The Revolution of Everyday Life

The recent death of Raoul Vaneigem, at the age of 92, must give all of us pause for thought.

To be honest, I’d never heard of the man until I saw his obituary in the Times. His chief claim to fame was to have written a manifesto in 1967 called The Revolution of Everyday Life, which was an inspiration to the student uprising that closed down universities in Paris and elsewhere in May 1968.

The literal translation of this little book of aphorisms—sort of like Mao’s “little red book,” I suppose, also popular at the time—would be The How-to-Live Handbook for the Young. Whatever wisdom this book may contain, I’m probably too old to benefit from it. But I requested a copy from the library, and I also requested another of Vaneigem’s many subsequent books: A Cavalier History of Surrealism.

Meanwhile, I fetched from my basement stacks a slightly musty paperback copy of The Spirit of May by J.-J. Servan-Schreiber (marked ‘25 cents’ in pencil on the front fly) and also the hardcover volume right next to it, The Taxis of the Marne, by Jean Dutourd (one dollar).

Perhaps you see the connection. The taxis Dutourd refers to were used to transport soldiers to the front lines in the exuberant early days of World War One.

I had originally planned—that is to say, forty years ago—to include a third volume in a study of the vicissitudes of the modern French state: Strange Defeat by Marc Bloc. That essay never got written. None of those books got read. I can’t find the third one. Is it still around somewhere? (Who cares?) Anyway, if you're familiar with the books, you can connect the dots.

Perhaps I was intuitively following the path set out by Vaneigem: down with capitalism, screw the state, abandon the quest for wealth and glory and enjoy yourself, your friends, your community.

In one line quoted in the Times obit, Vaneigem asks: “Who wants a world in which the guarantee that we shall not die of starvation entails the risk of dying of boredom?”

I guess this is where surrealism comes in.

Vaneigem’s name came up during a breakfast conversation I had recently with a friend of mine at the Buttered Tin. We also talked about Agora, the classic film set in ancient Alexandria in the months before its famous library burned down. Jeff had recently had breakfast with a mutual friend, the documentary filmmaker and poet Mike Hazard. Jeff did the sound production for several of Mike’s films.

I’ve heard it said more than once that “everyone knows Mike.” It might almost be true. I worked with Mike briefly on a book of poems by the late Roy McBride, but I’ve run into him here and there at other times. He once came up to me at a book convention covering his face with three pieces of “poetry on a stick.”

There’s a touch of zaniness, color, freedom, and “Why not?” in much of Mike’s work, and his films often focus on other masters of this poetic domain.

It was a beautiful morning, and when I got back home from breakfast, Hilary and I decided to pay a visit to the Andersen Library on the West Bank, which is hosting an exhibit of Mike’s work.

We came prepared with a telephone number. The building is locked: you have to call someone to come to the door and let you in. This may explain why there was no one in the galleries but us. The exhibit spaces are small but elegant, almost lavish. Several Plexiglas kiosks contained samples of postcards, flyers, chapbooks, and photographs that either depict Mike’s work in arts education or are the result of it.

You can view quite a few of Mike's works, including videos, here. 

A second room, beyond the main gallery, has been given the look of a gentleman’s club: antique globes, finely unholstered wing-back chairs, stained glass windows, and maybe even a replica of a bust by Houdon. It reminded me of the rare books room on the fourth floor of Wilson Library and the book-collecting legacy of James Ford Bell and the library’s namesake, Governor Elmer Andersen, both of whom employed book scouts for years to explore antiquarian collections in London and the Continent in search of rare volumes.

It made for an interesting contrast—aristocratic digs and exuberant ephemera. I love them both. I have enough books in the house to satisfy almost any pang of curiosity, but I also have a cheap metal pin stuck into the window-frame behind my desk that says “Demolish Serious Culture.” I picked it up years ago at the Walker Art Center’s extensive Fluxus show dedicated to the work of Joseph Boyce and the German avant garde.

Some of that stuff is playful, some of it is pretty angry, or grim. By way of contrast, here’s a poem by Mike, reprinted in the little handout on a table near the door.

Namesake

Pounding a black gavel

Engraved with a nickname HAP,

The handle of a grandfather I never met for real,

And my last name, HAZARD—

My heart pounds.

 

It was time for lunch, and we decided to cross the bridge on the freeway to Dinkytown to find a place to eat. I don’t need to tell you that the neighborhood has changed since 1978, the last year I tended parking lots for the U of M. I don’t need to list the used bookstores, hamburger joints, bakeries, guitar shops, and Italian restaurants that have vanished either. 

