• Published on

    Nathan Talks to NPR and Slate About That Virus

    Picture
    Well, everyone else is talking about it. Here I am trying to be extra diplomatic while still being interesting and truthful. The Slate article is derived from an interview that was repurposed into a first-person account; I didn't actually pen those words (as anyone familiar with my writing will quickly glean), but did indeed speak their meaning to the wonderful interviewer. Hope you enjoy.

  • Published on

    Bus Driver Appreciation Day: Coronavirus Style

    Picture
    I write this for my fellow operators; it is they whom I wish to appreciate today, they who deserve the spotlight, more than myself. They continue showing up to work, signing up to spend eight hours daily in quite possibly the most medically compromised public environment imaginable, while the rest of us get to stay at home safe.

    1. On Fear and Trembling

    I look around at my fellow drivers at the base. Here are the young fathers, the single mothers, the elderly... some of them will get infected, against their best efforts, and they will in turn infect their families. If things continue as is, this will become unavoidable fact.

    It isn't news that life is unfair, but drawing the short stick always comes as a rude surprise. These drivers will continue coming in because they have to, exposing themselves and by extension their loved ones until it is too late. Change tends to happen after things have gone just a bit too far. Who is that operator who will have to suffer, possibly fatally? Are they a friend of mine? Who will
    accidentally infect their own parents and carry the resulting frustrated guilt for a lifetime?

    Is it me?

    Somehow we are able to put aside the possibility of imminent death as we go about living, and thank God/Allah/Mother Nature for that, because otherwise we'd all be frozen out of life's joys by constant fear. I could choose to sink into paralysis as I reflect on how impossible staying uninfected seems on my bus and especially my route, which at night has seen less of a dip in ridership than elsewhere, what with the profusion of at-risk persons who populate the evening 7.

    2. Funky Friends

    Last night Mr. Why Ling unwittingly spewed spittle in my face as he enthusiastically roared, "I'M FAMOUS!!!"

    I like his absurd comments (and love hearing his unique volume choices in declaring them), and it was the sort of conversation I would've otherwise happily had... but not these days. I just wanted to get him down the street. My sleeper friends with their coughing fits, their soiled clothing strewn on the floor, the careless putrefaction and fluids of alcoholic and bodily origin which keep many of my colleagues rather understandably off the route...

    Ninety-nine nights out of a hundred, I happen to like these people (this story explains it best). They are part of the fabric of urban life and they're not going anywhere. I've been picking some of them up for a full decade, and I spend more time with them than anyone else and feel totally okay with that.

    But. These past nights I've found myself wary, heavy with thoughts of trepidation and anxiety. Nothing sickens the soul worse than fear.

    What has brought me up?

    3. Five Giants

    My fellow operators, that's what. We're in this together, they say with their smiles and waves. Look at young Ali in his trim and spotless Metro jacket, sporting a tricolor taqiyah and aviator sunglasses, the embodiment of youthful professionalism capably navigating his massive E Line down Third Avenue. This is our time to shine, his presence seemed to say. Our ethos. He has optimism for days and much I can learn from. Across the street was Emily, likewise piloting her durable D Line like a total boss, radiating proficiency and cool-headed competence.

    Seconds later Abiyu would pull up alongside me in his 62. He carries a gentle wisdom I find restorative, a quiet man who thinks before he speaks, whose rich and full-bodied smile that, amongst his reflective quietude, reminds me of my father. His three preteen sons can already each speak four languages; young geniuses following in his footsteps, whom I hope recognize their father's humble pride.

    I'd just taken my bus over from Kevin, the fine fellow I chat with here. We share in having both spent, by any standard of sanity, entirely too much time driving the 7. We measure our time logged on it in years, and our quips and asides contain volumes I can share with no one else, as we navigate our graduate-level ponderings of how to think about it all. This job is a question of how to think.

    On my way to Kevin's bus I'd ridden up the street on Tony's 545. Tony the photographer, a man nearly twice my age but with more ebullient courage and humor in the face of life, who has the peace of someone who knows what his passions are: photography and music.

    I asked him what he made of The Whole Virus Thing. He highlighted the degree to which our work is particularly essential now, and when I mentioned how the 7 hasn't changed much these past weeks, he said, "those are the folks who need us most." Tony also noted that he's blessed with a great immune system (true of all operators; if it wasn't, well, you'd be working somewhere else by now).

    4. What You Bring

    Sometimes all you need is a wave, or one smile, to turn the whole day around. I'd just gotten five rocket boosters infusing my soul: Ali's confident bearing, a man who reminds you it is easy to be beautiful; Emily being herself, that best self we aspire toward; Abiyu's flashing grin, our hands in supplication as we nodded toward each other, the history of our friendship in a gesture; and Kevin and I, proof that goodness and insanity can endure together.

