Yesterday evening I completed the teaching of my children’s creative writing course. It was online and on Zoom, as is most of our lives. We started in September with the majority of the students in various cities in China and one in Hong Kong (it was morning for them), and the rest of them, here with me in Vancouver. The Wi-Fi was spotty for some, terrible for a couple, most kept their screens black, and others had no access to YouTube where I might have downloaded videos to supplement teaching. So bizarrely, despite the technology that made this pan-world course even possible, it was a pretty low-tech affair, relying on a smorgasbord of simple writing exercises, group storytelling, puzzle games to foster curiosity and question-asking, group book discussions to foster opinions and how to articulate them. There were successes and there were frustrations but certainly nothing to compare to the challenges many teachers have had to deal with even more of that, along with the fears and stresses of in-person teaching.
I have nothing profound or pithy to tie this post up in, other than to wish everyone – teacher and student alike – who has tried their best under these strange circumstances, to take time to rest over the holidays, to acknowledge you got through it, and to be kind to yourself if outcomes did not meet your standards.
An online interview with me was recently published on Medium.com. Among many things, I had a chance to discuss the ideas behind The Very, Very Far North and the upcoming sequel, Just Beyond the Very, Very Far North. You can click on the link to read it:
I went to see 2001 a space odyssey with my twelve year old brother when I was six. What the hell were my parents thinking? It’s more a testament to my brother’s particular sophistication at his young age. I certainly didn’t know what was going on, but I remember being utterly in awe of the psychedelic “Star Gate” sequence accompanied by the avant-garde music. I remember, too, being haunted for weeks by the giant foetus at the very end. I’ve seen the movie many times since and formulated my own theories to the meaning.
All this has come to mind because I
took Friday afternoon off to see a recent film, Ad Astra, on a big
screen. I’ve come to realize that I am drawn to movies about outer space in a
way similar to what amusement park rides must be to thrill seekers: they both exhilarate
and terrify me. It’s not the Star Wars kind of space film that does this. It’s
not the Star Trek version either, although I do like the speculative ideas in which
Star Trek explores. I suppose it’s more of the spiritual variety of space film,
and I’m not even sure whether my attraction relies completely on the story, or just
those moments depicting the silence and the emptiness of the universe, the lone
human travelling farther and farther away from the only planet they might feel
safe, towards … towards what? A closer understanding of god or merely the void,
the darkness? Those moments, as depicted, make me shiver.
The astronaut characters in these movies are often damaged souls, struggling or highly introspective, which as film critic, Anthony Lane rightly points out, is completely opposite to reality. “Anyone prone to anxiety wouldn’t have been allowed within a quarter of a million miles of such a quest”. I wonder if this reaction or craving of mine is rooted only in that six year old’s experience in front of a giant screen, or does this speak to everyone’s personal precipice, as science and curiosity carries us forever onward? In the long ago days of maps with oceans leading towards a cliff’s edge, my counterpart may have sought seafarer stories for the same reason. But outer space, as depicted, is not storm-ridden. It’s a smooth, silent ride to infinity. And to be honest, it’s not really silent. There is always a soundtrack accompanying these sequences which play on my emotions, upsettingly discordant, or eerie or profound – not the John Williams’ space opera version. In my early twenties, I took a few stabs at writing a play involving an astronaut who refuses to return to earth, who has conversations with what might be god or a figment of his delusional mind. The play didn’t go anywhere. What I did know for certain was that in the soundscape to this production, Alan Stivell’s Renaissance de la Harpe Celtique would be heard, pulling on the heartstrings, as it were. That playwriting effort was it for me. I’ve never had a spark to write another outer space story since, yet I am always wanting to be told one.
I can’t say that Ad Astra is
a successful film, in my opinion. It’s a little bit Kubrick, a little bit Heart
of Darkness. If seen through a spiritual prism, I think I see where its intentions
were, and as I’ve said, because of that, there are those moments within that
visual narrative, that squeeze at my throat. What a thing to be praising, right?
But ultimately, it’s about awe. Fear and exhilaration. The unknown. The
opposite of boredom. Or cynicism.