Lucky Number Seven

If you had told me at any point in time that I would last over 7 years in Alaska, I would not have believed you. I’ve always wanted to (start to) write about the unique experience of living in Alaska as someone who grew up in the Northeast, and the day after the seventh anniversary of my move to this state seems as good a time as any. It’s taken me at least this long to come around on some of the quirks of this strange place, and to accept it for what it is.

It’s fairly rare to find many residents from a Northeast metro area who have lasted as long as I have, though I do not think my transition would have been fruitful were it not for my many years in the Northern Catskills; I had already put in years in a rural area, complete with bears breaking into my house, long drives to the grocery store (or any civilization whatsoever), psychotic weather, blizzards, power outages and scorn for Arcteryx-clad city tourists using trekking poles on road shoulders. That said, I arrived here naively expecting to find no high-end food; no cosmopolitanism (note: there’s not much); locals clad in Carhartt overalls and not much to do other than fish, camp and backcountry ski.

Why did I move here? I still struggle to explain, and if I had a dollar for every person who told me before my move that I wouldn’t last more than a few months, I’d have moved to Alaska with enough money to not have a job at all. It was surprisingly easy for me to load up and move 4,500 miles from everything I had ever known; I even drove, and every day was an explosion of excitement. Nonetheless, my first 6 months were lonely and difficult, but still filled with the feeling of starting over and being completely anonymous — a stranger in a completely strange land. I had fantasized about (and traveled through) the northern latitudes and Arctic my entire life, and I had never dreamed I would be able to eek out a living in this region and also have a successful career and future prospects. Moving north with a high-paying, flashy job waiting was beyond my wildest dreams, and the day I pulled out of my parents’ driveway is still the happiest day of my entire life.

Seven years later, Alaska has certainly had its ups and downs. I’ve since bought a house, lived in it, renovated it, rented it out both on Airbnb and to long-term tenants; I’ve lived in the freezing-ass Interior in North Pole, lived in South and East Anchorage, I’ve traveled more widely throughout the state than most lifelong residents I know. I’ve changed jobs. I’ve started and ended multiple romantic relationships. I’ve weathered multiple car accidents and personal tragedies. I’ve watched a few friends succumb to depression and alcoholism and drug abuse, I’ve said goodbye to many other friends who had had enough of Alaska. I’ve agonized over these years about what it would look like to move away, and finally decided after a lot of fine-tuning my life that I’ve hit a perfect “sweet spot” and have no desire to leave. I have the ideal combination of incredible friends, swank living situation and an autonomous work arrangement.

I think the biggest takeaway, and the best thing Alaska has done for me was cement my lack of interest in social or career climbing. Like everyone else I want general success and financial security; but after many years of agonizing over how to balance my ambition with my desire to travel, learn and explore, I think at least for the time being I’ve found a way to keep my job interesting while filling the rest of my time with things that make me happy and residing in this arrestingly beautiful place.

Alaskans are interesting people. Strip away their small-town inferiority complexes, which manifest in bro-ing out, adrenaline-seeking and occasional antisocial behavior, and you have a population of people who care very little what anyone else thinks and have chosen their own priorities: primarily recreation and enjoying the outdoors. I remain somewhat mortified by how people dress up here, mostly in dirty yoga pants and Xtratufs, oversized flannel, etc… but I find there’s a certain charm in freeing yourself of expectations. These people have access to some of the most beautiful landscapes on earth, and that alone is worth more than many advantages you may reap living in the city. There is no commuting traffic. There is little pressure to overwork. Anchorage itself is a fairly grimy, ugly city, but it has always served as more of a resupply base than somewhere people stick around.

In my time here, I’ve defended people who clung to city life, and I’ve repeatedly called out Alaskans’ hypocrisy of labeling themselves as “independent” while relying widely on government handouts. If you were to read John McPhee’s Coming Into The Country, a seminal book on Alaskan culture written in the 70s, you’d find that not much has changed between then and now, and that’s not such a bad thing. Further, despite the very human need to place each other into buckets, it’s difficult to group Alaskan people. One of the most charming features of these people is that you don’t know who is rich and who is poor; there is little flaunting, because financial wealth is not a status symbol in the 49th state… in fact, if there is a status symbol, it’s freedom: freedom to pass your time as you wish.

