What a cute little dog

On the whole, Mrs Fool and I have quite different tastes in movies. This can make deciding what to see whenever we want to see a movie or DVD together difficult. Over the years I've learnt a trick or two to get Mrs Fool to watch something she wouldn’t otherwise watch. One of these is to highlight an aspect of a movie I know will appeal to her. So when I wanted to take her to see Encounters at the End of the World, for example, all I had to do was mention there were penguins in it and she was hooked.

Although not quite on the same level as her adoration of penguins, Mrs Fool is also a big fan of Juliette Binoche, which is how I got her to agree to watch Hidden a few months ago. Ever since then I've wanted to watch more of Michael Haneke's work. While at Alice in Videoland the other day I came across another Michael Haneke movie starring Juliette Binoche. Mrs Fool didn’t really enjoy Hidden, so instead of saying, "Hey look, here's an obscure European art house movie by the same guy who made that weird move without an ending we saw the other month," I said, "Hey look, here's a French movie with your favourite actress, Juliette Binoche." And so it was that a couple of Saturdays ago we sat down to watch Code Unknown.

Judging from Mrs Fool's reaction after watching Code Unknown, I think I'm going to have to come up with another trick to get her to watch movies I want to see. In fact I'm pretty sure her words were the same as those she muttered after watching Hidden: "Yoku wakaranai." ("I didn't really understand that.") To be perfectly honest, there were things about Code Unknown I didn't understand. There were also things about Hidden I couldn't work out at first, but at least in the case of that movie I was able to make sense of it over the following days. Nearly a fortnight after seeing Code Unknown, I'm still unsure what Haneke was trying to say in the movie.

Strangely enough, this doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it. In fact I enjoyed it a lot. I enjoyed the artistry of each scene, including the one with no dialogue in which Juliette Binoche stands doing her ironing, and the one in which the farmer and his son sit at a table eating stewed beets, in which the only line of dialogue is, "Beets. That's all there is." I enjoyed the climactic last scene with the drumming in the background (Haneke doesn't use background music in his films). And I enjoyed trying to piece all the scenes in the movie together in my head in a way that would give me a clue as to what the movie was about (other than the overall theme of communication, or rather miscommunication, discernible from the title).

I was thinking about this while walking back from the supermarket the other day, and decided that there are lots of examples of art that we can enjoy and appreciate on certain levels without necessarily fully understanding the intentions or thought processes of its creators. I love looking at a lot of Cezanne's paintings, but I have no real idea why he chose to paint the things he did in the way he did or what he was hoping to achieve in painting them. And how many people who enjoy looking at paintings by the old masters are aware of the religious and other symbolism these artists employed?

Creatinine confusion

Went down to my GP's this morning for a follow-up creatinine test to make sure my kidney is functioning properly. I was convinced this was a urine test, so in an effort to repeat the embarrassment I went through at the hospital the other week when it took me ages to provide a sample, I drank several glasses of water over the course of the morning to the point where I was busting to go. When I got to the doctor's the nurse informed me it was a blood test.

The horror, the horror

Bought a new bread knife. Sliced through the tip of my left index finger while cutting a loaf of Turkish bread bought from the New World supermarket. The horror, the horror.

Manituana

A portrait of Guy Johnson (or possibly his uncle and father-in-law, Sir William Johnson)

Have you ever really looked forward to getting a certain book (as a birthday or Christmas present, for example), received it, and then been reluctant to start reading it because you were afraid it might not live up to your expectations?

Early last week I took delivery of my latest Amazon order: Rebecca Solnit's Wanderlust: A History of Walking, and Wu Ming's Manituana. I quickly tore open the box and ripped off the plastic wrapping, then held each volume in turn, weighing it and noting how it differed from the image of it I'd created in my mind. Wanderlust was smaller than I imagined, its extremely thin cover giving the book a generally flimsy feel. It is quite literally a paperback. Manituana, on the other had, is a hardback, solid and robust. It oozed freshness, and I felt the urge to lift it to my nose and sniff it. It didn’t take me long to decide which of the two I'd start reading first.

And yet, both Wanderlust and Manituana remained on my bookshelf untouched until two nights ago. One reason is that I was near the end of another book (Gerald Seymour's Timebomb), and even though I wasn't really enjoying it, I wanted to finish it before starting Manituana (unlike some people I know, once I've started a book I almost always read it to the end, and the thought of skipping parts never enters my mind). But for some reason I was also afraid that Manituana wouldn’t live up to my expectations. Perhaps it was because I didn’t enjoy Wu Ming's last effort, 54, quite as much as their first, Q, and was afraid that a trend had been established.

Well, I'm happy to report that these concerns vanished as soon as I opened Manituana and read the opening quote (from Voltaire). I'm enjoying Manituana immensely. Have you ever started reading a book and been reluctant to read too much each day because you were afraid you'd reach the end too quickly?

