I never would have thought I’d one day be writing a review about a Canadian-made movie, let alone one made in Québec. Yet here I am, and I’m enjoying it, too.

To be honest, as much as I unconditionally love the French movie style – and I mean French from France -, I’ve never been a fan of our own French-Canadian cinematography. But I’ll try anything once, or twice, and since my honorable sister was recently commenting very positively on Jean-Marc Vallée’s C.R.A.Z.Y., which I haven’t seen and probably won’t, I figured I’d give Québec a chance too.

So I went to the Empire Granville 7 cinema, got a ticket for the 9:50 pm show and sat in a very small theatre with a rather cheap screen. J’allais voir Bon Cop Bad Cop d’Erik Canuel.

Et pour bien commencer, je me dois d’écrire cette critique en deux langues puisque le film se flatte d’être le premier long métrage entièrement bilingue au Canada. So to fully appreciate the movie, you not only need to be bilingual, but preferably Canadian, and even better, Québécois.

As a web critic put it, « It kinda goes like this: If you’re from Kwebek you’ll piss yourself, if you’re from the rest of Canada you’ll laugh, if you’re from the Northeast United-States you’ll giggle and if you’re from Utah you’ll need a translator and an explanation. » Or « It is a film where Anglophones speak French, where Francophones speak English and, in perfectly Canadian fashion, nobody can understand one another. »

However, there were some subtitles which I ignored and hence, I don’t remember if everything was subtitled or only the French parts, since we were in a Vancouver theatre and got the English version… Quoi qu’il en soit, I was impressed. Granted, Bon Cop Bad Cop est violent et un peu grossier, cela semble être la mode. Nowadays to sell a movie, you have to make them bleed. Granted too, the buddy cop movie scenario has been done before. And the script isn’t even so ingenious.

But, and that’s where I pause for effect… The not-so-bilingual duo of Québec cop Bouchard (Patrick Huard) and Ontario cop Ward (Colm Feore) is what totally makes the movie a hit. The dialogues are often hilarious and the famous Canada-Québec antagonism en prend plein la gueule.

Filmé à la « Traffic », the movie is trendy and manages to keep you laughing while the subject is nothing but serious. No, I don’t mean the hockey part, I was referring to the crimes.

In any case, it’s not the movie of the year, but it’s a good start in a new direction. Let’s hope it’ll keep up.

It’s called HDR, which stands for High Dynamic Range. I think of it as Help Define Reality. It’s an avant-garde digital photography technique that blurs the line between traditional photography, photo montage and painting.

HDR aims at capturing the subtleties of a scene’s details throughout the entire exposure range. Let’s face it, no matter how sophisticated a camera’s metering system or how accurate the photographer’s eye, once the exposure has been chosen and set, sacrifices are made. Rarely does a scene have a constant lighting level. Some areas are darker than the main subject and will be underexposed. Others are brighter and will be washed out. This is an unavoidable caveat of photography.

In comes HDR. It’s a two step process; the first one is accomplished in the field by taking a series of shots of a scene while bracketing up and down in order to record a full range of exposures, from over to underexposed. A tripod is obviously necessary to keep the shots identically framed.

Next, the photographer goes back to a computer and uses a special algorithm which basically superimposes the 3 or more images and extracts light values to output a final high range composite rendition of the scene.

In other words, the algorithm attempts to find average (or correct) exposure values for each of the differently lighted areas. Darker area values will be obtained from the overexposed shots, while brighter area values will come from underexposed ones. Then of course the HDR picture must be adjusted (tone mapping) and saved as a low range image, a JPEG in my case, so that it can be displayed correctly by normal screens.

The result is a surprisingly colorful picture, with slightly less contrast and much more mid-tone detail. As a matter of fact, HDR pictures have an almost « painted » and surreal look because of the detail and tone levels achieved throughout the image. The fun part is playing with the output, proving that once again the photographic process only begins in the field to reach its maturity on the computer screen. I don’t pretend to be after the perfect photo, rather the most perfectly different photo.

As an alternative and to avoid blurry in-motion subjects (since multiple pictures of a same scene are superimposed but some elements might have been changing, such as people moving), a single RAW image can be used and extrapolated into an underexposed and an overexposed versions.

