Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 131

So True readers triumph, again

So True! It was wonderful. I'm so proud of the writers. Here's what one first time reader emailed afterwards:
Still feeling "full" after a night of feasting on everyone's authentic, bold, well read writing. So grateful to have shared the stage and mic (not so scary after all!) with all of you. Thanks Beth for creating the space and for all the support to get us up there. Amazing.
And another first timer:
I had a wonderful evening, just thrilled to have been in the company of such a fine group of people. Your stories are all touching. 
And:
It was an honour and absolute pleasure to be a part of So True. Thank you Beth for this unique opportunity to share my story.

This time, we were nearly at capacity - maybe 70 people plus our 8 readers. If we get any bigger, we'll have to find another space, and we really like this one.
The next So True isn't until October; this particular May and June are too busy for me to be able to devote the time to our usual late spring session. Our autumn topic: Kith and Kin. I just love the word 'kith,' and those two words make for the best stories. So - stay tuned. http://www.sotrue.ca

And then Wayson and I came back here, and Sam's lovely Amy came over too; Sam had cooked chili for our Oscar watching party. I can't believe we watched the whole @#$# thing, but we did. People have been dissing the show, but I thought it was better than most - less crass, more heartfelt, with some great moments. However, I used to sit and watch acting award shows like the Oscars and feel like Cinderella, at home in my rags while important glittering people celebrated each other. And now, I look at those women, working so very hard in extremely uncomfortable clothes in front of 200 million people, and am so profoundly grateful to be in my sweatpants in my living room. Speaking and reading an essay in a room of 70 or 80 friendly souls is stress enough for me.

Friday I had a checkup. There's a little cyst on my left eyelid, a brown mole-like patch above my right ear, both of which need to be seen, and I still have osteoporosis though my bones are holding steady. Aging, as they say, is not for sissies. Though in fact, I've never felt better. So there.

Today, across town to see Anna and the boys - it's been weeks. We got Eli after school and went to his floor hockey class again. I was there for the first class some weeks ago, and this was the last of the term - they've come a long way, those hooligan five-year old boys with their ceaseless energy. It was wonderful to see them screaming with laughter playing dodgeball as a warmup, and Ben allowed to join in at the end. But I was exhausted just watching them - non-stop noise and motion. My poor daughter.
Speaking of kith and kin...

I am seeing contractors on the chance that this renovation will actually happen, and this morning a possible tenant for the basement suite since my current tenant is moving to New York. Seeing editing clients, bank manager, teaching, trying to keep up with life - it never stops. Have not written a word for weeks. How do writers do it? I forget.

blocking spam

Dear readers, I have been getting lots and lots of mail on this blog - from spammers in Nigeria, offering me ways to get my husband or lover back through the casting of spells. I checked the site that lists where my readers are, and sure enough, my third highest readership is in Lagos. Since I'd rather not read incoherent messages about conjuring my husband back, my tech genius Grace has engineered a way to stop them. From now on, a reply to one of my posts will go first to my email for approval and then be posted. It'll just take a bit longer to reply.

And now Grace is reporting them all as spam. Take that, you horrible creatures.

A very short article I wrote for "Zoomer" magazine has just appeared in their March issue with Oprah on the cover. There's a longer piece first listing different ways professional writers can help people get their stories on paper, and then, at the end, a short piece from me on how to write your own memoir. Very concise - in fact, considerably cut even from the short version I sent them - but already someone has contacted me to ask if I'd speak on this subject to their group. Not sure it'll work out, but it's nice these things are read.

On my blog, under "Magazines."

Or here: https://www.pressreader.com/canada/zoomer-magazine/20180226/282252370991991

Just finished Rachel Cusk's "Transit." What a very odd book. There's no question she's a good writer, but I won't read another book by her - too cold, too irritatingly unsettling. You never know where you are, as people suddenly take off into long philosophical discussions.

It's cold outside but the sun in this office is hot. I'm trying to dig my way out of the mess after clearing out the storage room for the renovation which is now on hold. My left arm is a bit sore - had the vaccine shot against shingles yesterday. On Thursday we held the rehearsals for So True - wonderful, as always. Yesterday, dear friend Stella Walker came for dinner; today, my oldest friend Ron. Tomorrow, after So True, Sam and Amy and Sam's best high school friend and his wife come for chili and Oscars, which will be wasted on me as I've hardly seen any of the movies. How did I get so behind?

