porkchops, mormons(!), and science (of sleep). in no particular order.

Life is absurd and wonderful and unexpected. I'm at the Brûlerie St. Denis where one can purchase gelato and paninis and hot chocolate à la français. Outside, a woman in a Toyota has road rage, then peeks into her rear view mirror to apply some lipstick; behind me, a Chinese man talks about picking up under-aged girls at the park. I'm convinced that life is more interesting than fiction, but sometimes it takes a good film to permit us to recognize that or even to premeditate a bit of that in our own lives. Michel Gondry's new film "The Science of Sleep" is one I've been stalking on the internet for quite some time. A perk of living in a big city is not waiting six months for your favorite art house movie to trickle its way down to the Midwest. For those of you familiar with his work (Being John Malkovich, Adaptation, and the ever lovely Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind), you'd do well to remark that he's interested in images, whether images that he's physically captured with a camera or images that he produces for the camera. The film shifts between a cardboard village (in the main character's dream state) and the real world. I won't add too much movie critique to this blog, but the film (which I saw on Friday night) seemed to provide a framework for my weekend. As the film thrived on surreal images and startling juxtapositions, I (re)discovered the charm of the absurd outside of the movie house.

On Saturday I descend into the metro Place des Arts. Upon entering its breezy turnstiles, one notices a little placard on the wall, no words written across its face, just a music note, beneath which many a musician set up shop. I've come to expect a jazz ballad by a long-haired man sitting in a pile of greasy rags in the corner, the music usually better than I might suspect. Today I hear the words to my favorite (and overplayed) Easter song "Christ the Lord is Risen Today." There to greet me, a host of . . . MORMONS! Now, I have a certain fondness for mormons. I have a (probably famous) picture of yours truly, a North Korean, and a Mormon, arms interlocked, Heinekens raised (don't worry, the Mormon obstained), celebrating la joie de vivre in France; I can even remember several occasions where a pair of missionaries played football with my family on 25th street. Charmed by this scene, interrupting my cynical metro personality, I move to a corner to write a little ditty about it in my journal. The choir, the sticky trap, and I, the bait, I'm helpless when out of the woodwork, like cockroaches, fellow mormons (of the non-choir variety) fan out to push pamphlets and tales of Joseph Smith down my newly-urbanized throat. But I enjoy it. Even as I pull away (after having a nice conversation with Sister Derossa from Florida) I notice the beautiful manner in which the hymns mix with the rumbling trains, echoing most strangely through the concrete corridors. This is part one.

Part two. Location: the Olympic Basin on the island Jean Drapeau, south of downtown. I've come to watch my roommate Susanne participate in the Quebec National Dragonboat Competition. It's Crew decorated with a bit of East Asian culture, each boat outfitted with a tamtam drum and a drummer to beat out the rowing speed. It's a strange venue, so nostalgic for the events that gave birth to it that, while still active, seems cavernous and hollow. Its wretched 70s-style architecture--heaps of aesthetically piled cement--further roots it in the past, giving it a strange paranoid feel in 2006.

Part three. Here's where the porkchops come in. Louise made them. She plays the guitar. She sings in Gaelic and Creole and Hebrew. She composes songs about meeting ex-husbands in restauraunts. She sings hymns and leads a house church in worship, but claims that she no longer prays. Pierre eats them, the porkchops. It is his 48th birthday and he kisses the top of my head when I hug him. He describes me to others as "a democrat, probably a Communist." If I saw him on the street, I would be afraid of him. We sing, Louise, Pierre, myself, and others bearing certain weight, certain disease, even certain joy. My hands smell like quiche and grilled meat. I fold them in my lap and try to keep up with my favorite old hymns, sung now in French. Pierre bebops and wails and adds flourishes. The man with AIDS releases himself into the music, and I break myself into their harmony.