    "Somebody spilt some beer at the front," Kevin said as he gave me the bus. "But it's all good. "
    "It wouldn't be the 7 without it!"
    "Eyy! It wouldn't be the 7 without you!"

    And Tony, for whom it didn't even occur to complain. Who underlined why we're needed now, and for which crowd; who saw that as innately worthwhile, without irony or complaint. My trainer Gil told us more than once: This system exists to serve, specifically, the very old people, the students, the poor, the homeless, the disabled people. They are your main customers and you should be grateful to them, because they are why you have a job.

    Selfless, giving, calm; let me take these with me. Let me absorb all the best of these women and men I work alongside.

    5. In My Pocket

    Although it is unlikely I will die from the virus, I am not quite young enough to be unaffected by it. At my age, the likely result is something comparable to a bad flu, along with, of course, infecting those around me. There is debate as to whether the coronavirus is more deadly than the flu (short answer: it's complicated), which kills hundreds of thousands annually and at which we don't bat an eye; and there is of course the fact of driving, the most dangerous regular societal activity and which kills millions and injures millions more... which we do without a second thought. Death is always nearby.

    Let us remember how to live alongside it, freely.

    On occasion I ask myself how I'd drive the bus if it were my last chance ever to do so. I'd throw everything I have into it, of course, and that is what I try to do. Whether these are my last days or just more of the in-between, I would like to live them well, and carefully, with joy and intention, carrying the lessons of the folks above in my pocket. I would like to go into the fray smiling, because when nothing makes sense anymore you have to smile.

    This week's world is a crazy one, and traffic is better now than any time in the last thirty years. It's downright fabulous. If we have to go out there, let's relish it. Who we are, what we can offer, and who we have it on ourselves to be.

    Thanks for doing what you do.
  • Published on

    When the Tough Get Going

    Picture
    "So how's that 554?" I asked. 

    Buses are microcosms of the neighborhoods they serve, and the 554 was what this young man was headed toward. That cushy suburban express route with its soft seats and open highways... it seemed a far cry from where we were now, trundling up the bowels of the inner city on a nighttime 7.

    "How d'you mean?"
    "Well, do you ride it a lot?" 
    "No, I'm totally new to all of this, actually," he said. "My first time using buses here in Seattle." A younger mixed-race man like myself, with a working-class smile and unassuming clothes, the uncomplicated Seattle wardrobe of blue, black and tan. 

    "Oh, cool!" I replied. "I love that you're using both the 7 and the 554."
    "Yeah I could already tell, they're so different!"
    "How?" I love hearing stuff like this. I have my own answer, but I was intrigued at what he might have already noticed, with such little exposure. 
    "Well, as far as I could tell, the 554 drivers... it just seems quieter and more strict. This feels looser and nicer."
    "Yeah I like this one," I replied. "You get more of everything, the bad and the good. But it all adds up to good, you know?"

    I was phrasing it poorly, but hoped he perhaps already shared a bit of my philosophy, such that he'd understand what I meant– that the tumultuous mixture of positive and negative life experience seems to add up, when considered afterwards and from afar, as something best defined overall as positive, worthwhile, good. 

    "Yeah yeah!" he said, equally inarticulately, but leaning into a similar view. "I like to think, if it doesn't have something goin' wrong, then it's not fun. Like it's not..."
    He trailed off, perhaps caught in the place I'd been– stuck for words, dancing around an idea while unable to touch it, but facing a listener who knows your melody. 
    "Like that makes it real, the challenge?" I said. 
    "Yeah!"
    "Yeah, I think I know what you mean. It's those challenges that make us real people."
    "Yeah... But I could already tell there's not a lot of drivers that do what you do."
    "Ha! Yeah, I feel like it's important to make it personable, you know?"
    "Yeah,"
    "Make it feel equal and human. Like some of those strict drivers on the 554 and stuff, I feel like sometimes they're trying to fight the world, and if you try to fight the world, you're always going to lose!"
    "Dude.Totally! Better to just stay open and learn something."
    "It just feels better. Easier."

    "I couldn't agree more," said an older man who felt compelled to join in. He was dressed to match the surroundings, muted colors faded with time and a sailor's scruffy beard, the kind you know held a thousand stories. I couldn't tell if the peeling discolorations on his face were bruises, a skin condition of sorts, or a trick of the light. Suffice it to say he didn't get off at the 554 transfer point. 

