Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 124
June 25, 2018
Magnetic Fields: 50 song memoir
Everybody on earth sent me the Macca video - thanks to you all, dear friends, for thinking of me! Chris from Gabriola brought me great joy when he wrote, "I’ve never cared much about the Beatles or any one of them. I didn’t have the gene, but that carpool karaoke thing was so moving and wonderful. I was just smitten with your Paul thought the whole thing. It was a wonderful bit. I loved loved loved it."
It makes me happy that the world is finally discovering the worth of this brilliant, unknown musician who deserves attention.
LOL
And, more happiness, the roses and clematis are showing off again.
All in all, Anna's young guests completed 11 gorgeous pictures to send to immigrant children held in Texas - and then she persuaded her own kids to part with some of their stuffies to send too. The news continues to be mesmerizing in its hideousness; have we ever spent so much time checking to see if the planet is going to explode? A combination of Trump and social media. What a team.
Too bad it was grey and wet all weekend for the mad Pride celebrations, and today is glorious again - sweet and mild. Oh well, my gay brothers and sisters know how to party, rain or no rain.
But I myself, on the wet weekend, was fraught. Sometimes it's like I'm in a small boat, a fragile coracle on the high seas, and I'm hanging on for dear life. There was a huge battle about the renovation plans between the woman who did the original designs and the man who's doing the official plan to take to the city. She went berserk when she saw what he'd done, accusing him of undercutting and humiliating her because he didn't do exactly what she intended. He said her work was not to code. I was caught in the middle as the emails flew - she is a dear friend of my dear friend John, and the guy is an expensive professional whom I don't know, so I sided with her.
Wrong. Her work was not to code.
A whole day in a frenzy, with angry upper case messages going back and forth and me feeling sick and confused. This reno won't start for months and already it has worn me out. More today - John came over and we sawed and smashed something to see if it supports a beam or if we can remove it. Sawing and smashing - not how I usually spend my days. And we still don't know.
In the middle of all this, Auntie Do landed in hospital. Apparently she had a bladder infection, didn't take her meds and didn't eat properly, was taken to hospital by a friend, and there she remains. They have now discovered she has a fracture of her vertebrae of which she was unaware. 98 and not going quite so strong. It was good to talk to her today and remind her that Wimbledon is starting; I hope she can get it on her TV, it will keep her alive.
More Luminato the other night - "Magnetic Fields, A 50 song memoir." Stephin Merritt is a singer/songwriter who has written a song for each year of his life, sounded like my kind of show. I should have done some research before going - it turns out he's a cult figure, an underground musician of sorts, and the audience was full of adoring fans. I found a terrific set, a kind of memory palace jammed with old toys and interesting things and surrounded by musicians with myriad instruments ...
...but in the middle Stephin, a lugubrious fellow singing the most depressing songs. And hard to understand, when the whole point was the lyrics. Perhaps his fans already knew the words. He was so low-key and withdrawn, I left at intermission, but at home, found a fabulous song of his (with lyrics) that made me laugh out loud. Do listen - I'm sure you'll love it too. A good laugh is SO needed these days.
https://www.theguardian.com/music/2017/mar/09/magnetic-fields-50-song-memoir-review-nonesuch-stephin-merritt
And finally, my son was visiting a young friend attending Rosedale Heights School of the Arts, Sam's alma mater, and when he flipped through this year's yearbook, he found moi.
I gave a talk there last year on an anniversary of the school, and I'm in the yearbook with the principal. Freaked out my poor son. Boychik, yo mama in her little coracle is everywhere!
It makes me happy that the world is finally discovering the worth of this brilliant, unknown musician who deserves attention.
LOL
And, more happiness, the roses and clematis are showing off again.
All in all, Anna's young guests completed 11 gorgeous pictures to send to immigrant children held in Texas - and then she persuaded her own kids to part with some of their stuffies to send too. The news continues to be mesmerizing in its hideousness; have we ever spent so much time checking to see if the planet is going to explode? A combination of Trump and social media. What a team.Too bad it was grey and wet all weekend for the mad Pride celebrations, and today is glorious again - sweet and mild. Oh well, my gay brothers and sisters know how to party, rain or no rain.
But I myself, on the wet weekend, was fraught. Sometimes it's like I'm in a small boat, a fragile coracle on the high seas, and I'm hanging on for dear life. There was a huge battle about the renovation plans between the woman who did the original designs and the man who's doing the official plan to take to the city. She went berserk when she saw what he'd done, accusing him of undercutting and humiliating her because he didn't do exactly what she intended. He said her work was not to code. I was caught in the middle as the emails flew - she is a dear friend of my dear friend John, and the guy is an expensive professional whom I don't know, so I sided with her.
