Up (and) coming

All Idle Tigers fans (and fans-to-be, and fans-in-law) should be at Cameron house this Thursday for the Spirit Salon album launch! Shameless groupie that I am, I'll push a little more:

a SPIRIT SALON SPECIAL: Idle Tigers album launch
with Pants and Tie and Katherine Sheng Morrison
Thursday, May 1, 2008 at 9:15pm
The Cameron House
408 Queen Street West (Queen and Spadina)
Toronto, ON

Another thing that's coming up at some point is the release of the new issue of UofT lit mag *echolocation*. The website is no longer being updated, but if you go here you can see a picture of how the cover will look, which I think is pretty dreamy. Of course, I'm biased because said cover contains my short story, "The Weatherboy," among other gems and treasures. Things don't much run on schedule in the echolocating world, but allegedly it'll be available in the next few weeks. I'll keep you posted.

My girlfriend was insulted by a futurist artist
RR

Poet Laureate of the Blogosphere

Who knew that there was such a title, although it's clear to me now that it's an important role. I'm so delighted that there is such an election, because that means there's lots of people blogging about poetry and the world in poetic terms, as there should be. But for me, there's only one poetic blogger on my radar, and that's rob mclennan. So no disparagement meant to the other nominees, who are probably also quite brilliant.

But if there's someone who has got to speak for poets in the blogosphere, I hope it can be rob, because I've never seen a blog that creates such a sense of commitment and community, such wide-ranging and warm interest and encouragement. It speaks to the blog's space of generosity that a fiction writer such as myself never feels out of place there. rob's blog makes it feel like writing is worthwhile, whatever your form.

I'm sure these things don't matter *that* much in the scheme of life, but it *is* national poetry month, so if you are so inclined, maybe vote?

I could kick your ass / yeah, you in the looking glass
RR

Rebecca Has a Bad Week

RR--I'm such a loser, I think I've called you every day this week.

Mom--That's not true. I haven't heard from you in ages. I've missed you.

RR--I called you on Sunday, and another day besides today...

Mom--So?

RR--And today is Thursday.

Mom--That leaves lots of days you didn't call...well, several.


This weekend will be better, not least because I'm going to see my Mom (and Dad), because Kerry was wearing a spring skirt yesterday, because I am booked solid with frivolous things to do. So in case I don't get a change to post before then, I just wanted to say that my brothers-and-sisters in educational trajectory, the masters in creative writing crew '08, will be reading on Monday evening, and they are charming and I'll be there and maybe you'd like to come, too?

Deets:

Monday, April 28
Bar Italia (582 College Street, between Manning and Clinton)
7:30pm
No cover

See you soon!


Don't worry girl you weren't around
RR

Stress-free degrees?

Impossible! But there's a University of Toronto Spring Reunion event that gives it a try, with mini-classes for alumni that have no tests or papers, and feature cool speakers from all walks of life. Also me, who is more from a hobble of life (no, seriously, something went wrong at yoga on Saturday). These are open only to University alumni, but if you are one, it seems like a great event: Barry Callghan, George Elliot Clarke, and Elizabeth Hay, among amazing others.

The stress comes in, not for the audience, but for me, who will be reading with Ms. Hay, and is thus very nervous to be in the company of the author of Late Nights on Air. Audience members are actually guaranteed a good time, though--since even if I fall off the stage, that'll be funny, and Elizabeth Hay is a truly brilliant writer; it's win-win.

You always play me in the cheapest key
RR

This weekend

Friday--I sat on a metal patio chair with an icy drink in my hand after sunset, brain shrieking, "This is patio weather, this is patio weather!" It wasn't, not after sunset, but that I could even delude myself for a couple hours is progress.

Saturday--A small child hit me quite hard with his bicycle. Although I very much wanted to yell at this small child, I did not, because a) I like to pretend I am a good person who could not yell at children, b) the child had fallen into the road and had his own problems, c) it is weather that children ride bikes in, and weather that a foot can be rather badly hurt by a bicycle tire because it is bare. I asked the child repeatedly if he was all right, and he repeatedly apologized, until he was able to ride off and me to hobble onward.