    "To everything you guys just said, your life philosophy," he continued. "I been listening to what you were saying, and I completely agree. If people would just be compassionate towards each other and recognize each other as humans–"
    "Yeah, flowing with instead of against."
    "You just feel a lot less lonely."
    "Ooh, totally. Well said."

    Talking is what kids do, Charles Schulz once wrote, but a conversation... a conversation is when two adults come together and build a third thing, such that when they part they're slightly different than they were before. That's what we were doing, the three of us. We continued building, recognizing that blanket judgments of drivers or riders or routes were apt to be flawed, that being kind carries dividends as much for oneself as for others, and that, as the Dalai Lama said, choosing optimism just plain feels better.

    I was reminded of the visual image of red-tailed hawks soaring on those invisible cylindrical thermals of air, together following unseen but palpable currents, paths which to them make so much sense. I felt the exhilaration of simple truths, and the comfort of a worldview that takes life's challenges in stride. 

    It's okay to be unhappy as a bus driver. It's okay to be unhappy walking down the street. I get it. I just try for the opposite. For a moment there, the world made sense to us. We basked in the energizing glow of goodness, at peace with the mysteries of life. 

    I hoped for each of our sakes that our worldviews would hold up when the going next got tough. It's easy to be good when things go your way. But: optimism, my parents told me. Optimism means being comfortable looking at truth even when it's negative. 

    Because that means your life philosophy can handle it. ​
  • Published on

    Men I Trust: Winner, Best International Short

    Picture
    I've got an update regarding Men I Trust's being nominated for Best International Short at the Amsterdam film festival mentioned earlier:

    We won.

    Somehow, folks over there went for it. Bedankt, you guys. What else can I say? Do you know what this means to me??

    Three years ago, I was cowriting with my friend Brian Jobe, the author. We had previously collaborated on reediting Regulate, a short of mine shot in 2009 (watch commentary for that project here). Now, in 2016, we were developing a feature-length screenplay I was very excited about: three thirty-minute shorts that would combine to make a feature, each refracting different themes borne out of Jobe's passion and writings on Martin Heidegger. Like anything based on Being and Time, however, it was taking forever. We were getting together week after week at the Veggie Grill, demolishing nachos and stalling. 

    That's when my friend Jeremiah Moon, the musician, suggested I shoot something myself, quick and on the side. Tell me an idea, he said. What would you create on your own right now? 

    I told him what I saw, on another afternoon of us laying about watching David Lynch material. I saw a man and a woman walking in the woods who are not romantically linked; that was the starting point.

    The woman was Eleanor Moseley, the best actor in Seattle and with whom I was dying to work with again. The desire to collaborate on a second film with her was the lead motivating factor in all of this. I didn't know who the man was yet, nor that it would turn out to be Martyn G. Krouse, the other best actor in Seattle (yes, you can have two bests without contradiction– ask any mother with more than one child!). That we would receive the miracle of actually landing these giants was unknown to me then, of course. For now we just had two people in a forest. 

    Why were they out there together, and what was connecting them? I know a bit about certain aspects of life I've observed but not experienced, but one thing I know I know nothing about is having siblings; they couldn't be sister and brother. This needed to be something else. 

    I've drifted toward the belief that people are most potently defined by what they lack. By what they're searching for. What have you not yet found, which drives you? Is it deeper, and simpler, than you think it is? 

    Every soul on this planet, alone in the waking dawn; the way we sit there, rendered still by feelings that can't be turned into thoughts. What have you lost, the loss of which has made you who you are? How have you chosen to define that loss? What do those moments of searching for that definition, creating it, look like? 

    The most meaningful connection between these two characters, I realized, was going to be negative space. "If I never meet you in this life, let me feel the lack, " a character muses in Terrence Malick's 1998 masterpiece The Thin Red Line. There's no presence like an absence. 

    These ideas tossed about in my head, intriguing but unformed. Then, a month or so later, I found myself driving my car one evening in September 2019. Was it a weeknight? I wish I remember.

    I was traveling south on 1st Avenue Northeast in Northgate, approaching Northeast 100th Street. It was late enough for it to be dark, for the streets to be largely empty. When it was safe to do so, I executed a left turn at the blinking yellow onto eastbound 100th. The light crossing the Transit Center entrance was a stale green and I proceeded forward, shifting up to third gear. As I passed Third Avenue, I weaved slightly to avoid the damaged pavement and shifted to fourth because why not, it's late. Fifth Avenue Northeast was red. It's always red. The recently repainted stop bar is behind the weight sensor for the light; you have to go over the bar to trigger it, and then roll back (simpler in a stickshift) to the correct spot because even at this time of night, buses will still be rounding the corner onto 100th and need the space. 