Wrong. Her work was not to code.
A whole day in a frenzy, with angry upper case messages going back and forth and me feeling sick and confused. This reno won't start for months and already it has worn me out. More today - John came over and we sawed and smashed something to see if it supports a beam or if we can remove it. Sawing and smashing - not how I usually spend my days. And we still don't know.
In the middle of all this, Auntie Do landed in hospital. Apparently she had a bladder infection, didn't take her meds and didn't eat properly, was taken to hospital by a friend, and there she remains. They have now discovered she has a fracture of her vertebrae of which she was unaware. 98 and not going quite so strong. It was good to talk to her today and remind her that Wimbledon is starting; I hope she can get it on her TV, it will keep her alive.
More Luminato the other night - "Magnetic Fields, A 50 song memoir." Stephin Merritt is a singer/songwriter who has written a song for each year of his life, sounded like my kind of show. I should have done some research before going - it turns out he's a cult figure, an underground musician of sorts, and the audience was full of adoring fans. I found a terrific set, a kind of memory palace jammed with old toys and interesting things and surrounded by musicians with myriad instruments ...
...but in the middle Stephin, a lugubrious fellow singing the most depressing songs. And hard to understand, when the whole point was the lyrics. Perhaps his fans already knew the words. He was so low-key and withdrawn, I left at intermission, but at home, found a fabulous song of his (with lyrics) that made me laugh out loud. Do listen - I'm sure you'll love it too. A good laugh is SO needed these days.https://www.theguardian.com/music/2017/mar/09/magnetic-fields-50-song-memoir-review-nonesuch-stephin-merritt
And finally, my son was visiting a young friend attending Rosedale Heights School of the Arts, Sam's alma mater, and when he flipped through this year's yearbook, he found moi.
I gave a talk there last year on an anniversary of the school, and I'm in the yearbook with the principal. Freaked out my poor son. Boychik, yo mama in her little coracle is everywhere!
June 23, 2018
pictures for children in cages in Texas
Anna is hosting a group of kids at her house this dark, rainy morning. She told them what is happening to children just like them at the U.S. southern border, the cages and separation from parents, and asked them to draw pictures to send to the imprisoned children.
And they did.
This is how young people learn to think about others, to be aware of the bigger picture and of just how lucky they are. No more valuable lesson possible. It is a drop in the bucket, but to me, it is a very, very big drop.
Nos querimos mucho a ustedes. We feel super bad for you. We love you guys. Sincerely Noah.
Happy Pride weekend to all my gay friends. Sorry about the weather, but I know your festivities will be joyful nonetheless. We love you guys.
And they did.
This is how young people learn to think about others, to be aware of the bigger picture and of just how lucky they are. No more valuable lesson possible. It is a drop in the bucket, but to me, it is a very, very big drop.
Nos querimos mucho a ustedes. We feel super bad for you. We love you guys. Sincerely Noah.Happy Pride weekend to all my gay friends. Sorry about the weather, but I know your festivities will be joyful nonetheless. We love you guys.
June 22, 2018
Carpool karaoke with Macca
Weeping with joy. So jealous of those lucky people who were there. Check out the size of the rooms in his childhood home! Love love love.
https://www.facebook.com/PaulMcCartney/videos/2262601487089867/UzpfSTY4OTA4NjU3NjoxMDE1NTMzNjQ1MTI2MTU3Nw/
https://www.facebook.com/PaulMcCartney/videos/2262601487089867/UzpfSTY4OTA4NjU3NjoxMDE1NTMzNjQ1MTI2MTU3Nw/
Burning Doors - Belarus Free Theatre
8 a.m. and the sweet garden air wafting into the kitchen makes me swoon. The whole city, as I bike around, smells like jasmine. Beautiful days, sunny but not too hot with a cool breeze.
So it was hard to leave the pleasures of the garden and go to the theatre last night, especially as I had an inkling of what awaited at "Burning Doors", a Luminato show from Russia. Well, no, performed in Russian but from Belarus - the Belarus Free Theatre, "the only theatre company in Europe banned by its government on political grounds." This, not surprisingly, is a play about repression and imprisonment of artists, about rage and protest and the meaning of freedom. One of the actors was a member of the famed Pussy Riot.
