Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 132

Eric Clapton

I just happened to check the Olympic medals total - and though I do not care much about the winter Olympics and have seen little of it, still, my jaw dropped: Germany first, Norway second, Canada THIRD, United States FOURTH, France fifth, Sweden sixth.

How is this possible, when we have a tenth the population of the U.S.? Still, there it is. My nationalism surges. Woo hoo! Go Canucks go!

It's still winter here. Much snow and ice. I was going to go to a spectacular documentary called Spettaculo today, and didn't. Hard to get out. It's time for snoring in the cave.

Watched a documentary about Eric Clapton on TV, however - mon dieu, what a life. Through the crazy Sixties, a brilliant young man addicted to black American blues, unusual in England; the tragedy of his obsession with Patti Boyd, who happened to be his best friend George Harrison's wife - how he wrote an entire album for her, including the famous "Layla," and still she did not leave her husband. By the time she did, Clapton was an alcoholic and drug addict, so their time together was misery. And then he got it together, got sober for his beautiful baby son Conor, only to have the boy fall out of a window of a New York high rise and die. The grief is unbearable, only he bears it as he does best, with a hauntingly beautiful song. Finally he emerges, sober and happy with a wife and new family, and a clinic he has established for addicts.

What they make clear is that Clapton was haunted by his past. At the age of 9 or 10, he learned that the woman he thought was his mother was in fact his grandmother; his mother had left the baby behind and gone to Canada. She returns infrequently into his life and does a horrible job, leaving him wounded and angry. Voila - a young man who spends his life making love to a guitar and adoring inaccessible or inappropriate women. Until, at last, he doesn't.

When I saw the Beatles in June 1965 in Paris, the warmup act was the Yardbirds. But Eric Clapton had just a few months before quit. I saw the talentless Jeff Beck and Jimmy Paige instead. LOL.

All this is forefront in my mind because I had a meeting today with fellow Macca lover Lisa Roy at the Miles Nadal JCC. We so enjoyed working together on the powerpoint presentation and talk I did there last November about my great-grandfather that we're doing it again - this time about my life as a Beatlemaniac, in conjunction with my memoir. I am talking there May 24, and there WILL BE MUSIC.

Tomorrow my friend John comes and starts smashing through walls to see what's there. The beginning of the long journey to something new in this house. Going under.

snowed in

Snow and snow and snow and snow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day ... Sigh. We are snowed in here, more than a foot since yesterday, and it's still coming down. Luckily, I, unlike my daughter, do not have a houseful of sons and nephews and nieces to keep busy in inclement weather. And to top it all, Anna's plan for midday was to take some of them to Nathan Phillips Square, for the protest against the verdict just handed down in the Colten Boushie trial. Boushie, a First Nations youth, a drunk prankster, was shot dead by a farmer whose yard he had entered. The farmer was just found not guilty of murder, and many are very upset, taking this as evidence of systemic racism in Canada. So Anna went off to protest in the snow.

It is a monochrome world out there - white and dark. Very very white with some dark brown, black, green. Mostly, however, white. As usual during these conditions, I think of the pioneers in log cabins in the middle of nowhere. How did they survive the deprivation and isolation? I am feeling very shut off, here in the middle of the metropolis with a furnace, running water, a full fridge, and a million amusements at my disposal, including FIVE library books and an episode of "Call the Midwife" tonight. Who could ask for more? Besides a tiny bit of sunlight, perhaps?

On Thursday I went to the Bloor to see one of a series of lectures on the life and career of Leonard Cohen; my friend Lynn again had been given tickets. The huge theatre was jam packed at 10 a.m. on a Thursday morning. It was fascinating to hear the circumstances around the songs and then to hear the actual songs. For example, he went into Cohen's brief, unfortunate partnership with Phil Spector, which turned his plaintive poetic folksongs into massive pop songs awash with horns and strings. Horrible.

One of Sam's childhood friends, William Di Novi, runs this lecture series there; he spoke beforehand, and it was great to see him for the first time since he was about twelve, when the boys went in separate directions. William called me last year to ask if I could put together a six part lecture series on the Sixties in Paris - or on any other topic. Much as I'd love to - my mouth watered, seeing that packed auditorium - still, I can't think of anything I know well enough to talk about for many hours to thousands of people. Certainly not Paris in the Sixties, since I was only there for a year. If you think of anything, let me know.

