1. I've known this meme was going around for a while and was worried it would come to me.
2. I'm pretty boring and I already talk too much about myself, in person and via blog. There may not be much more I'm willing to tell that most interested parties don't already know.
3. But a poet, Troy Jollimore,, is the one who tagged me, and I always want to do what the poets are doing (The Tragically Hip were tragically misguided with their insolence towards poet-peer-pressure).
4. I still like the Tragically Hip.
5. Due to confusing circumstances, I once saw the Hip play a stadium show for $7.
6. That and The Concert for Toronto are the only stadium shows I've ever seen.
7. I don't get out much (that's not news; everyone knows that).
8. Also not news: I hate having eyebrows, and it's only social conformity that keeps me from shaving them off. Instead, I talk about hating eyebrows all the time--hence the not-news-ness.
9. From ages 7 to 10, I skipped rope on a competitive team. I was nowhere near good enough to keep on with that, but to this day, I'm a better skipper than most adults who have never skipped competitively.
10. I can't shuffle cards, whistle, ski, ice-skate, snap the fingers on my left hand, rollerblade, dive, or do a cartwheel. Whew. That's a weight off my shoulders, confessing that.
11. I didn't drink coffee until I was 23.
12. As a child, I was obsessed with ants (oh my god, I was right; this is so boring).
13. If I really like a song or album, I listen to it dozens of times in a row, until I either hate it or have to go to bed. I think it's a similar instinct to really liking a piece of cake, so you sort of want to eat the whole cake. It's an aural binge.
14. I can get my bra off without removing my blouse--a leftover from being a self-conscious kid in high-school gym. I'm now a self-conscious adult at the commerical gym, so it still helps.
15. I have never met a famous person who wasn't famous for writing.
16. I am related to a spy (now dead, but I probably still shouldn't elaborate on that).
17. I have small titanium screws in the bones in my jaw, right in front of each ear.
18. I have been hit by cars three times in three cities, never with any damage.
19. I was the one who chose the pull quote ("The alarm bell had been ringing for years") on the Canadian paperback of Jonathan Franzen's *The Corrections*. I've been dying to tell that for ages!!
20. I'm just too boring to come up with five more, I'm so sorry.
You said you didn't give a f*ck about hockey / and I'd never heard someone say that before
RR
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The Midcentury Men
Sometimes it seems no book will ever again lodge in my psyche the way the books I read in my teens did. Of those, a disproprotionate number seem to be by white male Americans writing in the middle of the last century. Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961), John Cheever (1912-1982), J. D. Salinger (b. 1919) and John Updike (1932-2009) were mixed in with plenty of writers who weren't male, 20th century, American or very good, but I certainly did acquire a lot of my writing-by-imitation lessons from those 4. Even now, I still think about them all the time, despite their differences from each other, and from me.
Of those guys, it's Updike that I feel most ardently. Maybe because he's the only one who's been creatively active in my lifetime (I don't expect Salinger to publish anything further, other than perhaps a Unibomber-style manifesto, at this point, though when I was 14, I was sure he would). And maybe I've so admired Updike's stories just because he wrote the most like I wanted to write--though I do think most writers come to the page because *no one* writes exactly what we want to read, and we write to fill our own gaps.
What I think Updike had that I want is that penatrating gaze beyond the glaze of the everyday, that ability to full characterize the third person and give a tiny breathing space even in first. Those *voices*, that self-consciousness of characters who, even if they are don't know they are in a story, know that people are always on view in the world, visible and audible. Updike's characters can't stop talking, at least to themselves, especially to themselves. They can't stop thinking and I can't stop thinking about them.
All this is by way of saying that I am upset--to a rather surprising extent--that Mr. Updike passed away Monday. I'm sure I'm not old enough to say who my greatest writing influences are--the best idea is likely to not worry about this until I'm dead, and then if anyone's still interested, they'll have my collected works to study. Nevertheless, I *feel* like Updike's with me a lot when I write, although I don't know that it shows...yet. I can think of specific places in *Once* where there's that inside-outside doubling voice, but there aren't very many. Someday, I'm going to finish the book that really does show the influence...not soon, though.
Perhaps Updike is a strange heritage for me to claim, given his somewhat masculine worldview, and his often rarefied settings. Maybe he represented an age, if not a place, that my parents come from, and he felt a paternal figure to me as a writer. I imagine a lot of people felt that way, although maybe not of 30-year-old women who write mainly about people in cities with lousy jobs.
Maybe all I'll leave all this to whoever still interested after I'm dead, and just concentrate on the many books of Mr. Updike's I haven't even read yet. It's not like I'll miss hanging out with him, and books are eternal. But I don't get to scan the table of contents in the New Yorker hoping he'll be in this week, or hope he'll somehow get the Nobel eventually, or I dunno, just feel good about all his stories yet to come.
For lack of a better ending, rest in peace.
RR
Of those guys, it's Updike that I feel most ardently. Maybe because he's the only one who's been creatively active in my lifetime (I don't expect Salinger to publish anything further, other than perhaps a Unibomber-style manifesto, at this point, though when I was 14, I was sure he would). And maybe I've so admired Updike's stories just because he wrote the most like I wanted to write--though I do think most writers come to the page because *no one* writes exactly what we want to read, and we write to fill our own gaps.
What I think Updike had that I want is that penatrating gaze beyond the glaze of the everyday, that ability to full characterize the third person and give a tiny breathing space even in first. Those *voices*, that self-consciousness of characters who, even if they are don't know they are in a story, know that people are always on view in the world, visible and audible. Updike's characters can't stop talking, at least to themselves, especially to themselves. They can't stop thinking and I can't stop thinking about them.
All this is by way of saying that I am upset--to a rather surprising extent--that Mr. Updike passed away Monday. I'm sure I'm not old enough to say who my greatest writing influences are--the best idea is likely to not worry about this until I'm dead, and then if anyone's still interested, they'll have my collected works to study. Nevertheless, I *feel* like Updike's with me a lot when I write, although I don't know that it shows...yet. I can think of specific places in *Once* where there's that inside-outside doubling voice, but there aren't very many. Someday, I'm going to finish the book that really does show the influence...not soon, though.
Perhaps Updike is a strange heritage for me to claim, given his somewhat masculine worldview, and his often rarefied settings. Maybe he represented an age, if not a place, that my parents come from, and he felt a paternal figure to me as a writer. I imagine a lot of people felt that way, although maybe not of 30-year-old women who write mainly about people in cities with lousy jobs.
Maybe all I'll leave all this to whoever still interested after I'm dead, and just concentrate on the many books of Mr. Updike's I haven't even read yet. It's not like I'll miss hanging out with him, and books are eternal. But I don't get to scan the table of contents in the New Yorker hoping he'll be in this week, or hope he'll somehow get the Nobel eventually, or I dunno, just feel good about all his stories yet to come.
For lack of a better ending, rest in peace.
RR
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Nice
So many joys! Tomorrow night, I get to see Kerry read her story "Squash Season" alongside Stuart Ross and James Sandham at Pivot at the Press Club. Yesterday, Ragdoll posted a lovely *Once* review on My Tragic Right Hip. And today my inbox delivered my New Quarterly E-exclusive, as well as news that TNQ 109 For Some Unknown Reason and Anyhow is on its way to me! I'm excited for poetry, fiction, and notes on the long short story (so dear to my heart). I'm in a TNQ-y mood, since I've just been editing my essay, "Stuff They Wrote," for issue #110, so this news comes at a good time indeed!
It'd be weird
RR
It'd be weird
RR
Rose-coloured Reviews Baker's Chocolate Brownie Recipes
Unlike most not-very-good-cooks, I was actually taught to cook, rather thoroughly. Technically, if you asked me to, I could make you a lattice pie-crust, salmon teriaki, a roux, or cabbage rolls. But if that's really what you want, would you please go into the other room and sit quietly without talking to me. Complex cooking makes me very nervous, because I know my own scoring record is only about .500 with hard things, and there's really no telling how it will turn out. Really, if you don't want any sort of stir-fry/curry/egg derivative, maybe we should just go to a restaurant?
As with most things, my theoretical knowledge of cuisine far outstrips my practical ability. This does, however, enable me to read a recipe with fair insight. I can recognize wonky proportions, overlong cooking times, and bad ideas in general.
And then there's one of the few things I am actually pretty good at in theory *and* in practice: copyediting. I was trained to copyedit recipes according to the very thorough and exacting Canadian Living house style (can't find it online, sorry), which makes me hyper-aware of improper metric/imperial measurement conversions, incomplete instructions and all the various ways recipes can leave a cook lamentably at sea.
Because I am too incompetent a cook to easily correct an error in a tricky recipe, and too competent an editor to overlook them even in an easy recipe, I general steer clear of internet recipes. Home cooks too often approximate, leave out steps, get bored after typing out the ingredients list and leave the instructions at "Mix ingredients, put in pan, cook until done." Cook until done, you see that one all over. Terrifying.
When I wanted to make cheesecake brownies last night and didn't have a recipe, for reasons too stupid to get into, I wound up Googling with good results for once. I have learned that websites from sources that would be embarrassed at errors are your best bet. By that I mean, those associated with either printed cookbooks or notable chefs or a brand-name products. Only a far better cook than I can deal with recipe sites where people post annonymously.
The Kraft foods websites are very very commerical, but also their recipes are thoroughtly tested, and they very rarely lead you astray (they do suggest you put Jell-o powder in your lemon chicken, but they are quite upfront about that).