We had a perfectly decent lunch at a Vietnamese café called Pho Mai that seems to be an offshoot of a more elegant restaurant in Brooklyn Park. To be honest, it was better than the tendon we used to get at the Tokyo cafe years ago. But the street is entirely different. Perrines is gone. Annie’s Parlor is gone. Gray’s Drug is gone. The Loring Café is gone. (Wasn’t I going to skip that part?)

Around the corner, the upstairs incarnation of the Bookhouse is still there and still packed with used books. Yet in this case, I find that my interest is gone. You can tell at a glance that most of the books are rattier than the ones we have at home. The poetry section is especially bad. The books are too skinny, dust jackets gone, you can’t read the titles on the bindings. All is lost. They might as well chuck the whole section into the Mississippi.

As I was passing the front desk I heard a young man on the telephone: “Books from that era are usually so ragged that they aren’t worth anything. Old is not necessarily good.” I was impressed: he’d heard it all before--and said it all before--but by the tone of his voice I could tell he was being good-natured about it.

 

Morning Meditations: Election Day

Hilary is off to her post as an election judge, and I’m facing a blank grayish day. It starts with a mug of French roast coffee and a CostCo croissant from the freezer.

Are they any good? At fifty cents apiece they’re quite good. The ones at Patisserie 46, at $6 apiece, are only slightly better. And they’re a half-hour drive away.

I can remember a time when the only place in town you could get good croissants was the New French Café. This was followed by the era that produced two important works: The Preppie Handbook and Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche. From there, it was but a few short steps to the January 6th riots and the first major attempt to overthrow a freely elected U.S. government.

Before rosy-fingered dawn had shown her smiling pink face, I’d already done the Wordle and Connections, and read Paul Krugman’s latest column, in which he restates the (to some of us) obvious fact that the American health care system has been largely government subsidized for decades. He goes on to describe the private insurance industry as “parasitic.”

Everyone should read this column, but few will read it. I would go farther and suggest that all government activity is by nature socialistic. Good governments handle their responsibilities sensibly; bad ones don’t.

Krugman follows up the reasoning and the statistics with a popular song, as usual. Today it was “Closer to Fine.” I didn’t recognize the Indigo Girls. (They were after my time.)

I'm trying to tell you something 'bout my life

Maybe give me insight between black and white

And the best thing you ever done for me

Is to help me take my life less seriously… 

By now, so many popular musical groups are “after my time” that I can hardly make it through the daily crossword puzzle. “Lead singer of REM, Michael _____.” If they didn’t do a half-time show at the Superbowl, I’ve never heard of them. I just watched Help for the first time the other day—on DVD. (I liked it.)

Right now my main concern is to determine which translation of The Odyssey is best. The Emily Wilson version that I requested arrived at the library the other day. I’m finding that the iambic pentameter doesn’t really flow. She might just as well have straightened it out into prose paragraphs.

Of course, any translation will be radically different from the film, a medium that even in the surest hands lacks the tools to bring the lyricism of the original to life.

Down by the stony trail they made their way

As far as Clearwater, not far from town—

A spring house where the people filled their jars …

And round it on the humid ground a grove,

A circular wood of poplars grew. Ice cold

In runnels from high rock ran the spring,

And over it there stood an altar stone

To the cool nymphs, where all men going by

Laid offerings.

Yesterday was a marvel of serendipitous conversation. We chatted at length out in the street with our neighbors Brendan and Sara. They were hard at work digging up a rectangle of bare ground the local energy company had disturbed while installing a new gas line. We discussed the neighborhood owls, Brenden’s success at selling odd pieces of junk on Facebook Marketplace, and the deterioration of their mini-camper, which hasn’t left the driveway all summer.

Our next-door neighbor Rocky was also out in her yard—a rare occurrence. Brendan told me she bought a robot lawn-mower, and it seemed she was trying to program it with her phone. 

We might have stopped over to say hi, but we were heading down to Edina to pick up a book-club book from some friends. They were expecting us. We sat in their imaginatively landscaped front yard sipping drinks that Michel concocted in a big wooden bowl with fresh limes, Brazilian rum, and salt. Conversation roamed from the nature of “borderline personalities” to office politics at Metro State to the rising stars on the women’s tennis tour. Michel later brought out a succession of choice morsels from the kitchen. I might call them cheeseballs or bruschetta; he would call them acılı ezme or bolinho de aipim.

Late in the afternoon I took some newspapers out to the recycling bin and ran into our neighbor Brian, out for a walk with his daughter, Vivian. He’s seldom around; we chat maybe once a year.

“How’s the sound-track industry treating you,” I asked him.

“It tanked. My sponsor lost his funding. Now I’m installing audio systems.”

