Sunday morning. On a plane above Amurrica's western plains, headin' for the City of Angels. A quick review of the past few days in fabulous Austin, which is surely the hippie capital of North America - I kept thinking I was back in 1968, so much long hair, fringe, hash pipes, beads. And music music music everywhere, great food and the most relaxed people on earth - a peaceful vibe. Happily, some pro-Obama and peace stickers on cars. A wonderful place to be.
The weather was difficult for awhile there, on Thursday morning so cold I wore my coat and Lynn, who had given all her cool weather gear to her husband to take back to France, couldn't go out till it warmed up. Instead we went for lunch at a drugstore near her place, unchanged since 1952, a long winding counter and delicious burgers and fries. We got the bus to South Congress, a long strip of shops, bars and restaurants - again, so much vintage! A shop called "Uncommon Objects" - amazing, packed with great old stuff. After much poking about, including a long stop at Allen's famous boot store with a million cowboy boots, we stopped at Gueros for a margarita, my first in many years, divine, outside at a picnic table while listening to The Fabs, a bunch of old-timers playing groovy rock and roll. Then we made our way back to the great record store Waterloo to listen to another band's CD launch, this one three girls and a guy drummer, called Bleached. The name should have warned us. Being in tune is quite a good thing.
On Friday it warmed up and after a picnic lunch on the roof of the Austin Whole Foods, a vast emporium of goodness, an amazing store, we went to Barton Springs - when I say 'went' I mean we got completely lost and ended up downtown where we got a cab - which is an enormous natural swimming pool always at 68 degrees, perfect, refreshing. Back downtown to have a beer on East 6th which has some of the oldest buildings in Austin - and everywhere, may I say, I drank only local beers and they were delicious. We had so many evening choices - dancing lessons at the Broken Spoke? Barbecue somewhere? But after swimming and walking, we ended up once more walking home and getting enchiladas at the local grocery store.
On Saturday, a special thrill. Several years ago, a woman called Ruth contacted me; she had read my book and was a devout Yiddishist interested in translating the work of Jacob Gordin. We corresponded regularly as she worked; she lives in rural Texas, so we arranged to meet, finally, in Austin. She's a terrific and very interesting woman wearing a gorgeous pair of cowboy boots; she told me I looked like Gordin, which isn't necessarily a compliment since his beard is so much bigger than mine, but then said, "I mean, you have his eyes and his bearing." We had lunch and talked avidly, then met up with Madame Blin and drove together to South Congress for another wander up and down. As we sat to drink one more great local beer, we began to chat with the young man sitting next to us, who was phenomenal - he'd grown up with orangutans, as his step-father was an "orangutan trainer", and was now learning to be a sommelier, knew all about the rosés of Provence. We all chatted for an hour as the hoards wandered past on this crowded, eclectic street.
Ruth and our new friend Ryan went off, and Madame and I walked over the bridge to downtown, where we happened upon Austin Art, an outdoor art festival, and then walked further to have our last dinner together at Hut's, one of Austin's most famous burger joints, again right out of the Fifties. Food, incidentally, is inexpensive everywhere, at least where we ate. A bathroom graffitus at Hut's: "Never fall for a musician, especially if he's 30." To which someone had added, "Except if he has a pet monkey with a hat collection, then it's OK."
A wonderful week with a dear old friend, a good new friend and a hundred other friends - truly, people were so warm and welcoming, you felt they meant it when they said, "Y'all have a great afternoon," as you left the store without buying anything. For my friend from France, which does not pride itself on friendly service, it's extraordinary. I was reminded of the importance of music, more, more needed in my life, and the kindness of strangers. Airbnb was a good experience, very cheap for a night's sleep and friendly landlords, who don't seem to mind a strange person in their kitchen.
Highly recommended.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
the Texas winter
This is what it is to travel: you're at home, checking on the weather, as it is wise to do. You learn that in Austin Texas, where you will be going, it will be extremely hot, feeling like more than a hundred degrees, it tells you. So you pack tank tops and sunscreen and hope for the best in that ferocious heat.
And then the day comes, in Austin Texas, when you are standing frozen, huddled against a bitter, icy wind as the rain lashes, and you think - what the @#$#? "This is our winter," my landlady exclaimed. "It's the schizophrenic season." And sure enough, it's predicted to get hot again in a few days. But in the meantime, I went out wearing a sweater and light jacket under my rain poncho - because this is hot old Austin - not the lined hooded coat I'd brought for Washington but was sure I would not need here. Because Austin would be very hot. When in fact, today, Austin was very very cold. And wet.
