tim’s thought property

I saw for the first time in my life, the holiday film, the 1946 movie It’s a Wonderful Life!. I witnessed it on the big-screen, no less, at the Ellice Theatre on Ellice and Sherbrook. Tim [Penner] and I went to see it, since who else goes to movies so regularly with me? Any of you readers should know him vicariously by now, or even quasi-personally, if you read his blog.

He met me at the ‘bucks as I ended my shift, and we drove to the theatre. It had maybe eight other people inside to watch it, and if I was not mistaken, the DVD projector operator was playing Solitaire by the end of the film. I heard the clicking of a mouse, when the movie went silent, you know, during the emotional climax.
Well, we sat near the front, and got all ready to enjoy this timeless classic of a film. For a movie made fifty-nine years ago, it sure was ahead of it’s time in structure and story, even if it was not recognized at the time. As the story unfolded, it grabbed me from the opening scene of a wintry town, a lit with snowfall and the prayers for George Bailey. And as the story began its progression, one could not help but become drawn in by the good character and moral standing of George Bailey. He put everyone’s needs before his own, sending his younger brother to college on his money, while he stayed at the loan firm his father had ran. He stood up against the money-grubbing and greedy Henry Potter, who wanted to gain control of all the commercial assets of the town. He and his wife Mary, had given up their money for a honeymoon to supply the town with emergency loans until the bank opened. George had given up so much in his life up to the point where everything had come to a tragic and almost unfair moment, that he stood upon a bridge about to cast himself off into the river.
Although the film has precious little to do with Christmas (perhaps about a half hour total shows any holiday festivity), and much more to say about the strength and power of a person’s character. Sure, it doesn’t answer the question “Why do bad things happen to good people?” but it suggests that perhaps good people, selfless people are some of the very people who forgo the very things they give, in order to provide a better life for those around them.
The film has a happy ending, as many movies of the time did. But to take you to that very moment of happiness and that remarkably memorable (albeit cheesy line) “Every time a bell rings, an Angel gets its wings“, the film really causes you to feel the tragedy of circumstance, and the perhaps sour side of life, before giving you the satisfaction of vindication.

I left feeling so elated, so happy. I admit it, I was touched by thee story, and I did shed some tears for George Bailey, but I also shed tears of happiness at the end as well. That is a film I definitely want to watch again, and perhaps make it a December tradition.

As I have learned in the last few months, the world of retail can be one with a shadow of money looming over it. And on days where I don’t feel particularly amicable or sociable, then I lose sight of the potential to reach others. I mean, as a person who’s job puts him into contact with many different people, I have the potential to give them a brief sense of happiness that they did not expect. For good or for ill, I can contribute to the mood of a person’s day; all of us can.

This week, one night, in fact, I was given a contribution that I didn’t expect.

Some of the regulars who come on certain nights happen to be a man and his son. They sit in the cafe and read until close. About halfway through their stay, they will order their drinks. A kid’s hot chocolate in large mug with extra whipping cream happens to be the boy’s favourite treat. Each time they approach the counter, they both are smiling and in delightful moods, and the boy always jokes around. He always wants to buy all the cookies, and have his father get only water. Each time the drink is made with the extra whipping cream and handed off with a spoon, the boy’s face lights up all the more, and there is actual happiness in this small, small act of service. And even though it takes no time to make, and it’s always the same drink, he takes it in like it is the greatest gift he can get.
Feeling the joy from the genuine attitude of father and son touched me in a way that I had seemed to have forgotten. To find happiness in simplicity, and peacefulness in the reaction of strangers, it makes me wonder why I do not slow down to savour life. It makes me wonder what drives me to get so inward focused and closed to the world, losing sight of what being alive is really about.

