You see, I’m not afraid or embarrassed to reveal that I’ve been doing a lot of crying over the past year. And while that, too, may sound a bit odd, there’s good reason for it. You see, the entire meaning and purpose of crying has been redefined for me. The act no longer means to me what it once did. It’s not about being sad. Or at least, it’s not always about being sad.

Let me back up a bit here.

I’ve written a lot about my depression in this space. Well, maybe not a lot, because I don’t update this blog very often (actually, my main blog gets pretty neglected too, but that’s a tale for another time), but I have delved into some fairly personal stuff here.

Well, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet…

I originally designated my main blog as a “professional” blog and this one as my “personal blog”, but over time, I began to recognize that the notion was a bit of a conceit, because personal stuff began creeping into my main blog, leaving this one rather orphaned. So, a redefinition is in order. This blog will now become my “journal” blog, and in it I will simply blow off steam or delve a bit deeper into the whole personal demons/personal development journey I’ve been on. The main blog will, of course, never be personal-info-free, so it was nuts to even attempt that. Still, however, the main blog will be mostly for writing about topics that interest me and projects I’m working on.

So, enough categorizing and defining, and back to the issue at hand.

Somewhere along the line, in one or the other of my blogs (or both, perhaps) I mentioned something or other about a “mental health crisis”. Nice euphemism, that, and one that leaves the reader wondering (perhaps) what actually went on.

Well, that event did actually occur, over a year ago now, and it wasn’t a nervous breakdown, or a nervous collapse, or a major meltdown, or a big fat wigging-out.

It was worse than that.

On September 22nd of 2009, I reached the lowest point I had ever reached in my depressive life, and I did what most people would consider the unthinkable: I attempted suicide.

I won’t get into the reasons for it. Suffice it to say that a couple of things converged upon me at just the wrong time, and I felt I could no longer handle it. It’s utterly amazing what the depressive mind will do when it feels that it simply cannot abide feeling the way it does any longer.

I never thought I’d write about this in a blog entry. Seriously. It just didn’t seem to me that it would be a productive, or even wise, thing to do. A few people knew about it at the time, and I’ve since told a select couple of other folks, but I figured it would be best to just learn from the experience and move on.

But you know, this whole issue of mental health is extremely important to me, and I’ve decided that I want to tell my story in a bit more detail. Perhaps it will be useful or helpful to someone else, out there, somewhere. You never know.

Anyway, my actions ended me up in hospital for a few days, and I was referred to a six-week intensive group-therapy program, which I started two months later, on November 23rd. I knew I needed to do something, and I was more than willing to go along with any suggestions the doctors had for me.

Let me tell you, entering that program was the best thing I could have done for myself. I won’t go into the nitty-gritty of how it was set up, but I will tell you that there were a number of components, most of them involving the group. To my mind, the most important of these components was the process of getting at buried feelings. It was simple on the surface, but highly effective. It involved writing exercises, often in the form of letters to loved ones in a specific format, followed by reading those pieces of writing out loud to the group.

At first, this was intimidating. Terrifyingly intimidating. But once I began to realize that I was safe in the group and that everyone was there for the same purpose, it got easier. And once that comfort level went up, the tears began to flow. Reading my written pieces out loud became a cathartic, cleansing, healing activity. It was almost unbelievable.

From this program, I learned one of the best skills I’ve ever been taught. I now know that if I’m feeling anxious, unsettled, or upset, I need to sit quietly with myself and really feel the feelings underneath. Find where in my body the feelings are located. Find out what’s underneath the anxiety. Allow the feeling to be. And let the tears flow.

As I said earlier, crying has been redefined for me. It is no longer merely an expression of intense sorrow or grief, though those feelings are often at the root of it. But the actual act of crying is a release valve. It gets the uncomfortable feelings out and makes room for the positive ones. Every time I cry, it’s like popping a blister and letting out the pus inside it. It relieves the pressure.

My journey is far from over. I have a lot of buried feelings still to process, and these past few months have really convinced me of that. I’ve had positive and negative things happen all in the same short space of time. I left my job at the bookstore, had a brief, horrible experience working in a coffee shop, and then got a much better job at a financial institution’s call center, which is, surprisingly, a very supportive environment. During that same roller-coaster period, my mother went into hospital and now will not be returning to her home, because she can no longer take care of herself. She’s awaiting placement in a nursing home, and we are trying to find homes for her cats (a depressingly unlikely prospect at this point) and go through stuff in her house.

Like I said, I’ve been doing a lot of crying. There’s a lot going on, and the feelings are just waiting to jump out at me, sometimes when I least expect it.

But I know I have the tools to cope, to process, to move forward, and eventually step out into the light.

And as I always say, don’t forget to leave your own light on.

Sadly, now even that blog is starting to become neglected. My blogging life is in tatters, and I need to do something to fix that situation.

Okay, enough with the melodramatics. I wanted to talk about a personal project I embarked upon last week. I call it the “Timetable of Existence”, and while that sounds fairly impressive and all, it’s really a simple little text document that chronicles the major events of my life.

