Wednesday, May 22, 2013
now and then
One year ago ...
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Save the CBC - a petition
I've recently donated $100 to the Friends of Canadian Broadcasting. They're battling right now to save the independence of the CBC from an insidious bill put forward by Harper, which would allow the government to control much more of the CBC budget and therefore the on-air content. There's also a story going around about the esteemed Mike Duffy trying to manipulate a CRTC decision about the funding of Sun TV, our version of the U.S.'s loathsome Fox "News."
Below is a petition to send to your M.P. The hearing is this week. This is urgent. Please sign now if you care about the CBC.
This morning, when I woke, my watch, which tells me the time in the morning, was not on my bedside table; I'd put it somewhere else. But I can tell time by the light and the sounds - still fairly early, not too much traffic. But later, I know exactly what time it is, thanks to my neighbour, Jian Ghomeshi, who gets in his red and black Mini and zooms out to work at 8.35 every weekday morning, except when he's travelling. He is one of the new marvels of the CBC, like his TV counterpart Strombo - extremely smart, charming, gifted. Listening to the CBC is entering a world full of interesting people, music and conversation, like a fantastic cocktail party. Its budget has been crushed in recent years. Let's not let it be harmed further.
http://www.friends.ca/free-cbc-from-harper
Below is a petition to send to your M.P. The hearing is this week. This is urgent. Please sign now if you care about the CBC.
This morning, when I woke, my watch, which tells me the time in the morning, was not on my bedside table; I'd put it somewhere else. But I can tell time by the light and the sounds - still fairly early, not too much traffic. But later, I know exactly what time it is, thanks to my neighbour, Jian Ghomeshi, who gets in his red and black Mini and zooms out to work at 8.35 every weekday morning, except when he's travelling. He is one of the new marvels of the CBC, like his TV counterpart Strombo - extremely smart, charming, gifted. Listening to the CBC is entering a world full of interesting people, music and conversation, like a fantastic cocktail party. Its budget has been crushed in recent years. Let's not let it be harmed further.
http://www.friends.ca/free-cbc-from-harper
Sunday, May 19, 2013
opening up the new room
Bushed. But happy bushed, on this beautiful Victoria Day weekend. Much of Toronto has decamped to the cottage, to sit by the lake and listen to the loons. Or, just as likely, the cottage next door's sound system, gas mower or motor boat. Whereas here in the ceety, we had the usual soundscape of a holiday weekend - birds, sirens, the guy on Spruce Street who spends every waking holiday moment making something with his power tools, my next-door neighbours gardening.
Me gardening. I planted some veggies and bought impatiens and herbs to plant tomorrow. John #2, my plumber and other handyman, and his friend came yesterday to stain the cedar planks of the new termite-less deck, and today to help put up my pergola and carry out the big plants that wintered indoors. My outdoor room is finally set up and ready, with its new carpet of cedar. What a long haul. John's friend showed me how even the base of my wooden planters had been devoured by termites. John, meanwhile, was investigating the lack of water at the front, to discover that the pipes there had burst during the winter and have to be replaced, which means cutting into the basement drywall.
Good thing there's something else broken around here, otherwise we'd all just be so bored!
John's friend is a born-again Christian visiting from California. John is born again too, and I'm happy for him, he says finding religion saved him from alcoholism, depression and self-destruction. Though he talks about his faith, he doesn't push it. But when his friend mentioned the love of the Lord God for the fifteenth time, I asked him to stop. He was proselytizing the whole time he was here, and it got to be a bit much.
Once the Jesus boys had gone, I did some more gardening, cut the lawn, moved the rest of the plants out, brought out and cleaned the cobwebby garden chairs and the seat cushions from the backyard shed, found the Provencale tablecloth - and collapsed with a glass of wine, to enjoy the soft dusk light filtering through the lilac.
There's chaos out there in the world - Obama fighting various scandals with the slavering Republicans at his heels, like starving wolves. And Rob Ford highlighting Toronto's embarrassment for the entire world. Again, as Jim Coyne pointed out in his "Star" article today, we have Mike Harris to thank for the fact that the suburbanites of Etobicoke elected their man and shoved him down the throats of the rest of us.
But let it rest. It's a holiday weekend, it's full on spring, flowers and scent everywhere, and you cannot solve the problems of the world by fuming. So pour another glass, go sit outside, and listen.
Me gardening. I planted some veggies and bought impatiens and herbs to plant tomorrow. John #2, my plumber and other handyman, and his friend came yesterday to stain the cedar planks of the new termite-less deck, and today to help put up my pergola and carry out the big plants that wintered indoors. My outdoor room is finally set up and ready, with its new carpet of cedar. What a long haul. John's friend showed me how even the base of my wooden planters had been devoured by termites. John, meanwhile, was investigating the lack of water at the front, to discover that the pipes there had burst during the winter and have to be replaced, which means cutting into the basement drywall.
Good thing there's something else broken around here, otherwise we'd all just be so bored!
John's friend is a born-again Christian visiting from California. John is born again too, and I'm happy for him, he says finding religion saved him from alcoholism, depression and self-destruction. Though he talks about his faith, he doesn't push it. But when his friend mentioned the love of the Lord God for the fifteenth time, I asked him to stop. He was proselytizing the whole time he was here, and it got to be a bit much.
Once the Jesus boys had gone, I did some more gardening, cut the lawn, moved the rest of the plants out, brought out and cleaned the cobwebby garden chairs and the seat cushions from the backyard shed, found the Provencale tablecloth - and collapsed with a glass of wine, to enjoy the soft dusk light filtering through the lilac.
There's chaos out there in the world - Obama fighting various scandals with the slavering Republicans at his heels, like starving wolves. And Rob Ford highlighting Toronto's embarrassment for the entire world. Again, as Jim Coyne pointed out in his "Star" article today, we have Mike Harris to thank for the fact that the suburbanites of Etobicoke elected their man and shoved him down the throats of the rest of us.
But let it rest. It's a holiday weekend, it's full on spring, flowers and scent everywhere, and you cannot solve the problems of the world by fuming. So pour another glass, go sit outside, and listen.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Hilary Mantel on memoir
There's a fun interview with the esteemed Hilary Mantel in the NYT today. Here is what she has to say about memoir:
In addition to your novels, you’ve also written a memoir. What makes a good memoir? Any recent memoirs you would recommend?
It’s not recent, but I would recommend “Bad Blood,” by Lorna Sage. It’s a memoir of childhood and private life that has an almost eerie immediacy. When I was reading it, I felt as if the author were talking to me: and I talked back (at least, in my head). Memoir’s not an easy form. It’s not for beginners, which is unfortunate, as it is where many people do begin. It’s hard for beginners to accept that unmediated truth often sounds unlikely and unconvincing. If other people are to care about your life, art must intervene. The writer has to negotiate with her memories, and with her reader, and find a way, without interrupting the flow, to caution that this cannot be a true record: this is a version, seen from a single viewpoint. But she has to make it as true as she can. Writing a memoir is a process of facing yourself, so you must do it when you are ready.
more coffee!
This morning, lots of energy, with fresh, delicious caffeine circulating in my blood and brain. Several people have written in support of my coffee habit. Best of all, Bruce (who's in Amsterdam, standing in ecstasy in front of the 5 Vermeers at the new Rijksmuseum) sent a link to an article proving that the more coffee you drink, the healthier you are. Woo hoo!
Here's the last paragraph and the link. Go on, have another cup.
Here's the last paragraph and the link. Go on, have another cup.
The evidence remains overwhelmingly in coffee's favor. Yes, it was observational, but the study published in May in the New England Journal of Medicine looked at hundreds of thousands of men and women and found this bottom line result: people who drank coffee lived longer than those who didn't.
And the more they drank, the longer they lived. If you're into that sort of thing.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Yuck - spam
Readers, there's a relentless new spamming entity out there, and now my blog posts are being showered with hideously ungrammatical comments. I was just checking around, and for some reason, even posts from years ago have attracted these annoying pests. One post from earlier this year has 65 comments, all leading to sites about labrador retrievers etc.
