Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 117
November 5, 2018
the Monday before the Tuesday
Thanks to friends, who are sending wonderful messages of support re my aunt, including this:
Stop beating yourself up, right now. No matter what M. said, I know you and Mike did all you knew to do to help Do. Nobody can know how to go about helping someone die until she is through it - like finding your way in a maze, you don't know the route until you're at the end.
I know, I agree. But still, we all feel guilty about not doing enough, not being there at the end.
Tomorrow is the bloody American election we've been obsessing about for months, thank God, let it be over, let it not be disastrous, let it show us the American people are not gullible, racist morons. Though yesterday, I sat on the Porter plane next to an American who immediately began to pour out his conspiracy theories. 9/11 was a government job - had I ever heard of Building 7? Look it up! he said. It was deliberately brought down by explosives but no one wrote about it because the mainstream media have their own agenda. Kennedy was probably shot by someone hiding inside a manhole on the route. Who? Could be the military industrial complex, because Kennedy was about to pull out of the Vietnam War. Could be Israel; President Johnson later allowed them to get nuclear weapons.
He saw conspiracies everywhere. "Do you ever do research on what you read?" he said, in disbelief.
"No," I said. "I read the world's best newspapers, the Guardian, the NYTimes, the Washington Post. They make occasional mistakes, but mostly they're trustworthy. Where do you get your news, Fox TV?"
"Yes," he said, "only Fox sometimes doesn't tell the truth either."
"Sometimes!!" I barked, wishing to move my seat to somewhere else.
But at the end, he told me he was coming to Toronto to see a holistic doctor - because of course medical science and Big Pharma had nothing to offer - about his condition, which is like M.S. When he stood, I saw that he was quite severely disabled, his limbs ungainly, walking awkwardly leaning on a cane. And, lunatic as he was, I felt sorry for him.
Happy, however, to get away before I heard any more theories. Did look up Building 7. The theory about explosives has been debunked; it was brought down by the fires nearby. The poor guy, to be pathologically suspicious of everything and everyone. Let's hope tomorrow's vote shows us the Americans are smarter than that guy.
Home in the dark and wet. Here are some pictures from my trip. Click to enlarge:
Do's labels on everything.
Her sketches - me at four, though not a good resemblance, I think. Sandra was my best friend.
A watercolour - lovely.
The view from her balcony ...
... and the park on my Sunday walk.
Another family artist to cheer us all on a dull Monday before an apocalyptic Tuesday - this is Eli's latest self-portrait. It's now my screensaver.
Let us pray.
Stop beating yourself up, right now. No matter what M. said, I know you and Mike did all you knew to do to help Do. Nobody can know how to go about helping someone die until she is through it - like finding your way in a maze, you don't know the route until you're at the end.
I know, I agree. But still, we all feel guilty about not doing enough, not being there at the end.
Tomorrow is the bloody American election we've been obsessing about for months, thank God, let it be over, let it not be disastrous, let it show us the American people are not gullible, racist morons. Though yesterday, I sat on the Porter plane next to an American who immediately began to pour out his conspiracy theories. 9/11 was a government job - had I ever heard of Building 7? Look it up! he said. It was deliberately brought down by explosives but no one wrote about it because the mainstream media have their own agenda. Kennedy was probably shot by someone hiding inside a manhole on the route. Who? Could be the military industrial complex, because Kennedy was about to pull out of the Vietnam War. Could be Israel; President Johnson later allowed them to get nuclear weapons.
He saw conspiracies everywhere. "Do you ever do research on what you read?" he said, in disbelief.
"No," I said. "I read the world's best newspapers, the Guardian, the NYTimes, the Washington Post. They make occasional mistakes, but mostly they're trustworthy. Where do you get your news, Fox TV?"
"Yes," he said, "only Fox sometimes doesn't tell the truth either."
"Sometimes!!" I barked, wishing to move my seat to somewhere else.
But at the end, he told me he was coming to Toronto to see a holistic doctor - because of course medical science and Big Pharma had nothing to offer - about his condition, which is like M.S. When he stood, I saw that he was quite severely disabled, his limbs ungainly, walking awkwardly leaning on a cane. And, lunatic as he was, I felt sorry for him.
Happy, however, to get away before I heard any more theories. Did look up Building 7. The theory about explosives has been debunked; it was brought down by the fires nearby. The poor guy, to be pathologically suspicious of everything and everyone. Let's hope tomorrow's vote shows us the Americans are smarter than that guy.
Home in the dark and wet. Here are some pictures from my trip. Click to enlarge:
Do's labels on everything.
Her sketches - me at four, though not a good resemblance, I think. Sandra was my best friend.
A watercolour - lovely.
The view from her balcony ...
... and the park on my Sunday walk.
Another family artist to cheer us all on a dull Monday before an apocalyptic Tuesday - this is Eli's latest self-portrait. It's now my screensaver.Let us pray.
November 4, 2018
sorry
A difficult time last night. My dear aunt's dear friends U. and M. came here for dinner, and M. let me have it. She was on the front lines at the end of Do's life, visiting her often at the care home, and afterward, sending long, frantic messages to my brother and me about Do's terrible pain. My brother felt we were doing all we could, M. was very clear we were not doing enough, and I was in Toronto, trying to sort out the situation. Was she in the right place and receiving the right medication? My brother said yes. M. said no.
At the end, urged on by M.'s distressed emails, I started frantically phoning about palliative care, making lists of places she could go; I called an advocacy group for the elderly to find out how to get Do transferred and even got in touch with a friend who knows the former Ontario Minister of Health, to ask him what we should do.
