"Misbehaviour" on Crave, and Beth moves on

Yesterday, rode in the sun to the farmer's market for the first time in months - a heavy loaf of oatmeal raisin sourdough (devoured instantly), almonds and mixed nuts from the nut lady ("I've missed you," she said, and the feeling was mutual), meat from the Mennonites, Empire apples, local garlic, all my favourite things. But today, after many days of heaven, it's dark and wet. How lucky we've been. My friends in B.C. and Newfoundland have had little but cold rain, and we've been basking in unusual heat for April. I put some of the wintering plants out on the deck and had to bring them back in for fear of burning their leaves. 

A long solitary Sunday ahead - Jane's Zoom class at 1, some TV tonight, otherwise, silence. We're not allowed to go anywhere; the province is in crisis, hospitals overwhelmed, variants stalking us. So - talking to you. 

Yesterday, I witnessed sexual congress in the garden - the female cardinal was on a high branch singing an insistent song, and then the male flew over, mounted her for 3 seconds and flew away. Mission accomplished? She sat ruffling her feathers, no song. Sex in the afternoon. Baby cardinals! 

A realization: a number of interesting craft websites post daily or near daily to my inbox - LitHub, Advice for Writers, and others. They pile up; I can't delete until I read them but reading them takes time, not to mention the other sites for writers I follow on FB and Twitter. I've also been going through many pages of notes taken at writing conferences. Yesterday, I unfollowed several sites and have resolved: no more writing conferences except, of course, CNFC's. I've spent decades compiling information on how to write. I know how to write. What I need to do is stop reading about how to write and write. 

Revolution! Stay tuned. 

My students, however, are writing. Brad keeps getting more stuff published. A U of T student from the class that just ended wrote that one of the stories we workshopped in class is to be published. Thank you for all your guidance in making this story happen - you suggested eliminating the "runway" which made a huge difference in the flow of the story.  You also made me feel confident in submitting, by saying it is ready and suggesting where to submit it.  I really appreciate all your help and support.

Brava! 

On one of the sites I read, writers were asked what they'd like about a world without the internet. One said he'd like to go back to actual newspapers, write real letters, and have an answering machine, so people could call and leave messages. I have never given up any of those things, internet or no. Dinosaur alert!

Last night, an unexpected treat: the film Misbehaviour on Crave. It's a true story set in 1970 at the dawn of the feminist movement, when a motley group of angry young women decided to disrupt the Miss World pageant in London. Hard to remember how unapologetically sexist was our world fifty years ago. What's great about the film is that it portrays all sides: a moving scene where a fierce feminist's mother (the superb actress Phyllis Logan who played Mrs. Hughes on Downton Abbey) struggles to understand a new way of being a woman in the world; the beautiful woman from Grenada who won that year, telling a young white protester what this win means to her, giving her choices she wouldn't have otherwise. Not a polemic, just a well-written, produced, and acted (except for Keira Knightly, as wooden as ever) exploration of a dramatic moment in time - my favourite kind of movie. At the end it shows the real women on whom the characters are based, now. Strong, beautiful old faces. Tears.

Going through files: Anna drew this when she was 6 or 7. Agreed.

Anna makes a speech, and Hemingway and the weather bewilder

Where am I, the Côte d'Azur? It's 20 degrees here today, on the 8th of April! Bewildering. Hard to complain when it's so hot and sunny, daffs and forsythia in full bloom, and since we're back in full lockdown, outdoors is a welcome option. But it's not normal.

Speaking of not normal, yesterday I went to No Frills, and while in the produce department suddenly felt so dizzy, hot, and queasy, I thought I'd fall over. Had to prop myself against the potato shelf and breathe deeply through my mask. Headed home asap and lay down, was better in a few hours. Dr. Google says it could be many things. If it happens again, I'll call my doctor's office. I know, that was the lesson of my appendix - don't ignore pain. This wasn't pain, just lightheadedness. 

Getting @#$% old. 

Yesterday, I Skyped with old friend Richard Fowler, fellow actor in Vancouver in the 70's, who had a fascinating alternative career in Europe and ended up in an aerie, a fabulous little house he had built in the mountains high above Positano on the Amalfi Coast. It has the best view of anywhere on earth, but Richard, who has severe vision loss, cannot see it. Still, he has a wonderful life there, regularly taking the bus down to Positano to swim in the sea; he speaks fluent Italian of course and has many friends nearby.