The only problem I've struck so far is that, like 54, Manituana has a huge cast of characters making it difficult at times to remember who's who. Further complicating matters is the fact that many of them have the same surname. So I've adopted a practice I first employed when reading 54, which is to write down on a piece of paper the names of all the new major characters as they appear and their relationships to the other characters, so that I have a kind of family tree I can refer to whenever I get confused. It helps that many of the characters in Manituana are real and searchable on Wikipedia. So I was able to determine that Guy Johnson, for example, was not only the nephew of Sir William Johnson, but also his son-in-law.

Wu Ming 1 interview

Yay! A lengthy interview with Wu Ming 1 in The Glasgow Herald to read as I await the arrival of Manituana. From the introduction:

Over the course of a fortnight Wu Ming 1 and I traded more than 4500 words on war, literature, cognitive reality, football and why you should never refer to the group as anarchists.

The full interview is here.

Four documentaries

Before Monday's medical meltdown I managed to watch all the documentaries I'd borrowed from Alice in Videoland last week. I began with Herzog's Wheel of Time (2003), which was just beautiful. Some people have criticized Herzog for embarking on this project without adequate knowledge of the subject matter (Tibetan Buddhism, and in particular the Kalachakra initiations), but personally I found his approach, which resembled that of an impartial observer, and the quirky questions he directed at the Dalai Lama extremely engaging. Visually the movie was stunning, with lots of lingering close-ups of devotees' faces, fascinating footage of the creation (and destruction) of the Kalachakra sand mandala, and a bonus segment about the pilgrimage at Mount Kailash.

I was slightly underwhelmed by the three Wim Wenders documentaries. The first, Tokyo-Ga (1985), was my favourite, mainly because it was shot in Tokyo just a year before I first went to Japan and so felt extremely nostalgic. Much of the footage (of pachinko parlors, of golf driving ranges, of driving along neon-lit streets at night, for example), I found a bit clichéd, although I must admit I did enjoy the scenes inside the factory making wax food samples for use in restaurant display windows. The scene with Werner Herzog atop Tokyo Tower was unsubtitled, so I'm none the wiser as to what he was on about. The film included an interview with Atsuta Yuharu, who spent practically his entire career working as the cinematographer for Japanese film director Ozu Yasujiro (a hero of Wenders'). Atsuta explained how Ozu stuck to just one lens and eventually dispensed with tracking and panning altogether, preferring to film from a fixed position less than a metre off the ground. Normal tripods wouldn’t go this low, so a special tripod had to be built. Atsuta became quite emotional as he reminisced about his career with Ozu, and eventually had to ask Wenders to stop filming.

One final comment on Tokyo-Ga. At one point in the movie I think Wenders comments that Tokyo is a city best captured on video as opposed to film (the relationship between these two is a theme that crops up in all three Wenders docos), but looking at the footage of early-1980s Tokyo it struck me as still a very analogue city. There was neon, but none of the huge video screens you see on the sides of buildings throughout Tokyo now, and even the pachinko machines seemed very mechanical compared to the ones you see today (not that I'm an expert or anything). I was reminded of how much Tokyo has changed over the 25 or so years I've known it.

Fashion designer Yamamato Yohji, the subject of the second Wenders documentary, Notebook on Cities and Clothes (1989), came across as a very nice chap, but apart from the nice shots of Paris from the top of the Pompidou Centre, that's about all I remember about this rather uninspiring biopic. Perhaps it would have been more inspiring if the entire cast (designer, assistants, models) weren't dressed in black all the time.

The premise behind the third and final Wenders doco, Room 666 (1982), was certainly interesting. Wenders was concerned about the future of cinema, and so he went to Cannes during the 1982 Film Festival, hired a hotel room (room 666 was the only one available!), set up a camera and a piece of paper with a list of questions, and invited some of the world's leading film directors to go in and film their responses. In an earlier post I noted how to me movie directors often come across as extremely articulate and knowledgeable in a wide range of subjects when interviewed, so I was looking forward to the results of Wenders' experiment.

First up was Jean-Luc Godard, who certainly didn’t disappoint. According to Wenders' commentary on the DVD, Godard first asked how much film was in the camera (about 11 minutes' worth), and then proceeded to talk for exactly the amount of time required, attacking television and Hollywood among other things. The funny thing is, while his name is familiar to me, I don’t think I've ever seen any of Godard's films, although I did spot a DVD of La Chinoise on sale the other day (along with a couple of Michael Haneke movies) and briefly considered buying it.

After that it was pretty much downhill all the way, with few of the other directors having much of interest to say. At least Werner Herzog did something a bit different by taking off his shoes and socks. He was also the only interviewee to switch off the TV in the hotel room, which Wenders had left switched on before the start of each interview.

