“Till We Have Faces” – A Review

Sorry about the absence folks…sometimes it feels like there are no words left. None to express the everyday horror of living – the mundane. As I’ve gotten older I’ve learned to hate the mundane, the little details of living – waking, eating, sleeping, and the cycle all over again. I want to wake to endless curiosity and wonder, I want to be surprised by life, and as I get older that isn’t always the case. Things become a little too routine. Even the things that once gave me endless pleasure seem hollow. It’s one of the reasons I haven’t been able to finish a bona fide piece of fiction in ages. Until this weekend, that is.

A good friend of mine walked into my office last Monday with Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis. He insisted that I read the book, the implication being that there were lessons I needed to learn. I started off the first couple of pages and was immediately reminded of Colleen McCullough’s Song of Troy – a manifestly awful tome. I know, I know, The Thorn Birds! Spare me. Troy is a pseudo re-writing of Homer’s Illiad. The story remains the same for the most part, except that the characters are all completely unappealing and unsympathetic. Even Hector and Andromache come across as twits, and that’s hard to do. (Anyone remember Tennyson’s amazing Hector’s Farewell to Andromache – now that ‘s what I call art.) Anyhoo, having read the opening pages of Till We Have Faces, I felt I had another Troy on my hands and promptly put the book away. Saturday rolled around and I realized that I needed to take on the challenge of finishing the book. Much to my delight, this novel is nothing like Troy and may even have served as an inspiration for McCullough.

For those of you not familiar with the book, Till We Have Faces is a retelling of the Psyche and Eros tale. In this telling of the myth, none of the characters neatly fit the archetypes of hero or villain. The novel focuses on Psyche’s relationship with her eldest sister, Orual, and traces the making of the myth. Narrated in the first person by Orual, the novel switches between angry diatribes to lamentations, with Orual constantly grieving over Psyche and angry at being stuck in the act of living. As this is a C.S. Lewis novel there are plenty of religious themes in the novel, but you don’t have to be a Christian or even religious to respond to the characters’ struggles with accepting the will of the gods.

Upon the first few readings of the novel you’ll be most tempted to side with Orual. She is an undoubtedly sympathetic character, her faults seem so much like our own (or maybe there’s just something really wrong with me), and her virtues those we might wish to aspire to. But the last section of the novel shifts our perception of Orual and it’s possible to understand that Psyche’s tale is just as important as Orual’s, her choices just as difficult, her grief just as great.(Notice that I’m not letting on much? Good, read the book!) Alternative versions of classical myths are constantly being written, but few offer the insightful perspectives to human nature that Lewis does. He captures the depths we can sink to and the heights we will reach to – all for the sake of love. So…I hope you’ll give the book a try and let me know what you think. Are you Orual, Psyche, or both?

(And if you’re wondering about the lessons I was expected to learn from the novel, it has something to do with getting a face.)

What’s Summer Without Cotton Candy?

Reading about the bun kebabs reminded me that no summer trip to Karachi was ever complete without indulging in bags and bags of soft airy cotton candy. Each bite into the sugary clouds felt like a small burst of joy. I remember ripping open the little plastic packets, and wondering how long it would be before the cotton candy started to harden. I still remember the pleasure of licking the sticky sweet remains off my fingers. Pain is an afterthought. Because I now recall the small boy who stood there selling the cotton candy for a pittance, bags of florescent yellow and pink clipped to his stall. He was smaller than me, thin and dirty – a small shell of a human being. A day of standing in the hot humid streets of Karachi could render anyone listless, but I didn’t notice then. I could only think of how good the cotton candy would taste.

I cannot help that boy, but there is something else I can do. I can help my local community by donating to food banks. Over the last few years, community food banks have been reporting continuing shortages in supplies. With the recession still in full gear (don’t let anyone tell you otherwise), food banks are facing greater struggles to provide food to those in need as donations have decreased. Rising food prices have not helped the situation either.

Poverty in North America does not have the same face as in third world countries (and that’s probably because we haven’t been to any of the seedier parts of town lately), but that’s not to say that it doesn’t exist.  Worse yet, child poverty is the highest in any age group. According to the 2008 National Report Card on Child and Family Poverty by Campaign 2000, 1 out of every 9 child in Canada lives in poverty and that’s not including First Nations figures. According to Save the Children and the Children’s Defense Organization, 1 out of every 4 child in America lives in poverty. Isn’t that one child too many?

