Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 10

Loss and Belonging

It’s getting colder. Preparing for winter is hard work; even the darkness is draining. But there are still many leaves on the trees and even flowers, still alive.

Spent a day writing an op-ed for the Star about the value of bicycles, our cretinous premier tearing out bike lanes in favour of cars — trying not to be outraged, which I am, but to use humour and common sense to point out how stupid and retro that is, that other great cities are doing the opposite. The Star, once again, is not interested. That’s three they’ve ignored, without even acknowledging receipt. Why do I bother? Phooey.

How fast things can change: I think I told you my upstairs tenant Carol had a catastrophic fall during a visit to her niece, had to have an elbow replaced, was in hospital and is now in rehab but will be back here Tuesday. I’ve spent a few days getting ready — three new handrails on her steep narrow staircase and one in the shower. Got her broken microwave repaired, then mine broke, then my dishwasher also broke. I went for a hearing test yesterday: mild hearing impairment, especially the left ear, trouble with high frequencies and consonants. We, Carol and I and our appliances, are disintegrating!

When the dishwasher repairman asked how old the machine was, I said, it’s only three or four years old. But when I looked it up, it was installed nearly nine years ago. That’s my sense of time these days.

Have been watching more of the Taylor Swift film while I cook and do not believe her energy and stamina; she never stops except for a few brief moments during which she changes costumes. She sings, dances, chats continuously for – all I’ve watched so far – an hour and a half, and the concert is three hours long! The elaborate sets, lighting, costumes — mesmerizing. The music is pretty meh, for me, but the audience is madly singing along. A phenomenon.

Just finished rereading a marvellous memoir, Belonging: home away from home, by my friend Isabel Huggan. She’s a beautiful writer, fluid and profound, exploring what it is to live far from the familiar, which for her is southern Ontario, as she travels with her family to Kenya, the Philippines, France. One of my favourite lines, when her French neighbour brings “a big of girolles, wild yellow mushrooms that taste like the very first time you heard Chopin.” Like the play Big Stuff, she writes powerfully about the mementoes we keep and need and cherish. Reading about the death of her cat Ballou, I wept, and sent her my recent Substack about the end of a cat of mine.

https://substack.com/home/post/p-151779097

Yesterday, another reminder of the power and comfort of community: my Y class found out one of our favourite participants, Lolita King, had died. Lolita was my age, a small brown woman and fierce exerciser who brought her own healthy drinks, like green sludge, to class. She hadn’t been to the Y for months; I emailed several times to ask how she was, and she wrote back she’d be with us soon, God willing. She was very religious; I invited her to So True, my reading event, but when she found out it was held above a pub, she refused. We loved her determination, focus, and humour, and were all shattered, with tears and hugs, to hear she’d gone.

Her death made us all aware that no matter how hard we try to delay the inevitable – by exercising and healthy food and healthy living – it will come, sooner for some than others. Ah well. For now, here we are. Here I am, dancing with Taylor Swift while making dinner for dear friends Toronto Lynn and her husband Nick, who are coming tonight.

You are missed, Lolita.

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Big Stuff – a must see! – and watching the joyful Swifties

Saw a fabulous play this afternoon: Big Stuff. It’s a partly improvised audience participation show at Crow’s Theatre by married comedian couple Matt Baram and Naomi Sniekus. The set is fabulous‚ a wall of cardboard boxes with stuff on them — many toasters, which is a recurring joke in the play, bronzed baby shoes, teddy bears.

The show is about the stuff we accumulate through life but especially that we inherit after the death of loved ones, and illuminates their marriage,  because he’s in favour of throwing things out and she wants to keep everything. It’s very funny and also deeply moving, as they bring their four parents to life and say goodbye to them; I and many others had a few tears at the end.

They asked the audience to fill out cards listing one special bit of memorabilia, that they read aloud during the show, but they also asked us questions. They asked, Who has a collection, put up your hand, and when I did, Matt asked me, What is it? “Fiestaware,” I said (though there are others), and explained I’d inherited it from Great-aunt Helen and that some of it is radioactive because of the uranium in the orange colour. Uranium became a recurring joke throughout.

When I got home, I looked again at the contents of this house, overloaded with the big stuff from my parents and grandparents and even Great-aunt Helen. There’s so much of it, and I love each and every bit. My poor kids.