Also Saturday--I saw the movie *Leatherheads*, which made very little sense and didn't really even try, and yet there were a few scenes that were so charming that the rest of the film can coast on that.

Sunday--I strolled and ate brunch and strolled and got an enormous number of free beauty products and found the Luminato magazine (as far as I can tell, it was in the Globe, but neither Stars nor Nows) and felt good about the world.

Name it and I'll pull it out your ear
RR

Self-promotion

It's been pointed out to me this week that in some ways I do a poor job of self-promotion. Sure, I talk about myself all the time, but it's always about the *next* thing I'm *trying* to do. I am capable of pursuing a goal with laser-like focus (a laser sitting on somewhat shaky stand of low self-confidence, which thus occasionally tips over and burns a hole in the ceiling), but if I ever actually get to do anything cool, you might not know unless you're standing next to me in the 20 minutes after I find out, before I move on to the next cool thing I want to try for. In fact, I was so terribly worked up about the reading at the Exile launch last month that many people, including those were actually present, didn't know my story was published in the issue. Because the reading was immediate and scary, it blotted out everything else I had ever done, including have my story "Wall of Sound" be published in issue 31.4 of Exile. And it was!

Likewise, I failed to mention to you all that Luminato and the Toronto Public Library are beginning to promote their Festival of the Short Story in a booklet called "What's More," tipped into Now Magazine, The Star and The Globe and Mail. I cannot find the booklet myself, but this is possibly because the Saturday Star is 10 000 pages and I am groggy. I will try again tomorrow. If anyone finds one, please let me know.

Oh, wait, the *reason* I'm telling you this is that I will be *reading* at the Luminato/TPL Festival of the Short Story, with fellow author David Whitton, as moderated by Lynn Coady. Obviously, this is something I'm thrilled and excited about, but keep forgetting to mention. Certainly, the whole of the Festival is going to be amazing, you should try to check out some of the other readings (the whole roster is available if you click the link at right). Oh, you probably can't come to *my* event, as it's in the middle of a week day, but...heeeyy, freelance friends...? And student friends...?

Ok, so the box at right--wanky? I sorta think it is, but then again, a reason to google my name is to see what I'm up to, and the actual posts on this blog don't really provide that (they provide a list of my flaws! and a list of things people call those little drives you plug into your USB port! very useful!) So, we'll see. I'll try to fill it up with stuff, there's more going on, but I feel like I have to write a post for each event I add, and I'm very tired now. Possibly, in the morning I will decide, definitely wanky, and take the whole thing down. We'll see.

But do let me know if you find that booklet, and where. I really want one. It's something new for me to fixate on.

I've got this energy beneath my feet
RR

What is it?

Thumb drive?
Jump drive?
USB key?
USB port? (that one's just wrong, the port's the hole in the side of the CPU, but I've still heard it used for drive)
Flash drive?
Key drive?
Port drive (no, really)

Unlike ipods, walkmen, xerox machines and blackberries bits of technology that made their way into our culture under the auspices of a single brand, we have nothing to call this thing that everyone seems to have come up with simultaneously.

I have never used mine, and the reason is probably laziness but I like to think it's for lack of a noun. Thoughts?

Something underground's gonna come up and carry me
RR

Reasons While I'll Never Get Anywhere in Life

--I frequently smell like bubblegum, and occasionally blow an unconscious bubble while someone is talking to me.
--I wear glitter on my birthday so that people will ask me, "Why are you wearing glitter?" so I can tell them "Because it's my birthday!" and then they will wish me a happy birthday.
--I can't clap on the beat.
-- I don't absorb news in any way, so I didn't know anything about the economy being in decline or the looming TTC strike until today.
--Sometimes, I feel like wearing a fedora, and then I wear a fedora.
--I am addicted to aspertame, which is apparently embalming me from the inside while I still live.
--I can't pronounce the word "origin".
--I make lists of my flaws instead of dwelling on the positive.
--It doesn't really bother me to wait.
--When someone walking past me asks how I'm doing, I stop and answer.
--I can't climb a rope, whistle, shuffle cards, ice-skate, name all 50 states, intimidate anyone, bench-press more than 40 pounds, or find my flashlight, but I can fit my entire hand in my mouth.

