I am more heartsick about the state of the world today than yesterday, something I didn't think was possible. Jerusalem - let's throw dynamite into this volatile situation and see what happens, chuckles Trump, the gleeful psychopathic six-year old. And Al Franken, one of the sanest voices in that insane land, sacrificed on the altar of political correctness in a country now so toxic, ripping itself apart from inside, it's hard to imagine how it will continue to survive. Franken was foolish and juvenile, pretending to squeeze a sleeping woman's breasts; another says he tried to kiss her, and another - oh imagine the horror! - that he squeezed some of the flesh of her waist during a photo op. What the hell is going on out there? Every minuscule grievance now has its chance to parade on the world stage, while an immoral pedophile makes his way to the Senate and the most loathsome predator on earth sits in the White House.
Okay, stop, racing heart. It will not do any good. Bill Maher must be climbing the walls. He's always shouting at the Democrats for being so prissy and holier than thou, as opposed to the Republicans who have not a single iota of decency or shame. And now, at a time when a man like Franken could not be more vital to the fragile democracy they claim to love, they've shot themselves in the foot once again. Franken, a clever, diplomatic, reasonable, and funny man, a rare politician popular on both sides of the aisle - gone.
I know many will disagree - that any bad behaviour must be punished. And I say when the other side agrees, let them all go together. Otherwise, you're handing the American government to the world's most sexist, blind, cold-hearted men and women, just wait to see what they come up with. I had a long argument with my friends on FB about this yesterday; one wrote this, about Franken, whom I was defending:
When "good men" do despicable things, they are no longer "good men." All the female Democratic Senators have called on him to resign, because what he did was not "something silly" - it was something disgusting and demeaning towards women. He does not get a free card because he is a Democrat.
Can we define "despicable"? "Due process" - have we heard of that? The fabulous, ultra-cool Deanne Taylor came up with the final word:
I don't believe any 'accusations', only proof established with due process. Some of us female-persons have to stand up for a sense of proportion, for knowing the difference between a mistake and a pathology, for not screaming 'victim' or 'survivor' over a fumbled pass.
SENSE OF PROPORTION. Now, there's an idea.
Heartsick. However. Pull yourself together, girl. It's cold but sunny. I spent yesterday rewriting my book proposal and getting it out to a publisher. No choice, it's got to be done; I will send to ten publishers and then, next spring, publish it myself and move on. Onward.
Heartsick.
Friday, December 8, 2017
Monday, December 4, 2017
Jane Goodall and Ben Bradlee - a magnificent pair
And now for something completely different: a shot from the taxi home from the island airport. Beautiful downtown Toronto.
No problematic Canada geese floating about amidst the concrete and sparkles. Above it all, invisible here, a super moon.
Today's excitement: a TWO documentary day. First, to the glorious "Jane" at the Bloor with friend Ken. It's about Jane Goodall, and what a story - I had no idea she was not a trained scientist when she went to Africa to study chimps, just a young woman who loved animals. She spent months living in the bush to gradually integrate herself into the chimps' world, and at one point, her mother came from the British countryside to live with her - two fearless Englishwomen camping in the African bush, amidst poisonous snakes and leopards, not to mention the male chimps who, as one interviewer pointed out, "could have ripped your face off." I knew I'd be fine, she replied serenely, because I was where I should be.
It turns into a love story when a handsome National Geographic reporter arrives to film her; they end up married with a baby, and the story takes a different turn. But always, she was with her animals in Africa, as close to them as to her own family, if not more so. Inspiring, especially now, as wild animals are more endangered than ever. Brava to a heroic woman, still out there doing this work.
And then tonight, most of a TV doc on Ben Bradlee, another extremely inspiring figure, the editor of the Washington Post when it followed and blew open the Watergate story; the exposé might not have happened if not for his courage. What he hated most, said the narrator, was politicians who lie. What would he have made of the guy there now and his execrable mendacious team? Just as well Bradlee's not around to see the travesty going on in his country. I missed the beginning and came in as they were talking about JFK's extra-marital affairs, how one night the President followed and sexually assaulted Bradlee's then wife during a party. And we're surprised men have continued to get away with that kind of thing!
Had a great talk with my son today about this. He thinks the rise in sexual assault is at least partly because of porn on the internet, which dehumanizes women - and sex itself. He told me a guy he knows can only "get it up" when he's watching a screen, so when he and his girlfriend are making love, she films what they're doing and he watches on the phone. How's that for dehumanizing? Sam thinks the rise in gun violence is partly because of video games; guys spend thousands of hours blowing things up on a screen until violence isn't real any more. We're fucked, he said. And I might agree, were people not making fabulous documentaries to show us the truth and bring us to our senses.