They asked the audience to email them pictures of their special big stuff, so I sent them this.

What matters far more than the Fiestaware is the artwork by Sam, Eli, and Ben.

On Friday afternoon, Monique and I went down to Front Street to watch the Swifties. Taylor Swift’s concert was starting at 6.45 but the crowds gathered much earlier. So many sparkles, dresses, coats, sequin-encrusted boots on little girls – a lot of money going to sequins – pink cowboy hats, heart-shaped sunglasses. So many dressed to the nines, including a few in ballgowns or princess dresses, and many in skimpy clothes despite the chill. What was notable was the giddy happiness in the air, and for me, best of all, the dads gamely accompanying their girls, including some in costume themselves. We went after for a drink in a hotel bar, and there was a family getting ready to go — Dad and his wife and daughters in bright shiny sequins. Now that’s something you don’t see every day.

Tonight Monique and I watched some of Taylor’s film The Eras Tour. She’s phenomenal, with unaffected chat to the audience, an incredible spectacle behind her, and the body of – of a dancing, singing Barbie. One old woman apparently said to her granddaughter, Why does she only wear bathing costumes?

She’s the good news in this regressive, anti-woman time, an empowered self-reliant feminist superstar billionaire, and a childless cat lady to boot. The bad news is how expensive it all is, the tickets, the costumes. But still, an audience exploding with joy. Light in the darkness. I said to myself, as I watched the gleefully raucous girls and women pouring in to watch her, This is one reason Trump won — because men voted overwhelmingly for him. They’re terrified as they feel their eons-old power slipping away, and women growing ever stronger and taking over.

It can’t happen too soon.

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True to Life in China!

It’s been a busy week in Kaplanland. First, the Monday showing of The Giants was fabulous – 112 tickets sold, a very appreciative audience for this powerful documentary, even more moving on second viewing. I’d see it many more times if I could. Can only hope it inspires those who were there to take action to save a little piece of the planet. If you’re interested, Demand Films is eager to distribute the film wherever there’s a possible audience. All you have to do is pick a time and a cinema and sell a minimum of 35 tickets. A few emails to local environmental groups et voilà! Go for it!

https://ca.demand.film/the-giants/

On Wednesday, I was invited to speak to the Canadian Federation of University Women meeting in Markham, 22 k. north of Toronto. I was going to take the GO train but Ruth very kindly offered to drive me, so we decided to leave at 3 to avoid rush hour traffic on the Don Valley Parkway. No luck — it was wall to wall, crawling, took over an hour and a half. We did eventually get there, and I took Ruth for dinner at a terrific Vietnamese restaurant on Main Street.

The event was wonderful — over 70 women, enthusiastic readers, some in writing groups or book clubs. I spoke for an hour, and afterwards, they crowded around the table where Ruth sat with a few of my books for sale. I’d not brought enough books! You can’t win; often at these things, I go home with nearly the same number I came in with, but this time I could have brought many more. Ah well. Kathy, a former student who’d suggested me to the group, emailed today: “At our writing group the morning after hearing you, I heard the most wonderful comments, such as, ‘Beth was the best speaker we’ve ever had!’ Given that we’ve heard some wonderful speakers, this is truly a compliment. You were praised by the women for so many things including your pacing. And please expect many requests for your latest book!”

Great news. Thanks to them all.

Speaking of great news — I waited until the contract was signed before believing it — True the Life: 50 steps to help you tell your story, the textbook for my courses, has been picked up by a publisher in Beijing. The Chinese edition is expected out in 2026. Writers, you never know where your words will land! I am amazed. Obviously, the fantasy is one billion Chinese people, all writing memoirs with my book in their hot little hands. Yes.

One more thing about Wednesday night: we left Markham in a hurricane-like downpour, terrifying; as we drove down the Parkway in the pitch dark and driving rain, Ruth couldn’t see the white lines on the road and so we both struggled to keep the car on track. 85-year-old Ruth is my hero; clutching the steering wheel in an iron grip, with me giving directional shouts to veer one way or another, she got us home. I stepped out of the car into a lake.