As a reminder, the RAW format, even thought quite space-consuming, allows this by saving the scene’s information in an uncompressed, unprocessed format, as first obtained by the sensor. Since all the data remains available, the camera settings at the time of taking the picture can still be adjusted later at the software level. It’s a little like catching a scene in its purest form and taking it home to play with, rather than making all the decisions on the spot.

The potential is immense. HDR works best on heavily contrasted pictures and scenes with zones that cannot be exposed correctly. It also seems to yield surprising results on less contrasted images where slight shadows and nuances are important, such as with clothing items.

For some awesome examples, you can visit Flickr’s HDR section and you might also want to read this great tutorial about the technique.

I will soon create and HDR-only gallery but for now, here are a few initial attempts at mastering the art. Promising but not quite there yet.

Life in Vancouver is about rituals.

There’s drinking coffee, which usually involves an order with a staggering collection of adjectives like I - would - like - a - grande - skim - caramel - latté - machiato - no - oignons - to - go - please. There’s running obsessively. There’s the Canucks. There’s talking about the rain (or the lack thereof.) There’s walking down Robson, sizing up the competition. There’s getting on a ferry regularly to go somewhere have a coffee. There’s waiting for the white pedestrian sign to cross a street, drinking a coffee. There’s adding the word « like » to every sentence and finishing every other with « eh ». There’s enjoying the many parks and mountains around, a coffee in hand. There’s reading 24 hours on the bus. There’s drinking coffee again.

And then there’s the 9 O’Clock Gun. The authentic 12-pounder, muzzle-loaded naval canon is every Vancouverite’s friend and fires from the east end of Stanley Park at precisely 9:00 pm, 365 days a year. Perpetuating an old tradition of blurry origins, it is now triggered electronically at night, just for the sound of it. Cities as far as Mission, 60 km east of Vancouver, claim to have heard the gun when the wind is right. Miss 604 has written a post about it and there is also this interesting article about the old canon’s history.

So just as some go watch fireworks, others go watch the gun fire. The little beast has been encased in a glass prison for safety reasons and warns passers-by with a combination of visual and audible signals when about to fire. At that point, if you’re nearby, you’ll surely want to plug your ears. And then you not only will see and hear the blast, but you’ll feel it too. The air displacement is surprisingly strong in a radius of up to 30 feet. But the show is short lived. After a wait of variable duration (some folks arrive 30 to 60 minutes in advance to enjoy the sunset), the whole thing is over in 10 seconds.

So after taking a few pictures of a gorgeous sunset, I install the camera on a tripod, set it for a 15 seconds exposure at the smallest aperture and ASA, and I wait. 10 seconds warning. Get ready. 5 seconds. Finger on the shutter. 3 seconds. Now! 2 seconds. Plug the ears. 1 second. Stare. 0. A huge blast. Intense light. The air moves as if an immense door had just been slammed. Heavy smoke. The 15 seconds exposure ends.

Click on the canon picture above to see the blast.

« We thought that we had the answers,
It was the questions we had wrong. »

[U2 - 11 O’Clock Tick Tock]

Leaving Vancouver behind and heading north along Howe Sound, one passes by Squamish at the northern end of the sound and then arrives in Whistler, last stop on the road to Nowhere.

The town of Whistler is a small mountain resort in full bloom with a bright Olympic future. It is reached in about two hours via the Sea to Sky Highway 99 which starts in North Vancouver and follows the eastern shore of Howe Sound upwards.

The sound’s waters progressively turn a pale turquoise as the latitude increases, reminder of the glaciers ahead. When the water ends after Squamish, high mountains take over on both sides of the valley.

Whistler, 15,000 souls, is first, last and always a ski resort. The Blackcomb and Whistler mountains, culminating at 2284 and 2182 meters, 1600 meters above the station, offer some of the finest skiing in North America. They each have an hourly lift capacity of close to 30,000 skiers and over 100 runs, the longest being 11 km long. But the recent enthusiasm for all outdoor sports has turned the little town into a year-round success story and summer days remain busy with mountain bikers and hikers.

My friend Silvia and I were there on Monday, once again courtesy of the cool Landsea Tours. We caught the gondola and following chairlift to the Whistler Mountain peak for half the regular price as the ticket booth people were kind enough to honor our Tourism Challenge passes.