What I did not do was get on an airplane. What I really did not want to do was, once more, get on an airplane or a train to Ottawa and rent a car, or rent a car in Toronto, and drive to a care facility. I did that ten times just in the year my mother was dying, not to mention the years before when she was in and out of hospital; I had done it three times this past summer for my aunt, once with my cousin, once with Anna and the boys, and once on my own, and I did not want to do it again. I had my next trip to Ottawa booked - the trip I'm taking now, in early November.
As I pointed out to M. last night, we hired extra PSW's for Do, got a special hospital bed, a special nurse for her bedsore, and my brother was convinced the care at the home was very good. The head there, whom I spoke with several times, felt Do was receiving the right treatment. Though of course she'd say that.
We even wondered if Do only showed her pain to U. and M., because when he was there, my brother saw a different picture. We knew that Do hated to be a bother to her loved ones. But perhaps denial played a part here. But also, M. has a tendency to dramatize.
M. told me last night that we let Do down, leaving her to languish in terrible pain until the last day of her life; at the end, her medication worked or something changed, and she died in peace with Mike on one side and M. on the other. M. felt I should have come once more, to see if I could make things better for Do. She's right; in an ideal world, I would have come. But the world is not ideal, and my life is very busy, and I felt, somewhere, that I had done and was doing what I could.
M. begs to differ. Though I did not appreciate hearing what she had to say, I understand firmly that she is right to say it, that she spoke because she cared deeply about Do.
What we finally decided is that part of the fault lies with Do's caseworker, who should have referred her earlier to palliative care. But then, I pointed out that not that long before Do died, she seemed to be getting better; we even talked about taking her home with 24 hour care. And the caseworker probably has an enormous caseload.
M. speaks about a woman moaning in pain, being forcefully encouraged by staff to eat despite the fact that she was begging to die. My brother did not see the same woman. And I did not get on an airplane to see for myself.
There should be a guide for people in our situation: Toward The End: What To Do When Your Loved One is Dying. We had no idea how to get her into a specialized palliative care facility, and the home where she lived told us they provided perfectly good palliative care - is that true? How could we tell? Mike told me he thought the doctor there was terrific. M. told me he came once a week and probably didn't get to see Do on every visit because he was so busy.
When my beloved uncle Edgar, dying of colon cancer, went into hospital in New York for what we suspected was the last time, I arranged to fly in to say goodbye. I'd visited him twice earlier that year, and we talked on the phone often. Going to NYC meant getting overnight sitters for the kids and the pets, and I had a work event that weekend, so booked a ticket for Sunday. He died on Saturday. I didn't get there on time, and I have regretted it ever since.
And now I regret that I did not come in once more for Do, and yet. People only have one death, and loved ones should make sure they do what they can. And yet hindsight does not help. We know timing and circumstances after the fact. We don't at the time.
We do what we can, and sometimes, that's not enough. That's something I'll have to live with. However, as I clear out this apartment, I am finding stacks of the letters and cards I wrote to Do through the years, envelopes full of photos I sent, framed photos and the kids' drawings that my daughter sent with her own cards and letters. Copies of all my books, including my first self-published book of essays inscribed, "To the best aunt in the world." I called her often, even when I was in Europe, visited her regularly and brought gifts and took her to dinner and to the movies and for drives. We laughed and reminisced together. I did what I could.
At the end, I could have done one last thing.
P.S. Ten minutes after posting, read this in the Globe. I guess in my confusion and regret, I'm not alone.
https://www.theglobeandmail.com/opinion/article-getting-old-is-worse-than-you-think/
At the end, urged on by M.'s distressed emails, I started frantically phoning about palliative care, making lists of places she could go; I called an advocacy group for the elderly to find out how to get Do transferred and even got in touch with a friend who knows the former Ontario Minister of Health, to ask him what we should do.
What I did not do was get on an airplane. What I really did not want to do was, once more, get on an airplane or a train to Ottawa and rent a car, or rent a car in Toronto, and drive to a care facility. I did that ten times just in the year my mother was dying, not to mention the years before when she was in and out of hospital; I had done it three times this past summer for my aunt, once with my cousin, once with Anna and the boys, and once on my own, and I did not want to do it again. I had my next trip to Ottawa booked - the trip I'm taking now, in early November.
As I pointed out to M. last night, we hired extra PSW's for Do, got a special hospital bed, a special nurse for her bedsore, and my brother was convinced the care at the home was very good. The head there, whom I spoke with several times, felt Do was receiving the right treatment. Though of course she'd say that.
We even wondered if Do only showed her pain to U. and M., because when he was there, my brother saw a different picture. We knew that Do hated to be a bother to her loved ones. But perhaps denial played a part here. But also, M. has a tendency to dramatize.
M. told me last night that we let Do down, leaving her to languish in terrible pain until the last day of her life; at the end, her medication worked or something changed, and she died in peace with Mike on one side and M. on the other. M. felt I should have come once more, to see if I could make things better for Do. She's right; in an ideal world, I would have come. But the world is not ideal, and my life is very busy, and I felt, somewhere, that I had done and was doing what I could.
M. begs to differ. Though I did not appreciate hearing what she had to say, I understand firmly that she is right to say it, that she spoke because she cared deeply about Do.
What we finally decided is that part of the fault lies with Do's caseworker, who should have referred her earlier to palliative care. But then, I pointed out that not that long before Do died, she seemed to be getting better; we even talked about taking her home with 24 hour care. And the caseworker probably has an enormous caseload.
M. speaks about a woman moaning in pain, being forcefully encouraged by staff to eat despite the fact that she was begging to die. My brother did not see the same woman. And I did not get on an airplane to see for myself.
There should be a guide for people in our situation: Toward The End: What To Do When Your Loved One is Dying. We had no idea how to get her into a specialized palliative care facility, and the home where she lived told us they provided perfectly good palliative care - is that true? How could we tell? Mike told me he thought the doctor there was terrific. M. told me he came once a week and probably didn't get to see Do on every visit because he was so busy.
