dreams

Dreams are a way of revealing that there is no such thing as salvation.

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Salvation implies a logic. Dreams constantly subvert our notions of logic.

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The things we see in our dreams will not be the things we want to see. They will not even be the things we expect to see.

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Surprise works against logic.

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Salvation remains a myth.

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facts of life

Love is an addiction. Like all addictions it can only be overcome with the application of a sustained, concerted brutality.

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off the page

Great work is always a journey into the unknown.

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In the unknown, we cannot recognise what is good and what is bad.

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Therefore greatness will always occur as an act of faith.

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In order to locate our greatness, we cannot look at a map of land we already know. We have to look to places we have not yet travelled.

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right and wrong

There is a right way to do the wrong thing; and a wrong way to do the right thing.

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No matter how much you seek to do right; wrong will find you one day.

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until death do

Should a relationship become a war, victory will only be achieved through the complete annihilation of the other.

This will inevitably turn out to be a Pyrrhic victory.

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likes and dislikes

If you come to dislike someone you have known well, it is possible that the dislike you feel for them is in part a reflection of the dislike you feel for yourself.

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galway film fleadh

Mr Curry informed me were going to the Galway Fleadh to sell our film, The Boat People. There would be more industry bigshots in Galway for two days than in Cannes and Santa Monica combined.

We landed at Shannon and drove through drizzle, just in time to check into the hotel before Mr Curry had to head to the ‘G Centre’ for the grand networking supper. The G Centre was a ten minute walk from our hotel. Half way down the road, Mr Curry’s back gave out. He started spasming on the side of the road. I left him to fend for himself and made my way into town to register. Half an hour later he called from the hotel, saying I had to get over to the G Centre to witness the garishness of the new Irish wealth. I trawled across sand-blasted roundabouts to the G Centre, a temple to Mammon created by Phillip Treacy the hat designer. A glass of strawberry flavoured champagne was levered into my hand. An extreme silver bollocked concoction hung over everyone’s heads. After half an hour and ten glasses of champagne I was ejected from the Temple, whilst Mr Curry went to the dinner. An Irish filmmaker told me to make my way to McDonaughs for fish and chips. I weaved my way through forests of despairing Spanish tourists, wondering what kind of humourless god had sent them from their sun-crushed homeland to the grey wastes of Galway for their ‘Summer’ holidays.

The fish and chips was as good as promised, despite the dive-bombing seagulls. Then I went to the festival hang-out, the Rowing Club, for a pint, and sat on the terrace skulking as all around me men and women with sharp specs discussed budgets and overspend. I fled back to my hotel, drained already. Hours later Curry rolled in, saying he’d been sitting next to the most important German in the world, who we were meeting the next day, who’d already expressed his disdain at all things even remotely low budget. And we are the lowest of the low.

The next morning we took a cab into town for our 10am meeting. Mr Curry managed to dispose of the only press pack for The Boat People we’d get rid of all festival. This constituted success. Our next meeting wasn’t until after lunch. We checked our email for significant messages. Mr Curry tried and failed to get his phone to operate in a foreign country. After a hearty sandwich it was back to the pitch. The most important German in the world looked at us with disdain from behind his red-framed glasses. He wasn’t buying anything. We moved on to meet the Dude.

The Dude is the original dude. He was wearing a Big Liebowski T-shirt, in case anyone didn’t know. His hair was wild, and he looked rather more dishevelled than Jeff Bridges. The Dude shook my hand. Writers, he said, that’s what we need. You’re the first writer I’ve met. I love your ideas. I love it. Send me an email. Here’s my card. Mr Curry moved on to talk to the most important Swede in the world, but I stayed on for more from the Dude. He told me a story. He’s in a bar with Sam Shepherd and Nick Roeg. Nick Roeg says he wants to direct something of Shepherd’s. Shepherd says no fucking way. Roeg says what? Shepherd says you’ll murder my work. Roeg acts hurt, the Dude smooths it over, next thing is the three of them having a six hour conversation on which came first, the image or the word. The Dude tells me the word always come first. That’s why the world needs writers. Writers who write narrative. Not character sketches. Real stories.

