Twenty minutes.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Sunday walk
preppy baby
Sunday, June 3, 2012
tidy for the heart
The sun just came out in the garden, after two days of darkness and rain - it was like watching a film go from black and white to technicolour. Speaking of which, there's an article about the invention of technicolour in the "Star" this morning. It's easy to forget that everything we use has had to be invented, developed, designed, by someone. My old handyman, Len, asked for a step stool once, and when I brought it out, he said, "I designed that." He'd worked at one point for an industrial design company. Len died in 2006 and the step stool is rusty and falling apart, but I keep it to remember and honour him.
Though soon, knowing that I'll remember and honour Len anyway, I will allow myself to throw it out. Yesterday I finished reading "The hoarder in you: how to live a happier, healthier, uncluttered life" and arose with a new light in my eyes. The book made clear that I'm not an obsessive hoarder but a clutterer. It runs through the reasons we clutterers give for not getting rid of stuff: I paid good money for it so should keep it; it was given to me by someone I love or it reminds me of someone; it might come in handy one day; it might come back into fashion; the minute I get rid of it, I'll need it; it was free; because it's there.
Recognize any or all of those? So do I.
I decided to tackle my office, which has been haunting me for months, and the bathroom, where the clutter is hidden but still oppressive. I did not realize just how many travel-sized tubes of moisturizer I'd accumulated, but I could travel for the rest of a long life and still die with a well-moisturized face. I didn't throw them out - I do travel, after all - but organized them and will use them up, tube by tiny tube, before I buy any new non-travel-sized products.
But then, the office - my long desk covered with papers, clippings, books, the shelves overloaded and chaotic. Before I could tackle that, I'd realized I'd have to clear space on the overstuffed bookshelves in the spare room. Books - my nemesis. But, inspired, I managed to get rid of TWO BOXES of books, mostly out-of-date tomes for writers on markets, agents etc. And then I organized the shelves, something I've wanted to do for years, into labelled sections: Memoir; Autobiography; Diaries; Writing (technical); Written by Family; by Friends; Theatre; Travel etc. A small section marked Fun, with a few Agatha Christies. One of the most important, a long shelf: To Read. And above, a much smaller shelf, because so much of my reading is from the library: Have Read, where "Wolf Hall" resides.
Back to the office. Heart light, full of energy, I listened to "Sgt. Pepper's" (Happy 45th birthday, gorgeous record) while I tackled the office, sorting, throwing out, yes throwing out, and filing. I hate filing, which is one reason the office is always a jumble, but from now on, I will file. My desk began to emerge, the bookshelves, and the chairs - because my clothes are stored in the office too, so there are always piles of sweaters, t-shirts and jeans on the office chairs.
This morning, after a long refreshing sleep (in the spare room with its labelled shelves, the drips still splashing into the bucket in my bedroom, no word from the elusive roofer) I went straight into my office to make sure it wasn't just a dream - and there it was, all tidy. The surfaces are clear.
Now to USE it.
But first, one of the treats of the year - a walk on the Don Valley Trail, beside the Don Valley itself which is filled not with roaring vehicles but with bicycles for Bike for Heart. The neighbourhood is quiet, and down in the valley, without the rush of cars, it's almost like being in the country.
And then back to the office, and later today, across town to see the best baby in the world, and dinner with friends. Bliss. But - what's this? As I wrote, the garden moved back into black and white. The thunderclouds are dense across the sky, it's dark, and rain is predicted. Instead of the walk, I'll go do some more filing. Woo hoo!
Though soon, knowing that I'll remember and honour Len anyway, I will allow myself to throw it out. Yesterday I finished reading "The hoarder in you: how to live a happier, healthier, uncluttered life" and arose with a new light in my eyes. The book made clear that I'm not an obsessive hoarder but a clutterer. It runs through the reasons we clutterers give for not getting rid of stuff: I paid good money for it so should keep it; it was given to me by someone I love or it reminds me of someone; it might come in handy one day; it might come back into fashion; the minute I get rid of it, I'll need it; it was free; because it's there.
Recognize any or all of those? So do I.