When my beloved uncle Edgar, dying of colon cancer, went into hospital in New York for what we suspected was the last time, I arranged to fly in to say goodbye. I'd visited him twice earlier that year, and we talked on the phone often. Going to NYC meant getting overnight sitters for the kids and the pets, and I had a work event that weekend, so booked a ticket for Sunday. He died on Saturday. I didn't get there on time, and I have regretted it ever since.
And now I regret that I did not come in once more for Do, and yet. People only have one death, and loved ones should make sure they do what they can. And yet hindsight does not help. We know timing and circumstances after the fact. We don't at the time.
We do what we can, and sometimes, that's not enough. That's something I'll have to live with. However, as I clear out this apartment, I am finding stacks of the letters and cards I wrote to Do through the years, envelopes full of photos I sent, framed photos and the kids' drawings that my daughter sent with her own cards and letters. Copies of all my books, including my first self-published book of essays inscribed, "To the best aunt in the world." I called her often, even when I was in Europe, visited her regularly and brought gifts and took her to dinner and to the movies and for drives. We laughed and reminisced together. I did what I could.
At the end, I could have done one last thing.
P.S. Ten minutes after posting, read this in the Globe. I guess in my confusion and regret, I'm not alone.
https://www.theglobeandmail.com/opinion/article-getting-old-is-worse-than-you-think/
November 3, 2018
dust to dust
I've been inhaling dust for 24 hours - was up at six this morning, wide awake, up and at 'em - opening boxes, throwing out, sorting, everything thick with dust. Luckily Do's caregiver Pat came over with a very energetic friend and a dolly; they took tons of stuff to the recycling bin in the basement (years of tax returns, every single notification from the condo board during her decades here, she kept everything) and piles to garbage and to the place where you can leave things for others to take.
Oh what a pack rat. And she labelled everything: on one plastic bag, "Green and white check curtains - kitchen etc. From Earls Court - top flat, 46 Hogarth Road, London, U.K. 1946-54." Inside, yes, the green and white check curtains she'd made for her post-war apartment, neatly folded, threadbare, utterly unusable. Taken down when she moved to Canada in 1954, stored for more than 60 years - and out.
The one I like best, so far, is the plastic bag with this: "White and silver stole. Fine Wool. Never used. Sent from the U.K. to Dorothy (by Mama circa 1958) who had told her in a letter her evening stole (white) had been stolen."
My grandmother was efficient and skilled at many things but she was not a warm, affectionate woman, least of all to her middle daughter Dorothy. It warms me to know she made the effort to find another stole and send it. Why would Do never wear it? For the same reason, I guess, that she never used the nice cutlery or dishes or tablecloths - save it for best, a time that never came. Unfortunately, my own need for a white and silver evening stole, pretty as it is, is not great. Have to find a home for it.
But the most bizarre was this, in a drawer, a small brown envelope: "Tooth w/gold filling."
Not opening that. As I said, she kept everything. And it's all covered with dust. Oh yes, in all the piles of empty art paper, I did find a box of art equipment and one small sketch book with a bit of her own work - and it's lovely, including a tiny sketch from 1954 marked "Beth." She did have talent - watercolour, pen and ink - but kept for years buying paper, how-to books about painting, drawing and calligraphy, pens and brushes, and yet seems to have done almost none of it, ever.
It stopped raining briefly so I went to Britannia Park for a walk to clear my lungs - but even with a bit of sun it's cold and very windy so the walk was brief. Do's friends Una and May are coming here for dinner, so I need to clear up a bit. In all her decades here, I don't think my aunt invited her friends in once. She went to Scrabble in their apartments every Sunday, never here. It's a shame.
I can't wait to show them the world's biggest collection of paper napkins.
Oh what a pack rat. And she labelled everything: on one plastic bag, "Green and white check curtains - kitchen etc. From Earls Court - top flat, 46 Hogarth Road, London, U.K. 1946-54." Inside, yes, the green and white check curtains she'd made for her post-war apartment, neatly folded, threadbare, utterly unusable. Taken down when she moved to Canada in 1954, stored for more than 60 years - and out.
The one I like best, so far, is the plastic bag with this: "White and silver stole. Fine Wool. Never used. Sent from the U.K. to Dorothy (by Mama circa 1958) who had told her in a letter her evening stole (white) had been stolen."
My grandmother was efficient and skilled at many things but she was not a warm, affectionate woman, least of all to her middle daughter Dorothy. It warms me to know she made the effort to find another stole and send it. Why would Do never wear it? For the same reason, I guess, that she never used the nice cutlery or dishes or tablecloths - save it for best, a time that never came. Unfortunately, my own need for a white and silver evening stole, pretty as it is, is not great. Have to find a home for it.
But the most bizarre was this, in a drawer, a small brown envelope: "Tooth w/gold filling."
Not opening that. As I said, she kept everything. And it's all covered with dust. Oh yes, in all the piles of empty art paper, I did find a box of art equipment and one small sketch book with a bit of her own work - and it's lovely, including a tiny sketch from 1954 marked "Beth." She did have talent - watercolour, pen and ink - but kept for years buying paper, how-to books about painting, drawing and calligraphy, pens and brushes, and yet seems to have done almost none of it, ever.
It stopped raining briefly so I went to Britannia Park for a walk to clear my lungs - but even with a bit of sun it's cold and very windy so the walk was brief. Do's friends Una and May are coming here for dinner, so I need to clear up a bit. In all her decades here, I don't think my aunt invited her friends in once. She went to Scrabble in their apartments every Sunday, never here. It's a shame.
I can't wait to show them the world's biggest collection of paper napkins.
