I'm in love. Yesterday night, I found a new glorious man to celebrate - wise, graceful, funny, compassionate and TALL - Bill de Blasio, the new mayor of New York, who was on Jon Stewart. Be still my beating heart - two of the finest men on planet earth, together. If Paul McCartney had walked in, I would have passed out. To hear de Blasio talking about raising taxes on the very wealthy to improve early childhood education and make sure all children have a chance … OMG. Fine fine fine.
And of course, as a citizen of the city of Toronto … well, let's shed a tear for what we endure here - a man who also, for some incomprehensible reason, is called a "mayor."
Went across town to visit my daughter and her boy yesterday - and to spend time not just with them but with Eli's dad, Thomas, who is more or less in residence. Is it possible that one member of my immediate family is going to have a normal home life? They looked impossibly like an ordinary nuclear family. Imagine. What a thrill. Eli and I spent quite a bit of time on the floor playing with little cars, which are fun to push around and vroom but mostly to throw into the closet.
Came home to finish reading such an interesting library book - "Madness, Rack and Honey," essays by poet Mary Ruefle - that I had to order it from Amazon, so I can re-read slowly. It's a dense, quirky exploration of creativity and life in a wonderfully original voice. I'm also reading a spectacular book that I bought at the Moth event in NYC - a compilation of true Moth stories, as told during Moth storytelling events, each one moving. Highly recommended.
And … I don't know why this matters so to me, but it does, because the witch hunt aspect is disturbing. Here's a superb and fair-minded analysis of the Woody Allen accusations that puts the matter to rest.
http://thebea.st/1ckev98
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Monday, February 3, 2014
karaoke at the gas bar
Why I love Americans. After spending time in France and England, I try to imagine what would happen in a similar crazy situation in those countries - not much. But these guys - let's GO!
LOL. As they say.
http://biggeekdad.com/2013/05/gas-station-karaoke-jam-session/#.UtvbOK-zuXI.email
LOL. As they say.
http://biggeekdad.com/2013/05/gas-station-karaoke-jam-session/#.UtvbOK-zuXI.email
Shaena Lambert and today's Facts and Arguments
My friend from our days in the Creative Writing department at UBC, Shaena Lambert, has been nominated for a Bookie award for Best Book of the Year for her stellar short story collection, "Oh, My Darling." If you trust me, you'll believe me when I tell you that Shaena is a skilful, thoughtful and very moving writer. I would NEVER urge you to vote for a book you have not read, but I do urge you to read it between now and Feb. 5, when voting closes, and then I'm sure you'll vote for it.
Today's Facts and Arguments in the Globe and Mail is by Chetana Panwar, a student in last term's Life Stories class at U of T. She wrote such an interesting story in class about her children's mixed background that we suggested she do a bit of work on it and send it to the Globe. And … voila.
Monday, The Great Beauty
I'm watching a black squirrel hang upside down and scoop seeds from my bird feeder, surrounded by sheets of ice. Once I opened the feeder to fill it and a squirrel popped out. Well, if you have to be a squirrel stuck somewhere, a cosy room full of seeds is a pretty good place.
And I'm thinking about Phillip Seymour Hoffman, and the deaths of extraordinarily talented people who seem to have everything going for them. I'm thinking of the man who delivers my newspapers every morning, an immigrant rising in the middle of the black freezing night for this most thankless job, and how Hoffman's life would be one of incomprehensible luxury to him. And yet, the misery of addiction and a terrible lonely death we cannot understand.
And I'm thinking about Woody Allen. His adopted daughter Dylan Farrow, as a result of Allen's recent Golden Globe Lifetime Achievement award, has published a letter accusing him directly of sexual abuse and trying to shame actors like Cate Blanchett who've worked in his films. I feel very sorry for Dylan, who is obviously still suffering deeply, decades after whatever happened happened. I've heard too many stories of sexual abuse in my class to dismiss anyone. But I also know from class - and from the memoir of incest "The Kiss" that I read recently - that men and women who were abused in every way as children (and "The Kiss" tells an almost unbearable story) can move on, heal and lift above and get on with life.
Perhaps it's harder to do when the man you accuse is famous. And, let's face it, a genius. However, Dylan's allegations were investigated, and no charges were laid. She can accuse him all she wants, but it's unjust to call out actors. If you think Cate Blanchett would turn down a once-in-a-lifetime role because of an unproven allegation of sexual abuse, you don't know many actors. Actors work.