Yesterday, a session with my 21-year-old tech helper Patrick, whom I’m encouraging to set up a business helping older people with tech, as he does for me and 92-year-old Ron, and now also for Monique next door and other friends. He explains the incomprehensible complexities of the machines and apps and is patient as we fumble about. I hope he does make that his business. Then a Zoom editing session with an ambitious young writer, and the home class, five of my favourite people, including Peg by Zoom from B.C.

This morning I woke at 5.45 and got up at 6.30 to write an open letter to the opposition parties in this province, to urge them to consolidate, to select the one most likely candidate in each riding to defeat the Conservative dinosaur. They need to help keep us from the dark ages proposed by this government, which is about to tear out the bike lanes that save cyclist lives, including mine. I could not loathe Doug Ford and his henchmen more. Yes, I know, they could be the kind of ultra-right-wing nut-jobs just selected to tear apart the U.S. government. That would, yes, be even worse.

Why must we choose between the ghastly and the really really ghastly?

Somehow it’s nearly 10 already, on a gloomy day. This afternoon, if it’s not pouring, Monique and I are going downtown to check out the Taylor Swift excitement. There will be sparkles.

Tiggy wonders why I’m wasting time sitting at the desk instead of opening an interesting can of something delicious for a hungry, neglected pussycat.

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The Giants tonight, and Bach and Roses

Amazed and proud that we’ve sold over 100 tickets to The Giants, showing tonight at 7 at Yonge-Dundas Cineplex. It’s the inspiring story of eco-warrior Dr. Bob Brown and his lifelong fight to save rivers and forests in Australia and Tasmania; about the miracle that is their eucalyptus trees, the tallest trees on earth. We need heroes now more than ever; here’s one of the finest. If you’re in or near Toronto, I hope you’ll come. You need to buy tickets online and exchange them at the box office there.

Here’s the ticket link, with preview: https://tickets.demand.film/event/13094 

Yesterday’s afternoon treat: Bach and Roses, a concert of Bach cantatas by the Trinity Bach Project  in the beautiful Metropolitan United Church. Glorious voices soaring in the vast cathedral space, stained glass glowing, period instruments, including a fantastic recorder player who brought back my mother who played all sizes of recorder, from piccolo to bass. Heavenly. Literally.

Home for dinner with Bruce, visiting from Vancouver. I went all out, beef stew with potatoes and noodles and an apple crisp. Nothing too good for the man who shepherded me twice around Italy — Florence, Lucca, Verona, Padua, Turin, Milan, Rome, the Amalfi Coast, Cinque Terre, does it get better than that? — and once in Spain and southern France. The best tour guide is Bruce, particularly for Renaissance art.

Friday, across town to visit the boys on a PD day. Loved to watch as they played soccer in the backyard and argued about every point. And then they turned their trampoline on its side and kept pushing it over and flinging themselves on it, screaming with joy. How to keep up with that energy? Impossible.

It’s been almost 2 weeks of the Trump nightmare and we’re still alive. Of course, he doesn’t have real power yet. One trembles to think of it. In the meantime, the sun is shining. Let’s enjoy it while we may.

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To begin with an evening of sheer joy — Annie and I went ...

To begin with an evening of sheer joy — Annie and I went to see Downchild Blues Band at Hugh’s Room last night. I remember them from my youth, and there they were, 55 years after they began, rocking to the heavens, blasting us all with the pleasure that good music provokes. Thanks to them all, and to Hugh’s Room for its stellar programming. We need as much live music as possible to keep us sane during this dark time.

It’s been a busy week. I went to a play, Playing Shylock, a one man show with Saul Rubinek, who I also remember from the distant past in Ottawa days. The play is mostly about cancel culture in the theatre, the issue of offending delicate sensibilities, and so was a bit wasted on me since I know about that. Some moving stuff from Saul about his parents, Holocaust survivors, some fine speeches from the actual play, and at the end, I was deeply moved when Saul spoke Shakespeare in his fluent Yiddish.

Another treat: friends in my ‘hood have organized a speaker’s series once a month, so this time I went to hear Bob Ramsay, a man-about-town who knows just about everybody who’s anybody. And what a fascinating man he is, married to the amazing Dr. Jean Marmoreo; I follow them on Instagram and marvel that they’re having adventures all over the world, not long ago kayaking around Manhattan! He’s 75 and she’s 82, and they say they’ll continue until they can’t.

