Erica Chan Photography

Hey did you here the bad news, Canadian actor Corey Haim kicked the bucket today. Apparently a drug overdose. Age 38. I googled him. He starred in a couple classics, which may be a little before your time, whippersnapper. So if you haven’t seen The Lost Boys, go rent it. Best movie of ‘87 in my opinion; it combined teen angst with comedy and action / low grade horror. It had it all. Not only do you get to see the aforementioned Haim in his prime (at like age 15) but also Keifer Sutherland with funny blond hair and a broken hand (which he covered with black gloves throughout the entire movie), Jason Patric in pretty much his only good role which still managed to help him hook up with hotties such as Julia Roberts, and best of all Jami Gertz who ranks as one of my all time best teen heartthrobs, 2^nd only to Molly Ringwald. Gertz had bigger tits, but Ringwald had the fire crotch. On top of all that, the theme song(cry little sister by Gerard Mcmann) captured the best of 80’s pop sensibilities without excessive hairspray keyboard.

The other Haim classic was the uber cheesy teen drama ‘Lucas’ which was subject to ruthless ridicule from my older brother back in ’86, though as a 7 year old I could dig it. True, any movie which portrays Charlie Sheen as a jock demonstrates questionable masculine credentials. But for all time nerd dream endings, nothing tops the ‘slow clap’ triumph of little Lucas over his prototypical bully tormentors. Go Lucas, nerds forever, Yaaa!

Looking back, the 80’s had some wonderful teen flicks, so much better than todays offerings, principally because they didn’t succumb to the cheap thrills of shock and awe. Instead, the best of them navigated the tenuous path between heavy teen emo and modern coolness without slipping down the slope into embarrassingly silly melodrama. Maybe they couldn’t afford brash special effects, or they just preferred actual story-telling, even if the story was based in a simplistic child like world view. The legacy we’re left with no longer seems as embarrassing as it did when I was 20. Now that I’m an old duffer, I can relive my long forgotten youth through 80’s flicks. A trip to Pic-a-Flic is in order!

Do you share my silly affection for vintage VHS?

Now for a number of years my house was home to a little old lady. She was lonely. No family and few friends. Not very mobile. I suppose her boredom lead her to befriend the local wildlife. She fed a stray cat, who still comes around often and is actually quite nice. She put out bright red hummingbird feeders which apparently worked, though I've only seen one once. And, unfortunately, she fed stale breadcrumbs to a pair of pigeons who chose to nest under the eaves of my roof. The old lady kept her feeding routine going for many years, so long in fact that none of my neighbours can remember a time when there wasn't a pair of pigeons roosting under my roof.

As the saying goes, all good things come to an end, and when the old broad moved on so went the breadcrumbs. Feeling some responsibility for the menagerie we inherited, Lisa suggested we get some cat food. I agreed. We even decided to put some sugar water in the hummingbird feeder. But the pigeons would have to find their food elsewhere. Sadly, this didn't seem to be a problem for these ubiquitous roof dwellers. They stayed. And for 9 months I passed along my front walk, keenly aware of feathers in my garden, poop on my shingles, and cooing in my brain. When turds began turning up on our tomato plants, Lisa was furious, and ‘project eviction’ was formed. 

Thus, one hot summer’s day I dawned jacket, gloves and respirator in preparation for battle. I sent Lisa and Laurel inside, away from danger. Than up I went. I surveyed the scene from atop a 20 foot extension ladder. The trail of poop began in the eaves, then disappeared into the roof cavity, hidden between shingles and soffit, leading down towards a long, shaky-looking gutter. The fascia board behind the gutter also looked fragile. Above the unstable fascia and gutter, a noticeable gap had opened where the shingles seemed to be peeled back. I suspected that the trail of poop ended here, where the Pigeons made their nest.  