Another meeting about the reno - it looks as if I've got a contractor, that is, if he's free in June when I hope we can start. It'll be a massive project, beginning next week when John will smash through some walls to see what's there. So it begins, along with all the dust and mess. The worst part is that I'll have to sort and organize and get rid of a ton of stuff. Though I know I need to do it, it'll take forever, and it'll hurt.

But it'll be summer. No snow. Sunshine. We'll get there.

The library books:
Conversations with Friends, by Sally Rooney - a novel about a fascinating young woman and her relationships. Beautifully written, fabulous dialogue, enjoying it very much.

Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process, by John McPhee, a series of essays by a master non-fiction writer about his process

Thinking about Memoir, by Abigail Thomas: a lovely writer on one of my favourite subjects

Transit, by Rachel Cusk: I have the feeling I won't like this novel but felt I should at least try, as it's getting such buzz

Conversations with Canadians, by Lee Maracle: Lee is speaking at our CCNFC conference, so I want to know what she is writing about.

This plus both big weekend papers, many New Yorkers stacked up and some other mags, and a stack of at least 40 books to get to if I am ever stuck on a desert island. Or snowed in.

not watching the Super Bowl

My father's cousin Lola, a lifelong New Yorker, is exactly the age he would have been had he lived - 95, 96 later this year. She has shrunk since I visited her last year, after 3 weeks in the hospital last fall, but she's still in her bright studio apartment at 70th and 3rd, albeit now with a succession of live-in African caregivers. "I'm learning so much about Africa!" she says.

"I'm reading such an interesting book," she says. "Have you heard of Christopher Hitchens?" She's reading a book of his essays. Before that, an out of print novel by Pearl Buck, all on her Kobo. She doesn't get out any more, though until recently, she was still going to theatre - at extremely reduced seniors' rates - and art exhibits. And, in fact, she has been to see the Michelangelo exhibit at the Met, in a wheelchair with her daughter. "It was so crowded," she said. "I got discouraged. But," she told me, "I learned to draw when I was young by copying Michelangelo." Mother of 4 children and wife of a businessman, she was also a painter, ceramicist and jewellery-maker; a ring I never take off was made by her.

And then she told me about the time she met Tom Stoppard.

It's too bad so many of my New York relatives do not speak to each other. There are so many feuds, it's hard to keep track. I think that's one reason my father was happy to move to Canada and stay there.

I'd stopped at La Maison Kayser on the way and brought us French sandwiches and treats. And then, I was on my way, hoping to see her again soon. She is a powerful link to my father, "the guy," she said, "who taught me, when we were seven or eight, what 'fuck' means." Of course he did.
                                                     Picture taken by Wendy from Burkina Faso.

The trip to the airport was stressful - nearly an hour's wait for a train at Penn Station, in a hall where there is not a single bench or chair, I guess because the many, many New York homeless would camp there - so we all sat on the floor. Finally the train was announced and set off, and then stopped because a bridge ahead was stuck open. "Delay," they said, "not sure how long." Just what a person heading for the airport likes to hear, with no more flights that day. I panicked, of course. Infrastructure in the U.S. is appalling - roads, trains, everything - but of course their fine president is going to fix that. Anyway, we got there and took off. Canada looked even colder than New York.
Home. Room in the bathroom to put things down. A change of clothes. A snowstorm. Though my son who'd stayed a few days here had made everything in the fridge vanish, he'd left me a plate of delicious pasta and 3 fine bottles of wine. Today - the pleasures of the hot tub at the Y, scrubbing off the grime of NYC. And then, across town. I'd bought a little teepee at Flying Tiger. Poor Thomas, it took an engineering degree to assemble it, but he did.
Anna was making chili for the Super Bowl, because she cares about football. Incomprehensible.

It is quiet. I am fuller than before - of the Angel Orensantz Centre and what happened there, of contact with friends and family, three spectacular pieces of theatre, Michelangelo, the fervent buzz of the city. Four days is my limit, but what a fine four they were.

I heart Noo Yawk

Madly, madly in love with this wunnerful town. Sometimes when I come, this metropolis overwhelms, but this time, it's been a treasure trove.

Okay, so where were we? Ah yes, Thursday. Thursday morning was Bloomingdale's, buying black pants on sale. The last three times I've come to New York, I bought Gerard Darel black pants on sale at Bloomingdale's - maybe I have enough pairs now? Can one ever have too many great black pants?