But it turned out, Bob was a drug addict, a cokehead so severe, he was shooting into his ankles because his arms were used up. He spoke about addiction, about an intervention with good friends who put him on a plane to a clinic in Atlanta designed for addicted doctors and pilots, and how 3 months later he came out clean. Later he had open heart surgery during which he was dead for 2 1/2 minutes, and afterwards went into severe depression. Like I said, fascinating. I bought his memoir Love or Die Trying.

Had an eggplanty Persian lunch with dear friend Bruce here from Vancouver, and last night a Vietnamese dinner with Annie. Love these exotic cuisines I would never make myself. Watched Jon Stewart’s podcast interview with the brilliant, cogent Heather Cox Richardson, pundits who will also keep us alive. And I finished a marvellous book, The Garden in Time, by Olivia Laing, a beautifully written  exploration of what gardens mean in the world.

Made the mistake this morning of writing to my very right-wing Trumper friend, on the assumption that no intelligent person could approve of Trump’s cabinet appointments – Matt Gaetz! On the contrary, he’s all in, thinks they’re “outstanding.” It’s like dealing with someone from another planet. And he is — Planet Fox News. If there is one man who’s working to destroy everything decent on this planet, besides Trump, Putin, etc., it’s Rupert Murdoch. May he roast in hell.

The resistance is organizing!

Okay, on that sweet note, on into the day.

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National Theatre’s Nye, free, on YouTube

Like the planet, I feel I’ve been in a big fight and lost — battered, bewildered, and sad. I didn’t listen to CBC radio yesterday, will probably to some extent keep shutting out the news. I just don’t want to hear about it, though I have been reading the stream of pundits in the NYT and other places about what happened and why. Today in the Star, I read that the reprehensible sociopath Elon Musk replaced Melania in a Trump family picture and fear even more, if possible, for that country and our planet.

Cried twice yesterday, but not because of the election. I am writing to urge you to watch Nye, a play produced by England’s National Theatre, which is free, for the next few days only, on YouTube. It’s about Welsh politician Aneurin Bevan, founder of Britain’s National Health Service, which surely inspired blessed Tommy Douglas to push through our own. I had a ticket to see the production in London in April but was so sick, I had to give my seat to a friend. So it was a particularly welcome treat to sit in my kitchen and watch it on my computer.

It’s wonderful. It explores Bevan’s past — a coal miner’s son, he was beaten for stuttering and worked in a coal mine himself before becoming involved in the miner’s union and eventually being elected to government. A charismatic Socialist idealist, he took unpopular positions when he felt they were needed, including a fierce critique of Winston Churchill’s handling of the war that made him after Hitler the most hated man in England. But eventually, we see how he battled the doctors and his own party, including Churchill, to push through universal health care. It’s inspiring, beautifully produced, brilliantly acted by Michael Sheen and others, and more than worth your time.

As a side note, years ago I wrote to the FBI to ask for their files on my father after his death, and eventually received a thick package. One thing I learned from the contents was that whenever he went to the States in the 50s and early 60s, he was followed, and everything he said and did was reported to the FBI by informants. At a university event in Wisconsin in 1953, the fact that he was a voluble supporter of Aneurin Bevan was reported to the FBI as proof of his godless leftie leanings. You go, Dad! Proud of you.

Last night I was on the phone finishing Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson for the boys. A Newbery Medal winner, it has a moving, gorgeously written ending; I had to struggle to keep reading as I wept, and Anna, lying in bed with her boys, wept too. The boys did not. Oh the cathartic joy of books! Then I started our next, Impossible Creatures by Katherine Rundell. Already, by the third page, unicorns, a girl who can fly, and a murderer. Can’t wait to plunge into that one.

Wednesday was the one-year anniversary of the soft Toronto launch of Midlife Solo, though the official launch by the publisher was in February 2024. The book, strangely, has not made me rich and famous, but the reports from readers have been stellar, and I’m grateful and pleased people like it so much. On Nov. 20 I’m speaking to about 80 members of the Canadian Federation of University Women in Markham. Readers!

