Today this blog turns two years old and, possibly, enters its hair-pulling, tantrum-throwing, finger-in-light-socket years. We hope not. It's been such a great ride so far.
One year ago I was here, being glamourous and alarmed. Two years ago I was starting this blog, and the first non-meta-blog post was this, about snark and story-telling.
Five jobs. Several publications. Myriad irritations. One book. Braces, illness, surrealism, and confusion. And...whatever post is after this one.
Cheers to that, and thanks for reading, responding, laughing and scoffing. It's been so very much fun so far.
RR
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Stuff going on
Tomorrow at Harbourfront: Bruce Jay Friedman, Robert Carr and George Elliot Clarke.
Pamela Stewart, Lien Chao and me! at the Art Gallery of Hamilton (part of Grit Lit).
Carmine Starnino, Dannabang Kuwabong, Derek McCormack, Alice Major, Nicole Markotić and Mike Barnes also at Grit Lit!
Strong Words with Featuring Leanne Lieberman, Ryan Kamstra and Krystle Mullin at the Gladstone.
A rant about hardcovers.
It will end again in bullets
RR
Pamela Stewart, Lien Chao and me! at the Art Gallery of Hamilton (part of Grit Lit).
Carmine Starnino, Dannabang Kuwabong, Derek McCormack, Alice Major, Nicole Markotić and Mike Barnes also at Grit Lit!
Strong Words with Featuring Leanne Lieberman, Ryan Kamstra and Krystle Mullin at the Gladstone.
A rant about hardcovers.
It will end again in bullets
RR
Monday, March 30, 2009
Clubbin'
"Once, in a bright and distant time, 'a group of people joined together for some special purpose' would have sounded pleasant, even inviting. But now, in these days of violence, sin and convenience foods, 'club' meetings invariably lead to confusion between the aforementioned special interest groups and 'a heavy stick of wood used as a weapon.' And such confusion, of course, can only lead to tears, chaos, and unsightly bruises.
"How can such an indiscretion have occurred between definitions one and two in my trusty Thorndike-Barnhart Comprehensive Desk Dictionary (Volume One)? Such definition disasters are in fact sadly common. An idle flip through any dictionary (come on, admit it, we all do it) will reveal questions like 'why do we need twenty-three definitions for "in"?' 'What's the difference between a couch and a sofa?' 'How come the people at Webster's don't spell spray-cheez like the rest of the world?' 'What's the does the small-furry-mammal-bat have in common with the hit-the-little-flying-ball bat? In fact, wouldn't a baseball bat have more in common with, say, a club??' The plot thickens!!"
Who are those quotation marks quoting? Why, it's teenaged Rebecca at her most facetious (and innocent of the correct usage of the word "indiscretion"), writing the Club Section intro to her Grade 11 yearbook. How much has changed, and yet, how little.
Half a lifetime later (no, really: almost exact math) I still love clubs and still regard them with some degree of trepidation. Last night, I was a guest at a book-club meeting where they were discussing *Once*! An amazing opportunity, because no author is ever really content with any amount of feedback--when you say you "enjoyed the book" we're all actually dying to ask whether you thought the intentional misuse of the word "indiscretion" on page 45 came across as funny or obvious, and when you say you don't recall that bit, we are assume you are lying to cover the fact that you actually hated it, and the rest of the text besides. To me, an entire evening to discuss the successes and failures of my book seems just about right! A terrifying prospect, naturally, for the same reason.
In the end, it was terribly fun, and everyone was super-frlendly and funny and articulate and very good cooks (that's how all book clubs should screen members, I think). I was pleased that people were willing to talk about the book negatively without glancing over at me to see if I'd crumple to the floor in convulsions. No anti-*Once* rants, but not everyone loved every story, and I'm always interested in hearing about the whiches and whys of that.
And then there were lots of positive comments, too, which are always fun to bask in, and lots of intelligent questions and Dutch apple pie. When I said I was going to meet a book club, a few people wondered if that was a good thing for a writer to do, and so now my answer is *yes*! People who would bother to join a book club, and bother to read the book, are mainly astute readers, and it's always valuable to hear what they have to say. There is a weird feeling of course to being a stranger at what is basically a low-key dinner party, and being the focus of attention throughout from people you don't know well. Plus, one wants to be interesting and informative--they were giving me herbed brie, after all. I do hope my comments were useful; sometimes (well, mainly always, actually) I think *Once* is lot more interesting than I am. But us writers, we are flexible and fun, and so are readers, and I imagine that most who try this experiment with open minds and empty stomaches will will find the evening works out rather well.
I wonder what would happen if I--
RR
"How can such an indiscretion have occurred between definitions one and two in my trusty Thorndike-Barnhart Comprehensive Desk Dictionary (Volume One)? Such definition disasters are in fact sadly common. An idle flip through any dictionary (come on, admit it, we all do it) will reveal questions like 'why do we need twenty-three definitions for "in"?' 'What's the difference between a couch and a sofa?' 'How come the people at Webster's don't spell spray-cheez like the rest of the world?' 'What's the does the small-furry-mammal-bat have in common with the hit-the-little-flying-ball bat? In fact, wouldn't a baseball bat have more in common with, say, a club??' The plot thickens!!"
Who are those quotation marks quoting? Why, it's teenaged Rebecca at her most facetious (and innocent of the correct usage of the word "indiscretion"), writing the Club Section intro to her Grade 11 yearbook. How much has changed, and yet, how little.
Half a lifetime later (no, really: almost exact math) I still love clubs and still regard them with some degree of trepidation. Last night, I was a guest at a book-club meeting where they were discussing *Once*! An amazing opportunity, because no author is ever really content with any amount of feedback--when you say you "enjoyed the book" we're all actually dying to ask whether you thought the intentional misuse of the word "indiscretion" on page 45 came across as funny or obvious, and when you say you don't recall that bit, we are assume you are lying to cover the fact that you actually hated it, and the rest of the text besides. To me, an entire evening to discuss the successes and failures of my book seems just about right! A terrifying prospect, naturally, for the same reason.
In the end, it was terribly fun, and everyone was super-frlendly and funny and articulate and very good cooks (that's how all book clubs should screen members, I think). I was pleased that people were willing to talk about the book negatively without glancing over at me to see if I'd crumple to the floor in convulsions. No anti-*Once* rants, but not everyone loved every story, and I'm always interested in hearing about the whiches and whys of that.
And then there were lots of positive comments, too, which are always fun to bask in, and lots of intelligent questions and Dutch apple pie. When I said I was going to meet a book club, a few people wondered if that was a good thing for a writer to do, and so now my answer is *yes*! People who would bother to join a book club, and bother to read the book, are mainly astute readers, and it's always valuable to hear what they have to say. There is a weird feeling of course to being a stranger at what is basically a low-key dinner party, and being the focus of attention throughout from people you don't know well. Plus, one wants to be interesting and informative--they were giving me herbed brie, after all. I do hope my comments were useful; sometimes (well, mainly always, actually) I think *Once* is lot more interesting than I am. But us writers, we are flexible and fun, and so are readers, and I imagine that most who try this experiment with open minds and empty stomaches will will find the evening works out rather well.
I wonder what would happen if I--
RR
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Mr. Cheever, I hardly knew ye
Even before *Once* came out, I was amazed at how generous readers were in sharing what they thought of my work. It's not like I'm deluged with fanmail, but a good number of people have bothered to send me a note, or say a word to me at an event, to share their reactions to my stories.
And though really that's why anyone wants to publish anything--to get people thinking about these characters and situations that have been in the writer's head--I didn't really know how thrilling it would be see my imaginings refracted through other imaginations like this. I've enjoyed everything expressed to me, including "I just didn't get it" (more than once)...it's important for me to learn about ways my work can misfire. No one ever got better by dwelling on successes.
Of course, everyone's been pretty nice--I'm sure I wouldn't appreciate negative feedback if it came in the form of people yelling "you suck!" at readings. But there is one comment that's come up a couple times, always voiced as a compliment, that does trouble me: variations on "I feel as though I've read your diary."
A big scary hurdle of publishing is accepting the idea that I can't control how people read the work once it's out there; if people enjoy thinking of all the characters I write as manifestations of Rebecca Rosenblum...uh, I guess I have to go with that.
But I wish they wouldn't. And not only because I am not a terribly autobiographical writer and that's not how *I* read the characters. Of course I use real life sometimes--it is right there, after all. Besides, all my ideas come from inside my own head, so they all reflect me to some degree (I believe I'm paraphrasing Margaret Atwood there, but I can't find an attribution). I'm sure if a person with the right degrees read any book with enough attention, he or she could construct a reasonably accurate psychological profile of the author.
My concern is that that doesn't seem a terribly good use of anyone's time, or their $19.95. You can hang out with me for free, after all (and then there's the blog...). Also, I haven't spent a lot of time coding myself into the book--I don't know that there's great reward for the reader in figure out the details of any author's life through fiction. But I *did* spend a *lot* of crafting the imaginary characters on the pages--I worked really hard to make them fleshed-out people who live in the work, who talk and walk and think like people who might exist, even if they don't.
Autobiographical detail: in my first year of university, I fell in love with a couple stories by John Cheever's. That summer, I bought a collected works and read all of the man's short fiction in chronological order. When I was done, I recall storming down the stairs of my parents' house and announcing, "When he got old John Cheever was a misogynist."
I was genuinely upset because I felt that this author that I loved hated me, or my kind (or would have, had he been alive at that point). And I was upset and confused, too, that even some of those later, woman-unfriendly stories were *good*--that I liked them and related to the characters stuck in realities I didn't believe in. It was all very disorienting.