Walked back along Lexington, wondering how all those little stores survive. Like this one, an engraver since 1878 ...
I took it easy because I had the show again that night. My friend Harriet - Dame Harriet Walter now - came for a visit at Cousin Ted's, or, as she said, "tea at the museum." We had a great talk about her life, dashing about making movies - in the next two months, in Savannah, Georgia, Wales, and Northampton, and in between, doing something with an orchestra in Rome. When we talk, I envision what my life would have been if I'd stayed an actress, as she did; we are the same age and were at LAMDA together in 1972. She has an exciting high wire life. Not for me.

And then back down to the Lower East Side. Perhaps you could read between the lines, but anyway, now the truth must out: I was not happy with the show on Tuesday. In fact, I was deeply unhappy. The producer had reduced my great-grandfather's 4 act tragedy to 80 minutes with lots of songs and jokes and mugging; my ancestor was rotating in his grave. My own talk was truncated because I'd been asked to cut it short. I'd brought six books and sold not a one. So I was not looking forward to a recap.
Full!

Well - a miracle. It was like night and day. King Lear relaxed, the others in the cast relaxed, I relaxed. The show made more sense, went more slowly, had more charm. It was a big audience, and though a few left, many loved it. And my talk, this time, went really well - I could take my time, tell them more of the story, and it grabbed them, I could feel it. At the end, there was a line of people waiting to buy books - and I didn't have enough! Many interesting people were there, including an old friend, David Mazower, whom I met very early in my research decades ago and had lost touch with. David's great-grandfather was ALSO a famous Yiddish playwright, only he speaks Yiddish and is connected to that world, and way back, he introduced me to some fabulous characters from the Yiddish theatre. And then he vanished back to London, but now, there he was. So we arranged to have lunch today.

People wanted to talk, the cast were lovely, David Serero was charming - the Thursday experience could not have been more different from the one two days earlier. And even - it was supposed to rain, and I got into a cab just as it started and sped home, watching New York flash by in the rain, with the job behind me and all books sold. Heaven.

Today - spectacular. To the Met, to see the Michaelangelo exhibit. The man could do everything - sculpture, painting, architecture ... And oh, how he loved bodies, especially male torsos. He himself was not a handsome man, but he had lots going on, professionally, personally, and it seems sexually, in his very busy and successful life.
 Admiring a little naked statue
Michaelangelo's poem about painting the Sistine Chapel
The actual poem, with doodle - he doodled a lot
His magnificent statue of Brutus
The man himself, with his broken nose. What a life.

I didn't walk across the park afterward as I usually do, it was hideously cold, a vicious wind blasting down those concrete canyons. To my favourite shoe store, Harry's, which sells big sizes and just happened to have a pair of boots in size 10 1/2 at 2/3 off, the last pair after she'd brought out every hideous shoe in my size. The pair I wore there, I'd bought at Harry's with Brucie many years ago; they're falling apart. Now, spiffy black boots to go with my spiffy black pants.

To lunch with David Mazower and his colleague Lisa from the Yiddish Book Centre, where he now works. A long lunch with us gossiping about people dead for many years, our own ancestors and their compatriots. So so much fun - there aren't many people like David who care as much about these stories as I do. He has written an article on my great-grandfather that he'll send me, and there's stuff about his in my book. A literary friendship that goes back a century or so.

I'd planned to go to another museum, but it was too cold, even to stand waiting for a bus - I got a cab back to Ted's and emailed until it was time to go to the theatre. Ted had suggested a Broadway show, but luckily I happened to hear about a recommended show on E. 59th, only two subways stops away. Not having to deal with the loud twinkling chaos of Broadway, especially on a horribly cold Friday night, is always a plus. And it started at 7.15! Perfect.

In fact, it was perfect in every way. "The Undertaking," a play about death, our fear of death, how we avoid it or confront it, what anxiety is and does. This company, called Civilians, does documentary theatre - taking interviews, real voices, and turning them into theatre. Tonight's was a kind of meta-theatre in which the writer, played by an actor, and his collaborator, played by an actress, were preparing a theatre piece about death, and inhabit some of the characters who were interviewed - a woman with cancer who took LSD and ended by actually seeing her fear and getting rid of it; a gay man whose lovers kept dying of HIV and who said, "I'm not crazy about life. I'm not an optimistic person";  a British philosopher who says that philosophy is about how to accept death and discusses Socrates and Plato.