We’ve had the mildest fall in memory — 23, 19 — today going down to 13, still pretty warm for November. Hard to complain though of course what it means is actually dire. But in anticipation of an actual winter, I recently bought an indulgence: a heated birdbath for my deck. It’s not so much for them to bathe but to drink, all winter long, and I’ll be able to watch as they dip and tilt their heads up to the sky to swallow.

Recently, tiny quicksilver red-breasted nuthatches have been visiting my feeder. They and their friends will get me through the long, cold and, I’ll do my best though probably won’t succeed, newsless season.

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facing the monster

Yesterday afternoon I heard from an old acquaintance, a boy I knew during one year of high-school in Halifax in 1965-66; I was fifteen, he sixteen or seventeen. He was virulently right-wing then, and he still is. We argued about the Vietnam War and much else then, and we argued about Trump when he came through Toronto a few years ago from his home in upstate New York, where I think his business is foreclosing on companies in trouble. Of course it is.

He emailed me for the first time in years. Here’s how the exchange went at 1.30 p.m. yesterday, much as it used to go in 1965, too much passion and too many words from me, smug and supercilious from him:

“Any predictions?

I am holding onto my faith in humanity, though I don’t know why, since the world right now gives no indication of deserving my faith. But your country particularly – beyond belief. The Toronto Star editorial cartoon shows today Uncle Sam looking at a ballot with two choices, Sanity and Insanity, and he’s undecided. Horrifying and nauseating.

I knew I could count on you for a colorful response. Always risky to go against Beth Kaplan. But all indications here are that Trump is going to win maybe big.

Please don’t make me vomit, I just had lunch. You were wrong about the Vietnam War and many other things, and I pray with all my soul, and I rarely pray, that once again you are deeply wrong. A lot of people have voted in the past for very very bad people. They have been as wrong as you, and have lived to regret their blind wrongheadedness. It’s possible your countrymen will elect a vile, evil man again, one of the most evil men on earth. And the entire planet will suffer, as it has in the past. I joke in one of my books that my father thought Richard Nixon was as bad as a U.S. president could possibly be. Nixon was a wise saint compared to this guy.

Beth, you got to lighten up a bit.

With all due respect, fuck off. This man is not a joke, he and his cult are examples of the worst of human nature, and if you haven’t seen that in his many years of extremely bad behaviour, if he hasn’t proven that to you, then you’re blind.

Haha. You were so much fun in history class. And for the record, while you turned out to be right on Vietnam, let’s be honest you weren’t convincing at the time.

Yes. I had no idea in those days what I was talking about. But now I do. We are talking about racism, misogyny, hatred at an extreme level. OK I’m at the theatre and the lights are going down. All the best to you. May you be wrong again.

Enjoy the show.  Promise I won’t rub it in. All the best to you. And I have reserved a Straight White Toxic Masculinity T shirt for you.”

And there you have it – same old same old. Nearly 60 years of argument in a nutshell. How beyond grateful I am to be Canadian, and that I managed to divest myself of the absurd albatross of my American citizenship this year. Wrote to my ex who lives in Washington to tell him to get out of there, there’s always a place for him here.

I was attending a matinee of What the Constitution Means to Me, a scintillating play that examines what works and what does not about the US Constitution, with particular emphasis, through moving personal stories, on how for many years it ignored basic human rights for women and minorities. Then the show dove into the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, what it does well and what it does not (the notwithstanding clause, for example.) A fascinating discussion. I walked out into the weirdly gorgeous day — 23 degrees in November, something is brutally wrong! — and rode home to the nightmare of the evening’s revelation.

We good lefties simply could not believe it would happen, that people could be so stupid. We didn’t believe it could happen in 2016, but now it’s so very much worse. Imagine, the land of Lincoln and Franklin D. Roosevelt has elected the equivalent of Mussolini. A buffoonish criminal.

Ah well. We in Ontario have also elected a buffoon and will undoubtedly re-elect him and his party. And a fascist lite at the federal level too. Dark dark days ahead, my friends, as our beautiful planet floods and burns.

This cartoon I think is what most of the world feels today – we’re in a cosmic joke that will endanger us all.

Last night when it became clear what was happening, I put on the greatest piece of music ever written, Bach’s B Minor Mass, to try to remind myself of the beauty and wisdom human beings are capable of. It helped. But mostly pain today. My daughter texted, “Let us take care of each other.” Amen. Sending my love to you all. Let us take care of each other.