    Colored light reflected off pavement. I had a ways to go to my destination; I drifted to the rhythm of the music, distracted into the multistranded, absent-minded present focus that only driving can create. The song playing was La Femme à la Peau Bleue, lyrics by Vendredi sur Mer and production by Lewis OfMan.

    The heater was on. The music was up. I was alone. The light was still red, and the blinking hand for cross-traffic was still counting down. 

    Before that light turned green, the entire screenplay came to me in a flash. It wasn't my insight; it didn't feel like something I created but something I discovered already exists, that I had not known before. Chris Doyle says Western filmmakers believe in creating the best shot, whereas Eastern directors talk about finding the best shot, of being a vessel rather than some self-contained genius. On this night I was a vessel.

    It all came tumbling out– two sisters at a nightclub, the French, the quiet young man after an unglamorous job, the conversations later and dimensions they never knew in youth, the touching of new wisdom, new connection, an acquaintance suddenly becoming the most important person, the only person who understands, the trust and teaching and patience and innocent laughter, love that is serious but kind, reflective souls burdened by being human, weighed down with questions this universe refuses to let us in on, questions which define us nonetheless. The thought that you might not want to "get over" something, not now, even if you could. Even if you know it is healthy. 

    I drafted the entire screenplay that night, immediately after the traffic signal turned green. I rushed home as quickly as possible, because this sort of thing doesn't happen any old time, and you've got to grab it when it's real. I hadn't written a screenplay since reading Joan Didion's A Book of Common Prayer in 2008, and had been searching for something to say on film ever since. Here, finally, was the passion. 

    How do these things work? Those details on the road must have had something to do with it, right? Some hidden alchemy of life and light and the soul, the ineffable mixing together with buckled pavement and silent streetlights. 

    The red light facing Fifth Avenue was the starting point for what we have now– a crowd of filmmakers and festival attendees in the Netherlands who must have responded, who chose this over all the other international films there. I think back to the old logo for Landmark Cinemas: a woman's British voice speaking over an image of a spinning globe, sounding equal parts sophisticated and sultry: "the language of cinema... is universal."

    Isn't it just. Thank you, Amsterdam, for this gesture. You felt a bit of what I once felt at the intersection of Fifth and 100th, and maybe more. Thank you for applauding this attempt of mine to reach you.
    Picture
  • Published on

    Expansion (or Why I'm "Ending" the Blog)

    Picture
    I need to explain this fully. 

    1. On Multiplicity
    ​
    "Shutting it down" is overly dramatic. That's not what's happening. But I am changing things, and want to take a moment to explain. 

    June 30 will mark, to the day, eight years of continuous blogging of bus stories by yours truly. Every few days from 2012 onwards, I've written a new story from the streets here on the site, and the following has grown beyond my wildest dreams. 

    I love writing the stories. More than photography, they carry for me the weight of full, bodied accomplishments that take time and consideration to generate. I wrestle with the words, nurture them, playing chess with myself in the search for how to translate life to thought to language. 

    But there are not enough hours in the day to write new stories continuously, write books, read them, promote them, make films, submit films to festivals, work full time, sleep, maintain friendships and relationships and family and health and peace of mind... I'm exhausted, reader. I am exhausted and my active life is probably half over. I do not wish to spend the prime of my existence as a blogger. I love doing it, but it takes more time than the other activities listed above, and thusly prevents my doing those activities as effectively. A blog post– the way I write them– throwing my all into every paragraph, disciplining myself to do my best writing all over again with each new entry– occupies every spare moment of the week. I just published a book and directed a film. I'm tired. I'm happy and I'm thankful... but I'm tired. 

    2. On Books vs. Blogs

    Adding to this are two elements unrelated to exhaustion: 

    People aren't reading blogs anymore. Blogs have been dying out for a long time, and I'm glad mine has held on better than many, but the numbers just aren't there in the sky-high ways that used to be– even though readership of my work as a whole is increasing, due to the massive rise in press and awareness I've undergone in the last two-plus years. Far more people know my work than ever before, but they're reading the book more than the blog, never mind that the blog is hundreds of times larger. 

    Which brings me to my second point: Isn't this exactly what you would want? 

    I see what's happened as the ideal scenario. After all, bloggers who manage the incredible luck of getting published don't then abandon their newfound opportunities and humbly return to their Wordpress page. The natural next step is to follow through on the possibilities gifted you by this new playing field. (Plus, as per the recent announcement of my book being picked up, I'll be needing to dedicate more time to promoting it. Such a nice publisher, those folks at Chin Music; I've got to keep 'em happy!!)