The actors changed voices and characters brilliantly, and what we heard was a conversation between two very honest, clever, creative people trying to figure out the final puzzle of existence, with interjections from interesting others. "Maybe fear of death is fear of life," she says at one point. The anxious man confronts what haunts him - his mother's slow decline from MS, "being left behind" - and opens to life. He sees how beautiful a tree is. The end.

And I, weeping.

Back two stops to Ted's, the subway packed with loud interesting crazy people. And here I am. Tomorrow, visit my father's cousin Lola who's soon 95, and then off to Penn Station, the train to Newark, we do it all in reverse. I am coming home with black pants, black boots, and a glad heart.

Mark Rylance and Lucy Kirkwood, bravo, brava

Oh New York New York, you're the best sometimes. Today. One treat after another, of all kinds.

This morning, late after recovering from yesterday - off to my favourite stores a short walk from here - La Maison Keyser, the best bread and croissants outside of Paris, in fact, as good as Paris; The Flying Tiger, chachkas from Copenhagen, just the most fun store, where I went back to buy more $6 leopard and bright turquoise reading glasses and some gifties for the boys; Citarella's for groceries - soups, yogurts, juice; then to Housing Works, a great thrift shop RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET from my cousin's. Nothing. Thank God.

Then to Lex and 77th to get the subway downtown. Just missed a train and then ... inexplicable delay, garbled announcements, something about an accident uptown, nobody knows what to do. I wait 10 or 15 minutes and then decide to get a cab. But then I realize - oh no, everyone else had the same idea and now I'll be battling hordes of New Yorkers for a taxi, my idea of a nightmare. There's a woman with her arm out so I stand near waiting till she gets her cab so I can get mine. And when one stops, she says, "Want to share?"

I get in, and of course, she's wonderful, she rides a bicycle and buys her clothes at thrift shops and is a total kindred spirit. Too bad she got out at Lex and 59th. I continued to 49th and got out to walk around before my matinee at 2. It was freezing today, though, with a bitter wind, and I was underdressed. It's New York, I thought before leaving the apartment, how cold can it be? Plenty. Just in time, in exactly the right place, there was a pop-up Uniqlo store, so I dashed in, bought some of their Heat Tech leggings, went into the change room and put them on under my pants. Comfie for the rest of the day.

The matinee - "Farinelli and the King," by Mark Rylance's wife Claire van Kampen. Gorgeous, beautiful, moving, about the power of music, a magnificent castrati is brought in to save the sanity of the mad king of Spain. Of course, because this is Mark Rylance, it was rich and wise and full. The production was lit with candles, and there was lots of interaction with the audience, and the most exquisite countertenor. Yes, the play is flawed and doesn't really end, but I forgave it everything.
The set before the show.

And of course the woman sitting next to me turned out to be a lyricist for musicals and has finished one based on a short story by Grace Paley about a woman who has an affair with someone from the Yiddish theatre. Yes! What are the chances? By the end of the intermission, we had not only excoriated Trump, we had exchanged email addresses. I love this city.

Out into the cold to 47th - turned a corner and the sight took my breath away, Times Square, so vast and busy and sparkly!
Met Ted, Henry, and cousin Lori, whom I don't know so well but now we're FB friends so getting to know each other better. She lives in the country but has an apartment in town too and sees lots of theatre when she's not skiing. She's vegan so we went to a Japanese place and had a lovely meal. They talk money a lot. Her parents - her father is my father's cousin - are in their 80's and have moved into a kind of hotel where it costs $14,000 a month for them to live. I kid you not, and that's not counting the caregivers who are covered by their insurance. A different world. They discussed bonds. I don't even know what bonds are.

Then Lori went to meet her daughters for one show and we went to the Manhattan Theatre Club to see "The Children," another British play with British actors - not a coincidence that's what I see, if possible, here or anywhere, just the best, the very best. It's by a writer called Lucy Kirkwood and it's one of the best plays ever, yes, I'm in raptures again. About the end of the world and the fragility of the human heart, if you can believe that - a kitchen sink drama after a nuclear disaster. And guess who walked into the audience a few rows down from us at the last minute? Hillary. Yes, Mrs. Clinton, by herself except with two secret service guys with wires in their ears. And the audience went nuts, applause, people standing, shouting We love you Hillary!