The view from up there is simply fantastic. I’ve posted a 360 degrees panoramic view of the surrounding summits in the pano gallery. Check it out! It felt incredibly good to be up in the mountains again.

After spotting a deer during the trip up, we were discussing the odds of seeing a bear on the way back as our gondola glided down the mountain. Signs at the station had been asking visitors to report bear sightings along with the appropriate tower number. I commented jokingly that the croissant I was eating with delight would still become airborn and suffer a quick death as I reached for the camera, should a bear appear below.

Sure enough, less than a minute later, I spotted a couple of black bears grazing by tower #37. The croissant flew to the floor as I grabbed the camera and frantically tried to take a picture of the animals. Wrong setting. And these gondolas are fast.

Well, the very bad shot in the slideshow (click on the first, or any image to view, as usual) bears witness - pardon the pun - to our bear sighting and the consequent wasting of a croissant. ‘Doesn’t matter, I had 3 left.

I also looked unsuccessfully for a marmot everywhere - the town of Whistler having been named after their warning signal - , and didn’t even dare embark on the sacred quest for the elusive mountain stream crayfish. Some will wonder. Bee would laugh. Yeah, we have a long history, the crayfish and I.

Again? might one ask. Indeed. I’ve just watched - yet again – one of Steven Spielberg’s masterpieces. Featuring a brilliant soundtrack by John Williams and a stunning performance by 13 year old Christian Bale in his first big screen role, Empire of the Sun is a little gem. John Malkovitch is also quite young and does a great job in his supporting role, and we get appearances by then unknown Joe Pantoliano and Ben Stiller.

Bale simply rules the movie from beginning to end, as comfortable and powerful in his role as any adult ever will be. The theme is one of Spielberg’s old favorites: war and prison camps. But this time the scene is set in occupied China during World War II as Japan is headed for disaster. A British kid gets separated from his family and soon looses his innocence learning to survive among the cruelty of adults. As people are dying around him, he discovers the fragility of life and manages to keep it together long enough to see the end of hostilities.

Beautifully filmed, Empire of the Sun is never really violent. It’s a colorful fresque and remains for me one of Spielberg’s greatest achievements.

Le site d’Inspiration Point - Inspo pour les initiés - est situé près de Orem, à quelques 60 km au sud de Salt Lake City. Le décollage s’effectue d’une épaule rocheuse à l’avant de la montagne principale. Vers la droite, donc au nord, la chaîne est traversée par une vallée étroite au fond de laquelle coule la rivière Provo flanquée par une route traversant le parc Uinta National Forest. De l’autre côté de la vallée se dresse le mont Timpanogos, 3500 m.

L’aire d’atterrissage officielle est située sur le terrain de jeu un peu étroit d’une école secondaire en contrebas. L’angle de plané jusque là étant assez plat, il s’agit de ne pas descendre trop bas trop tôt ou on manque simplement le terrain. Mais m’étant garé près du décollage, je vais m’en remettre à ma bonne étoile et espérer me reposer près de l’auto.

J’étale mon aile grossièrement dans la pente puis la gonfle d’une traction sèche pour la positionner et démêler les suspentes. Je me harnache ensuite, démarre le variomètre et, sentant une bulle thermique passer, m’élance aussitôt et la rate. Mais une fois le décollage entamé, il faut continuer. Après avoir conservé le maximum de mon poids en avant pour bien charger l’aile jusqu’à avoir définitivement quitté le sol, je me renverse en arrière et m’installe confortablement dans la sellette, prenant un tour de poignet dans les élévateurs tout en vérifiant l’état de la voilure.

Le vario commence aussitôt à gémir régulièrement. Ca descend partout. Je tâte un peu à gauche et à droite de mon plan de vol. Rien à faire, pas de thermiques et le vent est trop faible pour me permettre de tenir en dynamique.

Après seulement quelques minutes de vol, je commence déjà à être bas et n’ai pas avancé tellement vers l’atterissage. J’entame une dernière ligne droite et commence à planifier l’approche, envisageant la marche exténuante qui s’ensuivra pour remonter jusqu’à la voiture. Le vario gémit toujours. Les toits des premières maisons défilent sous mes pieds.