“Well, at least it gets you out of the house,” I said.

Vivian has grown in the course of a year. “Gee. Are you in college now?” I asked.

“I’ll be a high school junior next fall.”

Favorite subject? “English, I think.”

Good answer. All young people should read Middlemarch, All the King’s Men, Notes from Underground, and A Farewell to Arms, don’t you think? But who knows? Maybe she’s been reading Gravity’s Rainbow, Bel Canto, Olive Kittridge, and Bright Lights, Big City?

Now the sun is out. Rising. Along with the heat. It's the same thing every day, but with variations. The hummingbirds are starting to get belligerent around their red plastic feeder. 

"Take it easy, fellas. There's plenty for everyone."

And the catbird is devouring the berries on the dogwood. Cats and dogs.   

Any time now, I'm going to go vote down at the fire station. While I'm at it, I might as well check the water clarity at the bridge above Bassett Creek. It's getting better, year by year. 

Chalk it up to the efforts of the Bassett Creek Watershed Management Commission.  I wonder who's paying for that ...

The Odyssey: Grim Pageantry

A day does not go by when someone new doesn’t weigh in on the merits and defects of Christopher Nolan’s new film-version of The Odyssey, or tries to convince us which of the translations of Homer’s epic poem is really the best, or what the film tells us about the film industry, or our own society.

I saw it today. Didn’t like it much. It’s pretty grim. What is lacks isn’t the gods, or the swashbuckling heroism, or the eroticism of the original. It lacks the poetry.

Sea-faring films used to be good at that kind of thing. As a kid I was mesmerized by the romance of such matinee fodder as Jason and the Argonauts and The Seventh Voyage of Sinbad. I will admit that most of the films we watched in those bygone days on the afternoon TV program called Epic Theater didn’t reach that high standard. Many of them were made in Italy and poorly dubbed, which gave them a slightly creepy tone. But they also conveyed a sense of the open sea and a sort of corny nobility, by Zeus!

Nolan’s Odyssey does not. The soundtrack is too loud, the screen overfull of commotion. The flashbacks are sometimes so brief as to be all but incomprehensible.  And Matt Damon doesn’t seem at all like the wily Odysseus, fated by the gods to endure a seemingly endless string of calamities before they allow him to return home.

But the key point is this: in Homer’s original the barbarous elements in the story are counterbalanced by the beauty of the language and the lofty—if sometimes repetitive—tone of the narrative. To take one of countless examples:

At evening came the shepherd with his flock,

his woolly flock. The rams as well, this time,

entered the cave: by some sheep-herding whim—

or a god’s bidding—none were left outside.

He hefted his great boulder into place

and sat him down to milk the bleating ewes

in proper order, put the lambs to suck,

and swiftly ran through all his evening chores.

 

It seems like a bucolic scene, but of course we know better. The shepherd is Polyphemus, the one-eyed monster.

Then he caught two more men and feasted on them.

 

The tone doesn’t change. It’s all part of the narrative flow.

 

My moment was at hand, and I went forward

holding an ivy bowl of my dark drink,

looking up, saying:

‘Kyklops, try some wine.

Here’s liquor to wash down your scraps of men.

 

The Odyssey is riddled with such juxtapositions, but it’s a difficult trick to pull off on the screen. Nearly impossible. Nolan abandons the poetic element altogether.

The lines quoted above are from the Fitzgerald translation. Back in my college days, when I spent some time studying Classical Greek, the accepted wisdom was “Fitzgerald for The Odyssey, Lattimore for The Iliad.”

A few years ago. I took up The Odyssey again. I couldn’t find my mass-market Fitzgerald translation, but had a copy of the Fagles translation near at hand—a gift from a friend—and decided to give it a try. I made it halfway through, but it was a struggle. I felt there was some indefinable element missing in the tone. Gravity? Humor? Freshness?

Naturally a hubbub arose about various translations with the release of the film—Lattimore, Fitzgerald, Fagles, Wilson, Mendelsohn, and another new one coming out soon. I felt the need to revisit my old friend and bought a reissue of Fitzgerald’s version in trade paperback. It was cheaper than two tickets to the film. 

I’m glad I did.

Which reminds me of an old joke: What did the goat say after he ate a can of film? He liked the book better.

 

After the World Cup

In the 1950s there was a joke going around—not very funny—about the newfangled popularity of Chinese food of the canned Chung King variety: It tasted good, but an hour later you were hungry.

Something along those same lines might be said about the World Cup: it’s great fun at the time, but a week later you can hardly remember which teams you rooted for, who won, or whether you cared one way or the other.

