Lost and Found

By some miracle, a bookmark that I acquired in Taiwan in 1989 has remained in my possession, showing very little wear and tear, in spite of my indifference to it. I always thought it was cool – Its character style and the fact that it contains a quotation from Socrates are very evocative of Taiwan – but I never took any care of it. (After all, it’s just a bookmark.) Over the years, I occasionally employed it in its intended capacity, paying it no more mind than if it had been a shop receipt or piece of Kleenex, and then, the book read, I would leave it lying around for the next time. I don’t know how many places I’ve lived since 1989, but the bookmark survived them all.

Recently, while reading Jonathan Manthorpe’s Forbidden Nation: A History of Taiwan, I remembered the bookmark and decided that it would complete my experience. Then, after enjoying both book and bookmark, I resolved to make the latter a mandatory accompaniment to my upcoming immersion in Taiwanese fiction. With my determination fixed, I sought for the bookmark, to make sure everything was prepared; but I could not locate it. It was on no dusty nightstand or bookshelf, where it always was, where all the other bookmarks were. I checked my office, my car, and even less likely places, in increasing despair.  I realized that it was an irreplaceable antique, of tremendous personal value, the central artifact of my youth. I felt bereft and aggrieved, like a man missing a limb. I slept very little.

The following morning, I dashed to my car and arrived at the library, well before opening. As soon as the door was unlocked, I charged inside and implored the young man at the circulation desk to search every cart where a book returned the previous day might be. Finding the Manthorpe on the fourth or fifth cart, I flipped through the pages and there found the object of my quest, preserved as though in amber. I returned home and, at the foot of my bed, wept tears of gratitude.

Here is what it says:

HELP WANTED

“The most promising successful people are not those who possess uncommon talent but are, rather, the ones who are most adept at exploiting every opportunity for self-development and discovery.”

— Su-ge-la-ti

1989 Campus Career Fair

Another Paean to the Rain

Yesterday was the start of a new semester, a fact which would have dismayed me, were it not for the darkened sky and cold winter rain which blessed it and made it holy. I was so grateful for it I almost cried, and I embraced the day with hope and joy.

Listening to the lovely pattering on the roof of my car, it struck me that the rain is spiritually centripetal, drawing all who are affected by it into a community, gathering all of humanity under an umbrella. The dreadful sunshine, contrariwise, is centrifugal, casting us outward, atomized, each to his lonely own.

(Brief) Movie Review: Blade Runner 2049

Blade Runner 2049 is as thought-provoking as the original and has already sent me to the Internet to test a few theories.

I think Philip K. Dick would have loved 2049, because it explores one of his signature concepts: the fake fake.

Of course, as good as 2049 is, it can’t, ah, replicate the feeling of being back in 1982, getting dazzled and mindfucked as only a sixteen year old can. I wonder what younger folks will make of it, whether it will become the film of their generation, as the original was to mine. I doubt that it will. The whole concept of a sequel is fake, and although 2049 is trying to be a fake fake, I suspect it will only succeed by a half, both for the Nexus 80s like me and for the Nexus Millennials.

“Memories. You’re talking about memories.”

I’m looking forward to seeing Blade Runner 2049 this weekend, but I’m also more haunted than ever by longing for the gone world of 1982 in which I saw the original. It’s not that the film blew my mind, exactly, but simply that it entered my mind, my life, and stayed there. It was an ever-present part of my youth.

I remember being intrigued by the trailers, but I think it was my dad who rounded us up to see the film, shortly after it came out. His New Yorker friends were in town, and I suppose he was under some pressure to show that we too had good movies despite living in provincial Baltimore. I had just gotten my learner’s permit, and so I drove everyone, in my mom’s Buick Century station wagon, to Timonium (now there’s a name with a lot of associations), where I had a little trouble parking, despite the four adults’ helpful assistance, rendered all at once. I actually don’t remember the impression the film made on me, but I was conscious that it gave the grownups something to talk about, in the Chinese restaurant to which we repaired after the film. The New Yorkers could tell right away that the voice-over didn’t really belong and must have been added in some kind of acrimonious editorial and marketing dispute.

I saw the film at least twice more during its first run, and its style, if not its substance, began to grow on me. Soon, I had selected a favorite line, the ridiculous “It’s too bright in here.” My friend George’s favorite line was “I don’t know much about bio-mechanics, Roy; I wish I did,” and actually it was George who began taking Blade Runner rather seriously. He started coming to school dressed as Deckard, with mismatching plaid shirts and ties, under a grey raincoat. When I asked him why he chose such a wardrobe, he said, “Because the word is as dark and messed up as it is in the film.” I wasn’t sure I agreed, but I had to have an opinion. Blade Runner had become such an important part of our adolescent culture that our reactions to it said a lot about our crystalizing personalities. Largely on the strength of his remark, I decided that I could not match George for pessimism, and we began drifting apart.

My relationship with Blade Runner was more intellectual than psychological. Through the Eighties, it was often shown at the Charles, invariably in a double feature with Road Warrior, and I enjoyed wondering why. Perhaps both films premised the same present from which could spring two alternate futures: one in which today’s world hardens into a dystopia (Blade Runner) or one in which it collapses into anarchy (Road Warrior). The Eighties was also the age of the VCR, and I watched Blade Runner on the little screen countless times, enough to spot details like Pris’s incept date, which was a pastime.

Then I went to Taiwan for four years, and Blade Runner stayed mostly in my mind, but it was also a point of reference for what I saw every day with my own eyes on the streets of Taipei: rainy, neon, teeming, urban labyrinths. I speculated with another American, also named George, as to how Taiwanese people would view Blade Runner. Would it look only like a day in the life of Taipei? “They can’t appreciate that the film is supposed to be a nightmare,” George said.

Back in the States, with youthful enthusiasm displaced, with a belated vengeance, by a crate-load of adult cares, I saw the 1992 director’s cut at the Uptown in DC, with friends who were four years ahead of me in their careers. I realized for the first time how beautiful the film was. The Coke commercial on the skyscraper made me cry, as did the shot of three police spinners flying abreast. Was I crying for the images or for my lost youth?

Of course by now, poised to take in the sequel, which may or may not appeal to millennials in their culture, the question is closed. I am a jowly gray-haired man.

Or maybe I just think I’m a jowly gray-haired man. What if, instead of waking up this morning, I was booted up, and all my memories of the Timonium, the New Yorkers, George, the Charles, the VCR, the Eighties, Taiwan, George, the Uptown, and my wife, children, and career are just implants, not my memories, somebody else’s?

It doesn’t matter. Either way, Blade Runner is the movie of my life. When I get to the ticket counter for the sequel, I know just what I’ll say to the poor millennial working there: “I. Want. More. Life.… Fucker.”