I had a document like this a few years ago, and it had a lot of important events listed in it, but I have no idea what I did with it. If I trashed it, that was a silly thing to do, and I’ll slap myself on the wrists a bit later. But for now, I’ve started a new one. And I think it has even more info in it now than the earlier one did.

I started this project for a specific purpose, but I’m going to keep it around as a more general tool for myself. It’s amazing what you can remember when you start laying things out in chronological order… “No, that happened after that, but before that… Yeah, that’s when that was!”

In terms of my personal development, I think this is going to be an important tool for me. As many of you know (those of you who’ve read some of my other entries in this blog), I have issues. Big issues. Issues that are affecting me in very bad ways and making me depressed and lethargic. And I have to deal with these issues.

So, remembering the things that have happened to me is a big step towards dealing with everything. If I can nail down the timeline, I can start to make connections that perhaps I didn’t see before.

This is turning into a really horrible blog post, and I can see that I’m not really into writing it at all. I’ve felt the lameness factor creeping in steadily through the last few paragraphs. And I think I know why that is. It’s because I’m talking about the tool without talking about the reasons for it. I’m not being completely honest in my writing. And there’s a good reason for that. Trauma is not always easy to share, and sometimes it shouldn’t be shared. So I’m talking about my problems here without really talking about them.

There, that managed to get my lameness factor down by a notch or two. Once I realized what I was doing and admitted it, the words started to flow again. I really am trying to get a handle on the things that weigh me down, and I know I’m going to get past them and out from under them, but sometimes it seems like a long, long road, and I feel like my feet are going to be worn down to nothing by the time I get to the end of it.

But that’s process, and I must follow process. I know I’m rambling a bit here, but I’ll likely edit this entry a bit before I publish it. For the moment, though, I simply have to get the words out and into the world. I’ll fix them later.

So that’s one of the things I’ve been doing lately… chronicling my life. Well, as much as I can, anyway. I know there are some things that I’ll never remember in a million years… like the name of the girl who tripped me and bullied me in Grade Primary, making my life miserable and beginning my long and illustrious career as one of the put-upon. That was a long time ago, and I don’t think I’ll ever even conjure up an image of what she looked like. My whole experience in Grade Primary is just a series of murky, shadowy, cartoonish images that don’t really tell me much about what really happened.

But I’ve written it in the timeline, and maybe more details will come as I revisit it and fill in other events.

It’s hard, but it’s a worthwhile exercise.

Don’t forget to leave the light on.

I’ve been posting to faltarego.com every day since August 2nd, which was the pre-launch day. The actual “launch” day was the next day, my birthday, August 3rd. I know that sounds a bit over-the-top, having a pre-launch and a launch for a blog, but it was a fun thing to do, and it allowed me to start the blog on a Sunday while officially launching it on a Monday (and my birthday, no less).

Back here in personal-blog-land, things have been sorely neglected. There were some cobwebs up in the corner there and some water on the floor where I’d left a window open too long (or maybe it was a browser tab, I don’t know…). I haven’t forgotten about this place; I’ve been thinking about it a lot, but for some reason I just haven’t gotten back to posting here.

And I think it’s important that I do post here, because I still need to write about my personal journey, and I’ve decided that I won’t be doing that on my new blog. That will be a place for me to hone my writing skills and talk about things that interest me and things that I know something about. This blog, the one your reading right now, is the place I will write more personal stuff, explore the various conditions of my mind, and ruminate upon the vicissitudes of life.

Like the depression (which has kicked in and out over the last couple of months), the documentary, the music, and the general trying-to-get-a-handle-on-things that makes up my day-to-day existence.

[Okay, I'm going to stop gluing words together with hyphens to make big, bloated compound words. It's rather silly, and I've done quite enough of it for one post.]

In terms of the documentary, the one about my father and the music of André Gagnon, it’s never far from my mind. I’ve begun to map out the places I want to visit and film, and from that, I will devise an intineray, or shooting schedule.

I had originally thought of traveling through Québec by train, but I don’t know if that would really work. It’s expensive, and I don’t think it would allow me the flexibility I think I’ll probably need while shooting on the road. Using a car, while much less romantic and dramatic, would be much more practical and cost effective.

Speaking of costs, I need to work up a budget for this thing, and then set about finding ways to raise the money for it. Simply getting out my chair and heading off down the road with a camera is not going to cut it. I need food, lodging, gas, equipment, supplies, and lots of Advil.

I think it would also be a good idea to blog while on the road. So, guess what? I’ll need either a laptop or a netbook. And I’ll need to take a still camera as well, so that I can post pictures of what I’m doing. The camera I do have, but the rest of it…? Yeah. Need money.

But that’s why I’m putting this out there. This is something I have to do, and as much I find things like The Secret a bit new agey and sugary, I do believe that stating intentions and moving in a direction creates energy, and from that energy can come incredible momentum. Thinking about things is not enough. One has to take action.