I’m well aware that real soccer fans feel differently—those who follow the European leagues and also the billions of fans whose teams were contenders in the knockout rounds. For me, that lengthy tournament provided many hours of entertainment, more than a few moments of aggravation bordering on outrage elicited by the numerous blatant and brutal fouls, and an occasional touch of awe.

More stimulating than a golf tournament, more fluid than a football game, and perhaps more dependent on chance than any other sport, the movement of men and ball back and forth across that enormous green pitch was often both mesmerizing and incomprehensible.

That being said, the final reminded me a lot of the 2010 final, in which Spain beat the Netherlands. I was a little surprised that the phrase “tiki-taka” didn’t surface in the post-game analysis, though maybe I missed it. Spain controlled the ball to an inordinate degree while doing a remarkably good job of keeping it away from Messi. What they didn’t do much of was score.

The consolation round gave us more than enough of that. Mbappe, throttled and flummoxed by Spain in the semifinals, resuscitated some of his best moves against the English, but it wasn’t enough, and Bellingham’s insurance goal in the final minutes was a thing of beauty.

Not so beautiful was the sight of Madonna emerging from the bowels of MetLife Stadium in a jeep driven by Ronaldo and Ronaldiño, two Brazilian stars from an earlier era that I can only dimly recall. I didn’t recognize them, or her.

“Is that Shakira?” I said.

Connoisseurs tell us that in the end, the best team won. Spain’s captain, Rodri, won the Golden Ball as the tournament’s best player. Commentators note that he “recorded the most touches, most attempted passes, most completed passes, most tackles and most completed passes in the final third.” His pass success rate was  93 per cent, a new record.

But mark my words: twenty years from now, Messi and Mbappe will be driving the jeep. And who knows, maybe Shakira will be in the back?

The Heavenly Regions

Bright sun, a moderate breeze, and temperatures in the low sixties. These are the conditions that prevail in the heavenly regions, I suspect, and last weekend we were blessed with the same regime here in town. After rejecting three or four more exotic cycling options, Hilary and I decided to pump up the tires and make the time-honored, but often overlooked, trip around the Lakes.

What lakes? Bde Maka Ska, Harriet, and Isles, of course, a few minutes’ drive down the parkway from our house.

We got an early start. The air was sharp, and traffic on the bike paths was moderate. We were soaring.

It’s become fashionable to describe such episodes as “being in the present.” More than a few books have been written celebrating that level of innocent awareness, and offering advice about how to reach and sustain it.

I have no advice to give. I’m tempted to argue that such a concept is inappropriate to the occasion. At the least, it seems to suggest that our recollections of the past are filled with remorse, our anticipation of the future fraught with anxiety. That’s not necessarily true.

We used to live much closer to these lakes, and throughout our leisurely tour I was pleasantly reminded of people and events from the past. The recollections added an emotional depth to the visually spectacular scene. I was reminded of the years when our friends Greg and Betty lived in a condo across Bryant Park from us. As we locked our bikes and took a stroll through Harriet Gardens, I was reminded that the bedding plants near the fountains were once set off by a trim row of buckthorn hedges!

The tennis courts at Beard’s Pleasance reminded me of matches with an old friend interrupted again and again by snippets of conversation about food, films, and travel. We passed my cousin’s house, where we all used to sit on the shady porch as the morning heated up. And at one point, on the west side of Lake Harriet, I was reminded of a party I went to in the mid-1970s in an upstairs apartment before Hilary and I had even met.

On our way back to the car, we sat on a bench overlooking Bde MaKa Ska, trying to pick out a good place for lunch. Yum? No. Niviya Thai Kitchen? It’s gone downhill. Hazelwood? Too suburban. Convention Grill? Might work.

In the end, as we often do, we went home and cooked up something new, in this case a pasta salad with corn and cherry tomatoes from a recent recipe in the Times. Not bad. (But might not be a “keeper.”)

*   *   *

The next morning was equally brilliant but far more blustery. We drove down to the farmers’ market to pick up some parsley and a few discounted zinnias. Did some planting back home.

But the real highlight of the day came later, when we once again drove into town to attend a concert by Lux String Quartet being given at St. Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral in association with a traveling exhibit called Violins of Hope. The display consisted of six or seven Plexiglas cases holding a selection of violins that had been owned by Jews who died in concentration camps during WW II.  

This is serious stuff, and it might almost have seemed a bit morbid, except for the subtlety and zeal with which the members of Lux worked through their program, and also the verve with which each of the four performers announced a piece and also described what it was like to play an instrument from the venerable collection.

