Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 154
February 4, 2017
creating at the AGO
Hubris. I boasted to Anna yesterday that I'd hardly been sick this winter - one little cold - perhaps because of the two humidifiers I keep endlessly filling up in the bedroom and kitchen. Whammo - a cold hit a few hours later. The forces that be are always listening! Do not boast. Now my back aches and my body aches and I will go nowhere today except this office, where right now I'm sitting in a patch of bright sun, and soon back to bed.
Of course, then we look at the spectacularly boastful orange blowhole who is now - say it isn't so - the President of the United States and wonder about HIS punishment for boasting. No question, retribution is coming for him, big time, when history judges him as the worst president by a mile, and they've had some doozies. That is, if the planet survives to HAVE a history, which, if he and his loathsome minions have their way, might be doubtful.
I must have picked up the bug at the AGO, where I met Anna and Eli yesterday morning. What a treat; Holly had volunteered to stay with Ben so the 2 of us could focus on our favourite four-year old. We toured a few galleries, explaining art to him, and ended up at the children's art centre which is fabulous, all manner of papers, markers and crayons, sparkly things, blocks, books - heaven. Eli takes creating very seriously; he and his mother made a rocket ship out of paper cones. I am going to get a family membership so we can meet there on a regular basis to do some actual cutting and pasting, and in between, check out Lawren Harris, David Milne, Henry Moore, the giant hamburger that made him exclaim.
Busy, busy, editing a long memoir for a former student, picking and editing pieces for the next So True on Sunday March 5, including my own, preparing classes; my own work is in the background, humming softly to itself as it waits for me to return. Yesterday, a day in technology limbo. My email wasn't working properly, so there were several infuriating calls to Rogers - half an hour on hold, listening to the same song over and over, for God's sake shut up and dance with her already, and then I was cut off - twice. I finally went down to unplug the modem - or the router, I forget which is which - and presto, it worked again. Sigh. I do know how to make life difficult for myself.
But my old iPhone was really not working, so after a visit to the Rogers store and a long phone call at home about cost, a trip back to the store to get the phone and two long phone calls to set it up, I am now the proud owner of a functional, very pretty iPhone 6s. This slender white beast, perhaps the most complex machine I've ever owned, can do a million things, and all I want to do is text my children, take and send photographs, make an occasional phone call, and occasionally, when I'm far from home, check my email. Even all that seems incredible, let alone all the rest - Siri (who apparently can recognize my voice), the whole world on Google maps, FB, so much more. It asked me to put my Visa card on the screen so I could use Apple pay - no. Absolutely not. I like getting out my wallet like the little old lady that I am. But I hope Grace will come soon to give me a seminar about my fancy new friend.
And now, this old body is off to get recumbent, with, beside me in bed, this laptop, the little phone, two newspapers, and three books. I'll ask the butler to make some soup. Oh right - that's me, just took a jar of turkey soup from Christmas out of the freezer. We'll be fine.
In case you need a boost for your day - there's this:
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/nobel-prize-winners-immigrants-us-donald-trump-brexit-immigration-racism-post-referendum-racism-a7355406.html
Of course, then we look at the spectacularly boastful orange blowhole who is now - say it isn't so - the President of the United States and wonder about HIS punishment for boasting. No question, retribution is coming for him, big time, when history judges him as the worst president by a mile, and they've had some doozies. That is, if the planet survives to HAVE a history, which, if he and his loathsome minions have their way, might be doubtful.
I must have picked up the bug at the AGO, where I met Anna and Eli yesterday morning. What a treat; Holly had volunteered to stay with Ben so the 2 of us could focus on our favourite four-year old. We toured a few galleries, explaining art to him, and ended up at the children's art centre which is fabulous, all manner of papers, markers and crayons, sparkly things, blocks, books - heaven. Eli takes creating very seriously; he and his mother made a rocket ship out of paper cones. I am going to get a family membership so we can meet there on a regular basis to do some actual cutting and pasting, and in between, check out Lawren Harris, David Milne, Henry Moore, the giant hamburger that made him exclaim.
Busy, busy, editing a long memoir for a former student, picking and editing pieces for the next So True on Sunday March 5, including my own, preparing classes; my own work is in the background, humming softly to itself as it waits for me to return. Yesterday, a day in technology limbo. My email wasn't working properly, so there were several infuriating calls to Rogers - half an hour on hold, listening to the same song over and over, for God's sake shut up and dance with her already, and then I was cut off - twice. I finally went down to unplug the modem - or the router, I forget which is which - and presto, it worked again. Sigh. I do know how to make life difficult for myself.
