Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 182
February 11, 2016
being rich
My daughter sent me this:
I agree, though I don't think those are the ONLY two things to fight for. But they both matter. Of course, I get almost all my books from the library, but if there's an expensive book I really want - a Yotam Ottolenghi cookbook, for example, which is both beautiful and useful - I buy it. And since I'm on contract, I go in to work, do my job and leave - almost no meetings, no colleagues, no office politics. Where do I encounter assholes? Through the stories of my students and my children, on-line, in the neighbourhood, on the streetcar. And then I move right along.
So according to this bon mot, I am rich. Even on this bitterly cold day - minus 20 with the windchill, they said - Wayson came over and drove me around to do errands in his car, and the sun was hot and bright. Rich.
Another sign of vast wealth - my dishwasher broke, and I bought another one, just like that. They say dishwashers last ten years and mine is ten years old, practically to the day. So I spent hours yesterday sitting in my chair reading Consumer Reports online, then checking websites of stores, then more consumer websites - had a notebook full of jottings, got more and more confused. Then, after supper, I saw a sale on a Bosch machine recommended by Consumer Reports, $400 off if I bought by the end of the sale, which was 8 p.m. Done. Today I read the reviews online - almost all negative.
My mother was such a ditherer, took forever to make even the simplest decision, asked the advice of everyone in sight, even complete strangers - What do YOU think? I want to be different, decisive. Sometimes that works out better than other times. But at all times, even if I'm washing a pile of dishes because my asshole of a brand new Bosch dishwasher doesn't work - I am rich.
I agree, though I don't think those are the ONLY two things to fight for. But they both matter. Of course, I get almost all my books from the library, but if there's an expensive book I really want - a Yotam Ottolenghi cookbook, for example, which is both beautiful and useful - I buy it. And since I'm on contract, I go in to work, do my job and leave - almost no meetings, no colleagues, no office politics. Where do I encounter assholes? Through the stories of my students and my children, on-line, in the neighbourhood, on the streetcar. And then I move right along.So according to this bon mot, I am rich. Even on this bitterly cold day - minus 20 with the windchill, they said - Wayson came over and drove me around to do errands in his car, and the sun was hot and bright. Rich.
Another sign of vast wealth - my dishwasher broke, and I bought another one, just like that. They say dishwashers last ten years and mine is ten years old, practically to the day. So I spent hours yesterday sitting in my chair reading Consumer Reports online, then checking websites of stores, then more consumer websites - had a notebook full of jottings, got more and more confused. Then, after supper, I saw a sale on a Bosch machine recommended by Consumer Reports, $400 off if I bought by the end of the sale, which was 8 p.m. Done. Today I read the reviews online - almost all negative.
My mother was such a ditherer, took forever to make even the simplest decision, asked the advice of everyone in sight, even complete strangers - What do YOU think? I want to be different, decisive. Sometimes that works out better than other times. But at all times, even if I'm washing a pile of dishes because my asshole of a brand new Bosch dishwasher doesn't work - I am rich.
February 10, 2016
Robert's photos
As I wrote awhile ago, I have a box of stuff I was given to store when my beloved friend, visionary playwright, director and arts ambassador Robert Handforth died of AIDS in 1988. I have hardly looked at it in all this time, but on the weekend I did, and found, among many theatre programs from the 70's and Bob's scripts, a few strips of 35 millimetre film - no idea of what. So I took it to my photo guy and got a few pix developed.
Heartbreaking - the very young me, and me and Robert. Around 1969 - we were around 19.
Oh my. I have a cold today, am achey with dripping nose, feeling ugly, old and decrepit, and here's an unrecognizable young woman with beautiful skin and thick shiny hair, with a man who, though gay, loved many strong women and was one of the great loves of her life, and she, it seems, of his ...
Oh well. Life marches on and so do we, friends - like it or lump it, and usually, I like it. But these photos hit hard. I MISS ROBERT SO MUCH! He was beautiful, brilliant, crabby, complicated, prescient. He changed my life and that of many others. I want to talk to him right now. How dare he not be here?
And I know this feeling is going to get worse. These years will start to be about loss. Who else can I bear to lose? NO ONE!
Robert is not here, but Rick Mercer is. I watched his show yesterday, always fun, and his rant was wonderful.
http://www.rickmercer.com/Rick-s-Rant/Blog/February-2016/Can-t----Look----Away---.aspx
And something else that's wonderful: David Brooks, conservative columnist, writing movingly on what he will miss about Obama. I hope what he says will hold true for our Prime Minister as well.
http://www.nytimes.com/2016/02/09/opinion/i-miss-barack-obama.html?smid=tw-nytdavidbrooks&smtyp=cur&_r=1
Heartbreaking - the very young me, and me and Robert. Around 1969 - we were around 19.Oh my. I have a cold today, am achey with dripping nose, feeling ugly, old and decrepit, and here's an unrecognizable young woman with beautiful skin and thick shiny hair, with a man who, though gay, loved many strong women and was one of the great loves of her life, and she, it seems, of his ...