As an added twist, the performance consisted of isolated movements from several compositions—Grieg, Shostakovich, Kodaly, and, best of all, the first movement of Ravel’s String Quartet, one of my favorites. Taking them out of their broader musical environment seemed to refresh them.

And as chance would have it, we ran into five of our friends at the concert. But is that really chance? They all live near the Lakes, and three of the five are musicians.

After the concert I ran into composer David Evan Thomas in the hall where the instruments were on exhibit. I told him the tale of the LP of Ravel’s Quartet that I had in college, a Nonesuch recording with a pink hot-air balloon on the cover. He agreed that Nonesuch album covers could be outrageous.

“You should write something for the Lux,” I said.

He cleared his throat and replied, modestly, “Well, they premiered my second string quartet.”

Oh. I didn’t know.

 

   

Summer Reading: Three Japanese Novels

 

Convenience Store Woman is a novel about—guess what—a woman who works in a convenience store. There’s nothing so unusual about that, but Keiko has been doing the same job at the same store, part time, for eighteen years. She likes it, and she’s good at it. The position is lowly, but Keiko shoulders her responsibilities with utter dedication and professionalism. It’s basically her life.

Keiko knows she’s a little different. In the novel’s opening pages, she relates the story of a schoolyard fist-fight she witnessed as a child. All the kids were standing around shouting “Break it up! Break it up!” Keiko picked up a shovel, knocked one of the belligerents unconscious, and considered she’d done a good job. “I still don’t see anything wrong with what I did,” she tells us.

But Keiko isn’t driven by irrational or antisocial impulses; she just likes to keep order and make sure everything’s in its proper place. Much of the novel—which sold more than a million copies in Japan—deals with the minutia of her day, managing inventory, re-ordering products, setting up special sales depending on the season, tending the cash register, and remaining forever cheerful in the face of customer requests throughout her shift.

If I happen to enjoy reading about such things, it might be because I worked in a book warehouse for twenty-odd years, so I’m familiar with the satisfactions that such work can sometimes provide. That might also explain why I enjoyed the German film In the Aisles (2018).

But just when things start to get tedious, author Sayaka Murata gives her story a twist in the form of a new employee, Shiraha, hired by the manager out of desperation during a busy season. Shiraha is a loser, a slacker, an arrogant miscreant, practically homeless. Needless to say, he and Keiko don’t get along …

Tokyo Express, originally published in 1958, has the look of a mystery novel. It focuses on the question of whether an apparent murder/suicide on a lonely beach on the southern tip of Japan might actually have been a murder. But there is never more than one real suspect in the case, and from the early chapters to the end of the book, Inspector Mihara spends nearly all his time trying to break that suspect’s seemingly water-tight alibi. There are three or four “Why didn’t I think of that sooner?” moments, plenty of interviews with subsidiary characters, and lots of analysis of train schedules, all of which establish an atmosphere of mild intrigue. But the fact that the book’s first few chapters focus on the behavior of two waitresses and an eminent businessman with ties to a government scandal would be hard to explain if he weren’t somehow connected to the crime … presuming  there was a crime ...

 The Summer House follows the early career of an inexperienced and sometimes dilatory architect, one Tōru Sakanishi, who, by a stroke of luck, gets hired on to the firm of master architect Shunsuke Murai. Murai needs some help: he’s preparing an entry for a competition the design Japan’s National Library of Modern Literature. In the past, he has avoided such competitions, preferring to work with clients who know and appreciate his quiet, subtle style. It’s almost as if he knows he’s approaching the end of his career. And perhaps his life.

Little by little, Sakanishi picks up the rhythms of the architectural team, which has moved up to a mountain retreat to work on the project together. He’s eager to make himself useful, though the tasks he’s given seldom have much to do with the competition entry itself. It takes him a while, for example, to catch on to the fact that in Shunsuke’s world, it’s taboo to sharpen your pencils after 5 p.m.

As the summer passes, meals are shared, errands are run. We listen in on discussions about furniture design, acoustics, the proper location of fireplaces, and sundry other architectural issues. In the course of his narrative Sakanishi also drifts into lengthy digressions on the careers of Frank Lloyd Wright (with whom Murai studied as a youth) and the Swedish architect Erik Gunnar Asplund, whose famous design for the Stockholm Public Library has captured Murai’s interest.

Among the team are two women, Mariko and Yukiko, and Sakanishi takes a liking to them both, adding yet another subtle, almost unspoken ripple to the stream. Murai himself rekindles several personal connections in the mountain neighborhood, where he’s been coming for decades. Meanwhile, under an atmosphere of professional calm and unspoken reverence for the master, weeks pass, months. The competition deadline approaches.