Years ago, I invented the term "theatre of mess" for productions in which, when directors aren't sure what to do, they get actors or designers to toss stuff around and wreak havoc. Last night, we saw a kind of theatre I call "theatre of torture." To show us the horror of having to live under an authoritarian, repressive regime, this director tortured his impressive, incredibly dedicated actors in myriad ways. They were strung up by pulleys, one by her neck, others naked - in fact, they were often naked, both men and women. They wrestled each other into exhaustion, screamed at each other until I was sure their voices were gone. How they survive doing that show after show is incomprehensible.
So fun it was not, on a beautiful June night. It was at once the most physical and the most cerebral of experiences, as only a Russian production could be - long passages quoted from Dostoyevsky or Foucault, or from the interrogation of a dissident artist (after which, we learned, the interrogator quit his job and became a defence lawyer for dissidents!) - long arguments about philosophical or political issues of which I had the barest understanding, followed by more wrestling, leaping, crawling, hanging.
At the end, we were told about the imprisoned Ukrainian filmmaker Sentsov, who is extremely ill after a hunger strike, and learned that one of the musicians who'd composed the brutal score, and journalist Masha Gessen, were in the audience, and there was going to be a discussion. I confess that I escaped into the perfumed night of downtown Toronto, where we have massive problems, but we are not torturing our artists. Or, most of the time, our audiences. I hugely admire this group's ideals and their ferocious, unrelenting commitment.
(And remembered seeing Mikhail Baryshnikov performing the poetry of Brodsky a few months ago; this is the second show I've seen performed in Russian THIS YEAR. What a city.)
Last week another kind of protest, the documentary "Women, Art, Revolution", about the struggles of women artists in the U.S. for recognition. It was scattered and overlong, with a narrow focus, not one mention of another country, another set of female artists anywhere else in the world.
On Tuesday, dinner with two great women artists who were not protesting anything - Jessica and Suzette, friends since university days in Ottawa, one a curator and impresario of modern art, the other a successful and very busy screenwriter. Jessica and her photographer husband Geoffrey sold their big Victorian house last year and moved to a modern condo just built a few doors down, with a roof deck that gives a panoramic view of the city and the lake beyond. We ate, drank, and talked under a vista of limitless sky that I, the inner city mole, rarely get to see, as the sun set and light glinted red in distant skyscraper windows.
This week, the news was especially unbearable. My daughter has been distraught, in tears, as more photos emerged of imprisoned children and even babies. She is organizing an event to take place Saturday and will still take place, despite Trump's change of ... can't call it heart since there isn't one ... or mind either, for that matter. Change of direction. She has invited everyone to her house to create art and letters for the children, to send to the detention centres in Texas and elsewhere. Messages of support with words from grownups, pictures from children. I don't know what else to do, she said.
We try to make a difference in our different ways - the Belarus Free Theatre with violent, powerful theatre, my daughter with hospitality, generosity, and love. May you find your way to make a difference today.
So it was hard to leave the pleasures of the garden and go to the theatre last night, especially as I had an inkling of what awaited at "Burning Doors", a Luminato show from Russia. Well, no, performed in Russian but from Belarus - the Belarus Free Theatre, "the only theatre company in Europe banned by its government on political grounds." This, not surprisingly, is a play about repression and imprisonment of artists, about rage and protest and the meaning of freedom. One of the actors was a member of the famed Pussy Riot.
Years ago, I invented the term "theatre of mess" for productions in which, when directors aren't sure what to do, they get actors or designers to toss stuff around and wreak havoc. Last night, we saw a kind of theatre I call "theatre of torture." To show us the horror of having to live under an authoritarian, repressive regime, this director tortured his impressive, incredibly dedicated actors in myriad ways. They were strung up by pulleys, one by her neck, others naked - in fact, they were often naked, both men and women. They wrestled each other into exhaustion, screamed at each other until I was sure their voices were gone. How they survive doing that show after show is incomprehensible.
So fun it was not, on a beautiful June night. It was at once the most physical and the most cerebral of experiences, as only a Russian production could be - long passages quoted from Dostoyevsky or Foucault, or from the interrogation of a dissident artist (after which, we learned, the interrogator quit his job and became a defence lawyer for dissidents!) - long arguments about philosophical or political issues of which I had the barest understanding, followed by more wrestling, leaping, crawling, hanging.
At the end, we were told about the imprisoned Ukrainian filmmaker Sentsov, who is extremely ill after a hunger strike, and learned that one of the musicians who'd composed the brutal score, and journalist Masha Gessen, were in the audience, and there was going to be a discussion. I confess that I escaped into the perfumed night of downtown Toronto, where we have massive problems, but we are not torturing our artists. Or, most of the time, our audiences. I hugely admire this group's ideals and their ferocious, unrelenting commitment.
