his hidden stone palace. But truth is merely a notion, yes? Tell me, Eligius, what do you believe?

Eligius was too dispirited to answer.

Cocodrillo leaned forward against the steepening slope. "Let me ask you," he said, " have you heard of La Seca?" 

The name brought Eligius's heart to his throat. The name was part of the Cocodrillo legend. Eligius had first heard it mentioned in a whispered conversation between Lupe and Maximo, shortly after Maximo had returned from a voyage to Caracas. The half-heard mumblings between them suggested that La Seca was a remote fishing village on the island of Dominica. La Seca's people, mostly indigenous, were good Catholics and proud Spanish citizens. Because of this, the story went, when El Cocodrillo's barque, La Deriva, appeared one day in the little harbor, the good people had immediately dispatched a messenger to Grenada to inform the Spanish garrison of the whereabouts of the Carribean's most notorious buccaneer. Luck was not with the people though. The treachery was discovered and El Cocodrillo, in a diabolic fury, unleashed his crew upon the village. When Eligius  asked Maximo about the story later that day, the normally blunt Maximo replied, "If it must be that you learn of such things, so be it. But as I love you, hijo, you will not learn of them from me." 

Later, in the stockyard, Eligius inquired about the story from the slaves. 

It was said that Cocodrillo's men, the very men that were at that moment, following the boy up the slope, had each stocked himself with powder and shot, disembarked from their dinghies, and strolled up from the beach to the village, as casual as Sunday church-goers. The mayor of La Seca and a delegation of elders came forth to greet the men and plead for clemency. These, the pirates killed with a ragged volley. From there, they went to the threshold of each dwelling. Any men or boys they found were shot out of hand. Those who resisted were dragged into the village square, bound hand and foot, and left to lie in the scorching sun. Most of the women and children had fled to the church, where the village priest led them in exhortations to the Blessed Virgin for deliverance. They found none. The corsairs set fire to the church then lined up to form a gauntlet outside the narthex. To save powder, they wielded clubs and mattocks. When the flames grew and engulfed the little church, some inside ran out to escape the infernal heat. These, the crew fell upon, beating them until they fell, and then beating them further. It was said that the children, caught between the flames and the pitiless cudgels, gave up shrieking and huddled, solemn and silent, to await whichever demise would claim them. 

When the flame-engulfed church collapsed on the last of the refugees, the pirates turned again to the prisoners in the square: some dozen boys and young men. These they blinded, driving dirks into their eyes. Their bonds were cut and the sailors at last embarked again on their landing boats to return to La Deriva. The survivors were left to wander blindly among the ruins of their home, to stumble upon the corpses of those they had loved, to spend the last of their days grieving and contemplating the final images of their vision.

Eligius saw that Cocodrillo yet waited for an answer. He swallowed down the pain and fear in his breast. "I know of La Seca," he said.

Cocodrillo's smile was thin and touched with sadness. He cast his eyes toward the ground between them. "And do you believe what they say?" he asked.

Eligius, seeing Cocodrillo's lack of surety and sensing, anyway, that his own fate was out of his hands, felt a surge of defiance. "Is it true?" he asked.

"Truth," Cocodrillo scoffed. Behind him, Eligius heard low, mocking laughter from the vagabond horde.

Cocodrillo shook his head, then turned and continued up the slope. "The governor and his soldiers seek me out," he said. "They seek me so they might inflict their tortures upon me, to hold me to account for my many sins. And if one day I am brought to their justice, I will readily confess to whatever charges they lay upon me. But I tell you this, hijo:  no matter what infernal torments they put upon me, I will never confess that I sold my soul to any fiend in the hope of some reward. You seek truth. Well, know this: Though they torture me with their red glowing irons, I will howl to the heavens. Whatever role I have played in the cosmic drama, I never chose it. I have only played the part God thrust upon me."

The path rose steadily. Above them, the crowns of the hills seemed to glow in the sunlight.

After a time, the trail reached a rocky shelf from which one could espy all the lands that lay below them. Cocodrillo paused and turned toward Eligius. "Let us take see what we can see," he said.

Cocodrillo walked out to the edge of the rock outcropping and produced a spyglass from inside his jacket. He extended it to its full length and aimed it down at the flat fields below. He squinted through one eye, looking back along the stream that ran to the Fuentes estate. 
Eligius watched, but made no move to follow. 

Cocodrillo was a while in his inspection. But then he nodded, as if seeing in the topography some confirmation of a sad belief. He turned and extended the spyglass, eyepiece toward Eligius. "Your lesson continues," he said. "Come see."

