Synecdoche, New York: Some Thoughts

Warning: may contain mild spoilers. Not that there were any big reveals anyhow.

I have wanted to see the movie Synechdoche, New York for some time, but this was mostly because a portion of the movie was set in Schenectady, New York where both of my parents grew up, and where I work some days. I was reminded of the movie whilst in Schenectady, actually, substituting and watching Akeelah and the Bee (a movie I'm going to need to watch all the way through sometime soon). Of course, the Bee referred to in this title is a spelling bee, and one of the words given was Synecdoche. They even defined it for you:

I went to the library to look for some other movies my friend says I need to see. Though I was unsuccessful at finding most of those, I did stumble across Synecdoche, New York on the recently returned cart.

Along with Beeswax and Dead Poet's Society, I brought Synecdoche, New York to my parent's camp on Saturday to try and watch with them. Though none of them really seem like films my mom would be into, she said she was interested in watching Synechdoche, New York as well....essentially for the same reasons I was.

The movie started out like many movies that have film festival seals on the case. This is not an indication of anything. I've seen this type of movie and fallen in love, I've seen this type of movie and have felt robbed of my time.

As the film progresses, you begin to get the sense that Philip Seymour Hoffman's character, Caden, is a little crazy and/or neurotic. The first impression that I got from him is that he is a hypochondriac, but this is not really supported by his visits to the doctor, as each doctor he visits recommends he see an entirely different sort of specialist, making ridiculous suggestions with the utmost sincerity. Things really begin to get bizarre when his therapist sells him a book (one that she wrote, one that she charges him forty dollars for). As he begins to skim through it, the information within seems stream-of-consciousness and almost nonsensical. As he reads on, reality becomes dictated by the book. As Caden reads, it is narrated by the voice of his therapist. He sits on an airplane and reads: "There is only the now, and I am always with you. For example, look to your left." When he does so, his therapist is sitting across the aisle from him. In a tone indicating complete sincerity, she says: "Hi. When you canceled, it freed me up, so I'm traveling too." It is at this point that I'm reminded of the movie Fight Club as well as A Beautiful Mind. I start to wonder how and why Caden is crazy, and when we will find out the parameters of this. Caden never seems to question his dream-like reality, and when scenes don't include Caden, the other characters don't seem to question it either. Perhaps the most bizarre scene in the entire film was when Hazel was looking to buy a house, a house which was currently on fire. It's worth watching. I'd have cut this clip a tiny bit shorter, but I'm sure it's not even supposed to be on the internet, so I won't complain:

Caden, who works in theater in Schenectady (if it weren't for the cellphones and newspaper dates reading 2006, I would believe it could have been set in the sixties) receives a large grant to work on a project that he plans to make brutual, true and honest. Time passes and locations change, but these facts are not pointed out and must instead be gathered. The way that these things change, almost unnoticed, I feel gives the film a quality that truly IS lifelike. It's like that Talking Heads song. You know the one. Caden starts his theater project in a large warehouse in New York City, attempting to depict reality. Things begin to get really complicated as he casts people to play the people doing the casting, and then goes on to cast people to play the people that were cast to play the people doing the casting. There is also a warehouse built inside the warehouse with the entire set built inside this. The layers keep piling up and the work for the piece never seems to be done. No one ever really comes to see the piece, but that does not seem to negate its relevance as art. This very much fits into my own personal definition of art, and I thought of recommending the film to my friend who defines art by saying: "I know it when I see it." If you are never able to see it, is it not art? I decided not to specifically recommend the film to him, as I am beyond done having the definition-of-art discussion with him, and I think this film poses more questions than it answers.