Oh well. Life marches on and so do we, friends - like it or lump it, and usually, I like it. But these photos hit hard. I MISS ROBERT SO MUCH! He was beautiful, brilliant, crabby, complicated, prescient. He changed my life and that of many others. I want to talk to him right now. How dare he not be here?
And I know this feeling is going to get worse. These years will start to be about loss. Who else can I bear to lose? NO ONE!
Robert is not here, but Rick Mercer is. I watched his show yesterday, always fun, and his rant was wonderful.
http://www.rickmercer.com/Rick-s-Rant/Blog/February-2016/Can-t----Look----Away---.aspx
And something else that's wonderful: David Brooks, conservative columnist, writing movingly on what he will miss about Obama. I hope what he says will hold true for our Prime Minister as well.
http://www.nytimes.com/2016/02/09/opinion/i-miss-barack-obama.html?smid=tw-nytdavidbrooks&smtyp=cur&_r=1
February 9, 2016
judging Jian
This is what I would say were I the Ghomeshi judge - and this is with no knowledge of the laws involved and without having heard any testimony, just on the basis of articles and commentary:
I'd say, there is no question that Mr. Ghomeshi behaved extremely badly, reprehensibly, toward women in a sexual context and perhaps also in a professional one, if the tales coming from CBC are true. That his arrogance and blindness were horrifying and that he deserves the public disgrace he brought on himself.
However. There is also no question that the women involved, despite their surprise at sudden unpleasant treatment, went back for more. This is not about the trauma of abused women, as so many are shouting; they were not in a longterm relationship with a man who assaulted them. They were intelligent, independent adult women very interested in pursuing a man who had a lot of power in their world, and was also, let's face it, attractive, fun and sexy. So, eyes wide open, they went back again and again, and then, when they finally went public with their complaints, their reports to the police were full of omissions, collusion with each other and downright lies.
I would sentence Mr. Ghomeshi to therapy - enforced therapy with someone who specializes in men with violent tendencies - and to 200 hours of work in a battered women's shelter, preferably one for immigrant women who do not know who he is. Let him get to know vulnerable human beings whose lives are irrevocably damaged by male violence.
And then please, let's forget this circus and focus on important things - hunger, child care, poverty.
I've been appalled by what sound like the hounds of hell baying for blood. An FB post about how Marie Henein, his lawyer, is betraying all women by defending her client. I can tell you that if anyone I knew were ever in trouble, male or female, Marie Henein is the first lawyer I'd call. She has done her job in exemplary fashion. Some of the things women I know have said on FB are so near to bloodletting, it makes me glad lynching is illegal. Who does that help, when we are full of hate ourselves?
Enough.
Here's a fantastic article by Gerry Caplan about something that might change the course of our world: the lunacy of the American political system.
www.theglobeandmail.com/news/politics/bernie-sanders-an-extremist-only-in-america/article28662920/
I'd say, there is no question that Mr. Ghomeshi behaved extremely badly, reprehensibly, toward women in a sexual context and perhaps also in a professional one, if the tales coming from CBC are true. That his arrogance and blindness were horrifying and that he deserves the public disgrace he brought on himself.
However. There is also no question that the women involved, despite their surprise at sudden unpleasant treatment, went back for more. This is not about the trauma of abused women, as so many are shouting; they were not in a longterm relationship with a man who assaulted them. They were intelligent, independent adult women very interested in pursuing a man who had a lot of power in their world, and was also, let's face it, attractive, fun and sexy. So, eyes wide open, they went back again and again, and then, when they finally went public with their complaints, their reports to the police were full of omissions, collusion with each other and downright lies.
I would sentence Mr. Ghomeshi to therapy - enforced therapy with someone who specializes in men with violent tendencies - and to 200 hours of work in a battered women's shelter, preferably one for immigrant women who do not know who he is. Let him get to know vulnerable human beings whose lives are irrevocably damaged by male violence.
And then please, let's forget this circus and focus on important things - hunger, child care, poverty.
I've been appalled by what sound like the hounds of hell baying for blood. An FB post about how Marie Henein, his lawyer, is betraying all women by defending her client. I can tell you that if anyone I knew were ever in trouble, male or female, Marie Henein is the first lawyer I'd call. She has done her job in exemplary fashion. Some of the things women I know have said on FB are so near to bloodletting, it makes me glad lynching is illegal. Who does that help, when we are full of hate ourselves?
Enough.
Here's a fantastic article by Gerry Caplan about something that might change the course of our world: the lunacy of the American political system.
www.theglobeandmail.com/news/politics/bernie-sanders-an-extremist-only-in-america/article28662920/
February 8, 2016
Downton delights
Downton! So many plot points whirring in the air - how does he do it? At least twelve, at last count, both up and downstairs. How long before Mr. Carson ends up with a well-sharpened knife in his heart? Poor Mrs. Hughes. And poor Barrow - is there no love for him? Will Edith and Mary ever stop spitting in each other's faces? Will Mary slut-shame Edith when she discovers the truth about little Marigold? Will Mrs. Crawley get it on with her gentleman caller, now that his vile snobbish son has an inexplicably nice fiancee? (How did THAT happen, Mr. Fellowes?) What happened to adorable Daisy, now a jealous green-eyed bitch?And so much more. Not to mention the costumes and sets which are more lavish than ever, and that wonderful undercurrent of doom - our days are numbered, they all say both above and below stairs, (why can't I have an under-butler? I could use one!) and they're at least partially right.