Soudain, une bourrasque. L’aile droite accroche un petit thermique et me tire vers le haut. Le vario se tait, puis chante quelques notes hésitantes, un ton plus haut. Prenant une chance, je décide d’enrouler immédiatement à droite. Même si je ne monte pas très haut, je peux peut-être au moins me refaire un peu pour mieux préparer l’approche. Il s’agit de ne pas tomber à l’extérieur de la colonne d’air chaud qui, si près du sol, ne doit pas être bien large. Mes deux premiers tours sont assez maladroits, je chevauche l’extérieur du thermique. Puis je parviens à me centrer et sens l’aile monter plus rapidement. Le vario se met au beau fixe.

Remontant lentement, je me permets de relaxer un peu et d’étudier l’air autour de moi. J’ai dû rencontrer une bulle générée par les habitations au bas de la pente. Le vent souffle de l’est et je dérive lentement vers l’ouest alors que j’enroule, remontant inexorablement vers le sommet voisin.

Quand je dépasse l’altitude du décollage, je m’accorde un bon point pour avoir gratté avec tant d’opiniâtreté. Je n’aurai pas à marcher. Je trouve un nouveau thermique et m’y engage en sens inverse, pour briser la routine. Deux des ailes qui m’avaient devancé au décollage, ayant atteint le sommet de la chaîne derrière moi, partent en longue traversée à travers la vallée, pour tenter de raccrocher le versant opposé. Je me demande si je parviendrai à les imiter.

Puis c’est mon tour de me retrouver assez haut pour être tenté par le versant sud du Timpanogos. J’ai assez d’altitude pour planer jusqu’à environ mi-pente en face et espérer trouver là-bas de l’ascendance et remonter ainsi assez haut pour continuer plus avant ou revenir.

Je travaille donc mon dernier thermique aussi haut qu’il me tolère puis je mets le cap au nord, m’installe confortablement dans mon harnais, attrape le barreau de l’accélérateur, l’enfonce à fond, relève les élévateurs en position de meilleure finesse et me lance à l’aventure.

Tout en bas, au fond de la vallée, la route sinueuse semble ralentir les voitures comme si elles conduisaient sur de la glu. Le vent me siffle aux oreilles, je suis pleinement heureux.

Les ailes qui me précédaient ont raccroché la paroi d’en face, sont remontées haut et partent résolument vers le nord. Je suppose qu’ils ont la chance d’avoir un véhicule de poursuite et n’ont pas à revenir à leur point de depart.

Quand je raccroche à mon tour, je suis plus bas qu’ils ne l’avaient été, étant parti d’un peu moins haut et manquant aussi d’expérience. Mais en cette fin d’après-midi, l’air chaud monte partout sur le versant sud et je n’ai aucun mal à me hisser jusqu’à l’arrête sommitale.

Rendu là-haut je joue un moment au chat et à la souris à la base d’un cumulus dans un thermique turbulent qui me secoue dur et provoque deux petites fermetures de mon bord d’attaque. Je jette un coup d’œil à l’altimètre : 3887 mètres. J’ai fait un gain de 1850 mètres depuis le décollage. Je suis seul en plein ciel, en vol depuis plus d’une heure.

Un dernier regard vers le nord me confirme que les ailes ont disparu. Je tire un trait invisible dans l’air frais et décide de rentrer sagement récupérer la voiture. D’ailleurs je commence à être fatigué, le vol en thermique ayant prélevé son pesant d’énergie. J’ai encore du mal à demeurer complètement décontracté quand l’air est agressif et que le vario plafonne à + 5.5 m/s.

Je retraverse la vallée, sans accélérateur cette fois et prenant le temps de faire quelques photos, puis je coupe légèrement vers la droite pour arriver haut au-dessus de la Jeep. Une fois à la verticale du parking, je m’offre quelques derniers thermiques paresseux puis descends en long huit au-dessus de la route.

Approche en crabe longeant la pente ; je vise une plaque d’herbe sèche bien dégagée sous le déco, me relève dans la sellette, laisse monter les élévateurs pour garantir un peu de vitesse et puis j’arrondis doucement tout en me mettant face au vent. Touché en douceur. Une heure et demie de vol. Je suis comblé. Des vagues de gratitude m’envahissent. Cela aura été l’un des plus beaux vols de ma jeune carrière de pilote de parapente.

…

That was in June 2003, during a 2 week trip to Utah. The related pictures are featured in Dust and Red Rocks and Growing Wings galleries.