A tiny slump, this end: the woman I'd hoped would be the publicist for my book called. She said she loves my writing and the book itself, but won't try to sell it. She's not even taking fiction right now, only current events non-fiction, the only stuff she can get on the media. "If you'd slept with Paul McCartney," she said, "it would be different."
I did, I so did! In my dreams. So - onward. We don't do this for fame and riches. Luckily.
Two cultural events yesterday - the Italian Best Foreign Film Oscar nominee "The Great Beauty," and Downton. Both visually stunning, full of glorious scenes and beautiful backdrops, fabulous characters and rich costumes - and both, in the end, a bit disappointing. At the end of Beauty, Ken turned to me and said, "I guess I'm just not smart enough." I felt that too - what the hell was that about? It's obtuse and too long - but it's gorgeous. And since I hope to be in Rome this year, a must see. But are the Romans really that grotesque and Fellini-esque?
And Downton is getting a bit … wearying, despite some wonderful scenes; we can see the writer shoving his characters, one after the other except for dear Mrs. Hughes, into crisis. Of course Edith has one sexual encounter and becomes pregnant. On we go with Bates the steaming volcano, Thomas the lying schemer (where did that new lady's maid come from, did I miss something?), a stream of handsome new beaux for cold Lady Mary, who is really tiresome. I'll keep watching, but I might keep a magazine nearby for the scenes without Maggie Smith.
Now that I've brought you up to date - more or less - one more thing. I've been sorting out stuff to illustrate the book. Here's a picture of my parents in 1955, at Lawrencetown Beach in Nova Scotia. Not a bad looking pair, wouldn't you say? Makes my heart constrict.
And I'm thinking about Phillip Seymour Hoffman, and the deaths of extraordinarily talented people who seem to have everything going for them. I'm thinking of the man who delivers my newspapers every morning, an immigrant rising in the middle of the black freezing night for this most thankless job, and how Hoffman's life would be one of incomprehensible luxury to him. And yet, the misery of addiction and a terrible lonely death we cannot understand.
And I'm thinking about Woody Allen. His adopted daughter Dylan Farrow, as a result of Allen's recent Golden Globe Lifetime Achievement award, has published a letter accusing him directly of sexual abuse and trying to shame actors like Cate Blanchett who've worked in his films. I feel very sorry for Dylan, who is obviously still suffering deeply, decades after whatever happened happened. I've heard too many stories of sexual abuse in my class to dismiss anyone. But I also know from class - and from the memoir of incest "The Kiss" that I read recently - that men and women who were abused in every way as children (and "The Kiss" tells an almost unbearable story) can move on, heal and lift above and get on with life.
Perhaps it's harder to do when the man you accuse is famous. And, let's face it, a genius. However, Dylan's allegations were investigated, and no charges were laid. She can accuse him all she wants, but it's unjust to call out actors. If you think Cate Blanchett would turn down a once-in-a-lifetime role because of an unproven allegation of sexual abuse, you don't know many actors. Actors work.
A tiny slump, this end: the woman I'd hoped would be the publicist for my book called. She said she loves my writing and the book itself, but won't try to sell it. She's not even taking fiction right now, only current events non-fiction, the only stuff she can get on the media. "If you'd slept with Paul McCartney," she said, "it would be different."
I did, I so did! In my dreams. So - onward. We don't do this for fame and riches. Luckily.
Two cultural events yesterday - the Italian Best Foreign Film Oscar nominee "The Great Beauty," and Downton. Both visually stunning, full of glorious scenes and beautiful backdrops, fabulous characters and rich costumes - and both, in the end, a bit disappointing. At the end of Beauty, Ken turned to me and said, "I guess I'm just not smart enough." I felt that too - what the hell was that about? It's obtuse and too long - but it's gorgeous. And since I hope to be in Rome this year, a must see. But are the Romans really that grotesque and Fellini-esque?
And Downton is getting a bit … wearying, despite some wonderful scenes; we can see the writer shoving his characters, one after the other except for dear Mrs. Hughes, into crisis. Of course Edith has one sexual encounter and becomes pregnant. On we go with Bates the steaming volcano, Thomas the lying schemer (where did that new lady's maid come from, did I miss something?), a stream of handsome new beaux for cold Lady Mary, who is really tiresome. I'll keep watching, but I might keep a magazine nearby for the scenes without Maggie Smith.