The viewer never finds out whether Caden is crazy or dreaming or what, and before you know it, nearly forty or more years have passed. When the film ended I was neither disappointed not extraordinarily fulfilled, but I don't feel that this was a problem. The film was so incredibly layered and textured that even though I have stated many plot details, I don't feel I have spoiled the film at all. It is a movie that I could easily watch several times for a new experience each time and probably one that I should own. Throughout the movie, Caden keeps coming up with new titles for his piece, each of them seemingly obtuse. He keeps stating the importance of the title, and how much is contained within. The word synecdoche, to my knowledge, is never mentioned within the film, and I can't help but consider the title as an important element to this movie. A part that represents the whole, or a whole the represents the part. Well, certainly Caden's warehouse world is a part that represents the larger world, and each smaller part representing the larger, and on and on. Each character playing another character is acting a part that represents the whole of the character the actor is playing, and I think that the whole work represents its part: Caden, the creator. I'm sure if I contemplated this further I could find deeper significance for the title of the film. For now, however, I'll just say: make sure you see it. It's one of those films that sits with you.

Chills and Fever

I feel sick. I have two reasons in mind as to how I got this way.

The first is mold-allergy related. Though I haven't been tested, I'm pretty sure I have a mold allergy.

Blight is a fungal disease. I recently removed all the blighted potatoes and tomatoes from my garden, to the pleading of CDCG. The next night, I awaken myself with a wheezy cough. My joints ache. My head hurts.

Also, it could be this.

I was at the dentist the other day. I know they take precautions to not spread diseases, but several hands in your mouth for a period of time is a risky deal.

And maybe I just want to blame my dentist because we are about to have a falling out.

There was a two year period when I was going to get a new dentist, closer to where I lived. Finding this new dentist never worked out, and I was under the impression that my mom had called my old dentist to remove my patient status. When I finally clarified this with my mom, the receptionist had to get my file from some dusty filing cabinet reserved for patients they "haven't seen for a year and a half."

This time without dentist appointments was worse than I would have thought. "You have decay in 11 teeth," they told me.

Not 11 cavities. 11 teeth. Expletive. I'd maybe had one or two before this. Perhaps flossing is important.

At my last checkup, they mention a couple spots to watch. I mention my ensuing loss of insurance. They decide to drill these problem areas.

The other day, I went in for what I believed to be the only appointment for drilling. They never tell me what is happening in my mouth, and I usually am not quite sure how many cavities they've filled. I have no clue how many fillings I have. They are all tooth colored. They don't show themselves.

I had actually been looking forward to this appointment because some of my molars have become sensitive to cold, sweet, and acidic. Rear molars on either side of my mouth.

After they dental hygienist moves aside the tray of tools and tells me I'm "all set," I look at her concerned. They've only drilled on one side of my mouth. "I've been experiencing pain on the other side of my mouth," I tell her, as articulately as possible considering the novocaine. She looks at my papers and goes to get the dentist.

Mind you, this is the same dentist I've been going to al my life. I really respect this man's dental abilities.

He comes in and I try to explain to him that I've been experiencing some pain on both sides with cold, acidic, and sweet and that I thought he was going to be drilling on the other side.

Sweet is like a trigger word for him. He launches into a tyrade of self-righteous "you shouldn't eat sugars"-ing. "No, no, strawberries," I tell him. That the pain is from fruit sugars does not concern him. He makes a circle with his thumb and his index finger. "This is how much sugar you should have each day," he tells me. I try to defend myself, I don't really eat that much candy or anything. He asks what I do for a living. "I'm a substitute teacher," I tell him. "What's on your desk?" he asks, which isn't quite the right question, as I typically don't have a desk I feel comfortable enough to keep my drink at. I don't post this concern. "A canteen of water." "What do you put in the water?" he asks, like I'm trying to get away with something.

"Nothing." I'm now getting pretty perturbed. He goes on a rant about how the neanderthals never had cavaties, and if we ate like them, we wouldn't either.

He also asked me how I take my fruit, if I put anything on it, etc. This is a really weird question to me, because I don't actually have fruit rituals. I eat fruit when I can, but it is expensive. Sometimes I cut it up, sometimes I eat it whole, sometimes I can't afford it.