I decided to tackle my office, which has been haunting me for months, and the bathroom, where the clutter is hidden but still oppressive. I did not realize just how many travel-sized tubes of moisturizer I'd accumulated, but I could travel for the rest of a long life and still die with a well-moisturized face. I didn't throw them out - I do travel, after all - but organized them and will use them up, tube by tiny tube, before I buy any new non-travel-sized products.
But then, the office - my long desk covered with papers, clippings, books, the shelves overloaded and chaotic. Before I could tackle that, I'd realized I'd have to clear space on the overstuffed bookshelves in the spare room. Books - my nemesis. But, inspired, I managed to get rid of TWO BOXES of books, mostly out-of-date tomes for writers on markets, agents etc. And then I organized the shelves, something I've wanted to do for years, into labelled sections: Memoir; Autobiography; Diaries; Writing (technical); Written by Family; by Friends; Theatre; Travel etc. A small section marked Fun, with a few Agatha Christies. One of the most important, a long shelf: To Read. And above, a much smaller shelf, because so much of my reading is from the library: Have Read, where "Wolf Hall" resides.
Back to the office. Heart light, full of energy, I listened to "Sgt. Pepper's" (Happy 45th birthday, gorgeous record) while I tackled the office, sorting, throwing out, yes throwing out, and filing. I hate filing, which is one reason the office is always a jumble, but from now on, I will file. My desk began to emerge, the bookshelves, and the chairs - because my clothes are stored in the office too, so there are always piles of sweaters, t-shirts and jeans on the office chairs.
This morning, after a long refreshing sleep (in the spare room with its labelled shelves, the drips still splashing into the bucket in my bedroom, no word from the elusive roofer) I went straight into my office to make sure it wasn't just a dream - and there it was, all tidy. The surfaces are clear.
Now to USE it.
But first, one of the treats of the year - a walk on the Don Valley Trail, beside the Don Valley itself which is filled not with roaring vehicles but with bicycles for Bike for Heart. The neighbourhood is quiet, and down in the valley, without the rush of cars, it's almost like being in the country.
And then back to the office, and later today, across town to see the best baby in the world, and dinner with friends. Bliss. But - what's this? As I wrote, the garden moved back into black and white. The thunderclouds are dense across the sky, it's dark, and rain is predicted. Instead of the walk, I'll go do some more filing. Woo hoo!
Saturday, June 2, 2012
the Fludde
Le déluge here yesterday, positively Biblical - lashing winds and chilly rain, darkness all day long. Very worrying, in an old house given to flooding - I sat straining to hear the beloved sump pump in the basement, please, gracious lord, keep it working. Union Station flooded, I saw on the news, and poor commuters had to get busses because trains and the subway were shut down. But the basement here, so far touch wood - not a drop.
Not so the ceiling in my bedroom, however, where I knew there was a problem and have been waiting for the roofer. When I went to bed last night, large droplets were splattering my bed, which was drenched. I put a bucket underneath and slept in the spare room. The roofer was supposed to be here at 8 a.m. and it's now 9; perhaps it's still too damp and threatening to work. The bucket is half full.
Because of the disruption or just because it's life, I spent a very restless night and at 3.30 a.m. was immersed in a flood of anxieties and resentments. You see the sunny side, here; my public persona focusses on all that is well. The other side who's scared and angry, petty and confused, you don't see so much. That side often involves other people whom I won't drag into this public forum. But the hurts and angers are there, despite the just-begun meditation practice which urges me to sit beside my worries and then let them go; despite years of yoga and psychoanalysis and my own marvellously serene and loving nature. More work to be done before perfection is achieved. Stay tuned.
Meanwhile, my friend Richard the Royalist is in full-on orgasmic mode with the Jubilee, royals royals everywhere. Though I could not care less about the fuss, the Queen, it's true, is a grand old bird. I watched "The Iron Lady" yesterday, which made me impatient - luckily it was rented so I could fast-forward through many indulgent shots of Meryl Streep tottering around earning her Oscar. The film couldn't make up its mind what it wanted to say about the grocer's daughter who eviscerated Britain. A friend of mine was teaching in a poor section of Liverpool when Thatcher, just after being elected, immediately cancelled the free milk distributed to schools. Overnight, my friend's charges were left hungry. How sad that the first woman elected to lead a Western nation should be blind and heartless.