Now that I've brought you up to date - more or less - one more thing. I've been sorting out stuff to illustrate the book. Here's a picture of my parents in 1955, at Lawrencetown Beach in Nova Scotia. Not a bad looking pair, wouldn't you say? Makes my heart constrict.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Be friending
Went to my butcher store, St. Jamestown Steak and Chops, this afternoon to buy a pot roast for Sunday dinner. Ran into a neighbour, an eccentric woman who lives up the street and whom I'd sat next to on the streetcar last week. She'd said she'd send me a Facebook friend request.
"So you don't want to friend me?" she asked. I was astonished.
"I never got your request," I said.
"I sent it," she said, "but in any case, you only have 90 or so friends, so you don't want to friend me. I post constantly, I'm one of those people, I'd drive you crazy. When I have friends like that, I limit their access rather than de-friending them because I don't want to hurt their feelings."
And I thought - if my dad who died in 1988 heard us, he would have no understanding of what we're saying. And yet it's perfectly understandable in 2014. In fact, she didn't say "limit access," she said something more technical only I don't remember what it was.
She also said, as she left, "I'm looking forward to your book."
"What's your book?" asked the server, a young woman with tattoos, multiple piercings through her cheeks and gigantic black rings stretching her earlobes.
"It's a memoir about the Sixties," I said, "and my love affair with Paul McCartney." Her eyes grew wide.
"Did you really hang out with Paul McCartney?"
Be still my beating heart. I told her the truth, but wouldn't it be fun to play for a bit?
I like Facebook. That is, I like lurking, reading what my 90 or so friends are thinking about today. But it just does not occur to me to post things there; I blog. Soon I will have to learn to tweet. And there too, my dad would be utterly confused.
It's so very winter. More snow today; we are overloaded with snow. But I am busy; I had a meeting with the publisher and emailed an essay to the CBC Literary Competition. I'm going to enter competitions now, because it's great to have deadlines to get pieces finished. I don't care if I win, but I want to finish. My tenant Carol said today, "It's as if you've had a breakthrough with your work. What happened?"
"My mother died," I said. "And I'm free."
Today, doing a final edit of the manuscript, starting work on the next essay, doing an assessment of a writing book proposal for a publisher. But now - Randy Bachman is on. If I have ever needed to dance around the kitchen, it's this cold and snowy night.
"So you don't want to friend me?" she asked. I was astonished.
"I never got your request," I said.
"I sent it," she said, "but in any case, you only have 90 or so friends, so you don't want to friend me. I post constantly, I'm one of those people, I'd drive you crazy. When I have friends like that, I limit their access rather than de-friending them because I don't want to hurt their feelings."
And I thought - if my dad who died in 1988 heard us, he would have no understanding of what we're saying. And yet it's perfectly understandable in 2014. In fact, she didn't say "limit access," she said something more technical only I don't remember what it was.
She also said, as she left, "I'm looking forward to your book."
"What's your book?" asked the server, a young woman with tattoos, multiple piercings through her cheeks and gigantic black rings stretching her earlobes.
"It's a memoir about the Sixties," I said, "and my love affair with Paul McCartney." Her eyes grew wide.
"Did you really hang out with Paul McCartney?"
Be still my beating heart. I told her the truth, but wouldn't it be fun to play for a bit?
I like Facebook. That is, I like lurking, reading what my 90 or so friends are thinking about today. But it just does not occur to me to post things there; I blog. Soon I will have to learn to tweet. And there too, my dad would be utterly confused.
It's so very winter. More snow today; we are overloaded with snow. But I am busy; I had a meeting with the publisher and emailed an essay to the CBC Literary Competition. I'm going to enter competitions now, because it's great to have deadlines to get pieces finished. I don't care if I win, but I want to finish. My tenant Carol said today, "It's as if you've had a breakthrough with your work. What happened?"
"My mother died," I said. "And I'm free."
Today, doing a final edit of the manuscript, starting work on the next essay, doing an assessment of a writing book proposal for a publisher. But now - Randy Bachman is on. If I have ever needed to dance around the kitchen, it's this cold and snowy night.
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