Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 191
November 11, 2015
remembrance
It's mild with a soft breeze on Remembrance Day, after a damp morning. Anna usually takes Eli to his much-loved swimming class at the Y on Wednesdays, but today, instead, she took him to the Remembrance Day ceremonies and explained to him what it means. I never took my kids to Remembrance Day ceremonies. Or to the Ex or to the Santa Claus parade either, which Anna also does. No question, she is a hundred times a better parent than I was.
And yet, I must admit - she turned out so well how? Perhaps I did something right.
Today I remember my father, who got through WW2 in the American Army MASH units, and my mother, with her fascinating stint at Bletchley Park, and my British grandfather Percy, who was rejected for the British army in WW1 because of bad knees from soccer, but who spent the war repairing engines and leather for the horses. Thank you. Thank you to all who in WW2 helped liberate our world from the vilest of monsters.
* * * *
Many treats yesterday, including a spectacular class at U of T - wow, is all I can say. And the Ryerson one on Monday was wonderful too. The term is winding down - last class next week at Ry and the week after at U of T, and once again, I'm profoundly grateful to have such satisfying work, work I hope makes a tiny difference on the planet.
Then home to greet my family - Sam had arranged for a photo shoot with his lovely friend Brilynne, a freelance photographer who's 6 foot 2 - much discussion about being a tall woman, a subject I know well from my mother who was a mere 6 foot, and then to work, trying to get three adults and two small children looking in the same direction at once. I don't know how we did, but she has already given Sam the picture she took when Ben discovered that his uncle's thumb tasted really really good.
That's a cheetah's face he has on his hand, and the word LAMB. The word WOLF on his other hand. Don't ask; I have no idea. Brilynne met him because she is photographing tattoos in the restaurant world, of which there are many. She told me she's fascinated by them because of the stories behind them. A kindred spirit.
And then I watched the end of the Gillers, as always feeling like Cinderella, not just that I'm at home in my rags looking at the glitterati drinking champagne, but because I write NON-FICTION and this hugely generous prize is for fiction. At least there is a big non-fiction prize now, thanks to Hilary Weston. But it's not on television yet. We can but dream. Congratulations Andre Alexis! BIG bucks and big sales. Way to go.
Until we get Brilynne's shots, here's one of mine, from my visit across town on Sunday:
Bro!
And yet, I must admit - she turned out so well how? Perhaps I did something right.
Today I remember my father, who got through WW2 in the American Army MASH units, and my mother, with her fascinating stint at Bletchley Park, and my British grandfather Percy, who was rejected for the British army in WW1 because of bad knees from soccer, but who spent the war repairing engines and leather for the horses. Thank you. Thank you to all who in WW2 helped liberate our world from the vilest of monsters.
* * * *
Many treats yesterday, including a spectacular class at U of T - wow, is all I can say. And the Ryerson one on Monday was wonderful too. The term is winding down - last class next week at Ry and the week after at U of T, and once again, I'm profoundly grateful to have such satisfying work, work I hope makes a tiny difference on the planet.
Then home to greet my family - Sam had arranged for a photo shoot with his lovely friend Brilynne, a freelance photographer who's 6 foot 2 - much discussion about being a tall woman, a subject I know well from my mother who was a mere 6 foot, and then to work, trying to get three adults and two small children looking in the same direction at once. I don't know how we did, but she has already given Sam the picture she took when Ben discovered that his uncle's thumb tasted really really good.
That's a cheetah's face he has on his hand, and the word LAMB. The word WOLF on his other hand. Don't ask; I have no idea. Brilynne met him because she is photographing tattoos in the restaurant world, of which there are many. She told me she's fascinated by them because of the stories behind them. A kindred spirit.And then I watched the end of the Gillers, as always feeling like Cinderella, not just that I'm at home in my rags looking at the glitterati drinking champagne, but because I write NON-FICTION and this hugely generous prize is for fiction. At least there is a big non-fiction prize now, thanks to Hilary Weston. But it's not on television yet. We can but dream. Congratulations Andre Alexis! BIG bucks and big sales. Way to go.
