In Toronto. My brother Jason and I got up early that morning to check out a 10 AM screening at the Toronto International Film Festival. The movie was Buffalo Soldiers starring Joaquin Phoenix, Anna Pacquin, and Scott Glenn. The movie’s not been sold to a distributor yet, and it’s certainly not the sort of movie that’s ever going to be shown when America’s at war. Set on a base in East Germany in 1989, Buffalo Soldiers paints a very black portrait of the American military. It’s hilarious and hysterical and alarming and even sexy — a wicked scene where Phoenix and Pacquin do ecstacy together at a club, while on the soundtrack New Order’s “Blue Monday” sounds better than ever. Everyone on the base is either a crack/heroin user or a supplier. Nightclubs are shown with unofficially military sanctioned prostitutes in the milieu (a reality of US military life that I’m sure no one mentions on American TV). After the movie, there was supposed to be a Q&A with the director — but it was announced that the director was stuck in traffic, and shortly it would be clear this was not the real reason for the director’s absence.
The streets of Toronto seemed emptier and quieter than usual. My bro and I wandered into a shopping mall to check messages. There was a mysterious message from our mom, saying that our other brother had called to check up, and she was letting us know that her and my dad were safe, and told us not to worry.
I first saw the news in the electronics department of the Eatons department store. It was impossible to comprehend. Just recently, I was telling someone that one of the best memories of my whole life was taking the ferry from Battery Park, Manhattan to Staten Island (only because I didn’t have enough money to go up the Empire State Building, and I had a metro pass, so the ferry ride was free). It was nighttime. The ferry passed by the Statue of Liberty. I was thinking about the Wu-Tang Clan, who came from Staten Island. A kid with a boombox was blasting Jay-Z’s “It’s A Hard Knock Life.” I went out on the deck of the ferry, and absolutely marveled at the twin towers of the World Trade Centre, the stars of the New York night scene. They were (and I can’t believe I’m using the past tense) so beautiful, such a marvel of human achievement. I hope they really did lay great bases for eternity.
The next few hours, my bro and I walked around. I looked into the faces of the people I met. It was as if you could see who’d heard the news and who hadn’t heard the news. It felt then, like the end of the world, like Armaggedon … and I thought, “it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy.” Revelation, the last chapter of the Bible, doesn’t have to be true, but it certainly seems like it’s being encouraged. Prophecy’s better left unwritten. I hope people don’t forget that it’s an open book. Even as I’m hopeless, I hold onto hope. I have faith, but I don’t where to place it.
In conversations with people, it’s clear that the movies we’ve watched have become something like the lens through which we comprehend the world. Different movies come up. But one that keeps popping back into my mind is the Fight Club, in which the buildings of 15 major credit companies were blown up – and it was beautiful. And it was okay to think that it was beautiful, because the movie made it clear that nobody was in those buildings. The Fight Club was a fantasy, a projection of conscious and unconscious desires.
Today, on a televised radio talk show, I watched the mayor of New York Guiliani speak. Asked how people could help, Guiliani’s message was basically: shop, shop, and shop some more. And it’s clear that the economy’s in peril, and hence the livelihood and lifestyles of virtually everyone are in peril.
It’s certainly a surreal time to be banking.
This economy’s obviously not working. It’s a sick system. There’s enough furniture in warehouses somewhere. We don’t need more. There’s enough CDs. There’s enough duffel bags. There’s enough duvets. There’s enough desks. There’s enough books. There’s enough sweatpants. There’s enough t-shirts with company logos. We don’t need to produce more. We just need to redistribute. Believe me — there’s enough to go around.
But, whatever … I don’t want to be negative … and who am I to talk? I haven’t done much either way. And I don’t want to use this as my excuse — but isn’t there something paralyzing about this age we live in? It’s complex. Too many obtuse angles. Too much reflection and refraction. And concave mirrors. I almost have a nervous breakdown trying to buy stationary.