But I do not mind. It was a fine day otherwise. Because she was on her way somewhere and it was dark and pouring, my kind landlady dropped me off at Lynn's. I did my homework - read the Grace Paley and Henry James stories Lynn had assigned as relating to the issue of fiction and non-fiction, before going in to speak to her university short story class. And then I left, several hours before my date with Lynn, to get the bus to the university, which meant a 20 minute wait shivering in the icy wind. Incidentally, my landlady, Jade, pointed out that there are no sidewalks here and life revolves around the car, "because we have 9 months of summer, and there are months at a time when it's too hot to move, let alone walk." Point taken. As a Canadian, this had not occurred to me.
Then, heaven, or as I call it, geek heaven. I went to the Ransom Centre for research on campus, which is the home of the papers of many important people, writers especially. I'd read that Spalding Gray's papers were there. Gray interests me, because he turned his personal stories - very personal stories, in some cases - into performance art. He sat at a table with a glass of water and a spiral notebook in front of him, a screen with projections behind, and he told stories - "Swimming to Cambodia," for example, his best known perhaps, about being in the movie "The Killing Fields." "Gray's Anatomy," about his eye problems. I never saw him live but I've seen DVD's of his work. He was charming, funny, mesmerizing, as he faced the audience and related, without pause, his tale.
What I wanted to know was - WHAT'S IN THE NOTEBOOK? He never refers to it, at least in the films, and yet he carries it in when he comes on stage and places it carefully on the desk in front of him. So I went to the Ransom Centre to find out. Went through a process of registering and watching a video to find out how to use the materials, and finally, once I'd been admitted to the special hushed room, two boxes of S.G.'s works were brought out.
AAAh - a kindred spirit, was my first thought. This man scribbled all the time; included were his notes on all kinds of scraps - bills, imploring letters from producers, little cardboard bits. Mostly, yes, notebooks. But not a performance script, just stories flowing along in his slanting, incomprehensible writing.
But then - I found them, his performance notebooks for Gray's Anatomy. So what I think is this: he wrote countless thoughts and ideas on bits of paper, fiddled with them until they gelled into scripts he wrote longhand in notebooks, and then he wrote performance notebooks with chunks of stuff he'd say highlighted. The notebooks were there in case. At the end, always, he wrote notes to himself on how to do things better. Mixed, in one, with a heartbreaking letter to Kathie, who I realized must have been his former partner, mother of his child. From Wikipedia:
Describing the uniqueness of the film-play monologue, theatre director Mark Russell wrote:
On to Lynn's class, a large group of undergraduates - how old, 18, 19? Interesting, lively young Texans who want to learn about the short story and today met a Canadian writer pushing the joys of non-fiction. They asked good questions, we had a great talk, I laid out my case, Lynn asked piercing questions, they seemed to enjoy it. What must have been fascinating for them was the spectacle of these two women who were very old friends working side by side. Lynn called me Professor Kaplan and it sounded so silly coming from her, I almost laughed. But did not. I hope they were left with a sense of the power and importance of true stories, as well as made up ones.
To the free shuttle bus in the freezing dusk, to the grocery store near her house for wine - so cheap, unbelievable, even the best bottles - and take-out Mexican food, burritos and dirty rice. At home, we ate and gabbled, as we always do, on topics, fuelled by a glass or two, from Does God exist? to Should I dye my hair? That's our range.
In Lynn's kitchen, tonight, there was a huge water bug on the wall. Like a big brown beetle. Neither of us wanted to tackle it. This is where men are invaluable. Yes, there are many other things men are invaluable for, but particularly dealing with HUGE WATER BUGS ON THE WALL. MAN WANTED!
P.S. Just got a note from Cousin George in Washington where, as you may recall, it was surprisingly cold. Weather gorgeous today--90 degrees and beautifully sunny.
And then the day comes, in Austin Texas, when you are standing frozen, huddled against a bitter, icy wind as the rain lashes, and you think - what the @#$#? "This is our winter," my landlady exclaimed. "It's the schizophrenic season." And sure enough, it's predicted to get hot again in a few days. But in the meantime, I went out wearing a sweater and light jacket under my rain poncho - because this is hot old Austin - not the lined hooded coat I'd brought for Washington but was sure I would not need here. Because Austin would be very hot. When in fact, today, Austin was very very cold. And wet.
But I do not mind. It was a fine day otherwise. Because she was on her way somewhere and it was dark and pouring, my kind landlady dropped me off at Lynn's. I did my homework - read the Grace Paley and Henry James stories Lynn had assigned as relating to the issue of fiction and non-fiction, before going in to speak to her university short story class. And then I left, several hours before my date with Lynn, to get the bus to the university, which meant a 20 minute wait shivering in the icy wind. Incidentally, my landlady, Jade, pointed out that there are no sidewalks here and life revolves around the car, "because we have 9 months of summer, and there are months at a time when it's too hot to move, let alone walk." Point taken. As a Canadian, this had not occurred to me.