Until we get Brilynne's shots, here's one of mine, from my visit across town on Sunday:
Bro!
November 10, 2015
old but feisty
A terrible thing happened to me yesterday. A very nice student, a gay man in his early fifties, said to me after class, "Do you mind if I ask you a very personal question?"
"Of course not," I said.
"Did I hear you mention that you're 76 years old?"
Only a slight pause for sharp intake of breath.
"Heavens no," I laughed gamely. "I'm only 65!"
"Well, I thought you looked awfully good for 76."
76. He thought I might conceivably be 76! I know I've been looking pale and drawn these days, as winter comes in. But not THAT bad. Oh well. It's just that my son, for my birthday present, has arranged for a portrait photographer girlfriend of his come and try to get a decent shot of all five of us - me, daughter, son, two grandbabies. The chances of that are slim - I am the least photogenic person on earth, Eli refuses to smile on cue and Ben grizzles a lot. Luckily my children are extremely good-looking.
But this is happening after I teach today, and I look 76.
No wonder - I spent the most aggravating hour and a half, yesterday and today, with Rogers. First world problems. Jon Stewart has announced he will do stuff on HBO and so I decided I should at last get that channel. Great stuff on HBO - Bill Maher too. But I refuse to pay more than the king's ransom I'm paying Rogers already, could they make that happen? A friendly guy yesterday, another today, absolutely, they would change my package from the VIP package to the Extra Lifestyle Package. I 'd like some Extra Lifestyle, we 76 year olds could use it. However, after much trying and unplugging the cable box and waiting endlessly on hold while the hideous music plays, it turns out that no, I will not be able to get HBO without paying even more of a king's ransom and getting all kinds of other channels I don't want.
So my dear Jon - I hope you will also appear on the internet.
And now this ancient crone will hobble out into her day. Cackling.
"Of course not," I said.
"Did I hear you mention that you're 76 years old?"
Only a slight pause for sharp intake of breath.
"Heavens no," I laughed gamely. "I'm only 65!"
"Well, I thought you looked awfully good for 76."
76. He thought I might conceivably be 76! I know I've been looking pale and drawn these days, as winter comes in. But not THAT bad. Oh well. It's just that my son, for my birthday present, has arranged for a portrait photographer girlfriend of his come and try to get a decent shot of all five of us - me, daughter, son, two grandbabies. The chances of that are slim - I am the least photogenic person on earth, Eli refuses to smile on cue and Ben grizzles a lot. Luckily my children are extremely good-looking.
But this is happening after I teach today, and I look 76.
No wonder - I spent the most aggravating hour and a half, yesterday and today, with Rogers. First world problems. Jon Stewart has announced he will do stuff on HBO and so I decided I should at last get that channel. Great stuff on HBO - Bill Maher too. But I refuse to pay more than the king's ransom I'm paying Rogers already, could they make that happen? A friendly guy yesterday, another today, absolutely, they would change my package from the VIP package to the Extra Lifestyle Package. I 'd like some Extra Lifestyle, we 76 year olds could use it. However, after much trying and unplugging the cable box and waiting endlessly on hold while the hideous music plays, it turns out that no, I will not be able to get HBO without paying even more of a king's ransom and getting all kinds of other channels I don't want.
So my dear Jon - I hope you will also appear on the internet.
And now this ancient crone will hobble out into her day. Cackling.
November 9, 2015
Nine Canucks nom'd for Dublin IMPAC prize!