(And remembered seeing Mikhail Baryshnikov performing the poetry of Brodsky a few months ago; this is the second show I've seen performed in Russian THIS YEAR. What a city.)
Last week another kind of protest, the documentary "Women, Art, Revolution", about the struggles of women artists in the U.S. for recognition. It was scattered and overlong, with a narrow focus, not one mention of another country, another set of female artists anywhere else in the world.
On Tuesday, dinner with two great women artists who were not protesting anything - Jessica and Suzette, friends since university days in Ottawa, one a curator and impresario of modern art, the other a successful and very busy screenwriter. Jessica and her photographer husband Geoffrey sold their big Victorian house last year and moved to a modern condo just built a few doors down, with a roof deck that gives a panoramic view of the city and the lake beyond. We ate, drank, and talked under a vista of limitless sky that I, the inner city mole, rarely get to see, as the sun set and light glinted red in distant skyscraper windows.
This week, the news was especially unbearable. My daughter has been distraught, in tears, as more photos emerged of imprisoned children and even babies. She is organizing an event to take place Saturday and will still take place, despite Trump's change of ... can't call it heart since there isn't one ... or mind either, for that matter. Change of direction. She has invited everyone to her house to create art and letters for the children, to send to the detention centres in Texas and elsewhere. Messages of support with words from grownups, pictures from children. I don't know what else to do, she said.
We try to make a difference in our different ways - the Belarus Free Theatre with violent, powerful theatre, my daughter with hospitality, generosity, and love. May you find your way to make a difference today.
June 19, 2018
Write in the Garden July 22
Out of the blue, received the most wonderful email from a young student reading the 60's memoir. Must share.
I just began All My Loving this evening and had to stop to write to you because of how much I’m enjoying it already. I’m only 10 pages in but I’m laughing so hard I’m on the verge of an asthma attack! I’m not exaggerating. It reminds me of stories my mom would tell me about her love for the Beatles. It also reminds me of my own adolescent obsession with Hanson. I can remember that same moment when my young mind exploded and I was never the same again. You’ve captured that so well.
Thrilling. Even as I struggle to rewrite the new memoir for the 87th time, it helps to remember that it's all worth it if one person, and maybe even more than one, actually enjoys what we do. And speaking of enjoying what we do, I watched the inimitable David Sedaris being interviewed on Steve Paikin's TVO show last night. He's extraordinary - funny, loveable, yet willing to tell horrible stories about himself. Students, listen to what he says about not being able for years to write about his mother's drinking because he didn't have enough distance. Wounds and scars.
https://tvo.org/video/programs/the-agenda-with-steve-paikin/growing-up-sedaris
And - further to that - if YOU want to write a memoir that has readers gasping for breath, if YOU want to be witty and warm while being interviewed by Steve Paikin, here's a good place to start! Only a few places left.
I just began All My Loving this evening and had to stop to write to you because of how much I’m enjoying it already. I’m only 10 pages in but I’m laughing so hard I’m on the verge of an asthma attack! I’m not exaggerating. It reminds me of stories my mom would tell me about her love for the Beatles. It also reminds me of my own adolescent obsession with Hanson. I can remember that same moment when my young mind exploded and I was never the same again. You’ve captured that so well.
Thrilling. Even as I struggle to rewrite the new memoir for the 87th time, it helps to remember that it's all worth it if one person, and maybe even more than one, actually enjoys what we do. And speaking of enjoying what we do, I watched the inimitable David Sedaris being interviewed on Steve Paikin's TVO show last night. He's extraordinary - funny, loveable, yet willing to tell horrible stories about himself. Students, listen to what he says about not being able for years to write about his mother's drinking because he didn't have enough distance. Wounds and scars.
https://tvo.org/video/programs/the-agenda-with-steve-paikin/growing-up-sedaris
And - further to that - if YOU want to write a memoir that has readers gasping for breath, if YOU want to be witty and warm while being interviewed by Steve Paikin, here's a good place to start! Only a few places left.
June 18, 2018
one of those days, including the police
A writer friend said recently, if you posted fewer blogs, Beth, you might get more of your own writing done.
Amazing how sensible people can be when they're not you. She's right. So I am trying to hold back JUST A LITTLE here, because I do have lots of work to do. But now I'm behind in the blog. Here goes:
Last week I volunteered to sit at our Creative Nonfiction Collective's table at the annual huge writers' summit at Harbourfront. Wonderful to see and meet so many writers, and that evening, to be given a ticket to hear the marvellous Tomson Highway deliver the keynote address. His talk was hilarious, profound, moving; I hope they publish it. He talked about how little CanLit existed before 1970, and of course nothing from indigenous Canadians, and how quickly that changed. To paraphrase, "Before, people were only getting murdered in London and Paris; afterward, people were getting murdered in Moose Jaw!"