Later that night, a woman who was a deaf mute came in to order two drinks. She motioned for a paper and pen to write down what she wanted, signalling that she couldn’t hear me. I gave her the means to order, and even clarified the order, specifying what type of eggnog beverage she wanted. Using the only sign language I knew, I told her “thank you” [for ordering] and briefly spoke to her in a way that she could understand.
This happened to be at the end of the night, and I thought about how someone without the means to hear or speak is still living life with every means she can. It struck me, what she may or may not experience during the bustle of the season, and how blessed she is, in her own way, to not be bombarded with seasonal music or questions to up-sell or add more to a purchase. In a way she’s trumped the system and can get through to the heart of things.

I was given two different ways to see things, to see through the things that are cluttered around me. Sometimes I feel that my perception is often subtly blocked and that I miss so many things that pass by me each day. All the more reason to be taking things slower and enjoying life more.

Even though I haven’t cut the obnoxious television out of my daily habits (that show Lost is some kind of amazing, let me tell you), but I have been edging in time for reading.

I’ve started and almost completed reading Bono: In Conversation. I was taken aback at how engaging the book is. It is a compiled series of conversations between Michka Assayas, a French Writer and Bono himself, taking place over the course of a year and a half. The topics discussed range from the band’s early years, about Bono’s childhood, and his later activism. The book is full of interesting quotes and views and discussions, it has taken me by surprise a couple of times.

Here are a few interesting things he’s said. Michka’s questions are in bold.

There is one thing about your life that I find quite unusual and extraordinary for a rock star. You have been monogamous for twenty-five years.

Breaking my marriage? Maybe a strong sense of survival. I can’t remember his quote exactly, but there is a writing by Jean Cocteau where he says friendship is higher than love. Sometimes, it’s less glamorous, or less passionate, but it’s deeper and kind of wiser, I think. At the heart of my relationship is a great friendship. That’s in fact, in many ways, the key to all the important doors in my life: whether it’s the band, or whether it’s my marriage, or whether it’s the community that I still live in. It’s almost like the two sorts of sacraments are music and friendship.

—–

As I told you, I think I’m beginning to understand religion because I have started to acting and thinking like a father. What do you make of me?

No, it’s not far fetched to me. Look, the secular response to the Christ story always goes like this: he was a great prophet, obviously a very interesting guy, had a lot to say along the lines of other great prophets, be they Elijah, Muhammad, Buddha, or Confucius. But actually Christ doesn’t allow you that. He doesn’t let you off the hook. Christ says ‘No. I’m not saying I’m a teacher, don’t call me teacher. I’m not saying I’m a prophet. I’m saying “I’m the Messiah”. I’m saying: “I am God incarnate”.’ And people say: ‘No, no, please, just be a prophet. A prophet we can take. You’re a bit eccentric. We’ve had John the Baptist eating locusts and wild honey, we can handle that. But don’t mention the “M” word! Because you know we’re gonna have to crucify you.’ And he goes: ‘No, no. I know you’re expecting me to come back with an army, and set you free from these creeps, but actually I am the Messiah.’ At this point, everyone starts staring at their shoes, and says: ‘Oh my God, he’s gonna keep saying this.’ So what you’re left with is: either Christ was who He said He was - the Messiah - or a complete nutcase. I mean, we’re talking nutcase on the level of Charles Manson. This man was like some of the people we’ve been talking about earlier. This man was strapping himself to a bomb, and had ‘King of the Jews’ on his head, and as they were putting him up on the Cross, was going: ‘OK, martyrdom, here we go. Bring on the pain! I can take it.’ I’m not joking here. The idea that the entire course of civilization for over half of the globe could have its fate changed and turned upside-down by a nutcase, for me that’s far fetched…

—–

And working in a store within a book store, it hasn’t left me immune to the vast majority of other interesting things to occupy my mind. I have seen and flipped through three books that look interesting.
They are about current culture, in Rebel Sell; The history of the world through the focus of drinking in A History of the World in Six Glasses; and a memoir about bigfoot, in In Me Own Words. Yet, although I pass these books daily, I don’t feel able to shell out sixty dollars for three books. I whall bide my time and wait to find them on the internet for much cheaper.