Yesterday, I went up to Grouse Mountain and just as I got to the chalet, a couple of paragliders were taking off from the ski hill above us on tandem flights. They thermaled overhead for a while, oblivious to the world below them and to my growing frustration. My last flight was on June 5th, 2005 in Quebec. The previous one goes back to July 2004. I seem to be stuck on the ground. My dear paraglider is getting old neatly packed away in its bag, like a bird in a cage that can never stretch its wings. This is all wrong. What have I done?

[Excerpts from Canadian Airports Security Notices]

August 9th, 2006 – The Canadian Government has raised the national alert level to red, or Maximum and Transports Canada has decided to restrict liquids and gels aboard aircrafts to match the new US regulations. The Prime Minister Mr. Harper is exempt from this new measure and can also talk on his cell phone during landing and take off.

September 11th, 2007 – Transports and Taxes Canada has placed the national air traffic system at a purple, or Catastrophic alert level, the last step before Global Panic. As a result, no hand luggage will be allowed onboard airplanes. All electronic devices are now also prohibited, including but not limited to laptop computers, cell phones, watches, mp3 players and portable bombs. Passengers are encouraged to get proficient in the smoke signal technique in order to replace their phone at their destination. Mr. Harper, you can keep yours, of course.

February 14th, 2008 – A new level of national alertness has been put in effect; as of midnight last night, Canada is now under black alert, or Global Panic level. Consequently, Transports and Immigration Canada has prohibited for passengers to carry any kind of luggage, checked or carry-on. Clothing is to be kept to a minimum and no unnecessary items will be allowed. Among prohibited clothing items are coats, jackets, gloves, scarves, hats, ties, belts, boots, adult diapers and kilts (we shouldn’t have to endure the sight of an ugly man’s legs). Passengers are advised to plan ahead and dress appropriately from home since disallowed clothing items will be confiscated and burned. Mr. Harper can wear his three piece suit and diapers.

November 35th, 2008 – As a result of an attempt by a Swiss citizen to carry a Swiss Army pin-size bazooka onboard an A-390 Airbus, all jewelry is now also prohibited by Transports and Culture Canada on all aircrafts. Earrings, necklaces, bracelets, rings, watches, piercings, hair pins and flowered flip-flops are now prohibited. Mr. Harper can disregard this rule and keep his nose and nipple rings.

July 14th, 2009 – Canada has been placed under a transparent, or We’re Dead alert level. Transports, Women’s Rights and Liquors Canada will implement new safety measures accordingly for the next two weeks. After that, wearing personal clothes aboard an airplane will become illegal. Passengers will be issued hospital gowns at the gate after removing all clothing including underwear. The Gap, Ralph Lauren and Levi-Strauss have been issued new airport franchise permits in order to setup retail stores in arrival terminals within the shortest delays. Airlines are already discounting fares from St-Tropez and Vancouver’s Wreck Beach. Mr. Harper is welcome aboard all airplanes in an Eskimo coat if he wishes.

December 14th, 2009 – Consequence of a failed attempt by an Irish citizen to smuggle liquid explosives aboard his flight by mixing it with beer and drinking it, passengers are now advised by Transports, Arts and Crafts and Diplomacy Canada that they will be subjected to a mandatory bladder clearing before boarding the aircraft. Tremendous flight delays are expected. Airlines recommend avoiding the consumption of fluids 72 hours prior to departure. Mr. Harper can arrive at the plane completely drunk. He probably always does any way.

March 10th, 2010 – The Government of Canada and its regulating agency Transports and Celebrities Canada have declared plane travel to be illegal for passengers between the age of 5 and 175. The purchase of airline tickets remains legal, just like for radar detectors, and fares are expected to drop slightly as people will likely keep buying seats in hope of a law amendment. Mr. Harper gets his flights for free. He also has begun flight school.

July 2010 – Mr. Harper has failed his Private Pilot License flight test for the 12th time. His secretary commented off the record that « The Prime Minister has unsuccessfully applied his knowledge of politics to flying, promising the control tower he would touch and go but never complying, and later attempting to save his ass by declaring an emergency for a sneezing attack. »

Mr. Harper later admitted that he’ll stick with politics. He declared that « Politics are a child’s game compared to an airplane’s stick. I find manipulating voters much easier than handling an airplane. Pushing people’s buttons is rather straightforward. On an aircraft, there are so many buttons I wouldn’t know where to start. »

Chose promise, chose due; here’s the follow up to Anatomy of a Good Run which was fun to write but ended up sounding way too pompous for no reason, especially after the real runner Jenö had left a kind comment.