Of course, I'm sorry there's no non-fiction included here - as usual - but still, this is cause for celebration.9 Canadian novels are among 160 titles that have been nominated by libraries worldwide for the €100,000 International DUBLIN Literary Award, the world’s most valuable annual literary prize for a single work of fiction published in English. Nominations include 53 novels in translation with works by 44 American, 25 British, 10 Australian, 7 Irish, 6 German and 3 South African authors.Organised by Dublin City Council, the 2016 Award was launched today [9th November] by The Lord Mayor of Dublin, Críona Ní Dhálaigh, Patron of the Award, who commented “the Award, now in its 21st year, has made a fantastic contribution to the literary life of Dublin and brings significant benefits to the City. It’s right that, as the Award is now entirely a City initiative, sponsored by the City Council, it should be called the International DUBLIN Literary Award”.The Canadian titles are:Sweetland by Michael Crummy Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel
Us
Conductors
by Sean Michaels
The Girl Who Was Saturday Night
by Heather O’Neill
Who by Fire
by Fred Stenson
All My Puny Sorrows
by Miriam Toews
Will Starling
by Ian Weir The
Lobster Kings
by Alexi Zentner Outline by Rachel Cusk
*****
And PLEASE, as Xmas approaches, consider giving books and buying them in an independent bookstore. To help you with this, the beautiful Ben McNally bookstore has organized this:
Books in[image error]45 Minutes
Come one, come all for a festive celebration of the season’s finest titles! Find the perfect read for a loved one, or for your own stolen moment of peace beside the fire.Ben McNally & Lynn Thomson will recommend 45 books in 45 minutes, fiction and non-fiction on Wednesday, Dec. 2nd and Thursday, Dec. 3rd at 6:30 pm, at Ben McNally Books. Space is limited, so please call us at (416) 361-0032 to book seats.
Admission is free. Refreshments will be served.
*****
And PLEASE, as Xmas approaches, consider giving books and buying them in an independent bookstore. To help you with this, the beautiful Ben McNally bookstore has organized this:
Books in[image error]45 Minutes
Come one, come all for a festive celebration of the season’s finest titles! Find the perfect read for a loved one, or for your own stolen moment of peace beside the fire.Ben McNally & Lynn Thomson will recommend 45 books in 45 minutes, fiction and non-fiction on Wednesday, Dec. 2nd and Thursday, Dec. 3rd at 6:30 pm, at Ben McNally Books. Space is limited, so please call us at (416) 361-0032 to book seats.
Admission is free. Refreshments will be served.
November 7, 2015
Cumberbatch's Hamlet
Luckily, the sky darkened and I did go to Hamlet, though I would have gone anyway because I am what is known as a Cumberbitch. I think he's fantastic. At one time, an actor that odd-looking, clever and eccentric would have played the witty sidekick forever; he would never have become a leading man and a sex symbol. How marvellous that he has.
And he's a marvel as Hamlet in a messy production - interestingly, directed, designed and gorgeously lit by women. There's rather too much howling and heaving, weeping and panting, everything at top volume, a lot of melodrama, Gertrude's nose running from both nostrils as she emoted. (Did they have no handkerchiefs in Elsinore?) (This was not helped by the fact that I got there close to curtain time and had to sit in the second row, a few feet from the screen.) Many of the actors, while excellent, did not come close to Cumberbatch's burning brilliance. Horatio for some reason seemed to have a bit of a neurological disorder. Claudius was too villainous from the start. Interesting ideas: for example, that Ophelia is disturbingly fragile right off the top. Some marvels - the gravedigger scene, particularly. I was dismayed when, after the intermission, the stage was littered with overturned furniture and the floor covered with detritus. "Theatre of mess," I call it, when directors don't know what to do next except throw stuff around. The junk and litter were a complete distraction; we know the kingdom is going downhill, you don't need to fling it in our faces. But it worked when Ophelia ran barefoot over a pile of rubble to die, and in the gravedigger scene, surrounded on all sides by what looked like dirt.
But mostly - what a play. What words. The beautiful rich glorious marvellous poetry of the words, more than 400 years old, that stir us still.
Throughout, Cumberbatch was a magnificent Hamlet, vulnerable, angry and tender, muscular and visceral, so terribly conflicted, alone and hard on himself. Hamlet, I wanted to say, stop beating yourself up already, cut yourself some slack! The actor threw his entire being into the role even when he was directed to do stuff that didn't work, and there was a lot of concept stuff that didn't work - like making him wear a tin soldier costume and fire toy guns, and then appear in a David Bowie t-shirt. What?