Also, due to the newly looming (newly discovered to be looming?) TTC strike, I am now literally not going anywhere, starting Monday. Maybe I'll be in a better mood by then!

You might be messin round
RR

Book Salad

It is National Poetry Month in April, and I believe that nation is the US, but it's spreading, as poetry only should. I thought I'd be celebrating this week by starting my Introduction to Writing Poetry class, but it was cancelled *due to low in enrollment*, which is horrifying to me. Doesn't everyone want to write a good poem? I really do, so will try to self-educate by reading lots, which is the actual point of National Poetry Month anyway.

The usual problem when I read poetry is that poems are short, I read quickly, and my commute is long. By the time you've read a dozen pages you could easily have read a dozen poems, but if each poem is an entire world, the development and refinement of a theme or character or emotion, I shouldn't be simply nodding and turning the page. When I do that, a dozen pages later I am at work with a jumble of half-remembered phrases in my head and nothing truly sustained or sustaining.

I've heard a number of good methods to ration out collections of poetry into brain-sized bites, but the one I'm using currently is to read two books at once. I picked up the next two books I on my to-read stack pretty much at random and got lucky, but perhaps some care might need to be taken in the match-up. Anyway, if you get a pair that fits, it can be wonderful to read, as I've been doing, one poem from Ken Babstock's Airstream Land Yacht with full intent concentration. Then, you take a moment to collect yourself, shut the book and flip open Mil Millington's *Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About, and read merrily away with 2/3 your concentration, the other third reserved for working through "Etymology of blizzard
unknown."
and sundry other packed lines and thoughts and images, which the quick reader would inevitably miss. Milington's book is so effortlessly, undemandingly entertaining (it is the lad lit of which I spoke in the previous post, dating from those halcyon days of 2002) that it leaves portions of the mind and soul free for this. And yet, the light book *is* quite good; its entertainment is stimulating, not deadening. And the hero, Pel, (think it's a roman a clef?) possesses a certain baffled male insight glances off Babstock's fierce curiosity and interest in the world rather well. Of course, you can't measure

'This bastard deleted my essay!' shouted...the student on top, indicating the bastard he was talking about by punching him several times in the mouth.

'Fffmiminak!' counted the student on the bottom. An effective reply, as what he lacked in clarity he made up for by bleeding heavily.

against "form that gives if you hold it when there's only you"

That's not fair--Babstock is a brilliant writer and Millington is a funny guy. But they work well together, and my commutes these days are quite pleasant. Will see how it goes next time--Ondaatje's *Secular Love* paired with...recommendations?

Ready to bolt
RR

Not knowingness

You know how that man who leaps across the screen when you open Acrobat Professional is so suave?

Remember back in 2004 when it seemed like "lad lit" was going to be the next big thing?

Don't you find it strange when diet cola goes past it's best-before and the aspertame half-lifes and you're left with just the actual flavour of cola?

No, you probably don't, do you?

I always figured my life would diverge from the mainstream; I just thought it would go more towards riot-grrl subversiveness and less towards personal relationships with obscure consumer goods.

Oh well.

I watch the bones in your back

RR

Compassion

I have extremely weak eyes. Aside from being some godawful prescription that renders me unable to go to the beach with people whose hands I feel uncomfortable asking to hold, my eyes also water at almost anything. Pepper, bright reflections, laughter: all render me teary. Wind is the worst--it totally reproduces the effects of tragedy on me. In addition to streaming tears, wind actually turns my eyes red; even the edges of my nose. If I have to walk very far on a windy day, I look like my heart is broken.