He talked about the vibrancy of the Cree language - how English is a language of the head and French of the heart, but Cree encompasses the whole body and laughter, the same message Lee Maracle gave us last month. I believe them, but still, as a person who speaks English and French but apparently is missing a good part of her body, I am sorry. Because it often feels to me as if I'm all there, but obviously not.
On Saturday night, I was awake for hours with ideas flying, kept jotting cryptic notes in the notebook by my bed. What came to me, among other things, was a new opening for the memoir; the knowledge that I had to call the police about my Little Free Library, and that it was time to sell my parents' solid teak sheet music cabinet, which is bulky and I do not need. So with list in hand, this morning, I began.
Explanation: I have a Little Free Library outside the house, a wonderful community resource, many people a day stopping to put in a book or to take one out. But for months, I'd go by and find it completely empty - denuded. Someone had scooped out every book, including kids' books, computer manuals, everything. And it was also happening to my neighbour Gina's library up the street. Bit by bit we heard a rumour - it was a man who lived in the rooming house up the street. Yesterday, I called the police and left a detailed message. This afternoon, a young couple who live in the rooming house went by with their pitbull (as I was loading the music cabinet into the car of the lovely elderly couple who'd just bought it, yes, it happened that fast) and confirmed that it's indeed a man from their building; they gave me his name and room number, told me his room and the whole landing of the house is piled high with books.
The police got in touch today and went to the house. The man was out, but sure enough, the cop said, there are books everywhere. The guy is violent and abusive, and his dogs were recently taken away by the Humane Society - not a guy we want on Sackville Street. They are going to give him an order not to go near my library and possibly get him evicted as a fire hazard. Hopefully, our libraries can go back to being the fine resources they were.
Relief!
In the middle of all that, today I had a nearly two hour computer seminar from a fantastic computer guy - if you need a nice expert who makes house calls, let me know. I am in an ongoing battle with the strange fellow who's doing the plans for the renovation. A family member got in touch and blithely said he's arriving tomorrow for a quick visit, let's have dinner Wednesday, he said; I teach Wednesday. It was breath-suckingly hot and there were two monumental downpours that had me outside afterward to make sure my garden had survived.
And more. Yesterday I met Megann Willson who is running to represent this riding municipally; she came to the house to meet me and talk about what I think is needed in the city and the riding, and what she can offer. I liked her a lot. Go Megann! Today I figured out how to send a MailChimp mailing to over 300 former students but sent it out with the wrong title. And that's not to mention what else was coming in via email - requests for writing advice, a misunderstood student, devastating news about children in cages.
On the plus side, today is Macca's 76th birthday.
So. My neck is rigid with tension. Some days, it feels like I'm standing with my bat in front of a pitching machine, and the balls keep coming straight at me, hard. All I can do is try to whack and duck. Today, I have to say, I whacked and ducked like a champ.
Amazing how sensible people can be when they're not you. She's right. So I am trying to hold back JUST A LITTLE here, because I do have lots of work to do. But now I'm behind in the blog. Here goes:
Last week I volunteered to sit at our Creative Nonfiction Collective's table at the annual huge writers' summit at Harbourfront. Wonderful to see and meet so many writers, and that evening, to be given a ticket to hear the marvellous Tomson Highway deliver the keynote address. His talk was hilarious, profound, moving; I hope they publish it. He talked about how little CanLit existed before 1970, and of course nothing from indigenous Canadians, and how quickly that changed. To paraphrase, "Before, people were only getting murdered in London and Paris; afterward, people were getting murdered in Moose Jaw!"
He talked about the vibrancy of the Cree language - how English is a language of the head and French of the heart, but Cree encompasses the whole body and laughter, the same message Lee Maracle gave us last month. I believe them, but still, as a person who speaks English and French but apparently is missing a good part of her body, I am sorry. Because it often feels to me as if I'm all there, but obviously not.
On Saturday night, I was awake for hours with ideas flying, kept jotting cryptic notes in the notebook by my bed. What came to me, among other things, was a new opening for the memoir; the knowledge that I had to call the police about my Little Free Library, and that it was time to sell my parents' solid teak sheet music cabinet, which is bulky and I do not need. So with list in hand, this morning, I began.
