Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 123
July 12, 2018
Day from hell
The day from hell did NOT start cheerily at 7 a.m., like yesterday, but late, because I was awake for hours in the night worrying about my aunt. Her caregiver called last night while I was having dinner on the deck with my dear friend and former student Jason, to tell me how worried she is.
Beautiful day; hot. John the handyman arrived at 10 and we set out to tackle the tree roots that clog up the drains, by pouring in a solution that destroys them - and also erupts and spreads all over the floor. Floods. Much cleaning up. Then other things needed to be fixed. Thank God for John. This while I'm on the phone to Ottawa trying to decide whether I'm needed there while my poor old aunt is in hospital. Decide I am. Have a fight with a relative who knows how to push all my buttons, which roils me so much, my heart won't stop pounding. But life is too short. Let it go. (Easy to say.)
John leaves, and immediately the computer man Matt, my personal genius, arrives with a new router. Two hours later, after much up and down and to and fro, testing, failure, success, he has set up the internet anew in this house. I'm still trying to deal with Ottawa, and in the middle of it all, heard the birds outside calling Danger and ran out with my water pistol to chase away the horrible grey cat who hides in the bushes and tries to kill.
Booked Ottawa - flight, car. Very expensive because last minute - but it's important to see my aunt, who is marooned. I will miss Ben's 3rd birthday party on Sunday. Never again, I hope, but as his mother said, he won't remember, he's three. More talking to Ottawa to let Do's friends and caregiver know I'm coming and will be staying, for the first time, in Do's empty apartment. At least I don't have the hassle and expense of an Airbnb.
Also dealing with the ongoing thefts from the Little Free Library, the renovation plans which are flying to and fro, students who want private sessions, my own disintegrating body, the garden which needs fertilizer, weeding, and planting, (the beautiful multicoloured hydrangeas at the front are dying and I don't know why), cancelling Anna's friend Nicole who was coming on Saturday to help me throw things out. Carol my tenant is still here till Sunday, so at least I can leave without worrying about the house and watering.
And then the coup de grace - I finally got through to Do in hospital to tell her I'm coming, and she was furious and attacked me. Why didn't I ask if I could stay in her apartment? Why am I coming now when I'm back in two weeks? Someone must have given her a very negative view of my visit.
I confess, it did feel as if I should just hang up and go back to bed. But I did not, and we're fine now. But again, one of those days when it felt like I was trying not to be smashed by baseballs hurtling my way. And, of course, trying not to look at the news, because it makes me puke - now not just what's happening down south but also here in Ontario. Gut wrenching. Maybe there's a desert island?
And as for thinking about writing - the only words are LOL.
But the Thai boys are safe.
Beautiful day; hot. John the handyman arrived at 10 and we set out to tackle the tree roots that clog up the drains, by pouring in a solution that destroys them - and also erupts and spreads all over the floor. Floods. Much cleaning up. Then other things needed to be fixed. Thank God for John. This while I'm on the phone to Ottawa trying to decide whether I'm needed there while my poor old aunt is in hospital. Decide I am. Have a fight with a relative who knows how to push all my buttons, which roils me so much, my heart won't stop pounding. But life is too short. Let it go. (Easy to say.)
John leaves, and immediately the computer man Matt, my personal genius, arrives with a new router. Two hours later, after much up and down and to and fro, testing, failure, success, he has set up the internet anew in this house. I'm still trying to deal with Ottawa, and in the middle of it all, heard the birds outside calling Danger and ran out with my water pistol to chase away the horrible grey cat who hides in the bushes and tries to kill.
Booked Ottawa - flight, car. Very expensive because last minute - but it's important to see my aunt, who is marooned. I will miss Ben's 3rd birthday party on Sunday. Never again, I hope, but as his mother said, he won't remember, he's three. More talking to Ottawa to let Do's friends and caregiver know I'm coming and will be staying, for the first time, in Do's empty apartment. At least I don't have the hassle and expense of an Airbnb.
