Sitting in the Porter lounge with my free "Globe" and two free lattes. So much to be grateful for. For one, that I'm not going to Timmins, like those folks boarding now. For Porter itself, which has made going back and forth incomparably easier than the five or six hour train ride, the incredibly boring and endless drive, or the tedious trek to crowded Pearson.
For the fact that my mother's decline was not drawn out endlessly. Steve Paikin's program last night was about eldercare - the difference between retirement homes and long-term care facilities, the poor palliative care available in Canada, the difficulty of decisions - and I relived it all, this difficult last year as we struggled to understand the options. Some people do this with and for their parents for many years. My tenant Carol will soon celebrate her mother's 99th birthday. Yes, my mother's decline was precipitous, and we wish she'd had many more years of health. But at least she did not linger. She would not have wanted to.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Grumpy
Please forgive me if I bitch. It's 9.30 p.m., I leave early tomorrow for Ottawa, and I have not begun to get ready. Have to pack, water the plants, put out the cat food so that Carol, my upstairs tenant who has just returned from Ecuador, can keep the cat alive. Leave phone numbers, run the dishwasher, put out garbage and recycling, clear out the iffy food from the fridge. Etc.
I do not want to do these things. I don't want to go to Ottawa. How many times this past year? Many. Porter Air and CP Rail have done well by me. I would like just to stay in my house. The amaryllis Annie gave me is just coming into magnificent frilly pink and white bloom, and the purple hyacinth from Wayson also. I want to watch them bloom. I do not want to fly to a frozen city and clear out more huge piles of paper and stuff, books, vast quantities of files, clothes, music, letters and photographs, dishes and silverware and art supplies, underwear and medication and kitchenware and ...
It must be done, and it will be done. But I am weary.
P.S. Just cheered myself up with television. Saw the last chunk of "I remember Mama," a 1948 film about a girl who wants to be a writer. And what is the lesson she learns at the end, just as she's about to give up her dream? WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW. Non-fiction. Instead of fantasy, she writes a true story about her mother; her story is accepted for publication and she receives a cheque for $500!
Wow. $500 in 1948. Lucky writer.
And then I saw some of "The truth about exercise," a British documentary, which concluded that two things will help you gain a good level of healthy fitness: three minutes of high intensity workout ONCE A WEEK - and constant movement throughout your day. The chair is a killer, said the host. The chair is a killer. Stand. Walk. Take the stairs. Try to keep off your bottom.
So - write what you know, but do it standing up.
And now, time for Jon Stewart. Sometimes, the television set is a source of wisdom and comfort.
I do not want to do these things. I don't want to go to Ottawa. How many times this past year? Many. Porter Air and CP Rail have done well by me. I would like just to stay in my house. The amaryllis Annie gave me is just coming into magnificent frilly pink and white bloom, and the purple hyacinth from Wayson also. I want to watch them bloom. I do not want to fly to a frozen city and clear out more huge piles of paper and stuff, books, vast quantities of files, clothes, music, letters and photographs, dishes and silverware and art supplies, underwear and medication and kitchenware and ...
It must be done, and it will be done. But I am weary.
P.S. Just cheered myself up with television. Saw the last chunk of "I remember Mama," a 1948 film about a girl who wants to be a writer. And what is the lesson she learns at the end, just as she's about to give up her dream? WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW. Non-fiction. Instead of fantasy, she writes a true story about her mother; her story is accepted for publication and she receives a cheque for $500!
Wow. $500 in 1948. Lucky writer.
And then I saw some of "The truth about exercise," a British documentary, which concluded that two things will help you gain a good level of healthy fitness: three minutes of high intensity workout ONCE A WEEK - and constant movement throughout your day. The chair is a killer, said the host. The chair is a killer. Stand. Walk. Take the stairs. Try to keep off your bottom.
So - write what you know, but do it standing up.
And now, time for Jon Stewart. Sometimes, the television set is a source of wisdom and comfort.
wildlife
Sitting by the back window eating my breakfast and watching a small white-breasted hawk high in the neighbour's tree do the same thing - he is tearing pink meat from a bone, perhaps the carcass of a bird - the black squirrels nearby are unconcerned, so it's not squirrel. Looks like a meagre meal. Now the bird is pulling out his own breast feathers, fluttering down like snow. This morning, the "Star" reported that a coyote found roaming the streets of Cabbagetown just a few blocks from here was just shot by police, provoking outrage because coyotes are not dangerous to human beings.
Civilisation indeed. A thin veneer. Underneath, we're savages in a savage world.
Speaking of which, my mind keeps flashing on John Boehner's face yesterday, the flickers of disdain playing over the eyes in that smooth tan, as he listened to Obama speak about equal pay for equal work and raising the minimum wage.