The Baker's chocolate brand is a good one, and their recipes are solidly doable, though some of the ones on the website are pretty inane. It seems like a giant waste to make heart-shaped brownies--all the non-heartshaped scraps!! But this recipe will actually make you a perfectly good pan of brownies, just don't bother cutting them out! It's a very nice simple recipe, one bowl and the microwave. I always forget that the reason I don't often make brownies is not that they are hard, it's that the ingredients to make the really good ones are expensive. Still, it matters: buy the real dark chocolate squares, and get the pecans instead of walnuts; in my opinion so much better. Actually, my personal preference is for raisins in brownies but, yeah, everybody hates that. Pecans are a good second choice.
I wanted to make a cheesecake topping, but I could only find recipes for a) pan sizes I don't own or b) to go with packaged brownie mix or c) to go with ingredients I didn't have (this lack of purchasing enthusiasm might explain some of my culinary failures). Anyway, I wound up making the topping from recipe, although if I'd read to the end I would've noticed the comment about it not really being enough cheesecake to cover 13x9 inches, at least for some people.
As it turned out, it was sufficient if you spread it carefully and don't demand too thick a topping. I liked that neither the brownies nor the topping were terribly sweet, although the brownies are very chocolatey/fudgey and both were quite rich (I used light cream cheese, but I don't really think that mitigates much). I used the baking time for the plain brownies, 30-35 minutes, but at 32 minutes they were already starting to singe slightly at the corners. The problem could've been that I baked them in a weird silicon pan, or it could've been that my coolling rack has fallen under the stove and I had to cool them on oven mitts. Well, I have a lot of problems, anyway.
Once they were pretty well coolled, though, it was easy to cut them up into solid discrete squares without a lot of crumbs. And once I'd trimmed off those tiny burnt bits (which I then ate, they weren't even bad) it was a pretty good gooey-looking set of brownies. The swirls on top, which looked smudgy and odd when raw, are very pretty in the final version. I think these are a good kid/adult food, as cheesecake is sufficently mature, and brownies sufficiently kiddish, and they look pretty enough to appeal to both categories.
The revews from eaters are quite favourable thus far, if not terribly articulate. "Yummy" has come up twice, though, which is really all I ask for.
Oh the boys on the radio
RR
As with most things, my theoretical knowledge of cuisine far outstrips my practical ability. This does, however, enable me to read a recipe with fair insight. I can recognize wonky proportions, overlong cooking times, and bad ideas in general.
And then there's one of the few things I am actually pretty good at in theory *and* in practice: copyediting. I was trained to copyedit recipes according to the very thorough and exacting Canadian Living house style (can't find it online, sorry), which makes me hyper-aware of improper metric/imperial measurement conversions, incomplete instructions and all the various ways recipes can leave a cook lamentably at sea.
Because I am too incompetent a cook to easily correct an error in a tricky recipe, and too competent an editor to overlook them even in an easy recipe, I general steer clear of internet recipes. Home cooks too often approximate, leave out steps, get bored after typing out the ingredients list and leave the instructions at "Mix ingredients, put in pan, cook until done." Cook until done, you see that one all over. Terrifying.
When I wanted to make cheesecake brownies last night and didn't have a recipe, for reasons too stupid to get into, I wound up Googling with good results for once. I have learned that websites from sources that would be embarrassed at errors are your best bet. By that I mean, those associated with either printed cookbooks or notable chefs or a brand-name products. Only a far better cook than I can deal with recipe sites where people post annonymously.
The Kraft foods websites are very very commerical, but also their recipes are thoroughtly tested, and they very rarely lead you astray (they do suggest you put Jell-o powder in your lemon chicken, but they are quite upfront about that).
The Baker's chocolate brand is a good one, and their recipes are solidly doable, though some of the ones on the website are pretty inane. It seems like a giant waste to make heart-shaped brownies--all the non-heartshaped scraps!! But this recipe will actually make you a perfectly good pan of brownies, just don't bother cutting them out! It's a very nice simple recipe, one bowl and the microwave. I always forget that the reason I don't often make brownies is not that they are hard, it's that the ingredients to make the really good ones are expensive. Still, it matters: buy the real dark chocolate squares, and get the pecans instead of walnuts; in my opinion so much better. Actually, my personal preference is for raisins in brownies but, yeah, everybody hates that. Pecans are a good second choice.
I wanted to make a cheesecake topping, but I could only find recipes for a) pan sizes I don't own or b) to go with packaged brownie mix or c) to go with ingredients I didn't have (this lack of purchasing enthusiasm might explain some of my culinary failures). Anyway, I wound up making the topping from recipe, although if I'd read to the end I would've noticed the comment about it not really being enough cheesecake to cover 13x9 inches, at least for some people.
As it turned out, it was sufficient if you spread it carefully and don't demand too thick a topping. I liked that neither the brownies nor the topping were terribly sweet, although the brownies are very chocolatey/fudgey and both were quite rich (I used light cream cheese, but I don't really think that mitigates much). I used the baking time for the plain brownies, 30-35 minutes, but at 32 minutes they were already starting to singe slightly at the corners. The problem could've been that I baked them in a weird silicon pan, or it could've been that my coolling rack has fallen under the stove and I had to cool them on oven mitts. Well, I have a lot of problems, anyway.
Once they were pretty well coolled, though, it was easy to cut them up into solid discrete squares without a lot of crumbs. And once I'd trimmed off those tiny burnt bits (which I then ate, they weren't even bad) it was a pretty good gooey-looking set of brownies. The swirls on top, which looked smudgy and odd when raw, are very pretty in the final version. I think these are a good kid/adult food, as cheesecake is sufficently mature, and brownies sufficiently kiddish, and they look pretty enough to appeal to both categories.
The revews from eaters are quite favourable thus far, if not terribly articulate. "Yummy" has come up twice, though, which is really all I ask for.
Oh the boys on the radio
RR
Monday, January 26, 2009
Perils of Stupidity
J: (describes briefly a bit of dishonest business that someone offered her, that she immediately saw through) He obviously thought I was pretty stupid.
Me: Yeah, what a jerk.
J: Yeah.
Me: (thinks for a while, ostensibly doing something else) It's a good thing you're *not* stupid.
J: (laughing) Yeah, that usually works out pretty well for me.
Me: No, I mean, I mean, some people are though...
J: Yeah?
Me: Stupid, I mean. And you know, I hope they don't just get lied to all the time. Because, well, it's not *their* fault.
J: Well, yeah.
Me: You know what I mean?
RR
Me: Yeah, what a jerk.
J: Yeah.
Me: (thinks for a while, ostensibly doing something else) It's a good thing you're *not* stupid.
J: (laughing) Yeah, that usually works out pretty well for me.
Me: No, I mean, I mean, some people are though...
J: Yeah?
Me: Stupid, I mean. And you know, I hope they don't just get lied to all the time. Because, well, it's not *their* fault.
J: Well, yeah.
Me: You know what I mean?
RR
Sunday, January 25, 2009
An Homage / Rebecca is 2009
Last summer, I heard poet/graphic novelist/playwright/performer Mariko Tamaki read a couple times. Everything she put to the microphone was amazing, especially segments from her collaborative (with Jillian Tamaki) graphic novel Skim (not everyone can read aloud from a graphic novel and make it vivid). At the Scream in High Park another wonderful piece she read was a poem of her collected Facebook status lines (I have looked *all over* for a link; I think it's not online; please correct me if I'm wrong). Like most "found" poetry, I'm sure the artist put a lot of energy into making this piece work rhythmically and tonally, not to mention how poetic you have to be just have high-quality Facebook status lines most of the time when it's so easy to just write "...is glad it's the weekend."
So I make no claim to artistry nor high-quality status, but I find Ms. Tamaki's idea too irresistible not to try my own version. Perhaps it's the lure of seeing my name over and over like that, or reliving happy memories of the past few weeks, or how it provides a tidy summary of my state of mind immediately before and since the change of year. But anyway, I give you
Derivative Facebook Poem: Rebecca is 2009
Rebecca wants to put up the new calendars now!
Rebecca listens to the Fleet Foxes.
Rebecca has changed her mind, is no longer ready for 2009.
Rebecca faces facts: 2009 is coming. Rebecca wishes you all kinds of joy with it!
Rebecca is experiencing the future.
Rebecca is experiencing contact-lens issues that make her seem a tragic tearful figure. Don't believe the rumours!
Rebecca is nostalgic for the good old days, when this apartment had heat.
Rebecca has heat--hooray!
Rebecca mopes for no reason
Rebecca appreciates being indoors.
Rebecca is despondent after failing to locate Germany on a map.
Rebecca is fairly efficient, for a Saturday.
Rebecca is warm now, but anticipating cold
Rebecca is headache grey.
Rebecca is liscious.
Rebecca gets a lot of phone calls before 9am these days.
Rebecca thought this morning's sunrise was especially nice.
Rebecca is CEO of herself.
Rebecca will soon have eaten all available candy.
Rebecca is flexible.
Rebecca thinks back on high school and wonders, was *anybody* cool then?
RR
So I make no claim to artistry nor high-quality status, but I find Ms. Tamaki's idea too irresistible not to try my own version. Perhaps it's the lure of seeing my name over and over like that, or reliving happy memories of the past few weeks, or how it provides a tidy summary of my state of mind immediately before and since the change of year. But anyway, I give you
Derivative Facebook Poem: Rebecca is 2009
Rebecca wants to put up the new calendars now!
Rebecca listens to the Fleet Foxes.
Rebecca has changed her mind, is no longer ready for 2009.
Rebecca faces facts: 2009 is coming. Rebecca wishes you all kinds of joy with it!
Rebecca is experiencing the future.
Rebecca is experiencing contact-lens issues that make her seem a tragic tearful figure. Don't believe the rumours!
Rebecca is nostalgic for the good old days, when this apartment had heat.
Rebecca has heat--hooray!
Rebecca mopes for no reason
Rebecca appreciates being indoors.
Rebecca is despondent after failing to locate Germany on a map.
Rebecca is fairly efficient, for a Saturday.