Also dealing with the ongoing thefts from the Little Free Library, the renovation plans which are flying to and fro, students who want private sessions, my own disintegrating body, the garden which needs fertilizer, weeding, and planting, (the beautiful multicoloured hydrangeas at the front are dying and I don't know why), cancelling Anna's friend Nicole who was coming on Saturday to help me throw things out. Carol my tenant is still here till Sunday, so at least I can leave without worrying about the house and watering.
And then the coup de grace - I finally got through to Do in hospital to tell her I'm coming, and she was furious and attacked me. Why didn't I ask if I could stay in her apartment? Why am I coming now when I'm back in two weeks? Someone must have given her a very negative view of my visit.
I confess, it did feel as if I should just hang up and go back to bed. But I did not, and we're fine now. But again, one of those days when it felt like I was trying not to be smashed by baseballs hurtling my way. And, of course, trying not to look at the news, because it makes me puke - now not just what's happening down south but also here in Ontario. Gut wrenching. Maybe there's a desert island?
And as for thinking about writing - the only words are LOL.
But the Thai boys are safe.
July 11, 2018
Macca tickets and "Yellow Submarine"
It's 7 a.m. and I've already had breakfast. This happens rarely - I once resolved never to get up before 7, because then I'm groggy all day. But this morning, after a solid 6 hour sleep, I was wide awake. If only I usually slept that way, I'd accomplish a great deal more with my life. Instead I'm awake at 4 for an hour or two, making lists - of my faults and failures, of things to do, sometimes useful lists, sometimes very much not. But when I get a solid chunk of sleep, I can do anything with the day that follows.
Yesterday's adventure was trying to get tickets for the Macca concert in Montreal in September - this time not just for me, but also for my bestie Lynn who by coincidence will be in Montreal then, leaving for home in France the next day. They've put through a complicated system to avoid scalpers, but I thought I was ready: I had to register as a genuine fan, then they emailed that they'd send a code to enter when the tickets went on sale at exactly 1 p.m. on Tuesday. I had a Fringe theatre ticket for 1 p.m., but so much for that; if you want good seats, you have to be online the instant they go on sale.
So at 1, I was waiting, trembling, for my code. No code. Kept refreshing my email - nothing. Finally I wrote to Anne, the Macca lunatic who follows him around the world, who wrote back cheerfully that she'd already bought the most expensive seats for Quebec, Winnipeg and Edmonton (at an average cost of $1500 each, plus plane fare and hotel. I am the thriftiest person on earth by comparison.) "They texted me my code early this morning," she said.
Ah. The word is texted. The code was on my phone! So then began the rigamarole of getting through another complex system - identifying road signs to make sure you're not a bot. I'm not very dextrous on my phone so finally figured out how to transfer the code to the computer. By the time I did that, it was 1.40 and almost all the sections were sold out. I managed to get seats, way at the back, but seats. Exhausted. But Lynn and I will go and see him together. And then I booked a B&B close by in downtown Montreal. So we'll spend the day being flâneuses in Montreal, seeing the concert, walking home. What fun.
In similar mode, Monday I was sitting at home at 6.40 p.m., braless in my sundress in the extreme heat, clicking on movie times, when I saw that the remastered version of "Yellow Submarine," which I first saw 50 years ago in the summer of 1968, would only be on nearby till Thursday, and the other days I could not go, it had to be right then, Monday at 7. I got dressed, hopped on my bike, and was sitting in the theatre 20 minutes later as the ads for previews began. And what fun the film is - a real stoner trip, incredible colours, funny, clever word play, and of course music. I remembered favourite lines from the Blue Meanies: "Funny, you don't look blue-ish."
Max: "Argentina?"
I was going to take Eli, but it's not right for a 6-year old. He needs some Beatles indoctrination first. Though he knows I'm the proud owner of an actual yellow submarine.
And now, as the clusters of mauve phlox scent the kitchen through the open back door, it's 7.45 a.m., and this industrious early riser is off to work.