    Thank holy goodness that people are favoring books over blogs. My dream was always to get a book out, because it feels real and tactile, and I get the impression readers feel similarly. Blogs don't "live" in the way books do; books you carry in your hand, carry on the bus and show your friends. Books change your bookshelf, complimenting the other titles and altering the room ever so slightly. Books breathe. 

    3. What's Next

    So. This blog will still contain the occasional story, because I'm not going to be able to stop myself from writing these things, but it will transition primarily to a venue for alerting you about upcoming writeups, interviews or events of mine. Look at the last three weeks of posts: they're all alerts for various talks, or updates and news on film screenings. That's the future of this blog– a way for you and I to stay connected. I'll also be sharing more of my photography online.

    But what about the future of Nathan's bus stories? Hopefully you like them, because I'm going to continue to work on them– but in the context of a future book. Nothing's set in stone, and as hinted earlier, a publisher would need to take an interest, but maybe someday after Lines has had its day in the sun I'll get a chance to have another baby. I've got plenty of ideas already.

    This will also open up possibilities for films in ways that would be impossible if I kept blogging as before– time can now be alotted for a new screenplay (already underway, actually!), and further attention can be paid to Men I Trust's life on the festival circuit, where it's doing much better than I ever anticipated despite having just entered the field (more on that soon!). 

    4. On Gloating

    I don't like talking about my own successes because I find gloating hugely unattractive– to do and to witness. I tend to consider whatever successes my endeavors have had as a mixture of incredible fortune and remarkable goodwill on the part of the people I've known throughout life. 

    I owe my entire being to certain people who have been kind to me. Who were kind when they didn't have to be, but who did it anyway and in so doing taught me about humanity, how to be good and kind and strive to be the best person I can be. No words can adequately express my thankfulness. I wouldn't even know how to take for granted the way your lives have affected me. 

    5. On Legacies

    I would rather consider myself an author and filmmaker than a blogger, and I wish to work in those mediums as I continue to share with you what I have. The blog is something I'll be endlessly proud of, endlessly grateful for your enthusiasm and support of it, without which none of any of this would be happening; few things move me more than when I met someone who's read the entirety of the blog.  

    But I feel a need to grow, and hope you can respect that. No one likes an endlessly running TV show that declines in quality as the years pass; but we all love a long film that knows just when to end. With a desire in mind to approximate the latter and not the former, I'll continue to post stories regularly between now and June 30, probably more frequently (I've got a lot I want to share!), and with the hope that it'll be among the best work I can offer. 

    If you like, please enjoy them, share them, and as ever, thank you, for everything. I'm not done yet. 

    I'm just getting started.
  • Published on

    My Baby All Grown Up

    Picture
    Just a quick announcement today, to let you know my book has officially been picked up by Chin Music Press (!!!), a Seattle-based publisher best known for their impeccable attention to design and presentation. I feel like my baby's going off to college! 

    Seriously though, the book seems to have a life and destiny of its own that is beyond me, and less representative of myself than whatever thirst it satisfies in its readers. I was shocked to learn it was more of a bestseller this past holiday season than the one previous, and that it was among Elliott Bay Books' top ten bestsellers... aaaaaand the only title among those bestsellers to be by a local author, debut author, or local press. 

    How did that happen??

    It wasn't me. It was you, dear readers, being excited and supportive. For this to have gone through five print runs while only being stocked in (mostly) six bookstores boggles my mind. We were the #1 bestselling book at Third Place Books: Seward Park for their holiday season... because you're wonderful. And I'm still trying to understand how it's worthy of being taught as a textbook at two universities. 

    I wrote the book because I had to. It doesn't seem like it would fit in to today's extremist, loudest-voice-wins-all climate; the round of publishers we queried in New York York certainly didn't think it had a chance. But you're not going to be able to stop humans from responding to kindness, especially in environments where there's a dearth of it. We want what we don't have, what we don't get enough of, and there aren't too many books about the humor and joy and pathos of humans of all demographics finding common ground. 

    (If it sounds like I'm bragging, I promise you I'm not; you know I have to plug this thing, aaaaaand also– whispering here– I'd love to do a– whispering even more– second book– someday, and you never know which publisher might be listening, now that we've proven this thing would've actually made them money... but that's for the future, not now. One baby at a time!)

    What does Chin Music taking over the book mean? Not much, if you've already read it. But you might see the book in more places, more readily available than it has been, reaching deeper within Seattle and farther out beyond. 

    If you liked the book, pass the word along! Please! It's the only form of advertising that's completely truthful, and I'm grateful and honored that that's been its primary modus of expansion. 

    Thank you.

    ---

    Thanks to Seattle Walk Report for the above image.