Rebecca is warm now, but anticipating cold
Rebecca is headache grey.
Rebecca is liscious.
Rebecca gets a lot of phone calls before 9am these days.
Rebecca thought this morning's sunrise was especially nice.
Rebecca is CEO of herself.
Rebecca will soon have eaten all available candy.
Rebecca is flexible.
Rebecca thinks back on high school and wonders, was *anybody* cool then?
RR
Saturday, January 24, 2009
All Over the Place
Some of my favourite bloggers have been sneaking off to other places and being brilliant all over again, and I've gotten a bit behind.
Kerry usually writes about books at Pickle Me This but this month she also wrote about books that are a little or a lot ripped from the headlines in This Magazine.
Julie usually writes about readers on Seen Reading, but last weekend she wrote about readers experiencing the miracle of text in transit in the Globe and Mail.
And Dani usually photographs animal effigies around town for Animal Effigy, but today her office banana chicken is on Cute with Chris.
Anything else I've missed?
Oliver James / washed in the rain / no longer
RR
Kerry usually writes about books at Pickle Me This but this month she also wrote about books that are a little or a lot ripped from the headlines in This Magazine.
Julie usually writes about readers on Seen Reading, but last weekend she wrote about readers experiencing the miracle of text in transit in the Globe and Mail.
And Dani usually photographs animal effigies around town for Animal Effigy, but today her office banana chicken is on Cute with Chris.
Anything else I've missed?
Oliver James / washed in the rain / no longer
RR
Friday, January 23, 2009
Recs
Yes Man is a B-minus movie, but for some reason the music in the film is A++. The actual soundtrack album of the music that plays in the background of the film includes *nine* Eels songs, (including very annoyingly, *one* I don't have). In addition, there's tonnes of diagetic music that is way more fun to watch/listen to than the rest of the film. Go fig. But PS--are we offended that there is a band out there called Munchausen By Proxy? I think I am. If a band was named "Child Abuse," that wouldn't go over too well, and how is this any different? Their songs are so darn neat, though.
Desk Space is always awesome, but as a literary voyeur herself, Julie Wilson, gives particularly good desk-details.
You wouldn't think I'd like a blog called Brazen Careerist. In fact, I almost never care about the actual advice being offered, but the woman who writes it, Penelope Trunk, is a very good writer, very funny and generous and *fascinating* on the topic of her own life history, and also quite possibly the woman least like me on the planet. I *love* reading her blog.
I'm going to stop pretending I didn't break your heart
RR
Desk Space is always awesome, but as a literary voyeur herself, Julie Wilson, gives particularly good desk-details.
You wouldn't think I'd like a blog called Brazen Careerist. In fact, I almost never care about the actual advice being offered, but the woman who writes it, Penelope Trunk, is a very good writer, very funny and generous and *fascinating* on the topic of her own life history, and also quite possibly the woman least like me on the planet. I *love* reading her blog.
I'm going to stop pretending I didn't break your heart
RR
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Next
My "Now and Next" list (at right) is all now and no next--I've gotten behind! Lest you think January has defeated me (it hasn't, much), here's what's upcoming:
Starting in February--I'll be participating in the very very cool Now Hear This/SWAT program through the Descant Foundation of Arts and Letters. SWAT=Students, Writers and Teachers, and what this means is I'll be teaching high school creative writing classes one day a week for a couple months, in conjunction with an actual professional English teacher. This is a thrilling opportunity for me to learn about teaching and about teenagers, as well as (I hope) offer something useful about writing practice in return. I can't *wait*.
Sunday February 15, 4:35-5:45pm--I'll be speaking on a panel entitled "Wandering Jews?" at the Limmud day of Jewish learning at UofT. My fellow panelists are Adam Sol and Sidura Ludwig.
Sunday April 5, Time TBD--I'll be reading at the Gritlit literary festival in Hamilton.
Sometime in 2009--My two stories, "ContEd" and "Tech Support" will appear in The Fiddlehead.
Of course more to come eventually--there's always something!
I don't have a simple answer/but I know that I can answer
RR
Starting in February--I'll be participating in the very very cool Now Hear This/SWAT program through the Descant Foundation of Arts and Letters. SWAT=Students, Writers and Teachers, and what this means is I'll be teaching high school creative writing classes one day a week for a couple months, in conjunction with an actual professional English teacher. This is a thrilling opportunity for me to learn about teaching and about teenagers, as well as (I hope) offer something useful about writing practice in return. I can't *wait*.
Sunday February 15, 4:35-5:45pm--I'll be speaking on a panel entitled "Wandering Jews?" at the Limmud day of Jewish learning at UofT. My fellow panelists are Adam Sol and Sidura Ludwig.
Sunday April 5, Time TBD--I'll be reading at the Gritlit literary festival in Hamilton.
Sometime in 2009--My two stories, "ContEd" and "Tech Support" will appear in The Fiddlehead.
Of course more to come eventually--there's always something!
I don't have a simple answer/but I know that I can answer
RR
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Rose-coloured Reviews *Unisex Love Poems* by Angela Szczepaniak
The plucky heroine of Angela Szczepaniak's dizzying novel in poems is referred to as a "gingerpear confection" as she dangles suspended on a tightrope and "encounters the world inverted." The expression is an apt description of the whole collection: sharp and sweet and worth savouring, though hard to read slowly.
I was scared to read this book. A wonderful front cover illlustration by Jeff Szuc did not sufficiently distract me from the jacket copy, which promises "[a]n autopsy of language," terrifying to those of us who didn't know language was dead and didn't even send a bundt cake.
The wonderful lightness and elegance of Szczepaniak's work might be better likened to surgery than autopsy--at times gory, at times clinical, but all with the goal (in my opinion) of ressucitation. Yes, these poems work with language as an object, dead if you like, a thing with physical properties like a serif or a ligature in print, a stammer or an accent when voiced. And at *the same time* these poems play with words to tell a decidedly alive and lively set of stories, about a lonely guy named slug who breaks out in a horrible rash and sets about investigating his apartment building to find the cause. In his search, he meets Butterfingers, a lonely girl with a history of sad relationships and a stammer.
That slug's rash is made up of h's, in several fonts, and that Butterfingers's stammer stands in for punctuation and gradually begins to confuse meanings, is just part of the magic and tragedy of these characters. The linguistic high-wire act goes on right above the emotional lives of the characters.
As you might have gathered, a book that gets it's initial plot push from a rash is not a buoyant one. While terribly funny, and I think ultimately quite romantic, *Unisex Love Poems* takes a grim view of the rites of love. There are two competing advice tomes running through the book, one for "Nice girls" who seek to avoid getting groped and secure matrimony, and one for their paramours, who seek to turn "your pretty poppy into a spirited spark plug." Both use the same peppy euphemistic language and even similar flower metaphors, and both use metaphors of trapping the opposite sex into doing your desires.
Also on the advice front are some remarkable recipes for preparing the various internal organs (and two for tongue!) Nothing will make you rethink the common metaphor like a recipe for for "Stuffed Coeur" that advises one to "trim visible fat and functions" and that "the industrious and devoted honeydrop will use strands of her own hair to sew cavities."
The recipes and accompanying diagrams gave me a tough time, as much as I was enjoying the jokes. And I was so sad for poor slug, whose wife is after his accent in his divorce case and who seeks companionship in a spider behind his fridge. But I was cheered up by slug's lawyers, spitz and spatz, fairies because they are three and a half inches tall...or because of their "companionable" as well as legal relationship.
Also, typographic cartoons! Also, slug's fieldnotes on all the living things he finds in his apartment. This book is less than 200 pages long, but it's full to bursting. It's best to be honest and admit that I'm *sure* I missed things too subtle and complex to be gotten in a quick and devouring read. But I'm quite happy to reread sometime soon.
About halfway through reading *Unisex Love Poems, I dropped the book in a dish of ice-cream while sitting in a cafe. As I began to clean it off with the only implement available, my tongue, it did occur to me that it's been a long time since I've seen a better book to lick.
I was lost but I was kind
RR
I was scared to read this book. A wonderful front cover illlustration by Jeff Szuc did not sufficiently distract me from the jacket copy, which promises "[a]n autopsy of language," terrifying to those of us who didn't know language was dead and didn't even send a bundt cake.
The wonderful lightness and elegance of Szczepaniak's work might be better likened to surgery than autopsy--at times gory, at times clinical, but all with the goal (in my opinion) of ressucitation. Yes, these poems work with language as an object, dead if you like, a thing with physical properties like a serif or a ligature in print, a stammer or an accent when voiced. And at *the same time* these poems play with words to tell a decidedly alive and lively set of stories, about a lonely guy named slug who breaks out in a horrible rash and sets about investigating his apartment building to find the cause. In his search, he meets Butterfingers, a lonely girl with a history of sad relationships and a stammer.
That slug's rash is made up of h's, in several fonts, and that Butterfingers's stammer stands in for punctuation and gradually begins to confuse meanings, is just part of the magic and tragedy of these characters. The linguistic high-wire act goes on right above the emotional lives of the characters.
As you might have gathered, a book that gets it's initial plot push from a rash is not a buoyant one. While terribly funny, and I think ultimately quite romantic, *Unisex Love Poems* takes a grim view of the rites of love. There are two competing advice tomes running through the book, one for "Nice girls" who seek to avoid getting groped and secure matrimony, and one for their paramours, who seek to turn "your pretty poppy into a spirited spark plug." Both use the same peppy euphemistic language and even similar flower metaphors, and both use metaphors of trapping the opposite sex into doing your desires.
Also on the advice front are some remarkable recipes for preparing the various internal organs (and two for tongue!) Nothing will make you rethink the common metaphor like a recipe for for "Stuffed Coeur" that advises one to "trim visible fat and functions" and that "the industrious and devoted honeydrop will use strands of her own hair to sew cavities."