The Dude’s got me in a fascinating corner, but I’ve only got twenty minutes, and I have to meet the most important Swede in the world. Curry’s telling him about Truck, our groundbreaking rollercoaster script. The most important Swede in the world says he has ten million euros to spend, and the decisions are all made by him. Send us a script and he’ll let us know by the end of August. If he wasn’t Swedish this would be hard to believe, but he is, so it seems like another potential chink of light, which we carry forward as we head for the last interview of the day. This is with a laconic Irish producer, who says he’s sick of hearing pitches, and tells us to speak to the head of ITV acquisitions. When asked what he’s looking for, he replies: Nut-ting. Nut-ting at all. I just came over to see some films. The head of ITV passes on the Tempest, but at least she gives us the time of day. Five meetings, two potential developments, and words of wisdom from the Dude. It’s not been a bad day.

We go and see a film. It’s set on the night of Ceaucescu’s fall. The multiplex cinema’s full of literate Galway cinephiles. It’s impossible to tell who’s fighting who in the movie, but then that’s probably the point. After that we head to the Rowing Club. One of our interviewers is drinking Murphy’s. We join him. There’s an Irish producer there with an English director. It looks like they’ve known each other years but they just met an hour ago. We head to the Kings aftershow party. I chat some more to the Dude. Everyone spills out into the Galway street. The Irish filmmakers all know each other. They feed me beer and cigarettes. The most important German in the world is hovering like a wraith. Suddenly it’s half one and time to move on. We carry crates of wine through the Galway side streets. Beside an industrial development is the Radisson Hotel, with its late bar. By now it’s like we’ve all known each other years. Whisky flows. I’m introduced to dozens of Northern Irish filmmakers. More than the combined Benelux population. They all buy me whisky. No-one talks film. The night’s heading towards oblivion, and the casualties are mounting when Mr Curry and I retire, in an attempt to preserve some last shred of dignity.

We’re up at eight and speaking to a laid-back teenage New Yorker by ten. He’s hungover too. He likes the idea of Truck. He wants us to email it. Next we meet the man who found the Coen Brothers. A grizzled veteran, the New York antithesis to the West Coast Dude. He tells a story about John Houston winning his battle to make The Red Badge of Courage. Even though the producers knew it was commercial suicide. People have to write what they want to write, not what they think the industry wants. In the old days the studio heads would give young hotshot directors a title. Tell them to make the film. When the Corman or the Demme said – where’s the script? The producer would say – What are you talking about? You’ve got a title – go shoot the movie. Those were the old days. Before the industry started pitching. The old man’s got watery eyes, a fierce goatee, and a vivid handshake. We do a couple more pitches then head for lunch, followed by another pitch. Then, at last, the pitching’s over.

Mr Curry wants to see the Chad movie. The Omniplex is once again full of feverish Galway punters. Mr Curry is on his last legs, and snoozes through the point at which the elderly Chadian warlord complains about his bad back. Many of the revellers from the night before finally appear to watch the next film, a Newcastle tale which the director describes as a ‘Rock n roll cancer film’. All of which proves to be undeniable. After a food break its time for the last film of the night, Nick Roeg’s Puffball, receiving its official premiere. It starts at eleven, half an hour late. I spot Rita Tushingham in the audience and point her out to the Curry. Who tells me not to be ridiculous. The great director and Shepherd adversary introduces his film, set in Ireland. He thanks the cast and crew who have come to Galway. Including Rita Tushingham.