Richard thinks there are only 3 more weeks. Botheration! What shall we do? Not just the show, but talking afterwards for hours, Richard, JM, Wayson and I, eating cookies and discussing plot lines both real (Jian, Hillary, Rubio etc.) and televised.
Anna and her family and friends spent yesterday evening gathered around the TV watching football; my daughter for some bizarre reason loves the game. Who cares about sweaty men grunting over a ball? Not I. But wondering how a fabulous Masterpiece series will end - now, that matters.
For your viewing pleasure - and so my children can understand where I learned to dance with such grace and sophistication - here's a vintage clip from the TV show Soul Train. Spectacular. ENJOY!
https://www.facebook.com/137705479924228/videos/188936051467837/
February 7, 2016
"45 Years" and "Kiss and Cry"
So little time, so much to see - two things to report on today. I saw the film "45 Years" with friend Ken a few days ago. It's beautiful, haunting, difficult - everything a good film should be. Suzette told me friends of hers went to see it as a treat for their wedding anniversary and regretted that particular choice. Because after it was over, I turned to Ken and said, "Thank God I'm single!"
Which I feel every day, for various reasons. But this - about the joys and pains and the comforting routine of longterm marriage, and what can so easily go wrong - is true and honest and heartbreaking. Charlotte Rampling is stunning, and so is Tom Courtenay; I remember them both vividly from "Georgie Girl" and "The loneliness of the long distance runner." They're just as beautiful now, in a very different way.
Suzette and I went today to see a very odd piece of theatre called "Kiss and Cry," something I would never have attended if she hadn't insisted. And what a treat it was - a kind of ballet, done with film and special effects that you watch being produced on stage in front of you, with hands. Yes, it stars hands - until the last few seconds, we don't see people, we only see hands, dancing, having sex, figure skating, being disappointed, falling in love. Breathtaking - simple yet extremely complex and accomplished, with a gorgeous score veering between Bach and modern music, and a cast of ten people and 20 hands making the magic happen.
Such a bounty in this city - a wealth of stuff to see and do. And eat and buy and watch and enjoy. This morning, a simpler pleasure - I went across town to have brunch with the little family; Daddy made waffles, the boys had a chat and Ben, who missed the waffles, tried instead to eat his foot.
Several friends sent supportive messages about my post last week re: sexual assault, where I discussed my own complex feelings about being more or less raped. This week of Jian's trial has been confusing. Was the Crown completely unaware that his accusers had continued to importune him, even after, sometimes long after, their alleged assaults? It boggles the mind. Various very angry women on FB have been ranting that Jian's lawyer has brought these things up to defame the accusers - but that's her job, for God's sake, the man faces years in prison, her job is to poke holes in the case against him, and his accusers have made that very easy.
And in the meantime, while this event plays out - really, Toronto Star, giant front page headlines? - hideous abuse of women continues around the world - story in the papers yesterday that the incidence of genital mutilation is many times higher than previously known. I guess this trial is good in throwing more light on what goes on in dark corners, but otherwise, it's excruciating.
Which I feel every day, for various reasons. But this - about the joys and pains and the comforting routine of longterm marriage, and what can so easily go wrong - is true and honest and heartbreaking. Charlotte Rampling is stunning, and so is Tom Courtenay; I remember them both vividly from "Georgie Girl" and "The loneliness of the long distance runner." They're just as beautiful now, in a very different way.
Suzette and I went today to see a very odd piece of theatre called "Kiss and Cry," something I would never have attended if she hadn't insisted. And what a treat it was - a kind of ballet, done with film and special effects that you watch being produced on stage in front of you, with hands. Yes, it stars hands - until the last few seconds, we don't see people, we only see hands, dancing, having sex, figure skating, being disappointed, falling in love. Breathtaking - simple yet extremely complex and accomplished, with a gorgeous score veering between Bach and modern music, and a cast of ten people and 20 hands making the magic happen.
Such a bounty in this city - a wealth of stuff to see and do. And eat and buy and watch and enjoy. This morning, a simpler pleasure - I went across town to have brunch with the little family; Daddy made waffles, the boys had a chat and Ben, who missed the waffles, tried instead to eat his foot.
Several friends sent supportive messages about my post last week re: sexual assault, where I discussed my own complex feelings about being more or less raped. This week of Jian's trial has been confusing. Was the Crown completely unaware that his accusers had continued to importune him, even after, sometimes long after, their alleged assaults? It boggles the mind. Various very angry women on FB have been ranting that Jian's lawyer has brought these things up to defame the accusers - but that's her job, for God's sake, the man faces years in prison, her job is to poke holes in the case against him, and his accusers have made that very easy.