Which never used to matter, until I became a pedestrian in chill and populous cities. Now long walks are one of my principal means of locomotion, and I can't stay home because it's gusty. Thus, I find myself the recipient of many compassionate stares as I stroll through Toronto, bouncing to my iPod, carrying my groceries, looking like I'm about to throw myself on the casket. People offer tight-lipped smiles, encouraging nods, nervous stares. Bus drivers look horrified, possibly worried I will look to them as authority figures to solve whatever problem I am having (many, it seems, do).

I can't explain, because no one ever asks. Not once in all my watery years in Toronto has anyone asked the question I see itching behind their own eyes: "Are you ok?" Compassionate people, Torontonians, but even compassion has its limits.

A little boy under a table with cake is his hair
RR

Natter

There are really too many posts about how much I love malls, but in truth, it's *because* I don't get to go that often that I feel compelled to kvell every time I do. Yesterday, killing time before dinner, I bought some lip balm that benefits AIDS research, which is funny because trying on lip-balm testers in stores used to be how kids thought you could get HIV. So I put on some of the tester, to prove to myself how far we've come. Or something. Mall symbolism gets a little murky.

Other items of mall joy: mannequins with furrowed brows! The hilarious security guard at Sephora! My new camisole, purchased for the sole purpose of compensating for tops and dresses that I buy, otherwise nice but far too low-cut. Is nipple-grazing the fashion now, or do I just have an unerring love for inappropriate shirts? Anyway, camisole=problem solved.

Gosh, this is trivial. But such is life.

Better: I'm going to see a little Victorian melodrama tonight, courtesy of the kids at Free Biscuit, still going very strong despite the fact that the blog is no longer being updated (hence no link!) Also now reading/looking at Alison Bechdel's *Fun Home*. I really mean it about the "looking at" part--I'm getting way better at taking it all in when I read graphic novels. I used to actually skip the pictures and just look for words! Not consciously, but if there was narrative in the visuals, I'd miss it and then have to go flipping back for it. I'm picking up a lot better this time. Could help that Bechdel is both brilliant and extremely textual--she builds books and words into a lot of her images, and so those boundaries start to blur. Anyway, it's an extremely compelling book, highly recommend if dig that sort of thing.

Sorry, I'm rainy-day groggy. Perhaps a more brilliant post tomorrow!

Taste it and tell me it's savoury
RR

Musical Notation

To clarify my previous post, in which I mention that Mark Everett is 75% of The Eels--Everett writes and sings all the songs, as well as performing on various accompanying instruments. Other accompaniment has been provided by various others over the years, including the ever patient Butch, Mr. E's Beautiful Orchestra, and currently, a young man referred to as The Chet. The Chet is extremely good in fulfilling demands of being an entire back-up band, singing and playing the piano, drums, guitar and saw, sometimes more than one in a single song. Still, he is a supporting player, and though one of two, is still somewhat less than half the operation. In my opinion.

In other music opinionating, I have a hip-hop recommendation, which given my general tastes and the colour-scheme around here, you may find surprising. Yes, there is the bias of friendship involved in this recommendation, but having listened to Koko Bonaparte's tracks with extreme care to make up for my untrained ear, I am pretty sure that they are amazing. I realize you will (and should) take that with a grain of salt, but I'm nearly positive. Check her out for yourself!

Rich men wanna be king
RR

Happy Anniversary

On the fairly random date of April 6, 2006, I started keeping a book journal, because I was trying to read more intently, because I have a terrible memory, because I have cool friends who endorse book journals. In the two years since then, I've read 133.5 books, and taken fairly minimal notes (date completed, title and author, 1-2 sentences about what I thought) and it's been *so helpful. I can now access all that I've read and what basic mood it left me in--I can't explain exactly why that's useful, but it really is. Consider trying a book journal, if you haven't already. At the very least, it'll make you feel smart!