The recipes and accompanying diagrams gave me a tough time, as much as I was enjoying the jokes. And I was so sad for poor slug, whose wife is after his accent in his divorce case and who seeks companionship in a spider behind his fridge. But I was cheered up by slug's lawyers, spitz and spatz, fairies because they are three and a half inches tall...or because of their "companionable" as well as legal relationship.
Also, typographic cartoons! Also, slug's fieldnotes on all the living things he finds in his apartment. This book is less than 200 pages long, but it's full to bursting. It's best to be honest and admit that I'm *sure* I missed things too subtle and complex to be gotten in a quick and devouring read. But I'm quite happy to reread sometime soon.
About halfway through reading *Unisex Love Poems, I dropped the book in a dish of ice-cream while sitting in a cafe. As I began to clean it off with the only implement available, my tongue, it did occur to me that it's been a long time since I've seen a better book to lick.
I was lost but I was kind
RR
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
It's Official: My Hopes are Up
Barack Obama will be President of the United States of America in 1.25 hours.
I am thrilled.
I would like, for a good long while, not to hear another cynical word about getting my hopes up too high, pinning too many hopes on just one guy, or anything along the lines of "bound to be disappointed."
The people of America voted for a guy who believes in the ideal of change, the ideal of transparency and accountability, the ideal of partnership and bi-partisanship, negotiation and respect and diplomacy and discussion.
They voted for the ideals and for the person they thought embodied them, not for the promise of getting all those things by next weekend. Among other things, the American people voted for a President that respects that they make intelligent decisions, that the American people can be reasoned with and informed as adults, and they voted for a President who would present such a vision of America to the world.
Let's do American voters the honour of respecting their informed election of their polical leader. I really don't think anyone is expecting a miracle, but nor do I think those of us who *do* expect rational discourse and thoughtful reform are in any way misled. A little bit, over the long-term, I actually do hope for greatness.
Happy inauguration!
RR
I am thrilled.
I would like, for a good long while, not to hear another cynical word about getting my hopes up too high, pinning too many hopes on just one guy, or anything along the lines of "bound to be disappointed."
The people of America voted for a guy who believes in the ideal of change, the ideal of transparency and accountability, the ideal of partnership and bi-partisanship, negotiation and respect and diplomacy and discussion.
They voted for the ideals and for the person they thought embodied them, not for the promise of getting all those things by next weekend. Among other things, the American people voted for a President that respects that they make intelligent decisions, that the American people can be reasoned with and informed as adults, and they voted for a President who would present such a vision of America to the world.
Let's do American voters the honour of respecting their informed election of their polical leader. I really don't think anyone is expecting a miracle, but nor do I think those of us who *do* expect rational discourse and thoughtful reform are in any way misled. A little bit, over the long-term, I actually do hope for greatness.
Happy inauguration!
RR
Monday, January 19, 2009
Words of Strength
Monday excitement--I'll be reading at Strong Words tonight at the Gladstone Art Bar (that's the room *upstairs*; there is a different, also very good bookish event going on downstairs).
It's an impressive lineup, and slightly intimidating as both my fellow readers are not only writers but performers--Kathleen Phillips as a character comedian and Mike Smith as the punk-rock poet and stand-up surrealist White Noise Machine. Read their full bios at the link above, and come out tonight to experience their performances firsthand. I'll be reading my short story about romantic longing at the grocery store, "Hello Hello," from the latest issue of Rampike and trying, as ever, not to fall down.
Got gloss on my lips
RR
It's an impressive lineup, and slightly intimidating as both my fellow readers are not only writers but performers--Kathleen Phillips as a character comedian and Mike Smith as the punk-rock poet and stand-up surrealist White Noise Machine. Read their full bios at the link above, and come out tonight to experience their performances firsthand. I'll be reading my short story about romantic longing at the grocery store, "Hello Hello," from the latest issue of Rampike and trying, as ever, not to fall down.
Got gloss on my lips
RR
Sunday, January 18, 2009
"Where is the washroom?" in Japanese
Toire wa doko desu ka.
トイレはどこですか｡
Where is the washroom?
Forget about what I said / the lights are on and the party's over
RR
トイレはどこですか｡
Where is the washroom?
Forget about what I said / the lights are on and the party's over
RR
TTC Tribute
It's hard to believe that the Ottawa Transit Strike is still ongoing, making everyday tasks a nightmare for so much of the population. In Toronto, transit strikes and strike threats are grounds for quick action and, indeed, panic, and I don't see why that shouldn't be the case everywhere.
I am grateful (almost) every day to live in a city with a more or less wonderful transit system, to be able to go wherever I want to go without a favour, an insurance policy or thousands of dollars of investment in motor vehicle. This was revelatory when I first moved to a big city, and I'm still mildly shocked that I could, if I put enough thought into it, go to the airport or the zoo at 2am on a Thursday without telling anyone or even being conscious en route, all for $2.75. This should be a basic right of city citizens everywhere, and it's worth getting upset that the citizens in Ottawa now lack those freedoms.
When it's awful and slushy and cold, it's about as easy for transit-takers to get around town as when it's pleasant--not so for car commuters. But certainly, life is less easy for those who operate the vehicles, so between the weather and the sitch in Ottawa, it seems a good time to pay tribute to a random sampling of TTC awesomeness:
--drivers who stop when they see people running
-- drivers who give directions, and call you up to the front just before your stop
--drivers who patiently hear out people who don't make sense and don't know where they are going, but are very very angry about it
--drivers who smile/make eye-contact/make jokes/just say hi whilst they are navigating through sleet and rush-hour and some woman is screaming about someone stepping on her toe
The TTC often brings out the worst in people, granted, just as being smushed up against strangers often will no matter where you are, but it occasionally brings out some loveliness from strangers I would not encounter otherwise. Life this:
--the man who chased me *off* the bus last night to give me back my forgotten gloves
--the glee with which people leap to give their seats to pregnant ladies and people with canes and crutches (sadly, such a polite city is Toronto is that this does not happen with the elderly, for fear of giving offense to someone who doesn't consider him/herself elderly. You'd have to be about 150 to get more than a tentative tap and half-thigh raise and questioning shrug.)
--when someone compliments me on my reading material
--when Kerry was trying to explain something to me about a George Michael song opening and I was too dumb to remember the bit, so she sang it, the two old ladies next to her beamed (Kerry has a very good voice).
And now for a list of my very favourite bus and subway routes:
Toronto--7 Bathurst, 25D Don Mills (I never went beyond Steeles, I just like the D), 86 Sheppard (Zoo bus!), 99 Arrow Road, 510 Spadina Streetcar, 352 Lawrence West night bus, and special category prize goes to 122 Graydon Hall, which is technically an awful irregular bus that disappears for half an hour in the least rain, but I love it because I met so many good people whilst cursing it.
Montreal--On STCUM (yes, I know it's not called that anymore, but that's really too bad) I particularly enjoyed the 24 Sherbrooke, 80 Parc, and of course the blue line of the Metro.
New York--On the MTA, the A Train seemed particularly nice. I fell asleep on the F Train, which probably indicates a high comfort level.
Boston--To be honest, I never knew what I was doing on the MBTA, but I always got where I was going on those funny about-the-rails tracks, so let's count it all as a win.
Tokyo--Not there yet, but oh my goodness, how sexy!!!
Soldier on, Ottawa. We transit-takers stand (and ride) with you in our hearts!
My heart only works
RR
I am grateful (almost) every day to live in a city with a more or less wonderful transit system, to be able to go wherever I want to go without a favour, an insurance policy or thousands of dollars of investment in motor vehicle. This was revelatory when I first moved to a big city, and I'm still mildly shocked that I could, if I put enough thought into it, go to the airport or the zoo at 2am on a Thursday without telling anyone or even being conscious en route, all for $2.75. This should be a basic right of city citizens everywhere, and it's worth getting upset that the citizens in Ottawa now lack those freedoms.
When it's awful and slushy and cold, it's about as easy for transit-takers to get around town as when it's pleasant--not so for car commuters. But certainly, life is less easy for those who operate the vehicles, so between the weather and the sitch in Ottawa, it seems a good time to pay tribute to a random sampling of TTC awesomeness:
--drivers who stop when they see people running
-- drivers who give directions, and call you up to the front just before your stop
--drivers who patiently hear out people who don't make sense and don't know where they are going, but are very very angry about it
--drivers who smile/make eye-contact/make jokes/just say hi whilst they are navigating through sleet and rush-hour and some woman is screaming about someone stepping on her toe
The TTC often brings out the worst in people, granted, just as being smushed up against strangers often will no matter where you are, but it occasionally brings out some loveliness from strangers I would not encounter otherwise. Life this:
--the man who chased me *off* the bus last night to give me back my forgotten gloves
--the glee with which people leap to give their seats to pregnant ladies and people with canes and crutches (sadly, such a polite city is Toronto is that this does not happen with the elderly, for fear of giving offense to someone who doesn't consider him/herself elderly. You'd have to be about 150 to get more than a tentative tap and half-thigh raise and questioning shrug.)
--when someone compliments me on my reading material
--when Kerry was trying to explain something to me about a George Michael song opening and I was too dumb to remember the bit, so she sang it, the two old ladies next to her beamed (Kerry has a very good voice).
And now for a list of my very favourite bus and subway routes:
Toronto--7 Bathurst, 25D Don Mills (I never went beyond Steeles, I just like the D), 86 Sheppard (Zoo bus!), 99 Arrow Road, 510 Spadina Streetcar, 352 Lawrence West night bus, and special category prize goes to 122 Graydon Hall, which is technically an awful irregular bus that disappears for half an hour in the least rain, but I love it because I met so many good people whilst cursing it.