Eligius did not move. Behind him, the vagabond horde tittered. "Too frightened to move, he is..." "Like a rat in the owl's shadow..."

Cocodrillo silenced them with a stern glance. "Come, lad, have a look," he said. He shook the spyglass at Eligius. 

Some force pushed at Eligius. He found himself stepping forward toward where Cocodrillo crouched on the rock outcropping. The spyglass hung in the space between them until Eligius's hand, seemingly of its own volition, reached out and took it.

 Cocodrillo pointed to a place along the dark ribbon of stream in the forest below. "There," he said.

Eligius held the spyglass to his eye and looked toward where Cocodrillo pointed. At first, he saw only forest, but as he watched he began to notice movement. Birds flitted among the canopy and a breeze stirred the foliage. Then, he noticed something else. People were making their way along the stream, the same way he had come earlier. A band of men moving with purpose and determination. "Papa," he gasped.

Cocodrillo whispered in his ear. "Soon enough, you will know for yourself. About choosing. About choices."

To be continued...

Read Part I here.
Read Part II here. 
Read Part III here. 
Read Part IV here.
Read Part V here. 
Read Part VI here. 
Read Part VII here. 
Read Part VIII here. 
Read Part IX here.  
Read Part X here. 
Read Part XI here. 
Read Part XII here.  
Read Part XIII here. 
Read Part XIV here. 
Read Part XV here.  
Read Part XVI here. 
Read Part XVII here. 
Read Part XVIII here.

Staycation movie reviews

Things have been mighty quiet here at the Sound and Fury office ever since the boss undertook to write a story. But if we don't turn on the heat the pipes are like to freeze, as the saying goes. So in the interlude between episodes of River, we offer up these abbreviated reviews of staycation movies.

Inside Llewyn Davis

Chalk up another for Joel and Ethan Coen. Inside Llewyn Davis is a beautifully-crafted flick with all we've come to expect from the brothers. Set in 1961 on the Greenwich Village folk music scene, the story is rich in symbolism, eccentric characters, and subtle humor. Llewyn is a young man struggling to make a career in music. He's hindered by his own personal short-comings and by a recent tragedy involving his music partner. Oscar Isaac was convincing in the title role and John Goodman delighted with his cameo as an enigmatic jazz performer. The flick is a gentle admonishment to the idealists among us: in case you're wondering, the world just doesn't give a good god-damn.

American Hustle

David O. Russell is now on my list of great directors. Just as with two of his earlier works, Silver Linings Playbook and The Fighter, American Hustle engrosses with its gritty portrayal of Americana. The flick examines the ambiguous nature of truth through the eyes of Irving Rosenthal (masterfully played by Christian Bale), a con man in New Jersey in the late '70s and early '80s. The entire cast delivers top-knotch performances, which is a tribute to Russell's skill as a director. Add in a lively script, loaded with unexpected twists and turns and you've got a great flick. American Hustle is probably the best film I've seen this year.

Nebraska

Another perplexing film by Alexander Payne. (See my review of The Descendants.) Quirky, dry, and vaguely morose, Nebraska is the story of Woody Grant (Bruce Dern), an age-enfeebled auto mechanic who is determined to make his way to Nebraska to claim a million-dollar sweepstakes prize. His long-suffering family at first attempts to dissuade him from his quixotic endeavor, but eventually his younger son, David (Will Forte), agrees to drive Woody the 850 miles to Lincoln. Their journey conveys them across both years and miles and together they confront the fading memories, good and bad, of a man near the end of his life. Despite all the critical acclaim, I didn't find this film to be exceptional. The performances worked, but didn't stand out. It's done in black-and-white which suits the landscapes it depicts, with lots of pleasingly aesthetic views of vast grain-fields and grazing cattle. But I found the story itself lacking. Not a bad flick. But not a great one, either.

The Wolf of Wall Street

Martin Scorsese does it again. The Wolf of Wall Street is a high-intensity romp through the very worst excesses of Wall Street in the '90s. Jordan Belfort (Leonardo DiCaprio) is a stock-broker who gathers a collection of fast-talking buddies to create Stratton Oakmont, a fraudulent brokerage that peddles penny stocks to gullible investors. The lucrative scheme takes Belfort to the pinnacle of financial success, but also attracts the attention of the SEC and the FBI. Belfort's personal failings compound his problems, and the whole thing unwinds as yet another demonstration of the tragic Greek hero. DiCaprio's performance is sterling, as were those of the entire cast. Jonah Hill nearly stole the show with his brilliant interpretation of Donnie Azov, Belfort's right-hand man. This flick recalled an earlier Scorsese flick, Good Fellas, in its frantic, out-of-control pace which is relentless throughout its 180 minute run-time.