After the film we make one last valiant attempt to get drunk in the Rowing Club, but are buffeted back by wave upon wave of international filmmakers, storming the bar with in an effort to recreate a scene from Battleship Potemkin. We give up and mosey back to the Radisson, where the Puffball party’s taking place. Curry has been on a mission to hand a copy of The Boat People to Nick Roeg, which he does, whilst I talk to a friend from the cast, who describes the octogenarian’s director’s instinct to dispense with the script at the drop of a hat. This kind of validates Sam Shepherd’s standpoint. A few whiskies later and a great deal the wiser, the Curry and I flee the drink. The most important German in the world is still there, manoeuvring his way around the various hotel bars.

We’ve met the elderly statesmen and pitched to some of the most important men in the world. Drunk with actors, producers, directors, distributors. Sampled oysters, mussels, Guinness and Murphy’s. Half a dozen people want to see the new script and god knows how many are wandering around with a DVD of The Boat People which they’ll unearth in a corner of Stockholm or New York or Belfast or London. Mr Curry decrees that the Galway film festival should be designated as a success, and we sleep the sound sleep of hard-drinking networkers.

On our last day in Ireland Mr Curry takes me to something completely different but more or less the same. This is the Willie Clancey festival in County Clare, where a village is devoted to Guinness and wild heathen music for a week. Barbarous banjo players down pints between note picking and dark-eyed fiddlers serenade staggering farmers. I spend the night in a trailer van which used to belong to the Rolling Stones. In the middle of the night I wake and walk out into the warm damp air of the country, and all around there’s silence.

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the great air-con revolt

It doesn’t work, the driver said, as I reached to switch the air conditioning on. Sorry. Il ne marche pas.

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This was after entry had been made to the space wagon. Seven tourists, four from Britain, one from Quebec and two from Hong Kong, All congregated on a Marrakech pavement at seven in the morning. A driver lead us over to the car and tried to open the sliding door. He couldn’t. He tried again. He climbed in and began to pound at the door. The door refused to open. He pounded some more. Other drivers came to offer support. The door refused to open. Finally people started climbing in the back. I sat in the front. Someone told me to try the air conditioning.

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The driver’s name was Si-Mohammed. He spoke some French, but seemed more comfortable in the role of driver than guide. I sat in the front next to the girlfriend, made a little conversation with him, then sat back to enjoy the drive. The road crossed a small plain to the Atlas mountains, leaving the mayhem of the Medina behind. It was warming up. We had the windows open. The two English girls, both from Bristol, began to talk to the French Canadian.

Over the course of the first day, their conversation covered every nuance of liberal well-travelled discourse. Recycling. Relative poverty standards in first and third worlds. Drugs. The price of beer. Child labour. Arms manufacturing. Glastonbury. How to make payments to charity. The future of the world. Raves. Recycling. Recycling.

The girlfriend put on her headphones. They were broken. She sighed. The sun rose. The tin car of a car began to heat up.

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We reached Ait-Benhaddou before lunchtime. We were given half an hour there. Si-Mohammed didn’t have anything to say about it. The girlfriend and I set out across the dry riverbed to explore the Unesco-protected Kasbah. A local kid appropriated us. He lead us through the mud-wall warren. Pointed out the site where Ridley Scott had built a pit for Russell Crowe to play a gladiator. The kid didn’t claim to be mates with Russell, he’d been too young. He said that there were only ten families living in the Kasbah. When he was older he was going to live on the other side of the river, where there was electricity.

When we got back to the space-wagon, the sliding door has been fixed by a restaurant owner. It seemed to have cheered Si-Mohammed up.

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The next stop was Ouarzazate. Gateway to the Sahara. The edge of a dusty plain would end in all-consuming sand. It was impossible to decide if it was hotter out of the car or in. Si-Mohammed lead us into a tourist restaurant. It was too hot to eat, and too pricey. Everyone left for a cheaper local café. The café owner asked me how much my mobile cost. I didn’t know but hazarded a guess. He said his son had the same type. It had cost three times as much as the figure I’d quoted. His son appeared. He was amazed at how cheap my phone was. The odds are stacked in the Europeans favour. I admitted it was just a guess. I was on a contract. It didn’t seem to make things any better.