And in the meantime, while this event plays out - really, Toronto Star, giant front page headlines? - hideous abuse of women continues around the world - story in the papers yesterday that the incidence of genital mutilation is many times higher than previously known. I guess this trial is good in throwing more light on what goes on in dark corners, but otherwise, it's excruciating.
February 5, 2016
Master class! Moi!
Still spring-like here - that is, colder than last week but not nearly as cold as usual and no snow - don't need gloves, coat open. Yes! Hmm - as I write, a few puffy tentative flakes are whispering down. But nothing to speak of. More like fairy dust than snow.
Some interesting events coming up for me. I rearranged my schedule this year so I could attend the April conference in Banff of the Canadian Creative Non-fiction Collective - a mouthful, but my kind of people - and was asked to lead a workshop called Performance for Writers. I was taken aback when it was listed a Master Class, since I consider myself the quintessential Jill of all trades and Master of none. But - a Master Class it is. Here's the info:
Registration for our 2016 Creative Nonfiction Collective member conference, Writing True 12: The Roots of Story, taking place April 21 to 24 in beautiful Banff, Alberta, is underway and we're thrilled with the response thus far!If you've been holding back from registering until you knew what Master Classes were available, wait no more. As of now, we invite members and non-members alike to register for sessions with noted creative nonfiction writers and editors including John Barton, Lori A. May, Beth Kaplan, and Trevor Herriot. Get a jump start on your inspiration before the official conference begins! Choose from two concurrent sessions of classes on Friday, April 22. There will be two morning and two afternoon sessions:9:30am – noonMaster Class 1: Putting Your Best Foot Forward (or How to Land on the Same Page as the Editor) - John BartonMaster Class 2: Diversifying Your Portfolio: Do More with Less – Lori A. May1:30pm – 4:00pmMaster Class 3: Performance for Writers - Beth KaplanMaster Class 4: Writing in a More-than-human World - Trevor HerriotThe fee for each class is only $25 for members and $40 for non-members. But there's a cap of 25 participants in each, so register soon!FOR MORE INFORMATION: admin@creativenonfictioncollective.ca
Exciting!
And this morning, I spoke at length with Lisa Roy, who produces events for the Miles Nadal Jewish Community Centre downtown; she was keen to host an event about my great-grandfather, and so it shall be: Thursday November 17, a talk by me and, we hope, a reading or even scenes in both English and Yiddish by various actors.
So, much to look forward to, not to mention more mild February weather. And Downton on Sunday - when will the potential partner for Tom Branson appear, a mildly bolshie beautiful young woman who loves children? And before that, Suzette and I are seeing a stage show called Kiss and Cry, which features not actors, but hands. Yes, only hands. Stay tuned.
Some interesting events coming up for me. I rearranged my schedule this year so I could attend the April conference in Banff of the Canadian Creative Non-fiction Collective - a mouthful, but my kind of people - and was asked to lead a workshop called Performance for Writers. I was taken aback when it was listed a Master Class, since I consider myself the quintessential Jill of all trades and Master of none. But - a Master Class it is. Here's the info:
Registration for our 2016 Creative Nonfiction Collective member conference, Writing True 12: The Roots of Story, taking place April 21 to 24 in beautiful Banff, Alberta, is underway and we're thrilled with the response thus far!If you've been holding back from registering until you knew what Master Classes were available, wait no more. As of now, we invite members and non-members alike to register for sessions with noted creative nonfiction writers and editors including John Barton, Lori A. May, Beth Kaplan, and Trevor Herriot. Get a jump start on your inspiration before the official conference begins! Choose from two concurrent sessions of classes on Friday, April 22. There will be two morning and two afternoon sessions:9:30am – noonMaster Class 1: Putting Your Best Foot Forward (or How to Land on the Same Page as the Editor) - John BartonMaster Class 2: Diversifying Your Portfolio: Do More with Less – Lori A. May1:30pm – 4:00pmMaster Class 3: Performance for Writers - Beth KaplanMaster Class 4: Writing in a More-than-human World - Trevor HerriotThe fee for each class is only $25 for members and $40 for non-members. But there's a cap of 25 participants in each, so register soon!FOR MORE INFORMATION: admin@creativenonfictioncollective.ca
Exciting!
And this morning, I spoke at length with Lisa Roy, who produces events for the Miles Nadal Jewish Community Centre downtown; she was keen to host an event about my great-grandfather, and so it shall be: Thursday November 17, a talk by me and, we hope, a reading or even scenes in both English and Yiddish by various actors.
So, much to look forward to, not to mention more mild February weather. And Downton on Sunday - when will the potential partner for Tom Branson appear, a mildly bolshie beautiful young woman who loves children? And before that, Suzette and I are seeing a stage show called Kiss and Cry, which features not actors, but hands. Yes, only hands. Stay tuned.
February 3, 2016
spring? not quite but almost
The warmest February 3 on record in Toronto - 16 degrees. Heavenly. A friend wrote that he was going for a run in shorts and t-shirt. But back to reality - zero - tomorrow. It sure was nice.