"If you eat it and are done with it," he tells me, "that's fine; but if you cut it up and pick at it all day..." he shakes his head.

"I bought a box of strawberries. I ate a strawberry. It caused pain in my teeth."

He looks at my xrays and sees nothing. "Nothing there," he tells me.

I take my finger and try to identify the area of my teeth that hurts. If I bite down hard, I can feel it.

He looks in with his tools. He finds nothing. He remains utterly unsympathetic, again telling me that I should consume little to no sugars, including carbohydrates in this. This man will NOT get me on the Atkins. He scolds me that I am too susceptible to cavities, that I have had too many cavities in my life, and that as soon as I apply sugar to my teeth, I'm done for.

I can't help but think:

Seriously? Screw yourself. You have been my dentist for at least 20 years, and you have my dental history in front of you and you can't even recognize that my huge amount of cavities did not come about until AFTER my 2 year lack of dentist visits. Also, this is the THIRD time he has asked me what I drink all day, and what my occupation is. If I never had any cavities, I would have no need to see him, and if everyone followed suit, he wouldn't have a job,

PLUS when I tell you my tooth hurts, I don't need a lecture, I need you to identify the problem and FIX IT.

While I will floss more, I am CERTAINLY not going to stop eating fruit.

QUE TE DEN.

Ay.

So yea, I just sort of feel like blaming him for my sickness.

Ignorance.

Sometimes someone says or does something that is so wrong that I just loose my mind.

Like, today, for instance.

In a certain middle school in Schenectady where kids are generally OK.

I begin my sub-routine, take attendance, explain the task at hand, let them have at it. In this particular school it is important to take attendance as quickly as possible because they send the monitors in to pick it up in the beginning of the period. I have finished this part and I am explaining the packet to the class. One girl, sitting near the door, is reading a book. Not the end of the world, so I let her go. However, she is reading out loud. Some kids have to. I just talk over her, she isn't talking very loud....but she is the only student talking. Toward the end of my explanation I notice that she isn't reading anymore, she is talking to another student. I begin to pass out packets. I walk up to her and say: "shhh, shhh shhh shhhhhhhh."

Instead of taking my gentle hint, she burts out: "DON'T TELL ME TO BE QUIET LIKE THAT! I HATE WHEN PEOPLE TELL ME TO QUIET DOWN LIKE THAT! DON'T DISRESPECT ME! I HATE WHEN TEACHERS DISRESPECT ME!"

"I wouldn't have to ask you to be quiet in ANY way if you just WERE being quiet," I offer, softly.

She continues to belligerently yell, and I warn her that if she doesn't settle down, I'm going to give her lunch detention.

I don't make empty threats. This was a punishment the teacher told me I could give, if a student does not comply after a warning. However, she wasn't having it.

"YOU CAN'T GIVE ME LUNCH DETENTION! I HATE ALL THESE SUBS COME IN HERE THINK THEY CAN GIVE ME LUNCH DETENTION!"

I begin to explain that I can indeed give her lunch detention, that I will leave a note for her teacher who will assign it. I am no longer being quiet and gentle.

A little later in the class this girl and someone else were discussing something I knew something about. I offered a thought.

"WHO ASKED YOU? NOBODY ASKED YOU SO DON'T TALK!" instructed the baby/future dictator.

Now I'm really heated. "Subs can talk whenever they please, they do not need your permission to do so..." Not that she heard me, because apparently we are now in a yelling match.

Side note: I do not like yelling matches. They are lame. I don't like to loose my cool either, but sometimes I also don't like that my desire to be a teacher negates my ability to inflict bodily harm upon some students.

When I get really mad and frustrated, I turn bright red and sometimes cry. The emotion has to come out somewhere.

Thankfully, I didn't cry, but I did turn bright red. And this student is yelling that I am embarrassed.