Yesterday's adventure was trying to get tickets for the Macca concert in Montreal in September - this time not just for me, but also for my bestie Lynn who by coincidence will be in Montreal then, leaving for home in France the next day. They've put through a complicated system to avoid scalpers, but I thought I was ready: I had to register as a genuine fan, then they emailed that they'd send a code to enter when the tickets went on sale at exactly 1 p.m. on Tuesday. I had a Fringe theatre ticket for 1 p.m., but so much for that; if you want good seats, you have to be online the instant they go on sale.
So at 1, I was waiting, trembling, for my code. No code. Kept refreshing my email - nothing. Finally I wrote to Anne, the Macca lunatic who follows him around the world, who wrote back cheerfully that she'd already bought the most expensive seats for Quebec, Winnipeg and Edmonton (at an average cost of $1500 each, plus plane fare and hotel. I am the thriftiest person on earth by comparison.) "They texted me my code early this morning," she said.
Ah. The word is texted. The code was on my phone! So then began the rigamarole of getting through another complex system - identifying road signs to make sure you're not a bot. I'm not very dextrous on my phone so finally figured out how to transfer the code to the computer. By the time I did that, it was 1.40 and almost all the sections were sold out. I managed to get seats, way at the back, but seats. Exhausted. But Lynn and I will go and see him together. And then I booked a B&B close by in downtown Montreal. So we'll spend the day being flâneuses in Montreal, seeing the concert, walking home. What fun.
In similar mode, Monday I was sitting at home at 6.40 p.m., braless in my sundress in the extreme heat, clicking on movie times, when I saw that the remastered version of "Yellow Submarine," which I first saw 50 years ago in the summer of 1968, would only be on nearby till Thursday, and the other days I could not go, it had to be right then, Monday at 7. I got dressed, hopped on my bike, and was sitting in the theatre 20 minutes later as the ads for previews began. And what fun the film is - a real stoner trip, incredible colours, funny, clever word play, and of course music. I remembered favourite lines from the Blue Meanies: "Funny, you don't look blue-ish."
Max: "Argentina?"
I was going to take Eli, but it's not right for a 6-year old. He needs some Beatles indoctrination first. Though he knows I'm the proud owner of an actual yellow submarine.
And now, as the clusters of mauve phlox scent the kitchen through the open back door, it's 7.45 a.m., and this industrious early riser is off to work.
July 8, 2018
Beth's Let It Go Dance Party Sept. 14
The dance party is back on! As if I needed something else on my list, this has now become my production. Well, I'm the one who wants somewhere to go dancing like a mad thing, so it's my job to make it happen. And it'll happen while my dear Lynn, who also loves to dance, is here in Toronto. A celebration of our 51 years of friendship.
Come one come all to the Let It Go Dance Party!
Come one come all to the Let It Go Dance Party!
July 7, 2018
Good For Her - yes and no
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Old complaineypants here.<br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">An hour ago, the police were at my door, after another altercation with the insane man up the street who regularly steals all the books from my Little Free Library. I saw him carrying off a stack of books, shouted for him to put them back, and will not tell you what he replied. The police can’t do anything – the books are free, so he’s not really stealing. But two handsome courteous cops came to listen to me. They said I could call the fire department because he’s got books everywhere in the rooming house, or else to take down the library, for now. Will probably have to do so. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Before that, I came home to find the internet gone, spent the better part of an hour on the phone with Rogers running up and down turning modem and router on and off. It looks like the router just decided to die. WHY O LORD? she cried to the heavens.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Before that, I rode across town to the Fringe Festival. I’m interested to see how it works, because maybe one day I’ll consider taking my Beatles’ talk on the road. I saw <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kander/Ebb,</i> a young man who idolizes these Broadway writers in a fanboy show; he sang with chutzpah but a bit flat. After, in the same venue, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">BikeFace,</i> a solo show about a young woman who has loved bikes all her life and eventually cycled across the country. I was hit with nostalgia - first because I myself had performed in the theatre, which is in an old church; <i>Cruel Tears </i>played there in 1977. And in the break between shows, I walked a block over to Markham Street and there found the house I lived in in 1973-74 – I rented the front room on the second floor, friends rented the other two bedrooms, and we shared the kitchen and bathroom. It was a joyful commune. British John made Guinness in a garbage can in the bathroom; if you went in there at night, you had to turn on the bathroom light and wait until the cockroaches ran away before entering.