I'm meeting my friend Ken to see a film tomorrow - 45 years - and as I checked the times at the Varsity Cinema, I realized I'd seen nearly all the films and that they were all fabulous. Great great movies these days. (Except The Revenant, which I wouldn't see if you paid me. "Suffering porn," one review called it, and it sure sounds horrible. Who needs that?) Forgot to tell you that on the weekend, I went to see Brooklyn. I hadn't rushed to see it - it looked nice but not that compelling, an immigrant story - but in fact, it's stunning, beautifully written, shot and acted. The lead Saoirse (however that's pronounced) Ronan is glorious, and Julie Walters is in full flight. My only complaint was that almost everyone in the film is so nice, so sweet - if only people and life were really that way. But as another friend said, I'd gladly spend time with almost every character. Me too, especially the Italian boyfriend then husband, played by young Emory Cohen which does not sound like an Italian name to me. Mmmm, adorable.
The film made me think of Mum, sailing from England to NYC at the age of 24 to see if the wartime romance with her Yank would work out. She brought a big brown suitcase on the boat, just like the character in the film. I have that suitcase in my bedroom now - Cabin Class, the sticker says. I've been thinking of Mum too because the Australian Open was on last week. I do not watch tennis, but Mum did and Auntie Do still does, obsessively. I followed the matches through the Star, was thrilled when Milos Raonic did so well and was reviewed in the Guardian as "the mighty Canadian." He's tough and he does not give up. Go, Milos! I'm sorry Andy Murray lost to the human tank Djokovic, but it didn't matter once Federer was out of the scene. How I miss my mother sometimes. She would have mourned the early defeat of her beloved Fed and celebrated Milos with a little glass of sauvignon blanc. And she would have sobbed all the way through Brooklyn.
Speaking of cabin class - I'm going to Vancouver in March, returning via Calgary, so found what seemed a good price with Air Canada and booked on-line. As I completed the booking, the site asked me to choose a seat for a choice of prices - $25 for a regular seat and $65 for a special seat. So you now book a fare - but a seat is extra! I guess you can always stand in the aisle, or be strapped to the wing. Absurd and dishonest, it seems to me.
I'm trying something as I struggle with my winter insomnia - turning off the computer at 9 p.m. I tried it last night and did sleep better. It's damn hard, though. I kept coming into the kitchen and glancing at the little silver box, but it was asleep. I've so much reading to do, writing, tons of stuff, but this bright little machine keeps me tethered. So now - OFF!
I'm meeting my friend Ken to see a film tomorrow - 45 years - and as I checked the times at the Varsity Cinema, I realized I'd seen nearly all the films and that they were all fabulous. Great great movies these days. (Except The Revenant, which I wouldn't see if you paid me. "Suffering porn," one review called it, and it sure sounds horrible. Who needs that?) Forgot to tell you that on the weekend, I went to see Brooklyn. I hadn't rushed to see it - it looked nice but not that compelling, an immigrant story - but in fact, it's stunning, beautifully written, shot and acted. The lead Saoirse (however that's pronounced) Ronan is glorious, and Julie Walters is in full flight. My only complaint was that almost everyone in the film is so nice, so sweet - if only people and life were really that way. But as another friend said, I'd gladly spend time with almost every character. Me too, especially the Italian boyfriend then husband, played by young Emory Cohen which does not sound like an Italian name to me. Mmmm, adorable.
The film made me think of Mum, sailing from England to NYC at the age of 24 to see if the wartime romance with her Yank would work out. She brought a big brown suitcase on the boat, just like the character in the film. I have that suitcase in my bedroom now - Cabin Class, the sticker says. I've been thinking of Mum too because the Australian Open was on last week. I do not watch tennis, but Mum did and Auntie Do still does, obsessively. I followed the matches through the Star, was thrilled when Milos Raonic did so well and was reviewed in the Guardian as "the mighty Canadian." He's tough and he does not give up. Go, Milos! I'm sorry Andy Murray lost to the human tank Djokovic, but it didn't matter once Federer was out of the scene. How I miss my mother sometimes. She would have mourned the early defeat of her beloved Fed and celebrated Milos with a little glass of sauvignon blanc. And she would have sobbed all the way through Brooklyn.Speaking of cabin class - I'm going to Vancouver in March, returning via Calgary, so found what seemed a good price with Air Canada and booked on-line. As I completed the booking, the site asked me to choose a seat for a choice of prices - $25 for a regular seat and $65 for a special seat. So you now book a fare - but a seat is extra! I guess you can always stand in the aisle, or be strapped to the wing. Absurd and dishonest, it seems to me.
I'm trying something as I struggle with my winter insomnia - turning off the computer at 9 p.m. I tried it last night and did sleep better. It's damn hard, though. I kept coming into the kitchen and glancing at the little silver box, but it was asleep. I've so much reading to do, writing, tons of stuff, but this bright little machine keeps me tethered. So now - OFF!
February 2, 2016
Jian's mother
If there is one woman in the world I feel sorry for these days, it's Mrs. Ghomeshi. Unimaginable - from her golden Persian princeling running every cultural event in this country, to this - fighting for his freedom, the details of his sordid sex life splashed across every newspaper and TV news show. As many of you know, he was my neighbour, he was cheery, kind and friendly and I liked him a lot. Another neighbour who knew and liked him came over tonight to ask - what do you make of all this? What should we think? Particularly today, after the first witness's testimony was shredded?