I was immensely entertained but unmoved until "The readiness is all" - delivered so simply - an intelligent man confronting his imminent death with clarity, in unforgettable prose - that tears came. William Shakespeare, your empathetic genius is unparalleled.
It's a flawed production but worthwhile. Highly recommended. Even if you're not a Cumberbitch.
And he's a marvel as Hamlet in a messy production - interestingly, directed, designed and gorgeously lit by women. There's rather too much howling and heaving, weeping and panting, everything at top volume, a lot of melodrama, Gertrude's nose running from both nostrils as she emoted. (Did they have no handkerchiefs in Elsinore?) (This was not helped by the fact that I got there close to curtain time and had to sit in the second row, a few feet from the screen.) Many of the actors, while excellent, did not come close to Cumberbatch's burning brilliance. Horatio for some reason seemed to have a bit of a neurological disorder. Claudius was too villainous from the start. Interesting ideas: for example, that Ophelia is disturbingly fragile right off the top. Some marvels - the gravedigger scene, particularly. I was dismayed when, after the intermission, the stage was littered with overturned furniture and the floor covered with detritus. "Theatre of mess," I call it, when directors don't know what to do next except throw stuff around. The junk and litter were a complete distraction; we know the kingdom is going downhill, you don't need to fling it in our faces. But it worked when Ophelia ran barefoot over a pile of rubble to die, and in the gravedigger scene, surrounded on all sides by what looked like dirt.
But mostly - what a play. What words. The beautiful rich glorious marvellous poetry of the words, more than 400 years old, that stir us still.
Throughout, Cumberbatch was a magnificent Hamlet, vulnerable, angry and tender, muscular and visceral, so terribly conflicted, alone and hard on himself. Hamlet, I wanted to say, stop beating yourself up already, cut yourself some slack! The actor threw his entire being into the role even when he was directed to do stuff that didn't work, and there was a lot of concept stuff that didn't work - like making him wear a tin soldier costume and fire toy guns, and then appear in a David Bowie t-shirt. What?
I was immensely entertained but unmoved until "The readiness is all" - delivered so simply - an intelligent man confronting his imminent death with clarity, in unforgettable prose - that tears came. William Shakespeare, your empathetic genius is unparalleled.
It's a flawed production but worthwhile. Highly recommended. Even if you're not a Cumberbitch.
my favourite day
An extremely mild Saturday. I really like this global warming business - let's keep it.
Here's a photo my friend John sent of his daughter on a beach on the Toronto Islands in July.
Only kidding - this was the day before yesterday. November!
No island jets, no Keystone pipeline, the promise of more money for the arts and the CBC, more information coming out about our extraordinary cabinet ministers - I keep running into neighbours and we stand chatting, incredulous, gleeful, filled with joy about our country. It has been a long dark cold time, my friends.
Yesterday, after getting my flu shot at the free clinic at the Y, I rode my bike to King St. and got my jewellery back. "You are a very sentimental person," said Cynthia, who was gracious about the whole thing and has, yes, a fabulously interesting store full of tempting things. (Cynthia Findlay Antiques, King St. West next to the Princess of Wales Theatre, check it out, she's got just about everything.) Yes, I'm sentimental. There's still some of it I don't want and will try to sell or give away, but some of it suddenly looked beautiful. My mother's cameos! My grandmother's garnet bracelet! Here's the picture I took after selling, before I realized that I'd made a huge mistake and lying awake for hours.
The tiny black art deco watch I bought on Portobello Road in 1971! Useless. Adorable.
Speaking of adorable, my daughter has just sent me this picture of the new bookshelf in her living room:
That is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, I wrote back. Christmas is coming and I'm reading the book reviews to see what books need to be acquired. It's serious work, shaping the readers of the future; one of my key jobs. First on my list: "Elephant Journey," recommended by my friend and fellow blogger Kerry Clare, to the left. Moving non-fiction about the fate of three Toronto Zoo elephants whom Eli has visited - perfect.
