at home, we took long, long takes of the dads standing at the window, watching cars pass by on the street. The wives hovered nearby and drank sherry.
WHEN THE DADS DIED, no one knew quite what to say. At the funerals, former co-workers made speeches about dedication that left everyone feeling empty. This we recognized would be impossible to convey in our film, unless we resorted to voiceover. But we shot what we could: the mourners and flowers and the open coffins with the dads lying inside, silent and still. People walked by, peering in, some of them sniffling back tears. "It was time," declared the wives, sensibly. They left and went back home to stand in the parlours of their houses, where they nibbled triangular sandwiches and accepted the condolences of family and strangers with polite nods, whispering, "Thank you, thank you. Thank you, everyone."
WHEN IT WAS ALL over, when the wives were left alone in their houses, when even their children had driven away in minivans, we rushed back to the studio to put together a rough cut of our film about dads. We had spent years making a film about dads, and now the dads were gone, and our financial backers had expectations. Our crew had been there for all the critical moments: we had captured everything in the dads' lives, from the formative years to the golden, deformative years. Now it was time to make some art. And there were reels and reels of film piled around us in the studio, but we just sat there, looking around - at the computers, at the rushes, at one another - not quite knowing where to begin.
PUSHING OCEANS IN AND
PULLING OCEANS OUT
IT'S APRIL AND the world is opening up like a hand with something secret in it. The world is all, Hey I've got something to show you, so you lean in and go, What? You go, Show me! And you look and the fingers peel back and then whammo there it is, green and muddy and fresh and dripping wet with rain.
The world is melting but it's almost all water anyway. The world is like 75 percent water. It's a ball made of water and some mountains and other stuff, some trees and hills and deserts. Buildings and roads. People walk around on it and we're like 75 percent water too. My dad Greg is 236 pounds, which makes him 177 pounds of water, like a hundred thousand glasses of water, maybe more. He's a bathtub full of water - bigger than a bathtub, a kiddie pool. Anyway, my dad Greg is a whole lot of water. And Mom is the moon.
You learn all this water stuff in grade five science. The units are called The Earth and The Human Body. And in The Human Body we learned about vaginas and wangs. Big whoop though, right? Vaginas and wangs, big whoop.
It's springtime and you've got to make sure that Brian wears his rubber boots because of all the mud. Like Granny says, Brian's slow and only seven, and my dad Greg'11 forget if I don't do it. But my dad Greg calls me Big Gal or BG for short because I'm responsible and mature for my age (nine).
Brian crapped his pants four times in class already this year so one of his teachers called home to see if maybe he needs diapers and my dad Greg said no so they said well okay make sure he wears pants with elastics around the ankles. Get it?
But one time he came home with a diaper on anyway and my dad lost it. He called them up at Brian's school and said fuck and everything, I heard him. He said, Are you telling me how to raise my fucking kid? And then after, he went and sat on his bike in the garage for like thirty hours or something.
My dad Greg won't let us talk about Mom. He took all the pictures of her that were around the house away and hid them somewhere. One time we were having lasagna for dinner and I tried asking him if he could remember if Mom's favourite food was lasagna because mine is but my dad's is burgers. I had to get it from somewhere! But he didn't say anything, just kept eating. And when I asked again he gave me a long quiet look that I could tell meant: stop.
TODAY'S WEDNESDAY, April 8.
WHEN THE DADS DIED, no one knew quite what to say. At the funerals, former co-workers made speeches about dedication that left everyone feeling empty. This we recognized would be impossible to convey in our film, unless we resorted to voiceover. But we shot what we could: the mourners and flowers and the open coffins with the dads lying inside, silent and still. People walked by, peering in, some of them sniffling back tears. "It was time," declared the wives, sensibly. They left and went back home to stand in the parlours of their houses, where they nibbled triangular sandwiches and accepted the condolences of family and strangers with polite nods, whispering, "Thank you, thank you. Thank you, everyone."
WHEN IT WAS ALL over, when the wives were left alone in their houses, when even their children had driven away in minivans, we rushed back to the studio to put together a rough cut of our film about dads. We had spent years making a film about dads, and now the dads were gone, and our financial backers had expectations. Our crew had been there for all the critical moments: we had captured everything in the dads' lives, from the formative years to the golden, deformative years. Now it was time to make some art. And there were reels and reels of film piled around us in the studio, but we just sat there, looking around - at the computers, at the rushes, at one another - not quite knowing where to begin.
PUSHING OCEANS IN AND
PULLING OCEANS OUT
IT'S APRIL AND the world is opening up like a hand with something secret in it. The world is all, Hey I've got something to show you, so you lean in and go, What? You go, Show me! And you look and the fingers peel back and then whammo there it is, green and muddy and fresh and dripping wet with rain.
The world is melting but it's almost all water anyway. The world is like 75 percent water. It's a ball made of water and some mountains and other stuff, some trees and hills and deserts. Buildings and roads. People walk around on it and we're like 75 percent water too. My dad Greg is 236 pounds, which makes him 177 pounds of water, like a hundred thousand glasses of water, maybe more. He's a bathtub full of water - bigger than a bathtub, a kiddie pool. Anyway, my dad Greg is a whole lot of water. And Mom is the moon.
You learn all this water stuff in grade five science. The units are called The Earth and The Human Body. And in The Human Body we learned about vaginas and wangs. Big whoop though, right? Vaginas and wangs, big whoop.
It's springtime and you've got to make sure that Brian wears his rubber boots because of all the mud. Like Granny says, Brian's slow and only seven, and my dad Greg'11 forget if I don't do it. But my dad Greg calls me Big Gal or BG for short because I'm responsible and mature for my age (nine).
Brian crapped his pants four times in class already this year so one of his teachers called home to see if maybe he needs diapers and my dad Greg said no so they said well okay make sure he wears pants with elastics around the ankles. Get it?
But one time he came home with a diaper on anyway and my dad lost it. He called them up at Brian's school and said fuck and everything, I heard him. He said, Are you telling me how to raise my fucking kid? And then after, he went and sat on his bike in the garage for like thirty hours or something.
My dad Greg won't let us talk about Mom. He took all the pictures of her that were around the house away and hid them somewhere. One time we were having lasagna for dinner and I tried asking him if he could remember if Mom's favourite food was lasagna because mine is but my dad's is burgers. I had to get it from somewhere! But he didn't say anything, just kept eating. And when I asked again he gave me a long quiet look that I could tell meant: stop.
TODAY'S WEDNESDAY, April 8.
Similar Books