Author Matsuie won Japan’s prestigious Yomiuri Prize for this, his first novel. He succeeds in transforming what might have been a plodding narrative filled with attestations of respect that we can acknowledge but have been given no reason to share, into an exotic and atmospheric whole, where relationships between walls, chairs, books, and people are in constant flux, restrained by patience and tact, buoyed by a sense of balance and proportion, fueled an unspoken affection, and threatened by the passage of time.  

Spiritual Activities

A recent poll by the Pew Research Institute asked people a number of questions about their beliefs and their “spiritual life.” One of them was:

Do you do one or more of the following things for spiritual reasons at least once a week: visit a nature spot, listen to music, exercise, look inward, practice yoga or meditate.

I was surprised at the results, which were broken down by state. Mississippi topped the chart, though only 75 percent of respondents answered the question in the affirmative. New Hampshire came in dead last, at 48 percent. Minnesota ranked tenth from the bottom, at 56 percent.

Mississippians also reported the highest “spiritual well-being,” with 48 percent claiming to have achieved that state. In Minnesota, barely one in three made that claim. We hard-headed Minnesotans did even worse when it comes to “feeling the presence of something beyond this world.” Third from the bottom!

A more careful look at the results brings out a few contradictions, however. When respondents were asked if they believed in a spirit or soul, four fifths in even the most skeptical state, Oregon, answered in the affirmative. Yet only 29 percent of Oregonians believe in “the presence of something beyond this world.”

This contrast highlights the crux of the issue. How can it be that so many people believe in a spirit or soul, yet not feel the presence of something beyond this world?

The obvious answer would be that they consider spirit or soul to be entirely immanent—that is to say, of this world. But wouldn’t that be tantamount to saying that spirit is matter? For myself, when I “look within” and contemplate my own soul, the notion of “matter” never enters my mind. I might think of such things as obligation, exhilaration, promise, or contingency. I might revive the childhood question of why I happen to be me, and not someone else. Any and all of these responses produce a moral frisson that’s both exhilarating and slightly scary.

But if spirit isn’t matter, what is it? Where did it come from, and why have I been saddled with this particular speck of it? (And who is the "I" to which I referred just now?)

The Pew questionnaire wasn’t designed to probe these subtle issues, and right now I’m not in the mood for such things, either. I only wanted to observe that when I read the question with which I started this piece, my reaction was: “Only once a week? I do several of those things almost every day.” Sure. Lucky me. But can I honestly say I do them “for spiritual reasons”? Why else? Spirituality and good feeling aren’t mutually exclusive.  On the contrary, they often work very well together. 

Though I'm not entirely sold on the idea of exercise.

Do you do one or more of the following things for spiritual reasons at least once a week: visit a nature spot, listen to music, exercise, look inward, practice yoga or meditate.

 

Happy Earth Day

It’s been a brief but remarkable string of days. Why? Because the leaves are coming out. Young, bright, and translucent, they glow in the sun. Add to that a gentle breeze, with the temperature hitting that cool, comfortable mid-range, and it makes you want to shout.

Hilary and I drove down to Eloise Butler yesterday at 7:30. No one was there to open the gate, so we took a stroll through the woods, peering down at the ponds and swamps below, then crossed the parkway to the quaking bog. We chatted with a couple of birders, one of whom gave us a tip as to the location of a great-horned owl nest. We couldn’t find it, but little matter.

As the day heated up, we washed the windows, shedding our coats and swapping stocking caps for baseball caps. Later I removed the leaves from the garden. (Is it too early, or too late? I don’t know.) I couldn’t identify some of the plants at first, though they’ve been there for years. Ah, yes. Siberian bugloss, and ligularia. And our pulmonaria is boasting a single pink flower!

Further back in the woods I spotted some white trout-lilies that have been coming up every spring for more than forty years.

As if on cue, the mail carrier came by with “In the Garden,” a twenty-page pamphlet that Steve Kelley has been publishing every spring for I don’t know how long. I enjoyed working with Steve and his wife, Arla, a few years ago, on a collection of essays describing their many years at the helm of Kelley & Kelley Nursery out in Long Lake.

Nodin Press published that book. And as it happens, Earth Day is also Norton Stillman’s birthday. We took Norton out to dinner last week, less as a birthday celebration that as a thank-you for giving me the pleasure of working with him almost daily for the last few decades. We do it every year.

We took him to Vinae, where we ate peppery cucumber salad, creamy boiled cabbage, eggplant puree with purple sticky-rice, and other exotic stuff. The place was hopping. It was fun.