November 2, 2018
clearing the lot
<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-536859905 -1073697537 9 0 511 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; font-family:"Calibri",sans-serif; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;} @page WordSection1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 72.0pt 72.0pt 72.0pt; mso-header-margin:35.4pt; mso-footer-margin:35.4pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.WordSection1 {page:WordSection1;} </style><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I'm in Ottawa, at Auntie Do's for the weekend. The first time I've come to Ottawa with no elderly relative to visit - my mother and aunt, both gone. Now I'm on the front lines, the next in line to go.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">This is the fourth time I’ve cleared out the dwelling of a deceased relative, and I hope it will be the last. The first was the hardest – 1988, great-aunt Helen's squirrel’s nest in Queens NYC, her home for many decades. I had a weekend, alone, to sort out a lifetime’s accumulation, and arranged for far too much to be brought back to Toronto, including her little grand piano and her wheelchair. And then spent many years getting rid of them - including, right now, trying to find a home for stacks of old sheet music. But I do enjoy her gorgeous Fiestaware, big old desk, and baroque music cabinet featuring a carved naked nymphet.</span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Uncle Edgar, in 1997, his brownstone in New York, though I have to say that lots had been – shall we say, removed, by his household staff - by the time I got there. And I myself had stolen from him, which makes me cringe to this day: each time I visited through the years, I took home another of his hardcover E.B. White anthologies. He won't miss these, I thought as I put the books in my suitcase, wanting to be sure they ended up with me. One day when he was ill with the colon cancer that would kill him, he told me he'd wanted to read some E.B. White and couldn’t find any. I will never forgive myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">In 2013 my mother the hoarder's three-bedroom apartment stuffed with stuff – especially difficult because as a writer, I want one day to tell her story, so took all that </span>memorabilia - <span style="font-size: 12pt;">mountains of letters and photographs. Which now clutter my house in many, many boxes and drawers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">And now Auntie Do. Hard to understand a woman who had beautiful things tucked away in cupboards: dishes that belonged to her grandparents, silver cutlery, lovely tablecloths – when her table was covered with a ghastly plastic oilcloth, and she used ugly cheesy plates and cutlery. I just opened her dishwasher, which she never used, and found it's where she stored her mother’s silver tea set. Everything - everything - is carefully labeled and wrapped in many layers of paper. This woman took fantastic care of all her treasures and used none of them. Including - I just found - a box of different colours of shoe polish, meticulously wrapped.</span><br /><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">What makes me sad are the many books on how to paint watercolours and an entire drawer full of blank watercolour paper - but no paints and never, never an attempt to actually put brush to paper. She just bought the books and the paper, and dreamed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It’s a lonely job here, but at least I have a bottle of red and light and power – last time I was here, after the hurricane, I sat in the dark with a candle. Am listening to Paul Simon and Macca on my computer while I open drawers and pile up the junk - more than 15 garbage bags of old and new clothes to go out, and more to come. Admiring my aunt's extensive collections as I prepare to toss: handbags, platters, ancient canned goods, stamps, umbrellas, hats and scarves, greeting cards, twist ties, recipes, calendars dating back to the early 1990s, 25 packages of paper napkins. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">One day, who will have to do this for me?</span></div>
October 31, 2018
"Hyperfocus" on Hallowe'en.
It's Hallowe'en. I used to put on other people's clothes for a living, so there's not much fun in it for me and others of my kind. Plus we get 800 or more kids here on my street, pouring north from Regent Park and south from St. Jamestown, an endless stream for hours. It's marvellous and a treat and I did it for 20 years and don't any more. Will cower in the darkness until it's time to go to JM and Richard's for their annual post-Hallowe'en block party.
But we were encouraged to dress up for Carole's class at the Y today. I wore something easy - my plastic Viking Walkure helmet with horns, which was not easy to run in. Carole was a tough biker chick and Margot was a bag of McDonald's fries, very funny. There were some other great costumes among the staff.
That's me in orange and helmet, Margot on the left as fries, Carole below. Some of the others had gone before the pic was taken, including Liam who was inside a hilarious costume that made him look like he was a little guy riding a fat green horse. LOL.
Luckily, there are some who LOVE Hallowe'en. Here they are before going to school this morning. The costumes - ninja, scary skeleton - will be more elaborate tonight.
I've been corresponding with my very right wing friend, though why I don't know, since he will not change his support for Trump and I my loathing. He wrote today: Here’s my prediction. Republicans gain 4 in the Senate and hold the House by 5.
Makes me want to shoot myself. Plus it's gloomy and wet, and dear Bruce just left for New York after a week here. He's incredible, considering that he had a devastating stroke only a year and a half ago. Wonderful to see him trucking around the city visiting theatre friends and colleagues, and now off to NYC to see shows and go to the Met and the Frick to worship at the altar of Renaissance art, as he does everywhere he goes. We are talking about being in Italy together again next year. We'll see.
My left eyeball is no longer neon red. An ophthalmologist said I must have rubbed it and burst blood vessels, it will clear up. And finally it did, now a soft pink. And my hair grew out a tiny bit and looks better, so I am no longer a walking freakish Hallowe'en costume, even without the horns.
Am finishing the book "Hyperfocus" to return it to the library tomorrow. It's about how to get rid of distractions so you can focus on what you need to get done, and also when to employ what he calls "scatterfocus," which means mulling, musing, daydreaming. It's written more for kids who are glued to cellphones than for someone like me, and unfortunately, I was so often distracted that it took me a long time to read it and I can hardly remember what I read. So perhaps not a great success.
PS. 7 p.m.
But we were encouraged to dress up for Carole's class at the Y today. I wore something easy - my plastic Viking Walkure helmet with horns, which was not easy to run in. Carole was a tough biker chick and Margot was a bag of McDonald's fries, very funny. There were some other great costumes among the staff.