My father, a Cheever fan (but not a misogynist), tried to comfort me by saying, "Well, Cheever had some issues." Really, he didn't see why I was so distraught. The stories were what they were, after all, no matter who wrote them, and it wasn't like I was ever going to have to sit next to Mr. Cheever on the bus (him being dead and all).
What my father did not say was, "Actually, Cheever was a homosexual." Because he didn't know, it turned out when I called to check (good times, being associated with me: early morning phone calls that begin, "Hi, it's me, did you know John Cheever was gay?") My dad didn't sound that interested in Cheever's sexual orientation when I told him, and really, why should he? Maybe a life in the closet affected the author's perspective, and maybe he was simply consumed by virtiol. As readers, all we've got are some brilliant stories, some that are both hateful and incohrent, and some that keep both the brilliance and the bile.
We all have a point of view that we're stuck with most of the time. I think the true thrill of narrative art is losing myself in other perspectives, one I've created or one someone created for me. Mainly I don't care where they got the idea from, because I'm never going where the ideas came from; all I have is the imaginative space.
Facts confuse the matter. Once you have a few details about someone's life, either by meeting them or reading some biography or hearing some gossip, it's hard not to start mixing up the narratives. What looped me this week was the news of Cheever's homosexuality. I found out from John Updike's review of a new bio; found out that I'm the only one in the free world who didn't know, and then realized that it doesn't matter.
It never matters how true the story--it matters how *accurate* the writing is, how it feels. Because sooner or later, the author will be dead, and eventually all the facts become blurred. And though that's when we're left with only the story, I think that's mainly what we had all along.
Which is all to say, read stories any way you like, mine, your own, and anyone's. Myself, I prefer to stay out of the frame.
Sweet summer all around
RR
And though really that's why anyone wants to publish anything--to get people thinking about these characters and situations that have been in the writer's head--I didn't really know how thrilling it would be see my imaginings refracted through other imaginations like this. I've enjoyed everything expressed to me, including "I just didn't get it" (more than once)...it's important for me to learn about ways my work can misfire. No one ever got better by dwelling on successes.
Of course, everyone's been pretty nice--I'm sure I wouldn't appreciate negative feedback if it came in the form of people yelling "you suck!" at readings. But there is one comment that's come up a couple times, always voiced as a compliment, that does trouble me: variations on "I feel as though I've read your diary."
A big scary hurdle of publishing is accepting the idea that I can't control how people read the work once it's out there; if people enjoy thinking of all the characters I write as manifestations of Rebecca Rosenblum...uh, I guess I have to go with that.
But I wish they wouldn't. And not only because I am not a terribly autobiographical writer and that's not how *I* read the characters. Of course I use real life sometimes--it is right there, after all. Besides, all my ideas come from inside my own head, so they all reflect me to some degree (I believe I'm paraphrasing Margaret Atwood there, but I can't find an attribution). I'm sure if a person with the right degrees read any book with enough attention, he or she could construct a reasonably accurate psychological profile of the author.
My concern is that that doesn't seem a terribly good use of anyone's time, or their $19.95. You can hang out with me for free, after all (and then there's the blog...). Also, I haven't spent a lot of time coding myself into the book--I don't know that there's great reward for the reader in figure out the details of any author's life through fiction. But I *did* spend a *lot* of crafting the imaginary characters on the pages--I worked really hard to make them fleshed-out people who live in the work, who talk and walk and think like people who might exist, even if they don't.
Autobiographical detail: in my first year of university, I fell in love with a couple stories by John Cheever's. That summer, I bought a collected works and read all of the man's short fiction in chronological order. When I was done, I recall storming down the stairs of my parents' house and announcing, "When he got old John Cheever was a misogynist."
I was genuinely upset because I felt that this author that I loved hated me, or my kind (or would have, had he been alive at that point). And I was upset and confused, too, that even some of those later, woman-unfriendly stories were *good*--that I liked them and related to the characters stuck in realities I didn't believe in. It was all very disorienting.
My father, a Cheever fan (but not a misogynist), tried to comfort me by saying, "Well, Cheever had some issues." Really, he didn't see why I was so distraught. The stories were what they were, after all, no matter who wrote them, and it wasn't like I was ever going to have to sit next to Mr. Cheever on the bus (him being dead and all).
What my father did not say was, "Actually, Cheever was a homosexual." Because he didn't know, it turned out when I called to check (good times, being associated with me: early morning phone calls that begin, "Hi, it's me, did you know John Cheever was gay?") My dad didn't sound that interested in Cheever's sexual orientation when I told him, and really, why should he? Maybe a life in the closet affected the author's perspective, and maybe he was simply consumed by virtiol. As readers, all we've got are some brilliant stories, some that are both hateful and incohrent, and some that keep both the brilliance and the bile.
We all have a point of view that we're stuck with most of the time. I think the true thrill of narrative art is losing myself in other perspectives, one I've created or one someone created for me. Mainly I don't care where they got the idea from, because I'm never going where the ideas came from; all I have is the imaginative space.
Facts confuse the matter. Once you have a few details about someone's life, either by meeting them or reading some biography or hearing some gossip, it's hard not to start mixing up the narratives. What looped me this week was the news of Cheever's homosexuality. I found out from John Updike's review of a new bio; found out that I'm the only one in the free world who didn't know, and then realized that it doesn't matter.
It never matters how true the story--it matters how *accurate* the writing is, how it feels. Because sooner or later, the author will be dead, and eventually all the facts become blurred. And though that's when we're left with only the story, I think that's mainly what we had all along.
Which is all to say, read stories any way you like, mine, your own, and anyone's. Myself, I prefer to stay out of the frame.
Sweet summer all around
RR
Thursday, March 26, 2009
For the love of little magazines
I tend to stay away from anything remotely political in public forums, not because I am not opinionated but because I am so pathetically ill-informed that I can almost always be counted on to have it all wrong. Already today I've been baffled and upset about Gaza and the seal hunt, and it's not even tea-time yet.
But just in case anyone misinterpreted my blog-silence on the manner of the proposed funding cuts to small-circulation periodicals in Canada--including the lovely "little" mags that constitute so much of my reading--I am opposed. I'm pretty sure I couldn't possibly have that much wrong.
For further wisdom, read John Barton's piece on the Globe's website. Mr. Barton, editor of the Malahat Review has been working amazingly hard to protest these cuts, and he expresses better than I ever could exactly what would be lost if our little mags disappeared:
"These magazines provide an essential service to the nation as incubators of creative innovation....
"To quote Phyllis Webb from her aptly titled poem Pain, little magazines “throw a bridge of value to belief.” Who can say which unsung contributor will some day be the toast of the world? An editor's job is to support writers by giving them a chance."
We can only laugh at these regrets
RR
But just in case anyone misinterpreted my blog-silence on the manner of the proposed funding cuts to small-circulation periodicals in Canada--including the lovely "little" mags that constitute so much of my reading--I am opposed. I'm pretty sure I couldn't possibly have that much wrong.
For further wisdom, read John Barton's piece on the Globe's website. Mr. Barton, editor of the Malahat Review has been working amazingly hard to protest these cuts, and he expresses better than I ever could exactly what would be lost if our little mags disappeared:
"These magazines provide an essential service to the nation as incubators of creative innovation....
"To quote Phyllis Webb from her aptly titled poem Pain, little magazines “throw a bridge of value to belief.” Who can say which unsung contributor will some day be the toast of the world? An editor's job is to support writers by giving them a chance."
We can only laugh at these regrets
RR
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Writing exercises: how to get over yourself
I spent today running three workshops with 30 kids each--I can barely hold my head up, but the experience was amazing, and in a few cases I was genuinely excited about the promise of more work by these kids. The interesting thing about most of my students, and I'd have to gender-stereotype here and say especially the boys, is that they are in no danger of taking themselves too seriously. They don't draft and they don't fret; if it's not good the first time, well, then it's not going to be good. An amazing proportion of the work *is* good, that's the startling thing, which speaks to a) natural talent and b) the power of egoless writing.
It's harder for an adult to write without hoping to impress someone, even ourselves. We aim for perfection, truth and posterity, and are crestfallen when we just obtain accurate interesting prose. Not that a little truth and perfection isn't a lovely thing, but writing fast and furious, without wondering, "But is it *beautiful*?" can often show a writer just what he or she is capable of.
Here's a couple exercises given to me a few years back by my wonderous mentor, Leon Rooke. I had a bit more free time back then, but I'd still recommend doing these if you have a free weekend. They're fun and low-pressure, if a lot of work. I'll bet you'll be as surprised as I was at how much good material you produce. Lots of nonsense, too, but you can't make a cake without breaking some eggs.
1) Write 20 opening paragraphs. Go from one to the next if you can, and don't follow up on any of them until you've got all 20 down. Use as many different voices, tenses, tones and styles as you can.
2) Write 3 stories in 3 days. I guess this one would take a long weekend, or you could space 3 days apart. But only 24 hours allotted to each story, which means you probably can't revise at all on this draft. Which is ok. Really. I promise. Unlike the whippersnappers, I won't check your work.
And now I have to go, because the funny thing is, *I'm* being workshopped tonight. It's a theme day. And so, I must make pizza.
Sweet summer all around
RR
It's harder for an adult to write without hoping to impress someone, even ourselves. We aim for perfection, truth and posterity, and are crestfallen when we just obtain accurate interesting prose. Not that a little truth and perfection isn't a lovely thing, but writing fast and furious, without wondering, "But is it *beautiful*?" can often show a writer just what he or she is capable of.