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We sat in the back now in the space wagon. I talked to Eric, the French Canadian. He thought the Moroccans didn’t look after their environment. He talked for Canada. It wasn’t getting any cooler. The windows at the front were open. Si-Mohammed cheered up the closer we got to our final destination. We stopped for pictures. We took pictures of a Kasbah. We took pictures of a valley. We stopped at Fatima’s and took pictures of fake camels. I sat in the front again and Si-Mohammed told me the berber music tape he was playing was him and his mates. They sounded good. The nearer we got to our destination, the more people Si-Mohammed honked his horn at. I asked him if he lived round here, but he didn’t. He just seemed to know everyone.

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We stayed the night at the Dades Gorge. Over supper we spoke to a German couple on another trip with our tour company. Their truck didn’t have any air-conditioning either.

It was hot in the hotel. So hot I couldn’t sleep for a while. Had to get up and walk about. The river gurgled outside in the gorge, by the oleander bushes. The stars blossomed overhead.

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Si-Mohammed had briefed us that breakfast was at seven, and we had to leave at seven thirty. At seven forty five the Honk Kong couple, both journalists, had still not appeared. When they showed up, twenty minutes late, Si-Mohammed was shaking his head. When Eric turned up, five minutes later still, Si-Mohammed chastised him in French. Eric and Si-Mohammed were not getting on. As soon as the space-wagon started moving, the conversation resumed, with further aspects of the neo-liberal world examined. The quieter of the two Bristolians gave up, putting on her headphones. Eric and Mandy maintained their commitment.

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The second day we were that much closer to the desert, and it was that much hotter. We stopped at an oasis and were shown through it by another guide, Hassan, who spoke good English. He took us to the old Kasbah, where the mosque was kept up by the villagers, in spite of the fact that they had all now moved to the new Kasbah, with electricity. We walked back through the fields to the new Kasbah. Children chased us. When someone gave them some sweets, Hassan told them not to. If one child gets something, every child in the Kasbah will want it to. We were taken to Fatima’s home to see the carpets. No-one bought any.

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We stopped for lunch in another gorge. No-one knew its name. We ordered food and then had a twenty minute wait. The girlfriend and I wandered up the gorge and paddled in the stream. The locals looked at us with curiosity. On the far, shaded bank, families were gathered, picnicking.

On the way back to the restaurant, a local tried to strike up a conversation. He asked who our guide was. Then told me that Si-Mohammed knows how to get a good deal.

Back at the restaurant, everyone was waiting for food. It was too hot to do much except stare at it when it arrived. Whilst we’d wandered up the gorge, a plan had been hatched. Eric didn’t believe the air-conditioning didn’t work. Everyone figured the driver, whose name they had yet to establish, was refusing to use it in order to save petrol. When we set off from the gorge Eric would sit in the front and turn it on.

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Si-Mohammed pulled the space wagon out from its bit of shade. Eric and Hassan climbed in the front. Hassan was getting dropped off at his village. Eric leaned forward and switched the air-con on. Si-Mohammed leaned forward and told him it didn’t work. He switched it off. Eric switched it on again. He said he wanted to try it. Si-Mohammed stopped the wagon, took the keys, jumped out and made a call on his phone.

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It was unclear whether the air-con was working or not. Si-Mohammed got back in and drove off. Eric fiddled some more. Si-Mohammed was talking to someone on the phone in Arabic. Everyone had gone quiet. Hassan draped his scarf over his head to keep the sun off. Eric accused Si-Mohammed of lying. Si-Mohammed called the tour organiser back. He and Eric and Hassan sat in the front and the no-one knew what was going to happen.

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It turned out Eric was right. The air conditioning did work. Hassan was dropped off about five kilometres down the road. He explained that each driver was given a budget of 1200 dirhams (£75.00) for the trip. They had to cover their expenses with this. Using the air-con increased the petrol budget by approximately 30%. Therefore none of the drivers used it..