It's really dark out there at 9.15 a.m. Last week it was mid-summer, 34 degrees, sweltering in tank tops. Now, 11 degrees and ready to pour. We need an Ark. And I decide who gets on. The roofer will be allowed on, if he appears.
5 p.m. He does not get on. No roofer, and the drips continue.
Cancel the moaning; it was just a misunderstanding and my stupid mind, making much of nothing in the middle of the night. When will I learn? Shut off that neurotic brain, woman, stop wasting your valuable, limited time, and go back to sleep.
Not so the ceiling in my bedroom, however, where I knew there was a problem and have been waiting for the roofer. When I went to bed last night, large droplets were splattering my bed, which was drenched. I put a bucket underneath and slept in the spare room. The roofer was supposed to be here at 8 a.m. and it's now 9; perhaps it's still too damp and threatening to work. The bucket is half full.
Because of the disruption or just because it's life, I spent a very restless night and at 3.30 a.m. was immersed in a flood of anxieties and resentments. You see the sunny side, here; my public persona focusses on all that is well. The other side who's scared and angry, petty and confused, you don't see so much. That side often involves other people whom I won't drag into this public forum. But the hurts and angers are there, despite the just-begun meditation practice which urges me to sit beside my worries and then let them go; despite years of yoga and psychoanalysis and my own marvellously serene and loving nature. More work to be done before perfection is achieved. Stay tuned.
Meanwhile, my friend Richard the Royalist is in full-on orgasmic mode with the Jubilee, royals royals everywhere. Though I could not care less about the fuss, the Queen, it's true, is a grand old bird. I watched "The Iron Lady" yesterday, which made me impatient - luckily it was rented so I could fast-forward through many indulgent shots of Meryl Streep tottering around earning her Oscar. The film couldn't make up its mind what it wanted to say about the grocer's daughter who eviscerated Britain. A friend of mine was teaching in a poor section of Liverpool when Thatcher, just after being elected, immediately cancelled the free milk distributed to schools. Overnight, my friend's charges were left hungry. How sad that the first woman elected to lead a Western nation should be blind and heartless.
It's really dark out there at 9.15 a.m. Last week it was mid-summer, 34 degrees, sweltering in tank tops. Now, 11 degrees and ready to pour. We need an Ark. And I decide who gets on. The roofer will be allowed on, if he appears.
5 p.m. He does not get on. No roofer, and the drips continue.
Cancel the moaning; it was just a misunderstanding and my stupid mind, making much of nothing in the middle of the night. When will I learn? Shut off that neurotic brain, woman, stop wasting your valuable, limited time, and go back to sleep.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Lots of stuff for non-fiction writers: competitions etc.
Call for Submissions: Monologues by Toronto Writers and Artists for a New Book
We are currently accepting submissions for “City Voices: A Book of Monologues by Toronto Artists”, a book that will be published in both hard copy and electronic formats later this year. “City Voices” will be a collection of monologues by Toronto writers and artists that will represent the diversity and vibrancy of voices that populate this dynamic city.
There is no fee to submit.
Deadline to submit is June 30th, 2012 at 5pm.
Creative Non-Fiction Contest
Topic: Places That Shape Us
Prize: $250 and publication in Issue #8 of LAKE: A Journal of Arts and Environment
Deadline: EXTENDED TO JULY 15, 2012
Length: 2500 words maximum
Entry Fee: $20, includes a one year subscription to LAKE starting with issue #7
LAKE invites submissions of creative non-fiction on the topic of “Places That Shape Us.” Creative non-fiction forms include personal essay, lyric essay, narrative essay, and memoir.
Website: www.lakejournal.ca
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Various articles on Creative Non-Fiction:
http://www.scoop.it/t/literary-nonfiction
And, from Creative Non-Fiction magazine,
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