But my old iPhone was really not working, so after a visit to the Rogers store and a long phone call at home about cost, a trip back to the store to get the phone and two long phone calls to set it up, I am now the proud owner of a functional, very pretty iPhone 6s. This slender white beast, perhaps the most complex machine I've ever owned, can do a million things, and all I want to do is text my children, take and send photographs, make an occasional phone call, and occasionally, when I'm far from home, check my email. Even all that seems incredible, let alone all the rest - Siri (who apparently can recognize my voice), the whole world on Google maps, FB, so much more. It asked me to put my Visa card on the screen so I could use Apple pay - no. Absolutely not. I like getting out my wallet like the little old lady that I am. But I hope Grace will come soon to give me a seminar about my fancy new friend.
And now, this old body is off to get recumbent, with, beside me in bed, this laptop, the little phone, two newspapers, and three books. I'll ask the butler to make some soup. Oh right - that's me, just took a jar of turkey soup from Christmas out of the freezer. We'll be fine.
In case you need a boost for your day - there's this:
http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/nobel-prize-winners-immigrants-us-donald-trump-brexit-immigration-racism-post-referendum-racism-a7355406.html
January 31, 2017
new date for So True - Sunday March 5
Okay, it has happened, I've entered the obsessive phase when I don't want to do anything except cradle my lovely little book in my arms and sing it songs. Pat it on the head and dress it in pretty clothes and take it for walks. Feed it ... oh shut up, kill that metaphor, as the New Yorker says. Suffice to say - work on the manuscript is progressing slowly but far more steadily than usual. I'm at the "sitting so long my bum's asleep" stage. Lots more to be done, but there's hope. I'm in love.
Today I realized one of the chapters would work for a magazine; it's about the Summer of Love, 1967, and this is fifty years later. But it would need to run this summer, so it needs to be accepted for publication, like, now. So I wrote to a well-connected successful writer friend, asking if she'd consider helping me get the piece somewhere, at least to be seen. Otherwise it's hopeless, it takes forever to get something read and published, if it ever is. So we'll see.
Speaking of professional discouragement, I heard from the publisher of the writing book that soon he'll be sending me a royalty cheque - for the 12 books he has sold. A whopping $58.40. Sigh. I know, I sell it myself to students and keep almost all the profits; the book has paid for itself. But still ... twelve books, and even fewer of the Sixties memoir. And then I heard from a first rate agent I know, whom I'd contacted about this memoir and who'd indicated interest, that now she's too busy and her roster is full.
This business is a series of closed doors, and one of our jobs is to keep knocking. Keep writing, and keep knocking. To tell you the truth, I don't know which is harder.
Another issue, however, was quickly resolved. We always hold our So True events at the Social Capital, which is the second floor of the Black Swan on the Danforth, on the final Sunday of February, May and October. But now, it turns out, the bar on the main floor has decided to hire a band for the last Sunday of every month, to play at exactly the same time as our show. The noise upstairs would be deafening.
An immediate solution - a change of date. Our shows will now be on the FIRST Sunday of March, June and November, starting on Sunday March 5. Hope to see you there - it's our tenth event, and there will be a celebration.
And - our country still reels from yesterday's events, the murder of six men in a Quebec mosque, as the world reels from the heedless brutality of the incoming U.S. administration. But though the police thought so at first, there was no one named Mohamed involved in Quebec, only one young right-wing fanatic. What to say, as I look out at the snow falling and covering the garden? The world right now is terrifying.
All I can say is what I always say, the only thing we can say: Onward.
Today I realized one of the chapters would work for a magazine; it's about the Summer of Love, 1967, and this is fifty years later. But it would need to run this summer, so it needs to be accepted for publication, like, now. So I wrote to a well-connected successful writer friend, asking if she'd consider helping me get the piece somewhere, at least to be seen. Otherwise it's hopeless, it takes forever to get something read and published, if it ever is. So we'll see.
Speaking of professional discouragement, I heard from the publisher of the writing book that soon he'll be sending me a royalty cheque - for the 12 books he has sold. A whopping $58.40. Sigh. I know, I sell it myself to students and keep almost all the profits; the book has paid for itself. But still ... twelve books, and even fewer of the Sixties memoir. And then I heard from a first rate agent I know, whom I'd contacted about this memoir and who'd indicated interest, that now she's too busy and her roster is full.
This business is a series of closed doors, and one of our jobs is to keep knocking. Keep writing, and keep knocking. To tell you the truth, I don't know which is harder.
Another issue, however, was quickly resolved. We always hold our So True events at the Social Capital, which is the second floor of the Black Swan on the Danforth, on the final Sunday of February, May and October. But now, it turns out, the bar on the main floor has decided to hire a band for the last Sunday of every month, to play at exactly the same time as our show. The noise upstairs would be deafening.
An immediate solution - a change of date. Our shows will now be on the FIRST Sunday of March, June and November, starting on Sunday March 5. Hope to see you there - it's our tenth event, and there will be a celebration.