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Eric and Mandy were incensed. Their consumer rights had been violated. Besides which it was a health and safety hazard. They demanded to speak to the tour operator. Si-Mohammed passed his phone to Mandy. No, You listen to me, she said to the voice on the other side. There are people who are getting Sick. We are in the middle of the Desert and we have no Air Conditioning. It is not Acceptable. This is Not what we signed up for.

I was back in the front. Si-Mohammed was tutting. He looked like he wanted to pull over and have done with the lot of us. The windows stayed down and the air-conditioning stayed off.

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The landscape became harsher. Towns were dustier. Former outposts of the foreign legion. Everything was shut because it was Sunday. Not the best of times to be stranded in the Sahara.

The deal presented from the office in Marrakech was simple. The aircon costs would have to be added to the price of the tour. The extra fee was 300 dirhams. This was £19, which meant less than £3/ head. We had to decide whether this was a deal we were willing to make.

Eric had a new argument. We should only pay for the extra petrol used when the driver filled up. Three hundred dirhams was too much. We were being ripped off on the rip off. Mandy wanted to speak to the agency again. Sitting in the front, I tried to communicate these demands to Si-Mohammed. He was shaking his head. He said it had never happened before. Every week he took trips. Americans, Germans, Brits. There had never been a complaint about the air-conditioning. His phone rang, and he handed it to Mandy. She tried to re-negotiate. We Only Want to Pay for the Petrol. We Don’t Want to be Ripped off twice. You are not respecting our Rights.

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The sun was getting hotter. The air coming through the front window was like a warm dry shower. Mandy’s renegotiation had been ineffective. It was 300 dirhams or no air-con. Everyone was happy to pay except Eric, who declared it was against his principles. I passed on our decision to Si-Mohammed and asked him if he’d switch it on. He smiled, and seemed reluctant. The air-conditioning could not be switched on until the money was delivered. Saving Eric, we each paid our 50 dirhams, and handed it to Si-Mohammed. He counted it. The windows were closed. The air-conditioning was switched on. After a minute or so it kicked in.

Everyone was happy. Including Si-Mohammed. He said there was no problem for him. Whatever people wanted. He told me again. This had never happened before.

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A couple of hours later I saw a sign warning of dunes. Sand slithered across the road. Small hillocks had grown out of the land, with medieval constructions built over them. Si-Mohammed told me they were water holes for the Berbers. Around four we stopped at a service station. When we climbed out of the space wagon, the heat caught us like a fly-swatter. Inside the tiled walls of the café, people moved at half pace. A fan was switched on and had no effect at all. Up on the roof, the visible world seemed liquidised.

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An hour later, we left the road, and drove until we reached the giant dune of Erg Chebbi. The red sand of the Sahara draped across the world. We left the space-cruiser and rode camels through the late afternoon. Three trains of camels lead by a berber guide apiece, walking ahead with a slow, deliberate tread. When we arrived at the camp, we climbed a ten-story dune to watch the sunset. It was like walking through treacle. The light fell and the desert danced to its tune. When the stars appeared, they knew full well that they could not help but place everything in perspective. A hot, harsh, Saharan perspective.

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The next morning, we woke at dawn. By seven we had breakfasted and were on our way. The silence of the desert was left behind. Eric and Mandy began to talk. About the difficulties of recycling and the obstacles to leading an ethical life. Someone turned round and asked them to keep it down. It worked. They slept. Twelve hours later, we were back in the mayhem of Marrakech.

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films, tears and memory (5x2)

Some things in my life made me sad once but I can't remember when that was or what it was.

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Some things make me sad now, and I can remember why.

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Though there's no reason to think that some day, should I live long enough, I won't have forgotten that why. All that will be left will be the memory of the feeling sad.

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Is this sad in itself?

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Or is it not sad at all.

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the uncasualness of things

At the end of the day relationships begin, continue or end around absolute principles of how life should be lead.

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