That's me in orange and helmet, Margot on the left as fries, Carole below. Some of the others had gone before the pic was taken, including Liam who was inside a hilarious costume that made him look like he was a little guy riding a fat green horse. LOL.Luckily, there are some who LOVE Hallowe'en. Here they are before going to school this morning. The costumes - ninja, scary skeleton - will be more elaborate tonight.
I've been corresponding with my very right wing friend, though why I don't know, since he will not change his support for Trump and I my loathing. He wrote today: Here’s my prediction. Republicans gain 4 in the Senate and hold the House by 5.Makes me want to shoot myself. Plus it's gloomy and wet, and dear Bruce just left for New York after a week here. He's incredible, considering that he had a devastating stroke only a year and a half ago. Wonderful to see him trucking around the city visiting theatre friends and colleagues, and now off to NYC to see shows and go to the Met and the Frick to worship at the altar of Renaissance art, as he does everywhere he goes. We are talking about being in Italy together again next year. We'll see.
My left eyeball is no longer neon red. An ophthalmologist said I must have rubbed it and burst blood vessels, it will clear up. And finally it did, now a soft pink. And my hair grew out a tiny bit and looks better, so I am no longer a walking freakish Hallowe'en costume, even without the horns.
Am finishing the book "Hyperfocus" to return it to the library tomorrow. It's about how to get rid of distractions so you can focus on what you need to get done, and also when to employ what he calls "scatterfocus," which means mulling, musing, daydreaming. It's written more for kids who are glued to cellphones than for someone like me, and unfortunately, I was so often distracted that it took me a long time to read it and I can hardly remember what I read. So perhaps not a great success.
PS. 7 p.m.
"Hyperfocus" not so much, on Hallowe'en.
It's Hallowe'en, a day ordinary folk enjoy and that anyone who's been in the theatre does not. I used to put on other people's clothes for a living, so there's not much fun in it for me and others of my kind. Plus, as I'm sure I've pointed out, we get about 700-800 kids here on my street, pouring north from Regent Park and south from St. Jamestown, an endless stream for hours. It's marvellous and a treat and I did it for 20 years and don't any more. Will cower in the darkness until it's time to go to JM and Richard's for their annual post-Hallowe'en block party.
But we were encouraged to dress up for Carole's class at the Y today. I wore something very easy - my plastic Walkure helmet with horns, which was not easy to run in. Carole was a tough biker chick and Margot was a bag of McDonald's fries, very funny. There were some other great costumes among the staff.
That's me in orange and helmet, Margot on the left as fries, Carole below. Some of the others had gone before the pic was taken, including Liam who was inside a hilarious costume that made him look like he was a little guy riding a fat green horse. LOL.
Luckily, there are some who LOVE Hallowe'en. Here they are before going to school this morning. The costumes - ninja, scary skeleton - will be more elaborate tonight.
I've been corresponding with my very right wing friend, though why I don't know, since he will not change his support for Trump and I my loathing. He wrote today: Here’s my prediction. Republicans gain 4 in the Senate and hold the House by 5.
Makes me want to shoot myself. Plus it's gloomy and wet, and dear Bruce just left for New York after a week here. He's incredible, considering that he had a devastating stroke only a year and a half ago. Wonderful to see him trucking around the city visiting his theatre friends and colleagues, and now off to NYC to see shows and go to the Met and the Frick, to worship at the altar of Renaissance art, as he does everywhere he goes. We are talking about being in Italy together again. We'll see.
The good news is that my left eyeball is no longer neon red. It was so bad by Friday that I went to the doctor, who said the obvious - see an ophthalmologist. Who said, you must have rubbed it and burst blood vessels, it will clear up. And it did, now a soft pink. And my hair grew out a tiny bit and looks better, so I am no longer a walking freakish Hallowe'en costume, even without the helmet.
Am finishing the book "Hyperfocus" to return it to the library tomorrow. It's about how to get rid of distractions so you can focus on what you need to get done, and also when to employ what he calls "scatterfocus," which really means daydreaming. It's written more for kids who are glued to cellphones than for someone like me, and unfortunately, I was so often distracted that it took me a long time to read it and I can hardly remember what I read. So perhaps not a great success.
PS. 7 p.m.
But we were encouraged to dress up for Carole's class at the Y today. I wore something very easy - my plastic Walkure helmet with horns, which was not easy to run in. Carole was a tough biker chick and Margot was a bag of McDonald's fries, very funny. There were some other great costumes among the staff.
That's me in orange and helmet, Margot on the left as fries, Carole below. Some of the others had gone before the pic was taken, including Liam who was inside a hilarious costume that made him look like he was a little guy riding a fat green horse. LOL.Luckily, there are some who LOVE Hallowe'en. Here they are before going to school this morning. The costumes - ninja, scary skeleton - will be more elaborate tonight.
I've been corresponding with my very right wing friend, though why I don't know, since he will not change his support for Trump and I my loathing. He wrote today: Here’s my prediction. Republicans gain 4 in the Senate and hold the House by 5.Makes me want to shoot myself. Plus it's gloomy and wet, and dear Bruce just left for New York after a week here. He's incredible, considering that he had a devastating stroke only a year and a half ago. Wonderful to see him trucking around the city visiting his theatre friends and colleagues, and now off to NYC to see shows and go to the Met and the Frick, to worship at the altar of Renaissance art, as he does everywhere he goes. We are talking about being in Italy together again. We'll see.
The good news is that my left eyeball is no longer neon red. It was so bad by Friday that I went to the doctor, who said the obvious - see an ophthalmologist. Who said, you must have rubbed it and burst blood vessels, it will clear up. And it did, now a soft pink. And my hair grew out a tiny bit and looks better, so I am no longer a walking freakish Hallowe'en costume, even without the helmet.