My take, so far, is this: There's no question that he's arrogant and has dark, twisted views of women, reciprocity, respect and sex; that he was not just stupid but insane to think he could continue to behave in a heedless, abusive way and get away with it. It's good that society is dealing so openly now with violence against women, which I deal with all the time in my memoir classes - assault or abuse by grandfathers, uncles, family friends, leaving lifelong scars.
But there's an article in the NYT today about a man training to be a priest who was arrested for seeking out very small children for violent sexual encounters.
A young seminary student from Ohio flew across the United States on Friday in pursuit of a goal he had spent weeks discussing online in explicit detail: finding a baby, either through adoption or cash purchase, to sexually assault.
In email passages reprinted in the criminal complaint, Mr. Wright discussed his sexual fantasies and said he planned to pay the parents of a baby girl so he could “adopt/own” her. “The cheapest baby girl under 3 would be good,” he wrote.
I try to be a forgiving and open person, but a guy this loathsome - I'd throw him over a cliff.
No question, Jian should not have done what he did - pulling hair, punching, slapping - without making sure that behaviour was consensual, which it sometimes, I gather, is. But there is no comparison, in my mind, between his faults and those who assault children and other innocents. He was dealing with adult women who volunteered to be there.
And I have been a woman like that. Reading my 70's diary recently, I found a passage I'd completely, happily forgotten - that a sort-of boyfriend, one night, faced with me saying no, I was not interested in sex at this time, decided to force the issue. In essence, he raped me. And what I wrote in my diary was, "I loved it."
That is what I wrote. I was thrilled that a man took charge and that I was helpless. I'm ashamed and embarrassed and I find it hard to connect to that 27-year old woman, but there it is in black and white. What goes on between men and women is complicated, and there are flaws on both sides. Let he who is without sin ...
What can we do about sexual madness, though? It seems the internet has lifted up a rock to uncover the vile depths of human behaviour. To those who want to take sex education out of the schools, I say - look around you. See the superb movie "Spotlight." Children need to learn what's going on, what's right and wrong. Because grown ups can be reprehensible.
Okay, enough of that, let's celebrate the fact that it's nearly spring in Toronto. So mild, incredible, I'm riding my bike everywhere and tomorrow - 18 degrees. Unheard of in February. From my back deck and my bike ride on the DVP trail on Sunday, a winter panorama:
Out my back door
In winter, we can see the outlines of the trees, the delicacy of colour - beige, grey, brown.
Oui, Magritte, tout est possible. Ou presque.
Ondaatje's In the Skin of a Lion bridge in winter.
I celebrate what is good and beautiful and honest and decent, which is everywhere. Because the other side is too. Please, God, let Trump fade into oblivion and let's move right along.
My take, so far, is this: There's no question that he's arrogant and has dark, twisted views of women, reciprocity, respect and sex; that he was not just stupid but insane to think he could continue to behave in a heedless, abusive way and get away with it. It's good that society is dealing so openly now with violence against women, which I deal with all the time in my memoir classes - assault or abuse by grandfathers, uncles, family friends, leaving lifelong scars.
But there's an article in the NYT today about a man training to be a priest who was arrested for seeking out very small children for violent sexual encounters.
A young seminary student from Ohio flew across the United States on Friday in pursuit of a goal he had spent weeks discussing online in explicit detail: finding a baby, either through adoption or cash purchase, to sexually assault.
In email passages reprinted in the criminal complaint, Mr. Wright discussed his sexual fantasies and said he planned to pay the parents of a baby girl so he could “adopt/own” her. “The cheapest baby girl under 3 would be good,” he wrote.
I try to be a forgiving and open person, but a guy this loathsome - I'd throw him over a cliff.
No question, Jian should not have done what he did - pulling hair, punching, slapping - without making sure that behaviour was consensual, which it sometimes, I gather, is. But there is no comparison, in my mind, between his faults and those who assault children and other innocents. He was dealing with adult women who volunteered to be there.
And I have been a woman like that. Reading my 70's diary recently, I found a passage I'd completely, happily forgotten - that a sort-of boyfriend, one night, faced with me saying no, I was not interested in sex at this time, decided to force the issue. In essence, he raped me. And what I wrote in my diary was, "I loved it."
That is what I wrote. I was thrilled that a man took charge and that I was helpless. I'm ashamed and embarrassed and I find it hard to connect to that 27-year old woman, but there it is in black and white. What goes on between men and women is complicated, and there are flaws on both sides. Let he who is without sin ...
What can we do about sexual madness, though? It seems the internet has lifted up a rock to uncover the vile depths of human behaviour. To those who want to take sex education out of the schools, I say - look around you. See the superb movie "Spotlight." Children need to learn what's going on, what's right and wrong. Because grown ups can be reprehensible.
