a big decision

Swamped. Periodically I have to stop and sit and take a breath, because the world seems to be hurtling at me, at us all, out of control.

First, of course, our neighbours to the south. To think that not long ago, Canada and the U.S. felt like kin, similar English-speaking McDonald's-eating Breaking-Bad-watching Western democracies. Now, increasingly, theirs is a society of maniacs, insane, incomprehensible. A student read a piece in class on Monday which mentioned her father keeping a loaded pistol in his top drawer, so I knew she was American before she clarified that fact. Canadian fathers, with I'm sure a few exceptions, do not keep loaded pistols in their top drawers. Madness madness madness. Then the country's reprehensible vote at the U.N. about capital punishment for homosexuality; Trump, more vile and disgusting day by day, something that seemed impossible to achieve, and yet achieve it he does. Unbearable, watching a country hurtling off a cliff.

Okay, enough of that. I'll go back to the beautiful memory of the Invictus Games. And today - the English-conversation group, so lively, so much chatter. At the end, Razia, small and brown and swathed in colourful cloth, beamed at me. "Thees," she said, waving her hands at the group, "thees group - talk - I LOVE it!" She hugged me, and then she flipped down the veil to completely cover her face and was off. I love it too. Today we talked about holidays and festivals, and they were asked what their favourite holiday is. "Eid," they all to a woman replied. We have a lot more choice in many things. But they are not unhappy women, for sure. It's extraordinary to get to know women who, according to our rules, are so severely limited in dress, in society and work, in choice. And yet they do not seem to feel limited.

On Saturday afternoon, a huge treat - I rode down to Soulpepper in the Distillery District to see their production of "Waiting for Godot." And felt, as I often do, so immensely privileged that I could zip off, ten minutes from home on my bicycle, to see a fine production of perhaps the greatest masterpiece of 20th century drama - for their last minute price of $25. Oh Sam, Sam Beckett, what a dark and yet comic vision you had. At one point, one of the tramps - Vladimir, I think - is spewing a list of insults, and then comes the worst: "CRITIC!" he shouts. I'd seen it in London a few years ago, an all-star cast - Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart - and didn't like their rather jokey interpretation; it seemed to me the actors, described in a NYT review later as "a little too adorable," were having entirely too much fun at the expense of the play. This production was solid, with a haunting Lucky, very tall, ghostly, with a pale face and long white hair.

Some people regularly reread Jane Austen or George Eliot. I think I must see a production of "Waiting for Godot" every decade or so.

That night was Nuit Blanche, the whole downtown packed with young people and many quirky art installations. I stayed home.

Sunday, not one but two new tenants moved in; Hadi who lived downstairs two years ago wanted to move back and now has, and upstairs, Carol's room is now occupied by Elodie, a young French florist who is here for some months to learn English. Carol is at her other home in Ecuador till March. Elodie is paid by the French government to work for a florist here, and in the evening, she goes salsa dancing.

Tuesday, after my U of T class, a long Creative Non-fiction Collective meeting, many decisions to make, and hours later, off with four other non-fiction writers to Hemingway's in Yorkville for drinks and writing talk. Now that's my idea of fun - not art installations, but drinks and writing talk.

However - back to being swamped. This year for the very first time, as I rode off to the first class at Ryerson, I felt tired. And I realized that I've been teaching since 1994 almost without a break - just took two terms off in 2009 to live in France. Perhaps inspired by my friend Chris, who completely transformed his life in a MONTH, I in my more cautious way made a momentous decision: I am going to take 2019 off from teaching. Born in 1950, I always make some kind of switch in the last year of the decade.

It's okay with my bosses at U of T and Ryerson, who have more than a year to find a replacement. How I will pay for this and what I will do that year, I have no idea. Focus on my new book. Travel. All I know is that for one year, I won't have the treadmill - that I love, still love, will always love - of three teaching terms.

Maybe I'll take up salsa dancing.

Obama and Harry in Toronto: swoon

Wednesday, so scorching hot we could hardly breathe. Thursday, temperate. Today, so wet and chilly that I turned on the furnace. That is something of a record, that huge a switch in temperature in 48 hours. Welcome to Canada.

I am so immersed in my volunteer activities, it's a miracle I get any work done at all. And many days, I don't. I'm writing a speech to give next weekend at the 25th anniversary of my son's high school, and another for a talk in October, with Powerpoint, in Fairfax, Virginia, plus arranging that trip. I'm finding speakers for the English conversation group, setting up a meeting about our Xmas Eve pageant Babe in the Barn, and spent the whole morning making lists of possible speakers for next year's Creative Non-fiction conference. I have to stop saying yes. Repeat after me: NO. Sorry. I have work to do.

Sigh.

This is a good time for me to do other stuff, though, with the manuscript floating about in two different places. Waiting for the no. Real writers would be starting their next book. I'm making lists of real writers to invite to our conference. And picking the basil in the garden that has to be cooked now, which is the only time I went outside all day. Didn't move all day. Sat here emailing constantly. Bad.

I did cook a delicious Japanese eggplant with garlic and basil dish, however, and spent a delightful hour delving into the file box of my son's life for material for the talk at his school. Did spend a great hour talking to him and eating a superb omelette he cooked for us both, on a quick visit to his old mum. It's a busy busy life, and I would not change a single thing. Except the presidents of the United States and North Korea - those I would definitely change. Particularly because, as a reminder of what can go wrong on our planet, Hilary Clinton was in town yesterday.