Here's a couple exercises given to me a few years back by my wonderous mentor, Leon Rooke. I had a bit more free time back then, but I'd still recommend doing these if you have a free weekend. They're fun and low-pressure, if a lot of work. I'll bet you'll be as surprised as I was at how much good material you produce. Lots of nonsense, too, but you can't make a cake without breaking some eggs.
1) Write 20 opening paragraphs. Go from one to the next if you can, and don't follow up on any of them until you've got all 20 down. Use as many different voices, tenses, tones and styles as you can.
2) Write 3 stories in 3 days. I guess this one would take a long weekend, or you could space 3 days apart. But only 24 hours allotted to each story, which means you probably can't revise at all on this draft. Which is ok. Really. I promise. Unlike the whippersnappers, I won't check your work.
And now I have to go, because the funny thing is, *I'm* being workshopped tonight. It's a theme day. And so, I must make pizza.
Sweet summer all around
RR
Goodness
As anyone who has ever gotten involved with Mr. Popsicle Pete knows, many things we want ardently in life turn out to be sadly disappointing. And yet some are better than we could ever have imagined. When I was but a naif last summer, I sure knew I was excited to have *Once* be published, but there are amazing things about the life of a book author that I would never have seen coming. Sometimes books get transcribed into Braille editions by the CNIB. Sometimes, you send your parents on a search for your first ever hometown review and they wind up meeting the staff of the H Mag. Sometimes children ask you if you know J.K. Rowling. And sometimes you get interviewed by a puppet.
I keep waiting to be blindsided by the converse downside of it all, but really, nothing thus far.
You came into my town / you came and you fell down
RR
I keep waiting to be blindsided by the converse downside of it all, but really, nothing thus far.
You came into my town / you came and you fell down
RR
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Always highlights
On the macro, today sort of sucked, but on the micro, there are always highlights:
1) On the bus, the girl to my left starts to cry. Guy to my right watches with increasing concern, nudges me, makes meaningful eye-contact, then glances over at the girl. He wants me to ask if she's ok, I guess, which I am loath to do, because I tuned in slightly earlier than he did and caught the cellphone conversation that preceded the tears. The tone of that chat ("He did? The fuck? No! I don't want--No! Man, I really wish you had told me. Well, fuck that. No, seriously, I can't listen to you--well, fuck that.") indicated that these were more tears of rage than sorrow, and that intervention would not be welcome. After few minutes of both me and the guy trying to catch her eye, our girl dries her tears, takes her cellphone out of her bag, and gives somebody hell with nary a quaver to her voice. We the peanut gallery nod approvingly.
2) I have been sending out stories to be considered for publication for two and half years now, always with the same formatting (taught to me by Professor Pyper, which includes my phone number. Never, in creeping up on double-digit submissions, has anyone ever called me...until today. Thanks, echolocation!
3) echolocation's back. And my story, "Night Flight," will be in their spring issue around the end of next month.
4) I swear the following dialogue is true, verbatim, and happened around 12:45 pm today in Scarborough, Ontario, Canada.
Me: Did you know that John Cheever was gay?
J: Yeah. Didn't you see that episode of Seinfeld?
My mind is officially blown.
New York was great / I loved it all
RR
1) On the bus, the girl to my left starts to cry. Guy to my right watches with increasing concern, nudges me, makes meaningful eye-contact, then glances over at the girl. He wants me to ask if she's ok, I guess, which I am loath to do, because I tuned in slightly earlier than he did and caught the cellphone conversation that preceded the tears. The tone of that chat ("He did? The fuck? No! I don't want--No! Man, I really wish you had told me. Well, fuck that. No, seriously, I can't listen to you--well, fuck that.") indicated that these were more tears of rage than sorrow, and that intervention would not be welcome. After few minutes of both me and the guy trying to catch her eye, our girl dries her tears, takes her cellphone out of her bag, and gives somebody hell with nary a quaver to her voice. We the peanut gallery nod approvingly.
2) I have been sending out stories to be considered for publication for two and half years now, always with the same formatting (taught to me by Professor Pyper, which includes my phone number. Never, in creeping up on double-digit submissions, has anyone ever called me...until today. Thanks, echolocation!
3) echolocation's back. And my story, "Night Flight," will be in their spring issue around the end of next month.
4) I swear the following dialogue is true, verbatim, and happened around 12:45 pm today in Scarborough, Ontario, Canada.
Me: Did you know that John Cheever was gay?
J: Yeah. Didn't you see that episode of Seinfeld?
My mind is officially blown.
New York was great / I loved it all
RR
Monday, March 23, 2009
Quel anti-climax
I'm now truly sorry I complained about my lost courier package last week, since a shared mystery demands a shared denouement, and the denouement in this case is stupid.
It was not a summons, it was not a dairy product, it was a set of advance-screening movie tickets that I "earned" through a corporate rewards program. These are a) small enough to fit handily in a mailbox, b) not relevant for close to 3 weeks and c) probably worth less than the cost of delivery. I have no idea why anyone would have couriered them.
And, before you ask, they are to a truly embarrassing movie, much as me and my partener in cimatic silliness are looking forward to seeing it. I shall never ever ever reveal the title, lest it sully my reputation as a serious person (even more).
Dire times call for dire faces
RR
It was not a summons, it was not a dairy product, it was a set of advance-screening movie tickets that I "earned" through a corporate rewards program. These are a) small enough to fit handily in a mailbox, b) not relevant for close to 3 weeks and c) probably worth less than the cost of delivery. I have no idea why anyone would have couriered them.
And, before you ask, they are to a truly embarrassing movie, much as me and my partener in cimatic silliness are looking forward to seeing it. I shall never ever ever reveal the title, lest it sully my reputation as a serious person (even more).
Dire times call for dire faces
RR
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Elsewheres
I've been posting elsewhere again, Writers Writing Blogs and This is a call, both at Thirsty. You are encouraged to read, and, if so inclined, answer the call!!
But I never answered his letter
RR
But I never answered his letter
RR
Friday, March 20, 2009
Courier-osity
It is nearly impossible to send me things via courier. I think courier services are to send things to places where people reliably *are* between 9 and 5, and apparently I'm pretty hard to find. I'm not, actually, but I am to the couriers. If ever you want to send me something bulky, just use normal mail and I'll pick it up at the post office. Sure, it's a little slower, but at least then I'll get it, and I won't spend half an hour on the phone with Bonnie-the-unhappy-courier-lady, trying to track down my package, which--it turns out--is currently being housed in an un-TTC-able warehouse by the lake, and may be coming to me on Monday but, more than likely, won't.
I bring this up because Bonnie could not locate a sender in the tracking system, and most people I deal with regularly know my courier situation, so what could it be? This is a longshot, but did anybody out there in blogland try to send me something? And, if so, was it perishable? This is going to bug me all weekend. Even if it wasn't you, please send theorems!!
Watch it be a summons.
That says more than the first two verses
RR
I bring this up because Bonnie could not locate a sender in the tracking system, and most people I deal with regularly know my courier situation, so what could it be? This is a longshot, but did anybody out there in blogland try to send me something? And, if so, was it perishable? This is going to bug me all weekend. Even if it wasn't you, please send theorems!!
Watch it be a summons.
That says more than the first two verses
RR
Rose-coloured Reviews *One Week*
One Week is a movie about a 29-year-old English teacher who finds out he has cancer with 1-in-10 odds of survival. He buys a motorcycle and tells his fiancee he needs to "have an adventure.". Oh, yeah, he also buys a coffee from Tim Hortons and rolls up the rim to win, only instead of a doughnut or a BBQ, he gets "Go west, young man."
*One Week* is almost the nice simple daydream/nightmare most people have--buggering off all your responsibilities and doing what you've always dreamed of doing, with no guilt and no regrets because it's probably the last thing you'll ever do. There's a couple wry and magical moments like the Tim Hortons cup--I hate reviews that tell you all the best bits, so I won't, but they are lovely. That sort of thing, plus the character's sheer joy in what he's doing, goes a long ways towards tempering the capital-M mortality theme.
And so does the star's performance. Most of the time, when you've got a script that calls for a single actor to be in nearly every frame, often in close-up and often in pain, you go for a heavy hitter. As actors go, Joshua Jackson is pretty lightweight--whenever I mentioned that I would see/had seen this film, someone squawks, "Oh, Pacey. Whatevs, I never watched Dawson's Creek, but I credit Jackson for using every ounce of his talent in this movie, and his direct r Michael Mcgowan for never pushing him to strain for more. The fact is, life calls on the lightweights as often as the bruisers to deal with bad news, and the character he plays *is* a lightweight, maybe one hoping to be more. I know tonnes of guys like Ben--with sweet girlfriends, mediocre jobs, go-along attitudes and a backpack whenever they have to carry something. Those guys deserve a movie, too, and Jackson's Ben is a pretty perfect portrayal of ordinary.
And part of Ben's ordinariness is his self-dramatization. The whole solo trip west on a black motorcycle is fanciful, and so is his luggagelessness, sleeping in his motorcycle jacket and eating silently alone without anything to read. So is his eschewing of the big town in favour of rural outposts and tourist attractions, hiking without a map, and one perfectly charming attempt to dance for joy when he doesn't feel it. Ben's a little pretentious; Jackson and this movie aren't.