I have tried to change the settings so you have to enter a word before you can post a reply. We'll see if that works. I'm wrestling with the forces of darkness, as I sit here drinking tea on my kitchen sofa.
I have tried to change the settings so you have to enter a word before you can post a reply. We'll see if that works. I'm wrestling with the forces of darkness, as I sit here drinking tea on my kitchen sofa.
not so springy
Ever since my brief but intense encounter with cocaine, in 1976, I have been forced to acknowledge the addictive side of my personality. Today, that aspect came once again to the fore. A few days ago, I decided to check my Air Miles points, and to my delight had enough to buy something I've wanted for ages, a burr coffee grinder. It arrived yesterday, I bought beans at the local deli, and today I enjoyed freshly ground coffee at breakfast.
But the day proceeded badly. I thought because I'd risen too early - at 6.30 - after too little sleep, I was worn out. Or perhaps I had exhausted myself yesterday, a morning of rushing about, an afternoon with Booboo here, my house a shambles and my arms strained after hauling 25 pounds of wriggling boy. I had so little energy, I had to go back to bed for an hour, and then still couldn't get anything done. At last night's home class, a student wrote about a sudden hospitalization that had left her listless and depressed; for some reason, I was experiencing the same feelings. Why bother? Just sit and stare at the sky.
And then at lunch, as I decided to make another cup of coffee, I realized. The beans I bought yesterday and had consumed for breakfast were decaff. Without the usual dose of my drug, I had lost much of the day to entropy.
That's some powerful drug. Plus, the Air Miles points for my free grinder were accumulated entirely at the LCBO, buying red wine, my other major addiction. Ah well. Could be glue. Could be expensive shoes or tattoos. Coffee and wine - could be worse. I rode over to the delightful Merchants of Green Coffee for a large load of caffeinated beans. Tomorrow morning I'll jam a big dose into my central nervous system and leap into the day.
Four classes this week, lots and lots of stories. After Wednesday's very full session at Ryerson, a wonderful writer from India said, "After hearing their stories, I feel love for everyone in this class." And so do I.
Today, like most of Toronto, I headed to the garden store - which luckily for me is only half a block away - to buy plants. So far, mostly veggies for my garden, which I'll plant tomorrow. It has been sunny, though there's still a bite in the air. Right now, looking out past the fresh cedar of the deck, all I can see is 56 shades of green. Praise be for green.
P.S. Here's a great link to pictures of writers' outlines - some are amazingly convoluted and intricate.
But the day proceeded badly. I thought because I'd risen too early - at 6.30 - after too little sleep, I was worn out. Or perhaps I had exhausted myself yesterday, a morning of rushing about, an afternoon with Booboo here, my house a shambles and my arms strained after hauling 25 pounds of wriggling boy. I had so little energy, I had to go back to bed for an hour, and then still couldn't get anything done. At last night's home class, a student wrote about a sudden hospitalization that had left her listless and depressed; for some reason, I was experiencing the same feelings. Why bother? Just sit and stare at the sky.
And then at lunch, as I decided to make another cup of coffee, I realized. The beans I bought yesterday and had consumed for breakfast were decaff. Without the usual dose of my drug, I had lost much of the day to entropy.
That's some powerful drug. Plus, the Air Miles points for my free grinder were accumulated entirely at the LCBO, buying red wine, my other major addiction. Ah well. Could be glue. Could be expensive shoes or tattoos. Coffee and wine - could be worse. I rode over to the delightful Merchants of Green Coffee for a large load of caffeinated beans. Tomorrow morning I'll jam a big dose into my central nervous system and leap into the day.
Four classes this week, lots and lots of stories. After Wednesday's very full session at Ryerson, a wonderful writer from India said, "After hearing their stories, I feel love for everyone in this class." And so do I.
Today, like most of Toronto, I headed to the garden store - which luckily for me is only half a block away - to buy plants. So far, mostly veggies for my garden, which I'll plant tomorrow. It has been sunny, though there's still a bite in the air. Right now, looking out past the fresh cedar of the deck, all I can see is 56 shades of green. Praise be for green.
P.S. Here's a great link to pictures of writers' outlines - some are amazingly convoluted and intricate.
|
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
the courage of Angelina Jolie and Chris Hadfield
Just read this and had to share it with you: Angelina's Jolie's op-ed piece in the "New York Times" about preventative surgery. Moving and brave. I have admired her for years, both her and Brad, in fact, crazy as they are - somehow, in the lurid fishbowl and incomprehensible wealth and fame of their lives, they are living a love affair and raising a family. And doing so with considerable grace, generosity and courage. For a movie star not just to do this but to write about it so publicly - brava, BRAVA to Angelina.
And - bravo, too, to Chris Hadfield, just returned from space. What an extraordinary man, what a journey he has shared with us, he and his enquiring mind and his guitar. Suddenly, space doesn't seem so very far away.
What a pleasure to celebrate heroes.
| http://nyti.ms/18Hbxsg |
And - bravo, too, to Chris Hadfield, just returned from space. What an extraordinary man, what a journey he has shared with us, he and his enquiring mind and his guitar. Suddenly, space doesn't seem so very far away.
What a pleasure to celebrate heroes.
Phooey!
Richard the roofer is spending the next few days ripping off the old termite-riddled siding on the wall next door, attached to my kitchen. I was upstairs working when I heard the sound of smashing china. He'd hit so hard that several of the antique china jugs, serving dishes and bowls I'd just inherited from Mum fell off my open kitchen shelves and broke. Glass and china all over the kitchen floor, the cat fleeing in panic. Now the banging, hammering and drilling continues. He has hired another guy to help him. All on my bill.
IS THERE NO END TO THIS TORMENT?
Soft ye now. This too shall pass. It's a test of your new-found tranquillity and acceptance.
AND I'M FAILING THE TEST.
No I'm not. It'll be okay. The weather makes it all worse - it's awful, freezing, grey with a nasty, damp chill. Nobody can garden because there's a threat of frost. And I can't garden anyway because my deck needs to be stained and my yard is still full of junk. Not to mention the noise. Not to mention the bill that's coming.
And I'm sorry that the Leafs, as my son wrote on Facebook, snatched defeat from the jaws of victory last night, ahead 4-1 and then, somehow, beaten. Not that I care, but others do.
But ... here are some pix, taken on Mother's Day, guaranteed to flood my heart with good thoughts.
So cheer up, you whiney old bag. There are books and pies topped with ice cream to share.
IS THERE NO END TO THIS TORMENT?
Soft ye now. This too shall pass. It's a test of your new-found tranquillity and acceptance.
AND I'M FAILING THE TEST.
No I'm not. It'll be okay. The weather makes it all worse - it's awful, freezing, grey with a nasty, damp chill. Nobody can garden because there's a threat of frost. And I can't garden anyway because my deck needs to be stained and my yard is still full of junk. Not to mention the noise. Not to mention the bill that's coming.
And I'm sorry that the Leafs, as my son wrote on Facebook, snatched defeat from the jaws of victory last night, ahead 4-1 and then, somehow, beaten. Not that I care, but others do.
But ... here are some pix, taken on Mother's Day, guaranteed to flood my heart with good thoughts.
So cheer up, you whiney old bag. There are books and pies topped with ice cream to share.
Monday, May 13, 2013
celebrating the Leafs
However, tonight's outcome matters deeply to people I love and to the city I love.
So, I will say it, loud and clear: GO LEAFS GO!
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Happy Mother's Day to you all
A bizarre Mother's Day - freezing cold, rain, hail, hot sun, and right now, a burst of sleet followed by more sun. I just hope Anna and Eli were not out in the downpour. I'm preparing to go over there soon, with a basket of goodies - a bunch of lilies of the valley, lilac and forsythia from the garden, potted lilac and spices for her garden, some foodstuffs from Daniel and Daniel, a hanging basket of flowers, a bottle of wine (for me.) Sam will meet us there briefly, as he's working later, and we'll celebrate all mothers everywhere, and those who are not mothers but who have a mother, too.
