After Big Year experience in 2016, 2017, and 2018, perhaps I’m getting wiser. Perhaps not. Anyway, back in May, while walking the Way of Saint Francis, I resolved to make 2019 a Movie Big Year. Let me lovingly describe it to you, and tell me it doesn’t sound like the best fun of your life!
A Movie Big Year would involve watching a movie each and every day, from January 1 to December 31, no exceptions. Of course the devil is in the details, so I decided to clock my movie watching time and commit a daily average of 105 minutes, one and three quarter hours, that being the supposed average movie length. If I watched a TV series, for example, of ten 50-minute episodes, I’d watch it over about five days.
What a pleasure it would be seeking out films and series, old and new! I decided to see content from five sources: my local cinema, just round the corner; Netflix; Foxtel on Demand; Stan; and the Melbourne Film Festival (my big binge!).
Regrettably, just days before January 1, I’ve decided to defer this sweet, sweet joy. The writing I’m trying to get done in my Author Big Year, plus the demands of life, simply squeeze me too much. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the first three years of my Big Decade, trying to jam too much in leads to failure and depression.
When will the Movie Big Year take place? Soon, I pledge to myself, soon. 2020 isn’t a possibility . . . maybe 2021 can be.
With days to go before the shuttering of 2018 and the unfurling of 2019, do you glow with a sense of a year well spent? Do you reckon yourself more knowledgeable? Did you tackle any of your flaws, the ones you know so well? Was the nineteenth year of the 21st Century progressive or static?
I raise these questions with no arrogance or preachiness. I know I’m an outlier in desiring “progress” or “momentum” or “betterment.” I know I’m strange in dreading stasis. What’s more, my four 2018 Big Years mostly bombed out big time, so to the extent I tried to change myself over the year, the results weren’t stellar.
Today I probed my own situation. I’ll discuss the four specific Big Years in future posts, just to round off the year for my own benefit, but from a general perspective, here’s one important (to me, at least) observation: each of the four Big Years, even the ones that tanked in November, had SOME impact on me. Even if I didn’t take huge strides upwards, even if I sniffed the stench of “failure,” the very effort, the trying, the questing . . . I think I inched forward. That pleases me greatly.
A neat cartoon from three weeks ago in the Guardian (thanks, Shane). In the middle of reading The Eastern Curlew: The Extraordinary Life of a Migratory Bird by Harry Saddler, plonking a resort on Toondah Wetlands in Queensland seems barbaric.
Deciding what Big Years to do over my sixties is obviously of paramount importance. In May I decided to drop one planned such year, a Tough Hiking Big Year during which I might do the Tour du Mont Blanc, say, or the Western Arthurs, or some other famous slog. I figured I was done with masochistic challenges to self.
Last weekend we climbed the North West Spur up to Mount Feathertop, Victoria’s second highest peak. Once this hike would have had me sweating but confident. Now, underdone and less strong, the 1,000-metre ascent slammed my quads and, most weirdly, had me huffing and stopping. It was as if I were beginning pack carrying over again. At the end of two days, I was spent.
But here’s the mystifying aftermath: something in that unenjoyable battle sparked an ember. Isn’t this, after all, glorious? Doesn’t a physical test that gets you into remote, beautiful locations offer profundity. Should I reconsider the May decision? The jury is out.
Last year I listened to an album each and every day. Every 3 days, I stopped and jotted down some notes and a rating (archived on a Pinterest board). At the end of the year, and into the early part of this year, I bemoaned the fact that, while pleasant, that intense effort didn’t restore my love of music. I was listening no more frequently than back in 2016! Well, the strangest things happen . . . suddenly, nearly a year later, my rock mojo is back. At home, on the street, at work in a café, gorgeous modern music plays. It’s a tonic and an inspiration!
Ha! I was delighted to see that one of my heroes, artist and creativity inspirer, Austin Kleon, recently posted about “My year with Thoreau,” his daily reading of the abridged journal of Henry David Thoreau. By any other name, I call that a Big Year, and his post makes it clear it was a fruitful one. Take a look!
(Image from his post)
Call 2018 a well-meant mistake. Too many Big Years, full of strictures . . . failure of the most important ones. It’s one thing to acknowledge defeat, it’s another to move on. Right now, I need, deep inside, the knowledge of that daily call to discipline and action. Right now is a busy time but I have some ideas . . .
Doesn’t this brilliant photograph capture our anomie in this brutal universe? How do you cope? I tilt for the moon with my Big Years.
(Photo by eric anada from Pexels)
No details because the idea is only 10% formed but this The Eastern Curlew: The Extraordinary Life of a Migratory Bird by noted Melbourne ornithologist Harry Saddler has leapt out at me with the force of a bullet train. Saddler has apparently (based on Amazon’s blurb and Tim Flannery’s excellent October 13 review in The Weekend Australian Review) travelled, low budget and low key, to “see” the amazing Eastern Curlew in its environs. Can’t wait to read it . . .
In an opinion piece in the New York Times (Sep. 29), Tim Wu rues the modern dampener of the quests for “success” and “excellence” on the basic act of having a hobby.
Lost here is the gentle pursuit of a modest competence, the doing of something just because you enjoy it, not because you are good at it.
I’d go further: why not be really crappy at something and seek to gradually get a little bit better, even if you never become at all “good at it”? Most of my Big Years are exactly that, doing something every day and doing it badly. I’m a lousy birdwatcher and hey, no one I know jogs any slower than I do!
(Photo from that NYT article. Thanks to Jocelyn Glei‘s wonderful podcast and newsletter for bringing this to my attention.)