So, as faltarego.com settles into what I hope will be a permanent routine, I’m going to take some time to build on what I’ve written here and start putting the pieces of this documentary together.

And that, I hope, will help me put the pieces of the The Big Picture together.

‘Cause if I don’t do that, then I’m just flappin’ in the breeze.

In the words of Buzz Lightyear: “To infinity, and beyond!”

Or, in the words of Commander Peter Quincy Taggart: “Never give up… Never surrender!”

Or something like that.

I upgraded the RAM on my computer, pushed forward on a few projects, and got invited to write a guest post on a friend’s blog. I also had some fun and interacted with some online friends.

Not a bad day at all. And it’s not even over yet.

I finally added RAM to my poor old HP Pavilion 522c, which I purchased nearly ten years ago. It’s been a real workhorse, and it’s served me well over the years, but it’s been getting a little under-responsive, especially now that I tend to have a gazillion tabs open in Google Chrome.

Well, I’ve got a full gigabyte of RAM now, double what I had before, and so far I’m pleased with the results. While my little Pavilion will never be a Formula-One racer, it seems to be breathing a little easier today.

DDR memory for a system of that vintage is a little hard to come by, but TigerDirect had it, and it only took a couple of days for them to UPS it to me. Not terribly expensive, either. All in all, a good experience technology-wise.

So, with my newly-upgraded system ready to roll, I began the daily ritual of checking e-mail, Facebook, Twitter, and Protagonize. Somewhere in there, I discovered that my friend Ganga, who I know from the Protagonize site, is now following me on Twitter. So I followed him back.

Turns out Ganga is doing the 2009 Blogathon today and tweeting each time he adds a new post. His charity is the Canadian Hard of Hearing Association, an organization in which he has a personal investment. I decided to send out a tweet suggesting people follow him and check out his blog (called Story Analytics).

Next thing you know, Ganga’s asking me if I’d like to do a guest post on his blog. I said yes. I wrote one. It’s here.

In amongst all that, I was also pushing ahead on some graphics for my new blog. Yes, you read that right. A new blog. I have purchased a domain name and web space and uploaded the WordPress software to it. I’m now in the process of tweaking the theme and designing graphics for it.

The new blog is going to be my “professional” blog. I’m going to keep this blog (i.e. the one you’re reading now) as my “personal” blog. I’ll announce my new URL when the site’s ready for action.

Let’s see, what else…?

Oh, yes. I haven’t forgotten about the documentary I’m going do do about my father and André Gagnon. I’m in the planning stages right now, and my current focus is mapping out the locations in Québec where I want to shoot footage. Beyond Verdun (a borough of Montréal), where my dad was born, and Kamouraska, where André Gagnon was born, I want to visit the places mentioned in the titles of some of Gagnon’s songs.

Enter Google Earth. One of my favorite programs. I’ve been adding place markers and doing a little fact-finding about some of these communities to get a better idea of the route I’ll need to take when actually shooting the footage.

The documentary progress merits a blog entry of its own. So stay tuned.

But that wasn’t my only encounter with Google Earth today. Back on the Protagonize site, in the discussions area, someone mentioned how nice it would be if there were a map showing the locations of the Protagonize members (the better to organize meet-ups, my dear).

Well, guess what? Old map geek over here gets it in his noggin to start a new discussion thread asking people to submit their coordinates for a Google Earth Protagonize map. And a few people responded fairly quickly.

Sigh. I do like to make work for myself, don’t I?

And that’s just some of the stuff I got up to today. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Before I go, I’d like to send a shout out to Nova Scotia’s Ecology Action Centre. They’re a great bunch of folks, they do good work, and I’m going to be helping them out with their website.

Yes, another project. Don’t worry. I need to be busy. It’s the only way I’m going to move ahead.

I’m actually going to leave the den now. Going out to meet friends who are visiting from out of town. A nice end to a productive and inspiring day.

For the sake of the Ecology Action Centre, I’m not going to tell you to leave the light on. Well, not the one plugged into the wall, anyway. But the one in your head? Yeah, leave that one on. You never know what it’s going go show you.

Good vibes, compadres. Keep movin’ forward.

–Eric

I just watched what is quite probably the worst film I have ever seen. Ever. In my entire life.

Seriously.

It’s called The Sands of Oblivion, and it may well be one of the most aptly titled films of all time, for oblivion is exactly where this stinker belongs. I found it in the five-dollar bin at Wal-Mart, and I now realize that I paid about four-dollars-and-ninety-seven-cents too much.

But, to be kind, let’s call it an educational film. It’s a very clear and pointed lesson in how not to write a script, how not to direct, how not to do CGI, and how not to let really lame, rip-off ideas find their way into production.

It was that bad.