So even though the plan really is to fool myself - and nobody else - into believing that I’m a pretty decent casual runner, I must also fool myself - and nobody else - into thinking that I have an awesome sense of humor. Hence this post.

A great bad run always starts with a touch of heroism and a bold statement: « Tonight, I’ll run. » Being accompanied by trumpets and drums, the morning claim never fails to move me. I find it greatly motivating to know that I’ll be running in the evening. It motivates me to eat another croissant at work, and maybe an extra slice of pizza for lunch. Oh, and why not a coke? It’ll all be compensated by the night’s workout.

The day goes well and much coffee is ingested. By the end of my shift I’m psyching myself up, conditioning my mind to how good I’ll feel after running, repeatedly sweeping away the thought of a comfortable evening watching the new Star Wars trilogy.

When the coworkers announce that they are going out for a few beers after work, I put on my most intense, dutifully crafted, painful face and declare that I, sadly, can’t join them. I have to run.

The key here is to emphasize the words « have to » in a way that implies both raw suffering and sheer determination. My face as I make such a statement is a brilliant reconstruction of Luke Skywalker’s torn and tortured attitude as he tells his father Darth Vador that he shall never join him on the dark side.

While on the bus back home, I actually get excited for a moment at the perspective of running. My metachlorians are throwing a party. I usually boot up the computer when I get there, just to check my emails and maybe read a few blogs. I’m in no rush. I’m bloody hungry though, but there’s no way I’ll eat before running so I suck it up and promise myself the second half of that cheese fondue for afterwards.

I get dressed for the occasion, l’habit faisant invariablement le moine: a great pair of Nike running shoes bought at an outlet along a Minnesota highway, the Wal-Mart knee brace, my good old Birdwell britches, not so adapted to running but carrying their load of memories as they have endured much harder runs in the Caribbean heat. A synthetic shirt, breathable and light, so that I’ll look the part and act cool. The MP3 player strapped to my left arm, battery charged and playlist selected. And the Suunto Vector watch at my wrist, as a back-up for the MP3 timer. Once a diver, always a diver; redundancy is the mother of all success rules, and success rules.

It’s getting late. Now that I’m all set to go, I remember that I was really supposed to answer a couple of important emails tonight. I reluctantly walk out the door, take a deep breath, expel it, it smells like the neighbors’ garbage. The dark side of the force is calling me softly. « Join me, Vince, and together we can rule the galaxy and eat cheese fondue! »

Tripping in the dark on the wooden planks of the boardwalk around the house, I slightly hurt my left knee and curse out loud. Stupid French Cancan! Without those ridiculous acrobatics onboard a ship in the middle of some agitated ocean, 14 years ago, I’d still have two great knees and could run a lot better.

The brace is old and one of the metal spines has already begun rubbing against my leg. My shoes are slack; I stop and tie my laces again, too tight this time. Bummer, it’s warmer out here than I’d hoped, I’m already sweating and I haven’t even started running. I’m walking up the hill as I always do, warming up. Giving myself a last chance to back out.

But once I get to the top, no more excuses. I have to go on with my Jedi training. Zut. I crank up the music, start the watch timer and launch into a slow run. I can’t find the song I want and step into a pothole, almost twisting an ankle. « Concentrate, feel the force around you. » Three minutes into the first street, I have a side ache.

And then the music dies.

« What? I just changed the battery! Could I possibly have picked up an old one? There’s no way I’ll make it without music tonight. I can’t believe it. What amazing back luck! I was so looking forward to this. »

I paint Obi-Wan’s face on mine, as he watches Anakin slowly drifting away into the dark side, a complex mixture of silent suffering, deep sorrow, fatefulness and ultimately, holiness. And then I decide to go eat fondue.

« The force isn’t so strong, in this one… »

Yesterday on the web I unexpectedly came upon the soundtrack of the old French movie Le Rapace. I downloaded it, gave it a quick antivirus check – even though only a French user could have made this track available and everybody knows that French viruses are spread out on an honor basis only – and opened it with Winamp.