Am finishing the book "Hyperfocus" to return it to the library tomorrow. It's about how to get rid of distractions so you can focus on what you need to get done, and also when to employ what he calls "scatterfocus," which really means daydreaming. It's written more for kids who are glued to cellphones than for someone like me, and unfortunately, I was so often distracted that it took me a long time to read it and I can hardly remember what I read. So perhaps not a great success.
PS. 7 p.m.
October 27, 2018
Love will win
A dark, wet, cold day. A woman said as we were leaving the funeral event this afternoon, "The sky is weeping too."
So, another shooting, another lunatic, another savage, horrendous waste of human life, this one anti-Semitic but no different than the ones destroying black children in church or people celebrating music and life anywhere. Forces of racism, hatred, and death have been unleashed in the United States and the world. We thought, with Obama's election, that the world had fundamentally changed. Now we've turned over the rock and there it is, crawling out - the worst of humanity. Trump and his team, which includes Ontario's current premier and the leader of the PC's in Ottawa, beginning to attack the media in the same way. Dark dark dark.
And then I went to a memorial event for Ann Ireland, who was the writer/coordinator for the creative writing department at Ryerson. I worked with Ann for twenty years and received my last personal email from her at the end of July, about contracts. On August 8th, she wrote to us all that she was resigning because of a health crisis and would not reply to any emails or phone calls. She died less than three weeks later. Today, we heard that Ann chose assisted death; knowing her end was nigh due to terminal liver cancer, she arranged her final day with ten of her loved ones around her, and apparently said, "Wherever I'm going, I hope it's not boring."
According to one of her best friends, she also said, "Please tell people - in the end, work doesn't matter. I've shredded two partial novels. What matters is love and family and friends and kindness."
Thank you, Ann. I wish I'd known you better, but then, I always say that at funerals.
Out into the cold rain and home to more news about the dead in the synagogue. And then a text from my beloved daughter:
I'm so thankful today, Mum. I took this morning's terrorist attack hard. But then we went to a double birthday party for some of Elijah's friends. A Cameroonian couple and an Italian couple celebrating their beautiful daughters with our Tibetan, Cuban, Japanese, and Canadian friends. Grandparents, parents, kids of all colours playing together and having fun. Love will win. But we're going to have to work for it.
Love will win. But we're going to have to work for it.
So, another shooting, another lunatic, another savage, horrendous waste of human life, this one anti-Semitic but no different than the ones destroying black children in church or people celebrating music and life anywhere. Forces of racism, hatred, and death have been unleashed in the United States and the world. We thought, with Obama's election, that the world had fundamentally changed. Now we've turned over the rock and there it is, crawling out - the worst of humanity. Trump and his team, which includes Ontario's current premier and the leader of the PC's in Ottawa, beginning to attack the media in the same way. Dark dark dark.
And then I went to a memorial event for Ann Ireland, who was the writer/coordinator for the creative writing department at Ryerson. I worked with Ann for twenty years and received my last personal email from her at the end of July, about contracts. On August 8th, she wrote to us all that she was resigning because of a health crisis and would not reply to any emails or phone calls. She died less than three weeks later. Today, we heard that Ann chose assisted death; knowing her end was nigh due to terminal liver cancer, she arranged her final day with ten of her loved ones around her, and apparently said, "Wherever I'm going, I hope it's not boring."
According to one of her best friends, she also said, "Please tell people - in the end, work doesn't matter. I've shredded two partial novels. What matters is love and family and friends and kindness."
Thank you, Ann. I wish I'd known you better, but then, I always say that at funerals.
Out into the cold rain and home to more news about the dead in the synagogue. And then a text from my beloved daughter:
I'm so thankful today, Mum. I took this morning's terrorist attack hard. But then we went to a double birthday party for some of Elijah's friends. A Cameroonian couple and an Italian couple celebrating their beautiful daughters with our Tibetan, Cuban, Japanese, and Canadian friends. Grandparents, parents, kids of all colours playing together and having fun. Love will win. But we're going to have to work for it.
Love will win. But we're going to have to work for it.
October 26, 2018
her bloody eye
I tell people it's part of an early Hallowe'en costume, but of course it's not - my left eye is neon red, floating in blood, ghastly, vampirish. It exploded Sunday night. I've had this before - a broken blood vessel in the eye - but always fairly small and fast to disappear. Not this; it's getting worse, and there's nothing to be done. I just have to be grateful I'm not in the middle of a film shoot.
Dr. Google says it has nothing to do with stress, could be caused by a sneeze or laughing - !! But I think it's stress; when I'm tense my neck and face tighten and get rigid, surely this affects the eyes. Sunday was so insanely busy from morning to night without a moment's pause, and then - I'm just generally overwhelmed these days, with teaching and editing work, the renovation plans which consume time and energy - and money, family events, dealing with my aunt's estate, and winter coming which is a job in itself. "Lucky you have a lot of energy," a friend said recently, and I do, but sometimes not so much. Not enough.
We're all falling apart. Carole at the Y had bronchitis for three weeks. My longterm hairdresser - we go back decades - had a liver attack, went to Emerg and the other day had little strength, and so somehow cut my hair extremely short. I won't say it's TOO short because I adore her, but it's short. So now, very short hair and a neon eye. Lovely. Luckily I'm 68 and absolutely no one looks at me. And just to really cheer me up, there's this:
Author Incomes in Steep DeclineA 27% drop in last three years suggests educational copying is devastating writers’ livelihoodsLOL! Let's make merry!
An old friend from high school in 1965-66 got in touch on Wednesday - in town from Halifax for a meeting - so he came over for a glass of wine and eventually supper. He was nice then, and he's nice now; it was great to see him. And he didn't say anything about my eye. Or my hair.