Much. The one thing I'll fault *One Week* for is something 95% of viewers won't even note: I feel a touch of professional pique that Ben's supposed to be a writer, but he a) never writes anything, and b) never reads anything. The insertion of this biographical data is just supposed to be a cue for us to think he's deep, you see, and I really don't like the idea that writing is some sort of automatic admission to Maslow's penthouse (would that it were). But whatever, minor detail.
Better, but still strange, is the fact that this movie is mad-crammed with Canadiana--there is no scene, no skyline or pan or fade that doesn't scrawl I AM CANADIAN all over the celluloid (note: since it was a whole movie of familiar sites, I left off jabbing my companion at every one, though there may have been a few twitches from me at the Dundas streetcar, Kalendar and Trinity College at UofT, and Big Nickel in Sudbury [sidebar: I have a big crush on the Big Nickel]). I don't know who decided to make this movie one big postcard, but it was pretty fun to see Jackson posing for pictures with every roadside attraction west of TO. There were also plenty of landscape shots with the motorcycle tiny in the foreground. I dug that ok, though in truth it got a little dull. The women sitting both in front of and behind us were a lot more bored than I was, judging my the level of conversation. Obviously, modern audiences aren't real clear on what to do when no one is talking on-screen...except talk themselves.
I haven't even mentioned the most plotty element in the film (shows what kind of reviewer I am), which is Ben's relationship with his finacee, Samantha. Throughout the trip, Ben puzzles about whether his illness changes anything about that relationship, and for good or ill. As the left-behind Sam, the actress Lianne Balaban is stuck doing most of her dramatic work with a cellphone, and nearly everytime we see her she is engaged in some semi-inane wedding preparation. And yet the character is sweet, sympathic and smart, pretty featherlight herself but definitely someone you'd look forward to seeing on-screen.
And the ending. As you may know, I'm on a kick for good endings. For a film that was so ripe for schmaltz and sentiment the end, *One Week* really blew me away with a closing that was subtle, mature, and neither simplistic nor even simple. I was genuinely surprised by it, and that's rare in "life-redeeming" sort of movie. Yes, yes, there was the sweetheart coda, but by that point, I was ready to be moved by it.
And I was.
And the eyes were / a colour I can't remember
RR
*One Week* is almost the nice simple daydream/nightmare most people have--buggering off all your responsibilities and doing what you've always dreamed of doing, with no guilt and no regrets because it's probably the last thing you'll ever do. There's a couple wry and magical moments like the Tim Hortons cup--I hate reviews that tell you all the best bits, so I won't, but they are lovely. That sort of thing, plus the character's sheer joy in what he's doing, goes a long ways towards tempering the capital-M mortality theme.
And so does the star's performance. Most of the time, when you've got a script that calls for a single actor to be in nearly every frame, often in close-up and often in pain, you go for a heavy hitter. As actors go, Joshua Jackson is pretty lightweight--whenever I mentioned that I would see/had seen this film, someone squawks, "Oh, Pacey. Whatevs, I never watched Dawson's Creek, but I credit Jackson for using every ounce of his talent in this movie, and his direct r Michael Mcgowan for never pushing him to strain for more. The fact is, life calls on the lightweights as often as the bruisers to deal with bad news, and the character he plays *is* a lightweight, maybe one hoping to be more. I know tonnes of guys like Ben--with sweet girlfriends, mediocre jobs, go-along attitudes and a backpack whenever they have to carry something. Those guys deserve a movie, too, and Jackson's Ben is a pretty perfect portrayal of ordinary.
And part of Ben's ordinariness is his self-dramatization. The whole solo trip west on a black motorcycle is fanciful, and so is his luggagelessness, sleeping in his motorcycle jacket and eating silently alone without anything to read. So is his eschewing of the big town in favour of rural outposts and tourist attractions, hiking without a map, and one perfectly charming attempt to dance for joy when he doesn't feel it. Ben's a little pretentious; Jackson and this movie aren't.
Much. The one thing I'll fault *One Week* for is something 95% of viewers won't even note: I feel a touch of professional pique that Ben's supposed to be a writer, but he a) never writes anything, and b) never reads anything. The insertion of this biographical data is just supposed to be a cue for us to think he's deep, you see, and I really don't like the idea that writing is some sort of automatic admission to Maslow's penthouse (would that it were). But whatever, minor detail.
Better, but still strange, is the fact that this movie is mad-crammed with Canadiana--there is no scene, no skyline or pan or fade that doesn't scrawl I AM CANADIAN all over the celluloid (note: since it was a whole movie of familiar sites, I left off jabbing my companion at every one, though there may have been a few twitches from me at the Dundas streetcar, Kalendar and Trinity College at UofT, and Big Nickel in Sudbury [sidebar: I have a big crush on the Big Nickel]). I don't know who decided to make this movie one big postcard, but it was pretty fun to see Jackson posing for pictures with every roadside attraction west of TO. There were also plenty of landscape shots with the motorcycle tiny in the foreground. I dug that ok, though in truth it got a little dull. The women sitting both in front of and behind us were a lot more bored than I was, judging my the level of conversation. Obviously, modern audiences aren't real clear on what to do when no one is talking on-screen...except talk themselves.
I haven't even mentioned the most plotty element in the film (shows what kind of reviewer I am), which is Ben's relationship with his finacee, Samantha. Throughout the trip, Ben puzzles about whether his illness changes anything about that relationship, and for good or ill. As the left-behind Sam, the actress Lianne Balaban is stuck doing most of her dramatic work with a cellphone, and nearly everytime we see her she is engaged in some semi-inane wedding preparation. And yet the character is sweet, sympathic and smart, pretty featherlight herself but definitely someone you'd look forward to seeing on-screen.
And the ending. As you may know, I'm on a kick for good endings. For a film that was so ripe for schmaltz and sentiment the end, *One Week* really blew me away with a closing that was subtle, mature, and neither simplistic nor even simple. I was genuinely surprised by it, and that's rare in "life-redeeming" sort of movie. Yes, yes, there was the sweetheart coda, but by that point, I was ready to be moved by it.
And I was.
And the eyes were / a colour I can't remember
RR
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Books that stay
Over on that other social site, Facebook, Kate S. tagged me to make a list of books I've read that will stay with me forever. Reading over the estimable Kate's list, I saw a few were kids books, some of the same ones I loved back in the day...and now. And in that randomly thematic way the web works, Pickle Me This has been looking into kids books, too, the current ones as well as the nostalgic.
So I'm going to do my whole list of kids' books. It's not that there aren't tonnes of books with long words and swears that I hold as dearly as the books below. But I really did take these books into my heart in a different way. When you're wee, stories are the world, and whatever you absorb at that age becomes part of your planet.
More practically, I absorbed these books in a different way from later ones because, the first half-dozen or so times I was "absorbing," I wasn't reading. All of these were read to me, ad nauseum, until I was able to start rereading them for myself. I was by no means an early reader, which is somewhat embarrassing to admit when so many authors knew their vocations when they began reading in the toddler years. But at least I had people (parents, mainly, but I'd conscript whatever readers I could) willing to aid and abet my longing for stories.
Maybe this is all why I still love to attend readings--something about being told a story can only be good for me. I also have reached the point (finally!) where I love to *do* readings, telling the stories instead of hearing them. Of course, thanks to the books below, I also have really positive associations with goats, oranges, *A Pilgrim's Progress,* and anything that comes in the mail...oh, those formative years.
Children's Books That Stay with Me (in no order)
1) Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (and the sequels--*Little Men* and *Jo's Boys*, but they weren't as good).
2) Charlotte's Web by E. B. White.
3) Understood Betsy by Dorothy Canfield.
4) Heidi by Joahanna Spyri (and the sequel, *Heidi Grows Up*, which wasn't even written by Spyri and I didn't like at all).
5) An Old-fashioned Girl by Louisa May Alcott.
6) Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery (and all the sequels, but the sequels had to be borrowed from the library, so I've read/heard them only once or twice, and don't really remember too well what even happened in which book).
7) The Little House Books by Laura Ingalls Wilder (the only series where I liked all the books equally--even the one written by the daughter, Rose, years later).
8) Stories for Children by Isaac Bashevis Singer.
9) Eight Cousins by Louisa May Alcott (yes, I had an Alcott thing growing up. But the sequel to *Eight Cousins* was still terrible, despite the wonderous title, *Rose in Bloom*).
10) My Little Kitten by Judy and Phoebe Dunn (one of these things is not like the others, I know! I was never much on picture books, but I was *obsessed* with this one--even just now seeing the cover on Amazon when I went to find the link filled me with delight. This is the only book on the list that I don't occasionally reread, but really, maybe I should!)
11) Grimm's Fairy Tales, red and green books, which I'm counting as one because I'm already over the limit.
On Bathurst Street at 2
RR
So I'm going to do my whole list of kids' books. It's not that there aren't tonnes of books with long words and swears that I hold as dearly as the books below. But I really did take these books into my heart in a different way. When you're wee, stories are the world, and whatever you absorb at that age becomes part of your planet.
More practically, I absorbed these books in a different way from later ones because, the first half-dozen or so times I was "absorbing," I wasn't reading. All of these were read to me, ad nauseum, until I was able to start rereading them for myself. I was by no means an early reader, which is somewhat embarrassing to admit when so many authors knew their vocations when they began reading in the toddler years. But at least I had people (parents, mainly, but I'd conscript whatever readers I could) willing to aid and abet my longing for stories.