Then, heaven, or as I call it, geek heaven. I went to the Ransom Centre for research on campus, which is the home of the papers of many important people, writers especially. I'd read that Spalding Gray's papers were there. Gray interests me, because he turned his personal stories - very personal stories, in some cases - into performance art. He sat at a table with a glass of water and a spiral notebook in front of him, a screen with projections behind, and he told stories - "Swimming to Cambodia," for example, his best known perhaps, about being in the movie "The Killing Fields." "Gray's Anatomy," about his eye problems. I never saw him live but I've seen DVD's of his work. He was charming, funny, mesmerizing, as he faced the audience and related, without pause, his tale.
What I wanted to know was - WHAT'S IN THE NOTEBOOK? He never refers to it, at least in the films, and yet he carries it in when he comes on stage and places it carefully on the desk in front of him. So I went to the Ransom Centre to find out. Went through a process of registering and watching a video to find out how to use the materials, and finally, once I'd been admitted to the special hushed room, two boxes of S.G.'s works were brought out.
AAAh - a kindred spirit, was my first thought. This man scribbled all the time; included were his notes on all kinds of scraps - bills, imploring letters from producers, little cardboard bits. Mostly, yes, notebooks. But not a performance script, just stories flowing along in his slanting, incomprehensible writing.
But then - I found them, his performance notebooks for Gray's Anatomy. So what I think is this: he wrote countless thoughts and ideas on bits of paper, fiddled with them until they gelled into scripts he wrote longhand in notebooks, and then he wrote performance notebooks with chunks of stuff he'd say highlighted. The notebooks were there in case. At the end, always, he wrote notes to himself on how to do things better. Mixed, in one, with a heartbreaking letter to Kathie, who I realized must have been his former partner, mother of his child. From Wikipedia:
Describing the uniqueness of the film-play monologue, theatre director Mark Russell wrote:
- "He broke it all down to a table, a glass of water, a spiral notebook and a mic. Poor theatre—a man and an audience and a story. Spalding sitting at that table, speaking into the mic, calling forth the script of his life from his memory and those notebooks. A simple ritual: part news report, part confessional, part American raconteur. One man piecing his life back together, one memory, one true thing at a time. Like all genius things, it was a simple idea turned on its axis to become absolutely fresh and radical."[7]
On to Lynn's class, a large group of undergraduates - how old, 18, 19? Interesting, lively young Texans who want to learn about the short story and today met a Canadian writer pushing the joys of non-fiction. They asked good questions, we had a great talk, I laid out my case, Lynn asked piercing questions, they seemed to enjoy it. What must have been fascinating for them was the spectacle of these two women who were very old friends working side by side. Lynn called me Professor Kaplan and it sounded so silly coming from her, I almost laughed. But did not. I hope they were left with a sense of the power and importance of true stories, as well as made up ones.
To the free shuttle bus in the freezing dusk, to the grocery store near her house for wine - so cheap, unbelievable, even the best bottles - and take-out Mexican food, burritos and dirty rice. At home, we ate and gabbled, as we always do, on topics, fuelled by a glass or two, from Does God exist? to Should I dye my hair? That's our range.
In Lynn's kitchen, tonight, there was a huge water bug on the wall. Like a big brown beetle. Neither of us wanted to tackle it. This is where men are invaluable. Yes, there are many other things men are invaluable for, but particularly dealing with HUGE WATER BUGS ON THE WALL. MAN WANTED!
P.S. Just got a note from Cousin George in Washington where, as you may recall, it was surprisingly cold. Weather gorgeous today--90 degrees and beautifully sunny.
Everything in full bloom in a way that few places in N Amer
can match - everything suddenly boomed into bloom. It should have happened while you were here,but Mother Nature delayed it til now,out of pure spite,no doubt.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
lovin' Austin
"Howdy y'all, how y'all doin'?" "Y'all come back now." People really do say those things here, and sound like they mean it. People in stores and restaurants are unfailingly polite, patient and friendly. This is a wonderful open city, with music everywhere, much going on, a very youthful spirit. Lynn loves it so much, she's reluctant to go back to the south of France, which shows you how great it is.
Odd thing: many of the streets have no sidewalks. City life revolves around the car; one of the main architectural wonders is the number of above ground parking garages of all styles and sizes. I passed a daycare centre today with a big playground outside - a play house, play cars and a big play gas station. Gettin' them ready. There are almost no stores downtown, all are in distant malls - which means that the streets downtown, even huge Congress Avenue, are amazingly empty, full, I gather, only during the festivals. Of which there are many. The city is filled with ornate mansions, shapely old trees, and very loud birds - competing with the music pouring from every door, perhaps.