Montreal--On STCUM (yes, I know it's not called that anymore, but that's really too bad) I particularly enjoyed the 24 Sherbrooke, 80 Parc, and of course the blue line of the Metro.
New York--On the MTA, the A Train seemed particularly nice. I fell asleep on the F Train, which probably indicates a high comfort level.
Boston--To be honest, I never knew what I was doing on the MBTA, but I always got where I was going on those funny about-the-rails tracks, so let's count it all as a win.
Tokyo--Not there yet, but oh my goodness, how sexy!!!
Soldier on, Ottawa. We transit-takers stand (and ride) with you in our hearts!
My heart only works
RR
Friday, January 16, 2009
The guardian of gates and hallways
Obviously, it's better if your life just doesn't suck at all, but that can be a tall order in January (if you've got it down, and it's not "move south," I want to hear your solutions). Sooner or later, spring will arrive and/or we'll all have to address the actual issues in our lives. Meantime, though, here are some pennyante stop-gap solutions--
--Leave the house. You might well have a good time (Pivot of the last post was even more awesome than expected, as was the birthday dinner and both [gah]) movies I saw this week). Even if you don't, you get the smugness of saying to people, "It's minus *twenty*, but y'know, it's not *that* bad." Makes you feel tough.
--Go to the movies. Nothing like other people's problems to make you forget your own. Even (especially?) if their problems are stupid.
--Do the thing you've been trying to get out of. Misery has economies of scale, I find. It's far easier to agree to do something unfun on a day I already hate--I guess I figure things probably can't get worse, and someone might as well get what they want. Occasionally, this will bloom into getting thanked profusely, which is nice, but don't count on it; it is January.
--Learn something new: I thought the term "Janus" was a fancy way of calling someone a liar, 'cause he's the two-faced Roman god, but it turns out that he's two-faced because he's looking both forwards and back. Janus is the god of hallways and doors and gates, portals and new beginnings. Which his namesake month, January, allegedly is. We'll see.
--Whatever you do, don't wear two pairs of tights of profoundly different waist-levels--the higher one will somehow push the lower one down (and down and down), and you will spend the entire day trying to reach unobtrusively under your skirt to recalibrate things. This final point, which I am currently living out, will probably discourage anyone from taking any of my other advice. So be it.
Your English is good
RR
--Leave the house. You might well have a good time (Pivot of the last post was even more awesome than expected, as was the birthday dinner and both [gah]) movies I saw this week). Even if you don't, you get the smugness of saying to people, "It's minus *twenty*, but y'know, it's not *that* bad." Makes you feel tough.
--Go to the movies. Nothing like other people's problems to make you forget your own. Even (especially?) if their problems are stupid.
--Do the thing you've been trying to get out of. Misery has economies of scale, I find. It's far easier to agree to do something unfun on a day I already hate--I guess I figure things probably can't get worse, and someone might as well get what they want. Occasionally, this will bloom into getting thanked profusely, which is nice, but don't count on it; it is January.
--Learn something new: I thought the term "Janus" was a fancy way of calling someone a liar, 'cause he's the two-faced Roman god, but it turns out that he's two-faced because he's looking both forwards and back. Janus is the god of hallways and doors and gates, portals and new beginnings. Which his namesake month, January, allegedly is. We'll see.
--Whatever you do, don't wear two pairs of tights of profoundly different waist-levels--the higher one will somehow push the lower one down (and down and down), and you will spend the entire day trying to reach unobtrusively under your skirt to recalibrate things. This final point, which I am currently living out, will probably discourage anyone from taking any of my other advice. So be it.
Your English is good
RR
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Woes
Woes are not what Rose-coloured is about, so I'll spare you (no, I won't: my eyelashes froze this morning; inadequate communication; excessive communication; I saw someone on the subway reading a blank duotang for 13 stops). *Anyway,* all will be mitigated when I go to Pivot at the Press Club tonight and see Kyle Buckley, Rocco de Giamcomo and Jessica Westhead be awesome.
Right? Right.
I guess I changed my mind
RR
Right? Right.
I guess I changed my mind
RR
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Rose-coloured Reviews "The Limner" by Julian Barnes
I like to think I'm an astute enough reader to recognize a good story even if it is one that doesn't appeal to me personally. I'm sure there are flaws in my judgement, things I judge to be objectively bad when in fact it's just my subjective taste talking, but I do try on that front. Conversely, I try not to let personal pleasure in a story ellide it's objective flaws. For some reason, the latter task feels tougher than the former.
Julian Barnes's short story, The Limner, in last week's New Yorker was delightful reading. It is a Victorian period piece about a travelling artisan, an self-trained portrait painter (that's what a limner is). It's lovely, detailed in the specifics of the back and front of house relations and authentic in how only the most "Christian" of clients would treat a travelling artisan as a guest in their homes rather than a servant.
There's also lots of subtle visual description in this story, doubly emphasized because the protagonist is both a painter and deaf. We get the intricacy of the claw-foot piano and the customs officer's waistcoat button as Wadsworth works to portray them on the canvas, the limner's mare "shook her tail against the flies, or impatiently raised her neck." Barnes does an admirable job of making these elements not just visual beauties but technical challenges of the painter. Barnes is also does much detailed work on facial expressions, because this is principally how Wadsworth understands human communication. Deaf since 5, he has never learned to lip-read or speak, so he relies on notebook to both send and receive communication.
But really, with most people, Wadsworth can "could silently perceive their meaning": he observes the attitudes of their faces and bodies and divines their hearts, their true values.
Sounds a bit fairy-tale-ish, or at least morality-tale-ish doesn't it? This isn't *exactly* relevant, but if you have worked with recent grade-school-level pedagogical materials, you'll know it's considered unhelpful for young students to read stories like this, stories that imply a disability in one area confers a perhaps semi-supernatural gift in another. The stereotype of the moral-superhero parapalegic is just damaging and silly as the stereotype of the dumb blond or viscious jock.
The stereotypes and stock characters are pretty thick on the ground in Barnes's story, though: in addition to the moral and perceptive deaf artist, there is Mr. Tuttle, the customs officer who poses for his portrait. He's a customs officer and ungenerous, argumentative, undignified, self-important--shock! And a garden boy who is simple and sweet, "an elf with eyes of burnt umber."
The resolution of the story is nearly contained in the fourth paragraph. We know in the first that the customs officer is awful, Wadsworth deaf, devout and humble. Then, we learn "And then there had been that incident on the third evening, against which he had failed—or felt unable—to protest. It had made him sleep uneasily. It had wounded him, too, if the truth were known." An action against the child by the customs officer, we learn straightaways too, and what to be done about it?
I won't, I guess, reveal what exactly, but suffice to say that no character goes against type or expectation, and that the end is quite satisfying in a fairy-tale way. It was very pleasant reading both because I like Victorian fiction (yes, yes, me, your high-school English teacher and your great-aunt Elsbeth) and because I like fairness. And the level of detail and colour was high and lovely.
But really, I think that's all there was--nothing surprising or challenging or at all beyond the level of pleasant. Which is really hardly what I'd expect from a *New Yorker* short story. A momentary pleasure, quickly forgotten. How shocking.
I did my best to make it / when the call came down the line
RR
Julian Barnes's short story, The Limner, in last week's New Yorker was delightful reading. It is a Victorian period piece about a travelling artisan, an self-trained portrait painter (that's what a limner is). It's lovely, detailed in the specifics of the back and front of house relations and authentic in how only the most "Christian" of clients would treat a travelling artisan as a guest in their homes rather than a servant.
There's also lots of subtle visual description in this story, doubly emphasized because the protagonist is both a painter and deaf. We get the intricacy of the claw-foot piano and the customs officer's waistcoat button as Wadsworth works to portray them on the canvas, the limner's mare "shook her tail against the flies, or impatiently raised her neck." Barnes does an admirable job of making these elements not just visual beauties but technical challenges of the painter. Barnes is also does much detailed work on facial expressions, because this is principally how Wadsworth understands human communication. Deaf since 5, he has never learned to lip-read or speak, so he relies on notebook to both send and receive communication.
But really, with most people, Wadsworth can "could silently perceive their meaning": he observes the attitudes of their faces and bodies and divines their hearts, their true values.
Sounds a bit fairy-tale-ish, or at least morality-tale-ish doesn't it? This isn't *exactly* relevant, but if you have worked with recent grade-school-level pedagogical materials, you'll know it's considered unhelpful for young students to read stories like this, stories that imply a disability in one area confers a perhaps semi-supernatural gift in another. The stereotype of the moral-superhero parapalegic is just damaging and silly as the stereotype of the dumb blond or viscious jock.
The stereotypes and stock characters are pretty thick on the ground in Barnes's story, though: in addition to the moral and perceptive deaf artist, there is Mr. Tuttle, the customs officer who poses for his portrait. He's a customs officer and ungenerous, argumentative, undignified, self-important--shock! And a garden boy who is simple and sweet, "an elf with eyes of burnt umber."
The resolution of the story is nearly contained in the fourth paragraph. We know in the first that the customs officer is awful, Wadsworth deaf, devout and humble. Then, we learn "And then there had been that incident on the third evening, against which he had failed—or felt unable—to protest. It had made him sleep uneasily. It had wounded him, too, if the truth were known." An action against the child by the customs officer, we learn straightaways too, and what to be done about it?
I won't, I guess, reveal what exactly, but suffice to say that no character goes against type or expectation, and that the end is quite satisfying in a fairy-tale way. It was very pleasant reading both because I like Victorian fiction (yes, yes, me, your high-school English teacher and your great-aunt Elsbeth) and because I like fairness. And the level of detail and colour was high and lovely.
But really, I think that's all there was--nothing surprising or challenging or at all beyond the level of pleasant. Which is really hardly what I'd expect from a *New Yorker* short story. A momentary pleasure, quickly forgotten. How shocking.