Now into the day. The treat: Benedict Cumberbatch's "Hamlet" at Cineplex this afternoon. Consulting with John about my leaky roof. Staring out the back door at the scarlet and gold maple leaves showering down. Doing errands in the warm sun. As one of my favourite writers once said:
PSAn hour later - I'm just back from my usual swing through Doubletake. An elderly woman was there, perhaps in her early 80's with a beautiful calm face and a cloud of grey hair. She was coming up to everyone in the store, including me and the woman in niqab trying on shoes, and saying a breathless, "HI!" right to our faces, as if she'd known us for years. And then she said to everyone, "Good for you! Good for you!"
And I thought, imagine if every ambassador in the U.N., for example, came up to all the others and shouted warmly, "Hello! Good for you! Good for you!" What a peaceful world it would be.
In a way, she encapsulated my work as a teacher. That's what I do too. I say, "Good for you!"
I don't want to go to "Hamlet." It's too beautiful out there. Not often a Canadian says that in November.
Here's a photo my friend John sent of his daughter on a beach on the Toronto Islands in July.
Only kidding - this was the day before yesterday. November!No island jets, no Keystone pipeline, the promise of more money for the arts and the CBC, more information coming out about our extraordinary cabinet ministers - I keep running into neighbours and we stand chatting, incredulous, gleeful, filled with joy about our country. It has been a long dark cold time, my friends.
Yesterday, after getting my flu shot at the free clinic at the Y, I rode my bike to King St. and got my jewellery back. "You are a very sentimental person," said Cynthia, who was gracious about the whole thing and has, yes, a fabulously interesting store full of tempting things. (Cynthia Findlay Antiques, King St. West next to the Princess of Wales Theatre, check it out, she's got just about everything.) Yes, I'm sentimental. There's still some of it I don't want and will try to sell or give away, but some of it suddenly looked beautiful. My mother's cameos! My grandmother's garnet bracelet! Here's the picture I took after selling, before I realized that I'd made a huge mistake and lying awake for hours.
The tiny black art deco watch I bought on Portobello Road in 1971! Useless. Adorable.Speaking of adorable, my daughter has just sent me this picture of the new bookshelf in her living room:
That is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, I wrote back. Christmas is coming and I'm reading the book reviews to see what books need to be acquired. It's serious work, shaping the readers of the future; one of my key jobs. First on my list: "Elephant Journey," recommended by my friend and fellow blogger Kerry Clare, to the left. Moving non-fiction about the fate of three Toronto Zoo elephants whom Eli has visited - perfect.Now into the day. The treat: Benedict Cumberbatch's "Hamlet" at Cineplex this afternoon. Consulting with John about my leaky roof. Staring out the back door at the scarlet and gold maple leaves showering down. Doing errands in the warm sun. As one of my favourite writers once said:
PSAn hour later - I'm just back from my usual swing through Doubletake. An elderly woman was there, perhaps in her early 80's with a beautiful calm face and a cloud of grey hair. She was coming up to everyone in the store, including me and the woman in niqab trying on shoes, and saying a breathless, "HI!" right to our faces, as if she'd known us for years. And then she said to everyone, "Good for you! Good for you!"
And I thought, imagine if every ambassador in the U.N., for example, came up to all the others and shouted warmly, "Hello! Good for you! Good for you!" What a peaceful world it would be.
In a way, she encapsulated my work as a teacher. That's what I do too. I say, "Good for you!"
I don't want to go to "Hamlet." It's too beautiful out there. Not often a Canadian says that in November.
