Vote NO for Trolleys

Let’s be local for a moment. Jamaica Plain is a special place. I’m a fan and there often to see friends and enjoy the community around Centre Street. And the one piece of Boston where I feel comfortable tried to kill me this morning. Tried again, I should say, because a half year back something similar happened but in less dramatic fashion.

It centers around the Trolley. People are split about the trolley line that used to run down Centre Street and connect to Green Line transit into downtown Boston. Stores all along the street have signs both for and against. It’s surprisingly divisive. And after this morning I have a strong opinion: Rip the fucking trolley tracks out of the ground. Any cyclist knows that the grooved tracks are dangerous and that you cross them at your own peril. But the crossings are unavoidable when the streets get clogged with weekend traffic. And unless you hit them straight on, they grab onto the front wheel of your bike and don’t let go. I was tossed into a lane of oncoming traffic. It was only luck that there wasn’t a car close enough to hit me. I was almost a sad story new bikers tell each other to warn them about city riding. And my bicycle is no happier about this than I am. Things are whacked badly out of alignment and I’ve yet to figure out how much I can straighten on my own and how much will need some professional help. The strange thing about the crash this morning is that no one seemed to notice. I quickly got up and pulled myself and my bike to the sidewalk where I stood shaking. My teeth were gritted, my adrenaline was pumping and I was furious—at myself for hitting the tracks and at the world for not making the roads safer. There was no obvious bleeding, but people passing by said nothing and barely noticed, even though moments before I was sprawled in the middle of the road. It was fine because I needed a few moments alone to collect myself, but I was immediately aware of how strange it felt to be in a state of physical and emotional crisis and to be completely ignored. Boston, it’s a friendly town. A bike friendly town.

Closer

I read reviews of the movies I see. Sometimes before, often afterwards. I might do it to confirm my own tastes and judgment. I know that I also do it because I am interested in criticism. A movie doesn’t just last the two hours you spend with it in the theater. When the lights come up, I feel as if I need to say something. And if the words don’t come, the movie was either especially provocative (Dogville) or just lousy. But not just bad, disappointingly so because it had enough aspiration to keep me from an outright condemnation. And I enjoy watching how others sort through these same moments. Pop culture is less the shared memories of movies, music and television than our collective response to them.

Last night I was educated by the group of conflicted instructors in “Closer” -- which just now I realize I have no idea how to pronounce. Is the title a drawing close or an abrupt end? I spent the first half of the movie thinking, “Oh, so that’s how men and women interact with each other” and the latter half frustrated that they couldn’t act smarter, better, or more kindly towards each other. The film explores how cruelty comes as a response to our own understanding of our mistakes. We realize our behavior doesn’t make sense and we lash out, pinning the blame on someone else. And the movie resolves nothing. Suitably so. But neither does it reach towards epic tragedy. I remember the Swedish film, “Faithless”, a story of adultery that left imprints on its characters that spanned a lifetime. The characters in “Closer” will continue in new settings and with new partners but may well live out the same story once again.

That’s why I can’t finally say whether the film succeeds, because it captures a string of moments but doesn’t use the focus of film to frame them convincingly. Natalie Portman’s character sheds a tear as she possesses the sidewalk of a new city, and it is supposed to show the price her show of seductive confidence costs her. Simultaneously her lover in London realizes as he revisits the place where they met that he may not have really known her at all. In the end he possesses nothing of her, and possession is the motivation of all the characters in the film. Even his memories are left subject. There isn’t irony in this gesture. “Closer” is not a plot driven thriller where an ending transforms what came before. The substance of this movie is the desperate ways we treat others just to tolerate ourselves. And sadly I think too many of us realize that already.

Alchemy

Romance is tough. If you believe in the thunderbolt of love at first sight then you’re stuck waiting for it. Or like a dare-devil meteorologist you track it in a rusted out truck, going to the places you know it to strike. And if you’re unsure of the legitimacy of feeling something huge all at once, you may be in a worse position. Because then you’re stuck working at it, unsure about everything, and playing with not just your own feelings but with those of another. What I’ve got to remember is that the thunderbolt usually has a radius of impact. It doesn’t sneak up on the person next to you and leave them suddenly staring at you with huge, loving eyes. For me at least, there’s a window of time where two people are both working at it—romantic alchemy of sorts. Experimentation is alright. And so is failure. Admitting that your lead is still lead. Admitting that you still have absolutely no idea where gold comes from. Romance is really, even with the advent of online dating, a pre-scientific process. Cave paintings. I’m left smearing colored ink on cold stone walls because it feels good and maybe just maybe answers all of the big questions.

About a boy...

About a boy….

An older Hugh Grant pulled me out of a slump this evening. Gray hair, a few wrinkles weather his face like a bit of tarnished chrome on an Alfa Romeo. Beautiful and stylish, but extravagant and unnecessary. And a more real Hugh Grant, if reality echoes a Nick Hornby novel with its own perfectly buoyant soundtrack, a real Hugh Grant makes the perfect shallow blank of a man slated for a moment of humiliation followed by easy redemption. But I suck in the pretty things, the allure of London, and even the hippie who tries vomit covered suicide before finding a balding and earnest activist for a very special Christmas lunch. Christmas lunch?

Movies, and I’ll say it to be obvious, allow anyone to feel like happiness is only two hours away. And it almost is. Two hours can change your life, or at least help you take your eyes off the ground long enough to focus on something else, something brighter.

Echoing the words of a woman I met last year who like a Hornby book recognizes the events of her life through songs (good songs)… Tonight, I wish it would snow.