Today's excitement: a TWO documentary day. First, to the glorious "Jane" at the Bloor with friend Ken. It's about Jane Goodall, and what a story - I had no idea she was not a trained scientist when she went to Africa to study chimps, just a young woman who loved animals. She spent months living in the bush to gradually integrate herself into the chimps' world, and at one point, her mother came from the British countryside to live with her - two fearless Englishwomen camping in the African bush, amidst poisonous snakes and leopards, not to mention the male chimps who, as one interviewer pointed out, "could have ripped your face off." I knew I'd be fine, she replied serenely, because I was where I should be.
It turns into a love story when a handsome National Geographic reporter arrives to film her; they end up married with a baby, and the story takes a different turn. But always, she was with her animals in Africa, as close to them as to her own family, if not more so. Inspiring, especially now, as wild animals are more endangered than ever. Brava to a heroic woman, still out there doing this work.
And then tonight, most of a TV doc on Ben Bradlee, another extremely inspiring figure, the editor of the Washington Post when it followed and blew open the Watergate story; the exposé might not have happened if not for his courage. What he hated most, said the narrator, was politicians who lie. What would he have made of the guy there now and his execrable mendacious team? Just as well Bradlee's not around to see the travesty going on in his country. I missed the beginning and came in as they were talking about JFK's extra-marital affairs, how one night the President followed and sexually assaulted Bradlee's then wife during a party. And we're surprised men have continued to get away with that kind of thing!
Had a great talk with my son today about this. He thinks the rise in sexual assault is at least partly because of porn on the internet, which dehumanizes women - and sex itself. He told me a guy he knows can only "get it up" when he's watching a screen, so when he and his girlfriend are making love, she films what they're doing and he watches on the phone. How's that for dehumanizing? Sam thinks the rise in gun violence is partly because of video games; guys spend thousands of hours blowing things up on a screen until violence isn't real any more. We're fucked, he said. And I might agree, were people not making fabulous documentaries to show us the truth and bring us to our senses.
Sunday, December 3, 2017
homeward bound
Flight delayed; sitting in the Porter lounge with shortbread cookies, cappuccino, and thou. In my suitcase - Ikea junk and smoked salmon from my brother, to go into the freezer for us to devour Xmas morning. And on the computer, a 10 page typed document of family memories I just sent to my cousins in Washington. Treasure.
From my quick morning walk:
Who knew that Ottawa had a Poets' Pathway?
There was sun, briefly, and many annoyingly noisy Canada geese. Question: why don't we eat them? Wouldn't that kill two birds, literally, and help with hunger and an over-abundant goose population?
I kept singing Macca's sweet song "The Two of Us": "You and I have memories/longer than the road that stretches/out ahead ..."
Could not resist - this is part of my aunt's collection of plastic bags, the ones she has carefully folded and wrapped in rubber bands. But when we needed a plastic bag, she opened her dishwasher, which was stuffed full to overflowing with them. My mother too had a huge collection of plastic bags, and sometimes, I'm tempted to hoard them myself. CAUTION! TURNING INTO AN OLD PERSON!
From my quick morning walk:
Saturday, December 2, 2017
Lady Bird
Yes, there was as always some pretty gross stuff in her fridge that had to be dealt with, and there are often crumbs on her sweater, and she's more frail than before and does forget things. She's fiercely independent and stubborn - won't accept help unless it's strictly necessary. When we got to Ikea, I asked if she wanted a wheelchair, to make those miles of corridors easier. Oh no, she said, brandishing her cane. I don't want to start that kind of thing.
Today I took her to the movies, which is another of our regular treats. Last time disastrously - the only British film out was the Harry Potter spinoff about fantastical beasts, which turned out to be very loud and incomprehensible to her. Today we went to see "Lady Bird," which has had uniformly good reviews and was in a movie theatre nearby with reclining chairs - extremely comfortable, so much so that Do slept through most of the film. But she didn't understand much anyway, the story of a teen coming of age in 2002 in Sacramento. I loved it; it's spare, beautifully written and acted and directed, haunting. It showed once more one of the most important lessons I tell my classes - the more we tell our own small story with depth and passion and skill, the more others will see themselves in our tale. This is the story of one girl growing up a bit, and yet somehow it's about all families, the flawed love of parents for their children and vice versa, the desperate need of teenagers to figure out who they are and make their independent mark. It made me ache. Every family I saw for hours after seemed to be in the movie.
And then back to Do's for an improvised dinner and more typing as she talked about OUR family. I will miss her.
Friday, December 1, 2017
celebrating age in Ottawa
Today's excitement: my aunt and I went to Ikea, which is five minutes from her place, and walked around ogling, as we always do when I visit, as I loaded up on the only essentials I can put in my carryon suitcase - napkins, facecloths, cushions, candles - and then we had a gourmet lunch for $24. Ikea sells beer and wine now! So along with my candles I bought two small bottles of red to take back to Do's. Not supposed to do that, it turned out, but I managed.