Let's get together. It's still cold, and it's March.

the renovation blues

So okay, it was a nice idea while it lasted, my renovation plan to create an apartment upstairs in my house. As I've said, John has already punched holes in the walls and ceilings, locating beams and plumbing. I had to clear out a little storage room for him to do so; boxes of files and photographs are crammed into my office. Chaos. Well, yesterday a man named Brian came to take a look at my brilliant ideas. His job is to take people's reno plans to the city for approval, so he knows all the city regulations. Hello, wakeup call.

Immediately, Brian told me a city inspector would say the spiral staircase to the third floor, which we've used a million times since moving in here in 1986, would not pass code and would need to be replaced. Every single wall between what would be my home and the new apartment would have to be lined with fire retardant and "sound attenuation" baffles, including my living room ceiling, which would have to come down. There would have to be fire dampers in all the ducts. And more, much more. As he spoke, I felt weaker and weaker until I had to sit down.

The cost would be astronomical and the disruption enormous.

So. Not. Though Anna did suggest, if I decide to do it anyway, that I wait till next year when I'm not working and simply go away for 4 or 5 months while they do the work.

I don't think so. Time for Plan B, only I'm not sure what that is. Maybe trying to do something much less there, a much more basic space, which would be far less expensive to create - and also, of course, bring in far less income.

I don't know. I'm confused. Because to tell you the truth, part of me is relieved. My childhood friend Ron, a lawyer developer who knows all about real estate and city regulations, is coming over on Saturday (after he spends the morning riding his horse, which is boarded north of the city) to chew it over with me. In the meantime, my walls are full of holes and my office is full of boxes.

But I'm feeling human, at least, after more than a week of feeling lousy - fighting a bug, and winning. Yes! I hardly did anything physical, sucked back soup and juice, slept in - and it didn't get in. Though just saying this makes me nervous. These things hang around waiting for their chance. Anyway, that's why I don't have much to tell you.

As a recovery treat I bought some organic Irish salmon from the new fish store on Parliament Street - so expensive, it's like caviar - and my own personal tall tattooed chef is here preparing us dinner. I've been going through old papers, trying to throw stuff out and get my office back in order. Threw out an entire file marked "Indignant Letters;" there were many, and indignant they were. Took all the photos out of two battered albums - put the pix in a box, threw away the albums. This work is going to take a long time.

Found this photo of my dad. Who could resist him?
Found my identity card from theatre school in 1971 - such a serious young woman.
So yes, this work is hard, but fun. Going backwards into memory, and forward into the next adventure. Whatever that may be.

Pepperland

Oh Rogers, my internet provider, for this I pay you hundreds a month? Last night, Jean-Marc and Richard were due to come over to watch the final episode of "Victoria" - not a great series but entertaining with the usual amazing sets and costumes. I had a few other things flagged to watch, including the end of the Olympics, and then I was going to blog to you. Luckily, I turned on the TV in advance to check - no TV. Black screen.

And then I saw - no internet. Unplugged the TV, unplugged the modem and replugged both - nothing. My cellphone wouldn't pick up messages; this is the problem when everything - internet, TV, cellphone - is with the same company! Completely out of touch, except for the archaic technology of the telephone. I called my neighbours to say don't come, and sat in tech-less silence. Read the newspaper. Read my book, Rachel Cusk's "Transit" which I am enjoying far more than I'd expected to. Went to bed. This morning, still nothing. A Rogers message says work is being done and this neighbourhood is down. I am sitting at Jean-Marc's dining-room table drinking his coffee and using his wifi while he works in the next room.

So lost without the 'net.  Imagine, we all used to live that way once. The Dark Ages!

Saturday I went to see Pepperland, Mark Morris's dance tribute to the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper album, fifty years old now. Very entertaining and lively with gorgeous music, some a distillation of the album, and some completely new. The composer's name is on the program which is at my house. Take my word for it - it was good, especially with the theremin wavering away like an unearthly human voice.