Explanation: I have a Little Free Library outside the house, a wonderful community resource, many people a day stopping to put in a book or to take one out. But for months, I'd go by and find it completely empty - denuded. Someone had scooped out every book, including kids' books, computer manuals, everything. And it was also happening to my neighbour Gina's library up the street. Bit by bit we heard a rumour - it was a man who lived in the rooming house up the street. Yesterday, I called the police and left a detailed message. This afternoon, a young couple who live in the rooming house went by with their pitbull (as I was loading the music cabinet into the car of the lovely elderly couple who'd just bought it, yes, it happened that fast) and confirmed that it's indeed a man from their building; they gave me his name and room number, told me his room and the whole landing of the house is piled high with books.
The police got in touch today and went to the house. The man was out, but sure enough, the cop said, there are books everywhere. The guy is violent and abusive, and his dogs were recently taken away by the Humane Society - not a guy we want on Sackville Street. They are going to give him an order not to go near my library and possibly get him evicted as a fire hazard. Hopefully, our libraries can go back to being the fine resources they were.
Relief!
In the middle of all that, today I had a nearly two hour computer seminar from a fantastic computer guy - if you need a nice expert who makes house calls, let me know. I am in an ongoing battle with the strange fellow who's doing the plans for the renovation. A family member got in touch and blithely said he's arriving tomorrow for a quick visit, let's have dinner Wednesday, he said; I teach Wednesday. It was breath-suckingly hot and there were two monumental downpours that had me outside afterward to make sure my garden had survived.
And more. Yesterday I met Megann Willson who is running to represent this riding municipally; she came to the house to meet me and talk about what I think is needed in the city and the riding, and what she can offer. I liked her a lot. Go Megann! Today I figured out how to send a MailChimp mailing to over 300 former students but sent it out with the wrong title. And that's not to mention what else was coming in via email - requests for writing advice, a misunderstood student, devastating news about children in cages.
On the plus side, today is Macca's 76th birthday.
So. My neck is rigid with tension. Some days, it feels like I'm standing with my bat in front of a pitching machine, and the balls keep coming straight at me, hard. All I can do is try to whack and duck. Today, I have to say, I whacked and ducked like a champ.
June 14, 2018
Paul Simon: bravo
First, I gather from some of you, who used to automatically receive this blog in your email inbox when I post, that the link no longer works. Not sure why that is; another of life's great mysteries, along with the sound of some rodent creature, I think, gnawing its way through the kitchen ceiling that I heard to my horror yesterday morning and then that vanished. Mysteries! I'm seeing a computer guy about this and many other issues on Monday, so hope to have your posts restored.
As for the mystery rodent - stay tuned.
So - the Paul Simon concert Tuesday night: only superlatives. I understood the term "wall of sound" - he had 15 superb musicians on stage with him, every one of them adept at many things - backup vocals, trumpet, violin, flute, many kinds of guitar, many kinds of keyboards, two drummers. A musical phalanx, supporting this tiny man and his parade of brilliant beloved songs: Homeward bound, Kodachrome, Bridge over troubled water, Graceland, Still crazy after all these years, Me and Julio, 50 ways to leave your lover, The boxer, American tune, Mother and child reunion, Slip slidin' away...
And the sophisticated, lovely, quirky Rene and Georgette Magritte and their dog after the war, which was played with his musicians gathered around him in a kind of string quartet.
The most infectious was Diamonds on the soles of her shoes that segued into Call me Al - two songs that make everyone want to get up and dance. Heaven. He ended the very long night - he sang for 2 1/2 hours and finished by himself, with an acoustic guitar - singing Sounds of Silence. I still have the album, one of my first, still a fave. In my diary, February 1968: "Went to see Simon and Garfinkle (sic) at Carleton." Fifty years later, there he was again.
I compared him, of course, to my Macca, a musical superstar of almost the same advanced age - a year younger, but similar powerful drive and agelessness. Macca has only four guys up there with him, and his songbook is much better known. So Tuesday's Paul can't hold a candle to MY Paul, but still, fabulous.
The Star today calls the pedestrian and cyclist slaughter in this city 'a state of emergency.' We'll see if anything is done, especially now that Doug Ford, Mr. War on the car is over, is in power. What I think will change: absolutely nothing.
Photos for your enjoyment of some of my favourite males on the planet:
Are they married?
A Sunday drive through the garden.
And ... agreed!
As for the mystery rodent - stay tuned.
So - the Paul Simon concert Tuesday night: only superlatives. I understood the term "wall of sound" - he had 15 superb musicians on stage with him, every one of them adept at many things - backup vocals, trumpet, violin, flute, many kinds of guitar, many kinds of keyboards, two drummers. A musical phalanx, supporting this tiny man and his parade of brilliant beloved songs: Homeward bound, Kodachrome, Bridge over troubled water, Graceland, Still crazy after all these years, Me and Julio, 50 ways to leave your lover, The boxer, American tune, Mother and child reunion, Slip slidin' away...