Maybe this is all why I still love to attend readings--something about being told a story can only be good for me. I also have reached the point (finally!) where I love to *do* readings, telling the stories instead of hearing them. Of course, thanks to the books below, I also have really positive associations with goats, oranges, *A Pilgrim's Progress,* and anything that comes in the mail...oh, those formative years.
Children's Books That Stay with Me (in no order)
1) Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (and the sequels--*Little Men* and *Jo's Boys*, but they weren't as good).
2) Charlotte's Web by E. B. White.
3) Understood Betsy by Dorothy Canfield.
4) Heidi by Joahanna Spyri (and the sequel, *Heidi Grows Up*, which wasn't even written by Spyri and I didn't like at all).
5) An Old-fashioned Girl by Louisa May Alcott.
6) Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery (and all the sequels, but the sequels had to be borrowed from the library, so I've read/heard them only once or twice, and don't really remember too well what even happened in which book).
7) The Little House Books by Laura Ingalls Wilder (the only series where I liked all the books equally--even the one written by the daughter, Rose, years later).
8) Stories for Children by Isaac Bashevis Singer.
9) Eight Cousins by Louisa May Alcott (yes, I had an Alcott thing growing up. But the sequel to *Eight Cousins* was still terrible, despite the wonderous title, *Rose in Bloom*).
10) My Little Kitten by Judy and Phoebe Dunn (one of these things is not like the others, I know! I was never much on picture books, but I was *obsessed* with this one--even just now seeing the cover on Amazon when I went to find the link filled me with delight. This is the only book on the list that I don't occasionally reread, but really, maybe I should!)
11) Grimm's Fairy Tales, red and green books, which I'm counting as one because I'm already over the limit.
On Bathurst Street at 2
RR
Monday, March 16, 2009
"How much is it?" in Japanese
Sore wa ikura desu ka?
You paralyzed my mind / and for that you suck
RR
You paralyzed my mind / and for that you suck
RR
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Pretty Things
I've posted a bunch of pictures of books over at Thirsty today. Because I like pictures of books, and because I'm *finally* getting the hang of my digital camera, is why.
If I kissed your face / in front of all your friends
RR
If I kissed your face / in front of all your friends
RR
Something to strive for
"That language still dazzles and delights. The usual thing is to insist that Runyon had an amazing "ear" for natural idiom, but, as Cy Feuer points out, Runyon's dialogue is essentially unplayable, too far removed from any human idiom to be credible in drama. What Runyon wasn't doing while he was sitting in Lindy's was just listening and taking dialogue down. Writers with a good ear (Salinger, John O'Hara) certainly listen more acutely than the rest of us, but what they really have is a better filter for telling signal from noise, and then turning it into song....
"Writers with a great ear, like Chandler and Runyon, give us their words, but they also give us a license to listen--a license to listen to street speech and folk speech with a mind newly alive to the poetry implicit in it....one grasps that Mamet's aim is to capture not their voices but their souls...."
--Adam Gopnik, "Talk It Up", The New Yorker, March 2, 2009
"Writers with a great ear, like Chandler and Runyon, give us their words, but they also give us a license to listen--a license to listen to street speech and folk speech with a mind newly alive to the poetry implicit in it....one grasps that Mamet's aim is to capture not their voices but their souls...."
--Adam Gopnik, "Talk It Up", The New Yorker, March 2, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
Rose-coloured Reviews "Goodbye Porkpie Hat" by Mike Christie
It's occurred to me recently--this morning, actually--that when I say a short story is weird, I pretty much always mean it as a compliment. I guess I would have to, because the opposite certainly isn't. You never hear someone say, "What I love about your work is how it completely conforms to my expectations! Way to stay within the paradigm!" A short story has a lot of tasks to accomplish, but I'm pretty sure one is to surprise the reader, somehow, at least a little.
Of course there's a continuum of weirdness, with some brilliant writers inserting a little frisson into an otherwise tradional narrative, and others choosing to go big or go home. In his Journey Prize longlisted story, "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat," Mike Christie goes very very big on weird--it's the 27-page story of a crackhead living in modern-day Vancouver, who is visited and befriended by the ghost or spiritual manifestation of the father of the atomic bomb,J. Robert Oppenheimer, and the two go on a rock-smoking bender together.
If Mike Christie weren't a sizeable talent, you can pretty much see the above turning into a ghastly mess, rather than what it is, which is a genuinely funny and moving story about the general state of be f*cked-up. Among the above-mentioned tasks assigned to the short story are to move, to entertain, to teach and to challenge, as well as to to unsettle and unnerve, and Christie doesn't let the weird overwhelm any of his other duties.
The protagonist of the story, Henry, lives in a room "the size of a jail cell" and spends most of his time thinking about, procuring, cooking, and smoking crack. His other interest is reading a grade-10 science book that he found in a dumpster. Henry has a passion for science, and he mocks the kid who trashed the book thinking "September would never come." Henry knows better, and works hard to learn, in a sweet, sad, drug-addled way--at one point, he tries to memorize the periodic table.
Henry gets beaten up, goes hungry, gets stoned, gets beaten again, and reports it all with the sort of dopey equaminity of born loser who has burnt away all the braincells for bitterness. Even when trying to placate a guy who wants to steal his crackpipe, Henry feels he is trying avoid a "probably already inevitable beating." Henry exists in such a strange and narrow part of reality--for certainly there are people like him--that when the most famous and troubling dead scientists of two generations ago appears at his window, it seemed a story twist I was willing to go with.
J. Robert, as Henry calls him, is interested in crack-cocaine: the purchasing of it, cooking and smoking and contemplation of it. He wants to perform an experiment with his brain and the drug. And Henry, lover of both the scientific method and being high, is happy to help. It's, obviously, a strange evening, but Christie's achievement is not only that it rings true, but that the reader empathizes with the characters, both of 'em. Well, this reader did.
J. Robert also has a few braincells he wouldn't mind burning away--you can imagine that the so-called father of the atomic bomb might. His wordy, pompous diction matches the delusions of grandeur that go with the crack high perfectly--his speechifying is terrifying and boring and funny, all at once: "Hank, once I tired of your platitudes, now I see you for who you are, a great probing and unflinching mind, steadfast and brilliant in the greatest of fashions, but yet modestly so..."
Christie's other big achievement in this story is that he made me feel like I know what it's like to smoke crack, and that's something I really wanted (come on--if somehow you could get a promise that you wouldn't get shot or arrested buying it, or addicted or permanently damaged smoking it, you'd do crack just one time to know how it feels, wouldn't you? it can't be just me) I don't know if they're accurate, but Christie's descriptions of the chemical ride are wild and visceral, and they put you there: "my brain has a family reunion with some long-lost neurochemicals, and I crouch beneath the party, not wanting to disturb it, shivering and eurphoric next to a dumptster. A seemingly infinite and profound series of connections and theories swamp my mind."
Most drug stories I've read are resolute in their morality one way or another --sometimes people get detoxed (and thus redeemed), sometimes everyone just burns out and destroys themselves (and thus punished) but rarely do you see a writer take on something as loaded as drug addiction and then make it just a part of the plot. One of the reasons I wanted to review this story is because I'm at a place in my work where endings are just so hard to nail down, and the one to "Pork Pie Hat" really does everything I want the ending of a story to do: encapsulate some of what's happened, and some of what might--or must--happen next; and make it naturally meaningful.
There's more I'm not mentioning--minor characters and plotlines, the titular hat, the titular song by Charlie Mingus (a funeral song, which seems about right). A big big story, but like all the good ones, only exactly as long as it needs to be.
Nothing matters when we're dancing
RR
Of course there's a continuum of weirdness, with some brilliant writers inserting a little frisson into an otherwise tradional narrative, and others choosing to go big or go home. In his Journey Prize longlisted story, "Goodbye Pork Pie Hat," Mike Christie goes very very big on weird--it's the 27-page story of a crackhead living in modern-day Vancouver, who is visited and befriended by the ghost or spiritual manifestation of the father of the atomic bomb,J. Robert Oppenheimer, and the two go on a rock-smoking bender together.
If Mike Christie weren't a sizeable talent, you can pretty much see the above turning into a ghastly mess, rather than what it is, which is a genuinely funny and moving story about the general state of be f*cked-up. Among the above-mentioned tasks assigned to the short story are to move, to entertain, to teach and to challenge, as well as to to unsettle and unnerve, and Christie doesn't let the weird overwhelm any of his other duties.
The protagonist of the story, Henry, lives in a room "the size of a jail cell" and spends most of his time thinking about, procuring, cooking, and smoking crack. His other interest is reading a grade-10 science book that he found in a dumpster. Henry has a passion for science, and he mocks the kid who trashed the book thinking "September would never come." Henry knows better, and works hard to learn, in a sweet, sad, drug-addled way--at one point, he tries to memorize the periodic table.
Henry gets beaten up, goes hungry, gets stoned, gets beaten again, and reports it all with the sort of dopey equaminity of born loser who has burnt away all the braincells for bitterness. Even when trying to placate a guy who wants to steal his crackpipe, Henry feels he is trying avoid a "probably already inevitable beating." Henry exists in such a strange and narrow part of reality--for certainly there are people like him--that when the most famous and troubling dead scientists of two generations ago appears at his window, it seemed a story twist I was willing to go with.
J. Robert, as Henry calls him, is interested in crack-cocaine: the purchasing of it, cooking and smoking and contemplation of it. He wants to perform an experiment with his brain and the drug. And Henry, lover of both the scientific method and being high, is happy to help. It's, obviously, a strange evening, but Christie's achievement is not only that it rings true, but that the reader empathizes with the characters, both of 'em. Well, this reader did.
