remembrance

It's mild with a soft breeze on Remembrance Day, after a damp morning. Anna usually takes Eli to his much-loved swimming class at the Y on Wednesdays, but today, instead, she took him to the Remembrance Day ceremonies and explained to him what it means. I never took my kids to Remembrance Day ceremonies. Or to the Ex or to the Santa Claus parade either, which Anna also does. No question, she is a hundred times a better parent than I was.

And yet, I must admit - she turned out so well how? Perhaps I did something right.

Today I remember my father, who got through WW2 in the American Army MASH units, and my mother, with her fascinating stint at Bletchley Park, and my British grandfather Percy, who was rejected for the British army in WW1 because of bad knees from soccer, but who spent the war repairing engines and leather for the horses. Thank you. Thank you to all who in WW2 helped liberate our world from the vilest of monsters.

*                 *                       *                     *

Many treats yesterday, including a spectacular class at U of T - wow, is all I can say. And the Ryerson one on Monday was wonderful too. The term is winding down - last class next week at Ry and the week after at U of T, and once again, I'm profoundly grateful to have such satisfying work, work I hope makes a tiny difference on the planet.

Then home to greet my family - Sam had arranged for a photo shoot with his lovely friend Brilynne, a freelance photographer who's 6 foot 2 - much discussion about being a tall woman, a subject I know well from my mother who was a mere 6 foot, and then to work, trying to get three adults and two small children looking in the same direction at once. I don't know how we did, but she has already given Sam the picture she took when Ben discovered that his uncle's thumb tasted really really good.

That's a cheetah's face he has on his hand, and the word LAMB. The word WOLF on his other hand. Don't ask; I have no idea. Brilynne met him because she is photographing tattoos in the restaurant world, of which there are many. She told me she's fascinated by them because of the stories behind them. A kindred spirit.

And then I watched the end of the Gillers, as always feeling like Cinderella, not just that I'm at home in my rags looking at the glitterati drinking champagne, but because I write NON-FICTION and this hugely generous prize is for fiction. At least there is a big non-fiction prize now, thanks to Hilary Weston. But it's not on television yet. We can but dream. Congratulations Andre Alexis! BIG bucks and big sales. Way to go.

Until we get Brilynne's shots, here's one of mine, from my visit across town on Sunday:

Bro!

old but feisty

A terrible thing happened to me yesterday. A very nice student, a gay man in his early fifties, said to me after class, "Do you mind if I ask you a very personal question?"
"Of course not," I said.
"Did I hear you mention that you're 76 years old?"

Only a slight pause for sharp intake of breath.
"Heavens no," I laughed gamely. "I'm only 65!"
"Well, I thought you looked awfully good for 76."

76. He thought I might conceivably be 76! I know I've been looking pale and drawn these days, as winter comes in. But not THAT bad. Oh well. It's just that my son, for my birthday present, has arranged for a portrait photographer girlfriend of his come and try to get a decent shot of all five of us - me, daughter, son, two grandbabies. The chances of that are slim - I am the least photogenic person on earth, Eli refuses to smile on cue and Ben grizzles a lot. Luckily my children are extremely good-looking.

But this is happening after I teach today, and I look 76.

No wonder - I spent the most aggravating hour and a half, yesterday and today, with Rogers. First world problems. Jon Stewart has announced he will do stuff on HBO and so I decided I should at last get that channel. Great stuff on HBO - Bill Maher too. But I refuse to pay more than the king's ransom I'm paying Rogers already, could they make that happen? A friendly guy yesterday, another today, absolutely, they would change my package from the VIP package to the Extra Lifestyle Package. I 'd like some Extra Lifestyle, we 76 year olds could use it. However, after much trying and unplugging the cable box and waiting endlessly on hold while the hideous music plays, it turns out that no, I will not be able to get HBO without paying even more of a king's ransom and getting all kinds of other channels I don't want.

So my dear Jon - I hope you will also appear on the internet.

And now this ancient crone will hobble out into her day. Cackling.

Nine Canucks nom'd for Dublin IMPAC prize!

Of course, I'm sorry there's no non-fiction included here - as usual - but still, this is cause for celebration.

9 Canadian novels are among 160 titles that have been nominated by libraries worldwide for the €100,000 International DUBLIN Literary Award, the world’s most valuable annual literary prize for a single work of fiction published in English. Nominations include 53 novels in translation with works by 44 American, 25 British, 10 Australian,  7 Irish, 6 German and 3 South African authors.

Organised by Dublin City Council, the 2016 Award was launched today [9th November] by The Lord Mayor of Dublin, Críona Ní Dhálaigh, Patron of the Award, who commented “the Award, now in its 21st year, has made a fantastic contribution to the literary life of Dublin and brings significant benefits to the City. It’s right that, as the Award is now entirely a City initiative, sponsored by the City Council, it should be called the International DUBLIN Literary Award”.

The Canadian titles are:

Sweetland by Michael Crummy Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel Us Conductors by Sean Michaels The Girl Who Was Saturday Night by Heather O’Neill Who by Fire by Fred Stenson All My Puny Sorrows by Miriam Toews Will Starling by Ian Weir The Lobster Kings by Alexi Zentner Outline by Rachel Cusk

*****
And PLEASE, as Xmas approaches, consider giving books and buying them in an independent bookstore. To help you with this, the beautiful Ben McNally bookstore has organized this:

Books in

45 Minutes

Come one, come all for a festive celebration of the season’s finest titles! Find the perfect read for a loved one, or for your own stolen moment of peace beside the fire.