November 5, 2015
still golden
Another glorious day, the birds yammering at the feeder, the scarlet of the Japanese maples as deep and dark as blood. I'm about to go for my piano lesson, and here's the great thing about being a grown-up: I have been too busy to practice since my last class, and he can't yell at me or tell my mother. I'm sorry, but sometimes there's just too much going on. The good stuff - yes, it's real Dorothy, this is a brand new Canada. Watching PM Trudeau on the news last night was mind-boggling, as he chatted with Peter Mansbridge about being raised to be responsible and thoughtful and thankful for privilege. Is he real or did I imagine him? Yes yes yes, he's real. My friend Richard says all the damage Harper did on myriad fronts has not even begun to be revealed. We escaped in the nick of time.
And other stuff, not so good. Such as - today, finding out that I need extensive roof repairs to fix the leak that had water pouring into my dining room last week. Woo hoo.
Such as - finding out that the vintage dealer Cynthia Findlay is going to charge me $100 for changing my mind and getting my jewellery back from her. That's what it cost, apparently, to send my pieces out by courier to be assessed and repaired and to bring them back. So not only did I not sell all that stuff, the transaction will end up costing me. I'll say this: her store is chock full and amazing, but she is a very hard-nosed businesswoman. Deal with her only if you know what you are doing. Which I most certainly did not. I'll be very glad to get my stuff back, at only the cost of $100 and a lot of wasted time.
First world etc.
Here's a quote from a great article on editing by the essayist John McPhee in the Sept. 14 New Yorker:
Writing is selection. Just to start a piece of writing you have to choose one word and only one from more than a million in the language. Now keep going. What is your next word? Your next sentence, paragraph, section, chapter? Your next ball of fact. You select what goes in and you select what stays out. At base you have only one criterion: If something interests you, it goes in - if not, it stays out. That's a crude way to assess things, but it's all you've got ... Write on subjects in which you have enough interest on your own to see you through all the stops, starts, hesitations, and other impediments along the way.
And other stuff, not so good. Such as - today, finding out that I need extensive roof repairs to fix the leak that had water pouring into my dining room last week. Woo hoo.
Such as - finding out that the vintage dealer Cynthia Findlay is going to charge me $100 for changing my mind and getting my jewellery back from her. That's what it cost, apparently, to send my pieces out by courier to be assessed and repaired and to bring them back. So not only did I not sell all that stuff, the transaction will end up costing me. I'll say this: her store is chock full and amazing, but she is a very hard-nosed businesswoman. Deal with her only if you know what you are doing. Which I most certainly did not. I'll be very glad to get my stuff back, at only the cost of $100 and a lot of wasted time.
First world etc.
Here's a quote from a great article on editing by the essayist John McPhee in the Sept. 14 New Yorker:
Writing is selection. Just to start a piece of writing you have to choose one word and only one from more than a million in the language. Now keep going. What is your next word? Your next sentence, paragraph, section, chapter? Your next ball of fact. You select what goes in and you select what stays out. At base you have only one criterion: If something interests you, it goes in - if not, it stays out. That's a crude way to assess things, but it's all you've got ... Write on subjects in which you have enough interest on your own to see you through all the stops, starts, hesitations, and other impediments along the way.
November 4, 2015
truly madly deeply
I was in the lounge at the Y at noon and the TV was on; I stopped, staring, open-mouthed, as our new prime minister held a press conference seven minutes after being sworn in. After announcing his cabinet which is HALF WOMEN as promised. When he was asked why, he answered, "Because it's 2015." I nearly wept.
He was asked if he'd thought of his father on this day, and he replied of course, he was sure his father was pleased to see that Canadians had chosen to celebrate diversity, something like that. But then he said, "Sorry Dad, but I'm really thinking more of my children and all the children of Canada, whose lives we are going to work to make better."
"There is a god," I said out loud, and people in the room nodded. The new government was led in by a Cree drummer and entertained by very young Inuit throat singers; the speaker acknowledged that they were all standing on First Nation lands, and there, in the front row, Margaret Trudeau, who has waged such public battles of her own. Respect, thoughtfulness, kindness, generosity: this is what I want my country to be. I did weep. As someone wrote on FB: "Sugith Varughese Defense minister is a badass who saw combat. Science minister actually is a scientist. Former refugee who escaped the Taliban in cabinet. Transport minister is a fricken' astronaut. I could go on and on. And the capper was "Because it's 2015." Boom.