My first action was to pop the gutter free. It came away all too easy. Then, I took hold of the fascia board. The softest touch of my hand was enough for it to disintegrate entirely, all 12 feet of rotten board crumbling to the ground. It was at this moment that the terrible extent of the pigeon occupation became known. The fascia had concealed the roof cavity, inside of which lay layer upon layer of pigeon shit. Mounds of it filled the cavity, 6 inches deep, 12 feet across, stretching upslope beyond sight. There was enough shit to fill 10 bathtubs. I was completely gobsmacked! I’ll quickly sum up the nasty task of cleaning away the poop by saying it was horrible, sweaty, disgusting and impossibly dirty. A wretched task that once begun, must be completed, and never, never done again. All the equipment used, like the plastic dust pan & rusty old trowel, suffered from irreparable contamination and was consigned to the trash heap. My body was also savaged by the airborn toxic event. Flecks of caustic crap clung to beads of sweat, in every place that shit shouldn’t be, in hair, ears, neck. But of course, I was wearing shit covered gloves, and so all those hundreds of individual itches went unscratched. With each scoop of the poop another localized poof would envelop me. There was no avoiding it. My resolve was strong, to clean the mess and once and for all, and at the same time I desperately wanted to be far, far away.  The dissonance this created in my tormented mind went beyond discomfort, crossing the boundary towards torture, but one self imposed. A funny thing happens to my psyche during such stressful times, I seem to find a strange reprieve in sadism, the embracing of disgust, the prideful boasting of intolerable anguish. Where this comes from I have no idea, maybe you’ve felt something similar?

Eventually I wrapped up the crap cleanup and descended my ladder back to firm ground. Lisa came out to hose me down. Rarely does one enjoy a full body cold water blast as cathartically as I. It bordered on the spiritual. And so the pigeon eviction was completed, though those damn stupid birds still return looking for their former home. Why they poke around I don’t know, there’s nothing here for them. If they keep it up....the final chapter has yet to be written...

As children we took direction from our parents. As adolescents we sought our own direction. As children we made small mistakes and our parents dusted us off. As adolescents we made big mistakes and suffered the consequences. Now that you’re an adult, you long for childhood, when life was simple, not painful. Most of the time, when you ask for advice you are not actually asking for direction. You already know the direction. What you’re asking for is someone to dust you off should you fall down. When they don’t dust you off you take the next natural step and place blame, just like you would blame your parents. And so it goes, adults looking for help in their lives, generally not finding it, and placing the blame on all sorts of things – the police, big business, the president, your best friend.

Think of it this way. If you could make all the decisions in your life without fear of failure, would you ask for any advice?

This isn’t to say that we don’t care what other people think. Obviously other’s opinions are important. They inform our own viewpoint. But if you’re asking for direction, you’re really asking for someone to protect you from failure. The unwritten rule is that you try to  learn from another’s mistakes rather than make your own. But maybe the more sensible thing to do is say “hey, I’m about to try this, it might fail miserably, if it does, will you bail me out?”

Imagine if our culture allowed such honesty.

I was never satisfied with any life till she called my name
The air on the high ground was rarefied, every day the same
And old fears were always near but the world don't wait
When your faith won't leap

And I know it was only a dream
As delicate as a dragonfly wing

Then we watched as the Southern Cross led the sailors home, constellation borne
We set sail in a heavy gale and to the sea many of us thrown
And there were times when my courage failed but I never bowed to the storm
Whatever path you choose to walk, in the end, you walk alone

Ooh, it's got me mystified, heavy now
Tongue-tied to the anchor chain
You try to keep your hand steady now
But it slips again
And landfall surprised us all and she broke on the rocks like a china doll
You can hear the siren call for the last dance at Poseidon's Ball

I know it was only a dream
As delicate as a dragonfly wing
I hope it was only a dream
As delicate as a dragonfly wing

As noted in "the beginning" [Oct 7]  I mention correspondence with my friend and colleague, Graeme Sykes.  I thought it only fitting to explain - by sharing - the words of my friend that have helped shape me as a person and artist.  I hope you find his mind as extravagent and elevated as I do.  I will post some exchanged wordsevery once in a while to offer as food for thought.  Enjoy.

