The return of the blog
Hi, it’s been about two and a half years since I last posted on here, but it seems like yesterday. God, time really flies too fast. At the time I was living in New York, on my way back to London. Since then I moved back to London, made three films, finished a Masters in Film Studies at UCL, and moved to Beirut, Lebanon about seven months ago where I am working as a freelance journalist, editor and struggling filmmaker. I am working in Palestinian communities trying to mobilize community projects in relation to filmmaking as a historical function and cinema as a form of non-violent resistence. Things have been going really well. Life is busy, but good.
Totally over Brasil, right now.
A month in Brazil was great, but I missed so many things while I was away…Here’s my list of six things that either went over my head while I was in Brazil:
1. SADDAM’s execution (See Number 6 on this same list)
2. YOU TUBE … my “Walking Table” video somehow (I have no idea how) got featured on You Tube’s main page for a week and I had over one MILLION views on that nine-second video clip and I honestly have no clue as to why (anyone) cares … it’s just a boring clip about an interesting table I saw at a design expo in Holland … and everyone seems to love it. I blogged about the walking table in early Nevember if you want to see it under the Design category.
3. ARGENTINA. I was in denial for the first 20 days in Brasil about not being in Argentina. I got a consolation bracelet.
4. TOFU. Ever try telling a room full of Brazilians that you’re a vegetarian?
5. WI-FI. There’s something beautiful about free wireless internet whenever you want it.
6. MEDIA. Anything in English. Anything.
And six things I was not ready for:
1. INSECTS. They’re everywhere and I battled them.
2. BEING A “GRINGA”. Gets stale fast.
3. PRESUNTO. It’s everywhere. Gross.
4. FLAVOUR. Anything other than salt.
5. CLASSISM. It’s heart-breaking.
6. HIPPY MARKETS. It was beaded necklace overdose.
Halloween versus St Martin’s Day?
THE COUNTDOWN to Halloween has begun. 22 more days. Yeah sure, who really cares about Halloween outside of North America … North Americans take Halloween seriously and put a lot of planning into it. When I lived in England I experienced Guy Fawkes Day – the day most Brits revere on a similar par to Halloween in North America – but very loosely. Most people who’ve never experienced Halloween in Canada or the USA have no clue how big of a deal it is. In fact, I wonder how much the Halloween retail market is worth – what with candy, costumes, decorations and advertising… But regardless, since I left Canada in 2000 and the US in 2004, the only “celebration” I truly miss is a “real” North American Halloween.
That said, St Martin’s Day [In Dutch: Sint Martijn's Day], a holiday similar to Halloween exists in the Netherlands and Germany. The Dutch celebrate it on November 11 instead of October 31. Apparently, the kids go door to door just like in North America, except, instead of wearing complete (and elaborate) costumes, they only wear masks. And instead of saying trick or treat, they sing songs to neighbours for candy or fruit. Fruit? That’s amazing, but I just don’t think anyone could do it in North America without getting investigated by the cops. I remember when I was eight years old some kids parents found a needle in Tootsie Roll — and as far as I can recall it was that day on that every kids parents started inspected and filtering the treasures accumulated on Halloween. Every warm-blooded North American kid has a good Halloween candy horror story.
Anyway — I “Googled” St Martin’s Day, trying to unravel the origins of the day, and a lot of stuff came up:
“It was a dark and stormy night. Martin was quite alone on that dark stormy night. He only had a cloak and a singular piece of bread. He was returning home when suddenly a poor and homeless man appeared in the darkness. Martin felt pity for the man and gave him half his piece of bread, and half his cloak and offered him hospitality in his home. Now he is called St Martin and is known for his kindness to the stranger. That is why we celebrate Saint Martin’s Day.”
OR
“Like so many other Christian celebrations, St Martin’s Day coincides with pagan rituals from the pre-Christian era. This falls at the same time as the early winter festivities of light and fertility celebrated by the pagans. The Christian Church, very early in its history, saw that there was a problem with holidays. Many people, even though they had become Christian and given up their pagan ways, didn’t want to give up their holidays. The Church, being smart, put Christian Holidays around the same time. The people kept their holiday, they just celebrated something different.
So who scores more candy – Dutch kids or North American kids?
Where were you on September 11th?
IT IS REFERRED TO AS THE KENNEDY ASSASINATION OF “our” generation. The single incident of which everyone, everywhere, will always remember where they were when they heard the news that changed “our” sense of life as we once knew it… Life without terrorism.
Looking back, it’s somewhat strange to comprehend that it has been five years since that hazy day. It seems like a lifetime ago.
On September 11, 2001, I was in San Diego, California. I was living there at the time, working for Transworld Media in Oceanside, coastal San Diego, and living just down the coast in a gorgeous house in Encinitas, with my friends Liz and Sierra. Oh, and Brian the funny surfer who lived in our garage for a hundred bucks a month.