I think back to when I was a kid watching Star Wars, believing the ideal situation would be to be able to walk into that bar on Tatooine and have no one look twice at you; this exercise in blending has fulfilled my desire to camouflage myself into any crowd; to fit in with any group of people. Alaska is frequently referred to as ‘the island of misfit toys,’ and I don’t think that is an unfair description. It takes confidence and open-mindedness to live and prosper here if you are not born here. There is deep loneliness, and a long dark season. The environment, the people and animals who populate it may try to kill you (and sometimes eat you). But ultimate freedom takes confidence and self-reliance. While I scoff at Alaskan fashion, there is no one I’d rather be on a sinking boat or downed plane with than a group of Alaskans, who have a natural ability to figure things out and survive, born out of necessity in the environment and far-flung geographic location of this place. People lose themselves up here entirely, and you have to hold onto yourself and who you are to survive happily.

There is no lack of challenges to living so far away: long flights just to Seattle; a very high cost of living; the daily danger of driving with so many drunks on the road, and the heavily armed population. Our state is currently in crisis, with a double-whamming homeless and opioid problem. Alaska’s Permanent Fund Dividend, a core tenet of the culture up here, has caused a deep dependency on handouts and an expectation of free money. The boom and bust history of this place shows itself in the spending habits of its residents, many of whom make a killing on the Slope and in the Bering Sea only to spend it on hookers and blow on their weeks off: there is little sense of saving for the future ingrained into the residents, and this is a very reactive-minded place on the individual, corporate and government level. The male-dominated industries here create other social problems. People live “on the edge” up here in many ways.

I remember riding up the Alyeska Aerial Tram with a friend who told me early on my “Pollyanna crap” would eventually fade… he was wrong. I am still mystified by this incredible place, and I can’t imagine myself moving onto somewhere else without deep regret.  I’ve been blessed with countless time in small planes and helicopters and boats all over this state, surrounded by natural wonder people pay tens of thousands of dollars to see. Flying around Lake Clark National Park, hiking the Aleutian Chain, or the 40-minute drive to Girdwood are to feel what it’s like to really live. And for those many moments in time up here, it seems all the challenges are worth it. When I talk to my friends about their high city rents, or their commutes, or the any number of annoyances of living in a crowded, high-demand metro area (not least the fact that my high-earning college friends almost never go on vacation), I’m reminded of the way my seemingly odd life choices have converged to keep me here, and I’m curious to see whether anything is worth leaving Alaska for.

34, Redux

This post was supposed to be a reading roundup, but when I logged into my Kindle I realized the only books I’ve read lately are what a kind person would call “personal development” and what an asshole would call “self-help.” I’ve sort of challenged myself to infuse some personal items into this blog, though I don’t share it widely among people who actually know me.  I’ve learned some lessons over the past few weeks, and as is often the case, these lessons were spurned by personal challenges. So, a few takeaways from 2019 so far, and then a brief list of loosely related reading.

Side note, I wrote a reflective post when I quit my last job and I received quite a lot of feedback, so this is sort of in the same style. It makes me uncomfortable to post this kind of stuff here, but it’s probably a good kind of discomfort.