But for the serious connoisseur of cheese, this film has everything: A hokey synthesizer score, a godawful “historical” prologue that looks like an Egyptian exhibit from some twisted, alternate-reality Disneyland, a gratuitious scene of a co-ed in her panties frolicking with one of the main characters (easily the best part of the film), a guy getting decaptitated by a front-end loader (I kid you not), a death approximately every five minutes, a dessicated horse’s head on a human body that’s supposed to pass for the returned-from-beyond-ancient-Egyptian-god-bent-on-fiery-vengeance, a sherriff with a haircut that looks like the bastard offspring of Lyle Lovett and J. Jonah Jameson, an old guy with a really bad English accent (John Aniston, if you can believe it, Jennifer’s father), Homer Simpson as Cecil B. DeMille, a really lame CGI snake that turns into really lame CGI swirls of sand, a redneck in the desert with a stockpile of weapons, and a dune buggy chase.

Okay, the dune buggy chase was actually kinda cool.

I’m sure I’ve missed a few choice items. After all, this was a veritable all-you-can-eat buffet of pathetic missteps and fumbles. I’d have to watch it again to see if I forgot any choice, cheesey morsels, but… well… you know… that just ain’t gonna happen.

I think the only thing missing from this train wreck is a lesbian love scene. But I wouldn’t have even thought of that if it hadn’t been for this one moment where… well, I actually kinda got my hopes up.

This ridiculous waste of everyone’s time was a “Sci-Fi Channel Original Movie”, a label I shall now forever hold in the same regard as the yellow-and-black “radioactive waste” symbol, and one I will be just as assiduous in avoiding. Believe me, it’s just not worth it.

I should have dropped the DVD like a hot potato as soon as I saw that George Kennedy was in it.

Ah, George Kennedy. The ham on our cheese. The man has had an amazing, diverse career. He’s been in more TV shows and movies than most actors can shake the proverbial stick at. The man has credentials.

Unfortunately, those credentials were confiscated about five minutes after Airport ’79: The Concorde hit theatres. I just mention this in passing. I’m not going into details. It’s not worth the trauma.

But now for the really bad news.

The Sands of Oblivion (I can only hear those words spoken by a soap opera announcer) actually has some good actors in it. And why is that bad news, you ask? Because, I reply, in this thing, you’d never know they were good actors.

Okay, I’ll just spit it out: Morena Baccarin and Adam Baldwin.

That was mildly traumatic. Give me a second here.

Deep breath.

I’m a huge fan of Firefly. It’s probably one of the best TV series ever produced. It’s just plain, all-around, science-fictiony goodness. And Morena and Adam each bring their own unique brand of awesomeness to the mix.

(pleasant memory… pleasant memory… pleasant memory…)

But even these two couldn’t do anything with the lines they were given. I would challenge even George Frickin’ Clooney to do anything with the lines in this turdball of a script. Hokey is hokey, and if it’s writ hokey, it’s gonna play hokey. No way around it.

But there’s also something to be said for direction. Or maybe not. Maybe in this case there’s actually nothing to be said for direction. Because it doesn’t look to me like director David Flores gave anybody any.

Now, I’ve never seen any other films directed by Mr. Flores, but let’s just have a look at the titles of some of his other oeuvres:

Boa vs. Python (shall I just stop right there?), Crimson Force, S.S. Doomtrooper, First Howl, Hyper Sonic … just to name a few. I think we all get the picture.

Wow.

But you know, even with all the immensity of badness, the sheer and vast numbers of cringe-worthy moments, two things stick out in my mind: The Sherriff with the Lyle Lovett/J. Jonah Jameson haircut and Dan Castellenata (Homer Simpson) as Cecil B. DeMille.

Jeff Manzanares, as the sherriff, was only in about three or four scenes, but his performance was so abysmal that it will remain forever etched into a part of my brain that I thankfully don’t use very much. And Dan/Homer as DeMille, well, he was just wooden and awful. Again with the good actors giving lame-ass performances. How can this be?

Oh, right. The direction.

I must wind this down now, lest the bile I’m spewing forth begin to corrode my monitor. I had to write this immediately upon finishing my viewing, because this kind of rottenness is best served fresh.

Wow.

I’m literally agog at how monumentally bad this flick was. It makes me long for the days when I sat in the balcony of the Oxford Theatre watching Angels and Demons.

I just hope Blockbuster will give me a couple of bucks credit for this thing.

Don’t forget to leave the light on. Otherwise the dessicated horse guy with the Egyptian hood might get you.

–Eric

I’m not going to whine. I’m not going moan and complain and tell you what a hard life I’ve had and how difficult everything has been for me. That would be not only unproductive, but patently untrue. I’ve had some wonderful experiences in my life, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Let’s just say that my life experience has been tinged with a bit of grey here and there, that I’ve not always lived life to the fullest, that I’ve been dragged down more often that I would have liked by an internal gravity that likes to kick in when I least expect it.

It’s a low-grade depression, and it can be a miserable son-of-a-bitch sometimes. I’ve been dealing with it for years, and it’s beyond annoying. It can suck the joy out of almost any situation. At times, it has made me wonder if life is worth living. It’s a skewed filter, a compromised worldview, a gauze of hopelessness draped over what should be a curious, intelligent mind.