I'm sure there's more to say - mostly, that it's beautiful and warm out with bright sun, so very very welcome. The snow is almost gone. Winter's not over, says the newspaper - of course not, it's February. But we need to feel warm air, even temporarily. I am sleepless at night, tossing, and sometimes I think about the pioneers in February. Unimaginable.

Hope to talk to you again soon, when the gods open up the magic portals again.

the love of Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir

I don't watch the winter Olympics - or much of the summer ones either, for that matter. Not out of any ethical objection, it's great that there are magnificent young people out there making magnificent use of their bodies and their equipment, but I have other things to do. As opposed to my dear Aunt Do, who at nearly 98 spends much of her day watching young athletes exert themselves.

But this - I just watched Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir's ice dancing gold medal performance online, and then a tribute to them through the years, to the music of my beloved Jim Cuddy, and - of course - wept. The lives of these two are unimaginable. They say they are "not a couple," and yet they must have spent countless hours together, since childhood, learning everything about each other's bodies and minds - more intimate, trusting, and connected than any married couple. Deeply moving. Ours.

Great artists make what they do look easy.

Especially joyful to watch as we in Canada stomp through February; everybody is sick or fighting a cold - as am I - and tired of ice and bleakness. But then, there's this:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmjsZLyn4aI
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0T_dqPeAZKg

Just heard a radio interview with an American who was on one of the planes that landed at Gander on 9/11 - his character appears in "Come from away," which has just opened here in Toronto and is still a smash hit in New York. He told the interviewer that he, a hapless American refugee, was so impressed with the people of Newfoundland, their incredible generosity and kindness, that when he got home, he changed his life, sold his business in Austin, Texas, and is now working full-time for the good of refugees everywhere.

As we read about the right-wing press doing their best to destroy the passionate, self-possessed, articulate, formidable student survivors of the latest U.S. massacre, and as another cold, dank February day winds down, it's good to be reminded of just how fabulous human beings can be.

Mr. Smith goes to Washington

Rode my bike to the Y this morning for the first time in at least a month; it was cold but bearable. People are talking hopefully about spring. Fools! How long have you lived in Canada?!

Today, a lull, the Sunday of a long weekend; the city feels sleepy and tranquil. But the world feels dangerous and torn and full of frightening upheaval. Perhaps this latest horror in the U.S. will be the turning point, we think. How can the morally bankrupt Republicans ignore the desperate, heartfelt pleas of teenagers whose friends were gunned down in front of them? And yet they can and they will. How can Trump lie and lie and lie again and get away with it? How can some countries be sliding backward toward dictatorship? And yet he does, and they are.

And here, in my house, is mess. John is here cutting through the walls of a big storage closet on the second floor which will eventually be turned into my bathroom; somewhere in there are plumbing pipes from many years ago - it was a bathroom when we moved here in 1986 - and he needs to find them. So I had to clean out the space, which was jammed full - of clothing, files, books, papers, family DVD's, years of research, boxes of letters and souvenirs - in short, a nightmare, a huge job that needs to be done. The whole reno will be like that, forcing me to make decisions and get rid of stuff. It's not just that I have a tiny hoarding tendency and a second-hand store habit, but also that I keep papers and books as research for future articles, and I inherited a ton from my mother, a champion saver, and other relatives. It's all here, under this roof. By the end of the year, my space in this house will have shrunk by half, and so much of this massive amount of stuff needs to go.

On a more cheerful note, I used my travel points yesterday to book my yearly April travel. This year, no Paris with Lynn, sadly, and no Italy with Bruce, even more sadly. But happily, I am going once more to Vancouver and then on to Gabriola Island, where my dear Chris now has a log cabin with two spare bedrooms and three adorable animals. We will walk and talk and cook and watch DVD's and sit in his hot tub, and I will fill my city soul with ocean and Vitamin G (for green). If it works out, I could alternate my late winter getaway - one year to France, one year to Gabriola. That sounds like a heavenly combo to me.