Speaking of being in town - the Invictus Games for wounded veterans have been going on all week here, and for sheer joy, how about this picture of the audience for wheelchair basketball? Two of the most adorable manspreading men on the planet side by side. And I'm not talking about Joe Biden, though he's not bad either. What I would like to say is: good job, mothers of these fine men. You done good. (Though truly, look at room taken up by the women's legs and the men's. Vive la difference!)

P.S If you want a smile, go to YouTube and find "B.C. man politely asks bears to leave his backyard." I've tried to put it here but can't. It's the most Canadian thing you'll see all day. Except for the photograph above, in which not a single audience member is paying the slightest attention to two of the most famous men in the world, seated in front of them.

some crazy stuff

The weather has turned, praise be - it's normal out there, lovely, sunny with a bite in the air. I just sent the manuscript to an agent. So am feeling that bite in the air more than usual.

For your daily smile, today's absurdities from the internet:

Someone wrote, in a great Harry Potter reference, "This is the Platform 9 3/4 of bicycle lanes."

Really?

And best of all ... The Snurds. Where are they now?

and now for the good news: Macca in NYC

We are living, my friends, through a time surreal with horror, when the base side of human nature is not only disclosed but encouraged and lauded. A time when citizens respond to inevitable change not with interest but with terror, revulsion, and violence. May this time pass quickly and vanish. May we think back on the Trump era, shaking our heads, wondering how it happened. May the dystopian literature that's bursting out not be proven true. In the meantime, I cling to newspaper columnists and sharp-tongued comedians to keep my sanity.

In the meantime, all I can do is tend my garden, not just the plants, but the neighbourhood - this morning, the English conversation group in Regents Park. There was a surreal moment when I saw me and my friend Linda surrounded by brown-skinned women, Jesmin, Razia, Nurun, and the others, wearing yards and yards of beautiful material, huge swaths of multi-coloured cloth enveloping their bodies and heads. Some new women came today, younger ones who did not wear the veil, which made me glad. But still, even those who do wear it, when they flip up that black cloth, I see beautiful lively faces anxious to learn English, full of laughter. It's a joy.

And then they flip the veil back down and go back to their lives, their many children, and Linda and I go to the Y for Carole's class where we met, running around puffing and panting and wearing very little. Not something our new Bengali friends have ever experienced.

And then I come home to my empty quiet house and think about the rest of the day, which somehow goes by, much of it sitting here with my fingers tapping - editing pieces for students, for the next So True, writing to friends, this blog, about next year's conference, preparing talks, reading online and on paper, trying to keep my head above the water of my responsibilities. My own work, buried for now. Cooking cleaning volunteering - when it's so difficult to get to work with only that, however did I do any writing when I had young children? The honest answer: I didn't, not very much.

And the New Yorker, another task, that gorgeous magazine arriving once a week in my mailbox. Impossible to keep up. But flipping through today's, I could not help but see this small mention of one of my greatest loves - yes, a mention in the coolest of the cool in NYC.

The New Yorker, Oct. 2, 2017

Night Life, Rock and Pop

Paul McCartney

McCartney’s “One on One” tour has rumbled into its last week in the tristate area. The tour was advertised with billboards featuring a simple image of his signature Höfner bass, devoid of his likeness – a cryptic campaign few other rock stars could pull off. McCartney has somehow grown from his association with a band that was “bigger than Jesus” to something even larger: a living, breathing time capsule from possibly the richest, most fawned over period in popular music. He’s also become cooler with age, and his infrequent collaborations with artists generations his junior (including his sitting in as a drummer on an upcoming Foo Fighters record) only further stoke his legend.

The writer is wrong in one thing - Macca has not at all "become cooler with age," he is just the same; it's just that cool people have finally recognized how extraordinary he is. Go Macca. Could you please save the world, while you're at it? 

reasons to drink

Love this press release from the White House:
Melania Trump embarked on her first solo overseas trip as First Lady when she attended the Invictus Games in Toronto on Saturday. 
Melania visits Canada, that great country overseas. I'm not sure exactly which seas - does Lake Ontario count?

I'm listening to CBC's The World at Six, drinking white with ice cubes, wearing as little as possible in the on-going sweltering heat - the last few days indeed record-breaking, 32 degrees feeling nearer to 40 with the humidity. Tomorrow only 38. The news on CBC is  devastating. Do we even remember Barack Obama, his idealism and grace? Yes we can? It seems a lifetime ago.

I am going next month to Washington D.C., for a talk on my great-grandfather near there, in Fairfax, Virginia. I actually wrote yesterday to the woman producing the event to say - if it looks like nuclear war is going to break out, I will not be coming. I had a nightmare of war starting with me stuck in Washington, just the worst place to be. Hard to believe I'm even saying this. My father spent much of his life fighting nuclear proliferation; I grew up with the words "Strontium 90" and "nuclear proliferation" ringing in my ears. And now - two lunatics with their fingers on the button.

Spare us.

Teaching has started, two very full classes full of interesting people - I love my job, though I come home drained. I am not getting enough done. The manuscript is in limbo. Yesterday was Glenn Gould's birthday. Happy birthday, dear genius.