These reports factor in low wages and rising costs of living, single parent households, poor education, and a myriad of related problems. I may not be able to solve all these problems, but it is possible to help reduce the impact of these problems on children. By donating to food banks, we are helping children in poverty to stay healthy. Studies prove that healthy children are more likely to do well in school and in society, thus more likely to escape poverty as adults. Sounds like a long term solution to me.

How to donate, you ask? It’s really easy, most supermarkets have a drop box for donating food items to your local food bank. I know it can be tough to remember to add on those few extra items in your cart, and there are those times when that extra expenditure seems like a burden. Don’t let that stop you. Start by buying just one item.  Pick shelf-stable items like those listed below:

• Pasta
• Pasta sauce
• Canned fruits and vegetables
• Juice packs
• Peanut butter
• Canned tuna
• Soup packets

Please remember, these items are not handouts, they are vital necessities. More importantly, this is about supporting your community, wherever you are. By helping out, you’re making food a pleasure for everyone.

Why Bother With Lars and the Real Girl?

You might wonder why anyone would review a movie that came out two years ago. My excuse is that I don’t like to watch movies as soon as they hit the theatres, the hype is a turn off (remember 300?) and I am just too lazy. Hence my tendency to watch movies a while after all the hue and cry has died down (I know, two years seems a little much). Also, I am not a huge fan of watching movies with people who do the following:

1. Exclaim incessantly when watching the film. I know it’s shocking when children see ghosts, that’s not an excuse for gasping like a goldfish.
2. Constantly ask for explanations. If you spent half as much time actually watching the film, you wouldn’t need to ask why the alien had to go home.
3. Constantly shift on their chairs. The squeaking sounds are distracting and you’re really not that cute.
4. Lean too close to me. Hello, personal space rules still apply! And because I’m a very kind person, I would strongly suggest bringing along your favourite blankie or stuffed toy – you may be the laughing stock of the evening, but at least you didn’t cry like a girl.
5. Start conversations with the characters in the movie. I’ve got four words for you: they cannot hear you. More importantly, despite what one of the more popular assumptions about democracy might lead you to believe – your opinion does NOT matter.

Anyhoo, let me get back to my movie review.

I’ve decided to go to bat for…wait for it…trumpets are blaring…Lars and the Real Girl (like you didn’t already know). This quiet little film came out in late fall 2007 and did not get the notice it deserves. To sum the film up in the worst possible way, it’s about a guy who still carries his blankie everywhere he goes and orders a blow-up doll called Bianca for a girlfriend. Creepy, sad, and pathetic is how most people would describe such a person. Maybe he is all these things, but the film is really an exploration of how isolation leads to acts of desperation.  The film opens on a wintry scene somewhere in Small-town America. The people there are all about wholesome family values, decency, and friendliness – you get the picture. Along comes Lars (Ryan Gosling doing his best sad face), clearly socially inept and disconnected from those who love him and desperately want to help him. Then again, isn’t there a fine line between trying to be helpful and being irritating?

When Lars first asks to bring his new girlfriend over for dinner, his brother and sister-in-law (the ever earnest Emily Mortimer) are overjoyed at the prospect. The scene then pans over to the living room where they sit opposite Lars and Bianca, pricelessly stunned as Lars explains that Bianca is the quiet sort. For a second, you wonder if Lars is having one on his family, but then you realize the guy clearly needs an intervention. What follows is the portrayal of an exceptionally accepting community that attempts to help Lars work his way through a rather obvious and disturbing crisis. (Seriously, where is this place?) Lars needs Bianca, much like we need to make mistakes in order to learn. You cannot help but feel sorry for a guy who experieces burning sensations on his skin whenever he comes in physical contact with others – hence the layers of clothing he always piles on. This is what comes from being lonely. Bianca is an effort to learn how to be normal – albeit a rather unconventional learning method. We’ve all been in his place (hopefully not exactly in his place), and should be able to understand that working out how to fix a problem can be as messy as the problem itself.

The film stays afloat due it’s great sense of humour. In a lesser film, you would be pelted with the requisite blow-up doll jokes. Instead, it is everyone’s attempts to humanize Bianca that is a source of laughter. At one point the church committee gathers to discuss how to deal with Lars and Bianca. They even consider whether Lars is committing fornication (gotta love that word) and conclude that as Bianca is not a real person, he is still technically safe. Their attempts to find a religiously correct solution are touching and yet hilarious: “The question is, as always, what would Jesus do?” I can’t help but wonder if this one would have stumped Jesus too.