I did my best to make it / when the call came down the line
RR
Monday, January 12, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Credit
In the entry YouTube Revolution, I neglected to give credit to my brother, Ben, who introduced me to all the wonders that YouTube has to offer. He's the one on the right:
Just live your life
RR
Just live your life
RR
Saturday, January 10, 2009
On Diction
A tip: When something has gone catastrophically wrong in the life of a writer, do not offer the comfort that this turn of events will be "excellent material." While the disaster in question may in fact someday be a topic for writing, that is a pretty tarnished silver lining when one has just lost their job, heart or luggage. I guess I can't speak for everybody, but certainly, these things matter to me far more in and of themselves then for their potential as stories. If the adage "tragedy + time = comedy," it's a lot of time, even if the story won't wind up being all that funny.
I find events and anecdotes to be the easiest part of writing, anyway. If you buy the "1% inspiration, 99% perspiration" theory of writing, the inspiration is for me is the idea, the thing the stories supposed to be about. And ideas are pretty thick on the ground, catastrophe or not, reality-based or not. Everything else, that 99% of sweat and struggle, is finding the words and structure and voice to show that idea on the page in some way ressembling how I see it and feel it in my head.
When I find something in real life that that seems like material, it's usually not a thing that happened, but words: a way of saying things that's new to me, or a new thing to say entirely. Vibrant writing, I think, comes from language in tune with who the characters are, their vocabulary and emotions, articulateness, vernacular: diction.
I like to go places where language is used differently from how I use it . No one at my doctor's office would use the word "diction" but they might use the words "incidence," "ameliorate," "aggressive therapy," "monitoring" or "gown" in a very different sense than I would normally encounter them, if I encountered them at all. This is why I can't leave anyone alone who works in medical profession--sorry, guys!
Lately, I'm in love with yoga-diction, even though I've never been the biggest fan of yoga, nor very good, either, since flexible+clumsy+poor equilibrium=floppy. And I do not enjoy all the pressure to relax--tension is one of the core components of my personality, thank you.
Anyway!
In an intro yoga class, they mention the Sanskrit words for the postures, but genially and loosely translate them for the neophytes. I love this stuff--it's direct quotes, near as I can reconstitute it: "Ok, now for Cow Face, first we're going to form the lips of the cow with our crossed legs, like so...ok, great! And now, for the ears, let's reach our right hands up into the sky..." There's something you don't hear elsewhere.
Yoga or any sort of organized physical training give me a chance to look at bodies and body parts with scrutiny that I don't usually give them. "Make sure your ankle isn't sickling," "Look up at your biceps," "Let's tighten up those lower abdominal muscles," "How close together can you get your shoulder blades?"
This stuff is strange and not very relevant to most action, but it's useful to be able to see things from such a radically new angle (from the floor, with your legs in the air above you and your knees resting on your forehead). As a writer, words are all I have to work with, and I'm always in search of more, and more ways to use them.
Which is why I'm telling myself it's gonna be fun to go to the passport office this week. Really! Who knows what they'll *say*?
And now you've turned the other cheek
RR
I find events and anecdotes to be the easiest part of writing, anyway. If you buy the "1% inspiration, 99% perspiration" theory of writing, the inspiration is for me is the idea, the thing the stories supposed to be about. And ideas are pretty thick on the ground, catastrophe or not, reality-based or not. Everything else, that 99% of sweat and struggle, is finding the words and structure and voice to show that idea on the page in some way ressembling how I see it and feel it in my head.
When I find something in real life that that seems like material, it's usually not a thing that happened, but words: a way of saying things that's new to me, or a new thing to say entirely. Vibrant writing, I think, comes from language in tune with who the characters are, their vocabulary and emotions, articulateness, vernacular: diction.
I like to go places where language is used differently from how I use it . No one at my doctor's office would use the word "diction" but they might use the words "incidence," "ameliorate," "aggressive therapy," "monitoring" or "gown" in a very different sense than I would normally encounter them, if I encountered them at all. This is why I can't leave anyone alone who works in medical profession--sorry, guys!
Lately, I'm in love with yoga-diction, even though I've never been the biggest fan of yoga, nor very good, either, since flexible+clumsy+poor equilibrium=floppy. And I do not enjoy all the pressure to relax--tension is one of the core components of my personality, thank you.
Anyway!
In an intro yoga class, they mention the Sanskrit words for the postures, but genially and loosely translate them for the neophytes. I love this stuff--it's direct quotes, near as I can reconstitute it: "Ok, now for Cow Face, first we're going to form the lips of the cow with our crossed legs, like so...ok, great! And now, for the ears, let's reach our right hands up into the sky..." There's something you don't hear elsewhere.
Yoga or any sort of organized physical training give me a chance to look at bodies and body parts with scrutiny that I don't usually give them. "Make sure your ankle isn't sickling," "Look up at your biceps," "Let's tighten up those lower abdominal muscles," "How close together can you get your shoulder blades?"
This stuff is strange and not very relevant to most action, but it's useful to be able to see things from such a radically new angle (from the floor, with your legs in the air above you and your knees resting on your forehead). As a writer, words are all I have to work with, and I'm always in search of more, and more ways to use them.
Which is why I'm telling myself it's gonna be fun to go to the passport office this week. Really! Who knows what they'll *say*?
And now you've turned the other cheek
RR
Thursday, January 8, 2009
The YouTube Revolution...
is something that I've by and large missed. Mainly, I work on two computers: one on which I can't stream video, and one on which I've gotten accidentally locked into a restrictive bandwidth contract (ah, me and the phone company: good times). So even if I actually remember to forward the cool link someone sent me to the computer that will allow me to watch it, I often forgo it if I'm close to my limit for the month and living in fear of incurring massive evil fines.
Such is my life.
*Anyway*, there a few things I do rely on YouTube for (isn't it funny, by the way, that the name is based on the old picture tube, which is nearly archaic now in televisions, and certainly is in the computer-world). So I do know watching videos on the internet is great, although I only remember ever six months or so. It is great for the following things especially:
1) That thing everyone's talking about! I can't believe you missed it. No conversation will make any sense until you see this.
2) Overanalyzing music videos I saw incompletely at the gym and thought might have some hidden meaning. Also, occasionally, just videos I really like.
3) Kittens falling asleep!!!
4) Happy Slip! A Filipino girl who lives in California who makes little mini-movies about her crazy family. She makes vids about other things too, soap opera parodies that I don't get because I don't watch soaps, and maybe other stuff too. I am content to watch the same three or four thingies over every six months, they're that funny. I actually think she's quite famous now, but I don't know much about that because...I don't really do YouTube. Really.
Take me with you / I start to miss you
RR
Such is my life.
*Anyway*, there a few things I do rely on YouTube for (isn't it funny, by the way, that the name is based on the old picture tube, which is nearly archaic now in televisions, and certainly is in the computer-world). So I do know watching videos on the internet is great, although I only remember ever six months or so. It is great for the following things especially:
1) That thing everyone's talking about! I can't believe you missed it. No conversation will make any sense until you see this.
2) Overanalyzing music videos I saw incompletely at the gym and thought might have some hidden meaning. Also, occasionally, just videos I really like.
3) Kittens falling asleep!!!
4) Happy Slip! A Filipino girl who lives in California who makes little mini-movies about her crazy family. She makes vids about other things too, soap opera parodies that I don't get because I don't watch soaps, and maybe other stuff too. I am content to watch the same three or four thingies over every six months, they're that funny. I actually think she's quite famous now, but I don't know much about that because...I don't really do YouTube. Really.
Take me with you / I start to miss you
RR
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
On Alert
There is nothing like the vertigo you experience when someone says, "Hey, I read that thing about you," and not only do you not know the thing they are referring to, the information is in some tiny way incorrect.
Most people will twitch violently if they see their name misspelled on *anything*, including a *TV Guide* subscription sticker--any representation of self ought to be as accurate as possible. Of course, that way lies madness--how long, exactly, are you willing to stay on hold with the *TV Guide* people? But one likes to at least keep track of what's being said.
Hence the incredibly self-absorbed step of setting up a Google Alert for my own name--I just like to know. Mainly, the alerts contain my Rose-coloured posts, articles and reviews I would've heard about in other ways, and the occasional negative thing that no one wanted to mention to me. I also see the odd gem that I actually wouldn't have seen sans alert. Love it!
A random bonus to the whole alert thing is that I set it up wrong, for only my last name rather than first-n-last, so I get notices when *any* Rosenblum does anything. I'm not innundated, there aren't that many of us, but actually, I didn't know about *any* of these folks before the Alerts, so it's kind of fascinating and impressive to see what others are up to:
--Michael Rosenblum is an innovator in TV news.
--Mort Rosenblum is a journalist who wants to save the world.
--Matthew Rosenblum is a composor and professor of music
--Walter and Naomi Rosenblum are photographers
--Mary Rosenblum writes mysteries and science fiction novels.
--a whole bunch of Rosenblums make wine (I'd actually heard of those guys before--it's a pretty respected winery, I'm told)
I'm not related to any of these folks, or at all familiar with their work, but it is nice to know that they are out there, doing the name proud.
I wonder if this post will turn up on *their* Google Alerts, and what they'll think about that?
Except for the drilling in the wall
RR
Most people will twitch violently if they see their name misspelled on *anything*, including a *TV Guide* subscription sticker--any representation of self ought to be as accurate as possible. Of course, that way lies madness--how long, exactly, are you willing to stay on hold with the *TV Guide* people? But one likes to at least keep track of what's being said.
Hence the incredibly self-absorbed step of setting up a Google Alert for my own name--I just like to know. Mainly, the alerts contain my Rose-coloured posts, articles and reviews I would've heard about in other ways, and the occasional negative thing that no one wanted to mention to me. I also see the odd gem that I actually wouldn't have seen sans alert. Love it!
