Stuck on the same film script for forty years, I am reminded of old Ezra Pound:
"For years he strove to resuscitate the dead art
Wrong from the start."
It was about a fishing trip with pals Ralph and Andy and Johnny.
All of my friends were altruists, good people and all died young.
What was my theme, me the lucky one who not only survived the somewhat dangerous Deliverance-style fishing trip, but went on to survive and prosper?
For the life of me, I could not glean a theme from the filmscript that was commissioned by the Audubon Society to do, the film script I could not complete.
Very probably, I was just out of my medium.
My intention had been to be a novelist, not a journalist, or film script writer.
I ended up being moderately successful at journalism and small luck with a novella, but I could not write for film...You need to think visually; the scenes need to be crisp, clear, and well-drawn, as in a comic book.
It was just beyond me.
But things do happen to us and it is only years later that we deduce why and how.
I am somehow a Methuselah and all my friends are dead.
All my fishing friends had teriffic jobs, marriages, children, nice homes.
I too had these things but there was somehow a difference.
I knew for sure that my mother was a witch, and immortal.
This in spite of all the science, all the religion, all the epistemology to the contrary.
There are things under heaven and hell that you can only dream of in your philosophy, old Shakespeare says somewhere.
I like to think that these things make up God.
Who dares mention all the names of the Ineffable?
One would be struck blind.
Pretty close to old Herman Melville and his Moby Dick, and the boat was named the Pequod.
The White Whale.
All three of my fishing friends were somehow involved with their own White Whale and it seemed the Leviathan somehow turned and killed them.
The White Whale was each one's adulteries.
Nothing good comes from any adultery.
I am on this day reminded by the sad fate of once hocky adept Ti Domi and the ubiquitous MP, Belinda Stronach.
My fishing friends, though hale and hearty and and so well turned out, with their creels and flies and fishing vests--were all involved in horrid soap operas and it was only the fishing that was keeping them a little detached, a little more sane.
I was the sole monogomous guy in the group. I really did have the strength of a thousand men.
I had not yet fallen.
They had all, my three great friends, had committed adultery; they did not know the gun was loaded.
That was the theme of my film script, that adultery leads to almost unbearable pain and suffering.
But it may have been a false theme, and that may have been where the mental block came in.
On the road out of Elliott Lake, we passed a cemetary.
On one grave there was chiseled a line out of, perhaps James Joyce, out of Dubliners:
"The rain falls upon the living and the dead."
I googled Joyce.
Once you take away God, it now seems to me, you are reduced to your own cleverness, your own devices, all of this leading to personal failure and certainly pain.
But then there is also Mother Wit, Pallas Athena. God might be a woman?
She goes a different way.
But you have to be careful.
If you do not caution her, she will go Her Own Way, perhaps to your peril.
I could not finish my script because I had reached a final indissoluble antinomy.
Which simply means there are things under heaven and hell, and even in science, that we have no idea of.
Small wonder I could not complete.