Earth Day is also Eddy Albert’s birthday. You probably know him as the star of Green Acres, a silly comedy that had little to do with environmental issues, I think, though the title is suggestive. But he was also an early, and a staunch, environmentalist. Albert went to Central High School in Minneapolis and the U of MN. (He studied economics.) The fact that Earth Day takes place on his birthday is no coincidence.

Norton is a bit of an environmentalist himself, though I think his greatest contribution along those lines is as the publisher of many fine books related to the outdoors. These include essay collections by Jim Gilbert, Matt Schuth, Steve Kelley, and others; and works by poets too numerous to name, nearly all of whom draw sustenance from the out-of-doors in one way or another.  

But on a day like today, a stroll through the back yard or even a simple glance out the window is as stunning as any poem. The cherry orchard is coming along nicely, there’s a robin in the birdbath, the air is cool, the cardinals are twittering, the sky is blue. And the clouds are white.  

 

Film Fest Notes 2026

The MSP International Film Fest is in full swing once again, and the riverfront across from downtown Minneapolis is lively. The glorious weather doesn’t hurt.

The organizers have rearranged the venue somewhat, moving the office and various lounges a block down the street. There are now more bars and glitzy social spaces, but the buzz that used to enliven the halls east of the theater lobby is largely gone. Hilary and have developed a new routine, too; we cross the river at Plymouth Avenue and park on Marshall across from the Ukrainian Church, as close to Hennepin as we can get. From there it’s a ten-minute walk to the theater.

We’ve seen six films so far, covering a range, geographically, from China and Viet Nam to Belgium and Montreal, with stops in Iceland, Syria, the French Alps, and Germany. It’s been lots of fun.

Three of the best were Living the Land, Ky Nam Inn, and A Lovely Day. Also good were Girl in the Snow, and A Silent Friend.

Living the Land offers a portrait of rural China circa 1991. It follows the daily life of a young boy who’s been left behind to be raised by his aunt and grandma while his parents look for work in the city. Promotional material for the film highlights the themes of modernization and social change during that era in China, but the film actually dwells almost exclusively on village customs and farming techniques that haven’t changed for centuries. There’s a lot of shouting and horse-play, a funeral or two, a wedding, and disruptions caused by the local officials who are trying to keep track of who’s related to who, during an era when the appearance of a second child could lead to the loss of social benefits or a civil service job.

It’s polyphonic narrative. and the documentary style might remind some viewers of Tree of the Wooden Clogs—less polished cinematically, perhaps, but far more energetic. Director Huo Meng won the Silver Bear for his work at the 2025 Berlin Film Festival.

A Lovely Day is a comedy focusing on a single wedding day, but it draws together strands of narrative from every direction by means of flashbacks to earlier periods in the groom’s life, and also to incidents in his parent’s life before they divorced. 

Weddings tend to be fun, and this one is no exception, though it’s sullied repeatedly by Alain’s parent’s animosity, the untimely reappearance of an old “friend,” and especially by Alain’s long-standing personal anxieties and other health issues.

Alain, played by Neil Elias, reminded me of Northern Exposure’s Joel Fleishman—smart, fidgety, annoying, prone to excess … but likeable just the same. The film’s original title, Mille secrets, mille dangers (A Thousand Secrets, a Thousand Dangers) perhaps better conveys the atmosphere of the tale. Alain’s fiancée shows remarkable—almost unbelievable—calm and forbearance throughout the day.

It was a treat to listen after the film to director Philippe Falardeau answer questions. He’s a witty man, sharp, scattered, and self-depreciating. One highlight of the Q & A was the remark by a young woman in the audience who said; “I’m Lebanese, and I want to let you know that you nailed the ethos of the Lebanese community perfectly.”

Falardeau replied, looking right and left into the crowd, “Does she work for the festival? Did someone pay her? Thank you SO MUCH!”

The Girl in the Snow is an unusual piece, and all the better for it. Set high in the French Alps, it follows a few months in the life of a woman who’s been hired to give lessons to the children in a small hamlet during the depths of winter, when most of the village women have gone down the mountain to find work as domestics. The kids are unruly, the men taciturn and stand-offish. The snow is deep and it gets dark early. But gradually the woman begins to fit in, attending a gathering in a nearby lodge where the dance steps are as lively as the hurdy-gurdy music is simple.

Much of the film is shot indoors, in rooms lit by firelight with dramatic chiaroscuro reminiscent of Caravaggio. The men and older women tell stories about ghosts. Avalanches are an ever-present danger. But it isn’t long before one or two of the men start to take a deeper interest in the attractive newcomer. And as the story unfolds, it begins to take on the form of one of the occult tales the mountain folk have been sharing by the fire.  