Poor Richard the roofer (to be differentiated from Richard the termite hunter and Richard my dear neighbour the royalty expert) is out there in this ghastly weather pulling away at my neighbour's wall - well, my wall. The termites have gone deep and they've gone high, and there are ants too. Everything has to be ripped off, killer Richard will come to spray, roofer Richard, who is impervious to weather, will replace it all. The new wall will cost a fortune, and I will never see it.
Ah well - it's not ill health, it's not unhappiness, it's just money. The only thing that matters now, as I call a cab to get me and my heavy goodies across town, is to celebrate life and love with family and friends on this, my 32nd Mother's Day, my first without my own mother, and my daughter's first with her boy. Last year, on Mother's Day, I called Mum, and we all talked to her. Anna did not have a son, only a bulge, a very active, kicking bulge we could not wait to meet.
Today, what matters is to eat and drink and toast, and hold a little boy close.
Just heard Eleanor Wachtel's interview with Kate Atkinson, who says because she was an only child and only had one child herself, a daughter, she had no understanding of the male psyche until getting to know her grandson. Now, she says, as a result of this young boy, she understands much more about men. Eli will do that for me too.
Understanding men: priceless.
Poor Richard the roofer (to be differentiated from Richard the termite hunter and Richard my dear neighbour the royalty expert) is out there in this ghastly weather pulling away at my neighbour's wall - well, my wall. The termites have gone deep and they've gone high, and there are ants too. Everything has to be ripped off, killer Richard will come to spray, roofer Richard, who is impervious to weather, will replace it all. The new wall will cost a fortune, and I will never see it.
Ah well - it's not ill health, it's not unhappiness, it's just money. The only thing that matters now, as I call a cab to get me and my heavy goodies across town, is to celebrate life and love with family and friends on this, my 32nd Mother's Day, my first without my own mother, and my daughter's first with her boy. Last year, on Mother's Day, I called Mum, and we all talked to her. Anna did not have a son, only a bulge, a very active, kicking bulge we could not wait to meet.
Today, what matters is to eat and drink and toast, and hold a little boy close.
Just heard Eleanor Wachtel's interview with Kate Atkinson, who says because she was an only child and only had one child herself, a daughter, she had no understanding of the male psyche until getting to know her grandson. Now, she says, as a result of this young boy, she understands much more about men. Eli will do that for me too.
Understanding men: priceless.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
"This is water" - David Foster Wallace
This is a very beautiful video made with the audio of a commencement speech - an excerpt of a commencement speech - made by David Foster Wallace to a graduating class. It's about being conscious and aware; it's a treat, and wise and valuable too.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmpYnxlEh0c
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmpYnxlEh0c
springing
Saturday supper-time. Last night a torrential downpour, today dark grey skies alternating with sun, and tonight chilly but bright. I am inside with the backdoor open, smelling the woody tang of freshly cut cedar. My new deck. We're getting there, folks. But not quite. As in the "Beyond the Fringe" quip Mum and I loved to quote: "News of fresh disasters."
Because my kitchen extension juts out from my attached neighbour to the north, she has an outside south wall that is, it turns out, officially mine, though I cannot see it. It has been covered with thick ivy for years, and though I've begged her to allow me to remove it, as it has damaged my roof and provided a cosy home for raccoons, she has always refused, because "it's pretty." Well, so much for pretty - now we know that it is full of termites, and so is all the siding beneath it. And all of that, it turns out, the removal of damaged materials and the replacement of undercoat and siding, is my financial responsibility.
The irony is that my ivy-loving neighbour has had hardly any termite damage, whereas I have had a great deal. We're at nearly $40,000 worth. Absolutely devastating.
But I have a new cedar deck. I didn't realize that the wood needs to be stained and cannot be stained until we've had at least four days of hot sun. Until then, we have to walk on it in slippers. I do have eavestroughs now, though, and a finished roof. Praise the lord.
To cheer me up in the middle of all this, my dear friend Eleanor Wachtel, whom I've known since the mid-seventies in Vancouver, invited me to be her guest at the Canadian Opera Company's production of "Lucia di Lammermore." Those of you who follow here know that I ranted a few months ago about a supremely offensive director, Christopher Alden, who did his best to ruin not one but two wonderful classic operas. I did take a quick look before going this time, to see that this one was directed not by Christopher Alden but by a David something.
Wonderful seats and an amazingly knowledgeable date, who whispered as the curtain went down that she had heard it was a bit strange. Well. A classic tragedy by Puccini, it tells of a love between the son and daughter of two rival Scottish clans, forbidden by the bullying brother of the heroine, who turns their love into a bloodbath. In this production, Lucia is not a passionate young girl but a child dressed like Alice in Wonderland, or a midget, since she spends most of the play singing and moving about on her knees. Her brother the Scottish lord, in this production, spends time playing dazedly with his childhood toys and staggering around with his mouth agape. He is madly, incestuously in love with his sister and gropes her, at one point tying her to the bed, reaching under her skirt and grabbing her genitals just as she hits a high note.
Etc. You get the picture, I won't bore you with all the ridiculous, offensive details. Once again, the music and the singing are gorgeous, sublime, the production horrible. And guess what? At intermission, I learned from Eleanor about the Alden brothers. Yes. "Lucia" is directed by David Alden, who is none other than the brother of the dreadful Christopher Alden.
What are the odds? Two untalented brothers who direct to shock and be noticed, who put their sexual and emotional neuroses on stage, make a mockery of fine art and are rewarded by extended contracts with the COC.
I wrote to the company, as you can imagine, and this time they actually wrote back. Dismissively.
In other news: teaching started last week, a good-sized class at U of T and a completely full class at Ryerson. Good to see you all, students. And also - I haven't told you this yet, but now I will - I have started seeing my old psychiatrist again. As my marriage was falling apart and then divorce hit in the nineties, I began seeing Dr. O'Neil, who saved my life, literally as well as figuratively. Eventually I was in full psychoanalysis, four times a week, for four or five years. As I tell my students, "You see this serene and smiling face? It's thanks to lots of therapy and Dr. O'Neil."
As we were winding down our work, Dr. O'Neil moved to Montreal, and I'd call her once a year. Now, more than 20 years after we started, she has moved back to the city, and I asked to see her again. Not for myself, but to discuss difficult family issues and how to handle them. Because she is wise and sensible, and she knows me better than anyone on earth. What a gift.
Randy Bachman's show just started on CBC. Time for dancing. My tomato plants are out there ready to be planted - risk of frost tonight, they said, so I'll wait till the middle of next week. But it's spring spring spring. Out there, and in here too.
Because my kitchen extension juts out from my attached neighbour to the north, she has an outside south wall that is, it turns out, officially mine, though I cannot see it. It has been covered with thick ivy for years, and though I've begged her to allow me to remove it, as it has damaged my roof and provided a cosy home for raccoons, she has always refused, because "it's pretty." Well, so much for pretty - now we know that it is full of termites, and so is all the siding beneath it. And all of that, it turns out, the removal of damaged materials and the replacement of undercoat and siding, is my financial responsibility.
The irony is that my ivy-loving neighbour has had hardly any termite damage, whereas I have had a great deal. We're at nearly $40,000 worth. Absolutely devastating.
But I have a new cedar deck. I didn't realize that the wood needs to be stained and cannot be stained until we've had at least four days of hot sun. Until then, we have to walk on it in slippers. I do have eavestroughs now, though, and a finished roof. Praise the lord.
To cheer me up in the middle of all this, my dear friend Eleanor Wachtel, whom I've known since the mid-seventies in Vancouver, invited me to be her guest at the Canadian Opera Company's production of "Lucia di Lammermore." Those of you who follow here know that I ranted a few months ago about a supremely offensive director, Christopher Alden, who did his best to ruin not one but two wonderful classic operas. I did take a quick look before going this time, to see that this one was directed not by Christopher Alden but by a David something.