Ben McNally & Lynn Thomson will recommend 45 books in 45 minutes, fiction and non-fiction on Wednesday, Dec. 2^nd and Thursday, Dec. 3^rd at 6:30 pm, at Ben McNally Books. Space is limited, so please call us at (416) 361-0032 to book seats.

Admission is free. Refreshments will be served.

Cumberbatch's Hamlet

Luckily, the sky darkened and I did go to Hamlet, though I would have gone anyway because I am what is known as a Cumberbitch. I think he's fantastic. At one time, an actor that odd-looking, clever and eccentric would have played the witty sidekick forever; he would never have become a leading man and a sex symbol. How marvellous that he has.

And he's a marvel as Hamlet in a messy production - interestingly, directed, designed and gorgeously lit by women. There's rather too much howling and heaving, weeping and panting, everything at top volume, a lot of melodrama, Gertrude's nose running from both nostrils as she emoted. (Did they have no handkerchiefs in Elsinore?) (This was not helped by the fact that I got there close to curtain time and had to sit in the second row, a few feet from the screen.) Many of the actors, while excellent, did not come close to Cumberbatch's burning brilliance. Horatio for some reason seemed to have a bit of a neurological disorder. Claudius was too villainous from the start. Interesting ideas: for example, that Ophelia is disturbingly fragile right off the top. Some marvels - the gravedigger scene, particularly. I was dismayed when, after the intermission, the stage was littered with overturned furniture and the floor covered with detritus. "Theatre of mess," I call it, when directors don't know what to do next except throw stuff around. The junk and litter were a complete distraction; we know the kingdom is going downhill, you don't need to fling it in our faces. But it worked when Ophelia ran barefoot over a pile of rubble to die, and in the gravedigger scene, surrounded on all sides by what looked like dirt.

But mostly - what a play. What words. The beautiful rich glorious marvellous poetry of the words, more than 400 years old, that stir us still.

Throughout, Cumberbatch was a magnificent Hamlet, vulnerable, angry and tender, muscular and visceral, so terribly conflicted, alone and hard on himself. Hamlet, I wanted to say, stop beating yourself up already, cut yourself some slack! The actor threw his entire being into the role even when he was directed to do stuff that didn't work, and there was a lot of concept stuff that didn't work - like making him wear a tin soldier costume and fire toy guns, and then appear in a David Bowie t-shirt. What?

I was immensely entertained but unmoved until "The readiness is all" - delivered so simply - an intelligent man confronting his imminent death with clarity, in unforgettable prose - that tears came. William Shakespeare, your empathetic genius is unparalleled.

It's a flawed production but worthwhile. Highly recommended. Even if you're not a Cumberbitch.

my favourite day

An extremely mild Saturday. I really like this global warming business - let's keep it.

Here's a photo my friend John sent of his daughter on a beach on the Toronto Islands in July.

Only kidding - this was the day before yesterday. November!

No island jets, no Keystone pipeline, the promise of more money for the arts and the CBC, more information coming out about our extraordinary cabinet ministers - I keep running into neighbours and we stand chatting, incredulous, gleeful, filled with joy about our country. It has been a long dark cold time, my friends.

Yesterday, after getting my flu shot at the free clinic at the Y, I rode my bike to King St. and got my jewellery back. "You are a very sentimental person," said Cynthia, who was gracious about the whole thing and has, yes, a fabulously interesting store full of tempting things. (Cynthia Findlay Antiques, King St. West next to the Princess of Wales Theatre, check it out, she's got just about everything.) Yes, I'm sentimental. There's still some of it I don't want and will try to sell or give away, but some of it suddenly looked beautiful. My mother's cameos! My grandmother's garnet bracelet! Here's the picture I took after selling, before I realized that I'd made a huge mistake and lying awake for hours.

The tiny black art deco watch I bought on Portobello Road in 1971! Useless. Adorable.

Speaking of adorable, my daughter has just sent me this picture of the new bookshelf in her living room:

That is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, I wrote back. Christmas is coming and I'm reading the book reviews to see what books need to be acquired. It's serious work, shaping the readers of the future; one of my key jobs. First on my list: "Elephant Journey," recommended by my friend and fellow blogger Kerry Clare, to the left. Moving non-fiction about the fate of three Toronto Zoo elephants whom Eli has visited - perfect.

Now into the day. The treat: Benedict Cumberbatch's "Hamlet" at Cineplex this afternoon. Consulting with John about my leaky roof. Staring out the back door at the scarlet and gold maple leaves showering down. Doing errands in the warm sun. As one of my favourite writers once said:

PS

An hour later - I'm just back from my usual swing through Doubletake. An elderly woman was there,  perhaps in her early 80's with a beautiful calm face and a cloud of grey hair. She was coming up to everyone in the store, including me and the woman in niqab trying on shoes, and saying a breathless, "HI!" right to our faces, as if she'd known us for years. And then she said to everyone, "Good for you! Good for you!"

And I thought, imagine if every ambassador in the U.N., for example, came up to all the others and shouted warmly, "Hello! Good for you! Good for you!" What a peaceful world it would be.

In a way, she encapsulated my work as a teacher. That's what I do too. I say, "Good for you!" 

I don't want to go to "Hamlet." It's too beautiful out there. Not often a Canadian says that in November.