On Sunday evening a friend invited my family and I over to his place for a barbecue. His place, like ours and like so many others here in Norway House (which is about 8-10 hours north of Winnipeg), is located on the riverside. As we sat on the back porch, the burgers sizzled on the grill and the brown river waters flowed past. At one point an eagle rose in the air above us, flapping languidly overhead. And with a cooling breeze keeping the mosquitoes at bay, all was well with the world as the sun went down.
Admittedly the backyard vantage point for many of us here in Norway House is better than what many others have in this world of ours: you don't get views like this in Toronto, that's for sure. But still, the backyard in summer - no matter where you are, deep in the heart of suburbia or somewhere on the outer edges of an expansive wilderness - is a sacred space. It's time away from the rest of the world: with beer and wine near at hand and meat cooking in the open air, there's something gently festive about such moments.
Afterwards, it made me wonder about our relationship with land, with nature. It made me wonder if our connection with the earth - with the soil, the water, the trees, those elemental things - could begin right there in the backyard. One can, from the vantage of a backporch or a kitchen window, look upon the same tree, day in, day out, in spring, summer, autumn and winter, and get to know that tree closely: the shape of its branches become etched in the mind, become something so familiar it become a kind of face, like the face of a loved one. Known, familiar, pleasing. As a result, we come to feel connected to the tree and therefore responsible for it. And perhaps through it we are connected to a wider world.
I do recognize certain incongruities here. The beef burgers that were being BBQ'd aren't a sustainable source of protein and the Australian wine that we were drinking doesn't exactly fall within range of the 100-mile diet, so thinking of this Sunday evening scene as an example of environmental bliss, of a "deep connection" with the earth, is simply erroneous and maybe even ridiculous. But a few guilty pleasures are allowed, are they not? And that earthy connection has to begin somewhere, so why not with the humble view of the typical backyard birch tree?
Tuesday 19 August 2014
Friday 15 August 2014
Comedy, energy and tears
Comedy is one of my favourite genres--be it literary, cinematic, theatrical. And the defining feature of comedy: comic characters have boundless energy to meet life's diverse obstacles.
Think of Laurel and Hardy's indefatigable attempts to move that piano up those flights of stairs. Think of Coyote's relentless pursuit of the ever-evasive Roadrunner. Or think of Didi and Gogo in Beckett's Waiting for Godot: only in a manner of speaking are the two tramps actually waiting for the no-show Godot; for the most part they are consistently active, questioning, exploring, resisting and wrestling with their peculiar situation. They are down, but not out. They are, in short, energetic, in spite of their circumstances.
On the other hand, tragedy is about ever-diminishing levels of energy. Tragic characters run out of steam and expire. This is true of Oedipus, of Hamlet, of Willy Loman. MacBeth might be the best example of this: he begins the drama as energetic and powerful, but his energy and power drain away as the drama progresses.
*
Another defining feature of comedy, one that's too-often overlooked: comedy and the laughter it creates aren't expressions of happiness. Why do people assume that comedians are cheerful, happy people just because they make others laugh? (As I write these words I'm thinking of Robin Williams, the actor-comedian who committed suicide earlier this week.) We too often think of comedy as all sunshine, but it's not. Comedy and laughter emerge out of darkness, but from that darkness they offer (sometimes too-thin) bulwarks against unhappiness, helplessness and fear. And so tragedy and comedy are a kind of tandem experience. As Beckett wrote in Godot: "The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh."
Think of Laurel and Hardy's indefatigable attempts to move that piano up those flights of stairs. Think of Coyote's relentless pursuit of the ever-evasive Roadrunner. Or think of Didi and Gogo in Beckett's Waiting for Godot: only in a manner of speaking are the two tramps actually waiting for the no-show Godot; for the most part they are consistently active, questioning, exploring, resisting and wrestling with their peculiar situation. They are down, but not out. They are, in short, energetic, in spite of their circumstances.
On the other hand, tragedy is about ever-diminishing levels of energy. Tragic characters run out of steam and expire. This is true of Oedipus, of Hamlet, of Willy Loman. MacBeth might be the best example of this: he begins the drama as energetic and powerful, but his energy and power drain away as the drama progresses.
*
Another defining feature of comedy, one that's too-often overlooked: comedy and the laughter it creates aren't expressions of happiness. Why do people assume that comedians are cheerful, happy people just because they make others laugh? (As I write these words I'm thinking of Robin Williams, the actor-comedian who committed suicide earlier this week.) We too often think of comedy as all sunshine, but it's not. Comedy and laughter emerge out of darkness, but from that darkness they offer (sometimes too-thin) bulwarks against unhappiness, helplessness and fear. And so tragedy and comedy are a kind of tandem experience. As Beckett wrote in Godot: "The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh."
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