Wonderful seats and an amazingly knowledgeable date, who whispered as the curtain went down that she had heard it was a bit strange. Well. A classic tragedy by Puccini, it tells of a love between the son and daughter of two rival Scottish clans, forbidden by the bullying brother of the heroine, who turns their love into a bloodbath. In this production, Lucia is not a passionate young girl but a child dressed like Alice in Wonderland, or a midget, since she spends most of the play singing and moving about on her knees. Her brother the Scottish lord, in this production, spends time playing dazedly with his childhood toys and staggering around with his mouth agape. He is madly, incestuously in love with his sister and gropes her, at one point tying her to the bed, reaching under her skirt and grabbing her genitals just as she hits a high note.
Etc. You get the picture, I won't bore you with all the ridiculous, offensive details. Once again, the music and the singing are gorgeous, sublime, the production horrible. And guess what? At intermission, I learned from Eleanor about the Alden brothers. Yes. "Lucia" is directed by David Alden, who is none other than the brother of the dreadful Christopher Alden.
What are the odds? Two untalented brothers who direct to shock and be noticed, who put their sexual and emotional neuroses on stage, make a mockery of fine art and are rewarded by extended contracts with the COC.
I wrote to the company, as you can imagine, and this time they actually wrote back. Dismissively.
In other news: teaching started last week, a good-sized class at U of T and a completely full class at Ryerson. Good to see you all, students. And also - I haven't told you this yet, but now I will - I have started seeing my old psychiatrist again. As my marriage was falling apart and then divorce hit in the nineties, I began seeing Dr. O'Neil, who saved my life, literally as well as figuratively. Eventually I was in full psychoanalysis, four times a week, for four or five years. As I tell my students, "You see this serene and smiling face? It's thanks to lots of therapy and Dr. O'Neil."
As we were winding down our work, Dr. O'Neil moved to Montreal, and I'd call her once a year. Now, more than 20 years after we started, she has moved back to the city, and I asked to see her again. Not for myself, but to discuss difficult family issues and how to handle them. Because she is wise and sensible, and she knows me better than anyone on earth. What a gift.
Randy Bachman's show just started on CBC. Time for dancing. My tomato plants are out there ready to be planted - risk of frost tonight, they said, so I'll wait till the middle of next week. But it's spring spring spring. Out there, and in here too.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Enough said
Good question.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
chaos
The day so far: the roofer arrived at dawn, or what felt like dawn, climbing up his big ladder to the roof to begin hammering and soldering, followed by the Aetna poison guys who were disappointed that the concrete for the deck has already been laid because they were supposed to spread a layer of termite poison on the ground beforehand. So they had to drill holes in the concrete to inject their stuff. Followed by the deck guys, who've filled my yard with lumber and equipment and are hammering in the sun. Followed by the garden guys whose number I found on a lamppost yesterday, who did a tour with me and will come soon to help me prune and plant. (The lilac is old and most of it has to go; the Japanese maple is dying of thirst.) The neighbour pointed out the two dead trees between our properties and suggested we take them down.
My mother's accountant wrote that something was sent out with the wrong SIN number, and her tax guy sent various forms to be signed; we are still having problems with the IRS demanding money that we think we don't owe, so many emails are flying back and forth and much money is being spent on experts. Plus yesterday I realized that instead of my usual Tuesday afternoon class at U of T starting today, my boss had suggested we try it in the evening and had made the change, which I'd completely forgotten and had scheduled a Tuesday home class. So much panicked emailing and calling to head off people coming over here tonight, since I'll be at U of T. The home class changed to Monday. Many emails.
My bank manager and I need to meet but cannot find a time; various social invitations need responses; and I spent time with Airbnb trying to book a room in Ottawa for my July visit to visit my aunt and Paul McCartney, as I cannot stay with my mother any more. Because she has died. As I will die one day myself.
At which point, time to jump on the bike to head to Mt. Sinai Hospital for my annual eye exam for glaucoma and general disintegration. Just before rushing out, took a call from my son. Last month his new bike, specially fashioned for his six foot eight frame, was stolen. He bought a new one, and the front tire was stolen. He bought a new front tire and an inviolable lock, and this morning found the back tire gone. He has been having a very hard spring, and all this did not cheer him up. His mother tried.
And then it was noon.
Last night, finally caught "Bletchley Circle," the final episode, so I'll have to find the first three. How very sad that my mother did not live to see this, as it's not just about what the people at Bletchley did, secretly, to win the war, but about their lives afterwards, especially the lives of women who went from exciting and challenging work to homemaking. I do not think my mother minded that, however. She would have loved to see the show. And after that, watched Simon Schama about Shakespeare's England, with a long treatise on Falstaff. I'll check the Stratford program to see if any of the history plays are on this year, and make sure to see them. The night before, the wonderful "Shakespeare Uncovered" series, with a program on "Hamlet." TV at its best.
I hate this chaos in my home and feel I'm about to be blown away in a high wind. But this too shall pass. The weather is sublime, and we are all healthy. My eyes are fine. Onward.
My mother's accountant wrote that something was sent out with the wrong SIN number, and her tax guy sent various forms to be signed; we are still having problems with the IRS demanding money that we think we don't owe, so many emails are flying back and forth and much money is being spent on experts. Plus yesterday I realized that instead of my usual Tuesday afternoon class at U of T starting today, my boss had suggested we try it in the evening and had made the change, which I'd completely forgotten and had scheduled a Tuesday home class. So much panicked emailing and calling to head off people coming over here tonight, since I'll be at U of T. The home class changed to Monday. Many emails.
My bank manager and I need to meet but cannot find a time; various social invitations need responses; and I spent time with Airbnb trying to book a room in Ottawa for my July visit to visit my aunt and Paul McCartney, as I cannot stay with my mother any more. Because she has died. As I will die one day myself.
At which point, time to jump on the bike to head to Mt. Sinai Hospital for my annual eye exam for glaucoma and general disintegration. Just before rushing out, took a call from my son. Last month his new bike, specially fashioned for his six foot eight frame, was stolen. He bought a new one, and the front tire was stolen. He bought a new front tire and an inviolable lock, and this morning found the back tire gone. He has been having a very hard spring, and all this did not cheer him up. His mother tried.
And then it was noon.
Last night, finally caught "Bletchley Circle," the final episode, so I'll have to find the first three. How very sad that my mother did not live to see this, as it's not just about what the people at Bletchley did, secretly, to win the war, but about their lives afterwards, especially the lives of women who went from exciting and challenging work to homemaking. I do not think my mother minded that, however. She would have loved to see the show. And after that, watched Simon Schama about Shakespeare's England, with a long treatise on Falstaff. I'll check the Stratford program to see if any of the history plays are on this year, and make sure to see them. The night before, the wonderful "Shakespeare Uncovered" series, with a program on "Hamlet." TV at its best.
I hate this chaos in my home and feel I'm about to be blown away in a high wind. But this too shall pass. The weather is sublime, and we are all healthy. My eyes are fine. Onward.
Monday, May 6, 2013
news about writing classes
Monday morning, all systems go - the guys are preparing to make concrete for the deck, the roofer is hammering the shingles, my usually quiet yard is full of men, ladders, equipment. A concrete mixer. Life is so exciting.
And I'm at work too, preparing for my teaching term which starts tomorrow, with the U of T class "Life Stories," at 12.30. Then there's my evening home class tomorrow evening at 6, for students who've worked with me at least once before.
The Wednesday Ryerson class at 6.30, "True to Life," is full or very nearly. Any former students who are thinking of registering, contact me directly instead - perhaps you'll fit with the Tuesday bunch. There's room in that class.
When she was about 9, my daughter made a sign for my mother's art room - trees, flowers, and the words, "Come on in - it's art time!"
This is my message to you: Come on in - it's writing time!
And I'm at work too, preparing for my teaching term which starts tomorrow, with the U of T class "Life Stories," at 12.30. Then there's my evening home class tomorrow evening at 6, for students who've worked with me at least once before.