J. Robert also has a few braincells he wouldn't mind burning away--you can imagine that the so-called father of the atomic bomb might. His wordy, pompous diction matches the delusions of grandeur that go with the crack high perfectly--his speechifying is terrifying and boring and funny, all at once: "Hank, once I tired of your platitudes, now I see you for who you are, a great probing and unflinching mind, steadfast and brilliant in the greatest of fashions, but yet modestly so..."
Christie's other big achievement in this story is that he made me feel like I know what it's like to smoke crack, and that's something I really wanted (come on--if somehow you could get a promise that you wouldn't get shot or arrested buying it, or addicted or permanently damaged smoking it, you'd do crack just one time to know how it feels, wouldn't you? it can't be just me) I don't know if they're accurate, but Christie's descriptions of the chemical ride are wild and visceral, and they put you there: "my brain has a family reunion with some long-lost neurochemicals, and I crouch beneath the party, not wanting to disturb it, shivering and eurphoric next to a dumptster. A seemingly infinite and profound series of connections and theories swamp my mind."
Most drug stories I've read are resolute in their morality one way or another --sometimes people get detoxed (and thus redeemed), sometimes everyone just burns out and destroys themselves (and thus punished) but rarely do you see a writer take on something as loaded as drug addiction and then make it just a part of the plot. One of the reasons I wanted to review this story is because I'm at a place in my work where endings are just so hard to nail down, and the one to "Pork Pie Hat" really does everything I want the ending of a story to do: encapsulate some of what's happened, and some of what might--or must--happen next; and make it naturally meaningful.
There's more I'm not mentioning--minor characters and plotlines, the titular hat, the titular song by Charlie Mingus (a funeral song, which seems about right). A big big story, but like all the good ones, only exactly as long as it needs to be.
Nothing matters when we're dancing
RR
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The Kids Are All Right
A few people have asked me how my residency at a local high school is going--I teach grade 10 and 11 creative writing every Wednesday through the Descant Arts and Letters Foundation's SWAT Program. I won't be able to go into detail about my students' specific weirdnesses and wonderfulnesses, because I think if they found out I was posting about them on the internet, they would quite rightly stop coming to class in protest.
Within the bounds of the privacy act of teenhood, I can tell you that I love my classes and that I am exhausted. Teenagers have a lot of energy, and this energy is resulting in some really funny, honest, interesting work. It's also resulting in a lot things information needing to be repeated, things falling on the floor, papers getting lost, people not writing their names on their work, not being in uniform, not understanding the assignment, not understanding that the assignment was supposed to be handed in, and/or being in the bathroom when the assignment was mentioned.
Much as I love learning, love talking, love a challenge, I am very much not a natural teacher. I am a selective chatterbox: show interest and I'll tell you more than you ever wanted to know; show indifference or distain, I'll clam up like the proverbial shellfish. One of the many incredible challenges of teaching is to have enough faith in what you are saying to keep saying it to people who...aren't super into it. I think I'm lucky to have quite engaged, intelligent students, but they have a lot on their minds, and as soon as I see attention waver, I get intensely doubtful about the whole endeavour.
If we were chatting over lunch, this would be the point in the conversation where I'd hunch back in my chair and say, "But of course, what do I know? What do *you* think?" Sometimes I can, in fact, throw the discussion point to the class, but sometimes I'm not at place in the lesson where I can do that (or I throw it open and no one responds) and then I'm stuck pursuing my thesis that I believe, though I am fast losing faith in my ability to explain it.
This is unusual for me, and very hard--I hate trying to convince the unconvinced; I'd rather just allow them to remain unconvinced. Also unusual for me is granting people permission to go to the bathroom, so let's just say the whole experience is foreign, but I'm learning a lot from trying to stick to my guns, as well as from the questions I get asked.
I've listed some of the things we've been questioning and discussing below. For sure I have my own opinions on these matters, but since I'm not so sure I can prove'em anymore--or that these are questions on which definitive answers are possible--maybe I'll throw it open to the blogosphere and see if anyone responds. What do *you* think about:
1) What does bubblegum taste like? What does Red Bull taste like? What does Axe Body Spray smell like? What does Christmas smell like? What does hair smell like? What does the inside of a vacuum cleaner smell like? What does a sour-cream doughnut taste like?
2) How much imagination is too much? When can you make it all up and when do you have to do research? Why is ok to write a fantasy novel about an imaginary kingdom that you made up, and not ok to write a prison novel without knowing anything about prisons? Or is it, in fact, ok to make up an imaginary penal system and set it not Canada but "Canada"? Because it's *fiction*, after all--people should know that, right?
3) Do all major characters in books have to have flaws? Can you think of a character in a book (or a movie) with no flaws? Do all villains have to have some complexity or good qualities? Can you think of a villain with some good (in a movie or a book)?
4) What can you infer about a man who wears cords with his t-shirt tucked in? What can you infer about a woman who wears a dress with holes in it? What can you infer about someone who is very pale and always wears hats? What can you infer about someone keeps a barfridge in his bedroom? What can you infer about someone who hangs salamis up in her kitchen?
I await your responses eagerly. Cause really, what *do* I know?
Oh I take a look at that picture
RR
Within the bounds of the privacy act of teenhood, I can tell you that I love my classes and that I am exhausted. Teenagers have a lot of energy, and this energy is resulting in some really funny, honest, interesting work. It's also resulting in a lot things information needing to be repeated, things falling on the floor, papers getting lost, people not writing their names on their work, not being in uniform, not understanding the assignment, not understanding that the assignment was supposed to be handed in, and/or being in the bathroom when the assignment was mentioned.
Much as I love learning, love talking, love a challenge, I am very much not a natural teacher. I am a selective chatterbox: show interest and I'll tell you more than you ever wanted to know; show indifference or distain, I'll clam up like the proverbial shellfish. One of the many incredible challenges of teaching is to have enough faith in what you are saying to keep saying it to people who...aren't super into it. I think I'm lucky to have quite engaged, intelligent students, but they have a lot on their minds, and as soon as I see attention waver, I get intensely doubtful about the whole endeavour.
If we were chatting over lunch, this would be the point in the conversation where I'd hunch back in my chair and say, "But of course, what do I know? What do *you* think?" Sometimes I can, in fact, throw the discussion point to the class, but sometimes I'm not at place in the lesson where I can do that (or I throw it open and no one responds) and then I'm stuck pursuing my thesis that I believe, though I am fast losing faith in my ability to explain it.
This is unusual for me, and very hard--I hate trying to convince the unconvinced; I'd rather just allow them to remain unconvinced. Also unusual for me is granting people permission to go to the bathroom, so let's just say the whole experience is foreign, but I'm learning a lot from trying to stick to my guns, as well as from the questions I get asked.
I've listed some of the things we've been questioning and discussing below. For sure I have my own opinions on these matters, but since I'm not so sure I can prove'em anymore--or that these are questions on which definitive answers are possible--maybe I'll throw it open to the blogosphere and see if anyone responds. What do *you* think about:
1) What does bubblegum taste like? What does Red Bull taste like? What does Axe Body Spray smell like? What does Christmas smell like? What does hair smell like? What does the inside of a vacuum cleaner smell like? What does a sour-cream doughnut taste like?
2) How much imagination is too much? When can you make it all up and when do you have to do research? Why is ok to write a fantasy novel about an imaginary kingdom that you made up, and not ok to write a prison novel without knowing anything about prisons? Or is it, in fact, ok to make up an imaginary penal system and set it not Canada but "Canada"? Because it's *fiction*, after all--people should know that, right?
3) Do all major characters in books have to have flaws? Can you think of a character in a book (or a movie) with no flaws? Do all villains have to have some complexity or good qualities? Can you think of a villain with some good (in a movie or a book)?
4) What can you infer about a man who wears cords with his t-shirt tucked in? What can you infer about a woman who wears a dress with holes in it? What can you infer about someone who is very pale and always wears hats? What can you infer about someone keeps a barfridge in his bedroom? What can you infer about someone who hangs salamis up in her kitchen?
I await your responses eagerly. Cause really, what *do* I know?
Oh I take a look at that picture
RR
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Be a friend to books!
I'm going to start doing the occasional guest post over at my publisher's blog, Thirsty, and to kick things off on the right foot, I've done a little photo essay on how to be kind to the books in your life. It's called Books Are Our Friends!! and I am sure you already know all my hints and tips, but perhaps you would like a little refresher?? I hope you enjoy it!!
We ain't gonna live forever
RR
We ain't gonna live forever
RR
On We Struggle
By 7:15 today, I had showered, brewed tea, broken a ceiling lamp (I think it really broke itself; normal on-turning shouldn't result in it shorting out like that) and written two letters. By 8, I had read two short stories, gotten dressed, and decided that the skirt I'd chosen didn't really go with my sweater. When I tried to take it off, I discovered that I'd done up the hook and eye wrong (again, I'm thinking not really my fault--who know you could go wrong with those?) and *couldn't* get the skirt off. This was the point at which I considered going back to bed, but five extremely despondent minutes later, I was able to change skirts (I still don't know what went wrong). Keep in mind that neither skirt was the right answer to most questions fashion could ask: the one I had on was made of sweat-wicking technical fabric and slightly too big (but not big enough to slide over my hips or shoulders while fastened, we learn), and the one I wanted to wear is extremely elderly with the pockets completely torn out, so that things placed in them reappear immediately on the floor.