Okay, enough of that, let's celebrate the fact that it's nearly spring in Toronto. So mild, incredible, I'm riding my bike everywhere and tomorrow - 18 degrees. Unheard of in February. From my back deck and my bike ride on the DVP trail on Sunday, a winter panorama:
Out my back door
In winter, we can see the outlines of the trees, the delicacy of colour - beige, grey, brown.
Oui, Magritte, tout est possible. Ou presque.
Ondaatje's In the Skin of a Lion bridge in winter.I celebrate what is good and beautiful and honest and decent, which is everywhere. Because the other side is too. Please, God, let Trump fade into oblivion and let's move right along.
Jian's mother and spring
If there is one woman in the world I feel sorry for these days, it's Mrs. Ghomeshi. Unimaginable - from her golden Persian princeling running every cultural event in this country, to this - fighting for his freedom, the details of his sordid sex life splashed across every newspaper and TV news show. As many of you know, he was my neighbour, he was cheery, kind and friendly and I liked him a lot. Another neighbour who knew and liked him came over tonight to ask - what do you make of all this? What should we think? Particularly today, after the first witness's testimony was shredded?
My take, so far, is this: There's no question that he's arrogant and has dark, twisted views of women, reciprocity, respect and sex; that he was not just stupid but insane to think he could continue to behave in a heedless, abusive way and get away with it. It's good that society is dealing so openly now with violence against women, which I deal with all the time in my memoir classes - assault or abuse by grandfathers, uncles, family friends, leaving lifelong scars.
But there's an article in the NYT today about a man training to be a priest who was arrested for seeking out very small children for violent sexual encounters. Children UNDER FOUR.
A young seminary student from Ohio flew across the United States on Friday in pursuit of a goal he had spent weeks discussing online in explicit detail: finding a baby, either through adoption or cash purchase, to sexually assault.
In email passages reprinted in the criminal complaint, Mr. Wright discussed his sexual fantasies and said he planned to pay the parents of a baby girl so he could “adopt/own” her. “The cheapest baby girl under 3 would be good,” he wrote.
No questions, Jian should not have done what he did - pulling hair, punching, slapping - without making sure that behaviour was consensual, which it sometimes, I gather, is. But there is no comparison, in my mind, between his faults and those who assault children and other innocents. He was dealing with adult women who volunteered to be there.
And I have been a woman like that. Reading my 70's diary recently, I found a passage I'd completely, happily forgotten - that a sort-of boyfriend, one night, faced with me saying no, I was not interested in sex at this time, decided to force the issue. In essence, he raped me. And what I wrote in my diary was, "I loved it."
That is what I wrote. I was thrilled that a man took charge and that I was helpless. I'm ashamed and embarrassed and I find it hard to connect to that 27-year old woman, but there it is in black and white. What goes on between men and women is complicated, and there are flaws on both sides. Let he who is without sin ...
What can we do about sexual madness, though? It feels to me as if the internet has lifted up a rock to uncover the vile depths of human behaviour. To those who want to take sexual education out of the schools, I say - look around you. See the superb movie "Spotlight." Children need to learn what's going on, what's right and wrong. Because grown ups can be reprehensible.
Okay, enough of that, let's celebrate the fact that it's nearly spring in Toronto. So mild, incredible, I'm riding my bike everywhere and tomorrow - 18 degrees. Unheard of in February. From my back deck and my bike ride on the DVP trail on Sunday, a winter panorama:
Out my back door
In winter, we can see the outlines of the trees, the delicacy of colour - beige, grey, brown.
Oui, Magritte, tout est possible. Ou presque.
Ondaatje's In the Skin of a Lion bridge in winter.
I celebrate what is good and beautiful and honest and decent, which is everywhere. Because the other side is too. Please, God, let Trump fade into oblivion and let's move right along.
My take, so far, is this: There's no question that he's arrogant and has dark, twisted views of women, reciprocity, respect and sex; that he was not just stupid but insane to think he could continue to behave in a heedless, abusive way and get away with it. It's good that society is dealing so openly now with violence against women, which I deal with all the time in my memoir classes - assault or abuse by grandfathers, uncles, family friends, leaving lifelong scars.
But there's an article in the NYT today about a man training to be a priest who was arrested for seeking out very small children for violent sexual encounters. Children UNDER FOUR.
A young seminary student from Ohio flew across the United States on Friday in pursuit of a goal he had spent weeks discussing online in explicit detail: finding a baby, either through adoption or cash purchase, to sexually assault.
In email passages reprinted in the criminal complaint, Mr. Wright discussed his sexual fantasies and said he planned to pay the parents of a baby girl so he could “adopt/own” her. “The cheapest baby girl under 3 would be good,” he wrote.
No questions, Jian should not have done what he did - pulling hair, punching, slapping - without making sure that behaviour was consensual, which it sometimes, I gather, is. But there is no comparison, in my mind, between his faults and those who assault children and other innocents. He was dealing with adult women who volunteered to be there.
And I have been a woman like that. Reading my 70's diary recently, I found a passage I'd completely, happily forgotten - that a sort-of boyfriend, one night, faced with me saying no, I was not interested in sex at this time, decided to force the issue. In essence, he raped me. And what I wrote in my diary was, "I loved it."