A random bonus to the whole alert thing is that I set it up wrong, for only my last name rather than first-n-last, so I get notices when *any* Rosenblum does anything. I'm not innundated, there aren't that many of us, but actually, I didn't know about *any* of these folks before the Alerts, so it's kind of fascinating and impressive to see what others are up to:
--Michael Rosenblum is an innovator in TV news.
--Mort Rosenblum is a journalist who wants to save the world.
--Matthew Rosenblum is a composor and professor of music
--Walter and Naomi Rosenblum are photographers
--Mary Rosenblum writes mysteries and science fiction novels.
--a whole bunch of Rosenblums make wine (I'd actually heard of those guys before--it's a pretty respected winery, I'm told)
I'm not related to any of these folks, or at all familiar with their work, but it is nice to know that they are out there, doing the name proud.
I wonder if this post will turn up on *their* Google Alerts, and what they'll think about that?
Except for the drilling in the wall
RR
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
That Terrible Point...
Either the draft is a) done, and I am merely toppling it into overdone incomprehensibility by continuing to pick at it for a few more days, or b) not done, and I am abandoning it to underdone incomprehensibility by not continuing to work on it for a few more days.
Oh. Look. It's after ten--I'm going to bed!
Take me with you / I start to miss you
RR
Oh. Look. It's after ten--I'm going to bed!
Take me with you / I start to miss you
RR
Happy-Go-Lucky
Ok, the reason I wanted to see Mike Leigh's film, Happy-Go-Lucky, and the reason a number of people recommended it to me, is because it's a film about a 30-year-old goofball who likes birds, bookshops, trampolines, bright patterned tights and hanging out with her friends. And I was amply rewarded on all those counts. But as it turned out, I loved the film because it is brilliant, genuine (much of the dialogue was improved), inspiring and true. Watching *Happy-Go-Lucky* made me hopeful for the world, as does the fact that such an ingenuous ingenius little film has received such incredible and universal acclaim.
See it see it see it.
Smile!
It's all in your head
RR
See it see it see it.
Smile!
It's all in your head
RR
Monday, January 5, 2009
Resolving, finally
Arigatou gozaimasu.
Ah-ree-gah-toe go-zy-ee-mass
Thank you very much (if you take out the "gozaimasu", it means the same thing, but more informally. There is no one in Japan that I am on informal terms with, however, so I'm not dwelling on that option too much.
In 2009, I have resolved to learn one word/phrase a week in Japanese, at least until I actually go there. I have no hope of learning grammatical constructions, and less of learning how to read any of their alphabets (they have three, apparently). The best I can hope for is enough nouns and polite expressions to stay out of trouble. We'll see how it goes.
That's my only Specific, Measureable, Attainable, Realistic and Timely goal. Normally I make a lot of these (what? HR training courses can be used for good as well as evil), but my helpful friends have been particularly forthright lately in pointing out that many of my SMART goals are in fact, stupid (not an acronym). Maybe I could achieve them, but they say, to no particular purpose.
And then there are the things that are too important to make into resolutions, things that would frighten me to try to push into 2009 if in fact they turn out to feel like more 2010 type things. So I'm not resolving those either.
So far, the only goal other than the Japanese resolution that has received universal approval is one that meets none of the SMART criteria, which is to be braver. Obviously, this is something I need to work on (or I wouldn't be so fretful about something as trivial as new year's resolutions), but I have no idea how I'll know when/if I get there.
Learn Japanese and be brave. Sure. No problem.
2009, you are a very daunting-looking year.
Say goodbye to grace and virtue
RR
Reading in the Bathroom
My short story, "The Words," has a scene set about writing in a bathroom, and Kerry Clare has done the scene the honour of reading it aloud in a bathroom. Julie Wilson instigated and recorded the reading, and made it available for your listening pleasure. It's pretty pitch-perfect, if you ask me!
And the public don't mind
RR
And the public don't mind
RR
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Team notes
I love it when everything I want to post about connects to a theme, and today's theme is publishing as a team sport. You've heard about this from me before, but here's some stuff from other people:
--at the Joyland Blog, Emily Schultz on "How I was Housebroken". The piece is about learning to work with an editor. The article is so very wise and useful in urging writers towards the best-case scenario:
"Change can be scary, but presumably if you respect the publication you’ve sent your work to, it means you also respect the editor or editors."
Any writer can learn and improve so much if they respect editors (good ones) as insightful professionals who know something about the writer's work the writer herself doesn't know: how it reads to someone who hasn't spent several years living inside it. Emily shows beautifully how to make the most of that insightful person, without any sacrifice of art or ego. Really, it's possible.
--Or then the worst-case scenario, in David Sipress's cartoon. Everyone keeps pointing out that I'm so lucky this didn't happen to me, and I know I am, but hell, if it's typical even of the New Yorker set, it's worth emphasizing.
--Which is why Michael Bryson's review of *Once* at Underground Bookclub is so gratifying, because it not only mentions my work but the work of the team that helped make this book be what it is--
"It is extremely well-written (and edited and published). Cudos to all who had a hand in it. Many are waiting to see what you will come up with next."
Go, team!
Bless your body / bless your soul / pray for peace / and self-control
RR
--at the Joyland Blog, Emily Schultz on "How I was Housebroken". The piece is about learning to work with an editor. The article is so very wise and useful in urging writers towards the best-case scenario:
"Change can be scary, but presumably if you respect the publication you’ve sent your work to, it means you also respect the editor or editors."
Any writer can learn and improve so much if they respect editors (good ones) as insightful professionals who know something about the writer's work the writer herself doesn't know: how it reads to someone who hasn't spent several years living inside it. Emily shows beautifully how to make the most of that insightful person, without any sacrifice of art or ego. Really, it's possible.
--Or then the worst-case scenario, in David Sipress's cartoon. Everyone keeps pointing out that I'm so lucky this didn't happen to me, and I know I am, but hell, if it's typical even of the New Yorker set, it's worth emphasizing.
--Which is why Michael Bryson's review of *Once* at Underground Bookclub is so gratifying, because it not only mentions my work but the work of the team that helped make this book be what it is--
"It is extremely well-written (and edited and published). Cudos to all who had a hand in it. Many are waiting to see what you will come up with next."
Go, team!
Bless your body / bless your soul / pray for peace / and self-control
RR
Friday, January 2, 2009
I win!
Yes! I have read The Penguin Book of Canadian Short Stories in its entirety: all the introductory materials, biographical and copyright notes, and every word of every story. Ask me anything; I'm full to bursting with Canadian short stories!
My relationship with this book is *intense*--I read it pretty steadily, if not quickly, for over a month, sprawling by a day into a second calendar year. The relationship is pretty physical, too; since my reading is done in myriad locales and often in transit, I've been carrying this book on my person quite a bit. Once it's on you, you don't forget about the PBCSS, for though the kitchen scale says it weights only two pounds, I suspect strongly that my kitchen scale is broken and it weighs six or seven.
Oh, it's been epic, the affair of PBCSS and I: I ordered the first copy from the library, got curry on the pages, took it on a Via train, a Greyhound bus, several Go trains and busses, and more TTC subways, streetcards and busses than you can imagine. Then the library recalled the book, I ordered a new copy, got chocolate on the pages, got back on the trains and busses. To impress a writer I admire, I carried the anthology (and many other things) down 22 flights of stairs and across town. I read it in a bar, in bed and at my desk; I told everyone I was reading it (and no one cared). I used it to flatten wrinkles when I was to lazy to iron, to start a conversation and to end one.
And now I win, because I've read it all and I can STOP CARRYING IT AROUND.
Actually, I won by reading. I have no regrets--the PBCSS is not pure pleasure, but the vast majority of the stories contained therein *are* pleasures, and I really enjoyed reading them, even when my wrists were throbbing from holding the damn thing upright.
It's not that I disagree with my comrades at the Salon des Refuses: it is deeply dismaying that so many brilliant story artists have been left out of the collection, and that they are so many of them stylistic innovators speaks of unhelpful blinkering. It was in fact only my reading of the Salon issues of *The New Quarterly* and *Canadian Notes and Queries* that made me want to read the PBCSS. Reading 20 brilliant and wildly different stories back to back, with appreciations and background notes was such a joyful education that I thought maybe I should think more about anthologies (which I hadn't really thought about at all outside of school).
I read (I think) everything that was published about the Salon, almost always agreed with the agitators without anything interesting to add, got interviewed more than once without anything interesting to say (someday those tapes will surface), and finally I read the damn PBCSS. When I did, I was thrilled by the stories, but my feelings were truly hurt, and hurt on behalf of my heroes and mentors in the world of short stories, by some of the editorial comments. That this anthology was trying to "open up and make more interesting the definition of the short story" by calling memoir and novel fragments into the fold, rather than by paying homage to the artistry and innovation of people were actually working in the form made my hair puff up. But that's already been discussed, many times in many places.
I did come up with some criticisms of my own that no one else mentioned, maybe because they are not interesting. Nevertheless, I'll share them:
--who decided not to date the stories? and to put the bio notes at the end, in story order, *separate from* the copyright notes, which are then in alphabetical order? Call me crazy, but I care who the people are wrote these stories, when and where they were writing, and at what point in their careers these pieces were published! The bio notes also seemed not to have been proofread (the main text of the book was fine)--a weird oversight--there were actually a couple lines missing at the bottom of pages.
--why is there more than one piece by several authors? no explanation is offered, and while with Alice Munro none is needed, the others are...really random.
--how, I wonder, do Munro, Mavis Gallant and Merna Summers feel about being the only three of our "literary mothers and fathers" in the book's last section who aren't dead?
--alarming that the anthologist would suggest that short story writers are "singing in pure voice simply because they feel there is a need for music, a need for song." You show me a writer of *anything* who doesn't feel he or she has something to say, and I'll show you someone who should get out of the business.