Richard took me on a tour with his iPad; this is a screenshot of his terrazza. 

Last night, the last episode of the 3-part doc on Hemingway by Ken Burns. Oh, the glamorous life of the writer, I said out loud, watching the excruciating disintegration of this Nobel-prize winner, who after a lifetime of alcoholism and a series of head injuries descended into terrible paranoia and depression before, like his father, committing suicide. One of the most interesting points made was Hem's interest in androgyny. This ur-"masculine" man fought in several wars, slaughtered scores, perhaps hundreds, of animals and adored bullfights; over and over I had to hide my eyes so as not to see the violent images, bullfights especially, the cruellest, vilest "sport." Yet Hem liked his four wives to have short hair and dress as boys, and with one played sexual games where she called him Catherine. His youngest son Gregory actually was a cross-dresser who, despite being married for years and fathering many children, eventually became a trans woman named Gloria. Fascinating.

What I hope this superb series triggers is respect, once again, for simple language that gets to the point and stays there. Language has become more and more ornate over the past years, dripping with metaphor and simile and adjectives. I've thought, reading writing competition winners, that simple language doesn't stand a chance and have swum against the tide with my students, warning them against "five dollar words," when "50 cent words" are clear and get the job done. 

I just found my copy of A Moveable Feast which I look forward to rereading; I remember liking it a lot though he gets nasty about his friends. It starts, "Then there was the bad weather. It would come in one day when the fall was over. We would have to shut the windows in the night against the rain and the cold wind would strip the leaves in the Place Contrescarpe."

Been there. Felt that. 

Tonight, a great thrill - my daughter has been asked to give a speech nominating her friend Paul Taylor, whom she met in Grade 6, as the NDP candidate for Parkdale-High Park. She sent me a draft of her talk this morning for editing; I had barely a thing to do. It's superb. I will watch on Zoom tonight. One proud mama. 

Hemingway, and a neglected pandemic essay

The fight with Rogers continues, but it turns out, it's a neighbourhood issue. Their technicians are on Spruce Street right now "looking for a loose connection." Phooey. I expressed my displeasure at all I've been through over the past weeks, and they took $80 off my bill. Not enough, but a start. 

On Sunday Anna and family came over. I hid ten small chocolate eggs in the garden just before they arrived, and by the time we got out to hunt, the squirrels had made off with half of them. All we found were scraps of shiny paper. I'm not sure chocolate is good for squirrels, but I guess they'll find out. Otherwise, a most successful Easter visit, and even better - so far, all of us are still alive. 

Speaking of being alive, people keep telling me appendix horror stories, people who died of peritonitis. I was very lucky.

Two seasons.

Last night, I watched the first part of the Ken Burn's doc about Hemingway. Fabulously told, of course, and thrilling to watch him develop as a writer, including an extended time at the Toronto Star. He and Hadley lived near where I did in Paris; I used to pass the plaque outside their home. 

Speaking of development as a writer, I'm back at my desk dealing with stacks of paper. What I note, to my chagrin - and I'm pretty sure I've noted this before - is that I wrote and write a lot. What I do not do is send stuff out. Or if I do, and it's rejected once, I don't send it out again. There are so many essays now outdated that I read and think, that's good! It should have found a home, you idiot. 

Here, for example, is the start of a piece I sent to the Star in December, my own take on pandemic fatigue. They didn't reply and I did nothing further with the essay. Infuriating. Send it out again, moronface! It may not be Hemingway, but then, who is? 

And here's what I scribbled in the notebook Sam brought to the hospital, the start of something. 

What should it be?

Shtisel: terrific drama portraying religious absurdity

On Parliament Street, as often happens, I ran into a neighbour, Stephen. I love your blog, he told me. I'm always amazed at the diversity of people who follow my life. It's not a big crowd - from 40 to 70 people a day, 350 to 450 a month, though when I travel the numbers go up a lot. 

I just checked the overview and saw a startling thing: March goes along with the usual numbers until March 24, when it jumps up to 349 readers. On March 25, back to 43. 