And the sophisticated, lovely, quirky Rene and Georgette Magritte and their dog after the war, which was played with his musicians gathered around him in a kind of string quartet.
The most infectious was Diamonds on the soles of her shoes that segued into Call me Al - two songs that make everyone want to get up and dance. Heaven. He ended the very long night - he sang for 2 1/2 hours and finished by himself, with an acoustic guitar - singing Sounds of Silence. I still have the album, one of my first, still a fave. In my diary, February 1968: "Went to see Simon and Garfinkle (sic) at Carleton." Fifty years later, there he was again.
I compared him, of course, to my Macca, a musical superstar of almost the same advanced age - a year younger, but similar powerful drive and agelessness. Macca has only four guys up there with him, and his songbook is much better known. So Tuesday's Paul can't hold a candle to MY Paul, but still, fabulous.
The Star today calls the pedestrian and cyclist slaughter in this city 'a state of emergency.' We'll see if anything is done, especially now that Doug Ford, Mr. War on the car is over, is in power. What I think will change: absolutely nothing.
Photos for your enjoyment of some of my favourite males on the planet:
Are they married?
A Sunday drive through the garden.And ... agreed!
June 12, 2018
death on Bloor Street
A horrifying experience today - at noon, I was cycling merrily along Bloor Street on my way to U of T, congratulating the city on the newish bike lanes there, when, only a few hundreds yards from OISE where I teach on Tuesdays, I came upon a ghastly scene: ambulance, police, fire engines screaming in the distance, a crumpled bicycle, a helmet on the ground, a form covered with a yellow cloth, a paramedic unpacking a long canvas bag. A body bag.
I wept with shock and horror. The city and its drivers are slaughtering cyclists and pedestrians - careless driving, texting, speeding, lack of policing, lack of enough safe bicycle infrastructure. After class at 3, Bloor Street was still shut down. All we know is that the cyclist was a middle-aged woman struck by a truck which was turning. She must have been in the bike lane with her helmet on, just as I was. If I'd been there a few minutes earlier, it would have been me.
When I spoke later to a policeman nearby, he said, "It's happening too often." No kidding. "Cars and trucks go too fast," I said, and he nodded, but said, "The truck was turning, so speed may not have been an issue here." As I started to ride off, he said, "Be careful."
The issue here is that a woman got up on June 12 2018, put on her helmet, headed out on her trusty bike into this heavenly late spring day, and was killed. My ride home after class today was extra slow, and I was extra conscious of the sunshine, the smell of flowers and gasoline, the waft of wind, the warmth of sun on my skin, how lucky to still be here on this flawed, extraordinary planet.
The class itself was particularly meaningful, a group of brave students telling their deepest truths. Intense and inspiring.
Tonight, I go to see Paul Simon at the Air Canada Centre. The last tour of one of the best songwriters of his generation, second only to Bob Dylan and You Know Who.
On Sunday, I watched the Tony Awards, grateful to ever have been part of that dazzling world.
The first rose is out, the first (and only) peony, the lavender, the gardenia with seven gorgeous white blossoms wafting scent, the birds filling the garden with song - and I am alive to see and smell and hear and feel.
As the fridge magnet Wayson gave me says, "It doesn't get better than this."
While I celebrate life, I mourn you, dear fellow cyclist, and those who lost you today.
I wept with shock and horror. The city and its drivers are slaughtering cyclists and pedestrians - careless driving, texting, speeding, lack of policing, lack of enough safe bicycle infrastructure. After class at 3, Bloor Street was still shut down. All we know is that the cyclist was a middle-aged woman struck by a truck which was turning. She must have been in the bike lane with her helmet on, just as I was. If I'd been there a few minutes earlier, it would have been me.
When I spoke later to a policeman nearby, he said, "It's happening too often." No kidding. "Cars and trucks go too fast," I said, and he nodded, but said, "The truck was turning, so speed may not have been an issue here." As I started to ride off, he said, "Be careful."
The issue here is that a woman got up on June 12 2018, put on her helmet, headed out on her trusty bike into this heavenly late spring day, and was killed. My ride home after class today was extra slow, and I was extra conscious of the sunshine, the smell of flowers and gasoline, the waft of wind, the warmth of sun on my skin, how lucky to still be here on this flawed, extraordinary planet.
The class itself was particularly meaningful, a group of brave students telling their deepest truths. Intense and inspiring.