And - our country still reels from yesterday's events, the murder of six men in a Quebec mosque, as the world reels from the heedless brutality of the incoming U.S. administration. But though the police thought so at first, there was no one named Mohamed involved in Quebec, only one young right-wing fanatic. What to say, as I look out at the snow falling and covering the garden? The world right now is terrifying.
All I can say is what I always say, the only thing we can say: Onward.
January 30, 2017
terrorism in Quebec
A shooting at a mosque in Quebec City - men at their prayers, gunned down in cold blood. One of the shooters, apparently, was named Mohamed, which makes this hate crime even more incomprehensible. There is no question in my mind that this is linked to the vile xenophobic intolerance unleashed south of the border. We are hurtling backwards as a planet, back to a new Dark Ages. Soon we'll be burning witches. It makes me heartsick.
Which I was anyway because of sad news, yesterday - a dear friend called from the west to tell me that his nephew, whom I'd met once but whose slightly older brother was my boarder for two years, had died at the age of 37. Both boys were born with cystic fibrosis, a hideous, relentless disease; it was something of a modern miracle that the two of them were thriving well into their thirties, both married. The younger caught an infection and died suddenly. His brother must be desolate. I am deeply saddened.
The strange thing is that I had just been talking about my boarder friend. Yesterday afternoon, I was at a concert at Peter Mose's, my piano teacher's house, a lovely event with a husband and wife, both pianists and music teachers who have just moved here from Montreal and who specialize in accompanying others and in playing four hand piano. Which they did, because Peter, happily, has two pianos in his living room. Sometimes they played together, sometimes with their backs to each other on different pianos; it was delightful. Afterward I told them about my friend from the west, who's an accompanist on piano, and his nephew, who grew up to do exactly the same work, wondering if there's a "piano accompanist gene". As I walked in the door afterwards, the phone rang, and I learned of my young friend's brother's death. And then of terrorist slaughter in what we like to think of as our peaceful, tolerant nation.
The world dishes out so much sorrow, so much pain and grief without being asked. Why do we human beings go out of our way to create more?
Which I was anyway because of sad news, yesterday - a dear friend called from the west to tell me that his nephew, whom I'd met once but whose slightly older brother was my boarder for two years, had died at the age of 37. Both boys were born with cystic fibrosis, a hideous, relentless disease; it was something of a modern miracle that the two of them were thriving well into their thirties, both married. The younger caught an infection and died suddenly. His brother must be desolate. I am deeply saddened.
The strange thing is that I had just been talking about my boarder friend. Yesterday afternoon, I was at a concert at Peter Mose's, my piano teacher's house, a lovely event with a husband and wife, both pianists and music teachers who have just moved here from Montreal and who specialize in accompanying others and in playing four hand piano. Which they did, because Peter, happily, has two pianos in his living room. Sometimes they played together, sometimes with their backs to each other on different pianos; it was delightful. Afterward I told them about my friend from the west, who's an accompanist on piano, and his nephew, who grew up to do exactly the same work, wondering if there's a "piano accompanist gene". As I walked in the door afterwards, the phone rang, and I learned of my young friend's brother's death. And then of terrorist slaughter in what we like to think of as our peaceful, tolerant nation.
The world dishes out so much sorrow, so much pain and grief without being asked. Why do we human beings go out of our way to create more?
January 29, 2017
The Best Worst Thing That Could Have Happened
Yesterday, another of those days when I'm so happy to live in this crazy city overflowing with things to see and do. Lani and I went to see The Best Worst Thing That Could Have Happened, a documentary at the Bloor about a musical called Merrily We Roll Along, written in 1980 by Stephen Sondheim and directed by Hal Prince, an unbeatable combination with a string of huge successes behind them, until this musical came along. The film shows us the very young cast - all between 16 and 25 - auditioning for their idols, the thrill of getting their first Broadway job, rehearsals, and then the shock and sadness of bad reviews and the end - the show ran only 16 nights.
What's so moving is seeing them now. The only one who made it big in show biz is Jason Alexander, George on Seinfeld, and even he spent nine years playing a character that made him virtually unemployable in anything else. They all indicate that the failure of something that meant so much to them marked their lives in one way or another. But there's a reunion concert at the end, deeply joyful and redemptive.
It was especially meaningful to see this doc with Lani by my side. We were 24-year old actresses when we met, as idealistic and open as the faces on the screen as we made our own kind of theatre and found our own way to survive life's disappointments. We both loved the film. I will try to see it again.
Lani took the train back to Ingersoll; we had a great visit, though she came partly to see Anna and her sons - she was Anna's first babysitter in 1981 - and could not because both boys are sick. But otherwise - there we still are, forty years later, cackling with laughter.