  • I lost one of my close friends in the beginning of this year. It hit me surprisingly hard, and I think it punctuated the next few months of reflection on how the year was going. I will probably never look at 2019 without the sting of this happening; I cherish my close people, my friends especially, living 5,000 miles from where I spent the first 28 years of my life. Suicide is additionally difficult to deal with; it’s tough to stop yourself from wondering what you could’ve done (the answer is always “nothing”). This friend was also from New Jersey; he grew up a few miles from where my mother did. He was one of the two human links I have to home, here in Alaska. I was crushed. For a long time.
  • Alaska’s 7.1 earthquake in November created tremendous challenges for me work-wise and set the tone for how I spent my working time to present day. I rely on a lot of data sets; most of my vital tools were broken or unreliable as a result of what this earthquake did to hotel inventory across Anchorage. I’ll come out of Q2 at the top of my team, again, but the real-time stress was grinding and part of the struggle was knowing I would fail in certain measures and trying to compensate elsewhere.
  • Every single time I have tried to get away this year, it has been foiled by primary or secondary life responsibilities: work, schedule changes, board meetings and most recently, health. Work-life balance is important, and I have made a huge effort to figure out how to make that happen; this year, not so much. Part of it is on me, part of it is just how the cards have fallen. My life in 2019 is pretty much one I can’t escape. My life isn’t hard by any means, but it’s important to be able to check out at times. I have thus far not had this opportunity to the desired extent.
  • 5 days ago, I turned 35. I was supposed to be at Inti Raymi in Peru, followed by a brutal hike through the Andes. Neither of these things happened: the thyroid function test I had taken before I left for Bosnia and Georgia was ominous, and I went into total thyroid meltdown about halfway through my June itinerary. I called it before I got back to the US, canceled my Peru trip, somehow survived a few long work days in Seattle before I came home to figure out how to play this round. Plus sides: my intuition has been incredibly good my entire life and has failed me fewer times than my shitty thyroid has; also, the Mayo Clinic accepted my case and I’ll be delaying a(nother) trip to instead go there in July to figure out why every few years I am saddled with a few frightening weeks of feeling as though I’ve smoked a pound of meth. Womp womp.
    • This short breakdown will go full-circle; I actually had a kick ass birthday in Anchorage, thanks to (no surprise) my friends, namely my other fellow New Jerseyan, cementing something I haven’t ignored for a single moment of my life: the infinite value of my people.

When I think of the year so far, this is what I think of: the most significant, and the most recent. I am a cynical person. I tend to focus on things that are (a) wrong or (b) broken in order to figure them out and turn them around. This is the lesson, though: I spent the first 6 months of this year thinking this was the shittiest year I’ve had in a long time… which turned out to be patently false.

How do I know this? Mostly thanks to Microsoft Excel. I think I experienced the most nerve-wracking minute and a half in my career recently when I explained to my colleagues during a working session on “best practices” that one of my personal best practices is that I have an actual failure tracker and I use it to give myself a full personal performance review every year on my birthday. So when I did the run-down for this year, there was way more in the The Good column than The Bad and Failures columns. For people interested in behavioral economics, this is the Availability heuristic: I was thinking about these big things, and this recent health stuff, and that’s what I recalled.

So, due to the time of year, I’ve read some interesting books on a variety of topics: growing up, personality forming, etc. Here’s a short list (the books are long and somewhat complex, save the last one, so they’ve taken a fair amount of time):

  • The Nurture Assumption: Why Children Turn Out The Way They Do | I wish I had read this long before I did. I’m not sure if I find it completely plausible, but it is interesting. There is a Wikipedia page, as well as a full breakdown of many of her points and examples. I would like to believe this is true, at least to a large extent, and I think it could be. It’s encouraging to think that people can outshine their parents when it comes to behavior and positive character traits; that people are not necessarily as constrained by the ills of their home lives, as many of us are led to believe.
  • Personality Shaping Through Positive Disintegration | This book is a pretty dry read, but if you can get past the boring language, the concepts are pretty great. This guy also has a Wikipedia page, and there is a summary in PDF. In some ways his general idea is similar to Viktor Frankl: suffering gives life meaning (and, to a large degree, builds character), and people who are developmentally inclined tend to flail an awful lot, but it’s good for them and it helps them grow into themselves while shedding unsavory parts. The author is a pretty tormented individual himself, which makes his theory extra interesting. Again, like anyone I find I tend to gravitate to theories with high confirmation bias; that said, I’ve never quite read anything as meticulously drawn out as this particular development theory. This is one of the most interesting books I’ve read this year, by far.
  • Mindset: The New Psychology of Success | Pretty basic but also thoughtful book; I was told about this by one of my newer colleagues, and while the TEDTalk by this woman is dreadfully boring, her book is an easy read, and worth considering. It’s something that seems to have gained wide adoption in the corporate sphere these days, which means very little other than I now hear “growth mindset” all the time and I can know what it means instead of assuming.
  • How To Win Friends and Influence People | I read this book when I was a kid, and I recently re-read it, truly mystified by how simple advice written in 1936 is still so relevant. Not a huge surprise, I guess, but some of Carnegie’s points are so simple you actually feel stupid not knowing them all before you read them. The Wikipedia page breaks it down, but reading the entire book is definitely worthwhile, if for no other reason than to marvel at the fact that advice that was pertinent in the 19-frickin’ 30s is still so legit today.