Well, whadya know. Here's the entire Jean-Luc Godard segment on YouTube. Love the music at the end!

The munted kidney

Monday, 3.10pm. I lie on a wheeled hospital bed in the Emergency Observation Area at Christchurch Hospital, the same bed I've lain on since arriving at the hospital shortly after 9am, waiting to be taken up for a CT scan. To my left is Mrs Fool, a Murakami Haruki paperback in her hand. To my right is a male nurse clutching a diagram of my urinary tract which he's just sketched on a notepad.

"It won’t be confirmed until we get the results of the CT scan, but nine times out of ten we can tell from the patient's description whether or not it's a kidney stone. The level of pain is a good indicator. They say it's enough to make a grown man cry."

"That it is," I say. "That it is"

The nurse closes the notepad and gets up to leave.

"Actually, do you mind if I keep that diagram?" I ask. "I know suckers who're prepared to pay good money for that kind of thing."

---

Monday, 6.50am. I awake and immediately become aware of a pain in my lower right abdomen. Is it the groin? Nope, the pain is too high and I can move my leg about without any trouble. I lie still for a while, hoping it will go away, but it doesn't. Moving slowly, I roll out of bed and put on my slippers and dressing gown. I feel a bit unsteady on my feet and slightly nauseous. I make it to the toilet but on the way back decide I'm in no fit state to make breakfast let alone work, so decide to head straight back to bed. The pain worsens. One of the cats jumps on to the bed and snuggles up to my head, intent on getting under the blankets. I appreciate the show of affection but my mind is on other things. Actually, it's on one thing: the pain in my abdomen.

I can't lie still, so I get up and shuffle to the bathroom. I take a Nurofen. Something tells me one won't be enough, so I take another. I walk around, try sitting down, but the pain persists. By this time Mrs Fool is worried. She follows me back to the bedroom, where I crumple onto my knees next to the bed, bury my head in my hands and in the bedclothes and start to sob. It isn't so much the pain, but the despair.

I need help. I ring my GP. The earliest he can see me is 11.15am. It's still only 8.40am. I confirm the appointment, but soon realize I won't be able to wait that long. We decide to go to A&E. As Mrs Fool gets ready, I dress and gather together a few items in case I end up being admitted. I'm able to send a brief email to a client telling them I won't be able to work today. In the car on the way to the hospital the pain worsens, and I sit clutching the handgrip above the door with both hands, moaning.

Mrs Fool drops me off at the entrance to A&E and I check in at reception while she goes to find a car park. She soon returns and together we wait to be called through to be seen by a doctor. There are about a dozen other people in the waiting area. None of them looks as bad off as me. Couldn't I go in first? It's too painful to sit. I'm most comfortable leaning over with my hands on the back of a chair.

Eventually we're called through and I'm asked to lie down in a cubicle. A doctor comes in, and after listening to my account of the morning's events and prodding my stomach, she says she thinks I have a kidney stone. A CT scan will confirm this, but first I need to provide a urine sample. Having just been to the toilet an hour or so ago, I'm unable to comply. Meanwhile I've hooked up to an intravenous drip and given several glasses of water. I've already been given paracetamol and codeine for the pain, but I'm still shaking rather badly and so I'm given morphine. A blood sample is taken. Some time later I manage to produce a small urine sample and the presence of blood in the urine backs up the initial diagnosis.

It's passed midday. I'm booked in for a CT scan at 3.15pm and taken through to the Emergency Observation Area. By this stage the pain has subsided. Mrs Fool, who'd gone home to get some lunch, returns with my iPod and a book but I don’t feel like listening to music or reading. I lie and wait.

---

Monday, 3.15pm. An orderly arrives to wheel me upstairs for my CT scan. While I'm there, I also have an x-ray. I'm wheeled down again, but I end up back at the cubicle in A&E instead of in the Emergency Observation Area where Mrs Fool is waiting. We're soon reunited. Half an hour or so later a urologist comes to give me the results. I have a 3mm stone near the end of my ureter (the tube connecting the kidney to the bladder), "high grade obstruction" and developing urinoma (an accumulation of urine around the kidney). As the chances of kidney infection are quite high in people with this latter condition, I'm admitted overnight for observation.

In bed up in the ward, I have a bite to eat then listen to music and read until I feel tired enough to sleep. I go to brush my teeth using the disposable toothbrush Mrs Fool thoughtfully brought along with the book and iPod, but when I rip open the plastic wrapping I find not a toothbrush but a hairbrush. I show it to the nurses when I go to borrow a real toothbrush, and they all have a good laugh.