On "Striving for Satisfaction":

Striving for satisfaction… hmmm… Is that what we do?  I dunno… maybe the ideal state of mind is best defined as pure satisfaction. A moment of contented bliss, where accomplishments are savoured and rewards enjoyed to the fullest. A purring pussycat mouth full of feathers laid out in the sun… or a stiff backed farmer, dusty and tired, watching the sunset on a field full of wheat from his favourite chair… or a graying old lady, wrinkled fingers knitting a bright red scarf for a distant grandchild…

I guess satisfaction is in the eye of the beholder. We can see signs of it or hear it in one’s voice, but really, it’s intangible. Just like so many human emotions, it’s a contrived state of mind. We tend to ebb and flow in and out of satisfaction. At times it is a planned occurance, at others completely spontaneous. No doubt we would all enjoy a little more (or a lot more) satisfaction. But then, maybe too much of a good thing would spoil its essence.

Then there are those who master self-control and exist in a perpetual state of satisfaction, because they live without anguish (I’m thinking specifically of the Buddhist mantra). Though maybe I’m confusing a lack of emotional craving with an imagined state of perpetual bliss. These are different things entirely. A Buddhist removes neediness and thus denies the anguish resulting from failure, a concept that has proven effective for millennia, yet seems to deny one the joy of success. One cannot succeed if there is nothing to accomplish… hey, that reminds me of a Theodore Roosevelt Quotation:

"Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat."

I guess Buddhists are fans of the Gray Twilight hey.

Why aren’t we more satisfied with what we have? Why the self-induced anguish? Hmmm…A life of satisfaction is easily knocked off course by the ever-changing winds of expectation. Yup, just like a first date, it all comes down to expectations. That's why I never date movie stars.  As soon as you reach a pinnacle, a new peak enters your sight, as soon as you fall flat, a deeper hole comes to mind. With all this vertigo inducing yo-yoing is it any wonder that contentment seems a dream.

In some ways it is easier to recognize dis-satisfaction, which is often the more common condition. Lingering doubts and insecurities can dog the most optimistic of characters and make wrecks of more susceptible souls. It’s as if God gave us an internal measuring stick with which to beat ourselves in times of weakness. Yet in an amusing twist, He also filled us with endless reserves of determination. It’s a recipe for repeated suffering and redemption. Like the midway game where clown heads pop up and are immediately pummeled by a spongy mallet, up and down they go, forever getting walloped, yet always coming back for more. If those clowns were like us, they’d probably be stoked to poke their smiling faces above ground for longer than a second. Two seconds would be record breaking! None of them would think to question the usefulness of poking their heads up. It’s obvious that’s what they were created for, so up they go and…Thwack!

Now a Buddhist clown is like a clown without a spring. He has no motivation to pop up, he just chills, never attempting to play the game at all. And that’s why there are no Buddhist astronauts. Or Buddhist sprinters. Or Buddhist Texan oil-loving presidents. It’s a peaceful existence with plenty of redeeming qualities, but a life in the Gray Twilight is a dull one indeed. Luckily, you don’t have to be a Buddhist to control your own pop up mechanism. With a little practice, I think anyone can come to master their own expectations.

So my advice on seeking satisfaction is to keep your perspective and a firm grip on your expectations. Be flexible. When you encounter failure, endure your lumps and move on. Borrow some Buddhist precepts for a short time and disregard anguish. Rob it of its power by denying yourself material/physical/emotional desire and live at peace for a period of recovery. Then, when contentedment has brought a return to balance, look again to that which is worthy of accomplishment. Seek it out with passion and joy. Don’t be afraid to poke your head back out there even though a spongy mallet is the likely reward. It can always be worse, it can always be better, but the fun comes in the playing.

~ August 19th, 2005