Some lines just feel to obvious to write, like “I had so many thoughts running through my head”, of course I do, that’s why I do this, so I can feel a little less crazy. I went to see this film a few weeks ago, which made no sense since I don’t have money for rent or food, but I’ll go see a documentary about a monk that was imprisoned for 33 years, just in case I run in to this person. The 2nd to last person I had any serious physical contact with in the last 4 years, we made out, we didn’t play sports. I try and sound so careful and I just sound weird. I get ready to go see this film. I put on my yellow pillowcase skirt with the blossoms and branches on it that I just sewed, needs a slit, because I can’t bike in it, and I wanted to bike there, didn’t happen, couldn’t ride, and didn’t feel like I had the time to change clothes, and the outfit seemed more important. I get on the bus, and It’s the usual hell. Some drunk guy leering at me, talking to himself, people guzzling their beverages, and this one woman who was practically yelling on her cell-phone. I get off, finally. I figure if there are no seats, it’s fine I wasn’t meant to see it. I got there, plenty of seats, no sign of the 2nd to last person I made out with 4 years ago. Not a big surprise.
The theatre is filled with mostly white people, and some young Tibetan musicians performing on stage. I am feeling extra weird, like I shouldn’t be there, and then feeling like I needed to get something from this. I listen to the story of this man, Palden Gyatso who endured 33 years of torture for the right to pray, amongst other things, but quite simply to practice his faith, and he did. Even while he was having electric prods shoved in his mouth that destroyed all his teeth, or being forced to crawl on his knees over glass and small stones, being hung naked upside down, and beaten with a series of brutal instruments. He practiced his faith while he was starving and thirsty. He no longer had family, his father and brother had been beaten to death, and his step-mother had also endured beatings, his mother died the day after he was born. I kept wondering what was the matter with me, why wasn’t I feeling any strong emotions for him and why was I critiquing this film? That’s not what I was there to do, but I felt it happening while I was watching every scene. From the lisping European torture expert, to the overly dramatic music telling me when I was supposed to feel fear, terror or sadness. He had me twice, when he spoke of his first meeting with the Dalai Lama and telling him his story, and the soft breath he took in when his suffering was acknowledge by his spiritual leader. The other is when told the story of licking his teeth to gather saliva and giving that saliva to his good friend Lobsang and feeding him like a parent feeding a child. I see him cry for the first time, I get a small sense of the weight of his sadness in this moment. There were confusing parts for me. The Dalai Lama doesn’t come across as a clearly sympathetic figure. I have heard him at public talks and he has been much more effective, for me anyway, when he’s not speaking in English, his meaning seems to get lost otherwise, not uncommon, we often express ourselves best in our own language.
I felt like this man Palden Gyatso didn’t get the telling he deserved. Something didn’t sit right with me when I was watching it. Like if the story was told in a different way would more people see it? Would it have made a difference to the situation in Tibet? Could it have been more healing for him? and why didn’t I like him more, I wanted to. I wanted to appreciate this film, because it is an important story. The title Fire under the Snow is a powerful image in my mind. The title is based on Palden Gyatso’s book. I think the problem was that I didn’t have faith. I didn’t have faith that anything is going to really change. The other part that I had trouble with was the demonizing of China, it felt too simple. Virtuous and peaceful Tibetans facing down the G-dless Chinese.
What I appreciate about buddhism is that asking questions, seeking deep truths are a great part of the practice. Questions of ourselves, and each other. I often feel like there is no room to question when there has been severe trauma and suffering, like somehow it would take away or deny the suffering or the trauma to question it. I see it in situations where there is poverty and abuse. We don’t question the wealth, because they earned it apparently, and if there poor, well, bad shit happened. There is not tidy end here, so It ends here. With more questions.
My mother has loved 3 men in her life. Her father, her boyfriend from high school and Morton Rosen. They are friends, they have been for the last 10 years. He turned 91 on May 17th and died yesterday June 20th. He has been like family, the kind of family that you like other people to meet. He laughed easy, he teased my mom regularly and lovingly, never taking her too seriously, or himself. Morton never married or had any kids. Not completely sure why, but he never seemed like someone who is full of regrets. He had a pretty good time while he was here. Always full of great stories about gold panning, battling a bear, living close to avocado trees, travelling, and doing all kinds of work, meeting all kinds of people, and making himself laugh as much as anyone, more of a snicker actually. In the last 10 years he was spending time with my Mom, I had never seen her so comfortable with anyone, maybe because for the first time in her adult life, she felt accepted and safe with a man.
I looked at the cover of the Vancouver Sun yesterday and the photo on the cover is of President Barack Obama and Governor General Michaelle Jean. They are laughing, and the caption above reads” I love this country”. Us, he loves us. I believe him too. I realized after looking at this headline, that possibly for this first time in history, Canada has a bigger asshole in Government than the US. What are we going to do now? What will happen to our passive-aggressive smugness? They’re the stupid rich kid that doesn’t get how they hurt people, and we’re the smarter working class kid, who’s always mocking them. Maybe this was all coming, we get our turn with an asshole that doesn’t let 16 year old girls from Hong Kong in to the Country, or dance troupes from Guyana. Cuts the arts budgets in half, wants to sell off our resources, take away human rights, further pollute the planet, moralize about addiction, let drug addicts die alone in alleys, and make us war mongers, make us like them. I know we’re feeling bad right now, their guy is cooler, better looking, potentially smarter, maybe not, our guy may be an asshole, but he’s a smart asshole. Our humility has always had a false ring to it. Were not really humble, were self deprecating, but in a liberal, superior kind of way. Maybe we need to come to terms with the fact that were related, that our rich stupid cousin, may not be so stupid. Maybe we can be more honest with ourselves. We have a lot in common, but were also very different. We don’t have to compete with them, it was part of our charm that we weren’t the same. When I look at this photo, I feel happy. Like maybe we can be friends, or maybe they’ll just be friends, and we can continue whining about our asshole and why we don’t have inaugurations as big as theirs.