The Wednesday Ryerson class at 6.30, "True to Life," is full or very nearly. Any former students who are thinking of registering, contact me directly instead - perhaps you'll fit with the Tuesday bunch. There's room in that class.
When she was about 9, my daughter made a sign for my mother's art room - trees, flowers, and the words, "Come on in - it's art time!"
This is my message to you: Come on in - it's writing time!
Sunday, May 5, 2013
*** Vital - save the CBC! ***
The new Harper budget bill is going to do something crazy -- take hold of our public media and turn the CBC into a place where Harper's cronies could control the newsroom.
This is how tyrannical governments behave -- they try to silence and control independent media. But the bill goes into committee in days and we can get this small collection of MPs to amend the bill and take their hands off our CBC before it's too late.
Sign the petition and when we reach 100,000 voices to free the CBC, Avaaz will deliver our call directly to the finance committee before the hearings begin!
http://www.avaaz.org/en/save_the_cbc_2013_b/?thYzccb
This is how tyrannical governments behave -- they try to silence and control independent media. But the bill goes into committee in days and we can get this small collection of MPs to amend the bill and take their hands off our CBC before it's too late.
Sign the petition and when we reach 100,000 voices to free the CBC, Avaaz will deliver our call directly to the finance committee before the hearings begin!
http://www.avaaz.org/en/save_the_cbc_2013_b/?thYzccb
"Good ol' Freda"
It's one of those days when you cannot believe the good luck of being alive: 23 degrees on a spring/summer Sunday with the city in bloom. After experiencing spring across America and on the west coast, now I get to enjoy it all over again - and the word for today is forsythia.
This is outside my front door - a wall of gold. It was also the 42nd annual Forsythia Festival in Cabbagetown today; I went up the street to watch the parade, remembering when my kids were in it, all dressed up, riding their bikes. It's amazing how many kids live in this neighborhood. I think because my own have left, they've all left. But obviously not.
The parade on Sackville Street
Festivities continued in Wellesley Park, including a great new addition - a beer tent for grownups. See the delicate green on the trees - ready to burst forth.
Yesterday, another great celebration, Anna's 32nd birthday barbecue and gardening work party. You'll be happy to hear that I forgot my phone, otherwise you would be inundated with photos. I went early, we rented an Autoshare car and went to buy fertilizer and plants, including herbs, a lilac and a rosebush. My daughter rents a ground floor apartment with a yard, which was an ugly wasteland until recently, full of debris. Now, it's a green and growing garden and play-space for her son and friends.
Last night, to Hot Docs, one of my favourite festivals which I've missed this year due to travel and cold. But could not miss this one, luckily pointed out by my friend Leslie, who met me there - "Good ol' Freda," a documentary about Freda Kelly, who was secretary to Brian Epstein and who ran the Beatles Fan Club until the band broke up in 1970. Of course for a nutty fan like myself, it was a fabulous exploration of that time and place, the personalities and events that affected millions of us. But surprisingly, it's more - because Freda herself is so genuine, warm and honest, a loyal woman who has never betrayed secrets or sold her story for money, it becomes the portrait of a truly good human being. She's talking now only because she has a grandson and wants him to know about her life.
She was like a member of the Beatles' families through those years, and the film shows again what ordinary working-class stock the boys came from, how solid were their values of hard work, decency and humour. Thrilling.
PS I know I'm truly home. Spent Sunday afternoon, as I love to do, listening to CBC radio while doing chores - today, effecting the great wardrobe switchover, winter stuff into boxes, summer stuff out. Because it's full on summer today, baby. No nambypamby spring for us.
Yesterday, another great celebration, Anna's 32nd birthday barbecue and gardening work party. You'll be happy to hear that I forgot my phone, otherwise you would be inundated with photos. I went early, we rented an Autoshare car and went to buy fertilizer and plants, including herbs, a lilac and a rosebush. My daughter rents a ground floor apartment with a yard, which was an ugly wasteland until recently, full of debris. Now, it's a green and growing garden and play-space for her son and friends.
Last night, to Hot Docs, one of my favourite festivals which I've missed this year due to travel and cold. But could not miss this one, luckily pointed out by my friend Leslie, who met me there - "Good ol' Freda," a documentary about Freda Kelly, who was secretary to Brian Epstein and who ran the Beatles Fan Club until the band broke up in 1970. Of course for a nutty fan like myself, it was a fabulous exploration of that time and place, the personalities and events that affected millions of us. But surprisingly, it's more - because Freda herself is so genuine, warm and honest, a loyal woman who has never betrayed secrets or sold her story for money, it becomes the portrait of a truly good human being. She's talking now only because she has a grandson and wants him to know about her life.
She was like a member of the Beatles' families through those years, and the film shows again what ordinary working-class stock the boys came from, how solid were their values of hard work, decency and humour. Thrilling.
PS I know I'm truly home. Spent Sunday afternoon, as I love to do, listening to CBC radio while doing chores - today, effecting the great wardrobe switchover, winter stuff into boxes, summer stuff out. Because it's full on summer today, baby. No nambypamby spring for us.
Friday, May 3, 2013
cedar
Just out in the garden with the secateurs, chopping off the old dead stuff from last year, trying not to harm the new buds, the green new growth just below it. Another perfect day, and I'm enjoying it despite still-stuffed up head and general droopiness from 3 sleepless, stuffed up nights. Last night at 4 a.m. I wondered if I was being punished for my holiday. I'm way behind in house chores - my 9-foot high oleander is so afflicted with sticky scale that I spend a great deal of time hovering beneath it, scraping the stuff off with my fingernails. If I hadn't gone away for a month, I'd have kept it healthy. All my fault. As usual.
Especially out in the garden, I think of my mother. She was a great gardener - in her healthy days, she'd leap out into my garden on her visits, pruning and adjusting. Sometimes the hole in my life that was filled by my mother hurts. Most of the time, though, I'm just glad she's not deteriorating any more. Auntie Do, at 93, is going strong.
John and John came today to consult about the deck - because of the on-going threat of termites, they'd proposed the replacement deck be made of plastic wood; though practical, undoubtedly, the stuff has one great drawback - it looks like plastic wood. So now my guys have figured out how to put in a solid concrete base so there can be real cedar on top. After my time in B.C., the thought of anything but cedar is out of the question. And Richard the roofer will appear this evening and start tomorrow. So there will be many men hammering madly for the next week or so.
And then, perhaps, peace. No more big projects, house? Please?
Today, my daughter is 32. Her party is tomorrow; she has invited close friends over to help her transform the industrial wasteland behind her rented apartment into a garden, and then she'll provide a barbecue. I'm going early with rented car to help buy soil and plants. I'm sure there will be a miniature plot for Booboo. She is spending today just with her boy, told me he took her to lunch at her favourite little café. Not bad for a son who's not quite one.
Ran into an old friend on the street nearby. She opened her arms to hug me. "Beware, I have a cold," I said.
"Oh I know," she said, "and what a wonderful trip you've just had!"
A blog saves so much time.
P.S. Two quotes for you: on YouTube yesterday, I watched Colbert interview President Clinton. At one point, Colbert said, I'm younger than you and I'm exhausted just reading the list of what you're doing right now. How do you do it?
And Clinton replied, "When you get older, you have more time to work."
YAY.
And David Steinberg the comedian on Jian this morning, talking about comedians: It doesn't matter if they're African-American, Asian, gay, he said, the more personal and honest they are, the more the audience will connect with them.
That's how it is with memoir too. As my classes at Ryerson and U of T will begin to learn next Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday evening. Looking forward to meeting you all.
Especially out in the garden, I think of my mother. She was a great gardener - in her healthy days, she'd leap out into my garden on her visits, pruning and adjusting. Sometimes the hole in my life that was filled by my mother hurts. Most of the time, though, I'm just glad she's not deteriorating any more. Auntie Do, at 93, is going strong.