On my way here yesterday, I took an earlier flight to avoid rush hour, but the flight was delayed and I ended up right in the middle of rush hour, which in Ottawa is at 4.15. It was dark, sleet turning to snow, and I was in a traffic jam on the Queensway - not fun. But still, even a traffic jam in Ottawa is tiny and doable in comparison with the metropolis. That evening, my brother and his 10-year old son Jake came over and we had dinner with Do. How I enjoy it when there is an 87 year span in the ages of my companions. For Christmas, I brought Jake, who's a reader, "The Bridge to Terabithia," a favourite, "Harriet the Spy," and best of all, a boxed set of all the "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" books. He'd started to read before dinner was over. Narnia forever.
Do and I spent this afternoon talking at her place, she telling me family stories, and I this time able to transcribe onto my computer as she spoke. Much I'd heard before, but this time, I wanted to know why my grandparents moved from the village in the country where they'd lived since 1923 - my grandfather was the stern headmaster of the village school - to London in the middle of the war - it made no sense. My grandfather was only in his fifties, not retirement age. Do didn't know, but we guessed that after 20 years it was time to leave Potterspury, and London, she said, was terribly inexpensive because so many people had left; you could find a flat for very little, and Percy and Marion had very little. Not long after they moved to Baron's Court, some houses almost right next door were obliterated by German bombs.
Stuff like that. Delicious. I wrote it all down then or here, later, in my little room. Because I will write the family story one day in a book, and then no one will publish it and no one will read it.
Sorry. Just a tiny bit sour.
As always, I was reluctant to come and am very glad I'm here. Tonight I brought in dinner and we invited Do's friend Una over, a mere stripling in her eighties. They laughed about another of their Scrabble friends, a rather vain woman who has a boyfriend. She had a fall while he was with her, and when the ambulance men came, they asked her age. She said she was 82. She's actually 91 but she didn't want him to know the truth, because he's 82, and she'd told him she's the same age.
I'm learning a lot about getting old. Keep your friends close, says Una. You get lonely when you're older, because so many people have gone, and younger people are busy. Una has been divorced for many years. I love living alone, she said, but sometimes, I'd like someone else to be there for me not to talk to, just there.
Went for a walk in Britannia Park this afternoon, reflecting on getting old and feeling unaccountably young. Passed the playground where my grandsons have played, now deserted in the chill.
On my way here yesterday, I took an earlier flight to avoid rush hour, but the flight was delayed and I ended up right in the middle of rush hour, which in Ottawa is at 4.15. It was dark, sleet turning to snow, and I was in a traffic jam on the Queensway - not fun. But still, even a traffic jam in Ottawa is tiny and doable in comparison with the metropolis. That evening, my brother and his 10-year old son Jake came over and we had dinner with Do. How I enjoy it when there is an 87 year span in the ages of my companions. For Christmas, I brought Jake, who's a reader, "The Bridge to Terabithia," a favourite, "Harriet the Spy," and best of all, a boxed set of all the "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" books. He'd started to read before dinner was over. Narnia forever.
Do and I spent this afternoon talking at her place, she telling me family stories, and I this time able to transcribe onto my computer as she spoke. Much I'd heard before, but this time, I wanted to know why my grandparents moved from the village in the country where they'd lived since 1923 - my grandfather was the stern headmaster of the village school - to London in the middle of the war - it made no sense. My grandfather was only in his fifties, not retirement age. Do didn't know, but we guessed that after 20 years it was time to leave Potterspury, and London, she said, was terribly inexpensive because so many people had left; you could find a flat for very little, and Percy and Marion had very little. Not long after they moved to Baron's Court, some houses almost right next door were obliterated by German bombs.
Stuff like that. Delicious. I wrote it all down then or here, later, in my little room. Because I will write the family story one day in a book, and then no one will publish it and no one will read it.
Sorry. Just a tiny bit sour.
As always, I was reluctant to come and am very glad I'm here. Tonight I brought in dinner and we invited Do's friend Una over, a mere stripling in her eighties. They laughed about another of their Scrabble friends, a rather vain woman who has a boyfriend. She had a fall while he was with her, and when the ambulance men came, they asked her age. She said she was 82. She's actually 91 but she didn't want him to know the truth, because he's 82, and she'd told him she's the same age.
I'm learning a lot about getting old. Keep your friends close, says Una. You get lonely when you're older, because so many people have gone, and younger people are busy. Una has been divorced for many years. I love living alone, she said, but sometimes, I'd like someone else to be there for me not to talk to, just there.
Went for a walk in Britannia Park this afternoon, reflecting on getting old and feeling unaccountably young. Passed the playground where my grandsons have played, now deserted in the chill.
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