That is what I wrote. I was thrilled that a man took charge and that I was helpless. I'm ashamed and embarrassed and I find it hard to connect to that 27-year old woman, but there it is in black and white. What goes on between men and women is complicated, and there are flaws on both sides. Let he who is without sin ...
What can we do about sexual madness, though? It feels to me as if the internet has lifted up a rock to uncover the vile depths of human behaviour. To those who want to take sexual education out of the schools, I say - look around you. See the superb movie "Spotlight." Children need to learn what's going on, what's right and wrong. Because grown ups can be reprehensible.
Okay, enough of that, let's celebrate the fact that it's nearly spring in Toronto. So mild, incredible, I'm riding my bike everywhere and tomorrow - 18 degrees. Unheard of in February. From my back deck and my bike ride on the DVP trail on Sunday, a winter panorama:
Out my back door
In winter, we can see the outlines of the trees, the delicacy of colour - beige, grey, brown.
Oui, Magritte, tout est possible. Ou presque.
Ondaatje's In the Skin of a Lion bridge in winter.I celebrate what is good and beautiful and honest and decent, which is everywhere. Because the other side is too. Please, God, let Trump fade into oblivion and let's move right along.
January 30, 2016
celebrating Mike Nichols
Sometimes I am so enthralled by something on television, I think of my friends who proudly live without it and shake my head. Tonight, on PBS's American Masters series, a portrait of the director, producer, writer and actor Mike Nichols that was so good, moving, interesting, I took notes all the way through. Unforgettable. (Directed, I found out later, by his longterm improv partner Elaine May.)
I learned years ago, to my surprise, that Nichols was Jewish, but didn't know he was actually born a German Jew and was seven when he arrived in America as a refugee, knowing no English. And all the way through his life, I proudly note, he was surrounded by incredibly talented Jews, Elaine May, Neil Simon and the New York theatre set, and the Hollywood moguls who produced his films. (May herself debuted as a small child in the Yiddish theatre and so almost certainly performed in the plays of my great-grandfather. Should I send her my book?)
Nicols was both brilliant intellectually and extremely funny, two qualities that don't necessarily go together. He was a very nice man, adored by his actors, which also is not that common for directors. After years as an actor and improvisor, he said that as soon as he started directing, he knew this was what he was meant to do. "Directing is what, without knowing it, I'd been getting ready to do all along."
That really struck me. I thought, perhaps that's what teaching memoir writing was for me. Because from the start, it did feel like exactly the right place to be. Though Nicols had a tiny bit more success than I in his chosen profession, with a string of Broadway and Hollywood hits, wealth and fame, Tonys and Oscars and White House honours. However.
He talked about humour. "Funny," he quoted May as saying, "is where stuff goes into your heart."
And he talked of realizing, as he directed the movie Silkwood, that it was actually about himself. "It was about someone who's asleep who wakes up. And I realized that was me. All my work was, finally, about me."
And finally, in an overview of his work, he said, "People say, about a work of theatre or film, Why are you telling me this? And one answer is, 'Because it's funny.' But that's not enough; it doesn't fill the gaps between laughs. The second answer is, Because it's about you."
I have an old record of his work with May and will put it on tonight and toast them both, groundbreaking, brave, brilliant artists who made us laugh but more, showed us ourselves. With thanks.
I learned years ago, to my surprise, that Nichols was Jewish, but didn't know he was actually born a German Jew and was seven when he arrived in America as a refugee, knowing no English. And all the way through his life, I proudly note, he was surrounded by incredibly talented Jews, Elaine May, Neil Simon and the New York theatre set, and the Hollywood moguls who produced his films. (May herself debuted as a small child in the Yiddish theatre and so almost certainly performed in the plays of my great-grandfather. Should I send her my book?)
Nicols was both brilliant intellectually and extremely funny, two qualities that don't necessarily go together. He was a very nice man, adored by his actors, which also is not that common for directors. After years as an actor and improvisor, he said that as soon as he started directing, he knew this was what he was meant to do. "Directing is what, without knowing it, I'd been getting ready to do all along."
That really struck me. I thought, perhaps that's what teaching memoir writing was for me. Because from the start, it did feel like exactly the right place to be. Though Nicols had a tiny bit more success than I in his chosen profession, with a string of Broadway and Hollywood hits, wealth and fame, Tonys and Oscars and White House honours. However.
He talked about humour. "Funny," he quoted May as saying, "is where stuff goes into your heart."
And he talked of realizing, as he directed the movie Silkwood, that it was actually about himself. "It was about someone who's asleep who wakes up. And I realized that was me. All my work was, finally, about me."
And finally, in an overview of his work, he said, "People say, about a work of theatre or film, Why are you telling me this? And one answer is, 'Because it's funny.' But that's not enough; it doesn't fill the gaps between laughs. The second answer is, Because it's about you."
I have an old record of his work with May and will put it on tonight and toast them both, groundbreaking, brave, brilliant artists who made us laugh but more, showed us ourselves. With thanks.
