The Theme Park of Your Ancestors Beckons (and is totally indifferent)

     My beloved and I went to France-Holland-Germany (in EUROPE).  It was swell. I am unable at this time to speak anything but junior high level English so my communication with the locals was guttural pantomimes about food and bodily functions and asking if they spoke my sad and solitary language. While it was uniformly fascinating, it was also utterly indifferent to our presence, other than to accept our credit  card. I wish I had deeply thoughts about our trip. It was nice to see countries not wholly consumed by MAGA politics and the orange pestilence, and strangely behaving as if the public welfare was important. Just the intricate dance of the bicycles in Amsterdam alone was enough to make you wish humans at home could simultaneously think of the greater good AND their own interests equally.

    One Saturday night in Paris stands out.  Laurie and I were tired but in search of food. It was hard to figure out the Google maps (a possible sign of being really old) and the streets at 7:00 pm were packed with beautiful young people . It was like Las Vegas or Coachella. I am not sure if I have ever felt more old or out of place.

Photo credit LAURIE SANDER - Quimper, France

Attempting to see things in a positive light.

 I am triying , valiently to see things in a less negative, and futile way. I am old but not dead yet, but i do not need to constantly see everything as a score on the misery index. I am drinking less and striving to be cheerful. So far so good.

...and the Elf, how it did burn so...

     In the end, the Elf burnt just fine. People were great.  Kind, decent, funny people who got the joke. There isn't really more to it than that. I am a lucky man to have a fine partner who loves me in Laurie and attractive, well behaved children and some nice friends who will always come to my house to see me do something truly unwise and monumentally stupid. Bless you all: every one.

The Sufferable Sadness of Stuffing a Seven Foot Tall Elf To Burn

     It's that time again.  The unexplainable ( and probably inexcusable) Sander family tradition of "Burning Elf",. About 1990 or 1991 Laurie and I started Christmas Eve Eve chili feeds  that were non threatening and mostly beige enjoyments of haphazard christmas lights and hand me down decorations.. Somehow that very small, pleasant vanilla evening eventually morphed into a postmodern performance art of egotistical self importance that revolved on the construction of an up to eight foot tall paper mache elf that we would immolate to the cheers of gathered weirdos. Eventually "Burning Elf" took over the entire holiday season, or so it seemed. Through most of our children's lives, through the pandemic quarantine and the Trump years, elves were burnt . A couple years were skipped due to snowfall or the post election of a criminal madman depression cycle.  I have built fifteen of these sad monsters to burn, and I am feeling their weight. It began as a reaction to the commercialization of Christmas, the elf being the ridiculous helper of the capitalist Santa Claus, and a riff on "Burning Man", and now it seems as threadbare as Xmas carols and Rudolph reruns. The truly sad thing is I really love those carols and Rudolph is a classic that still tugs at my heart. The date has moved to New Year's Eve Eve instead and that takes some pressure off. There is something nice in putting a paper wish in the elf's mouth or wishing away some wrong or abomination of the last year for him to burn away. Idiotic as it may be, there is a small catharsis that occurs.  I like chili too.

What to do when it doesn't go like it was supposed to:

 

It's late afternoon. You are surprisingly, and inexplicably, sixty-two years old.  Having grown up in America of the late seventies and eighties you were promised (not in writing, but implicitly...) that you would never grow old. Following an international, and mishandled pandemic, you find yourself under employed, being aged out of your chronically stupid media production job in favor of younger people. You feel unsure of yourself; that which has separated you from the rest of society has failed you. Many things you believed have failed you. You find that on days that you do not "work" at your strange and wonderful job, that you do not leave your house, whether out of fear or out habit. Strange maladies haunt you. When did your scalp start to itch? Is your eyesight really that bad? Is your hearing going? Why do you feel weird walking out of the supermarket parking lot if kids are selling cookies? Your adult children, still living with you, seem both unprepared and simultaneously angry about having to participate in family and society. At night you lie awake worrying about them. Nothing feels right except the two beer buzz at the end of the day. How long will your savings last? What would your dead parents think of your situation?  Your beloved seems distant because the failure of the simulation effects her too. Your solace is your goofy cat who seems in control at all times. Painting helps but does not pay. The end is coming. How much money will you need to survive the coming onslaught of dementia and destruction? You decide that they will not take you alive. 

You will disappear someday. 

The keys to your El Camino remain in your possession.