You know, it doesn’t matter how I describe it; it still feels like an excuse for not living. I imagine folks reading this and saying, “Oh, snap out of it. Just get out of your own way and start doing things, will you?”

Don’t worry; I get it. And don’t think I don’t feel guilty about the whole thing. Because I do. And that makes things even worse. Never mind that I can have a day where I can barely think straight, let alone accomplish anything; I also just happen to be self-aware enough to feel tremendous guilt about the fact that I can’t think straight and am not accomplishing anything.

It’s a vicious circle.

I don’t like to think of myself as someone who toots his own horn. I know I have an ego, and I know that I have to pump myself up sometimes in order to counteract the weight of the damp gauze that sits atop my worldview. But realistically, beyond all that, I know that I have skills and talents. I’ve done some good work and created some good things, and other people have commented on that and given me positive feedback. So I don’t think it’s egotistical of me to say that there are things that I do very well.

Given that, I should be a published author, an award-winning filmmaker, a sought-after playwright, and a dot-com zillionaire. Because I know I have creative talent and technical savvy.

But, alas, no. I have to deal with a heavy heart and a soggy brain. I have to wade through murk in order to see a little bit of light at the edge of the plains. I have to slog, and slog fairly hard, just to keep up.

Still not whining. Seriously, I’m not. I’m just stating what is, and trying to use interesting words to do it. It’s the situation of my life, and I’m dealing with it as best I can.

I’ve heard depression described as anger turned inwards. I’ve also heard it described as “chronic grief” (in Andrew Solomon’s The Noonday Demon). I find both of those descriptions apt, for I know that I am angry, and I know that I harbour tremendous grief.

So I guess it’s time to do something about it. I’m currently in counseling, and have been at various times before, and while it certainly does help to talk and get some outside opinions, it’s not enough. I have to do more. I have to take this bull by the horns if I want to wrestle it to the ground.

I’ve tried so many, many different approaches over the years. I’ve been a self-help junkie. I’ve tried every book, audio course, and technique you can shake a stick at. All it’s amounted to in the end, however, is the simple, disheartening fact that I simply cannot stick to anything.

It doesn’t matter whether you’re talking about yoga, meditation, a new time-management system, or something as simple as flossing my teeth. I just can’t seem to stick to it enough to make it a habit.

I’d say it was depressing, but that might be funny.

So, what it all comes down to (as Alanis would say), is that I haven’t got it all figured out just yet.

But I know a few things now that I didn’t know a few years ago.

Like, for instance, the fact that what I eat has a tremendous effect on how I feel. It’s been strongly suggested to me, by both a naturopath and a healer, that I might be sensitive to sugar, dairy, and wheat. And you know what? I tried the things my naturopath recommended, and I felt better! Seriously better.

But, of course, I didn’t stick with the plan. I shake my head just thinking about it. I know what I need to do, but I don’t do it. It’s the same old story.

But there’s another thing I know now that I didn’t a couple of years ago. And it’s a doozy. I now know that I never grieved properly for my father. And I also know that I put up walls and defenses and don’t allow myself to get to close to other people, because I don’t want to get hurt. If I lose someone else, I don’t want it to matter as much. So I withdraw.

My plan is to make a documentary film about my father, and weave in the music of André Gagnon. I need to tie these elements together, honor my father’s memory, and pay tribute to the musician who’s inspired me so greatly all these years.

It has to happen. I’m doing the approach/avoidance thing right now, but I know in my heart that I will complete this project. I don’t know how, and I don’t know exactly when, but by putting up these three blog entries, I’m making a start. I’m defining the problem for all to see, and declaring my intent to pursue the solution.

I will write more about this, but for the moment, this entry is long enough. If you’ve read the whole thing, I am in your debt. Thank you.

And don’t forget to leave the light on.

–Eric

What really caught my attention, though, was the arrangement. I’ve always loved piano music, and I’ve always loved orchestral music, especially when combined with modern instruments like guitar, bass, and drums. This little piece, clocking in at only three-and-a-quarter minutes, managed to cover all my bases: Latin percussion, funky wah-wah guitar, wildly energetic bass line, and a piano crescendo with full strings. There was nothing else like it on the radio at the time.

I must have talked about the song quite a bit, because my mother gave me the album for Christmas that year. It was, looking back on it now, one of the best gifts I’ve ever received, because it opened my musical world up and let in this incredibly gifted composer and performer. I was an immediate fan, and I would continue purchasing his records for years to come.

Neiges was my introduction to André Gagnon. I quickly discovered that there was much more to him than just little Latin-flavored disco numbers. Much of the music had a classical feel, and the French sensibility nearly leapt out of the grooves. [Yes, dear reader, there was, at one time, this little item known as the vinyl LP, which used a needle running through grooves to produce sound. It worked really rather well...]