Thunder. Lightning. Stars exploding in giant supernovae. The darkest of black holes suddenly opened around me and I fell in, helpless, as if a distant electro-magnet was pulling me down the memory lane through space and time. They say that in a life-or-death situation your life flashes before your eyes. Mine was safely tucked away in a Main Street coffee shop, but the music triggered the flash all the same.

I’ve written many a time about the power of music. This is probably the most amazing side of it. It would seem our brain stores information in layers like a cake being baked and then put aside in the fridge, where its atoms slow down, its flavors fade and its core hardens, until it must be pulled out and served again. Of the many layers a memory gets recorded with, music is often forgotten and yet I’m amazed at the tremendous power it yields over the intensity of the memory itself. The clearer the musical association, the more vivid the imprint.

I wasn’t even a teenager, had longish sun bleached blond hair and was thin and shy. We lived in Antibes, Côte d’Azur. All kinds of rather international music would play on the family turntable, national anthems, Russian Army Choir, Tahitian songs, Morricone soundtracks, French classics and classical masterpieces like Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmuzik and Tchaikovski’s 1812 Overture.

And then there was Le Rapace. I had seen the movie very young; it was harsh and talked about faraway lands and foreign languages, about war and adventure, about epic lives and ordinary people. It had the charismatic face of Lino Ventura as Le Rital and a parrot that would quack « Viva la revolución! »

But to me the old 45 rpm record didn’t just relate to the movie, it equaled to much more. The movie was only one vision of its many faces. I would listen to the music over and over again, traveling across oceans, seeking shade in burning hot South American deserts, pretending to be an adventurer, fighting the odds, trying to understand human conflict and suffering, from my young and innocent point of view.

The movie was barely younger than I was. We still both had to make our way through life and age as well as we could, hoping to last and be remembered as the stuff of legends. The movie has.

As for myself, I have traveled, explored, learned, forgotten, tried to understand. Still trying. Maybe, as NewYorkAngel was writing recently, will I always be 12.

But there I was now in 2006, listening to the brilliant musical score with tears in my eyes, looking back at all the years that have slipped past me like sand flowing inexorably through fingers, escaping to rejoin the immense beach of time.

As if to finish me with an ultimate coup de grâce, the coffee shop took over playing oldies, Charles Aznavour’s La Bohème, Harmonium’s self-titled Harmonium, Charlene’s cheesy I’ve Never Been to Me. The last one carried me back to the flying years in Chicoutimi; it was Jean and Mireille’s favourite song. Jean went on to fly for Air Canada, Mireille moved to the States and changed careers. I wonder what has become of them. We all had such magnificent dreams. We were conquerors of worlds, making history as we lived it. We were also completely unprepared for the dangers that laid ahead, for the many tricks of life. I wonder how many of those dreams have shattered along the way. Des héros Toutatis trompait l’espérance.

As Gandalf tells Frodo, « All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. » But how does one decide such a thing before even knowing a decision is required? Of course it’s never too late to learn, never too late to take a new start. But how much extraordinary substance have we failed pouring into our lives because of a simple lack of information?

What if we had known all along how precious our time down here really is, how dreams are meant to be lived and pursued with undying faith and passion, and then lost and then reinvented again? What if we had been able to live every single moment of our life for its own uniqueness rather than foolishly looking too far ahead or painfully looking too far back?

The past ends up being a lifelong minefield across which we wander endlessly while fighting present battles, seeking some buried or forgotten secret weapon that will alter the balance of power in our favor. It is stained with scattered defeats, mortal injuries and terrible retreats. Our own corpse lays back there and then on so many battlefields, along with the bodies that have fallen at our side, or on the opposite one.

I guess it’s only proper then, that my childhood memories are so intense. They shine like as many campaigns in a General’s march towards glory. They were in turn bloody, brilliant, terribly painful and as sweet as honey. None of them leave me unmoved, they make my heart beat faster and fill me with nostalgia. They have lead me, ever so slowly but surely, to the battlefield on which I am standing today, to my most glorious battle to date: the one that still hasn’t been written.

So I raise my flag up high into the deepest blue sky, glance back at the old days while the music is playing, in search of inspiration; and then I turn to face the present, draw a shiny sword and spur my horse towards the endless loosing battle of life.