Today Denis left to fly back to France, and after a slow morning, Mme. Blin and I took the bus to the university; she worked at the library and I went to the Blanton Art Gallery nearby, a nice collection, including - take note Brucie - a real Claude Lorrain, and a Last Supper in chocolate syrup by Vik Muniz. I wandered around the university, noting that the entire campus is deemed smoke-free, and passing a large building entitled "Longhorns for Christ."
In fact, the Man himself is very much in evidence everywhere - I don't think I've ever seen so many churches, even in Catholic countries. On our drive the other day, there was a church every hundred yards, it seemed, with a highway sign - "Church" - to let you know there's one coming up, in case you feel a great urge to pray.
We took a free shuttle bus to the groovy part of town, where there's a fabulous record store called Waterloo and the best bookstore in Texas across the street. At 5, there was a free concert at Waterloo by the Wheeler Brothers, mucho rockabilly talent, great fun, much toe-tapping and looking at a vast array of CD's, including singers like Ontario's Kathleen Edwards and Ron Sexsmith. Supper nearby, delicious beer, local produce, a big open room, as friendly as everything is. And then a wander around the bookstore, which was full of left-wing signs, kindred spirits, no "We don't dial 911" spirit here. Lots of readings coming up there, and more free concerts at Waterloo, tons of interesting people coming to town - Tony Kushner, Kate Atkinson, Kris Kristofferson tomorrow, and soon - be still my beating heart - Paul McCartney himself. Maybe I should come back. Maybe Lynn and I should just set up camp.
"Y'all come back, yuh hear?" they say. To which the only answer is, "Yes ma'am!"
P.S. As usual, my French friends know how to appreciate the best of wherever they are. On Denis's last night, our dinner at home consisted of avocados to start - the avocados here are unbelievably good, so we just ate them French-style, cut in two and filled with vinaigrette - then steak (because he was going back to France where beef is five times more expensive) cooked just with salt and pepper, a piece of corn, and for dessert, divine local mangoes. They marvel too at gas prices - again, five times cheaper than where they live.
Odd thing: many of the streets have no sidewalks. City life revolves around the car; one of the main architectural wonders is the number of above ground parking garages of all styles and sizes. I passed a daycare centre today with a big playground outside - a play house, play cars and a big play gas station. Gettin' them ready. There are almost no stores downtown, all are in distant malls - which means that the streets downtown, even huge Congress Avenue, are amazingly empty, full, I gather, only during the festivals. Of which there are many. The city is filled with ornate mansions, shapely old trees, and very loud birds - competing with the music pouring from every door, perhaps.
Today Denis left to fly back to France, and after a slow morning, Mme. Blin and I took the bus to the university; she worked at the library and I went to the Blanton Art Gallery nearby, a nice collection, including - take note Brucie - a real Claude Lorrain, and a Last Supper in chocolate syrup by Vik Muniz. I wandered around the university, noting that the entire campus is deemed smoke-free, and passing a large building entitled "Longhorns for Christ."
In fact, the Man himself is very much in evidence everywhere - I don't think I've ever seen so many churches, even in Catholic countries. On our drive the other day, there was a church every hundred yards, it seemed, with a highway sign - "Church" - to let you know there's one coming up, in case you feel a great urge to pray.
We took a free shuttle bus to the groovy part of town, where there's a fabulous record store called Waterloo and the best bookstore in Texas across the street. At 5, there was a free concert at Waterloo by the Wheeler Brothers, mucho rockabilly talent, great fun, much toe-tapping and looking at a vast array of CD's, including singers like Ontario's Kathleen Edwards and Ron Sexsmith. Supper nearby, delicious beer, local produce, a big open room, as friendly as everything is. And then a wander around the bookstore, which was full of left-wing signs, kindred spirits, no "We don't dial 911" spirit here. Lots of readings coming up there, and more free concerts at Waterloo, tons of interesting people coming to town - Tony Kushner, Kate Atkinson, Kris Kristofferson tomorrow, and soon - be still my beating heart - Paul McCartney himself. Maybe I should come back. Maybe Lynn and I should just set up camp.
"Y'all come back, yuh hear?" they say. To which the only answer is, "Yes ma'am!"
P.S. As usual, my French friends know how to appreciate the best of wherever they are. On Denis's last night, our dinner at home consisted of avocados to start - the avocados here are unbelievably good, so we just ate them French-style, cut in two and filled with vinaigrette - then steak (because he was going back to France where beef is five times more expensive) cooked just with salt and pepper, a piece of corn, and for dessert, divine local mangoes. They marvel too at gas prices - again, five times cheaper than where they live.
Monday, April 8, 2013
the sorry story for writers
For anyone considering becoming a writer - a sweet soul wrote me for advice about this just last week - please read this. It is profoundly unsettling. Do not, repeat, do not quit your day job.
And by posting a link here, I'm probably violating copyright myself.
And by posting a link here, I'm probably violating copyright myself.
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