And that’s about it. My next reading roundup will surely not be this stuff. Long story short, sometimes life isn’t as shitty as it seems. Time will tell, I’m sure, but apart from my friend’s death, most of my struggles are what you’d call first-world problems; for perspective’s sake, five years ago when I had my first unfortunate thyroid experience, I had terrible insurance and was strapped with a bill for $10,000 (and no real answers). I was determined to change my life around so (a) I didn’t hate my job and (b) had excellent healthcare… and this time will be different.

I remember Jordan Petersen’s advice about bench-marking against yourself, and through that lens, I am moving in the right direction… at times, more slowly than others.

Caucasian Tales

So long is liberty oppressed by laws,
so will the tribes resist until they’re free:
at length the smoldering Caucasus will be
unburdened by this monstrous foreign cause
Pushkin

Our Free City Tour guide in Tbilisi, the lone local guide who was not an actual local but a Dutch guy who fell in love with a Georgian girl and relocated, warned us toward the end of our lengthy walk around the city to be careful: crazy things happen in this country. He meant this not in a “jihad in the mountains” kind of way, but in a “you might wander through and stay here forever” kind of way.

And so, a strange thing or two did happen in this unique and rugged country, and I left with a long to-do list of things I did not have time to fully explore.

The day we drove out into the mountains to Kazbegi, I felt as though I was on a time-warp road paved with nostalgia. To explain it would be to fail immediately. I spent my week in this country floored by the experience of being surrounded by others with strikingly similar facial features (I had never experienced this before to this degree, Georgian people are unique genetically and I am not one, though we share a diverse yet heavily Slavic contemporary blend); being out in the mountains forces you to fully appreciate the incredible falsehood of the word “Caucasian” listed on American documents. Caucasians are pale, with light eyes and dramatic features; often large aquiline noses and dark hair. This is the land of white exotics.

I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone in this place; a beautiful albeit steaming hot one (Tbilisi means “warm place” for its natural hot springs) filled with bread and cheese and dumplings stuffed with mushrooms you know someone picked with his or her bare hands. The ruggedness of the Caucasus reminded me in many ways of Alaska: the primitive individuality of the land and the people. Over 300 kinds of wine call Georgia their home; and much like Bosnia, I could have happily stayed forever… except with Georgia, I would be a face the same as everyone else’s. I have always loved the idea of absolute anonymity, of no one looking twice. Of being a ghost. I thanked my bizarre good fortune every time a street hawker harassed my Mexican companions while ignoring me entirely.

I remember reading Elif Batuman’s The Possessed: Adventures with Russian Books and the People Who Read Them and chuckling often at her commentary on the ‘Stans. I’ve spoken many times with a friend of mine often about our diverging ideas of beauty: mine is crumbling, decrepit buildings and stray dogs, bright clothing strung over errant clotheslines. His is more the clean lines and what to me has always been overwhelming orderliness and sanitized existence of a city like Boston. Boston always felt like a sterile cage to me; at night, it seemed as though no one lived there, especially downtown. Tbilisi is its opposite.

Tbilisi’s old town is what is supremely beautiful to me: periods of time and style built atop one another… the Eurasian-Persian-Byzantine-Soviet aesthetics all smashed together into a hot decrepit mess, though a mess that is cared for with tremendous love… winding streets with the odd can or bottle, dust flying around in the breeze, and panting dogs and lazy cats lounging in the shade. I would come back here again, with my DSLR.