I was also just looking at my iPhoto gallery, because my Booboo is away in Saskatchewan with his mother, and I miss him terribly. When you reach the end of your most recent shots in iPhoto and click once more, it sends you back to the pictures taken a year ago. I was blindsided by this shot that just came up - exactly one year ago, in February 2012, my tall mother, strong, independent, beautiful, with a friend.
A different kind of missing terribly.
Young hawk finished breakfast. He sat preening in the sun for a moment and then flew off. Time for me, too, to fly into this bright cold day.
Civilisation indeed. A thin veneer. Underneath, we're savages in a savage world.
Speaking of which, my mind keeps flashing on John Boehner's face yesterday, the flickers of disdain playing over the eyes in that smooth tan, as he listened to Obama speak about equal pay for equal work and raising the minimum wage.
I was also just looking at my iPhoto gallery, because my Booboo is away in Saskatchewan with his mother, and I miss him terribly. When you reach the end of your most recent shots in iPhoto and click once more, it sends you back to the pictures taken a year ago. I was blindsided by this shot that just came up - exactly one year ago, in February 2012, my tall mother, strong, independent, beautiful, with a friend.
A different kind of missing terribly.
Young hawk finished breakfast. He sat preening in the sun for a moment and then flew off. Time for me, too, to fly into this bright cold day.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
The State of the Union
Here is something I don't think I have ever said: Tonight, for once, and perhaps briefly, I am proud to be an American. I hold two passports, one for the country in which I was born and where I lived for the first 2 or 3 months, and one for the great northland country where I've spent the rest of my life. In fact, I have never considered myself even minutely American, because I wasn't born in America but in New York City, which is a separate country.
And yet tonight, it isn't, it's part of the country that voted in this terrific man. Yes, he was all over the map in his speech. But he spoke passionately of things that matter most, climate change, early childhood education, voting reform. And mostly, he spoke of citizenship. It was a great speech, especially, of course, the chant about the vote on gun control. But the part that made me tear up was the focus on individual citizens who have made brave, unselfish choices, and the camera focussing on their faces in the audience.
And now my brief moment of pride is over - the Republican is rebutting. I'd heard that this guy was a moderate and one of the better ones - but when he said the U.S. housing crisis was caused by government programs, I had to mute him. And not forget that almost half the country voted for his party of narrow-minded gun-loving bigots.
Well - it was nice while it lasted.
Yesterday, my student Odette delivered the final draft of her memoir for a last read and edit. It's magnificent - 390 double-spaced pages in a maroon binder. Odette had never written when she came to my class a few years ago, but she wanted to tell the story of her life, not for publication, but for her five children. The story of her early life in a village in the Philippines, her parents and siblings, the political upheavals, her education and prestigious jobs, her marriage and eventual divorce. After taking my class several times, she continued to work with me privately; at one point, her boss wanted to reward her hard work and asked what she'd like, and she asked for my editing services to be covered for awhile.
It took her years of writing, getting up early before going to her job, and she had to take several breaks from the work. I told her that after following the decades of her marriage, the reader had to see its eventual end, and she told me she could not stop crying as she wrote. But write she did, and rewrite after many edits, and now here is the manuscript, for one last look before it goes to her family.
This is a hare and tortoise story. I've had many students with tons of confidence or time. But Odette got it done - a shy Filipina with a full-time job and a burning need to tell the truth. I am so proud of her.
And yet tonight, it isn't, it's part of the country that voted in this terrific man. Yes, he was all over the map in his speech. But he spoke passionately of things that matter most, climate change, early childhood education, voting reform. And mostly, he spoke of citizenship. It was a great speech, especially, of course, the chant about the vote on gun control. But the part that made me tear up was the focus on individual citizens who have made brave, unselfish choices, and the camera focussing on their faces in the audience.
And now my brief moment of pride is over - the Republican is rebutting. I'd heard that this guy was a moderate and one of the better ones - but when he said the U.S. housing crisis was caused by government programs, I had to mute him. And not forget that almost half the country voted for his party of narrow-minded gun-loving bigots.
Well - it was nice while it lasted.
Yesterday, my student Odette delivered the final draft of her memoir for a last read and edit. It's magnificent - 390 double-spaced pages in a maroon binder. Odette had never written when she came to my class a few years ago, but she wanted to tell the story of her life, not for publication, but for her five children. The story of her early life in a village in the Philippines, her parents and siblings, the political upheavals, her education and prestigious jobs, her marriage and eventual divorce. After taking my class several times, she continued to work with me privately; at one point, her boss wanted to reward her hard work and asked what she'd like, and she asked for my editing services to be covered for awhile.
It took her years of writing, getting up early before going to her job, and she had to take several breaks from the work. I told her that after following the decades of her marriage, the reader had to see its eventual end, and she told me she could not stop crying as she wrote. But write she did, and rewrite after many edits, and now here is the manuscript, for one last look before it goes to her family.