And then, another supreme pleasure - friends Gretchen and Jack had tickets to the symphony but were double booked so gave those tickets to me; I invited Ron, whose friendship goes back to our Halifax days. The seats were fantastic - centre orchestra, all the better to watch the musicians closely, and, the greatest thrill of all, focus on the hands of Stewart Goodyear, a diminutive Toronto-born pianist with some Trinidadian blood, as he played Tchaikovsky's romantic, sweeping Piano Concerto #1 with such speed and power, he literally several times took my breath away. Ron has recently moved to Cabbagetown, bought himself a second-hand Steinway, and also has started piano lessons with my teacher Peter, just up the street; he told me he'd loved the Tchaikovsky as a boy and hadn't heard it for 50 years. We were also treated to a Dvorak symphony and two modern pieces with both young composers in the audience. I must go to the TSO more often, and I will go to hear Stewart Goodyear when and wherever I can.
Out into the traffic chaos of Toronto's downtown at 11 on a Saturday night - a million people spilling out from theatres and other venues. Living in the beeg ceety has its problems, but most of the time, there's nowhere I'd rather be.
What's so moving is seeing them now. The only one who made it big in show biz is Jason Alexander, George on Seinfeld, and even he spent nine years playing a character that made him virtually unemployable in anything else. They all indicate that the failure of something that meant so much to them marked their lives in one way or another. But there's a reunion concert at the end, deeply joyful and redemptive.
It was especially meaningful to see this doc with Lani by my side. We were 24-year old actresses when we met, as idealistic and open as the faces on the screen as we made our own kind of theatre and found our own way to survive life's disappointments. We both loved the film. I will try to see it again.
Lani took the train back to Ingersoll; we had a great visit, though she came partly to see Anna and her sons - she was Anna's first babysitter in 1981 - and could not because both boys are sick. But otherwise - there we still are, forty years later, cackling with laughter.
And then, another supreme pleasure - friends Gretchen and Jack had tickets to the symphony but were double booked so gave those tickets to me; I invited Ron, whose friendship goes back to our Halifax days. The seats were fantastic - centre orchestra, all the better to watch the musicians closely, and, the greatest thrill of all, focus on the hands of Stewart Goodyear, a diminutive Toronto-born pianist with some Trinidadian blood, as he played Tchaikovsky's romantic, sweeping Piano Concerto #1 with such speed and power, he literally several times took my breath away. Ron has recently moved to Cabbagetown, bought himself a second-hand Steinway, and also has started piano lessons with my teacher Peter, just up the street; he told me he'd loved the Tchaikovsky as a boy and hadn't heard it for 50 years. We were also treated to a Dvorak symphony and two modern pieces with both young composers in the audience. I must go to the TSO more often, and I will go to hear Stewart Goodyear when and wherever I can.
Out into the traffic chaos of Toronto's downtown at 11 on a Saturday night - a million people spilling out from theatres and other venues. Living in the beeg ceety has its problems, but most of the time, there's nowhere I'd rather be.
January 27, 2017
20th century women, and the end of the impasse
Another dear old friend visiting - Lani saw me in my first Vancouver show in early 1975 and immediately hired me for her company; we all wrote a revue to tour through the Kootenays. And so I befriended a most interesting, quirky woman, as we sat on camp chairs beneath those glorious mountains, drinking martinis she'd made for us while the men in the company argued about where to park the bus. We went on to have many adventures together, both personal and professional, including mutual boyfriends and many more shows - she tiny and fierce, I tall and genial, apparently a hilarious team, especially our Helena (tall) and Hermia (short) in their fight scene from Midsummer Night's Dream.
She has lived for years in Stratford, recently moved with her husband Maurice to Ingersoll, and has come to the big city for a few days. Today we went to see 20th century women. What a fine film - as original as Lan. It's autobiographical, the story of director and writer Mike Mills and his unconventional, empathetic mother in Santa Barbara in 1979. Since I'm writing about that very year, I had my notebook ready to jot down insights about that time.
But what hit me most about this lovely film, the coming of age story of a boy surrounded by women trying to help him grow to be a good man, was how hard it is to be the single mother of a male of the species. My God, I identified with that, as Annette Bening's character struggles to cope with the mysterious creature she has brought into the world, and the boy tries to understand the various fascinating women in his life, at a time in the world when feminism had taken hold and the clitoris and menstruation were dinner table topics. I loved the scenes where his mother tries to tolerate the violent punk music her son likes, as I reacted with incomprehension when Sam started to listen to rap and hiphop, "motherfucker music," as I called it, since that seemed to be the only word the musicians knew.
The film is thoughtful, a bit slow, a bit too careful, politically correct and sentimental, perhaps, but special - human beings in all their complex, marvellous glory. All the actors are wonderful, but Greta Gerwig is spectacular.