John and John came today to consult about the deck - because of the on-going threat of termites, they'd proposed the replacement deck be made of plastic wood; though practical, undoubtedly, the stuff has one great drawback - it looks like plastic wood. So now my guys have figured out how to put in a solid concrete base so there can be real cedar on top. After my time in B.C., the thought of anything but cedar is out of the question. And Richard the roofer will appear this evening and start tomorrow. So there will be many men hammering madly for the next week or so.
And then, perhaps, peace. No more big projects, house? Please?
Today, my daughter is 32. Her party is tomorrow; she has invited close friends over to help her transform the industrial wasteland behind her rented apartment into a garden, and then she'll provide a barbecue. I'm going early with rented car to help buy soil and plants. I'm sure there will be a miniature plot for Booboo. She is spending today just with her boy, told me he took her to lunch at her favourite little café. Not bad for a son who's not quite one.
Ran into an old friend on the street nearby. She opened her arms to hug me. "Beware, I have a cold," I said.
"Oh I know," she said, "and what a wonderful trip you've just had!"
A blog saves so much time.
P.S. Two quotes for you: on YouTube yesterday, I watched Colbert interview President Clinton. At one point, Colbert said, I'm younger than you and I'm exhausted just reading the list of what you're doing right now. How do you do it?
And Clinton replied, "When you get older, you have more time to work."
YAY.
And David Steinberg the comedian on Jian this morning, talking about comedians: It doesn't matter if they're African-American, Asian, gay, he said, the more personal and honest they are, the more the audience will connect with them.
That's how it is with memoir too. As my classes at Ryerson and U of T will begin to learn next Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday evening. Looking forward to meeting you all.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
the joy of here
Dear friends, there is a price to pay for gallivanting. I have a terrible cold today and a list of things to do a mile long. On the other hand, there was a visit with Booboo.
Be still, my beating heart.
P.S. AND - in the huge stack of mail, there was a small royalty cheque from my publisher, with the news that the hardcover of my book sold 7 copies last year, but the paperback sold 150. 150 copies is best-seller status in my world. I will take that $95.97 and go nuts!
AND: a great YouTube video.
springing home
I'm home - a day early. On the weekend, I realized that there was just too much to do and managed to change my ticket, not for the $365 originally quoted, but for the $75 change fee. There are a few worrying things going on here, and necessary chores; time to stop gadding about and get on with real life.
But that left me a whole weekend in Vancouver - rain predicted, but luckily there were many stretches without and even some sun. On Friday morning, Patsy and I reluctantly left Cabin #12, saying goodbye to the view, the hot tub and the chatty stellar jay that had kept us company. We collected driftwood and stones on magnificent Wickanninnish Beach, and then she drove us across the island to Nanaimo where I caught the float plane back to Vancouver. What a ride - soaring over the water with mountains on all sides - and in 20 minutes, back in the city.
I strolled that evening along the English Bay seawall as far as Second Beach; thousands out also on a mild Friday night, strolling or jogging by the water and sitting on the beach, the freighters on the horizon outlined against the setting sun. I came across a group of 3 musicians, a fiddler, guitar and mandolin player, singing the old folk song "A hundred miles." "Lord, I'm five hundred miles, from my home." I felt the words in my bones. As we gathered to listen, the sky was glowing gold over the water, the waves lapped at the shore - a moment of heaven in the heart of earth's most beautiful city.
Next morning, Chris and I took the tiny ferry in the rain to one of my favourite places, Granville Island, for lunch and a stroll about. Anxious to avoid my shopping tendencies, however, with so many great shops around, he steered me on to see "The Sapphires," a hilarious and moving Australian film about an aboriginal girl band in the Sixties. Adorable Irish actor Chris O'Dowd - our new heartthrob, Chris's and mine, and for once, I'm sure he's straight, so MINE.
That evening, old friends Margaret and Roy hosted a dinner again, this time with more friends from my time in the theatre here. And the following morning, Margie and I again went to Jane Ellison's fabulous movement/dance class at the Western Front. Sunday afternoon, with the sun actually out briefly, I met Angus at the VAG Café. Angus rented my attic room 10 years ago, as a young musician training to accompany opera singers; he's been working successfully ever since, has grown up and is engaged to be married. He and I had a Malaysian dinner on Davie Street with Chris, and I walked back to Bruce's cosy flat in the drizzle, to pack and prepare for my early departure the next morning.
Awoke to such a high wind, the waves were smashing over the seawall. Nothing if not dramatic, Vancouver. The flight, though we were crammed onto an airbus, was speedy and painless - I watched an entertaining documentary about elderly people playing in the world pingpong championships, the oldest 100 years old and still competing. Inspiring.
Oh, the pleasure, once more, of walking through my own front door. Tenant Carol had kept the place shining, a bunch of purple tulips on the kitchen counter, the crabby cat almost affectionate. I registered the newly-placed things around that were my mother's - a vase that was my grandmother's, Mum's throw tossed on a chair. Often on the trip I had the urge to call her. At the same time, it was a relief not to be worrying about her. In the darkness, I could see that the forsythia is blooming - and that my termite-prone deck had been ripped out, as promised, leaving a pile of rubble. So - back to work, planning classes, working on the house.
With so many fine memories, bird singing outside, spring in full flight.
But that left me a whole weekend in Vancouver - rain predicted, but luckily there were many stretches without and even some sun. On Friday morning, Patsy and I reluctantly left Cabin #12, saying goodbye to the view, the hot tub and the chatty stellar jay that had kept us company. We collected driftwood and stones on magnificent Wickanninnish Beach, and then she drove us across the island to Nanaimo where I caught the float plane back to Vancouver. What a ride - soaring over the water with mountains on all sides - and in 20 minutes, back in the city.
I strolled that evening along the English Bay seawall as far as Second Beach; thousands out also on a mild Friday night, strolling or jogging by the water and sitting on the beach, the freighters on the horizon outlined against the setting sun. I came across a group of 3 musicians, a fiddler, guitar and mandolin player, singing the old folk song "A hundred miles." "Lord, I'm five hundred miles, from my home." I felt the words in my bones. As we gathered to listen, the sky was glowing gold over the water, the waves lapped at the shore - a moment of heaven in the heart of earth's most beautiful city.
Next morning, Chris and I took the tiny ferry in the rain to one of my favourite places, Granville Island, for lunch and a stroll about. Anxious to avoid my shopping tendencies, however, with so many great shops around, he steered me on to see "The Sapphires," a hilarious and moving Australian film about an aboriginal girl band in the Sixties. Adorable Irish actor Chris O'Dowd - our new heartthrob, Chris's and mine, and for once, I'm sure he's straight, so MINE.
That evening, old friends Margaret and Roy hosted a dinner again, this time with more friends from my time in the theatre here. And the following morning, Margie and I again went to Jane Ellison's fabulous movement/dance class at the Western Front. Sunday afternoon, with the sun actually out briefly, I met Angus at the VAG Café. Angus rented my attic room 10 years ago, as a young musician training to accompany opera singers; he's been working successfully ever since, has grown up and is engaged to be married. He and I had a Malaysian dinner on Davie Street with Chris, and I walked back to Bruce's cosy flat in the drizzle, to pack and prepare for my early departure the next morning.
Awoke to such a high wind, the waves were smashing over the seawall. Nothing if not dramatic, Vancouver. The flight, though we were crammed onto an airbus, was speedy and painless - I watched an entertaining documentary about elderly people playing in the world pingpong championships, the oldest 100 years old and still competing. Inspiring.
Oh, the pleasure, once more, of walking through my own front door. Tenant Carol had kept the place shining, a bunch of purple tulips on the kitchen counter, the crabby cat almost affectionate. I registered the newly-placed things around that were my mother's - a vase that was my grandmother's, Mum's throw tossed on a chair. Often on the trip I had the urge to call her. At the same time, it was a relief not to be worrying about her. In the darkness, I could see that the forsythia is blooming - and that my termite-prone deck had been ripped out, as promised, leaving a pile of rubble. So - back to work, planning classes, working on the house.
With so many fine memories, bird singing outside, spring in full flight.