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Ah youth. I was sad to see what they’ve done to Mirvish Village up the street, rows of lovely old houses with shops, restaurants, bookstores and galleries – all being smashed for more condos. The city is a madhouse of construction, scores of massive skyscraping condos going up everywhere, noise, drilling, smashing, trucks. Hateful.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">My aunt is still in hospital. It breaks my heart to talk to her every day, to know she’s stuck in there. I’m going in a few weeks but wish I lived closer. And children still stuck in a cave in Thailand, and in detention in the States - I can't bear to think about it. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Okay, the positive – I stopped at Harbord Bakery on the way home for the first time in years – I used to come here regularly when I had a car. Everything everywhere is changing, but not this place – exactly the same for decades, with the same people running it and serving. Very reassuring. And nearby Good For Her, a sex shop for women; I popped in to take a look - so startling, it made me laugh, rows of different sizes of rubber penises in interesting colours. A unique experience. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">The terrible heat has broken – it’s much milder and breezy, beautiful. My son was over for a bit, my dear friend Isabel Huggan came for dinner, the little guys are coming tomorrow. All is well. I just need to let it go. Let it go. Kander and Ebb should write a song. </span></div>
July 6, 2018
Dad in his labcoat
Maybe 1954? Chased out of the States by McCarthy. Lucky Canada.And another gift on this special day - a truly beautiful TED talk by Lidia Yuknavitch, a fabulous woman.
https://www.ted.com/talks/lidia_yuknavitch_the_beauty_of_being_a_misfit#t-766537
thinking of my father
We are back to glorious summer, fresh, clear, breezy - sweet soft scent. Heaven.
Today, July 6 2018, it is 30 years since my father died. July 6 1988, early in the morning, in his own bed in their beautiful home in Edmonton, my mother holding him in her arms as I held her in mine. As I've written, at the moment of his death, I felt his soul fly out the window, and I felt part of him return and enter me. I felt his spirit enter me.
I just wrote to my brother that if Dad were still alive today, what is going on in the world would kill him. This is a man who thought Richard Nixon was as vile a human being as it was possible to be, the worst president imaginable. What a surprise lay in store for the world.
I'll try to find a picture of him to post, at some point.
Ryerson only ended on Wednesday; now my summer really begins. Well, except for seeing editing clients, my garden writing workshop in a few weeks, and of course, my own writing work. And all the rest.
Because I've been feeling crabby and put upon, I'd like to share a few delightful photos with you. I give you John and Paul: the early days, juvenile delinquents in the making. For your summer pleasure. And, need I say, mine.
And here's my favourite teddy boy:
I guess we were all that young once.
Sigh.
Today, July 6 2018, it is 30 years since my father died. July 6 1988, early in the morning, in his own bed in their beautiful home in Edmonton, my mother holding him in her arms as I held her in mine. As I've written, at the moment of his death, I felt his soul fly out the window, and I felt part of him return and enter me. I felt his spirit enter me.
I just wrote to my brother that if Dad were still alive today, what is going on in the world would kill him. This is a man who thought Richard Nixon was as vile a human being as it was possible to be, the worst president imaginable. What a surprise lay in store for the world.
I'll try to find a picture of him to post, at some point.
Ryerson only ended on Wednesday; now my summer really begins. Well, except for seeing editing clients, my garden writing workshop in a few weeks, and of course, my own writing work. And all the rest.
Because I've been feeling crabby and put upon, I'd like to share a few delightful photos with you. I give you John and Paul: the early days, juvenile delinquents in the making. For your summer pleasure. And, need I say, mine.
And here's my favourite teddy boy:
I guess we were all that young once.Sigh.
July 4, 2018
old loves
Once upon a time, I was madly in love with this guy.