This, too, helps.

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Hallowe’en, and My Name is Lucy Barton

Hallowe’en in Cabbagetown is THE BEST! The decorations are over the top, but mostly, for the kids, the houses are close together and people are generous. Many hundreds of kids and parents throng the streets, many if not most of them immigrant families from St. Jamestown and Regent Park, wide-eyed at the excitement. This eve was particularly good because it was clear and really mild, no coats needed. A neighbour told me he gave out over 1000 candy bars.

I was knocked flat during the day by the two vaccines I’d had the day before, but later I rallied, with the help of Advil, to go to my handyman Doug’s Hallowe’en party. I put on a white shirt with bowtie under an elegant tailcoat, and black pants with cummerbund, all from Goodwill, added some flashy pins and a sparkly scarf and a moustache. I was channelling the caddish Freddie whom I played in The Club in Vancouver in 1977 at the age of 36, a musical set in an Edwardian men’s club where all the men were played by women. My features — my big chin and questionable nose and unruly eyebrows — helped to make Freddie a handsome man; for the first and only time in my life, I felt like a matinee idol.

My version at 74 was not nearly as dapper or debonaire. Or unlined. Mais c’est la vie. It was wonderful pushing through the costumed throng in the streets wearing my own ridiculous disguise. The mascara moustache should have been grey, however.

Maurice Chevalier, anyone? LOL!

On Friday my son came over for dinner, ordered from House on Parliament, our favourite and a special treat. He’s embarking on something difficult but necessary which I’ll tell you about when it’s happening. Last night another special treat – a neighbour of Ruth’s had two (expensive!) tickets to give away for My Name is Lucy Barton at CanStag, so Annie and I went. Based on the Elizabeth Strout novel, adapted by Rona Munro, it’s a one-woman show starring the amazing Maev Beaty, who was doing the play for the second time that day, i.e. three solid hours alone on stage. Her performance  is rightly described as a tour de force, as she inhabits not just Lucy but her estranged, rough-edged mother, come to tend her daughter who’s lying in a hospital bed.

Several people had told me I should see this and I saw why; Lucy says several times, “Everyone has one main story, and they need to tell it.” Which is the theme of my life and work. It’s a play full of insight and compassion as Lucy tells us about her childhood and adulthood. I chuckled when she confided, at the end, that she’s become a successful writer who makes very good money writing. On what planet? If only!

Tonight will be spent mending moth holes again. I’m ignoring the polls and holding my breath that the nightmare of this election will soon be over, although all indicators are the nightmare will drag on and on and on, due to the bizarre, antiquated electoral college. On Tuesday, I’m seeing a matinee of an American play, What the Constitution Means to Me, another one woman show, this one about – what else? And then it’s home to drink a lot of wine and pray.

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Fearful for our planet, like everyone else

Not my usual perky self today. Yesterday I got the next Covid shot – my 7th? – and a flu shot in the other arm. Glad to be done with them, but now I’m sore in both arms and had a bad sleep, which included fulminating at Biden at 4 a.m. for his stupid remark about garbage. Trump has hurled vile insults for years, no comment, no problem, but Biden makes one stupid ill-advised remark, and that side goes mad. The politics of grievance.

Now I’m truly terrified for our planet. Elon Musk has signed up to be in Trump’s cabinet, along with a stellar assembly of notables who will surely be there – Steve Bannon, Steven Miller, the worst of the worst, the meanest, smallest human beings on earth. I’ve been burbling along thinking the worst cannot possibly happen, humankind is smarter than that. It turns out – no. We’re not.

Let me focus away from the dire state of our world and my aching arms – Sam calls me “the human pincushion.” We’ve been having another mild spell, beautiful warm days in late October – 21 degrees yesterday! It’s perfect so far for the kids at Hallowe’en, but might rain tonight. The boys are beyond excited. Sugar is coming.