Lars eventually figures his way through, but Bianca’s exit is not as neatly handled as I expected. Like the townsfolk we also need a little patience to get through the movie as pacing is a slight issue. And perhaps the ending is a little too pat, redemption is never that easy in real life. But isn’t it what we should be aiming for?

(Added bonus, you can watch this film with anyone – literally. It’s a relief to go through a movie without cringing in embarassment.)

-MaheenH

Why I Hate Spiders…

Really, I’m not a hater. If anything, I like to think of myself as a peacenik. Hatred is such a waste of time and utterly useless as a marketable skill. Imagine trying to explain your talent for hatred at a job interview or even across the dinner table with family and friends.

However, spiders are special. They have eight legs, and that my friends, is unnatural. Critters with legs that number beyond four are strange enough (think beady-eyed praying mantis). Eight is past pushing it, it’s plain pretentious. Seriously, what are they trying to compensate for? Trust me spidies, six legs would have been just as good.

Worse yet, they always look like they’re preparing for a face-off. All that quiet waiting around on webs and dark corners. No matter how many times you sweep through an area, they’re back haunting the same spot. Some might call it persistence, I call it stalking.

And then there’s the scampering and hopping about. They do! For every move you make, there’s a little dance in counterpoint. Back and forth, this way and that. Lookit, I don’t want to play catch, I just want to kill you. So stand still and suck it up, death ain’t no big deal.

My History With Dogs…

Let me you tell a story…Once upon a time when I was but a little girl full of hopes and dreams a friend of mine asked me to take her puppy out for a walk. This was a cute critter full of fluffy frolicksomeness (take note, new entry for the Oxford English Dictionary), and it was love at first sight. How could I refuse such a request? After all, everyone knows that little girls like to take puppies out for walks.

My friend and I set out on a sunny afternoon, with Fluffy frolicking along. It was pure bliss to hold that leash and be the envy of all the other little girls. All of a sudden, I saw a big ugly dog running at us. I didn’t know what to do and stood mesmerized as the big ugly dog got closer and closer. I could almost hear it panting. And then I was lying on the ground, staring up at the sun. The big ugly dog had run over me – while Fluffy stood by and watched. I stood up shaken and covered in dirt and took Fluffy home, but things were never the same again. My hopes and dreams had cruelly been run over and I was changed forever.

Ever since that day, dogs have picked up on the emptiness in my soul and mistake me for something quite sinister. What usually ensues is a cacophony of barks and growls. Since I never do anything to provoke the silly creatures, it’s as inexplicable as it is alarming. I invariably react with fear and loathing, a combination which always helps to exacerbate these incidences. Just last night we were waving off my cousins after a family dinner, when the neighbours happened to be passing by with their two adorable teacup Yorkies. In an act of sheer stupidity, I decided to wave to the dogs (don’t ask why). They were instantly transformed into barky maniacs who had to be led away by their owners. That was when my mother was finally convinced that I am in league with the devil. She had two words for me: The Omen.

Admittedly, she has probably been harbouring the above mentioned suspicion for a while now and last night was just the final nail in the coffin. But to think that I have been damned by two little dogs I could easily have crushed under my heel. Oh wait, maybe my mother really is onto something.

Michael Jackson, Black or White?

With the extensive media coverage of Michael Jackson’s recent death, I have witnessed equal amounts of genuine grief and vulgar curiosity. In light of the E! Specials and pseudo documentaries, we have all been forced to assess the passing of a music legend otherwise known as Wacko Jacko.

Most people will refer to the iconic performance of Billie Jean at the Motown 25 concert as the moment when Michael Jackson firmly established his place in the firmament of pop stars and whilst it is not my favorite song, others like Smooth Criminal still make me pick up my speed on the highway. My personal favorites are Man in the Mirror and Human Nature, pop-soul music at its best. To me, those songs seem to best reflect the man at the center of maelstrom. When he wasn’t grabbing his crotch or uttering high-pitched squeals, he was chasing an idealist’s dream of social change.

Although MJ was not the first black artist to be featured on MTV, he was the first to be played in heavy rotation, helping to pave the way for others to follow. Heal the World is also a project that must be given its due in raising awareness of child poverty around the world. However, the transformation of his skin to bleached-out white is without doubt the most notable change about MJ. Who would have thought such a thing possible?

The reality is that skin bleaching is not a rarity amongst people of colour – any colour. A cursory Google search for skin bleaching will result in a myriad of hydroquinone products and numerous articles regarding the misuse of skin bleaching agents. Even Lancôme has taken advantage of this phenomenon by introducing its own range of skin “brightening” Blanc Expert products across the Middle East and Far East Asia. MJ was clearly not alone in his search for greater lightness of being – literally and figuratively.