Grateful to my son who made the usual vast mountain of dinner on Sunday and then forgot to take leftovers home in containers, as he usually does - because I've been feeding the world with that dinner. Jean-Marc and Richard had the whole meal again with me, then my handyman John, then Jean-Marc alone, then my old friend, and twice, my beloved friend Bruce, who has come from Vancouver to stay for a week. And still there's more - large vessels of mashed potatoes, gravy, Brussels. That's the way to host - make one vast meal and eat it for weeks.
I'm reminded again what an exciting city we live in. A section of the Thursday Star tells us what events are recommended for the week ahead, and I read with anticipation the names of some of the bands I could go to see at local clubs: Dying Fetus is one that sounds particularly enticing, but there's also Genocide Pact, Wage War, Suicideyear, The Dose, Leprous, Gatecreeper, Knuckle Puck, Shotty Horroh, and My Coma. And also, Schumann's Piano Quintet. Hmmm. I wonder which I, invisible old fart that I am, should choose.
Dr. Google says it has nothing to do with stress, could be caused by a sneeze or laughing - !! But I think it's stress; when I'm tense my neck and face tighten and get rigid, surely this affects the eyes. Sunday was so insanely busy from morning to night without a moment's pause, and then - I'm just generally overwhelmed these days, with teaching and editing work, the renovation plans which consume time and energy - and money, family events, dealing with my aunt's estate, and winter coming which is a job in itself. "Lucky you have a lot of energy," a friend said recently, and I do, but sometimes not so much. Not enough.
We're all falling apart. Carole at the Y had bronchitis for three weeks. My longterm hairdresser - we go back decades - had a liver attack, went to Emerg and the other day had little strength, and so somehow cut my hair extremely short. I won't say it's TOO short because I adore her, but it's short. So now, very short hair and a neon eye. Lovely. Luckily I'm 68 and absolutely no one looks at me. And just to really cheer me up, there's this:
Author Incomes in Steep DeclineA 27% drop in last three years suggests educational copying is devastating writers’ livelihoodsLOL! Let's make merry!
An old friend from high school in 1965-66 got in touch on Wednesday - in town from Halifax for a meeting - so he came over for a glass of wine and eventually supper. He was nice then, and he's nice now; it was great to see him. And he didn't say anything about my eye. Or my hair.
Grateful to my son who made the usual vast mountain of dinner on Sunday and then forgot to take leftovers home in containers, as he usually does - because I've been feeding the world with that dinner. Jean-Marc and Richard had the whole meal again with me, then my handyman John, then Jean-Marc alone, then my old friend, and twice, my beloved friend Bruce, who has come from Vancouver to stay for a week. And still there's more - large vessels of mashed potatoes, gravy, Brussels. That's the way to host - make one vast meal and eat it for weeks.
I'm reminded again what an exciting city we live in. A section of the Thursday Star tells us what events are recommended for the week ahead, and I read with anticipation the names of some of the bands I could go to see at local clubs: Dying Fetus is one that sounds particularly enticing, but there's also Genocide Pact, Wage War, Suicideyear, The Dose, Leprous, Gatecreeper, Knuckle Puck, Shotty Horroh, and My Coma. And also, Schumann's Piano Quintet. Hmmm. I wonder which I, invisible old fart that I am, should choose.
October 23, 2018
In which Kristyn wins and I have an unrelated bad dream
Kristyn won with a huge majority, as did other terrific leftwing councillors - Joe Cressy, Gord Perks in Anna's ward, Josh Matlow. But the right wingers from the suburbs still outnumber our guys. As we have been since hideous Harris created the megacity, we are at the mercy of suburban councillors whose priority is fresh new highways for commuters. And we have again safe, dull Mayor Tory. No wonder this city struggles to keep up with the times, with almost no housing for the homeless, skyrocketing rents, limitless development, appalling gridlock, absurdly underfunded public transit, a pathetic number of bicycle lanes.
However. Our guys will fight the good fight, and luckily, despite Ford's best attempts to wipe them out, what a great team of fighters we still have.
Last night's class at Ryerson had one of the most difficult moments I've ever encountered as a teacher; a pretty young student presented her piece, a light, amusing piece about something small bothering her, and another student countered with her own story of horrendous, unimaginable tragedy around more or less the same issue. I hope we got through with grace and with no one being harmed, always my main goal in this sensitive work. Another student read a piece about the guilt she felt at her inadequate response to her daughter's serious health crisis.
Last night I had a powerful dream that swamped me, that seemed to incorporate elements of what happened in class. I rarely remember my dreams, so it seems important when I do, and the details and emotion of this one will stay with me forever.
I was looking after three children, my grandson and a brother and sister, a pretty blonde girl of about 7. We were exploring a town I didn’t know, and we stopped at a building that housed a film studio. The girl was anxious to go inside and the boys were not, so they stayed outside and she and I went in. Something was being filmed in a big bright room with sets and costumes all around, and she was thrilled, slipping quickly away from me toward the action. I was whispering desperately, trying to catch and pull her back, but she was already far into where the cameras were. I didn’t want to follow her, interrupt filming and make the situation worse, and was concerned about the boys outside, so I decided to go find them and wait for her to come out. But when I got out, the boys weren’t there, so I set out to look for them and kept going far through the town, looking.
Eventually, panic struck. I realized a little girl was alone on a movie set, and I had to find her and make sure she was safe. But I couldn’t remember where the studio building was. After trying one door after another, I was exhausted and realized it might be far away. I decided, strangely, to call my mother to come help, and because walking would take too long, I should get a cab to take me around. But then I realized – my purse with my phone and my money was gone. Lost children and no way to call for help or pay for help.
I woke up frantic.
After my psychoanalysis, I learned to analyze my dreams. But I'm going to leave this dream of child abandonment and poor choices for now.
However. Our guys will fight the good fight, and luckily, despite Ford's best attempts to wipe them out, what a great team of fighters we still have.