Happy to report So True on Sunday was a huge success – the house was packed, 70 to 80 people. I’m so proud of the readers, bravely telling their vital stories – witnessing on TV a husband nearly die on 9/11, nearly dying in the Congo, nearly losing his virginity but not, the story of a lifelong friend, a triumphant moment in a doctor’s career, a triumphant moment for a feminist girl in Lethbridge in 1980, a moving ode to the talismans we carry to safeguard us, and finally, an extremely powerful story about a father’s suicide. And then me, with a humorous tale from my drunken past and a message: support art, which helps us through the dark times. Support artists. See live music. Buy books!

The readers, and me with Andy who bought two books. He heard my message.

Nettie flew home yesterday after a packed week here. She strapped a VR headset on me and showed me her installation Uninterrupted; suddenly I was under the Cambie St. bridge at night and then underwater with her fabulous 20 minute film of fish projected all around. Brilliant! Her friend Judy drove us both to the Aga Khan Museum to see the installation Light, equally extraordinary. Below, two pieces from the Aga Khan.

Nettie testing the headset in my office. You need a swivel chair so you can move around while viewing in all directions. I usually don’t have much time for the visual arts, more fool me, so thanks to Nettie for immersing me in them.

I’m reading a beautiful book, The Garden Against Time, by Olivia Laing – about gardens and so very much more. I will concentrate on living growing things and try to shut out what’s happening on our planet. But my fingers and toes will remain crossed.

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So True tomorrow, and The Giants is a go

First: the film I’m sponsoring, The Giants, is a go! We’ve sold more than the requisite number of tickets; still hoping to sell more. If you’re in or near Toronto, don’t miss this inspiring and very beautiful film about a true climate hero. Some reviews, and link:

“Beautifully balanced, ruminative, and rousing. 4 stars.” The Guardian.
“Beautiful. Inspiring. Joyful.” Academy Award-winning director Jane Campion.

Here is the ticket link, with preview: https://tickets.demand.film/event/13094  Tickets need to be purchased in advance, although you can buy one on your phone at the theatre on the night, if necessary. Hope to see you there!

Still sunny but colder. Yesterday I just wanted to hibernate. That is, after I rode back from the fabulous Toronto Art Fair. I went to see Nettie’s piece, which is gorgeous, a magical three-minute film loop of greenery and water, framed like a canvas. Mesmerizing. She’s new to the art world but got a big education this weekend; the place is packed with dealers and artists, and even the occasional buyer. I heard someone in fancy shoes say, “Well, what currency DO you want it in?” And another in designer glasses saying, with her best vocal fry, “Oh it was awful, just so … hodge podgy!”

The audience was almost a better show than the art. But not quite. The standout for me, as always, was the work of Inuit artists. But after over two hours of gorging on art, I went home to hibernate. (Also, I confess, I’d made the mistake of wearing stylish little boots with a heel; at least, I thought they were stylish. This, for walking and standing for hours. Always, always, wear comfortable shoes for these things, I knew that but vanity overcame me, and my feet ached. Idiot!)

Below, a message I relate to from artist John Will, and Nettie with a still from her lovely piece.

Annals of old but old #9742: Nettie has hearing aids and suggested I get tested now; better sooner than later. So I booked a test. I do find myself saying, “Pardon?” a lot, always with grandson Eli, who mumbles. But I can’t believe I’ll need hearing aids. Yet. Stay tuned.

A busy week. There was lots of rehearsing for So True which is tomorrow. Usually we have eight readers, but this time there were nine until poor Charles wrote today that he’d just tested positive for Covid. So we’re back to eight — eight sublime true stories that make me cry. Plus there were hours of pruning and clearing and getting the garden ready for winter. Today I put out birdseed for the first time since June. I hope the birds figure out soon it’s there again, especially the cardinal family, who must’ve gone to a better feeding ground. It’s chilly out there, little ones. Come back.

To celebrate the 40th anniversary of the Y, we were asked to wear 80’s clothes for our class. No leg warmers or leotards, but Debra and I did our best.

Just went to look at the dress I was planning to wear at So True tomorrow, and it’s got gaping moth holes. Spent hours mending moth holes last week. Curses, foiled again! You notice I’ve not mentioned the world, it’s all just too painful. Excruciating. Moths, homicidal, even genocidal lunatics, blind right-wingers, and lying, disgusting provincial premiers. Why, God, why?

Time for another bowl of the apple crumble I made yesterday. Comfort food, big time.

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