With all the rugged landscapes and the country’s oppressive history (the Russians most recently invaded and reclaimed South Ossetia and Abkhazia in 2008), Georgians are incredibly kind, gregarious and welcoming people. They have a cultural tradition of sharing homemade wine on their beautiful balconies with neighbors and strangers alike and helping visitors and newcomers get around and learn about their country. The protective but individualistic culture that is so well-known in Alaska exists here as well: live and let live, but always lend a helping hand. The country is extraordinarily safe. My friends commented that Bosnia (we had flown to Tbilisi from Sarajevo) was a lot more questionable comparatively. I initially scoffed, though by the end of the trip I concluded they were probably right.

Georgia has built a robust tourism industry, though their tourists are primarily Russians. And their food is to die for; one of my regrets (other than not staying longer) was not eating more. I had wanted to try legit khachapuri for a long time. Life can be a real let-down sometimes when you have great expectations… khachapuri is not, nor is their homemade wine, which has a sort of thick, mead-meets-raw apple cider taste and costs practically nothing (even their “good” wine is a few dollars a bottle at the most).

We found a bizarre tour of the old mining town of Chiatura, which has fully in-tact cable cars from the 1950s and ventured out to ride them. The country is riddled with monasteries and Orthodox churches (the country is 90% Orthodox, so they lack the kind of internal friction you can feel in every waking breath in Bosnia). The Stalin Museum in Gori (Stalin’s hometown) eluded me, and I was sad to hear it will likely close as the tone of the museum is a bit gauche for what they’re going for tourism-wise. As our guide said, “There’s no Hitler Museum, so there probably shouldn’t be one for Stalin.”

I don’t love every country I venture to; I wouldn’t return to Macedonia and definitely not to Albania. I could leave Serbia, Western Ukraine and Romania indefinitely off my re-visit list as well. I’ve long grown bored of Western Europe. Georgia, I will go back to. The Caucasus are wild, and real: an amalgam of familiar things from different stages of my own life.

In these past two years, two countries have far exceeded my high expectations: Bosnia, and Georgia, for entirely different reasons. It took a long flight on a vintage-upholstered plane and one in my party being detained for awhile for having a terrorist-looking neckbeard. He swears he won’t go back, but I surely will.

Bonus: they’re big on importing cars, and there’s a pretty solid rally culture, so there were quite a few WRX and STI spottings throughout the country.

Bonus reading: How Russia’s writers saw the Caucasus, Financial Times
Up next: back to Bosnia

Arctic Dreams

When I was a kid, I counted down to winter. I was fortunate to have spent much of my adolescence in New York state, where those winters are long; and I can’t ever remember being excited for spring. I learned to ski shortly after I could walk, and as an adult, currently taking a hiatus from skiing, the whoosh of skis on hard pack will always hearken back to my youth and young adulthood. Like language fluency, when you learn to ski young, it is as natural as breathing. I loved skiing most on the coldest days, when the trees moaned in the wind chill and my eyes watered if the seal of my goggles was broken… the kind of Northeastern wind that turns your legs lobster red under your ski pants and lets loose a primordial scream from deep in your bone marrow.

After an emotionally trying first year in college, I escaped to Uppsala to earn some cheap credits and visit my mother’s Swedish family. I felt I had grown up in many different worlds: the world of open, kind and adventurous Scandinavians and Italians having entered the US via Paterson, New Jersey; and my father’s coal mining Carpatho-Rusyns, who settled in Northeastern Pennsylvania with the rest of their kind. Slavic people, in my experience, were more fearful; neurotic; insular and wary of the outside world. Their culture was no less rich, and my travels through the former Eastern Bloc are a story for another day. I was also trapped between city and country, born in urban New Jersey but raised in the Catskill Mountains.

It was my mother’s parents who infected me with a travel obsession; the postcards in Swedish and the dinner table prayers; the stories of summers on Lake Mälaren and broader Nordic world; the elephants that adorned my grandparents’ home, many of them brought back from travels abroad, especially from Southeast Asia, where my mother’s father served in WWII. My grandfather died unexpectedly shortly after I arrived in Alaska, and my sister read my eulogy to him in New Jersey. An excerpt,

The shelves of elephants were more significant to my hopes and dreams than any other material possessions I encountered in my youth. Your trinkets from afar—the elephants, the Dala horses, the wicker dragon from Vietnam, all of which rest on shelves of mine here in Girdwood—paved the roads I have traveled in my life, far away and often solo. I loved your adventures, alone and together, around the world. To be a child and to think of India and Vietnam and Germany—to be able to see and touch pieces of those faraway places, to listen to stories—made them real, and within reach.