There you have it. I’m still reading, and have plans for more in the future.

As I sit here, bundled up in my thrifted beige cardigan, sipping my dark roast French Pressed coffee, I look outside to see the snowflakes gently drifting to the earth. I hold the warm mug in both my hands, smelling the sweet aroma of arabica beans, grown in Indonesia, and I close my eyes and think of the warmth that is holding me indoors.
The tree outside is lit up with the money saving LED lights; all sixty-two feet of pine, like seasonal stereotype put to work in old-suburban perfection. As the shoveled driveway gets a new sprinkling of snow, I get up to wander to the kitchen to find racks of tasty cookies and treats cooling on the table. The counters are a quiet mess of bowls, spoons, flour and wax paper, all left over from the remnants of what is to become the new addition to my figure this winter. As I walk to the window above the sink, I see the deep night sky, black, with faint spots of light twinkling back at earth, not unlike the lights blinking in the front of the house.
My breath reveals itself on the glass and I press my finger against it. It’s colder than it looks, and so is the outdoors. This season re-enforces the knowledge of warmth being indoors. All at once, I get up and put on my coat, buttoning up the four buttons. With a scarf around my neck and a toque on my head, I walk out the door to the outside.
The cold chill of Winter greets me, along with ten-thousand small and lilting flakes, each one different and particular. I walk down the drive to the front lawn and look at my breath that escapes my mouth. As it puffs out in a small burst, it floats outward and upward before it disappears. I set down my coffee mug and fall back into the snowbank on my front lawn. I look up at the moon, stars and pine tree. Three sources of light, three different kinds of light I see, all upwards. One in a big glowing orb, to my left; the basis of the night sky - stars, all in front of my view; and the colourful tree to my right.
And as distracting as the season gets, with Capitalism growing to the rich flower of greed that it so happens to become; as traditional as it becomes with canned music playing in every public building; and as temporary as it can be, with the push to be peaceful and loving at this time of the year only - and amidst all of this, I find in the light some semblance of the meaning of what Christmas is supposed to be about.

Away from the noise, away from the distraction, away from all the bustle.
Take time to reflect upon what this time of year means to you.

I guess I feel obligated at times to write some masterful post or have some great topical story. Well, I may have lost sight of things. Far too often, I will sit down at the Post page to write a post, and I’ll get stuck. If what I’m typing looks to me like too much of the same thing (movie review, CD review or some third, similar thing) or too much of an inside thing (such as trying to see a movie on the wrong day or locking my keys in the car), then I really pause before putting it online. As a result, I feel that there is too much of the same things to offer, so I feel a little stuck.

I could try to force some pseudo-philosophical diatribe on the spiritual parallels of my pants, but I’ve done that already.I could perhaps tell on at length the anecdotes of working with children, but that’s already happened.Or I could even cannibalize my own work and re-word how I feel like I’m in a creative mire, but this time it’s happening for different reasons.

Perhaps what I need to do is to just clear my mind and not think too hard about posting.
After all what is this anyway? Is it a vicarious jaunt into my life, so you can see the idiosyncrasies that make up someone else’s life that are remarkably similar to your own?
Is it a good excuse to dwell on your own quirky nature since now you can see how it looks in the life of somebody else?
Is this some grand storybook in your head that you have to finish reading so you can know the outcome of what semblance of life I may yet attain?
Or do you like to read the quasi-pretentious wordings of someone who has occasional time on his hands and wants to try and give some sort of enjoyment to others, while not coming off as pretentious?

Well whatever the reason is for coming, I hope that it hasn’t been a disappointment. I’m sure there will be many things to tell and regale you all with in the weeks to come.
Also, the reasons for posting the word “fallow” were to explain my state of creativity. If you’re lucky, I won’t be posting definitions that often.