Friday, April 26, 2013
The Pacific Rim National Park
More beautiful B.C.
 |
| A beach on Bowen - note: sunshine. |
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Crystal Cove
I'm in a log cabin on the west coast of Vancouver Island, near Tofino, in front of a dwindling fire; I've just stepped out of the hot tub after a day of walking on the vast beaches of this island paradise. This is what I dreamed of at the start of this trip, and here it is. You know I'm a weeper, and today, I wept several times for gratitude and joy.
Bowen Island was wonderful - this unique community of islanders where Shari knows and is known by everyone, because she has been a fixture of the music community and a well-known singer and songwriter for decades. In her four story house overlooking the harbour and mountains, she has both an office and a studio, full of musical equipment and instruments, where she composes and records. She's now doing house concerts, which she loves, is leaving soon on a cross-country tour and I hope next year will do a concert chez moi. In the meantime, we talked and walked with her old dog Louie and ate vegetarian meals.
There was one heartbreak, when she took me on a walk on a glorious path along the shore, where all the land adjacent was being developed into 10-acre sea-view plots "for multi-millionaires from Hong Kong," she said. As we walked, we heard the noise of backhoes and builders, beginning their work along this once-pristine coast.
I sat my alarm for 5.55 a.m. the next morning - why? To go for a dawn walk in the woods? To sit writing my heart out in the sea air silence? No. Members of the website Paulmccartney.com, of whom I am one, can buy early tickets for his concerts, and when I found out he was doing a concert in Ottawa July 7, I knew I had to go. I can visit Auntie Do and Paul too. So I had to be ready to buy as soon as the box office opened at 9 a.m. Ontario time - 6 in B.C. And sure enough, at exactly 6, the site offered tickets. It took me about 20 minutes of clicking to buy a ticket for myself and 2 for my brother. And then, thrilled, to turn out the light and try to go back to sleep.
On Wednesday morning, Shari drove me to the ferry, where I walked on on Bowen Island and off at Horseshoe Bay and then got immediately on another ferry, this one heading to Nanaimo, where Patsy met me and we drove off, across the island, to the west coast. To finish my jaunt, I was longing for some ocean time, and invited Patsy to be my guest at a place she recommended, Crystal Cove Cottages. When we finally arrived, we opened the door to our ocean-front log cabin, #2 - heaven. But - right outside the door, on the beach, was a large group of teenagers, partying hearty - drinking, smoking, with loud music. And then from the cabin right next door came the even louder sounds of heavy metal music. I looked at Patsy in misery - would this ruin our longed-for time by the sea?
So I went to the office, and they offered us Cabin #12 for the same price as Cabin #2. It's on the edge of the property, fronts on a beautiful cove, is completely quiet - and, huge bonus, has a hot tub, for which you usually have to pay a large extra fee. So thanks to those vile teenagers, we got a free hot tub, a silent cabin, and our own crystal cove.
This part of the world is bliss. Utterly, unbelievably beautiful - the endless, empty beaches, the ancient rain forest trees and undergrowth, the First Nation villages Ucluelet and Tofino - oh, I have loved being here. Yesterday, after buying groceries in Tofino, we walked for ages on our own beach before cooking supper, drinking wine and floating in the hot tub. Today we walked first for two hours on Chesterman Beach, where I camped in the mid-seventies as a young hippy, with a couple of guys in a truck - who were they? I cannot remember. And then later, we walked all afternoon, down an incredible path through the forest, falling in love with huge ancient trees as we went, to Schooner Cove, part of Long Beach, which is even more vast and endless and beautiful. I'm sorry that beautiful and endless and vast are the only words that come. But then, I'm blissed out and ready to melt after the tub.
Best of all - for once, on this rainy coast in this rainy province, there has been no rain. The weather - after so much cold and wet on my trip - has been perfect. Shari said, after 2 days of sun on Bowen, "You're the luckiest person who's ever stayed here." And here on the Pacific Rim too - warm sun and a breeze, and a horizon of sand and ocean, air and trees - and in the distance, as always in this most stunning province, the implacable snow-capped mountains.
I wept for the beauty of the ocean and the beach, then of the trees, but at dinner, finally, at the beauty of my friend, who was wearing a cut velvet top of my mother's I'd sent her after Mum died. We cooked dinner, drank wine, sat in front of the fire and in the hot tub talking intensely, as we have been since we became roommates in the summer of 1970, in a house in another cove on another coast, outside of Halifax. What a great treasure is an old, old friend. In a hot tub. After a day of bliss.
Bowen Island was wonderful - this unique community of islanders where Shari knows and is known by everyone, because she has been a fixture of the music community and a well-known singer and songwriter for decades. In her four story house overlooking the harbour and mountains, she has both an office and a studio, full of musical equipment and instruments, where she composes and records. She's now doing house concerts, which she loves, is leaving soon on a cross-country tour and I hope next year will do a concert chez moi. In the meantime, we talked and walked with her old dog Louie and ate vegetarian meals.
There was one heartbreak, when she took me on a walk on a glorious path along the shore, where all the land adjacent was being developed into 10-acre sea-view plots "for multi-millionaires from Hong Kong," she said. As we walked, we heard the noise of backhoes and builders, beginning their work along this once-pristine coast.
I sat my alarm for 5.55 a.m. the next morning - why? To go for a dawn walk in the woods? To sit writing my heart out in the sea air silence? No. Members of the website Paulmccartney.com, of whom I am one, can buy early tickets for his concerts, and when I found out he was doing a concert in Ottawa July 7, I knew I had to go. I can visit Auntie Do and Paul too. So I had to be ready to buy as soon as the box office opened at 9 a.m. Ontario time - 6 in B.C. And sure enough, at exactly 6, the site offered tickets. It took me about 20 minutes of clicking to buy a ticket for myself and 2 for my brother. And then, thrilled, to turn out the light and try to go back to sleep.
On Wednesday morning, Shari drove me to the ferry, where I walked on on Bowen Island and off at Horseshoe Bay and then got immediately on another ferry, this one heading to Nanaimo, where Patsy met me and we drove off, across the island, to the west coast. To finish my jaunt, I was longing for some ocean time, and invited Patsy to be my guest at a place she recommended, Crystal Cove Cottages. When we finally arrived, we opened the door to our ocean-front log cabin, #2 - heaven. But - right outside the door, on the beach, was a large group of teenagers, partying hearty - drinking, smoking, with loud music. And then from the cabin right next door came the even louder sounds of heavy metal music. I looked at Patsy in misery - would this ruin our longed-for time by the sea?
So I went to the office, and they offered us Cabin #12 for the same price as Cabin #2. It's on the edge of the property, fronts on a beautiful cove, is completely quiet - and, huge bonus, has a hot tub, for which you usually have to pay a large extra fee. So thanks to those vile teenagers, we got a free hot tub, a silent cabin, and our own crystal cove.
This part of the world is bliss. Utterly, unbelievably beautiful - the endless, empty beaches, the ancient rain forest trees and undergrowth, the First Nation villages Ucluelet and Tofino - oh, I have loved being here. Yesterday, after buying groceries in Tofino, we walked for ages on our own beach before cooking supper, drinking wine and floating in the hot tub. Today we walked first for two hours on Chesterman Beach, where I camped in the mid-seventies as a young hippy, with a couple of guys in a truck - who were they? I cannot remember. And then later, we walked all afternoon, down an incredible path through the forest, falling in love with huge ancient trees as we went, to Schooner Cove, part of Long Beach, which is even more vast and endless and beautiful. I'm sorry that beautiful and endless and vast are the only words that come. But then, I'm blissed out and ready to melt after the tub.
Best of all - for once, on this rainy coast in this rainy province, there has been no rain. The weather - after so much cold and wet on my trip - has been perfect. Shari said, after 2 days of sun on Bowen, "You're the luckiest person who's ever stayed here." And here on the Pacific Rim too - warm sun and a breeze, and a horizon of sand and ocean, air and trees - and in the distance, as always in this most stunning province, the implacable snow-capped mountains.