Tonight, I go to see Paul Simon at the Air Canada Centre. The last tour of one of the best songwriters of his generation, second only to Bob Dylan and You Know Who.
On Sunday, I watched the Tony Awards, grateful to ever have been part of that dazzling world.
The first rose is out, the first (and only) peony, the lavender, the gardenia with seven gorgeous white blossoms wafting scent, the birds filling the garden with song - and I am alive to see and smell and hear and feel.
As the fridge magnet Wayson gave me says, "It doesn't get better than this."
While I celebrate life, I mourn you, dear fellow cyclist, and those who lost you today.
June 8, 2018
PTSD
I awoke early this morning, saying to myself, Maybe it was all a dream, or a nightmare, not real at all. But no - there it is on the front page of the Star - "Premier Ford." Not a joke. Real.
So a day of recovery and sorrow for what awaits the people of this province - exactly what we've seen in the U.S., disaster for education, transit, health care, the environment, an endless succession of scandals. As I wrote to Anna, the only upside: Ford does not have any nuclear codes. Great comfort in that.
I feel sick and wounded, and not just because a whole party of cretins - including Mike Harris's son! - was just elected with a majority, and there are small bloody dots above my eyes. The news of Anthony Bourdain's suicide after the news of Kate Spade's. Somehow, I'm surprised and yet not, that wealthy, creative, outwardly successful people are depressed to the point of suicide. The world is fucked right now. It turns out that human beings are far more limited, tribal, and small-minded than we thought. Such needless chaos out there, it hurts to read the paper. I'd cancel it, except that I don't want to further damage the endangered print media.
There's a documentary on TVO tonight about Fred Rogers. That will make me feel better. Or maybe not. He's dead.
So a day of recovery and sorrow for what awaits the people of this province - exactly what we've seen in the U.S., disaster for education, transit, health care, the environment, an endless succession of scandals. As I wrote to Anna, the only upside: Ford does not have any nuclear codes. Great comfort in that.
I feel sick and wounded, and not just because a whole party of cretins - including Mike Harris's son! - was just elected with a majority, and there are small bloody dots above my eyes. The news of Anthony Bourdain's suicide after the news of Kate Spade's. Somehow, I'm surprised and yet not, that wealthy, creative, outwardly successful people are depressed to the point of suicide. The world is fucked right now. It turns out that human beings are far more limited, tribal, and small-minded than we thought. Such needless chaos out there, it hurts to read the paper. I'd cancel it, except that I don't want to further damage the endangered print media.
There's a documentary on TVO tonight about Fred Rogers. That will make me feel better. Or maybe not. He's dead.
June 7, 2018
The nightmare begins.
Hideous. Heartbreaking. The polls closed at 9; it's 10, and I've turned off the TV, can't bear to watch any more. We are going to have that gang of goons at Queen's Park. "The war on the car is over!"
At least my riding, which has been Liberal forever, voted in the NDP candidate. In fact, most if not all of downtown is NDP. The suburbs - solid blue. This for a party proudly without a platform headed by a bullying crooked former drug dealer with no provincial experience and facing a major lawsuit.
As my distraught daughter wrote earlier, "People are stupid!" And this is a woman who prides herself on not being judgmental. But sometimes, judgement is called for, and right now, no question, a majority of our fellow Ontarians are fucking stupid.
PS Anna on FB yesterday, telling it like it is to a right-wing nut:
Ford is a white supremacist and neo-nazi-endorsed (fucking literally) ex-drug dealing trust fund baby, bully and total creep tricking STUPID or intellectually lazy people with buzz words.
That's my girl.
P.S. All you need to know:
The Doug Ford campaign bus parked in an accessible spot reserved for the handicapped.
At least my riding, which has been Liberal forever, voted in the NDP candidate. In fact, most if not all of downtown is NDP. The suburbs - solid blue. This for a party proudly without a platform headed by a bullying crooked former drug dealer with no provincial experience and facing a major lawsuit.
As my distraught daughter wrote earlier, "People are stupid!" And this is a woman who prides herself on not being judgmental. But sometimes, judgement is called for, and right now, no question, a majority of our fellow Ontarians are fucking stupid.
PS Anna on FB yesterday, telling it like it is to a right-wing nut:
Ford is a white supremacist and neo-nazi-endorsed (fucking literally) ex-drug dealing trust fund baby, bully and total creep tricking STUPID or intellectually lazy people with buzz words.
That's my girl.
P.S. All you need to know:
The Doug Ford campaign bus parked in an accessible spot reserved for the handicapped.