And so I reached.

Each item, marked with yours and Nana’s human history, gave me hope in traversing the earth for the same knowledge and understanding, to find my place in the world, the same way you had found yours, with each other. Many of these items, tucked away in bags and backpacks and luggage, through wars and business trips and vacations, were brought back with unflagging devotion, over years and decades. I became unsure at times, reflecting on your journeys, which was more important: the departure toward the unknown, or the return to what you really loved.

My years wandering through Scandinavia changed me, as did the Danish and Icelandic professors at BU who took me under their wing and helped me get to where I needed to be, who traded research projects for teaching assistance in their graduate classes. I felt as though I gained some glimpse of who I was, of where I belonged, and all the errant dots slowly connected over the following years. And, down the road, I found myself back in my adolescent hometown, looking north while being whipped by wind chill. Traveling to Ottawa & Toronto, to Newfoundland, to Iceland, Finnish Karelia, to the Yukon. Long weekends I would drive up to Dartmouth College and spend entire days looking through hundreds and thousands of Arctic expedition letters and lantern slides, housed in their incredible Stefansson Collection. I read hundreds of books on the Arctic, on polar expeditions, survival stories, creation myths, Icelandic sagas. I made online penpals of Nenets people in Archangelsk, of archaeologists in Oulu, of Arctic teachers across Canada and Hudson Bay Company historians.

I slowly began accumulating lithographs from Cape Dorset, which cushioned the doubt I felt in ever being able to eek out a life at the right latitude… and I continued to return to the north. I dragged my entire family up the coast of Norway in 2009. Two years earlier, in 2007, I brought my mother to Alaska, and I remember sitting on a boat in Prince William Sound wondering what it would take to live here. I did not believe it was possible. I wanted too many things.

Fast forward to July 2012, the month of thus far the happiest day of my life, pulling out of my parents’ driveway in Pennsylvania to drive to Alaska, car full of whatever I needed for the first few months until the rest of my stuff showed up. I had pretty much shed tears of joy every night before I even flew up for the interview process, knowing full well this was it, I was moving, and this was happening… feeling slightly as though I was being released from a nice enough prison, and my life was about to begin. I’ve been sure of very few things in my life: this was one of those moments. It was time.

I drove to my new home via a slight detour: via Dawson City, ferry across the Yukon River and over the dusty Top of the World Highway into Alaska, to Valdez and across Prince William Sound, crossing the very place I had doubted myself years prior. I thought, car tucked into a little ferry over the Yukon, about the countless stories I had read, in John McPhee’s Coming Into The Country, in the follow-up by Fairbanks writer Dan O’Neill, A Land Gone Lonesome, and have spent these years with a sense of personal triumph punctuated by loving something with so much depth I want to know everything, even all its worst, ugliest parts. Some days here, in Alaska, I wonder what I am doing here after these years, and sometimes daily life is so grim and frustrating… and then I remember all of this.

There is a painting hanging in the Anchorage Museum by Rockwell Kent that sucks me in every time I walk through their Art of the North gallery. And I think back to his work, his books with illustrations which have accompanied my travels: Salamina; North by Northeast; the reproductions of women standing on the Greenlandic shore that hang in my home. I dove into a book today I have been lugging around for a few years and have hesitated to read: Jean Malaurie’s The Last Kings of Thule, and the preface ends with,

When, [with friends] certain scenes that we lived through together were evoked twenty years later, they were relived with infinitely greater intensity than when recalled after only a few months; as if time were needed for “the little sensation”–smell, color, emotion, astonishment–which is inscribed in the groove of memory, to protect one’s recollection of the event.