He was 16 and I was 15. I'd spent almost 4 years in a school with only girls when I walked into the classroom of the Halifax Grammar School, a private boys' school that had just gone co-ed, to find 16 16-year old boys and 2 other girls. It was mayhem. The boys were not happy to have girls in the class, and the teasing was brutal. As those of you who've read "All My Loving" can attest, I was a hot bath of hormones, ready to move on from Paul McCartney to a real boy, with 16 to choose from.
I chose him - tall, athletic, handsome, aggressively self-confident and macho, head of the students council and a hockey player - the least likely guy for me in the class. Later I understood - I was desperate to love but terrified of the reality of a relationship, so perhaps I chose the boy least likely to engage back. In any case, I spent that year adoring but also fighting with him about the Vietnam War, which he approved of. And then my family moved.
Many years later, my ex encountered him during a business venture in New York and knew exactly who he was - or had been, at 16 - from my stories. And then he read my book and encountered his young self and how I'd felt back then. He said he was floored, that he'd had no idea.
So last night, during what he said was a nostalgia trip to Canada, he and his wife took me out to dinner. I dug out our yearbook, which most of the class had signed for me, much of it juvenile and startlingly sexist - what we put up with in 1966! One guy wrote, "Roses are red, violets are blue, Beth's shoulders are blue, after I'm all through!" This guy wrote, "The people who criticize society are those who cannot get into it." My English teacher wrote, "Best wishes to one of the lights of my life." He opened the door to "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock" and was one of the lights of mine.
My friend and I had a grand catch-up, though it made me sorry to find out he has not moved on in his politics and unapologetically voted for Trump. ("I voted for Obama twice," he told me. "Big disappointment.") So we spent the evening arguing, just like the old days.
His wife, his third, is wonderful - kind, interesting, thoughtful. I was astounded to find out she dated the poet Billy Collins and went with him once to George Plimpton's house on the East Side. Now that's royalty! No idea how she voted. But my friend is very happily in love with this woman and she with him. And it's good to know people of different political stripes, especially ones that go back more than 50 years.
Speaking of old old love - the excitement is great already. Macca is coming to Canada in September! To Montreal! I've already booked my flight and I don't even have a concert ticket yet; they go on sale next week. He's 76; how much longer can he do this? It will be my beloved friend Lynn's last night in Montreal before she flies back to France, so she'll be there with me.
Old love, old friends, the music of the still-beating heart.
He was 16 and I was 15. I'd spent almost 4 years in a school with only girls when I walked into the classroom of the Halifax Grammar School, a private boys' school that had just gone co-ed, to find 16 16-year old boys and 2 other girls. It was mayhem. The boys were not happy to have girls in the class, and the teasing was brutal. As those of you who've read "All My Loving" can attest, I was a hot bath of hormones, ready to move on from Paul McCartney to a real boy, with 16 to choose from.I chose him - tall, athletic, handsome, aggressively self-confident and macho, head of the students council and a hockey player - the least likely guy for me in the class. Later I understood - I was desperate to love but terrified of the reality of a relationship, so perhaps I chose the boy least likely to engage back. In any case, I spent that year adoring but also fighting with him about the Vietnam War, which he approved of. And then my family moved.
Many years later, my ex encountered him during a business venture in New York and knew exactly who he was - or had been, at 16 - from my stories. And then he read my book and encountered his young self and how I'd felt back then. He said he was floored, that he'd had no idea.
So last night, during what he said was a nostalgia trip to Canada, he and his wife took me out to dinner. I dug out our yearbook, which most of the class had signed for me, much of it juvenile and startlingly sexist - what we put up with in 1966! One guy wrote, "Roses are red, violets are blue, Beth's shoulders are blue, after I'm all through!" This guy wrote, "The people who criticize society are those who cannot get into it." My English teacher wrote, "Best wishes to one of the lights of my life." He opened the door to "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock" and was one of the lights of mine.
My friend and I had a grand catch-up, though it made me sorry to find out he has not moved on in his politics and unapologetically voted for Trump. ("I voted for Obama twice," he told me. "Big disappointment.") So we spent the evening arguing, just like the old days.