This first love
RR

Brilliant Abundance

Suspecting I might feel somewhat bereft after the glamourous events of earlier this week, I scheduled myself an onslaught of friends and fun in the surrounding days. It worked pretty well, due to the brilliant abundance of Toronto's friends and events, both. Some highlights

Basia Bulat at Lee's Palace, on the autoharp, accompanied by ukulele, viola, and banjo.

Charles Foran, Pico Iyer, and Chuck Thompson on three very different travel experiences (SARS in Hong Kong, visiting the Dali Lama [can you believe that website exists?] and commercial vacations) at Harbourfront.

Greek bulgurand vegetables and endless good conversation at Kerry's beautiful new home.

More good conversation about Special Topics in Calamity Physicsat book club (shh, book clubs are not lame unless the people in them are. And the people in mine are awesome).

Delicious dinner at Sushi Island, which included delicious unagi, which is strangely thematic since afterwards we went to see The Eels at the Mod Club. Another theme of the week could tie in with the above Calamity Physics, since the opener of the evening was not another band but a short documentary about Mark Everett's (the man who is 75% of the Eels) father, Hugh Everett the unjustly ignored physicist who developed the theory of parallel universes. The movie was ok, I'm not much one for theoretical particles, but the Eels were so amazing--the saw solo! The carpets! Mr. Everett was in fine fine voice, and stellar drumming, and, oh, I really liked that show.

So this is why I say my city is brimming with brilliant abundance. Although now I am very tired. I will briefly drop in at Lindsay's spring party, and then I think things will get a little less abundance for a while.

Riding a red line / no where

Pictures

Despite the fact that literature is the least visual of media, sometimes someone takes a good picture. Lovely poet Dani Couture has posted several such images, taken by Julie Wilson, from the Exile launch a couple weeks ago. If you missed the show, or even if you saw it, you might want to check it out for shots of readers looking readerly, including one of the very few candids of me in which I do not look insane. Thanks, Dani and Julie!

I'm gonna stop pretending that I didn't break your heart
RR

Brownies!

Ok, ok, I didn't win the Journey Prize tonight. It's really hard to be sad, though, when there were so many brownies available and when such a good story did win--Craig Boyko's "OZY." In fact, I'm hard-pressed to think of a story in the anthology that I would've been too distressed to lose to. Besides, it was a glittering room of happy talky writery people, and I ran into several old friends I haven't seen in ages, and Andrew Pyper was the MC, which I had not been expecting. I know not everyone agrees on this, but to me, any day that contains unexpected Andrew Pyper is a good day.

Also, the acceptance speeches were all artless and really warm and funny. It helped, I suppose, that a number of the prize-winners were told ahead of time, so that they could write a really good speech. And they did--Diane Schoemperlen, winner of the Marian Engle award for a woman at mid-career, talked about her youthful impressions of Marian Engel, and Michael Crummy, winner of the Timothy Findley award for a man at mid-career, talked about how rare and wonderful good news is in the life of a writer.

This was a theme Lawrence Hill touched on in his acceptance speech for the fiction award for his novel, *The Book of Negroes,* which I have not yet read, but judging by his *Black Berry, Sweet Juice* it'll be very good indeed. A theme across all the speeches accepting awards seemed to be, a real writer would write adrift in a bucket no readers but seagulls, and often do, but a prize is nice every once in a while. Everyone seemed to be saying that this critical and financial validation was just going to make it a lot easier for them to continue doing exactly what they would've done anyhow.

Which is nice to see so consistently re-affirmed. Another theme was that three of the speeches mentioned cats.

There were brownies at the end of the night, and they were good. Hence the subject line.

If you were a flower growing wild and free
RR

P.S.--I mean, I'm still sad in that winning-is-more-fun-than-not way, but I feel like that when I don't successfully roll-up-the-rim, too. It'll pass, and there's always next year!