I don’t know… There’s just something about French composers. Take Claude Debussy, for example. I cannot listen to “Claire de Lune” without being moved. Even the electronic version by Isao Tomita is stunning&#8212a compelling whirlwind of sonic landscapes that almost defies categorization. [Note to self: There's an album I wouldn't mind getting my hands on again. Tomita's Snowflakes Are Dancing.]

Michel Legrand is another example. He wrote the music for “Windmills of Your Mind” (from The Thomas Crown Affair), “The Summer Knows” (from Summer of ’42) and “What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?” (from The Happy Ending), among countless others, many for motion pictures, and many, including those I listed above, with lyrics by Alan and Marilyn Bergman. His songs are haunting, poignant, and almost ethereal.

Such is the case with André Gagnon as well. He is Québecois rather than European, but the French sensibility is still there. The haunting melodies, the emotional chord changes, the sometimes melancholy arrangements… they’re all present and accounted for. What can I say? His compositions touch my soul.

While Neiges was just one of many of his albums I would purchase, it remains almost the definitive André Gagnon record for me, partly because it was the first one I owned, but also because of the sheer diversity of the music contained within it.

Not only was there the salsa/disco “Wow” that I mentioned, but there was also a samba (“Ta samba”), a Beethoven-inspired childhood recollection (“Dédéthoven”), a back-and-forth between a classical violinist and renowned folk fiddler Jean Carignan (“Petit concerto pour Carignan et orchestre”), and two longer, multi-movement pieces (“Flashback” and “Neiges”, clocking at seven-and-a-half and ten minutes respectively).

[Note: In French, only the first word of a title (and any proper name within it) is capitalized. I have stuck to that convention here.]

This last type of piece, which I suppose can be categorized as a type of concerto, was a signature style of Gagnon’s and would appear in some form or other on many of his albums. My particular favorite of these was a piece entitled “Le Saint-Laurent”, a twelve-minute ode to the Saint Lawrence River, which appeared on Le Saint-Laurent, the album he would release the year after Neiges.

[It's interesting to note that this piece was exposed to a wider audience when André Gagnon appeared as a guest on Perry Como's French-Canadian Christmas in 1981. He played part of "Le Saint-Laurent" while Dorothy Hamill skated. I find this oddly funny now.]

Those two albums mean more to me than just about any other music I’ve encountered. I suppose it’s because I came to possess them in the two years following my father’s death that they have become so important. They pretty much define my musical experience of the time, and they set the tone for many emotional moments to come, as this incredible music became more and more entwined in my life as the years went on.

I was fortunate enough to see André Gagnon in concert here in Halifax on a number of occasions. I’m saddened that I can’t remember the years he played here, or how many times he visited, but I do remember the experience vividly, and I remember that he sometimes played solo, sometimes with his band, and sometimes with a full orchestra. I also remember meeting him briefly after one show and getting his autograph, which I still have in my little personal archives.

There’s so much more I could say about André Gagnon. And I know that I will. But for now, I think I’ll end this by saying just how grateful I am to him for all the beautiful music he’s brought into my life, and how important his work has been to me over the past thirty-five years.

Just as with his music, there are no words…

Thanks for reading, and don’t forget to leave the light on.

–Eric

I was thirteen years old when Dad died. I remember experiencing a certain amount of denial prior to his death. I remember asking Mom, “Is Dad going to get better?” I’m not sure if she said “no” or just shook her head. My response to that was, “So he’s just going to stay the same?” I either couldn’t grasp or couldn’t accept the other possibility.

My dad died during the night, but my brother and I didn’t learn about it when we got up in the morning. Mom sent us off to school as usual, and didn’t tell us until we came home for lunch (school was a short walk away from the house). I guess she wanted to take care of everything without us having to see his body. I know the family doctor had been there when Dad died, but we didn’t see him in the morning either.

When we got home at lunch, Mom told us that Dad had died. Again, I don’t remember exactly what she said, but I do, again, remember my response. I said, “Well, that’s the worst thing that could possibly happen.” I think on some level I was expecting it, but on another level I was still in denial. I think there was also a certain amount of male bravado happening there, and I wanted to be tough about it and not cry.

But the tears came later. I remember sitting with my brother and grandmother (Dad’s mother, who was down from Montréal, staying with us) on the hide-a-bed in her room, crying inconsolably. At one point my grandmother said, “No more Daddy.”

It’s funny the little fragments I remember. I couldn’t tell you what I did and where I was for most of those few days, but I remember snippets, snapshots. I remember playing games on the living room floor with a family friend while Mom was at the funeral home. I remember sitting in the funeral home chapel for the memorial service, but I don’t remember anything that anyone said. I remember returning to school and one of the rough kids who usually gave me a hard time saying, “I’m sorry to hear about your dad.”

I don’t think I’ve ever fully or properly grieved for my father. I don’t think I’ve ever fully and completely recognized what a huge impact his death has had on my life. In recent years, I’ve begun to suspect that there’s some work to be done in that area, but I either haven’t been able to face it or just haven’t been able to figure out what I need to do. I know I need to honor him in some way, recognize what he contributed to my life and celebrate the person he was. I also know that I have to face the fact that his death damaged me and contributed in no small manner to the way in which I view and relate to the world.