March 24, I'm writing about finding British relatives. Does that mean hundreds of new British relatives are checking in? Mystery.

Anna called this morning; she and the boys were doing a tour of favourite playgrounds on the east side, would I like to meet them? I certainly would. Hopped on my bike and off to the playground at Allen Gardens, a good one. The boys and I played our favourite game - Glamma as the big bad wolf monster chasing them with teeth bared - while Mama went to Loblaws and managed to deke into Joe Fresh and buy a spring sweater. And then they took off for another playground and I staggered home. 

The Rogers technicians came. A nice man with a rolling Russian accent checked out my systems inside and out, thinks he fixed what might have been the problem but will ask the maintenance guys to check also. My TV box, however, is now attached by cable rather than by wifi, so I hope that's fixed. We are so dependent on these devices, more so than ever before — frantic without them.

I wrote about it to Brad who helps me with tech problems. He wrote back You know your Russian “cable guy” has routed your signals back thru a basement in Moscow. There will now be subliminal  pro Russian messages in the next Stanley Tucci episode. That’s how they do it.  

LOL!

Last night, I watched 3 episodes of Netflix's "Shtisel," a dramatic series about orthodox Jews in Israel, but really about love and confusion and betrayal among human beings anywhere, though these ones live by a stringent set of rules and wear strange clothes and hats and hair. The actors are magnificent, so is the writing and filming - all excellent. Recommended. 

However, it's hard not to chafe at the absurdity of the stifling religious regulations portrayed, the arranged marriages, the women in their wigs and scarves loaded down with hundreds of children. I'm not tolerant of conspicuous religiosity. I was at Riverdale Farm once when two busloads of schoolchildren arrived - one a group of Muslim children and one a group of Orthodox Jewish boys. The Muslim teachers were in niqab but the children looked like children, whereas the Jewish boys all had the payot, those ridiculous dangling side curls, and kippehs. I thought to myself, It's child abuse to inculcate children into a cult so young and brand them as religious weirdos. How can they ever make friends with the outside world? They can't, that's the point, as "Shtisel" shows. 

Will turn on my fire and watch more tonight. And perhaps my TV is actually working now, routed through Moscow though it may be. Pleasure is. 

keep on keeping on

Oh sad. The husband of one of my closest friends died of a heart attack this morning. She brought cups of tea up to bed; they drank and talked, and he rolled over and died. He'd been having chest pains but tests were inconclusive and he refused a few days before when she wanted him to go to Emerg. I know how he felt. Another casualty, in a way, of Covid; in normal times, he might have gone. But then again, he might not. He had a peaceful, painless death in his own bed next to the love of his life. But he was only 71. 

Monique's closest sister also had a heart attack and died suddenly last week, at 78. Monique can't stop crying. I think it's not only the loss of a beloved sibling, and the fact that she can't go to France to be with family, but a renewed reminder of our own human fragility. Any time, it might come.

So we live as well as we can, right now.

On the other hand, to descend to the pits of pettiness, some of us have to spend many hours - days - battling with our cable provider. Curse you, Rogers! After upgrading my modem I've had nothing but trouble - internet going on and off, and the TV too; I'm watching something and the screen goes blank, then comes back half an hour later, then freezes or goes black again. Many tortuous phone calls, and it's still the same. A technician is apparently coming tomorrow to check wiring, which should have been done ages ago. My son made me laugh, though. When I texted him about my fury, he replied, "In situations like this I like to take 10 deep breaths. I've got a few articles on breathing techniques I've clipped, next time you're here I'll give them to ya."

He is mocking his mother who clips articles on health issues incessantly and presses them on her children. Who throw them away.

Groundhog Day continues - is this Tuesday? Saturday? I guess Easter is meaningful for some, not for me, though I think Anna and fam will come and I'll hide eggs in the garden. So that will be Sunday.

Our incompetent premier is floundering and so is our province. Restaurants had just opened and now have to shut again. Sam was working and now is not, or maybe he is, maybe they'll figure something out. Anna is still cooking for many elders. In here, nothing is new. It may be isolated, quiet, and sometimes dull, but it beats the alternative. 

A friend sent this from her cell - six years ago or so, Eli had a fever and Glamma was on call. My baby.