--Only *one* section of the book is introduced as containing stories that leave readers with "[o]ur view of the world altered, darkened or enlarged; certain faiths have been strengthened, others have been shaken loose...[and feeling that] something else, equally arresting and believable, is more than likely going to happen very soon." What, one wonders, are all the other stories trying to do?
These are, I think, real issues, yet they won't really matter to the average college English student, book-group member, auto-didact storyphile, who will look at the stories that have been recommended or assigned, read and delight, and then maybe read the next story and delight in that also.
Because, despite some questionable curation and a few duds, the vast majority of these stories are very very good!! Many I'd read before, but it'd been too long and I was thrilled to see "Gypsy Art" and "Joe in the Afterlife" and "The Lonely Goatherd" again, and so very many others. And there were so many to me *new* stories in this collection, "Vision" and "The Friend" and "Catechism." It was such a joy to go from strength to strength like this, to find the stories lighting each other up. "And the Children Shall Rise"!! "Horses of the Night"!!
The reason, I think, that it's so shocking that certain stories are included in the PBCSS for reasons of PCness or quirkyness and not quality is that *most* of them *were* chosen for quality, and the juxtoposition is jarring. Adrienne Poy's "Ring Around October" is tepid, but hardly appalling, until you place it next to Caroline Adderson's brilliant "And the Children Shall Rise." Then you see a problem.
Despite its many flaws, despite the fact that I'm upset by some of the suppositions that the editorial notes make, I feel that most of the stories themselves succeed in what should have been the book's goal: the glorification of innovative, intelligent, artful, heartful, tightly controlled and deeply resonant short story writing in Canada. I'm happy to be a tiny part of that project, and I look forward to the next, better, more comprehensive and respectful anthology that will come next from Canada's wealth of talent. I hope the bruise on my hip from carrying this one in my bag will have healed by that point.
The starmaker says it's not so bad
RR
My relationship with this book is *intense*--I read it pretty steadily, if not quickly, for over a month, sprawling by a day into a second calendar year. The relationship is pretty physical, too; since my reading is done in myriad locales and often in transit, I've been carrying this book on my person quite a bit. Once it's on you, you don't forget about the PBCSS, for though the kitchen scale says it weights only two pounds, I suspect strongly that my kitchen scale is broken and it weighs six or seven.
Oh, it's been epic, the affair of PBCSS and I: I ordered the first copy from the library, got curry on the pages, took it on a Via train, a Greyhound bus, several Go trains and busses, and more TTC subways, streetcards and busses than you can imagine. Then the library recalled the book, I ordered a new copy, got chocolate on the pages, got back on the trains and busses. To impress a writer I admire, I carried the anthology (and many other things) down 22 flights of stairs and across town. I read it in a bar, in bed and at my desk; I told everyone I was reading it (and no one cared). I used it to flatten wrinkles when I was to lazy to iron, to start a conversation and to end one.
And now I win, because I've read it all and I can STOP CARRYING IT AROUND.
Actually, I won by reading. I have no regrets--the PBCSS is not pure pleasure, but the vast majority of the stories contained therein *are* pleasures, and I really enjoyed reading them, even when my wrists were throbbing from holding the damn thing upright.
It's not that I disagree with my comrades at the Salon des Refuses: it is deeply dismaying that so many brilliant story artists have been left out of the collection, and that they are so many of them stylistic innovators speaks of unhelpful blinkering. It was in fact only my reading of the Salon issues of *The New Quarterly* and *Canadian Notes and Queries* that made me want to read the PBCSS. Reading 20 brilliant and wildly different stories back to back, with appreciations and background notes was such a joyful education that I thought maybe I should think more about anthologies (which I hadn't really thought about at all outside of school).
I read (I think) everything that was published about the Salon, almost always agreed with the agitators without anything interesting to add, got interviewed more than once without anything interesting to say (someday those tapes will surface), and finally I read the damn PBCSS. When I did, I was thrilled by the stories, but my feelings were truly hurt, and hurt on behalf of my heroes and mentors in the world of short stories, by some of the editorial comments. That this anthology was trying to "open up and make more interesting the definition of the short story" by calling memoir and novel fragments into the fold, rather than by paying homage to the artistry and innovation of people were actually working in the form made my hair puff up. But that's already been discussed, many times in many places.
I did come up with some criticisms of my own that no one else mentioned, maybe because they are not interesting. Nevertheless, I'll share them:
--who decided not to date the stories? and to put the bio notes at the end, in story order, *separate from* the copyright notes, which are then in alphabetical order? Call me crazy, but I care who the people are wrote these stories, when and where they were writing, and at what point in their careers these pieces were published! The bio notes also seemed not to have been proofread (the main text of the book was fine)--a weird oversight--there were actually a couple lines missing at the bottom of pages.
--why is there more than one piece by several authors? no explanation is offered, and while with Alice Munro none is needed, the others are...really random.
--how, I wonder, do Munro, Mavis Gallant and Merna Summers feel about being the only three of our "literary mothers and fathers" in the book's last section who aren't dead?
--alarming that the anthologist would suggest that short story writers are "singing in pure voice simply because they feel there is a need for music, a need for song." You show me a writer of *anything* who doesn't feel he or she has something to say, and I'll show you someone who should get out of the business.
--Only *one* section of the book is introduced as containing stories that leave readers with "[o]ur view of the world altered, darkened or enlarged; certain faiths have been strengthened, others have been shaken loose...[and feeling that] something else, equally arresting and believable, is more than likely going to happen very soon." What, one wonders, are all the other stories trying to do?
These are, I think, real issues, yet they won't really matter to the average college English student, book-group member, auto-didact storyphile, who will look at the stories that have been recommended or assigned, read and delight, and then maybe read the next story and delight in that also.
Because, despite some questionable curation and a few duds, the vast majority of these stories are very very good!! Many I'd read before, but it'd been too long and I was thrilled to see "Gypsy Art" and "Joe in the Afterlife" and "The Lonely Goatherd" again, and so very many others. And there were so many to me *new* stories in this collection, "Vision" and "The Friend" and "Catechism." It was such a joy to go from strength to strength like this, to find the stories lighting each other up. "And the Children Shall Rise"!! "Horses of the Night"!!
The reason, I think, that it's so shocking that certain stories are included in the PBCSS for reasons of PCness or quirkyness and not quality is that *most* of them *were* chosen for quality, and the juxtoposition is jarring. Adrienne Poy's "Ring Around October" is tepid, but hardly appalling, until you place it next to Caroline Adderson's brilliant "And the Children Shall Rise." Then you see a problem.
Despite its many flaws, despite the fact that I'm upset by some of the suppositions that the editorial notes make, I feel that most of the stories themselves succeed in what should have been the book's goal: the glorification of innovative, intelligent, artful, heartful, tightly controlled and deeply resonant short story writing in Canada. I'm happy to be a tiny part of that project, and I look forward to the next, better, more comprehensive and respectful anthology that will come next from Canada's wealth of talent. I hope the bruise on my hip from carrying this one in my bag will have healed by that point.
The starmaker says it's not so bad
RR
Route 171
When a friend handed over this fascinating article on the TTC's new route 171, it was with the raised-eyebrow warning, "You aren't mentioned."
No one gives a damn about her hair
RR
No one gives a damn about her hair
RR
Thursday, January 1, 2009
2008, I liked you
These 365-day units do not necessarily break off at useful points--I'm having trouble encapsulating the past year or imagining the next one because I'm in the *middle* of so many things. I can't find a period to put at the end of the sentence that was 2008, to make it seem like an event rather than just a space of time that included a lot of beginnings and a few endings. And there's not really a capital letter for 2009, either. The year seems not a blank page but an unfinished manuscript--metaphorically and literarily. I will get around to resolving somethings later, but for now, I'm stuck in the past.
An ending, even an artificial one like December 31, does summon up all the sadness of what's undone, who and what's been lost, mistakes made...but even end-of-day regret cannot obscure the fact that I had a wonderful wonderful 2008. And today is really the day to celebrate all that, and remember all that outweighs regrets, which is so much.
2008:
Lucky pastries
Rock-climbing
Impromptu yoga
Getting better
Free bad movies
Hugs
My first car accident
Effortless poetry
Rivers I'd never heard of
Facebook
Books in the rain
Books in bookstores
Wedding music
Every day sunrise
So much gossip
Cats, kittens, dogs, fish
Long-distance phone calls
Singing songs in Spanish restaurants
Reading aloud
Reading in bed
Babies
Beautiful funeral
Mail
Pie
Affirmation and respect
Music videos
TTC
Barack Obama
Streetcorner kisses
New words
Never wanting to be "good enough"
Roses
This blog
Smoked salmon
Uncertainty
Friends
Friends
Friends
We've only got this moment and it's good
RR
An ending, even an artificial one like December 31, does summon up all the sadness of what's undone, who and what's been lost, mistakes made...but even end-of-day regret cannot obscure the fact that I had a wonderful wonderful 2008. And today is really the day to celebrate all that, and remember all that outweighs regrets, which is so much.
2008:
Lucky pastries
Rock-climbing
Impromptu yoga
Getting better
Free bad movies
Hugs
My first car accident
Effortless poetry
Rivers I'd never heard of
Books in the rain
Books in bookstores
Wedding music
Every day sunrise
So much gossip
Cats, kittens, dogs, fish
Long-distance phone calls
Singing songs in Spanish restaurants
Reading aloud
Reading in bed
Babies
Beautiful funeral
Pie
Affirmation and respect
Music videos
TTC
Barack Obama
Streetcorner kisses
New words
Never wanting to be "good enough"
Roses
This blog
Smoked salmon
Uncertainty
Friends
Friends
Friends
We've only got this moment and it's good
RR
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