This is a hare and tortoise story. I've had many students with tons of confidence or time. But Odette got it done - a shy Filipina with a full-time job and a burning need to tell the truth. I am so proud of her.
Monday, February 11, 2013
If it's directed by Christopher Alden, run.
I made the mistake tonight of going to the opera. A friend is in the chorus and sometimes sends out notice of a fantastic deal - $25 orchestra seats on a slow night. So I changed my home class time, cut my poor students off at 7, rushed out into the night to grab a cab and dash to the Four Seasons Centre, to see Mozart's "La Clemenza di Tito," which I'd read, distractedly, was not a great production but had wonderful music.
Well. The music - sublime. The singers - wondrous, though it was an odd night to begin with - a different conductor just for tonight, and the famed Michael Schade, they announced as the curtain rose, was "indisposed" and would be replaced with a member of the chorus. People are generous at these times, hoping for the best, though most of them had paid a great deal more than $25 for their seats.
Jesus God. Hideous. A grotesque production. Everyone in ancient Rome was a lesbian - women groping each other, fondling, kissing, one of them a jogger in big glasses, a tunic and Adidas. The emperor wanders about in purple satin pyjamas, clutching a long bedspread over his shoulders, as his lesbian friends sulk drooping against the wall. The Roman centurion, on the other hand, is in full Roman gear, only his helmet bounces like plastic and there's an unbelievable bit of business about a cramp in his leg. The set is a solid sheet of fake concrete perfect for the graffiti that gets painted on it in Latin, and there's a K-Mart chandelier and a brass - yes - garbage pail. The chorus comes on dressed like Italian bag ladies, with masks. Yes. Bag ladies with masks.
And heartbreakingly, through all this absurd, mind-boggling grotesquerie, the music shone, glowed in all its beauty, the singers sang Mozart's enchantment, the voices clear and pure and gorgeous. Their artistry attempted to vanquish the work of this foul director. To no avail.
I couldn't bear it, even though I spent much of the act with my eyes closed, listening but not watching, and decided to leave at intermission, only to run into a Cabbagetown friend who was also leaving and offered me a ride home. So we vented; she felt just the same. When I got home, I wrote a letter to the COC.
Dear COC:
Well. The music - sublime. The singers - wondrous, though it was an odd night to begin with - a different conductor just for tonight, and the famed Michael Schade, they announced as the curtain rose, was "indisposed" and would be replaced with a member of the chorus. People are generous at these times, hoping for the best, though most of them had paid a great deal more than $25 for their seats.
Jesus God. Hideous. A grotesque production. Everyone in ancient Rome was a lesbian - women groping each other, fondling, kissing, one of them a jogger in big glasses, a tunic and Adidas. The emperor wanders about in purple satin pyjamas, clutching a long bedspread over his shoulders, as his lesbian friends sulk drooping against the wall. The Roman centurion, on the other hand, is in full Roman gear, only his helmet bounces like plastic and there's an unbelievable bit of business about a cramp in his leg. The set is a solid sheet of fake concrete perfect for the graffiti that gets painted on it in Latin, and there's a K-Mart chandelier and a brass - yes - garbage pail. The chorus comes on dressed like Italian bag ladies, with masks. Yes. Bag ladies with masks.
And heartbreakingly, through all this absurd, mind-boggling grotesquerie, the music shone, glowed in all its beauty, the singers sang Mozart's enchantment, the voices clear and pure and gorgeous. Their artistry attempted to vanquish the work of this foul director. To no avail.
I couldn't bear it, even though I spent much of the act with my eyes closed, listening but not watching, and decided to leave at intermission, only to run into a Cabbagetown friend who was also leaving and offered me a ride home. So we vented; she felt just the same. When I got home, I wrote a letter to the COC.
Dear COC:
As I left the building tonight at the intermission of Mozart's beautiful opera, I remarked to my friend that the last opera I saw at the COC, I had also hated. When I got home, I did some research to discover - that the same benighted man directed both! From now on, when I see the name Christopher Alden, I will know that a production that massacres any beauty, any delicacy, even the slightest common sense, will follow, and I will run screaming in the opposite direction. I walked out of Fledermaus last fall, and I left at intermission tonight, though the music and singers were so heavenly that it hurt to do so. But the concept - lesbian Rome, the great leader in pyjamas and a bedspread, the chorus a kind of Italian supermarket mime group - grotesque, stupid, insulting - the kind of direction that draws attention to itself and has nothing to do with art.
The fact that you employed this man once, for the monumental travesty that was Fledermaus, can be forgiven; I understand that you are trying to interest new audiences and try new things. But the fact that you employed him twice - shame on you. Shame shame shame on you.
Yours,
Beth Kaplan
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