Last night's class at Ryerson had one of the most difficult moments I've ever encountered as a teacher; a pretty young student presented her piece, a light, amusing piece about something small bothering her, and another student countered with her own story of horrendous, unimaginable tragedy around more or less the same issue. I hope we got through with grace and with no one being harmed, always my main goal in this sensitive work. Another student read a piece about the guilt she felt at her inadequate response to her daughter's serious health crisis.
Last night I had a powerful dream that swamped me, that seemed to incorporate elements of what happened in class. I rarely remember my dreams, so it seems important when I do, and the details and emotion of this one will stay with me forever.
I was looking after three children, my grandson and a brother and sister, a pretty blonde girl of about 7. We were exploring a town I didn’t know, and we stopped at a building that housed a film studio. The girl was anxious to go inside and the boys were not, so they stayed outside and she and I went in. Something was being filmed in a big bright room with sets and costumes all around, and she was thrilled, slipping quickly away from me toward the action. I was whispering desperately, trying to catch and pull her back, but she was already far into where the cameras were. I didn’t want to follow her, interrupt filming and make the situation worse, and was concerned about the boys outside, so I decided to go find them and wait for her to come out. But when I got out, the boys weren’t there, so I set out to look for them and kept going far through the town, looking.
Eventually, panic struck. I realized a little girl was alone on a movie set, and I had to find her and make sure she was safe. But I couldn’t remember where the studio building was. After trying one door after another, I was exhausted and realized it might be far away. I decided, strangely, to call my mother to come help, and because walking would take too long, I should get a cab to take me around. But then I realized – my purse with my phone and my money was gone. Lost children and no way to call for help or pay for help.
I woke up frantic.
After my psychoanalysis, I learned to analyze my dreams. But I'm going to leave this dream of child abandonment and poor choices for now.
October 22, 2018
Go Kristyn Wong Tam and Keesmat!
Election day in Toronto - go Kristyn! Go Jennifer Keesmat! I know John Tory will be re-elected mayor, but I hope he gets the message that Toronto deserves far better than his cautious, please-everybody, let's-not-rock-the-boat ways. We deserve better than someone who is merely a decent person, merely unlike his predecessor Rob Ford, whose brother is now doing his best to destroy our city.
Yesterday, one of the most exhausting days of my entire adult life. Morning, stuffing a turkey and getting it into the oven for our late Thanksgiving celebration, also Sam and Thomas's birthday feast, and preparing the house for many guests. At 11.30, eight writers appeared at my door for the rehearsal for So True, and then at 1, all of us over to the Black Swan for the event. Because it was at a new time, the tech guy forgot and didn't show up, so one man had to man the bar and do the lights and sound, until backup arrived. Despite this, it was one of the best yet - one fabulous, riveting story after another. And then mine.
Here's what one participant sent yesterday: I thought yesterday was one of the strongest groups I’ve ever heard at a So True. I liked them all so much it’s hard to pick a favourite. It is a wonderful thing you do, giving us a venue to read our work.
And another: So happy to have been a part of So True again, Beth. It was, in my view, spectacular. I always feel so euphoric after having read.
Straight back here afterwards to find everything happening - Sam had cooked all afternoon, the turkey was just coming out, Anna and family were here and the house was already being ripped apart by small boys, more guests arrived, wine and beer flowed, a ton of food was served and eaten, and the house cleared by about 10.30, with the fridge full of leftovers and most dishes done. It always feels like a marathon, a big family meal.
Today, vote, recuperate, and winterize with John - we put away the summer stuff. The cold is coming.
On Saturday, which was a beautiful day, after Wayson kindly drove me around to pick up a nearly 17 pound turkey and a large cake, I went to Theatre Passe-Muraille to see a good production of the absurd yet moving Krapp's Last Tape. I try to see a Beckett play at least once a year; he's good for the soul. I marvel always at how far ahead of his time he was.
Jean-Marc was just here; he's talking about beginning our reno as soon as next week. I'm not ready! Even though what we're doing is much more to my liking, still, I hate the thought of the disruption and mess. Definitely getting old and crabby.
Yesterday, one of the most exhausting days of my entire adult life. Morning, stuffing a turkey and getting it into the oven for our late Thanksgiving celebration, also Sam and Thomas's birthday feast, and preparing the house for many guests. At 11.30, eight writers appeared at my door for the rehearsal for So True, and then at 1, all of us over to the Black Swan for the event. Because it was at a new time, the tech guy forgot and didn't show up, so one man had to man the bar and do the lights and sound, until backup arrived. Despite this, it was one of the best yet - one fabulous, riveting story after another. And then mine.
Here's what one participant sent yesterday: I thought yesterday was one of the strongest groups I’ve ever heard at a So True. I liked them all so much it’s hard to pick a favourite. It is a wonderful thing you do, giving us a venue to read our work.
And another: So happy to have been a part of So True again, Beth. It was, in my view, spectacular. I always feel so euphoric after having read.
Straight back here afterwards to find everything happening - Sam had cooked all afternoon, the turkey was just coming out, Anna and family were here and the house was already being ripped apart by small boys, more guests arrived, wine and beer flowed, a ton of food was served and eaten, and the house cleared by about 10.30, with the fridge full of leftovers and most dishes done. It always feels like a marathon, a big family meal.
Today, vote, recuperate, and winterize with John - we put away the summer stuff. The cold is coming.
On Saturday, which was a beautiful day, after Wayson kindly drove me around to pick up a nearly 17 pound turkey and a large cake, I went to Theatre Passe-Muraille to see a good production of the absurd yet moving Krapp's Last Tape. I try to see a Beckett play at least once a year; he's good for the soul. I marvel always at how far ahead of his time he was.
Jean-Marc was just here; he's talking about beginning our reno as soon as next week. I'm not ready! Even though what we're doing is much more to my liking, still, I hate the thought of the disruption and mess. Definitely getting old and crabby.