Happy New Year

Well, friends, that will wrap it up for 2013. My story, River, will continue into next year, but I hope to continue with other posts as well. I'm happiest when I'm creating. Thanks for reading and my very best wishes for a fulfilling year to come.

Solstice approaching

A diffuse light spreads across the sky to the west. The sun is a flat, colorless disc.

The recently-dissipated arctic front that visited itself upon all the land leaves in its aftermath a city that is seedy and snarly and stripped of all humor.

To longingly recall those cold, austere days, sharp and bright though they were, seems foolish. There is no sense in wishing to forestall what must come. Zeus's nod is irrevocable and he nodded long ago.

People hurry from place to place with nary a smile to spare. Even the panhandlers and the clipboard-toting fundraisers are surly. I'm worried and restless.

I had grave news recently from a friend, a former lover. I mull on this as I walk in the cold. On this and on all the people who've passed. Father, family, friends. And on all the disasters narrowly avoided.

We are at the mercy of gargantuan, indifferent entities we cannot possibly understand. I grimace to remember.

Gray dusk settles onto the streets. The sun sets to the south of Council Crest. Two days off the solstice, the darkness descends.

Liberty and justice for all?

Ethan Couch: According to the State of Texas, he's the real victim.

"Affluenza."

That was the trumped up condition that Ethan Couch's high-priced lawyer coaxed out of an expert witness, psychologist Gary Miller, to explain why Couch was not responsible for his actions when he drove drunk and killed four people. In his testimony, Miller claimed that Couch suffered from "affluenza," a condition suffered by very wealthy individuals. Quoth Miller: "[Couch] never learned that sometimes you don't get your way."  (Read about it here.)

That testimony apparently satisfied Texas District Judge Jean Boyd who sentenced Couch to 10 years probation and mandatory enrollment in a California inpatient rehabilitation center. No jail time.

Apparently Couch is a victim of being too rich to know that other people matter.

Trayvon Martin: Forced George Zimmerman to shoot him to death

Unless they're black.

Not even a year ago, Trayvon Martin, a 17-year-old black kid was walking home from the store in Sanford, Florida, when George Zimmerman, a "concerned citizen," espied and began following him. Zimmerman pursued the teen against the instructions of a 911 operator, going so far as to leave the safety of his vehicle to pursue Martin on foot. A confrontation ensued and ended with Zimmerman shooting Martin dead. A jury found Zimmerman not guilty of 2nd degree murder, determining somehow, that he had acted in self-defense.

This is our glorious justice system.

For the ultra-rich, anything goes. For the poor and racial minorities, you'd better keep your nose clean, 'cause if anybody has it in for you, all bets are off.

In America, you're presumed guilty until proven rich.

Writer's plaint

Brr...

Poorly clad, I made my exercise today. The ominously-forecast Arctic front's arrived. Unseasonable, sharp, and bright.  I kept a good pace by necessity, sticking as much as possible to the sunny parts of the street.

Hustling down the south side of Hawthorne Boulevard, heading west, I met a fellow heading east. His jacket flapped in the breeze and he ambled along easily, seemingly unaware of the bitter cold. His black curls, loose and long, started high back on his forehead. His mustachioed and bearded face held a mild expression. He reminded me of someone.

Much of my walk, I ruminated on my inability, of late, to write. To write anything.

River has grown --expanded, twisted, spread out --so that I no longer feel in control of it. In its current form, what exists of the story is rough. Too rough. Its deficiencies are so offensive to my writer's aspirations that I must daily resist the urge to go back and rewrite what is already there.

The rewrite will come, but for now it is more important to complete the story arc.

It's difficult. Although I have a fairly firm idea about where the story is going, my faith in it --and in my own abilities --is failing.

The unfinished story is the monkey on my back, the glaring light that I cannot extinguish. Failure, with all its sordid affirmations, looms.

Such were my thoughts as I walked. I was nearly home when I remembered who the fellow with the open jacket brought to mind: Dave Kocka.

The way Dave died, the way he went out --God forgive me --I resent him for it. It was such a half-assed way to go.

Dave never tried. He saw himself sinking and he didn't care. His friends cared more than he did and he knew it. He just didn't care. Or, worse, he destroyed himself purposely because he fed on our worry. Maybe he thought it validated him.

Well, there are failures and there are failures.

But I'm not giving up on River.

I can't.