I manage to sleep well until around midnight, when the pain returns. I'm given some more paracetamol and codeine, and a drug called doxazosin to assist the passage of the stone through to my bladder. I sleep on and off until breakfast time. I eat the cornflakes and fruit, but leave the cold toast.

At around 8.30am the urologist returns (with half a dozen members of her "team") and after a quick examination declares that I'm infection-free and free to go. It takes another hour for the paperwork to be done. Mrs Fool meets me at the main entrance to the hospital at 10am, by which time I've picked up my prescription, including a three-month supply of doxazosin.

---

Thursday, 2.00pm. I'm feeling remarkably well. I'm in a bit of discomfort, but I have very little pain, and I'm back to work. I'm still taking some pain medication, but more as a precautionary measure. I haven't touched the codeine they gave me. According to the discharge summary that arrived in the mail yesterday, "there is an estimated 85-90% chance this small stone will be passed spontaneously". No one has actually explained to me what will happen if it doesn't pass "spontaneously", although this post from Russell Brown's blog offers a few hints. Oh, and feel free to send in bids for the drawing.

Post-Tokaido

For a time after returning home from walking the Tokaido I was afraid I'd never walk again. When I say "walk again", I refer of course to traveling on foot over long distances. My groin and ingrown toenail problems put a damper on the first half of the Tokaido walk, and although I had them both under control by the time I reached Tokyo, the toe was quite sore for several weeks after I got back to New Zealand and this prevented me from doing any serious walking. Even after it got better, the physical and mental anguish I went through made me think I couldn’t cope with another long journey on foot.

I'm happy to report, however, that recently I've been thinking seriously about my next expedition. I briefly considered doing the Nakasendo again, this time in the opposite direction to that which we walked in 2007 (i.e. Tokyo to Kyoto). But then I thought that it would be better to tackle the remaining three old highways of Japan first, and so my attention turned to the Koshu Kaido (C on the map above), which links Tokyo with Shimo-Suwa in Nagano prefecture. Looking on a map, I saw that it would take me through some parts of Japan I've never visited before, including Kofu and the Fuji Five Lakes region (the latter not strictly on the Koshu Kaido, but close enough that I could travel there by train for a night).

A couple of weeks ago I sat down and worked out a schedule. At just over 210km, the Koshu Kaido is considerably shorter than both the Nakasendo and the Tokaido, and if I cover an average of around 20km a day I should be able to walk it in 12 days. I'm not sure when I'll do this. Ideally I'd like to be in Shimo-Suwa for the Onbashira festival, which would enable me to do some research for my movie/novel, but the next festival is in April next year, which is perhaps too soon. Then again, this festival is only held once every six years, so the next one after that won't be until 2016!

A Paradise Built in Hell

Wanderlust: A History of Walking was published in 2001. Rebecca Solnit's latest book is called A Paradise Built in Hell: The Extraordinary Communities that Arise in Disaster. The following is from the Publishers Weekly review posted on Amazon:

Natural and man-made disasters can be utopias that showcase human solidarity and point the way to a freer society, according to this stimulating contrarian study. Solnit (River of Shadows) reproves civil defense planners, media alarmists and Hollywood directors who insist that disasters produce terrified mobs prone to looting, murder and cannibalism unless controlled by armed force and government expertise.

Surveying disasters from the 1906 San Francisco earthquake to 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina, she shows that the typical response to calamity is spontaneous altruism, self-organization and mutual aid, with neighbors and strangers calmly rescuing, feeding and housing each other. Indeed, the main problem in such emergencies, she contends, is the elite panic of officials who clamp down with National Guardsmen and stifling regulations. Solnit falters when she generalizes her populist brief into an anarchist critique of everyday society that lapses into fuzzy what-ifs and uplifting volunteer testimonials. Still, this vividly written, cogently argued book makes a compelling—and timely—case for the ability of ordinary people to collectively surmount the direst of challenges.

Interestingly, it was his experiences during the 1906 San Francisco earthquake that finally convinced Kotoku Shusui, widely regarded as the father of Japanese anarchism, that society without government was possible. Back in Japan, Kotoku renounced parliamentarism and began advocating direct action. In 1907 he wrote, "A real social revolution cannot possibly be achieved by means of universal suffrage and a parliamentary policy. There is no way to reach our goal of socialism other than by the direct action of the workers, united as one." Kotoku was eventually arrested and executed as part of the so-called High Treason Incident. You may recall I blogged about this earlier in the year.

Your Order with Amazon.com

Delivery estimate: October 28, 2009 - November 18, 2009
Shipping estimate for these items: October 1, 2009

1 "Wanderlust: A History of Walking"
Rebecca Solnit; Paperback; $10.88
Sold by: Amazon.com, LLC

1 "Manituana"
Wu Ming; Hardcover; $17.79
Sold by: Amazon.com, LLC