She's tiny. After the play, she walked right by us and Ted said a word to her - his brother Robert is a big fundraiser for the Dems, apparently, and Ted has met her. She's quite beautiful. People were so full of love for her. Except the cab driver we got home - when Ted told him she was in the theatre, he said he couldn't stand her and had voted for Trump. "Look at the economy, how great it is!" he said, and I got depressed again, for a moment. At dinner, the TV was on and that face kept appearing. I saw it in the NYTimes this morning, a picture of him with his cronies after the State of the Union, that horrible human being surrounded by fawning white men and Ben Carson, and I said aloud, "A picture of evil."

However. Nothing could wreck this day, not even a picture of evil and seeing a play about the end of the world. It was a banquet of New York today, and I am full full full.

the Angel Orensanz center

A quick word, before I head out into a very cold New York City. First, all is well, my health is fine, the trip was fine; the flight was so seamless I knew something would have to go wrong and sure enough, some problem with the Airtrain, the monorail out of Newark Airport to the train station to the city, a big crowd stuck waiting - but eventually the monorail came, the ancient train came, there's the city in the distance, and then there we are in Penn Station, and cousin Ted had told me - take the E train to 53rd and Lex and then the 6 to 77th, and that is what I did, with my suitcase full of books. Easy peasy. And here's home in NYC, Ted's apartment full of antiquities, Chinese burial statuary, dinosaur eggs, it's like living in a museum. I have said this before.

I rested and got organized and Ted came home from work - the law office founded by his father Leo - had his private yoga lesson, and then we set off for the Lower East Side on the new 2nd Avenue subway. Though it was bitterly cold, I was sorry not to have arrived earlier down there, those hallowed streets of my father's ancestor, Chrystie, Delancey, Hester. We met Ted's husband Henry down there - he came in by train from Northport, where he lives and Ted goes on weekends. And then we found the Angel Orensanz Centre on Norfolk Street. Wow.
A synagogue founded in about 1849, transformed into a performance space - just gorgeous. I met David Serero and learned the setup, and finally it all began.

I'll tell you more about it later. Suffice to say - it's not easy to take a 4 act tragedy and reduce it to an hour and 20 minutes with many songs, including My Yiddishe Mama. There was a young, hard-working, likeable cast, and David is an ambitious, energetic man with a very big voice. It was wonderful to have my family, Ted and Henry, and second cousins and fellow Gordin great-grandchildren Peggy and Jill and great-great-grandson Zack, there beside me. I had a 15 minute speech prepared and rehearsed but finally, when David introduced me, I winged it, cut it way down and figured out what to say.

Afterwards, a man came up with tears in his eyes and told me his great-grandfather had been a cantor at this very synagogue at the time of Gordin. A woman came up to say, "You are saving your great-grandfather. I have huge admiration for people who work to preserve memory." That meant a great deal. And others were very kind. A scowling man asked, "There was no music in the original, right?" Absolutely not, in fact, my great-grandfather's whole career was based on creating serious drama and keeping music and comedy to a minimum. Then, blessedly, Ted got us a cab and we sped home, where he opened a bottle of wine for me, and we debriefed.

I was silly to be so nervous. God knows why I put myself through it. Well - it's New York, it's me standing and speaking from the heart in front of a large group - last night more than 100 - of the most critical people on the face of the earth, New York Jews. Okay to prepare carefully - though despite all that, in the end I had to make it up on the spot - but not to make yourself nearly sick with nerves. Crazy.

Another great thing was that we completely missed the State of the Union address by the orange blowhole. A blessing. Another blessing: the NYTimes, a magnificent newspaper fighting to save this country from itself, delivered to the door. Read it over coffee this morning. The sun is shining, there are actually birds singing out there in the concrete. and New York awaits. I do the whole thing again Thursday, but for now - theatre, all day, and family.

PS Just got an email notice from the theatre where I'm going this afternoon to see my favourite actor, Mark Rylance. There's a list of what's not allowed - drinks and snacks, babies, and then "No weapons are permitted on the premises."

Only in Amurrika.

off to la Grande Pomme

Big snowstorm last night, but - hooray! - it's over this morning. Lots of pretty snow on the ground, but I gather the flights are moving. So far. I am at the island airport way too early. The bird feeder is full, the plants are watered, the fridge is empty, my son will hold the fort at the house. And I'm off to adventure in the Big Apple. I am not sick. I'm not 100%, but I'm not sick. Many thanks to friends and family for love and support. I am a lucky woman.

Why do I get so anxious? It's crazy, I've done this talk many times before. But there's anxiety, knot in the stomach, fluttering heart. I will do my best to breathe.

My nails are shiny. I had a manicure on Sunday, a rare occurrence because if your fingernails are being filed, you can't read. But now these lovely shiny nails, for Noo Yawk. They should last a day or two.

Hmmm - Boston airport is closed down due to snow and ice, no flights are taking off. Does that mean New York too?

the big fight

My body is at war with my spirit. A bug or a virus is trying to get in, and I am trying with everything in my power to keep it out: rest, chicken soup, oil of oregano, juice. I've done little for days except work on my speech and on the non-fiction conference, and begin to re-read my book "Finding the Jewish Shakespeare" in preparation for the talk on my great-grandfather and questions afterward. I worked on this material for 25 years, but the book was published in 2007 and since then, I've let all those facts go.

I have to say - I'm impressed by the 250-page book and, yes, by the woman in her thirties and forties who wrote it. When I started, I had no idea how to do a massive research project where most of the material I needed was in New York and in Yiddish or archaic Russian - and I a single mother with no funding or backing and very little confidence. Yet I kept going. At one point, after not finding a publisher, I did give up, and it was Ruth Gay, a New York writer I never met who'd become a colleague and friend, who urged me to keep going. You have a good book, she wrote. Don't stop now. So I took heart and moved ahead.

I really thought a book 25 years in the making about such a titanic figure would ignite the Jewish book reading population, would at least be used, even without footnotes, in university courses on Yiddish theatre or Jewish life in America - in other words, would sell. Ha. As my cousin Ted wrote to me, after an attempt to read it, "Too many details!!" But that's the joy, for a researcher - the bits and pieces of detail that make up a fascinating, accomplished, tumultuous life. So now, rereading it for the first time in years, I discover that yes, I am very proud of the work she did, floundering in her study with toppling piles of paper and two teenagers running riot in the house. The chief expert on the Yiddish theatre, when I called early in the process to introduce myself and ask her advice, told me I was wasting my time - that a book about a Yiddish playwright by someone who didn't speak Yiddish would be worthless. Nevertheless, I persisted.

And, as I like to repeat in moments of doubt, the famous and admirable Tony Kushner did write a blurb that said the book is "a witty, shrewd, elegant book that tells a story of vital importance." So there, chief expert.

And now I'm preparing to leave for New York early Tuesday morning, for two events that will shine a spotlight on the man and his work and my book, and I've got a bug trying to invade. So there's a certain stress here. Nothing more to be done.  I'm in my bathrobe, under a blanket, with the hot sun shining through my study window, and will stay here for much of the day (except for a meeting this afternoon about the Christmas pageant. Yes. We need to get organized for next year. Already.) I will eat soup, I will pack, I will think positive thoughts, perhaps I will keep my fingers crossed. Perhaps you can too.

Here's a beautiful piece of writing to keep you company on a sunny Sunday:
https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/20/opinion/sunday/what-ive-learned-from-my-4-year-old.html

P.S. I just had an uplifting note from Chris on Gabriola, to whom I'd sent my screed of woe: basically saying, ARE YOU A DRAMA QUEEN? Why are you anxious? It'll go well, you're a great speaker with a great story to tell, don't drag yourself down.

And he's right. I AM a drama queen, and I do drag myself down with anxiety. This is a big thing for me, a big talk in New York City, so much of the event a complete unknown, and part of me is understandably nervous. And so ... a bug, and me huddled in the sun like a fading orchid.

Get over yourself, girl. Get on with it. Onward.

Baryshnikov/Brodsky

I had to laugh at one point last night, imagining my son at this event - "Baryshnikov/Brodsky" at the Winter Garden. My dear friend Lynn was offered two free tickets and invited me - who could say no to one of the world's great dancers, though at nearly 70 a tiny bit past his prime, doing something with the work of one of the world's great poets, a Nobel laureate?

However. This could not have been a more Russian event, melancholy to the core, steeped in the hopeless blackness of human life, and this on a bleak January night. There's a lovely set, a kind of summer house made of glass; Mikhail enters with suitcase, walks through the house to the stage, sits, takes things out periodically - an alarm clock that rings, a pack of cigs he doesn't smoke, glasses to read with, a cloth to wrap himself in after he takes off his shirt and rolls up his pants to reveal that still-toned body - and then either he or the voice of Brodsky himself recite poetry in gorgeous Russian with surtitles unrolling above.