Ky Nam Inn might be the most polished film we saw. It follows Khang, a quiet, well-mannered young translator who's landed a job translating The Little Prince into Vietnamese, in part due to the influence of a relative he hardly knows. He moves into a collective housing block and soon becomes acquainted with Ky Nam, the widow downstairs, who makes a living cooking meals for people in the neighborhood. When she injures her hand, Khang offers to help her out in exchange for regular meals.

In the course of the film, we also get to know quite a few of the building's other residents, including Ky Nam's son, who's soon to be married, and an elderly doctor with whom Khang plays chess when he's not in the kitchen or at the typewriter. It's inevitable that several of the younger women in the building take an interest in Khang. Everyone knows everyone, and gossip gets around. It comes as no surprise for us to learn that Ky Nam has a checkered past. We just don't know what it is. And neither does Khang.

The mysteries and complexities of the plot aside, the film has an unusual and attractive "look." Is this what Viet Nam looked like in 1985? I should have asked the director, who was present and spent a good deal of time answering questions after the screening. He told us some funny stories about the censors, and tried to explain some of the racial nuances between northerners, southerners, mixed-race Vietnamese, and "left-behind" offspring of American soldiers--distinctions of which some in the audience, including me, were only dimly aware.

Time and Water is a low-key look at Iceland through the medium of home movies. Its central event is the discovery by Icelanders that one of their smaller glaciers has entirely disappeared. It was declared dead in 2014. This really shouldn't have come as a surprise, considering that the glacier has been shrinking for a long time, Icelanders have been studying their glaciers for centuries, and the understanding of global warming can be traced back to the nineteenth century. In fact, glaciers have been coming and going for almost two million years now. Yet the narrator keeps repeating, very slowly, "I never imagined that ..."

More interesting than the central thesis are the grainy home movies that show the narrator's family having a good time, going on expeditions, celebrating birthdays, smoking endless cigarettes, cross-country skiing, and so on. Views of the landscape, the waterfalls, and the glaciers themselves also contribute to the film's interest. 

Our Silent Friend is a far more polished and ambitious film. In fact, it's three films in one. They're set in different time periods and are connected only by the fact that they focus on botanists and take place on a college campus in the vicinity of the same ginkgo tree.

The best of the three examines the history of a brilliant young woman who's struggling, at the turn of the twentieth century, against the rampant sexism of academic gatekeepers who would rather she devoted her sense and intellect to making coffee than to exploring the jungles of Indonesia. It's shot in a glistening black-and-white tone and is well acted. (Luna Wedler recently won the "emerging actress" award at the Venice Film Festival for her performance, joining the company of previous winners Gael Garcia Bernal, Jennifer Lawrence, and Mila Kunis.) Every frame is a pleasure to watch.

The second tale focuses on a young woman in more recent times (maybe the eighties?) who's conducting research on a potted geranium in her dorm room. She's hooked it up to a polygraph to study its responses to her watering schedule, among other things. She leaves on a backpacking trip and entrusts her research to a newfound campus friend--a self-styled farm boy who's sick and tired of plants and would rather spend his time reading Rilke. But in her absence, he begins to take an interest in the experiment, and eventually makes some remarkable discoveries.

In the third narrative, a child psychologist who's trapped on the same campus grounds during Covid, modifies some experiments he'd been using on pre-verbal children to see if he can arrive at similar insights regarding the inner life of trees. He eventually resorts to harvesting magic mushrooms from the botanical garden in his quest for results.  

These strands are intertwined time and again throughout the film, but they never coalesce, and none of the three arrive at a conclusion. The film ends, somewhat arbitrarily, with what might be called a cosmic New Age sensory forest bath.

One critic has described Our Silent Friend as "beautiful, elusive, and peppered with provocative nuggets about the nature of life and our place in it." My reaction was more in line with that of the critic who, in a generally positive review, described it as "glacially slow," "prioritizing philosophical atmosphere over narrative momentum," "not driven by cause and effect," and demanding a "surrendered mindset" from the audience. 

I guess I'm not ready to surrender. 

There has been a steady stream of material in recent years exploring what we might call "the hidden life of trees." I read (and liked) forester Peter Wohlleben's book by that name when it came out in 2015. The works of Suzanne Simard in this field have also been widely disseminated. Most of this material deals with biochemical relationships between trees and soil, trees and one another. Not much has been unearthed about what trees may have to say to us. 

It strikes me that we could develop a better rapport with our natural surroundings by dropping the quest for scientific exactitude and begin to think more like the infants the child psychologist describes in Our Silent Friend's opening minutes. You might get a sense of this more open and curious but less analytically focused attention in the films of Terrance Malick. In short, less science, more poetry.