What happens to a thirteen-year-old boy when his father dies? What happens when he becomes the de facto head of the household without his even realizing it? How does that alter and skew his perception of the world? In my case, it led to an unhealthy aversion to responsibility and a strong tendency to become easily overwhelmed. It also led to anger, tremendous anger, which, because I was taught not to raise my voice, was turned inward, eventually leading to depression.

Of course there are other factors that contributed to my mental and emotional state, but honestly, can there be anything bigger than the death of a parent?

My Dad was a librarian. He had worked at both the Saint Mary’s and Dalhousie university libraries. He was also a jazz musician, a French teacher, and a really fun guy to be around. He was quick with bad puns (a trait I’ve inherited, much to the frequent chagrin of family and friends), and enjoyed telling a good story. He taught me how to play ukulele, and I later extrapolated those chords and taught myself guitar. I used his clarinet when I took lessons in junior high. He played clarinet and saxophone in Don Warner’s big band. I’m sorry I never saw one of those gigs. I was too young, I guess, to go to the smoky dance clubs that I’m sure helped to bring on his lung cancer.

It always goes back to the music. It’s been such a huge part of my life, always. My mother sang in choirs and played piano, and my dad played jazz. It’s in my blood, I suppose. I’ve taken piano, clarinet, and drum lessons at various times, and I taught myself to play guitar. There’s no such thing as background music for me. It always jumps to the fore, and I must identify it before I can go on with what I’m doing. I love to listen, and I love to play (though I’m not so keen on practicing). A beautiful melody or series of chords can move me like nothing else.

How very odd, then, how very cosmic and mystifying, that after my father’s death, another man would come into my life, a man whose music would touch me like no other, and who, though I only ever met him once, would have an almost unimaginable impact on my life.

My father died in 1974. In 1975, an album entitled Neiges was released. The artist was André Gagnon. My mother gave me the record for Christmas. My musical world would never be the same.

And that, my friends, is a topic worthy of its own blog entry.

Stay tuned.

(Posting this entry has been a necessary part of my healing process.)

Thanks for reading, and don’t forget to leave the light on.

There have been exceptions. Two come to mind: Mister Holland’s Opus, which manipulated me emotionally and made me feel used, and Bicentennial Man, which did pretty much the same thing, just with a plot that spanned two-hundred years instead of sixty. I still cringe when I think of them.

But most of the time, I tend to enjoy films I go to see. I go for the entertainment value, not to delve into the minutiae of filmmaking, plotting, or dialogue, though I can examine any of those in great detail if I’m so inclined. A bad script will pull me out of the movie’s world quicker than you can say “cliché.”

I can think of two examples, one recent and one near-recent, where I thoroughly enjoyed a film that did not, by and large, get good reviews. The recent example is X-Men Origins: Wolverine, which was a helluva ride, and really gave me a lot of bang for my buck. I liked it. I’m not going to say I loved it, but I really liked it. It was fun, and it had some great moments and great performances.

The less recent example is The Da Vince Code. I can hear you grumbling already. This film got so much bad press and bad word of mouth, that I don’t think I could have gone into it with my expectations any lower. I wanted to see it anyway, because I liked the book, and I’m a fan of both Ron Howard and Tom Hanks. And you know what? I enjoyed it. I thought it was neat take on the book, and, talky or not, I thought it got its point across. And I didn’t give a tinker’s damn about Tom Hanks’ hair. It was different, but it didn’t bother me like it did some folks.

So, you might wonder, having read the previous two paragraphs, does this guy have any discerning taste in movies at all? Well, to be honest, I sorta wonder about that myself sometimes. Am I too easily entertained? Do I have no standards at all?

Well, yes, as it turns out, I do. And that was brought home to me in full regalia when I went to see Angels and Demons last night.

This, friends, was a bad movie. It rankled me on so many levels, I don’t even think I can count them all. I will, however, try.

They lost me right from the beginning. If I had seen one more swooping, spinning, CGI cutaway shot of the innards of the CERN particle accelerator (you did know that’s what that was, right? I mean, the filmmakers didn’t tell us), I would have hurled my just-eaten spanikopita dinner over the rail of the balcony and onto some poor, unsuspecting soul below. I just wanted them to get to the bloody point.

A quick break for SF fans: Carmen Argenziano, who played Samantha Carter’s father on Stargate SG-1 was in the CERN scenes. I would like to have seen more of him, but his character was murdered within the first ten minutes of the film (but it seemed more like twenty with all the CGI cutaway shots).

The camera spins, swoops, jiggles, and generally acts like an ADHD child on a sugar rush throughout most of the film. Interestingly, the camera behaves similarly in the new Star Trek film, but it makes sense aboard a starship that’s being pummeled by energy weapons. Here, it just seems like the filmmakers want Robert Langdon and company to move at warp speed. Well, they’re not. They’re just rushing through the streets of Rome.