His wife, his third, is wonderful - kind, interesting, thoughtful. I was astounded to find out she dated the poet Billy Collins and went with him once to George Plimpton's house on the East Side. Now that's royalty! No idea how she voted. But my friend is very happily in love with this woman and she with him. And it's good to know people of different political stripes, especially ones that go back more than 50 years.Speaking of old old love - the excitement is great already. Macca is coming to Canada in September! To Montreal! I've already booked my flight and I don't even have a concert ticket yet; they go on sale next week. He's 76; how much longer can he do this? It will be my beloved friend Lynn's last night in Montreal before she flies back to France, so she'll be there with me.
Old love, old friends, the music of the still-beating heart.
July 1, 2018
hope on Canada Day
https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/29/arts/television/alexandria-ocasio-cortez-interview-stephen-colbert.html
Meet Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, a fabulous young woman.
And then scroll down and watch Jon Stewart. My, I miss him.
More hope: my cousin Barbara and her husband Dan at the march yesterday in Washington against Trump's immigration policies. It's her fifth anti-Trump march, and she said there were more young people there than ever before. Her sign says, "Cruelty is NOT strength."
Another fabulous young woman on the march - my daughter went to a rally today in support of indigenous rights.
So - let's keep our spirits up.
I had a long talk with lots of laughter with a fabulous old woman, my 98-year old aunt Do, still in hospital. How can we get her out? And - my doorbell just rang. It was Megann Willson, who is running to represent this riding in the fall election. She's terrific and on the ball, and I'm throwing an event for her in September so my neighbours can meet her. I told her to check out Alexandria, above. We're on the move. May the forces of kindness and decency, at last, prevail.
Happy Canada Day to you all, Canadian or no. Our country has its flaws, but oh, how incredibly lucky we are to live here.
Meet Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, a fabulous young woman.
And then scroll down and watch Jon Stewart. My, I miss him.
More hope: my cousin Barbara and her husband Dan at the march yesterday in Washington against Trump's immigration policies. It's her fifth anti-Trump march, and she said there were more young people there than ever before. Her sign says, "Cruelty is NOT strength."
Another fabulous young woman on the march - my daughter went to a rally today in support of indigenous rights.So - let's keep our spirits up.
I had a long talk with lots of laughter with a fabulous old woman, my 98-year old aunt Do, still in hospital. How can we get her out? And - my doorbell just rang. It was Megann Willson, who is running to represent this riding in the fall election. She's terrific and on the ball, and I'm throwing an event for her in September so my neighbours can meet her. I told her to check out Alexandria, above. We're on the move. May the forces of kindness and decency, at last, prevail.
Happy Canada Day to you all, Canadian or no. Our country has its flaws, but oh, how incredibly lucky we are to live here.
June 30, 2018
Exactly!
Further to what I was saying ...
June 29, 2018
"The Dead Husband Project"
I'm not in a good frame of mind these days, so will not bore you here for long. The world is dire, and I'm giving up on human nature, at least for now, as we slide into a time resembling the brutal, heartless, xenophobic 30's. Watching what's going on in the world is making me ill. And this is before Doug Ford begins to smash things in Ontario.
So what's the solution, since the world is not going to go away? Stop reading the news and FB and Twitter? Sure. As if. I'm a news junkie like everyone else. What has he done NOW? And then I watch Sam Bee, Bill Maher, and John Oliver for sarcastic commentary on it all. It's corroding my soul.
I'm in a bad mood generally; yesterday I alienated someone who'd spent a few hours helping me in the garden who has now quit, that's how crabby. I am deeply irritated at just about everything, in my mind justifiably so. And it's breath-suckingly hot out there, that doesn't help.
First world problems, I know, whining whining whining.