As important to me is the fact that - drum roll! - I've moved past the logjam with the book. Suddenly, after weeks of me diddling about with no idea how to fix a central problem, a solution broke open. The opening scene started to come together, and it all started to flow. Yes, flow. I read some of the new material to Lani, and at two points she had tears in her eyes, so I take that as a good sign. I have renewed purpose and energy and will soon enter the obsessive phase, I fear, when all that matters is the book.
In the meantime - sometimes it seems criminal to have a life, to care about anything else when the world is disintegrating and a lunatic is running the most powerful country on earth into the ground. How is it possible to have someone so wrong about every single thing right there, in our faces, and not go mad?
She has lived for years in Stratford, recently moved with her husband Maurice to Ingersoll, and has come to the big city for a few days. Today we went to see 20th century women. What a fine film - as original as Lan. It's autobiographical, the story of director and writer Mike Mills and his unconventional, empathetic mother in Santa Barbara in 1979. Since I'm writing about that very year, I had my notebook ready to jot down insights about that time.
But what hit me most about this lovely film, the coming of age story of a boy surrounded by women trying to help him grow to be a good man, was how hard it is to be the single mother of a male of the species. My God, I identified with that, as Annette Bening's character struggles to cope with the mysterious creature she has brought into the world, and the boy tries to understand the various fascinating women in his life, at a time in the world when feminism had taken hold and the clitoris and menstruation were dinner table topics. I loved the scenes where his mother tries to tolerate the violent punk music her son likes, as I reacted with incomprehension when Sam started to listen to rap and hiphop, "motherfucker music," as I called it, since that seemed to be the only word the musicians knew.
The film is thoughtful, a bit slow, a bit too careful, politically correct and sentimental, perhaps, but special - human beings in all their complex, marvellous glory. All the actors are wonderful, but Greta Gerwig is spectacular.
As important to me is the fact that - drum roll! - I've moved past the logjam with the book. Suddenly, after weeks of me diddling about with no idea how to fix a central problem, a solution broke open. The opening scene started to come together, and it all started to flow. Yes, flow. I read some of the new material to Lani, and at two points she had tears in her eyes, so I take that as a good sign. I have renewed purpose and energy and will soon enter the obsessive phase, I fear, when all that matters is the book.
In the meantime - sometimes it seems criminal to have a life, to care about anything else when the world is disintegrating and a lunatic is running the most powerful country on earth into the ground. How is it possible to have someone so wrong about every single thing right there, in our faces, and not go mad?
January 24, 2017
La La Land and the blog's tenth anniversary
The mild gloom of this strange January continues - no sun but no snow either, just an icing sugar frosting today. I did a yoga class on Monday which I guess was tougher than I realized - had a great class at Ryerson but couldn't sleep afterwards for hip pain and was hobbling like an old lady today. Still, went to meet my good friend and fellow writer Stella Walker, both of us bringing pages of current writing to discuss - invaluable, her eye on my work, and, I hope, mine on hers. Much more rewriting to be done. Stella is perhaps the only person on earth who has laboriously learned both Yiddish and Cree. She is not only a writer but an actress, a singer, a singing teacher and a painter. Extraordinary.
And then off to cheer myself up - with one horror after another coming from the States and the sky a constant slate grey, I needed a good movie, and boy, did I see one - La La Land. LOVED IT. Absolutely delightful. Yes, they are not Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, but Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling are charming and skilled, the story had a twist at the end that brings an ache to the heart, and the music is glorious. All in all, the perfect movie for January. Or any other month, for that matter. I had a rapturous chat with one of the young ushers at Cineplex as I was leaving - he saw my dewy eyes and grinned and we nearly clutched each other while going on about how much fun it was.
Give yourself a treat. And remember that Ryan Gosling learned to play the piano for the film, and he is Canadian and a superstar. And adorable, even if his eyes are a bit too close together. They're both adorable. Thanks guys, I needed that.
And finally, a thrill: received the email below from my friend George Hume. Ten years! Ten years of my blabbing. I love this blog. It takes lots of time and it pays nothing, but here I am, and here I shall remain. Onward!
If I am not mistaken, today marks 10 years of blogging.
Congratulations,
George
And then off to cheer myself up - with one horror after another coming from the States and the sky a constant slate grey, I needed a good movie, and boy, did I see one - La La Land. LOVED IT. Absolutely delightful. Yes, they are not Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, but Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling are charming and skilled, the story had a twist at the end that brings an ache to the heart, and the music is glorious. All in all, the perfect movie for January. Or any other month, for that matter. I had a rapturous chat with one of the young ushers at Cineplex as I was leaving - he saw my dewy eyes and grinned and we nearly clutched each other while going on about how much fun it was.