"Embarrassed?!?" I gawk, "More like FURIOUS! YOU ARE THE MOST RUDE AND DISRESPECTFUL PERSON I HAVE EVER MET! I feel bad for the other boys and girls in here who have to deal with this, as they've actually been pleasant and respectful!"

"Furry-us? Furry-us? Rrriight. You'se embarrassed. Furry-us. Ha."

"THE WORD IS FURIOUS! FYYYURIOUS!" I yelled, scrambling to call the office.

The phone was busy.

She'll get lunch detention, alright. I just wish I was there to see it.

Um, and if you happen to be seeking employment in a field that isn't hindered by your violence against minors (tattoo artistry, graphic design?) , please do me this favor:

Slap a seventh grader. Preferably a female. Preferably one in Schenectady, after she sasses you. It shouldn't be hard to have her sass you. Just politely ask her to stop doing something.

Less than awesome.

Yesterday I arrived at a certain Middle School in Schenectady to substitute for a certain Special Ed teacher. I follow sub protocol: arrive, sign in, wait to be told room number, arrive at said room, look for sub plans.

So this room is in the basement. It is a single digit. I enter the classroom, and there are already 2 students present. Each is sitting at a table (for some reason, behaviorally challenged students always seem to get large working surfaces). Neither is talking, but one has headphones on, and I can hear his music from the other side of the room.

There is a paraprofessional (read: aide) in the room. He is wearing cargo shorts, a striped polo shirt, and skater sneakers. He is watching Lil' Wayne videos on YouTube.

"I'm here for such-and-such a teacher," I tell him.

"You're in the right place," he tells me, hardly looking up from the computer.

I look around for some sub plans, a blue and yellow folder, a typed or written piece of paper that says "plans" on it, anything.

Nothing.

There are stacks of papers on one of the front desk-tables. There aren't any instructions included with these.

"Did she leave me any plans?" I inquire.

"No, she forgot to write 'em." It is as if I am bothering this guy.

At this point I am just standing there, pissed. Usually, if I am the only adult in the room, I will take this time to put my things somewhere and familiarize myself with the plans. If there are other adults in the room, they will usually give me a rundown on how the day will go, tell me where I can keep my things, etc.

But he is still watching music videos on YouTube. Lil' Wayne, The Used, and other great musicians in the whiney-rock category.

I am staring at a bulletin board across the room, at remnants of wood-grain contact paper clearly left from a half-hearted attempt to remove said paper by tearing. I am gritting my teeth.

After what must have been five minutes, I turn to him and ask as sweetly as I can muster: "Is she going to be e-mailing her plans?"

"No, we'll manage" he assures(?) me, unconcerned.

"Well then can you at least give me an idea of what the day is like?"

"Sure, First period is math, second period someone comes in for science, third is home ec, fourth english, fifth is their lunch, sixth is health, seventh is sort of a free period, eighth is history and ninth is gym."

Never was I told when my breaks were, what my responsibilities were, any classroom rules, consequences, what I should or shouldn't do.

So I sat down at the table with all the stacks of paper on it. I rotated a chair so I could be facing the students, and I took out my book.

A second para-professional arrives. She takes a seat at a table in the back of the room. A third student arrives.

Unlike the students already in the room, this student is a bit chatty. He talks about his track meet to them, scolds the noisy-headphone boy for having his music too loud. I decide I like this boy. I think about this quick decision in my head, dwell upon it for a moment.

This boy opens up his backpack and pulls out what appears to be a bagel with cream cheese.

"Smells like sweaty balls!" he exclaims.

With an expression both disgusted and concerned, I ask him if he is referring to his breakfast.

"No! Ew! What?"

"Oh, if it was, I was just going to say, don't eat that!"

"Why, you know what sweaty balls taste like?"




Awesome.

By the way, the punishment for that gem of a comment was this:

both paras said his name in a disapproving manner.

Never sub for such-and-such a Special Ed teacher at a certain Middle School in Schenectady.