I had spent the night earlier at a friend’s place in downtown San Diego as we had gone out on the 10th and I couldn’t be bothered to drive home, 30 miles away.
I set the radio alarm clock to wake me up at 7am and drive home to get ready and go to work. When the alarm went off, I instinctively hit snooze. An hour later – maybe more – I woke up and panicked that I’d be late for work. I ran outside and into my car and zipped on to the 805-North. Normally the 805 is bottleneck congested at 815am, but traffic was moving steadily. I got on the I-5 North to Oceanside, 40 miles or so away. The Interstate, always busy, was only speckled with cars. I didn’t think twice about it. I was still half asleep.
I rolled into the Transworld parking lot, it was empty, bar for two cars. I walked to the door, and it was opened by Tracy, the then accountant. She was crying. “Go home!” she said. “What? Why? What happened?”
“GO HOME!” she cried aloud, “Haven’t you heard? Go home and turn on the the TV!”
I made it home in ten minutes, speeding down the five, screeched onto my driveway and burst in the front door. The TV was on and Liz, Sierra and Brian were sat around it, eyes glued. A building that looked like the World Trade Centre had smoke and some flames coming out of it. I thought maybe there was a bad fire in one of the offices. No one said anything. I took two steps into the living room, my eyes glued to the TV and then we all saw the plane crash into the second tower.
We all sat there breathless, speechless, for hours and hours. Nobody moved.
The next day I went to work. Oceanside is the biggest military town in southern California. That’s because it’s adjacent to Camp Pendleton, one of the largest US military bases (Marine Corps) on the west coast. It has a daytime population of 100,000 and runs along 17 miles of southern Californian coastline, separating San Diego county from Orange County.
I saw warships, many of them, off the coast of Camp Pendleton. I wasn’t sure if they were emerging for defense, attack or simply routine check purposes, but they were there and it was freaky. We all talked about it at work, all day. Camp Pendleton was less than a mile from our office and it’s a weird feeling to know there are several United States of America military warships a mile away from you, especially after the events of the day before.
We all talked about it. And that day, on September 12, 2001, after staring at these mammoth war ships outside our office, we simply asked each other what’s going on. Were the WTC attacks an act of war or an act of terrorism? Are war and terrorism separate things or are they the same thing? Ok, so if the US is going to attack or invade somewhere, where would that be?
Somebody asked me if I had any idea as to where Osama bin Laden lived? He pronounced the name wrong and threw up some horns when he said to me: “Fuck that dude, man”.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Fuck that dude.”
Beautiful Barcelona
This is one of my favourite pics I’ve ever taken in Barcelona. Its from a trip there in March/April. The marina is one of my favourite places to write.
Bloody English weather
My office is at London Bridge. I normally cycle to work from my place in Camden. I often stop halfway on London Bridge to watch the boats on the River Thames. The other day I took this picture, half-laughing, half-annoyed, that while the rest of the world is basking in sun and sand, I live in London where it looks like this below. It’s August, and I slept with a warm blanket last night. One of my colleagues wore a down-filled ski vest to work on Thursday. It’s no wonder that English culture revolves around discussing the weather.
A year ago
It’s strange for me, and I’m sure many others, that it has been a year since the 7/7 London bombings.
It’s strange on so many levels. I remember that morning. It seems like it was a lifetime ago. I was living in Manhattan at the time, with someone I once cared deeply for. I had just woken up, and as was the unsaid ritual with us, the first one up usually read the news on the BBC site and mumbled aloud if there was anything particularly noteworthy.
That morning (it was probably midday, considering our hedonist lifestyle at the time), I was up first. I couldn’t sleep all night as that person I once cared about was returning to England that afternoon. “Good riddance,” I kept saying to myself, but I didn’t mean it. We humans find funny ways to console ourselves in times of loss.
I sat down at my desk and logged onto the BBC site. “Oh My God,” I blurted. “There’s been a terrorist attack in London.”
I read through the story and the heat started to evaporate from my body. So close to home, it was. I had built a life in London. I had family there, I had friends there. We all took the tube every day. My brother, who is a banker at Canary Wharf in London, took the tube every day. Everyone I knew in London did. I called London, called my sister-in-law and everything was fine as far as our family was concerned, but the city was in panic.
I felt so relieved. I looked outside the window of our apartment in the Lower East Side. A sixth-floor walk up on Orchard Street; our fire escape facing Chinatown’s lively Allen Street. It was raining outside. It seemed like New York was crying.
I showered and got ready and walked through the rain, silently, arm in arm, with that person I once cared about. The rain was worsening, and he protected me with his umbrella.
We sat down and ordered coffee and breakfast. I cried. And cried, and cried. It was the last breakfast I would ever have with him.
On July 7th, 2005, I lost someone that I once cared about.
