Life Less Literary

I went to a reading group last night - always wondered what one would be like, I was (as with most new ventures) very nervous about it. Imagined something slightly frighteningly intellectual, thought that I would probably just sit on the edge listening to everyone’s opinions, and no doubt learning lots about the book (which, by the way, was Brick Lane - an excellent read, if I had to sum it up in one word I’d say it’s very, very “human”).

Anyway, it wasn’t like that at all. In fact, rather than sitting back listening, I think I spoke more than anyone else there (I think they were exited to have a new member). And rather than getting any very deep insights into the book, most of the comments were along the lines of “I liked this bit. I didn’t like that bit. I think the book gives you a real insight into the immigrant communities.”

So I missed out on a heavy intellectually stimulating night, but got a heavy ego-stimulating one instead. It was all quite fun, and I think I’ll be going again. At the end, they asked what books I like reading - such a hard question. I raved briefly about Cloud Atlas, and then mentioned that I’ve just picked up some Katherine Mansfield. They got quite excited and proposed that they read Katherine Mansfield on our next free date (which I think will be in December).

It’s a great idea this Tax Freedom Day. I’m thinking of instituting a Clear Headed Day, the day of the year when, on aggregate, I stop being stoned.

It’s probably about a couple of months earlier than Tax Freedom Day.

I was in an awkward situation at the Foundry. Posthumous-lookalike and his friends had struck up a game of poker. I knew I could beat them all, beginner’s ultra-luck, but they were playing for stakes and my conscience wouldn’t allow me to join in. Even when they lowered it to a penny a piece: some memory triggered, a similar situation, somebody I knew had stuck to their guns and refused to gamble for coppers.

Another dream drifted across, of Sarah - Hi Sarah - the last time I saw her before she emigrated to the States. I watched her playing poker, she was pressurised to gamble, but was resolute.

Then I remembered, that wasn’t Sarah. It was the Clive Owen character in Croupier (excellent film!). We played Connect Four the night before Sarah left. What was I thinking?

I just went to see The Agronomist - an absolutely brilliant documentary. It’s strange how much the title of a film, or the short description given in a brochure, can put you off seeing it. I would never have imagined myself going to a film called “The Agronomist”, and often recently I find myself reading a short description of a film and thinking, now I have the story synopsis, there’s no point in seeing the full version. How wrong. God is always in the details.

Anyway, The Agronomist. It’s a documentary about Jean Dominique. Although he trained as an Agronomist, the title is slightly misleading: his life’s work was as a journalist and broadcaster, the owner of Radio Haiti.

At first the film seemed amateurish: rough-cut, hand-held footage. Incongruous sound-effects: every time Jean Dominique mentions a gun or a bell, the Foley man adds the relevant sound effect, something which sits very oddly in an interview context and would no doubt have Radio 4 listeners reaching for the green biro. But as the film progresses, all of these idiosyncracies make sense. The soundtrack, complete with Kreyol beats from Wyclef Jean and Jerry Duplessis, matches Dominique’s incredibly animated delivery. At one point, where Dominique is broadcasting a spoken description of a voodoo festival, the effect is pure jazz (the English subtitles are moving, the French/Kreyòl original is hypnotising). Dominique demonstrates the semi-linguistic sounds that are vital to Kreyol, the tchaas and tkkks, and demonstrates that, rather than a visual or a tactile person, he is clearly guided by his nose, which takes huge rushes of air as he talks about the smell of events.

The story is spellbinding, the man inspirational. And when, on April 3rd 2000, he is assassinated, I was incredulous. A man this alive couldn’t possibly die, it’s not imaginable he is not sharing this world with us now. But the still head poking out of his coffin, and the gourd full of his ashes which emptied slowly into the river, seemed to confirm this. But then, to confound the evidence of my senses and confirm what I knew all along, his wife put Radio Haiti back on air on 3rd May 2000, and in her first broadcast to the people of Haiti she tells them that Jean Dominique is not dead, he has been protected by Haitian magic and he has been seen walking in the hills, filling up his pipe in the unmistakable way that only he did. A shiver of voodoo runs down my spine, a touch of magical realism makes the story more magical and more real. And instead of leaving empty, I leave full.

There’s an excellent piece on the film, and interview with the director, here. Also, you have to check out the trailer and see/hear for yourself the amazing Jean Dominique. And lots of good reviews here.