Last night I watched "Mr. Smith goes to Washington" on TCM. I saw it many years ago but was thrilled to watch it again - Jimmy Stewart delightful as a naive but passionately honest politician nearly crushed by a corrupt party machine and big money - but truth and decency win and he is triumphant. Particularly relevant today, it should be obligatory viewing for every politician in the world. From Wikipedia:
When a ban on American films was imposed in German occupied France in 1942, some theaters chose to show Mr. Smith Goes to Washington as the last movie before the ban went into effect. One theater owner in Paris reportedly screened the film nonstop for 30 days after the ban was announced.

Now that's a powerful work of art! And then I watched a documentary on Billy Wilder, Austrian Jew, brilliant interpreter of America, simultaneously with a doc on female sexuality and desire. A fun Saturday night.

In the random pile of papers on my desk are transcriptions from my early diaries, this one from when I was sixteen, in Grade 13 in Ottawa.

Feb. 16, 1967
Michael said to me today, "I wonder why daddy doesn't like you, Beth."

One day I will be standing, in the late evening, waiting for a bus. It will be winter, snowing but not cold. There will be a wall behind me, on a level below my shoulders, with a layer of new snow on top. I will begin smoothing the snow off, pushing it away, brushing happily. Suddenly a boy will come up to me and say, "Please don't do that, you're making it ugly again," and I will look at him gravely and say, "It IS ugly. It's black and hard and lumpy. I'm only expressing its true self."

And then we will both know that it's a beautiful wall, for it stops people from falling into the canal, and because it can be leaned on or over, and huddled against, and simply because it's there, to have snow brushed from it. And then the boy and I will not ruin our moment of perfect comprehension and love, and we'll get on our separate busses and zoom off. 

Will we ever see each other again? Will I go on brushing, every winter, hoping he will reappear?

Devastating to read what my brother said; this was not a happy time in my life. No idea what all the rest means. That same year, I wrote an essay for Mr. Mann's English class that he returned with "A wordy concoction of pseudo-philosophy - C +" written on it; it stings still. But this is why I keep paper. What a privilege to have a view of my thoughts more than 50 years ago.

So True coming up: Sunday March 4

Update Preferences     Unsubscribe     Questions/FeedbackFebruary 18, 2018



Put it out there.
"When you are offered the chance to read your work to an audience, say 'yes.' Do it even if you feel anxious or would rather back out. Bring a friend along if you need moral support."
Angela Post writes young adult and children's books when not working as a psychologist. Her story  Changing Connections  made the longlist for the  2017 CBC Nonfiction Prize .

mourning

Nothing more to be said. Just mourning. I heard the mother of a dead child on the radio and burst into tears. What insanity leads a country to allow the murder, the slaughter of its children, over and over again?

Barack Obama‏Verified account @BarackObama 10h10 hours agoMoreWe are grieving with Parkland. But we are not powerless. Caring for our kids is our first job. And until we can honestly say that we're doing enough to keep them safe from harm, including long overdue, common-sense gun safety laws that most Americans want, then we have to change.

Spettacolo

It was so mild today, my friend Ken asked, "Is winter over?" Ha! NOT. But still, today was like spring, only with lots of filthy melting snow. Loud noises in my house - icicles falling off the roof.

Again, besides the mildness, there were two great gifts today. My Thursday was laid out, and then this morning I received an email from Ken. "I know it's last minute - can you make 'Spettacolo' at 1.30?" No, I could not - I had a student coming at 1.30 to work on her So True piece and a piano lesson at 3. But Ken is one of my dearest friends who was recently ill for weeks; this was a movie I wanted very much to see and today its last showing, and the morning, though mild, was gloomy and dark, the sun came later. A perfect occasion to see a film set in a Tuscan village.

I changed both appointments and was on my way. And how glad I am. It's a gorgeous, moving documentary, as much a eulogy to a past now vanishing as to a creative way of life and to the power of theatre. Inspired by an extremely dramatic rescue of all its citizens from the Nazi's in 1944, the entire village becomes involved, every summer, in creating "autodramas" - plays about their daily lives, written by and starring themselves. Fifty years after its genesis, there's concern about whether this tradition can survive: the bank that funds them is closed down for corruption, and most of the participants are old; a third have already died. The village itself is being sold off, bit by bit, to rich out-of-town tourists who spend two weeks a year there. It's an old story of modernization, globalization, and loss, through the lens of their rehearsals for the annual production. The rhythms of the tiny town of Monticchielo with its 300 plus citizens who have known each other all their lives, the artistic struggles to put this production together, the seasons in Tuscany, one of the most beautiful places on earth - and all through, the cats who stroll through town and sit on stage to watch the procedures - glorious.