Born in the era of the African American Civil Rights Movement, Michael Jackson grew up with an awareness of the inferior place that African Americans held in American society. Segregation, resistance to black voter registration, and the KKK were part of the American reality for a young MJ. Why then do we affect surprise that MJ would have wanted to change his skin colour? And just why are we so disturbed by it? The truth is MJ committed the ultimate transgression in a society where we are still defined by labels of race, colour, and religion. After all, how can you profile or label your victims if they keep changing colour? However unintentional the effects of his transformation, it was still an act of defiance against our desire to label the other.

In the end, he became a parody of himself and therein lies the tragedy. Although MJ championed the need for racial equality and supported the efforts of black artists, he seemed unable to internalise the ideals he promoted in his music. I doubt if the man MJ saw in the mirror felt either right or good about the difference he saw in himself. But I choose to learn what I can and remember his undeniable talent instead.

How I spent a glorious Sunday afternoon:

The weekend’s over and I feel the need to spill. Arranged marriages are a norm in my community. Although it is a fascinating topic for the uninitiated and a source of endless media coverage, the process is as complex as it is comprehensive. It all starts with a matchmaker setting up families. Once said families have spoken and considered the suitability of the match, it falls upon the girl’s parents to invite the boy’s family over for tea. (I use the terms girl and boy loosely – child marriages are a rarity not the norm.) I had one such supervised play-date scheduled this Sunday.

For starters, he was late. This does not set a good impression unless your dog just died, in which case you should probably stay home to grieve. In any event, in walks my would be suitor a full hour late and not particularly prepossessing. In light of just how keen my mother is to marry me off, her dismay was priceless. Quickly recovering from her shock, she ushered our honored guest into the living room. Next came my father, who almost missed his footing on the stairs at the sight of our visitor. Needless to say, my father is not the most subtle of creatures.  Unfortunately, our attempts at conversation did not improve the situation. His new business in foreign exchange trading not only took up all his time, it also took up all his conversation. It’s understandable that a new business is likely to take up a great deal of time and concentration, but when your conversation is limited to a rather technical description of money transfer procedures a girl might be tempted to wander away to a balmy beach scene in her imagination. At any rate, our guest was only too happy to discuss his business and current money market issues happily unaware that an Exit Maneuver was underway.

Traditionally, light refreshments are offered to guests when they first arrive. Tea and a light meal follow a while later. No sooner had our guest sipped the last of his juice, my mother rushed to prepare tea. Once everyone was seated at the dining table, my father busied himself with eating and lost all interest in conversation – did I mention his lack of tact? Awkward conversation over tea then ensued. Having run out of business details to expound over, our honored guest was stumped and so were we. This is the point at which most people thank you for tea and leave. No such luck, we were left to surreptitiously check our watches again and again. In the end, I was quietly instructed to make myself scarce so that my parents could politely bring the visit to an end. Twenty minutes later, I heard the delightful sound of the front door shutting close and heaved a sigh of relief.

Needless to say, it was a singularly painful experience and I sincerely regret our rudeness. I feel sure that he will make some woman a very attentive and kind husband. It’s just that I am not that woman.

Reader, don’t despair. The weekend was not an utter disaster. My father gardens much like a squirrel would it if were inclined to horticultural pursuits. Although he is genuinely fond of gardening (i.e. planting shrubs in random spots), our garden looks somewhat haphazard. To top it all off, he hates to mow the lawn. Although I like the notion of a cottage garden teaming with plants, our front yard layout cannot accommodate it. The weather was mild on the weekend, so I took the opportunity to reduce some of the chaos. A few more weeks of pruning and replanting, and then I’ll be ready to mulch away any ungainly spots. If only life could be so simple.

Breaking news on Yahoo…

“Obama kills annoying fly,then keeps going in TV interview.”

That’s right folks, this is what Yahoo considers to be frontpage news along with most other internet news sites and newspapers. In the hours to come, there will be further updates on the fly, traumatized children who had to watch a fly die, and the heroic nature of the president made evident in one quick swat.

Life on the highway…

Ever gotten the finger on the highway? I just did this week. Along with a waving fist. To cap it all off, I had no idea why. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’m at that point in life when driving is no longer a sport. I have exorcised my speed demon and I now realise that my behaviour on the road can endanger someone’s life. I try to stay within the speed limit at all times and I refrain from tail-gating.  In other words, I drive like your grandmother. Which almost excuses what happened to me. Almost.