I wept for the beauty of the ocean and the beach, then of the trees, but at dinner, finally, at the beauty of my friend, who was wearing a cut velvet top of my mother's I'd sent her after Mum died. We cooked dinner, drank wine, sat in front of the fire and in the hot tub talking intensely, as we have been since we became roommates in the summer of 1970, in a house in another cove on another coast, outside of Halifax. What a great treasure is an old, old friend. In a hot tub. After a day of bliss.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Beautiful B.C.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
useful creativity
This morning I was in a movement class where the teacher talked about useful versus useless creativity. Useless, she said, was re-creating a scenario that did not happen, or creating a possible future scenario that might never. Useful - making something interesting that wasn't there before.
And that is what my friend Chris Tyrell has done. He's a writer, arts administrator and storyteller whose core story is so interesting - of adoption, rejection, and finally finding his birth mother who helped him understand who he really is - that many of us had urged him to write it down. So he did, not as a memoir, but as a show, an autobiographical musical show that he produced as a fundraiser for the Performing Arts Lodge here, which houses artists who don't have much money in middle and old age.
That is, a 65-year old man who's HIV positive, who's had 2 heart attacks and has severe asthma and defines himself as shy and has never performed onstage, wrote the script and libretto for and produced and publicized a play starring himself and two singers, to tell the intimate story of his terrible childhood and the redemption that came later.
Lesson: just do it. His best friends Bruce and I are theatre professionals who have both been working on projects for years, have read many, many books on how to do it right. Chris didn't read a single book; he just did it. It was flawed. He had real trouble remembering his lines, he's not an actor, there were lumpy, awkward and slow bits. But it was extraordinary and moving, because he was telling us the truth, his story, a big story of growth, courage, genetics and heritage, and we heard it and got it, right in the gut.
I'd edited the script and knew the story backwards anyway, from my decades of friendship with this man. But it was thrilling to hear it all again opening night Thursday and at the closing this afternoon. He has always wanted to do this, and so he did.
This city is such an anomaly. The weather! So often glowering skies and rain. I curse the place as I splash through puddles trying to get somewhere - today, to the PAL theatre in a freezing downpour, wearing every layer I've brought and under Bruce's umbrella, telling myself I will NEVER COME BACK! And then suddenly the skies clear and it's the most beautiful place on earth. Right now, I'm in Bruce's chair looking out at English Bay under a blue sky, the mountains, the sailboats and tankers; below the trees are bursting into green, and best of all, the rhododendrons are exploding. Gorgeous. And then it will pour again and I will curse.
I've visited friend Tara who lives on the water, had coffee and drinks at the Art Gallery with Patsy and Cathy, had several meals with Chris, walked miles, explored Main Avenue, Commercial Drive and Gastown which is not the shoddy touristland it once was, and last night had a fireside evening and delicious dinner chez old friend Margaret and her husband Roy and spent the night there so I could go with Margaret this morning to a class at the Western Front with Jane Ellison, dancer and teacher. I've gone with Margaret before and am desperate to find something similar in Toronto. Jane leads her class through an intense 45 minutes of stretching and awakening to the body, then puts on 4 songs of fantastic music of all genres and everyone dances like crazy around the room, then there's a cool-down and stretch. She's wise and luminous and it's a great deal of fun.
Now I'm waiting for Chris to call when he gets back from the theatre where they're striking the set, and we'll have dinner and he'll begin to come down to earth. He is a man of superhuman energy, and so I'm sure will begin a new project, perhaps a new script, tomorrow. And tomorrow morning, I am getting the bus to Horseshoe Bay to get the ferry to Bowen Island, to stay for two days with an old friend, the singer Shari Ulrich. And then to Vancouver Island. All the while tucking thoughts and ideas into my back pocket.
Because I have learned my lesson: JUST @#$# DO IT.
PS. This visit is also a trip back in time for me. I walk to the PAL theatre along Cardero Street, and pass the apartment building where my ex and I, he 26 and I 29, moved in together in May 1980, the place to which we brought our baby girl back from the hospital in May 1981. I stand and look up at our third floor windows and wonder who that blissful young woman was - I hardly remember her.
At the theatre, I'm reconnecting with colleagues from my actress days in the Seventies. One of them said to me, today, "You look younger now than you did when you worked here 40 years ago." And though of course it's a lie, this grandmother with grey hair, I do feel younger. Because I've put all that useless creativity, to a great extent, away.
And that is what my friend Chris Tyrell has done. He's a writer, arts administrator and storyteller whose core story is so interesting - of adoption, rejection, and finally finding his birth mother who helped him understand who he really is - that many of us had urged him to write it down. So he did, not as a memoir, but as a show, an autobiographical musical show that he produced as a fundraiser for the Performing Arts Lodge here, which houses artists who don't have much money in middle and old age.
That is, a 65-year old man who's HIV positive, who's had 2 heart attacks and has severe asthma and defines himself as shy and has never performed onstage, wrote the script and libretto for and produced and publicized a play starring himself and two singers, to tell the intimate story of his terrible childhood and the redemption that came later.
Lesson: just do it. His best friends Bruce and I are theatre professionals who have both been working on projects for years, have read many, many books on how to do it right. Chris didn't read a single book; he just did it. It was flawed. He had real trouble remembering his lines, he's not an actor, there were lumpy, awkward and slow bits. But it was extraordinary and moving, because he was telling us the truth, his story, a big story of growth, courage, genetics and heritage, and we heard it and got it, right in the gut.
I'd edited the script and knew the story backwards anyway, from my decades of friendship with this man. But it was thrilling to hear it all again opening night Thursday and at the closing this afternoon. He has always wanted to do this, and so he did.
This city is such an anomaly. The weather! So often glowering skies and rain. I curse the place as I splash through puddles trying to get somewhere - today, to the PAL theatre in a freezing downpour, wearing every layer I've brought and under Bruce's umbrella, telling myself I will NEVER COME BACK! And then suddenly the skies clear and it's the most beautiful place on earth. Right now, I'm in Bruce's chair looking out at English Bay under a blue sky, the mountains, the sailboats and tankers; below the trees are bursting into green, and best of all, the rhododendrons are exploding. Gorgeous. And then it will pour again and I will curse.
I've visited friend Tara who lives on the water, had coffee and drinks at the Art Gallery with Patsy and Cathy, had several meals with Chris, walked miles, explored Main Avenue, Commercial Drive and Gastown which is not the shoddy touristland it once was, and last night had a fireside evening and delicious dinner chez old friend Margaret and her husband Roy and spent the night there so I could go with Margaret this morning to a class at the Western Front with Jane Ellison, dancer and teacher. I've gone with Margaret before and am desperate to find something similar in Toronto. Jane leads her class through an intense 45 minutes of stretching and awakening to the body, then puts on 4 songs of fantastic music of all genres and everyone dances like crazy around the room, then there's a cool-down and stretch. She's wise and luminous and it's a great deal of fun.
Now I'm waiting for Chris to call when he gets back from the theatre where they're striking the set, and we'll have dinner and he'll begin to come down to earth. He is a man of superhuman energy, and so I'm sure will begin a new project, perhaps a new script, tomorrow. And tomorrow morning, I am getting the bus to Horseshoe Bay to get the ferry to Bowen Island, to stay for two days with an old friend, the singer Shari Ulrich. And then to Vancouver Island. All the while tucking thoughts and ideas into my back pocket.
Because I have learned my lesson: JUST @#$# DO IT.
PS. This visit is also a trip back in time for me. I walk to the PAL theatre along Cardero Street, and pass the apartment building where my ex and I, he 26 and I 29, moved in together in May 1980, the place to which we brought our baby girl back from the hospital in May 1981. I stand and look up at our third floor windows and wonder who that blissful young woman was - I hardly remember her.
At the theatre, I'm reconnecting with colleagues from my actress days in the Seventies. One of them said to me, today, "You look younger now than you did when you worked here 40 years ago." And though of course it's a lie, this grandmother with grey hair, I do feel younger. Because I've put all that useless creativity, to a great extent, away.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
City of Angelinos
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