On the other hand, a treat on Wednesday, for the second last class of the Ryerson term: a student from at least 14 years ago, Sarah Meehan Sirk, came to speak about her book and her journey, and to give us a workshop on defeating the negative inner voices. She told us that my True to Life was the first writing class she'd ever taken; she took it 2 or 3 times and was so inspired she took other courses, ending up doing fiction at Humber, where a writer took her work to his agent who took it to publishers, who fought over who'd get to publish her; one gave her a two book deal. Her book of stories, "The Dead Husband Project," received rave reviews. I started it last night; the writing is superb. A two book deal. It is to dream.
I told the class, Sarah was not immediately the best writer in the class. There was another writer who was extremely gifted and had an extraordinary story to tell. But she didn't do the work; Sarah did. So talent is great, but perseverance - focus, confidence, dedication - are more than half the struggle.
Eli graduated from kindergarten this week. There was a ceremony, his class a heartening assortment of sizes, shapes, and colours.
And last night, the last home class of term, we sat outside on the deck listening to beautiful writing and powerful true stories, one of my favourite things to do. I know, I have nothing, nothing, nothing to complain about, except the state of the world, that people keep electing fascists.
Please read my friend Kerry Clare's powerful diatribe about the anti-choice movement, to the left. She finishes, "Abortion is the tip of the iceberg. It’s never been about fetuses—don’t you know that? It’s about controlling women, and limiting their freedom to make choices about their bodies and their lives. It’s the same impulse that tears a baby from her mother, and takes her away on a bus to a migrant camp. And I hope you will join me in resisting it at every single step."
I celebrate her fire and courage. Kerry will not for one minute give up the fight.
The raspberries are coming in. The roses are nearly done. The veggies are magnificent. And today, unlike Sarah, unlike Kerry, I am small and bent.
A picture of a cobra about to devour a mongoose:
So what's the solution, since the world is not going to go away? Stop reading the news and FB and Twitter? Sure. As if. I'm a news junkie like everyone else. What has he done NOW? And then I watch Sam Bee, Bill Maher, and John Oliver for sarcastic commentary on it all. It's corroding my soul.
I'm in a bad mood generally; yesterday I alienated someone who'd spent a few hours helping me in the garden who has now quit, that's how crabby. I am deeply irritated at just about everything, in my mind justifiably so. And it's breath-suckingly hot out there, that doesn't help.
First world problems, I know, whining whining whining.
On the other hand, a treat on Wednesday, for the second last class of the Ryerson term: a student from at least 14 years ago, Sarah Meehan Sirk, came to speak about her book and her journey, and to give us a workshop on defeating the negative inner voices. She told us that my True to Life was the first writing class she'd ever taken; she took it 2 or 3 times and was so inspired she took other courses, ending up doing fiction at Humber, where a writer took her work to his agent who took it to publishers, who fought over who'd get to publish her; one gave her a two book deal. Her book of stories, "The Dead Husband Project," received rave reviews. I started it last night; the writing is superb. A two book deal. It is to dream.
I told the class, Sarah was not immediately the best writer in the class. There was another writer who was extremely gifted and had an extraordinary story to tell. But she didn't do the work; Sarah did. So talent is great, but perseverance - focus, confidence, dedication - are more than half the struggle.
Eli graduated from kindergarten this week. There was a ceremony, his class a heartening assortment of sizes, shapes, and colours.
And last night, the last home class of term, we sat outside on the deck listening to beautiful writing and powerful true stories, one of my favourite things to do. I know, I have nothing, nothing, nothing to complain about, except the state of the world, that people keep electing fascists.
Please read my friend Kerry Clare's powerful diatribe about the anti-choice movement, to the left. She finishes, "Abortion is the tip of the iceberg. It’s never been about fetuses—don’t you know that? It’s about controlling women, and limiting their freedom to make choices about their bodies and their lives. It’s the same impulse that tears a baby from her mother, and takes her away on a bus to a migrant camp. And I hope you will join me in resisting it at every single step."
I celebrate her fire and courage. Kerry will not for one minute give up the fight.
The raspberries are coming in. The roses are nearly done. The veggies are magnificent. And today, unlike Sarah, unlike Kerry, I am small and bent.
A picture of a cobra about to devour a mongoose:
