Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 135

Faces Places (Visages Villages)

Confusing - I'm sitting here with two identical silver MacBook Airs, only one was bought in 2011 and the other last week, on sale on Cyber Monday. I figured my Mac - eight years old! - must be getting close to the end and thought I should replace it before it dies. Grace came over to help me transfer files, but we'd barely started before she had to go. So now I have a lovely new machine with hardly any files and a lovely old machine that contains my entire life. As soon as my genius Grace returns, I'll sort this out. The new one just startled me with a loud DING. What does that mean?

Still heartsick about this dark time on our planet, and yet so much, despite all, is wonderful and good. Today I went to see "Faces Places," the film 88-year old French filmmaker Agnes Varda made with a young artist, and it's sheer joy, absolutely one of the best - and in fact, on the NYT "Best 10 films of the year" list. The premise is so simple - an old woman with two-tone hair and a young man who never removes his hat or sunglasses become friends and colleagues and drive around the French countryside finding interesting working people to photograph, whose pictures are then plastered, metres high, on buildings, on trains, on abandoned bunkers. It's profoundly moving, quirky, a affirmation of life and art and our common humanity. I loved every minute - and fantasized about being 88 myself and finding a young man to work with. Tiny round Varda has so much fun.
That's Varda's eye in the background. Their work in the film reminded me of the exhibition I saw at the Met in NYC earlier this year of the work of photographer Irving Penn, who besides his long career shooting models at Vogue, travelled the world photographing tribespeople in Africa and working people in France and England. Faces. Places.

When I emerged from the Bloor - and how I love this cinema, devoted to documentaries, how lucky we are in this city to have it - it had started to snow, the first snowfall of winter. How excited my grandsons must be. I walked partway home, through my beautiful neighbourhood, in the particular muffled silence brought on by snow.


Yesterday's joy, two of my favourite male persons, Eli and Wayson, playing pirate boat and having supper. There's a great bond between my sometimes-mature grandson and my sometimes-playfully childlike writer friend.
After I'd delivered Eli back home, Wayson and I had dinner and binge-watched 3 episodes of the new season of "The Crown." On my old computer, which has the Netflix password. Delicious.

At this time of year more than any other, I feel blessed - health, a roof, a meal, a family and friends, and things I love to do, including my work. What more do we need? I know I know, a few more sane politicians would be nice. And a crushing defeat for the vile Roy Moore in Alabama tomorrow. Come on, my American friends, you can do it!

Oh - and then there's this headline in the Star on Saturday: "Eating cheese every day might actually be healthy." Now that's what I call good news.

the infuriating loss of Al Franken

I am more heartsick about the state of the world today than yesterday, something I didn't think was possible. Jerusalem - let's throw dynamite into this volatile situation and see what happens, chuckles Trump, the gleeful psychopathic six-year old. And Al Franken, one of the sanest voices in that insane land, sacrificed on the altar of political correctness in a country now so toxic, ripping itself apart from inside, it's hard to imagine how it will continue to survive. Franken was foolish and juvenile, pretending to squeeze a sleeping woman's breasts; another says he tried to kiss her, and another - oh imagine the horror! - that he squeezed some of the flesh of her waist during a photo op. What the hell is going on out there? Every minuscule grievance now has its chance to parade on the world stage, while an immoral pedophile makes his way to the Senate and the most loathsome predator on earth sits in the White House.

Okay, stop, racing heart. It will not do any good. Bill Maher must be climbing the walls. He's always shouting at the Democrats for being so prissy and holier than thou, as opposed to the Republicans who have not a single iota of decency or shame. And now, at a time when a man like Franken could not be more vital to the fragile democracy they claim to love, they've shot themselves in the foot once again. Franken, a clever, diplomatic, reasonable, and funny man, a rare politician popular on both sides of the aisle - gone.

I know many will disagree - that any bad behaviour must be punished. And I say when the other side agrees, let them all go together. Otherwise, you're handing the American government to the world's most sexist, blind, cold-hearted men and women, just wait to see what they come up with. I had a long argument with my friends on FB about this yesterday; one wrote this, about Franken, whom I was defending:
When "good men" do despicable things, they are no longer "good men." All the female Democratic Senators have called on him to resign, because what he did was not "something silly" - it was something disgusting and demeaning towards women. He does not get a free card because he is a Democrat.

Can we define "despicable"? "Due process" - have we heard of that? The fabulous, ultra-cool Deanne Taylor came up with the final word:
I don't believe any 'accusations', only proof established with due process. Some of us female-persons have to stand up for a sense of proportion, for knowing the difference between a mistake and a pathology, for not screaming 'victim' or 'survivor' over a fumbled pass.

SENSE OF PROPORTION. Now, there's an idea.

Heartsick. However. Pull yourself together, girl. It's cold but sunny. I spent yesterday rewriting my book proposal and getting it out to a publisher. No choice, it's got to be done; I will send to ten publishers and then, next spring, publish it myself and move on. Onward.

Heartsick.

Jane Goodall and Ben Bradlee - a magnificent pair

And now for something completely different: a shot from the taxi home from the island airport. Beautiful downtown Toronto.
No problematic Canada geese floating about amidst the concrete and sparkles. Above it all, invisible here, a super moon.

Today's excitement: a TWO documentary day. First, to the glorious "Jane" at the Bloor with friend Ken. It's about Jane Goodall, and what a story - I had no idea she was not a trained scientist when she went to Africa to study chimps, just a young woman who loved animals. She spent months living in the bush to gradually integrate herself into the chimps' world, and at one point, her mother came from the British countryside to live with her - two fearless Englishwomen camping in the African bush, amidst poisonous snakes and leopards, not to mention the male chimps who, as one interviewer pointed out, "could have ripped your face off." I knew I'd be fine, she replied serenely, because I was where I should be.

It turns into a love story when a handsome National Geographic reporter arrives to film her; they end up married with a baby, and the story takes a different turn. But always, she was with her animals in Africa, as close to them as to her own family, if not more so. Inspiring, especially now, as wild animals are more endangered than ever. Brava to a heroic woman, still out there doing this work.

And then tonight, most of a TV doc on Ben Bradlee, another extremely inspiring figure, the editor of the Washington Post when it followed and blew open the Watergate story; the exposé might not have happened if not for his courage. What he hated most, said the narrator, was politicians who lie. What would he have made of the guy there now and his execrable mendacious team? Just as well Bradlee's not around to see the travesty going on in his country. I missed the beginning and came in as they were talking about JFK's extra-marital affairs, how one night the President followed and sexually assaulted Bradlee's then wife during a party. And we're surprised men have continued to get away with that kind of thing!

Had a great talk with my son today about this. He thinks the rise in sexual assault is at least partly because of porn on the internet, which dehumanizes women - and sex itself. He told me a guy he knows can only "get it up" when he's watching a screen, so when he and his girlfriend are making love, she films what they're doing and he watches on the phone. How's that for dehumanizing? Sam thinks the rise in gun violence is partly because of video games; guys spend thousands of hours blowing things up on a screen until violence isn't real any more. We're fucked, he said. And I might agree, were people not making fabulous documentaries to show us the truth and bring us to our senses.

homeward bound

Flight delayed; sitting in the Porter lounge with shortbread cookies, cappuccino, and thou. In my suitcase - Ikea junk and smoked salmon from my brother, to go into the freezer for us to devour Xmas morning. And on the computer, a 10 page typed document of family memories I just sent to my cousins in Washington. Treasure.
From my quick morning walk:
Who knew that Ottawa had a Poets' Pathway?
 There was sun, briefly, and many annoyingly noisy Canada geese. Question: why don't we eat them? Wouldn't that kill two birds, literally, and help with hunger and an over-abundant goose population?
I kept singing Macca's sweet song "The Two of Us": "You and I have memories/longer than the road that stretches/out ahead ..."
Could not resist - this is part of my aunt's collection of plastic bags, the ones she has carefully folded and wrapped in rubber bands. But when we needed a plastic bag, she opened her dishwasher, which was stuffed full to overflowing with them. My mother too had a huge collection of plastic bags, and sometimes, I'm tempted to hoard them myself. CAUTION! TURNING INTO AN OLD PERSON!

Lady Bird

Look at this woman, talking one of her 3 nieces, Barbara in Washington, this evening. She was born in April 1920. As her friend Una said yesterday, there is absolutely nothing wrong with her. She has never had cancer or heart problems. Her feet give her a bit of trouble, she has to wear awkward orthotics, and she was diagnosed with macular degeneration in one eye which never amounted to anything. Her brain is phenomenal; I have taken 9 typed pages of notes about the family's past, including the addresses of various of her grandparents in Northampton in the twenties. She prides herself on her speed with the daily word jumble in the newspaper and is off tomorrow to win again at Scrabble. It's clear I must always depart BS - Before Scrabble.

Yes, there was as always some pretty gross stuff in her fridge that had to be dealt with, and there are often crumbs on her sweater, and she's more frail than before and does forget things. She's fiercely independent and stubborn - won't accept help unless it's strictly necessary. When we got to Ikea, I asked if she wanted a wheelchair, to make those miles of corridors easier. Oh no, she said, brandishing her cane. I don't want to start that kind of thing.

Today I took her to the movies, which is another of our regular treats. Last time disastrously - the only British film out was the Harry Potter spinoff about fantastical beasts, which turned out to be very loud and incomprehensible to her. Today we went to see "Lady Bird," which has had uniformly good reviews and was in a movie theatre nearby with reclining chairs - extremely comfortable, so much so that Do slept through most of the film. But she didn't understand much anyway, the story of a teen coming of age in 2002 in Sacramento. I loved it; it's spare, beautifully written and acted and directed, haunting. It showed once more one of the most important lessons I tell my classes - the more we tell our own small story with depth and passion and skill, the more others will see themselves in our tale. This is the story of one girl growing up a bit, and yet somehow it's about all families, the flawed love of parents for their children and vice versa, the desperate need of teenagers to figure out who they are and make their independent mark. It made me ache. Every family I saw for hours after seemed to be in the movie.

And then back to Do's for an improvised dinner and more typing as she talked about OUR family. I will miss her.

celebrating age in Ottawa

Today's excitement: my aunt and I went to Ikea, which is five minutes from her place, and walked around ogling, as we always do when I visit, as I loaded up on the only essentials I can put in my carryon suitcase - napkins, facecloths, cushions, candles - and then we had a gourmet lunch for $24. Ikea sells beer and wine now! So along with my candles I bought two small bottles of red to take back to Do's. Not supposed to do that, it turned out, but I managed.

On my way here yesterday, I took an earlier flight to avoid rush hour, but the flight was delayed and I ended up right in the middle of rush hour, which in Ottawa is at 4.15. It was dark, sleet turning to snow, and I was in a traffic jam on the Queensway - not fun. But still, even a traffic jam in Ottawa is tiny and doable in comparison with the metropolis. That evening, my brother and his 10-year old son Jake came over and we had dinner with Do. How I enjoy it when there is an 87 year span in the ages of my companions. For Christmas, I brought Jake, who's a reader, "The Bridge to Terabithia," a favourite, "Harriet the Spy," and best of all, a boxed set of all the "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe" books. He'd started to read before dinner was over. Narnia forever.

Do and I spent this afternoon talking at her place, she telling me family stories, and I this time able to transcribe onto my computer as she spoke. Much I'd heard before, but this time, I wanted to know why my grandparents moved from the village in the country where they'd lived since 1923 - my grandfather was the stern headmaster of the village school - to London in the middle of the war - it made no sense. My grandfather was only in his fifties, not retirement age. Do didn't know, but we guessed that after 20 years it was time to leave Potterspury, and London, she said, was terribly inexpensive because so many people had left; you could find a flat for very little, and Percy and Marion had very little. Not long after they moved to Baron's Court, some houses almost right next door were obliterated by German bombs.

Stuff like that. Delicious. I wrote it all down then or here, later, in my little room. Because I will write the family story one day in a book, and then no one will publish it and no one will read it.

Sorry. Just a tiny bit sour.

As always, I was reluctant to come and am very glad I'm here. Tonight I brought in dinner and we invited Do's friend Una over, a mere stripling in her eighties. They laughed about another of their Scrabble friends, a rather vain woman who has a boyfriend. She had a fall while he was with her, and when the ambulance men came, they asked her age. She said she was 82. She's actually 91 but she didn't want him to know the truth, because he's 82, and she'd told him she's the same age.

I'm learning a lot about getting old. Keep your friends close, says Una. You get lonely when you're older, because so many people have gone, and younger people are busy. Una has been divorced for many years. I love living alone, she said, but sometimes, I'd like someone else to be there for me not to talk to, just there.

Went for a walk in Britannia Park this afternoon, reflecting on getting old and feeling unaccountably young. Passed the playground where my grandsons have played, now deserted in the chill.

good times

Just in from my third social event of the week - I've been out every night, I who rarely go out. Monday night, to a snazzy party with my old friend Ron. I had to search in my closet for pantyhose, it has been so long since I've worn them. But with my extensive second-hand wardrobe, I was able to cobble together a fancy look, all of it originally owned by someone else, including the sparkling garnet bracelet and jet necklace which belonged to my American grandmother. The party was at Planta, a trendy new vegetarian restaurant at Bay and Bloor, and though the party was not particularly brilliant, the wine was very good and the food was terrific, including a memorable hot dog made from carrots. Delicious. Seriously.

Yesterday, a meeting of the Canadian Creative Non-Fiction Collective about our conference, and then we retired to Hemingway's bar on Cumberland to meet with other members of our tribe. We are hoping to establish an on-going CNF group, even after the conference is over. We drank and ate and talked work - getting published, how we do what we do. Heartening. 
Though there was something that seriously depressed me for a while. I'd sent my memoir manuscript to an acquaintance at a publisher's, and in two and a half months had heard nothing. One of the other women who's on the conference committee confessed shyly that she'd sent a query to the same woman and had heard back that she wants to see the full manuscript. "How long did that take?" I asked, thinking, perhaps it takes this woman months to respond to everyone. "Two weeks," she beamed, and I knew that my chances were over. And today, finally, my acquaintance wrote to say about the ms., "It's good," but that for various reasons she can't take it on. 
I struggled with - what's the point? - for awhile today, particularly as it's November. Though I have to say, the weather has been wondrous for the past few days, warm for the season and sunny, biking weather. But rejection is always hard, no matter how many times it has happened before. And it has happened a lot. But then they REJECTED J.K. ROWLING TOO! I will keep reminding myself of that. 
Tonight, a fundraiser at CRC, the gorgeous new building in Regent Park where we hold our conversation group. The latest was this morning; a staff person guided us through aromatherapy - making our own moisturizing cream out of lavender and bergamot. We smelled eucalyptus too, and Negisti, who's from Eritrea, told us they boil the leaves there often. And then she told us that the prophet of her Pentecostal church has flown in and tomorrow, 7000 people, including she herself, are going to hear him speak in Tigrinya, their language. How would we ever know these things otherwise?
The fundraiser, to which I was invited as a volunteer rather than paying $65 for a ticket, was spectacular - they transformed the main room with food stations every ten paces, many kinds of ethnic food and oysters, wine and beer, and rock music. I got to drink, eat, and dance, which means I was a very happy camper. 
But now - reality. Tomorrow I'm flying to Ottawa to visit my dear Aunt Do, who at 97 still lives alone. I'm spending till Sunday with her, to take her shopping and to dinner and to keep her company. I never want to go to Ottawa - it's freezing cold and boring and I stay in a small Airbnb room and miss my life - but I'm always happy to see my oldest remaining relative, who has stories to tell. 
Today, Matt Lauer and Garrison Keillor - what the hell? Some of this is going too far, small stupid missteps long ago. Some of these events should not cause these men to lose their jobs while an insane abusive cretin still works in the White House. What a crazy time we live in. Ah well - for the next few days, I will be out of touch in a very hot living room, moving slowly.
Just to depress you ... from a British newspaper in 1930.

plugged-in shoes

My daughter is getting her Christmas tree today - it's November! I usually get mine, reluctantly, a week before the big day. There's a lot of Bah, Humbug around here, as there is not across town, where two small boys are waiting to begin opening their Advent calendars. I went to the mall a few days ago - before Black Friday, of course, when the place went insane - to buy what Eli wants for Christmas - shoes. Not just any shoes, of course - shoes that have a course of lights around the sole that light up in different colours. They cost $89 and you have to charge them with a charger, like a cellphone. I came home and plugged my grandson's shoes into my computer.

How to explain THAT to my father, who died in 1988?

However, just read a great article on how the western world is returning to analog, as opposed to digital. Books made of paper, records made of vinyl, typewriters - hooray! One year I'll get Eli a record player for Christmas. But not quite yet. I'm going over this afternoon to help decorate the tree, and then I'll go home before they get immersed in the Grey Cup. Lots of football fans in that house. And yet some of them are related closely to me.

Had lunch Thursday with three dear friends from the Y - Paul, friend since I started there in 1990, Carole, the gazelle who teaches my fave class, and Godana, just-retired Y employee, an Ethiopian who once coached an Olympic marathon runner. Carole, Paul and I wanted to touch base with this beautiful man, to be sure he doesn't disappear from our lives. We ate at Shalom, a new Ethiopian restaurant on Parliament Street - a big platter of food in the centre of the table that we ate with injera - a pancake-like bread full of holes. Godana showed us just how to do it. It was wonderful.
Teaching is over for the term. Six weeks off, which also means six weeks with no teaching income. But already, the calendar is pretty full. I emailed a personal essay to a magazine this week, which I haven't done for years. Time for work, time for fitness, time to sort out the chaos in the office and the basement - and time to sit around staring at the garden as it shuts itself down. For now.

Life is full of such promise, isn't it?

inspired by Suzuki

"I've been waiting for a new post, Miss Lazypants," wrote my friend Chris. Jeez! Take a few days off from blogging and they're on your case.

Chugging along here. Keeping busy. Went to the symphony Saturday night to hear Canadian pianist Angela Hewitt play Bach and Mozart piano concertos, conducting the symphony at the same time. My parents used to go see her in Ottawa in the seventies and admired her enormously, and so do I. She's lithe and graceful with hands that move at lightning speed; she effortlessly commanded that vast beautiful room. The music was a banquet. (Photo below before it started.)
On Sunday I took Sam, his girlfriend Amy and Wayson to dinner at the Pearl Court, the Gerrard street restaurant that's Wayson's mainstay. They know him like family there and chatter in Cantonese which he speaks haltingly but impressively nonetheless. And then back for "The Durrells in Corfu" which Sam had taught me how to PVR - save on the TV. Barely understood how but managed to find and replay it, to the delight of my older friend and me. The young ones had gone by then. The Durrells in Corfu definitely not their kind of show.

On Monday, a huge treat: I went to hear David Suzuki speak as a guest of Ryerson's Chang School, the school of continuing studies where I teach. He's an extraordinary speaker, fiery, funny, his speech apocalyptic yet warm with personal asides and details about his own life. He showed that we have known since the seventies about the perils of climate change and yet our western world has done nothing. Harper is his great villain - "He should be in jail," he said, and I agree. He spoke of how happy he was when Trudeau was elected, immediately dealing with gender parity in cabinet and setting off for the Paris climate accord. But, unfortunately, "He gets a big fat zero for action."

The problem, he said, is that the changes needed to save our species from extinction are longterm, and politicians simply want to be re-elected and are unwilling to take the courageous risk of making them. Also, they're in thrall to corporations. He said: Where is the place for the sacred in our society? We value all the wrong things. We value the economy, the market – created by human beings. We do not value the things that keep us alive: air, water, the good soil and sunlight that produce our food. Earth air fire and water – sacred to First Nations people, meaningless to us.