Watching a small friend make travel plans

 Rufus is a short haired ginger cat, approximately 18 years old.  He is an old man, waiting for the end. Three days ago he began his end stage vigil, refusing food, barely moving and his once hearty old cat yowls of existential ennui have become small peeps of futile rage against the tyranny of time. I know death is near. I know he is just a cat. I know that he has been a strange pet; nervous and sometimes indifferent to me, but he has been a amiable presence and friendly spirit to my family. His life has been harder since his litter mate brother and constant companion, the also ginger "Yugi" died suddenly five years ago. Much of Rufus' existence, since his brother's death, seemed to be  him looking for Yugi in the house where they both lived and never left. It was heartbreaking at times, and almost funny sometimes. Rufus in his present state, nearing the ledge, occasionally gets up and walks , stiffly and with difficulty to the base of the stairs and looks into the distance with deeply sunken, watery eyes, absorbing the details of the physical world, maybe the last time, or is he still looking for the orange kitten he used to wrestle with? I spent yesterday with Rufus, watching and trying to give him water and food, sometimes crying like a special needs four year old. I continually flashback to sitting with our parents while they too made plans to leave. All Laurie and my parents left in such a way that we could sit with them;  never long enough, and interestingly, all four made their trips when no one was in the room with them. Rufus is like a bitter hors dourve to the sad banquet of death that awaits us all. He maintains his dignity and looks to not be in pain (though I have pain meds at the ready should that change), and he has all the humans who love him near. it's easy to extrapolate what my time laying on the kitchen floor, on a fleece blanket, staring at the refrigerator will be like.. I am 61, (62 in May) and have long felt the loss of the unlimited  horizon; the destination is starting to be in sight, if hopefully still a long walk, its much closer to the end than the beginning. I envision sadness and attentiveness followed by irritation and the desire to get it over with. I for see, crawling under a desk, away from my tired loved ones to end my days. Whether by the blunt force trauma of world war 3 or the creeping cancer of climate change we as a species face death on the horizon. Rufus is scouting ahead. I love you Rufus and hope we will see each other again.

Update: Days later, Rufus is hanging in there. I suspect he has discovered how great kitty hospice can be: They bring me food and water, and carry me to the cat box- this is great!

Update #2 - We took Rufus to the vet to say goodbye on March 23rd 2023 at 5:00PM . We brought him home and buried him in the backyard and planted a rose over him.

Milk of Amnesia RePremiere: Just Noting A Moment

 We did have a screening. On a cold and icy night in December 2022. This is what I wrote about it afterwards. My heart was full and for a couple days I was happy.

About the other night:

The Re-Premiere of "Milk of Amnesia" to most attendees was probably just a quaint and mostly insignificant 1990s nostalgia ride. To myself and my co-producer and partner Laurie (La Sander) it was much more: it was a reintroduction to an old friend, and the overdue forgiveness of their flaws. That old friend was of course, the film itself, "Milk of Amnesia", the recipient of our unrequited love and most of our disposable income from 1991 to 1995 - sort of like an inanimate and troubled child or a really beloved pet with a chronic skin disease. I don't think I had watched the film in its entirety in 15 years- Laurie, probably longer. Even in the restoration and retransfer I successfully only watched it in small parts. My flesh would crawl at certain lines and all I could see is how I could have done better. There were memories of arguments and disagreements about creative choices and about money. There was the overwhelming feeling that we owed the army of friends, acquaintances, family and the unknown number of extras and assistants some kind of success, that never materialized. "Milk of Amnesia's" exile to its resting place under our stairs was as much the punishment of a disappointed parent as it was storage. Seeing it again, with an audience, after so many years, in the presence of many of the original cast and crew, (most of whom laughed in the right spots and seemed to like it for what it was), felt like it lifted a curse. In 1991, this film was going to be the launching point of our career in independent film. Instead the debt it left became the reason to keep the day job. The life that followed has been truly wonderful, and to whatever degree "MoA" propelled us in that direction through its failure, we should thank it for that. And yet, always in the back of my mind, I bore a grudge...until the other night.

It is not a perfect film or probably really a very good one, but like a strange, misshapen, mutant cartoon character, you can love it in spite of its obvious flaws. Watching from the back of the house, holding hands with my fellow producer, that is what happened to me: "Milk of Amnesia" and I forgave one another. I am proud of the hubris that a guy with a Film and TV degree from a Montana Agricultural college and my co-producer, a Drama major / IATSE Projectionist could team up and at least give it a shot. I encourage everyone to forgive, and give whatever brings you joy a shot.