Before the show began, something amazing happened. As Ken and I took our seats, someone tapped me on the shoulder. "Ms. Kaplan," she said. "I'm a fan - I read your blog. In fact, I'm here today because you mentioned this film a few days ago, so I decided to take the afternoon off work to see it. You're the curator of my events."

I stood with my mouth open. I've never met this woman, who recognized me from the picture on the website - or perhaps from my new bag, pictured yesterday in the blog and on my shoulder today. She was so kind. "I love your blog, I love your books!" she said. Imagine me, levitating slightly and floating near the ceiling of the Bloor Cinema. Thank you, Linda! What a lift your words gave me. As I've written occasionally, I sometimes wonder why I keep this blog when it takes time, pays nothing, has few readers; my capitalist, business-minded friends think it makes no sense. But today, I was reminded that it makes perfect sense. Even if it matters to only a few people, including my new friend Linda, that's more than enough.

And so - onward.

"Conversations with Friends" by Sally Rooney

For us singletons, Valentine's Day is a non-event, except that at the Y today, Carole was giving out pink chocolate kisses, and my friend Sylvie had a beautiful little heart-covered box for me, with homemade chocolate cake inside. What a sweetheart.

And at the same time, her husband John was here at my house, smashing through walls. What a mess. There was so much dust, the smoke alarms went off twice. It's thrilling, mind you - those walls were built in 1887, so the lath and plaster he extricated are 131 years old. This is just a preliminary exploration; the main work won't begin for months, we have to get permission from the city, which will take forever, and I have mountains and mountains of stuff to get rid of first. Yesterday, I started on the books, piled up scores to put in my Little Free Library, but there are still way, way too many left. Getting rid of books is tough.

Three treats today - it was warm and sunny, just a gorgeous day. I've been looking for a big enough handbag for my travels next month, and Doubletake came through today - a beautiful maroon bag by Ralph Lauren, which will hold many New Yorkers, my main criteria for travel bags. Imagine, someone gave this away.
And I finished a superb novel: "Conversations with Friends," by a very young (born in 1991!) Irish writer, Sally Rooney. Wonderful writing, fabulous dialogue, profound understanding of the complexities of human nature, about fear, love, friendship ... Here's the narrator, Frances, talking with her mother.

I laughed, and she offered her hand to help me up. Her hands were large and sallow, not at all like mine. They were full of the practicality I lacked, and my hand fit into them like something that needed fixing. 

And here she is, falling in love with a married man:

Eventually Nick looked over and I looked back. I felt a key turning hard inside my body, turning so forcefully that I could do nothing to stop it. His lips parted like he was about to say something, but he just inhaled and then seemed to swallow. Neither of us gestured or waved, we just looked at one another, as if we were already having a private conversation that couldn't be overheard. 

It has been a long time since I felt that key turning in my body, but this book brought the feeling back. I loved the book; it's as delicious as a big piece of chocolate cake.

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/may/24/sally-rooney-conversations-with-friends-interview-salinger-snapchat-generation?CMP=share_btn_link 

On another note, however, I left the Y to get the streetcar home, but College Street outside the police station was blocked by a demonstration - First Nations people protesting the Colton Boushie verdict again. The police were there, protecting the protestors. I wondered if my daughter was there with them, but not on a school day, I guess. But today, Trudeau offered a new recognition of indigenous rights, which sounds like a good start.

And - Ontario is going through the horror of uncovering the trail of a serial killer of gay men, Bruce MacArthur. Wayson told me he'd met him a number of times; he was apparently a nice, kind man who helped out at the gay village's community centre. I guess that's where he picked people up. If Wayson had been a more vulnerable man, he might not still be here. Horrifying.

Tonight's present: Samantha Bee.