And that's it. The dancer goes in and out of the summer house, sometimes moving a bit with the words, writhing or galloping or grimacing. Lights go on and off. The poetry is stunning though I realized there's a good reason we need to see poetry on the page, to go back and read lines again to make sense - Brodsky's words are dense and metaphoric and often very difficult to understand, let alone being unfurled on top of a set while a lovely man moves below them. And often, the words are dark dark dark. A poem called Tragedy - by the end I wanted to hurl myself off the balcony. This was a Jewish writer who nearly starved to death during the Siege of Leningrad, later was denounced by Soviet authorities, sent to a mental institution and then to the Gulag. It's all there in his rich work.

So I imagined my son seeing this, an aging dancer hardly moving while an obscure and depressing poem is read in Russian and the translation flies by. And I laughed. It was the only laugh of the evening. But - the presentation was beautiful and I am glad I went. Words, great words, and a beautiful man.

I also laughed today - when I was asked to join the committee to help produce the non-fiction collective's conference in May, I said yes but my participation will be limited because I'm very busy. LOL! This morning I woke up to seven long emails requiring study and answers. It is taking a lot of time. And it will be worth it.

Tuesday night, I went to an event co-produced by my own writing department at U of T and the Editor's Association of Canada: one of the country's foremost editors, Martha Kanya-Forstner, in conversation with prize-winning novelist Michael Redhill, whose novel Bellevue Square she steered to a Giller prize. I went with my fellow conference volunteer Kirsten Fogg and met other friends there. My peeps! It was fascinating. The line I will hang above my desk: "Writers most often regret what they don't cut, not what they do."

And: "The art is in removing everything that isn’t essential."

Yesterday afternoon, Jennifer Turner, the architect of my heavenly kitchen, came by to give me advice on the reno plans. It was very comforting to have her eyes on our ideas - she knows how a house works, how THIS house works. And she thought our ideas were good.

I'm sitting in my study in the sun, fighting a cold. No illness possible - New York next week. Chicken soup, oil of oregano, and mostly, this bright patch of sunshine. And thou. Onward.

January 20, 2009, a great day

I didn't march today. Last year's march was inspiring and ennobling, and I'm sure today's was too. But I was busy this year.

Just happened to open one of my first books - "Yours Truly, a book of the blog," compiled from the first years of my blog (especially my 5 months in France in 2009,) shaped into a narrative, designed by my friend Chris, and self-published in 2010. My mother called it "the best book I've ever read," but then she did not read much. Reading again, though, I did find lots compelling. From exactly nine years ago:
Tuesday January 20, 2009
Hail to the chief, President Barack Hussein Obama

Dear planet, at last! I can't believe that from now on when we talk about the U.S. and say "the President," we are referring to the superb, the sublime Barack Obama ... It's hard to believe today really happened not only because Barack is black, but because he's intelligent and open, literate and generous, good-hearted, youthful, fine. How is it possible that we have gone from eight years of depraved darkness to this brand new hope and air and light, practically overnight? From the worst of human nature to the best? 

Well, it turns out we didn't know from depraved darkness or the worst of human nature. Who could ever have guessed what, or who, was to come? That we'd look back on the glorious days of George W. Bush?

Sigh.

Oh well. I also found, online, a photo from 1978 - a production called The Shadow Box, about cancer and family, with marvellous actors like Janet Wright, Goldie Semple, Allan Gray with particularly effective pale "I've got cancer" makeup - and a very young Michael J. Fox. Oh, and moi, in a role I had no idea how to play. Here's a shot of our dinnertime between shows on Saturdays.
That's me in a particularly unflattering shot, shrieking at the back, and Mikey at the front. RIP beautiful Goldie and powerful Janet. But Mikey, despite Parkinson's, is going strong. And yours truly, hanging in there.

And celebrating her students, as ever. Kathryn Belicki wrote a lovely piece for the home class, which we encouraged her to send out; it was just published in the United Church Observer.
http://www.ucobserver.org/columns/2018/01/spirit_story/. 
When I wrote to congratulate her, she replied:
You have created such a great space for our writing community to grow and flourish—and have a great time while doing it. The word “thanks” just doesn’t cover it.
It does feel good when something goes so right. Like January 20, 2009.