And Rome does look great. The cinematography in this film is quite beautiful indeed, but unfortunately it does not make up for a script that is not so much dialogue as a moving history lesson spoken by multiple instructors.

There is no character development. We get no glimpses of Robert Langdon’s personality as we did in The Da Vinci Code. Here he’s just the tour guide, the facilitator, the guy who tells us what’s going on. I felt like I was watching PBS, and Rick Steeves had taken some really good drugs before taking us on his latest tour of historical Rome. Come to think of it, Steeves would probably have been more entertaining and engaging in this film than Hanks is.

We need Langdon’s facilitation, however. This film moves so fast, covering so much territory in such a short time, that without the expert’s commentary, we’d be lost, our heads spinning lopsidedly on our necks. Hell, I read the book, and I was nearly lost part of the time. What did he just say? What was that?

Yep, I’ve done this before. A couple of times. I get all excited about the concept of blogging, and go for it with gusto for a while, and then run out of steam. That’s my pattern.

So, what’s my problem?

No, I’m just not going there. I’m writing a blog entry here, not a book. But, hey, did you notice? I’m writing another entry. Hmmmmm… what’s up with that? Why am I back on the blog all of a sudden?

I’m not going to question or analyze (or even analyse). I’m glad that the spirit has moved me once again to type into this little beige box on my Blogger account. Now, if I could just make this entry about something other than the act of blogging. Blogging about blogging is probably not the most interesting way to go, though it does conjure up a word in my mind: metablogging.

I notice, upon rereading some of my earlier entries, that I’ve been a bit of a “doom and gloom” sort of fellow. Upon reflection, I think a little of that goes a long way. I think darkness and edginess are necessary in fiction, for to have a good story, you need a convincingly dire situation for the protagonist to overcome, but in blogging, I think perhaps it’s not so advisable. I know I’m free to express my opinions, but I don’t know how many people are going to want to read my rantings and ravings about corporations, governments, and religions.

I don’t think it’s particularly helpful.

So today, instead, I’d like to focus on some positive things.

First off, I’m writing another blog entry. That in itself, in my mind at least, is cause for celebration. I’ve had a horrible cold, which sapped my energy and made me really cranky, and I think I’m finally starting to get some of the energy back. If this current writing is any indication, I’m on the road back. Yay.

Secondly, it’s tremendously sunny here in old Halifax. I was outside earlier this morning to run some errands, and, while it’s still just a bit cold, the sun is blazing, and that untimely snow we had yesterday is melting already. Again yay.

Thirdly, there were some kick-ass performances on American Idol last night. They have some really hefty talent on the show this year, and there were some pleasant surprises. (If you don’t follow Idol, skip to the paragraph after the next one.) Scott is really coming into his own; his performance of “Just the Way You Are” was heartfelt and touching. Adam was his usual unpredictably awesome self; he basically rocks. And Kris, well, Kris just blew me away with his surprising and interesting arrangement of “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone.” Out the box, baby. Out the box. The judges loved Danny’s performance, though personally I didn’t think it was his best. That’s too bad, because I’m a real Danny fan, and I hope he makes it right through.

I’d been thinking for quite a while that Danny, Adam, and Allison would end up being the top three. Now I’m not so sure. I think Kris is giving everyone a run for their money at this point, and if he keeps it up, either Allison or Danny is in trouble. Adam, I think, is going to win the damn thing, unless he does something incredibly off the beam. As for tonight’s elimination round, I have no idea who’s going to go home. I missed Anoop’s and Megan’s peformances last night, but I get the impression from the judges comments later in the show that Danny’s was the first real standout performance of the night. I have a feeling Matt will be in the bottom three again, and I don’t think either Megan or Anoop is going to be around much longer. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.

Speaking of great music, I had the good fortune to attend a terrific concert this past weekend. Symphony Nova Scotia performed the music of Queen. I know. That sounds weird, and to be honest, I was cynical about the whole thing. I had really low expectations, because I’ve heard pops concerts before, and they can sound really corny if they’re not done just right.

Well, my fears were unfounded. The symphony played with a rock band out front, and the band was awesome. The singer, guitarist, bassist, drummer, pianist, and two backup vocalists were all just incredible. They’re all members of an organization called Jeans and Classics, whose mandate is to play with orchestras across the country and show young audiences how cool orchestral music is. Now, that’s a purpose I can get behind.

If you ever get a chance to see these folks in action, do so. Their energy is infectious, and their musicianship top notch. And to have a symphony orchestra in the background playing full, lush arrangements of rock songs is an experience not to be missed. I’ve always loved the combination of rock instruments with orchestra (two examples that come to mind are The Alan Parsons Project and The Electric Light Orchestra), and this concert was a treat.

So there, you go. Positivity. Again with the Yay!

Let’s see if I can’t do this again sometime soon.

Don’t forget to leave the light on.

–Eric