Give yourself a treat. And remember that Ryan Gosling learned to play the piano for the film, and he is Canadian and a superstar. And adorable, even if his eyes are a bit too close together. They're both adorable. Thanks guys, I needed that.
And finally, a thrill: received the email below from my friend George Hume. Ten years! Ten years of my blabbing. I love this blog. It takes lots of time and it pays nothing, but here I am, and here I shall remain. Onward!
If I am not mistaken, today marks 10 years of blogging.
Congratulations,
George
January 23, 2017
family and football
Blessings, great blessings. My ex-husband just went across town after four nights here, to spend a last day with his children and grandsons before flying back to Washington tonight. We hugged tightly when he left. "Thank you for a great visit," he said. "This feels like home." And of course it was his home for four years; we bought this house together in 1986. But then our marriage ended; he moved out, and there were difficult years, and now we are together again. He is one of my best friends. And in May, he's planning to drive back with his wife and their seven-year old daughter, our children's sister, for a visit with us all, as they did last year. I have to say, I'm proud of these things. In healing a painful rift and creating a new template for close family, we have done something pretty rare and immensely important.
Yesterday was football. In the afternoon, Edgar and Eli went to Sam's current place of work which is a sports bar, with giant TV's turned to the game, some big game apparently, and with foosball, basketball and all manner of fun things for a young man who had a ball, literally and figuratively. Then they came back to Anna's where the next game, the big one, started and Anna had prepared a grand feast for all, as is her wont. It was Pittsburg Steelers versus New England Patriots and my family was split, Ed and Sam for the latter and Anna for the former. Thomas and I don't care at all, so I played with the boys and read many stories and put Eli to bed while the adults cheered and groaned. It felt so normal, something normal families do, not people like me. I would never in a million years watch a football game on my own; my parents never did. But it was fun. Once.
Twins and buddies. Eli's glasses are for play (he's in his Steelers sweatshirt), his grandpa's are not.
Now life resumes. I have not worked or exercised or done anything except talk and play with little boys and eat for four days. Time to re-establish my routine.
It was also wonderful that Edgar was here during this especially fraught time, watching the truly mind-boggling spectacles south of the border, his new home - the biggest march in the country's history versus the invention of "alternate facts." What a ride this is going to be.
Yesterday was football. In the afternoon, Edgar and Eli went to Sam's current place of work which is a sports bar, with giant TV's turned to the game, some big game apparently, and with foosball, basketball and all manner of fun things for a young man who had a ball, literally and figuratively. Then they came back to Anna's where the next game, the big one, started and Anna had prepared a grand feast for all, as is her wont. It was Pittsburg Steelers versus New England Patriots and my family was split, Ed and Sam for the latter and Anna for the former. Thomas and I don't care at all, so I played with the boys and read many stories and put Eli to bed while the adults cheered and groaned. It felt so normal, something normal families do, not people like me. I would never in a million years watch a football game on my own; my parents never did. But it was fun. Once.
Twins and buddies. Eli's glasses are for play (he's in his Steelers sweatshirt), his grandpa's are not.Now life resumes. I have not worked or exercised or done anything except talk and play with little boys and eat for four days. Time to re-establish my routine.
It was also wonderful that Edgar was here during this especially fraught time, watching the truly mind-boggling spectacles south of the border, his new home - the biggest march in the country's history versus the invention of "alternate facts." What a ride this is going to be.
January 21, 2017
marching for love
My ex-husband and my son are in the living room, riveted to CNN, as people discuss how appalling the behaviour of the President of the United States was today. A bit earlier, the 3 of us watched Florence Foster Jenkins, a lovely film about a woman of good will but utterly without talent, who somehow is convinced that she should sing. There are similarities, certainly, between the vile incompetent sworn in yesterday and Mrs. Jenkins, except the good will part.
We marched today. We discovered it's not easy to march in a huge crowd with a restless four-year old on a scooter and an 18-month old who totters along like a drunken sailor and does not want to be carried. All around us, thousands and thousands of people, young and old, every colour, every faith - and talk about good will! Such a joyful crowd, peaceful, friendly, open, a heartening number of teenagers and young adults. People gathering to be heard, to be seen. It started on the College streetcar which Edgar and I got to Queen's Park. I didn't expect any crowds on the streetcar, but it was packed with women, and some men, in pink hats, people with signs, everyone talking about Trump and the election. The car had to go by most stops because we couldn't let anyone else on. I talked to a woman not much younger than I who told me it was her first march. "I thought, this is the one to start with." I couldn't imagine never having marched before - perhaps she didn't live in Toronto when Mike Harris was Premier, when there were many vital marches, though none anywhere near this size - but was glad, yes, she is starting now.