It was too early for me to have written this book in 1951, but I did not know that then. Curiously enough, great travelers–Humboldt, Jack London, Pere Huc–lived with their memories for years, publishing some of them only late or not at all. One lives with one’s memories–in the proper sense of that phrase–in order to grasp their internal order. The weakness of big travel narratives and reportages very likely derives from the writer’s haste to preserve vivacity at the expense of the deeper internal experience. It is the search for time newly refound that I offer the reader.

I came across this book because Malaurie’s relative was an internet penpal of mine, and a teacher in the Canadian High Arctic. Beginning this book triggered an immense tidal wave of all of these memories. It’s a distinctly human experience to be completely swept up in a long-dormant love and obsession. But as I look around and see stacks of Arctic books; Cape Dorset art and other traces of the north, I realize this obsession has been completely unwavering all these years, and my years in Alaska are years of my life I am the most grateful for. In my time here, I have been to Lake Clark, to Prudhoe Bay; to Dutch Harbor; to Nome and Sitka and so many other beautiful places. I have traveled this state more widely than most people I know, and I fully intend, despite likely having to depart for some time, to rest here indefinitely. I think these days it’s easy to generate content for Instagram, but that simplistic style of travel will never garner today’s feelings. This unflagging curiosity and deep love for high latitudes is a ridiculously large part of who I am, and it’s an overwhelming reality sometimes… and maybe it’s broader than that: the right way to love something, to dive so deep into it it becomes intertwined with your identity and chokes you up intermittently throughout your life. This is just one deep love of mine.

I remember reading in an Arctic novel ages ago that many explorers felt as though once they had crossed over the Arctic Circle, a piece of them was left there in the north forever. A close friend asked me to post, and so this is what I have today. It’s an appropriate post, as he spent a chunk of his own youth exploring the coast of the Hudson Bay, and landed squarely on Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula, another high latitude wanderer… we seem to find each other here.

The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
   The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
   The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
The snows that are older than history,
   The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
   I’ve bade ’em good-by—but I can’t.
RWS

October Roundup: Streaming

My last blog featured a regular reading roundup, but I’m especially committed to laziness with this project, so I’m going to stick with ‘monthly,’ ‘abbreviated’ and extra random. I’m also going to break them up into multiple posts, because there’s nothing lazier than making three posts out of one.

Streaming.

Hold the Dark (Netflix). A little loose on the plot, but great production. This was sufficiently creepy and interesting, especially due to the occult vibe and the fact you really had no idea where the movie was going. Also, set in Alaska (though filmed in Alberta)… additionally, Alexander Skarsgård. The end.

Fortitude (series, Amazon Prime). fortitude-mainTough to turn down a series set in Svalbard, though I realized about halfway through season 1 it was mostly filmed in Iceland, which is easy to mistake for the former. I was skeptical, and initially watching to enjoy the beautiful, desolate Arctic vistas, but the show eventually became fairly interesting. I again felt like I had no idea what was going on, so either I am becoming dumber as I age or I happened to watch two unpredictable things consecutively. I’ve now watched both seasons and it sounds like a third will be released eventually. I would say it’s sort of a historical thriller-mystery, though I find their characters are not remotely representative of the Norwegian transplants who actually live there: they are way too brazen and honest. I made peace with what I found to be a lot of tedious inadequacies, and once people start showing their alcohol binges and rampant cheating and brawling, it starts to look a lot more like the real North.

Mandy. Mandy_(2018_film)I’m still not sure whether or not this movie was supposed to be funny. I’m pretty sure it was. It’s a sort of homage to the occult late 70s/early 80s (I just looked it up, it was apparently set in 1983, but these people could easily be mistaken for 2018 Cascadia hipsters). In any case, this movie was incredibly entertaining. It’s a new cult classic style horror film. Also, Nicolas Cage.

Dogtooth. The most confusing thing about this film is that on the front/poster/whatever, it says “HILARIOUS” in giant letters. It’s basically about a Greek guy who locks his wife and his children up in his sprawling compound, showers them with lies and they eventually start licking each other inappropriately. I still don’t know what I think about it. I suppose the effects of being completely removed from the outside world make for interesting conversation fodder. May or may not watch again.

Next up, Books and (Mostly) Shitty Movies I Saw in the Theater.