We must be warriors for the coming generations. No fossil fuels, he said. Eat locally and seasonally. Change the electoral system. We need to get involved in the electoral process and elect responsible politicians. And STAY PUT, he said. Put down roots. 
I lined up to buy his new book, but more, to have a few moments to chat. It's a great thrill that because he and my father were best friends, that friendship continues with me today. I left inspired and moved, thinking about my footprint on the earth. I've tried to be a good ecological citizen, only had two children, no car, not wasting food, buying second hand, staying put and putting down roots. But - I travel a lot. 
Monday night and this afternoon, the end of my teaching term at the universities. Both were spectacular this term. Have I said that before? The Ryerson class was enormous and yet fabulous; the U of T class was much smaller and also fabulous. At the last class, nice words were said and gifts were given to Teach - flowers and wine, two of my fave things. I hope you don't mind if I reprint a few of the nice things. A friend noted that I "post a lot of self-congratulatory stuff" on my blog. And it's true. I wrote back that it's because I'm advertising my wares - showing people what my teaching means, in the hopes of attracting more customers. But perhaps it's also because I'm really conceited.I do not think a class (group of total strangers) comes together like that sharing their most vulnerable selves unless they feel safe and respected and considered -- and you as the teacher and fearless leader did that for all of us. I looked forward to your class every week and I shall miss it dearly. I am hopeful that the journey has just begun and that writing will become an important part of my life going forward.

My friends and family commented  that it was obvious my writing course was doing me good. A lighter, more content version of myself. Managing better with my peaks and valleys.............. (mostly valleys). I'm on to something with the writing and think it will keep me in the sane category of life, so I'll continue.
Best of all, in one class was a doctor whose brother recently died of cancer, leaving her so bereft, she was unable to do her job and had to take time off. She told us the class had renewed her love for humanity, and she was going back to work. And a woman in her eighties read us a story today about having a personal article published in the newspaper a long time ago when she was 18; her father flew into a rage when he read it, telling her to keep her "lunatic rantings" to herself. Which she has done all her life, writing in diaries, many letters, in local newspapers, but never committing to writing until now. And now, she said, her face bright with joy, I want to start and hope it is not too late. I told her about Diana Athill with her first best-seller at 92 and her next book out at 98. Never too late, I said, but don't delay. The same for all of us - don't delay.
Of course, good advice for Teach too, who is dallying as always. A student asked me, with all I do, how do I have time to write, and the correct answer is, really, I don't.

the King streetcar miracle

Went across town at rush hour yesterday on the King streetcar, which whizzed along like a miracle. Amazing - an enlightened new policy in this town, to make it illegal to drive for more than one block on King Street between Jarvis and Bathurst. Imagine, inconveniencing cars to prioritize streetcars. In Toronto, where our last idiot mayor trumpeted "The war on the car is over!"

I was so happy with my ride, both there and back, that I wrote to congratulate the mayor this morning, telling him I'm warming to him. Not too much, but some.

I was on my way to Eli's school in Parkdale; it's parent-teacher interview time, so I was to keep Eli busy while Anna talked to his teacher. It's a most wonderful school with a huge percentage of immigrant children particularly from Tibet, a warm, warm feeling, and the most gorgeous school library I've ever seen. Just fabulous. There was a book fair going on, so before my family got there, I bought some books, including "Tell me about sex, Grandma." Yes. It's a wonderful book which isn't about the birds and the bees but about feeling good about being who you are and not allowing anyone to do anything you don't want. Very important to have lying around for a discussion one day. Not quite yet.

Anyway, I loved the school and with the teacher's permission, copied down the names of Eli's classmates. Here they are:
Andraya, Amara, Akkeim, Adam, Arianna, Abdulrahman, Dasel, Drugmo, Keira, Ethan, Emily, Jigme, Julian, Karma Tashi, Karma Rapten, Matthew, Marloes, Principe, Stacy, Serwoe, Phensem, Dolkar, Choezin, Veronica, Zaira, Zahra.
How's that for multicultural?

And then at Anna's, I played hide and go seek with the boys. Now that's pleasure, standing behind a door waiting, and then they fling it back and I roar and they shriek and we all laugh and Ben says, "Again, Glamma, again." 
Had a crisis in the night - besides back pain, I realized I can't go on living in this vast house forever. Am starting again to think about alternatives. The problem is that I want to live forever in Cabbagetown, but there just aren't many houses in Cabbagetown. I will check out what's happening in Regent Park, which may be crowded and noisy. Or I could renovate this house to make another apartment upstairs. Suggestions welcome.