By 8:30, I was dressed and out the door, downstairs filling out the repair-request for my broken ceiling lamp. When it was done, I went over to the super's mail slot and inserted...the two letters I'd written! I looked down at my repair request, still in my hand, and was sad, but put that in too; why not? Then it seemed like a good time to spend a few minutes staring at the wall, thinking about my retirement villa on the moon. Will I be allowed to have pets, I wondered. A kitten seems like such a good companion for the elderly. But how do felines react to zero-gravity?
Finally my super arrived, and I told him my sad story, at which he nodded unhappily, because he does not understand English. He has never admitted this to me, and he appears to read and speak it fine, so I keep talking to him and he keeps nodding. Aural English is tough to master, I know. Finally he opened his door and I pointed to his mail basket. He pulled out my repair slip and stamped and addressed letters and I said, "Ah, those are mine," and we both regarded them thoughtfully for a while. Then I very gingerly took them out of his hand and said, "Thank you! I'm so sorry!" He smiled a little, and then broke into a grin when I said, "Goodbye!"
I still think today could recover and be a good day, but it will take some focus. Think about how people are really pulling together over the proposed funding cuts for literary journals and other mags with smaller circulation. Think about weather in positive degrees. Think about kittens.
And if all else fails, there's always poets.
Now everybody kiss
RR
By 8:30, I was dressed and out the door, downstairs filling out the repair-request for my broken ceiling lamp. When it was done, I went over to the super's mail slot and inserted...the two letters I'd written! I looked down at my repair request, still in my hand, and was sad, but put that in too; why not? Then it seemed like a good time to spend a few minutes staring at the wall, thinking about my retirement villa on the moon. Will I be allowed to have pets, I wondered. A kitten seems like such a good companion for the elderly. But how do felines react to zero-gravity?
Finally my super arrived, and I told him my sad story, at which he nodded unhappily, because he does not understand English. He has never admitted this to me, and he appears to read and speak it fine, so I keep talking to him and he keeps nodding. Aural English is tough to master, I know. Finally he opened his door and I pointed to his mail basket. He pulled out my repair slip and stamped and addressed letters and I said, "Ah, those are mine," and we both regarded them thoughtfully for a while. Then I very gingerly took them out of his hand and said, "Thank you! I'm so sorry!" He smiled a little, and then broke into a grin when I said, "Goodbye!"
I still think today could recover and be a good day, but it will take some focus. Think about how people are really pulling together over the proposed funding cuts for literary journals and other mags with smaller circulation. Think about weather in positive degrees. Think about kittens.
And if all else fails, there's always poets.
Now everybody kiss
RR
Monday, March 9, 2009
Money in Japan
(images from here)
There is apparently only one unit of Japanese money: the yen, which is like a penny, but the bills are just giant amounts of yen (see image above).
One Canadian dollar is about 76 yen. Today, anyway.
The doors don't open at all
RR
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Who are you? Where are you going?
Outside of prose, my artistic experiments almost always deserve the fate they almost always receive, which is never to be seen by anyone but me. An exception to this is my "Identity Mural": because that thing is up on the door of the Rose-coloured Ranch, more people see it than, say, my sonnets and sketches of eyeballs. And because I'm way too excited when I receive people's business cards (shout-out: note most recent addition to the mural,a Trainspotting-esque card from Vepo Studios at bottom righ)t, some people who have never even been to the RCR have had cause to wonder what exactly it is. So, here ya go:
This is probably not even properly a mural, because it doesn't form an image out of all the disparate parts. It's just a bunch of stuff stuck to a door, really--I told you I should stick to prose. But this thing is something I'm partial to, because it combines three things I like especially: other people, public transit, and my own name. Here's what's there:
--business cards of people I have met
--expired ID of my own
--expired Metro passes
--three name tags--one that says, "Who are you?" one that says, "Where are you going?" and one that is blank
--in the centre of it all, the peephole to my front door
--a *lot* of scotch tape--I, like Ramona Quimby, think scotch tape is god
A little random, a little fun. I am fond of my mural, unmurallike as it may be. And trust me, it's way better than the sonnets.
I've got my sights on / and I'm ready to go
RR
This is probably not even properly a mural, because it doesn't form an image out of all the disparate parts. It's just a bunch of stuff stuck to a door, really--I told you I should stick to prose. But this thing is something I'm partial to, because it combines three things I like especially: other people, public transit, and my own name. Here's what's there:
--business cards of people I have met
--expired ID of my own
--expired Metro passes
--three name tags--one that says, "Who are you?" one that says, "Where are you going?" and one that is blank
--in the centre of it all, the peephole to my front door
--a *lot* of scotch tape--I, like Ramona Quimby, think scotch tape is god
A little random, a little fun. I am fond of my mural, unmurallike as it may be. And trust me, it's way better than the sonnets.
I've got my sights on / and I'm ready to go
RR
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Yo Homo
Scene: Half a dozen teenaged boys, black and Hispanic, elaborate coats and sneakers, at a bus shelter one icy afternoon.
Boy in heavy duffle coat, open, white cloth cap with strings dangling beside his face, under a baseball cap
says: Yo, most of the stuff you guys say "yo homo" to isn't even gay.
General muttering
Cloth Cap: Like, two guys hugging. Two guys can hug! That's not gay. That's so not gay.
Visor: That's sorta gay.
CC: Would you hug your dad? That's not gay, right? You can hug your dad. I hug my dad all the time. Will, would you hug your dad?
Will (skinny, sweatshirt but no coat): Well, I don't hug my dad that often. On his birthday, maybe. Or on my birthday.
CC: Why can't you hug your dad? You love him. I love my dad, I go up to him an' I give him a hug.
Will: But you probably have that sort of relationship, yo. I love my dad, I just don't hug him.
CC: But there ain't nothing gay about it. You can hug your dad, you can hug your friends. Like me and Jason, yo. I see him, I go up and I give him a hug. We're as close as...as close as anything, man, I give him a hug. Like this (he hugs short boy standing in front of him. Short boy is taken by surprise; almost falls over).
Short: Hey, man. I dunno.
Peanut gallery jeers.
CC: No, you gotta just do it with the one arm, the guy hug.
(tries again; short boy backs away)
CC: It's not a gay thing.
Short: Nobody said it was, yo.
CC: Yeah, well, nobody better say it's gay for a guy to hug a guy.
Peanut gallery jeers.
Short: Nobody said it. You brought it up.
(CC tackles short boy. General melee. Bus arrives.)
Now his nurse / some local loser / she's in charge of the cyanide
RR
Boy in heavy duffle coat, open, white cloth cap with strings dangling beside his face, under a baseball cap
says: Yo, most of the stuff you guys say "yo homo" to isn't even gay.
General muttering
Cloth Cap: Like, two guys hugging. Two guys can hug! That's not gay. That's so not gay.
Visor: That's sorta gay.
CC: Would you hug your dad? That's not gay, right? You can hug your dad. I hug my dad all the time. Will, would you hug your dad?
Will (skinny, sweatshirt but no coat): Well, I don't hug my dad that often. On his birthday, maybe. Or on my birthday.
CC: Why can't you hug your dad? You love him. I love my dad, I go up to him an' I give him a hug.
Will: But you probably have that sort of relationship, yo. I love my dad, I just don't hug him.
CC: But there ain't nothing gay about it. You can hug your dad, you can hug your friends. Like me and Jason, yo. I see him, I go up and I give him a hug. We're as close as...as close as anything, man, I give him a hug. Like this (he hugs short boy standing in front of him. Short boy is taken by surprise; almost falls over).
Short: Hey, man. I dunno.
Peanut gallery jeers.
CC: No, you gotta just do it with the one arm, the guy hug.
(tries again; short boy backs away)
CC: It's not a gay thing.
Short: Nobody said it was, yo.
CC: Yeah, well, nobody better say it's gay for a guy to hug a guy.
Peanut gallery jeers.
Short: Nobody said it. You brought it up.
(CC tackles short boy. General melee. Bus arrives.)
Now his nurse / some local loser / she's in charge of the cyanide
RR
Friday, March 6, 2009
What I've Been Up To
1) Listening with alarming interest to paranoid conspiracy theories (but still not to zombie apocolypse scenarios, rest assured).
2) Getting Disney tunes stuck in my head, apropros of nothing (I haven't heard that song *outside* of my head in 15 years).
3) Tracing stuff with a pencil so it will scan better.
4) Being asked, yet again, about my ethnicity by strangers. I'm thinking, the next time someone asks me, "What's your background?" I'm going to glance over my shoulder and try to describe what colour I think the wall is painted.
5) Getting a nice review in Jewish Book World. The online version's not up yet, and it's a US mag so you might not be able to find it here, but rest assured, it's nice.
6) Hugging poets.
7) Glamourous parties.
The last three make up for the first four, natch.
Everybody loves a train in the distance
RR
2) Getting Disney tunes stuck in my head, apropros of nothing (I haven't heard that song *outside* of my head in 15 years).
3) Tracing stuff with a pencil so it will scan better.
4) Being asked, yet again, about my ethnicity by strangers. I'm thinking, the next time someone asks me, "What's your background?" I'm going to glance over my shoulder and try to describe what colour I think the wall is painted.
5) Getting a nice review in Jewish Book World. The online version's not up yet, and it's a US mag so you might not be able to find it here, but rest assured, it's nice.
6) Hugging poets.
7) Glamourous parties.
The last three make up for the first four, natch.