When we got to Queen's Park, the streetcar driver shouted, "Everybody out, folks. And give 'em hell!" And there we were, in a roiling sea of humanity in pink hats, with signs, great signs. "Free Melania!" one said. "Get your tiny hands off my human rights." "This pussy grabs back." "March like a girl." "A woman's place is in the resistance." "Babies against bullshit." And one of my favourites, "Worst reality show ever!"
We couldn't hear the speeches, they were too far away, but we cheered when the people close to the speakers cheered, and then finally we started to march. Thousands - I've heard 60,000, though maybe more - streaming down University Avenue, both sides, in an endless flood, with some drumming and chanting. Thrilling and beautiful. Even the weather was on our side - it was mild and almost sunny.
It was two hours after the start by the time we got to City Hall, and at that point the little guys were tired and hungry, so rather than not be able to hear more speeches, we went home to an exhausting evening with two very busy, relentless young men. The level of their energy is overwhelming. We ordered Chinese food for supper and finally they went home, and Sam, Edgar and I could go back to watching, with our jaws hanging open, as Trump's behaviour was debated on TV, and reports came in from around the world about the marches everywhere, everywhere. Humanity has arisen en masse. This is a historic moment. May this spirit of joyful protest last.
Anna didn't quite get the sign finished - it was supposed to say, "This is what a feminist looks like." But love is enough.
My immediate family and my human family.
What haunts me, as the chaos unfolds, is thinking about exactly how much there is to fix in the world, while we debate how big the crowd was at the inauguration. It's surreal. And I imagine Vladimir Putin, grinning.
We marched today. We discovered it's not easy to march in a huge crowd with a restless four-year old on a scooter and an 18-month old who totters along like a drunken sailor and does not want to be carried. All around us, thousands and thousands of people, young and old, every colour, every faith - and talk about good will! Such a joyful crowd, peaceful, friendly, open, a heartening number of teenagers and young adults. People gathering to be heard, to be seen. It started on the College streetcar which Edgar and I got to Queen's Park. I didn't expect any crowds on the streetcar, but it was packed with women, and some men, in pink hats, people with signs, everyone talking about Trump and the election. The car had to go by most stops because we couldn't let anyone else on. I talked to a woman not much younger than I who told me it was her first march. "I thought, this is the one to start with." I couldn't imagine never having marched before - perhaps she didn't live in Toronto when Mike Harris was Premier, when there were many vital marches, though none anywhere near this size - but was glad, yes, she is starting now.
When we got to Queen's Park, the streetcar driver shouted, "Everybody out, folks. And give 'em hell!" And there we were, in a roiling sea of humanity in pink hats, with signs, great signs. "Free Melania!" one said. "Get your tiny hands off my human rights." "This pussy grabs back." "March like a girl." "A woman's place is in the resistance." "Babies against bullshit." And one of my favourites, "Worst reality show ever!"
We couldn't hear the speeches, they were too far away, but we cheered when the people close to the speakers cheered, and then finally we started to march. Thousands - I've heard 60,000, though maybe more - streaming down University Avenue, both sides, in an endless flood, with some drumming and chanting. Thrilling and beautiful. Even the weather was on our side - it was mild and almost sunny.
It was two hours after the start by the time we got to City Hall, and at that point the little guys were tired and hungry, so rather than not be able to hear more speeches, we went home to an exhausting evening with two very busy, relentless young men. The level of their energy is overwhelming. We ordered Chinese food for supper and finally they went home, and Sam, Edgar and I could go back to watching, with our jaws hanging open, as Trump's behaviour was debated on TV, and reports came in from around the world about the marches everywhere, everywhere. Humanity has arisen en masse. This is a historic moment. May this spirit of joyful protest last.
Anna didn't quite get the sign finished - it was supposed to say, "This is what a feminist looks like." But love is enough.
My immediate family and my human family.What haunts me, as the chaos unfolds, is thinking about exactly how much there is to fix in the world, while we debate how big the crowd was at the inauguration. It's surreal. And I imagine Vladimir Putin, grinning.
surviving El Trumpo en famille
Sitting in the kitchen, looking at the garden where there is not a hint of snow - so far, a surprisingly mild and lovely January - while the father of my children reads the Globe beside me. He is here from Washington D.C., fleeing the inauguration and visiting his children and grandchildren, and what a blessing it is to have him here. Last night Eli's dad Thomas stayed with the two boys while Anna, Sam, Edgar and I went out for dinner. Ed and I were married for ten years and have been divorced for twenty-five, and we are closer now as a family, in some ways, than we have ever been. He spent yesterday afternoon teaching Eli to skate - he's a superb skater - and wrestling and playing with both grandsons, and is exhausted today.