Everybody loves a train in the distance
RR
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Incorrection
I don't talk to myself. Unless startled by a bat or struck by a heavy object, I never feel a need to make any sort of sound when alone. Despite *many* defensive folks who have told me talking to oneself is a normal way to process information, I find it odd. It's not like I don't have plenty of commentary on every millisecond that goes by. But I can hear my own commentary just fine from, you know, inside my head. Also, I receive very little new information in this way; surprise surprise. Most of what I think is boring; no need to give it wider broadcast.
Actually, maybe this post is boring interior thoughts too. But slightly less boring than most interior thoughts. Anyway.
What is surprising is a new trend in my interior monologue, one that I really don't think I thought up for myself. The past few months, screw-ups have been accompanied by the (silent) word "Incorrect" inside my brain. More recently, the word has come to have a visual of red block letters spelling it out: INCORRECT.
Harsh.
Lest you think I am having some sort of self-esteem spiral, the "incorrect" signal mainly flashes for small failures, ones that can be easily identified: opening the wrong software from my desktop, walking into the coat closet instead of the bathroom (not in own home), putting metal in the microwave. Doesn't appear for major life decisions, wardrobe choices, consumer purchases--nothing with a lot of subjective leeway. A dozen people could have a different opinion on the story's new ending or my new haircut, but you're either standing in the coat closet or you aren't.
Anyway, this post has little point, and probably should have remained interior, but I always find it curious when my brain does something all on it's own without my bidding, and felt like sharing. Since this is likely *not* internally generated, I'm wondering if I picked it up from a book? A movie? This new mental quirk has no footnote. If you know where I stole it from, please share!
Note: My dislike of talking aloud to oneself should not be confused with the much more congenial concept of the "exterior monologue," a term coined by the mighty AMT. The exterior monologue occurs when normal censors are turned off inside the brain, usually by nervousness, alcohol, or happy comfort with the audience. Then one just says everything that comes into one's head. You've seen it happen, but it's fun only in the last two contexts (usually), and even then only if you, like AMT, are thoroughly entertaining, inside and out.
Note 2: I also breathe silently and wear rubber-soled shoes; if it weren't for clumsiness and cowardice, I would make an excellent stealth agent.
Just believe that I need you
RR
Actually, maybe this post is boring interior thoughts too. But slightly less boring than most interior thoughts. Anyway.
What is surprising is a new trend in my interior monologue, one that I really don't think I thought up for myself. The past few months, screw-ups have been accompanied by the (silent) word "Incorrect" inside my brain. More recently, the word has come to have a visual of red block letters spelling it out: INCORRECT.
Harsh.
Lest you think I am having some sort of self-esteem spiral, the "incorrect" signal mainly flashes for small failures, ones that can be easily identified: opening the wrong software from my desktop, walking into the coat closet instead of the bathroom (not in own home), putting metal in the microwave. Doesn't appear for major life decisions, wardrobe choices, consumer purchases--nothing with a lot of subjective leeway. A dozen people could have a different opinion on the story's new ending or my new haircut, but you're either standing in the coat closet or you aren't.
Anyway, this post has little point, and probably should have remained interior, but I always find it curious when my brain does something all on it's own without my bidding, and felt like sharing. Since this is likely *not* internally generated, I'm wondering if I picked it up from a book? A movie? This new mental quirk has no footnote. If you know where I stole it from, please share!
Note: My dislike of talking aloud to oneself should not be confused with the much more congenial concept of the "exterior monologue," a term coined by the mighty AMT. The exterior monologue occurs when normal censors are turned off inside the brain, usually by nervousness, alcohol, or happy comfort with the audience. Then one just says everything that comes into one's head. You've seen it happen, but it's fun only in the last two contexts (usually), and even then only if you, like AMT, are thoroughly entertaining, inside and out.
Note 2: I also breathe silently and wear rubber-soled shoes; if it weren't for clumsiness and cowardice, I would make an excellent stealth agent.
Just believe that I need you
RR
Now in stereophonic sound
I'm pleased to say that two of my short stories, "The Weatherboy" and "Christmas with My Mother," will be included in the forthcoming audio anthology, Earlit #4 from Rattling Books, coming to a speaker near you this spring. I'm pretty excited to hear my work read by a professional and a stranger, as well as to be included in such a cool cool project.
Please note that I actually don't know what "stereophonic" means other than Brit musicians, I just like the word. It could actually be that Earlit is not in stereophonic sound, but whatever it is, it sounds pretty good to me.
Please note also that one should not confuse Earlit with Earshot, the paranoiac madcap stageplay by Morris Panych. Both wonderful, and highly recommended by me, but quite different.
I don't believe in the sun
RR
Please note that I actually don't know what "stereophonic" means other than Brit musicians, I just like the word. It could actually be that Earlit is not in stereophonic sound, but whatever it is, it sounds pretty good to me.
Please note also that one should not confuse Earlit with Earshot, the paranoiac madcap stageplay by Morris Panych. Both wonderful, and highly recommended by me, but quite different.
I don't believe in the sun
RR
Monday, March 2, 2009
Echoes of Awesomeness
That Shakespeherian Rag guy Steven W. Beattie gets charmingly interviewed by Winston the penguin at the Pages Books website. Featuring shocking revelations about martial arts, authors being polite, and Martha Wainwright.
Seen Reading lady Julie Wilson writes a wonderful piece of fairground fiction, Instamatic on Joyland. Featuring nostalgic glimpses of Wack-a-mole, summer sunburn, requests for Queen and sad awkwardness.
And of course, tomorrow night, I'm reading with the Vagabonds at Gallery 1313:
He's got a date / and I don't care
RR
Seen Reading lady Julie Wilson writes a wonderful piece of fairground fiction, Instamatic on Joyland. Featuring nostalgic glimpses of Wack-a-mole, summer sunburn, requests for Queen and sad awkwardness.
And of course, tomorrow night, I'm reading with the Vagabonds at Gallery 1313:
He's got a date / and I don't care
RR
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Rose-coloured Reviews Yesterday's Weather
Saturday February 28, 2009, dawned a bit watery, but the dawn did come before 7 am (only the third day of the year that we got light before 7!) and by the time sun was fully in the sky, the flimsy cloud cover had delicately burnt off or blown away, leaving us with a ravishing yellow and blue to breakfast by. In the warm indoors near a southern exposure window, it was easy to feel that the day was in fact balmy, and this mis-appris was aided by the actual warm weather of last week, which melted the snowbanks and even the black piles of black toxic sludge that were underneath. So the sidewalks were bare and clean and springlike, although of course the naked treebranches waving in the brisk winter wind were a bit of a giveaway, even from the southern exposure.
Outside it was in the low-negative-teens all morning and that brisk wind made for some brisk walking. But those clean sidewalks were a joy to walk briskly upon, and the sun made for good morale. It was just important to stay out of cavernous black building shadows; for perhaps the first time this year, it felt that the sun was close and strong enough to make a difference in warmth. Or, yes, it could've been just a morale issue.
The day stayed bright and lovely clear and even warmed into the negative aughts into the afternoon, and then sunset was a sweet distant pink with the occasional cotton-snag cloud for texture. Without the sun, it felt much colder, though in truth it wasn't a significant slide in temperature and the wind had in fact dropped a bit. In truth, it could've been some poor wardrobe choices on the part of the reviewer: it was not a night for a short-sleeved sweater under one's coat, no matter how fetching the deep-burgundy wool.
As lovely as the sidewalks were for walking, so were the highways for driving, and there is not better a better time to view the steel mills of Hamilton in full flame than in a navy night with lights and stars and fires reflecting on the flat of Lake Ontario. Weather in Hamilton did not seem to vary from the above Toronto description, although perhaps with a touch more lake breeze. The chill made it all the more pleasurable to burst indoors and be greeted affectionately. It was a night for warm hugs, torrid embraces, shoulder-rubbing, football huddles, or whatever form of shared warmth suits your fancy. Also for spicy sauces and soup and tea-based beverages, perching on radiators and draping things across shoulders.
And for bursting back outside hours later, to a sky so clear stars could be seen even from beneath the parking lot sodium-glare lights.
It's a perfect day
RR
Outside it was in the low-negative-teens all morning and that brisk wind made for some brisk walking. But those clean sidewalks were a joy to walk briskly upon, and the sun made for good morale. It was just important to stay out of cavernous black building shadows; for perhaps the first time this year, it felt that the sun was close and strong enough to make a difference in warmth. Or, yes, it could've been just a morale issue.
The day stayed bright and lovely clear and even warmed into the negative aughts into the afternoon, and then sunset was a sweet distant pink with the occasional cotton-snag cloud for texture. Without the sun, it felt much colder, though in truth it wasn't a significant slide in temperature and the wind had in fact dropped a bit. In truth, it could've been some poor wardrobe choices on the part of the reviewer: it was not a night for a short-sleeved sweater under one's coat, no matter how fetching the deep-burgundy wool.
As lovely as the sidewalks were for walking, so were the highways for driving, and there is not better a better time to view the steel mills of Hamilton in full flame than in a navy night with lights and stars and fires reflecting on the flat of Lake Ontario. Weather in Hamilton did not seem to vary from the above Toronto description, although perhaps with a touch more lake breeze. The chill made it all the more pleasurable to burst indoors and be greeted affectionately. It was a night for warm hugs, torrid embraces, shoulder-rubbing, football huddles, or whatever form of shared warmth suits your fancy. Also for spicy sauces and soup and tea-based beverages, perching on radiators and draping things across shoulders.
And for bursting back outside hours later, to a sky so clear stars could be seen even from beneath the parking lot sodium-glare lights.
It's a perfect day
RR
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