Especially meaningful, this time of togetherness and love and play, while the world disintegrates. Just the words "President Trump" make me sick. We tried to avoid the news yesterday, the TV, the radio - but it was impossible, we heard bits of the loathsome bombastic Mussolini-like speech, we saw pictures - it's too horrifying to contemplate, but there he is, nastier, more vile than ever. The picture of Michelle Obama's face says it all. Imagine, him shouting those vicious, incendiary lies about the debasement of America with a row of its past presidents, including an eight-year Republican one, sitting behind him.
Okay, let it go. Edgar and I are soon getting ready to go to the march here, in support of the women's march in Washington. Anna and Sam are coming with the boys; Anna wants to make a sign for Eli that says, "This is what a feminist looks like." So on this mild January day, our family will march with thousands of others, hundreds of thousands worldwide, to say, "Here we are. The world is a far, far better place than you can even imagine, and it will survive even you."
Especially meaningful, this time of togetherness and love and play, while the world disintegrates. Just the words "President Trump" make me sick. We tried to avoid the news yesterday, the TV, the radio - but it was impossible, we heard bits of the loathsome bombastic Mussolini-like speech, we saw pictures - it's too horrifying to contemplate, but there he is, nastier, more vile than ever. The picture of Michelle Obama's face says it all. Imagine, him shouting those vicious, incendiary lies about the debasement of America with a row of its past presidents, including an eight-year Republican one, sitting behind him.
Okay, let it go. Edgar and I are soon getting ready to go to the march here, in support of the women's march in Washington. Anna and Sam are coming with the boys; Anna wants to make a sign for Eli that says, "This is what a feminist looks like." So on this mild January day, our family will march with thousands of others, hundreds of thousands worldwide, to say, "Here we are. The world is a far, far better place than you can even imagine, and it will survive even you."
January 18, 2017
critiquing
My friend and student Ruth has written to amend something I wrote yesterday; apparently, Jordan Peterson is a rather creepy rightwing guy who sees everything as a Marxist conspiracy. I didn't look deeply enough into the whole story, was just using his case - of a hypersensitive person overreacting to a perceived insult - to bolster my own. Look more closely, Kaplan, before you shoot off your mouth. Always something new to learn.
And a disappointment I forgot to tell you about: the last episode of this season's Sherlock on Sunday night. I used to adore this brilliant, always surprising show, but it has become stranger, and Sunday's episode was absolutely horrible, ridiculously far-fetched and grotesquely violent, not remotely like the Sherlock I've come to know and love. That's what success can do to writers. Then Jean-Marc, Richard and I watched Victoria, and that too was disappointing - not bad, certainly entertaining, but not in any way comparable to the sharp, profound excellence of The Crown, though featuring a most beautiful actor with stunning cheekbones, Rufus Sewell, shining through it all.
And something else I forgot to tell you about, on Saturday the National Theatre Live production on screen of No Man's Land, the Pinter play starring Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart. I left at the intermission. These theatre-on-film shows have to be really good to keep me hanging around for twenty minutes in the middle. This one was very Pinter - cryptic, menacing and nearly incomprehensible, and I decided I'd seen enough. I admire Pinter, played the cryptic, menacing Ruth in The Caretaker and directed the cryptic, menacing The Dumbwaiter in university, but sometimes he is like a parody of himself, and this play was like that.
It's good to know that I don't rhapsodize in ecstasy about everything, isn't it? I can be whiny and critical. And it's gloomy outside too.
But it's mild and there's no snow and I'm on my bike. Life is $@#$@ good.
And a disappointment I forgot to tell you about: the last episode of this season's Sherlock on Sunday night. I used to adore this brilliant, always surprising show, but it has become stranger, and Sunday's episode was absolutely horrible, ridiculously far-fetched and grotesquely violent, not remotely like the Sherlock I've come to know and love. That's what success can do to writers. Then Jean-Marc, Richard and I watched Victoria, and that too was disappointing - not bad, certainly entertaining, but not in any way comparable to the sharp, profound excellence of The Crown, though featuring a most beautiful actor with stunning cheekbones, Rufus Sewell, shining through it all.
And something else I forgot to tell you about, on Saturday the National Theatre Live production on screen of No Man's Land, the Pinter play starring Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart. I left at the intermission. These theatre-on-film shows have to be really good to keep me hanging around for twenty minutes in the middle. This one was very Pinter - cryptic, menacing and nearly incomprehensible, and I decided I'd seen enough. I admire Pinter, played the cryptic, menacing Ruth in The Caretaker and directed the cryptic, menacing The Dumbwaiter in university, but sometimes he is like a parody of himself, and this play was like that.
It's good to know that I don't rhapsodize in ecstasy about everything, isn't it? I can be whiny and critical. And it's gloomy outside too.
But it's mild and there's no snow and I'm on my bike. Life is $@#$@ good.