It was the most heavenly day ever, soft and warm, the trees golden and scarlet, everyone in this city blissful in the sun, because we know this will not last. I thought of a student who read an incredibly moving piece yesterday about being diagnosed with terminal leukaemia at the age of 30, then given an experimental treatment with a 12% chance of success - and here she was, many years later, perfectly healthy. She'd been given the gift, she said, of being alive each day. Today was like that in Canada. Even the weather was celebrating the rebirth of our nation.
We know winter is coming, and we know Justin Trudeau will have to disappoint us as political realities set in - but for now, he is like the sun itself. I am sure every other country on earth envies us. And I can only imagine how deep is the despair in the NDP party these days, because there's not a word Justin Trudeau spoke today that could not have been spoken by an NDP prime minister. Where's the place for a party that's further to the left or the right or wherever it tries to land?
On the other hand, yesterday, I went out of my way to show what an idiot I still am. For some time, I've been preoccupied with getting rid of a bunch of jewellery I was given through the years - some by my grandfather after my grandmother's death many years ago - that I'll never wear. A heavy ornate garnet bracelet, my mother's cameo brooches, chunky rings - get rid of them, I thought, and I found Cynthia Findlay Antiques on line. After much back and forth, I brought a bunch of stuff in yesterday for her to see.
The place is unbelievable - miles of gorgeous vintage jewellery, yes, but tons of other stuff - china, silver, vintage clothing, books and old wooden boxes, which are my own weakness. Overwhelming.
She looked at what I had to sell, noted how dated it is, and finally made an offer which, though I thought it was much too low, I accepted. For about ten seconds, it was a relief to have got rid of the stuff. And then the second thoughts began. In bed that night, I was awake for hours, tossing, trying to still my mind - it's only stuff, it doesn't matter, you've got rid of it hooray. But my mother's gold Victorian brooch, my grandmother's bracelet, for so little - no! It felt wrong. Finally, at 3.30 a.m., I did the only thing I could think to do besides take a sleeping pill, which I also did - I got up, called Cynthia's office and left a message - I was sorry but I'd made a mistake and please could I return her money and have my jewellery back.
First world problems.
What a waste of her time and mine. What a fool I am. I will never NEVER try to sell something ever again. I take the first offer that's made without negotiating and then torture myself because it was too low. I've done it many times before in my feeble, failed attempts at selling vintage clothing. Poor Cynthia will have to find and return all that stuff, and then I will find a way to sell the pieces I really don't want and keep the rest. Including my mother's brooch. I am convinced her appalled ghost appeared and kept me awake until I made that call.
After that debacle, I went down the street to TIFF to attend the latest in Scott Freiman's wonderful series Deconstructing the Beatles. I've attended two others, but this was the best yet - an exploration of the making of 1965's Rubber Soul, showing in detail their influences, how these geniuses walked into the studio with not a single song written and four weeks later had not only an album but two other hit songs for a single. The big TIFF theatre was, again, sold out, all ages, older people like me learning more about an iconic album from their youth, and young people learning how these incredible musicians did what they did. What a treat.
I gave Scott Freiman my memoir during his last visit, and today he told me it was, "A really sweet story and well written." Thanks, Scott - that means a lot from one of the great Beatles experts of the planet.
At lunch today I watched Trevor Noah on my computer - a wonderful interview with Gloria Steinem. He was interested that she has written a book about travel but doesn't drive. "When you don't drive," she said, "your adventure begins as soon as you leave the house." Drivers, she said, are "in little tin cans all by themselves", whereas taxi drivers are fascinating company. I concur. Whether it's struggling to survive on my bicycle or chatting with the taxi drivers from Pakistan, I love it all.
In February, not so much. But we have more sun to celebrate first.
PS As if there weren't enough joy today, just read an announcement that Jon Stewart is going to land on HBO in 2016. I need to call Rogers and change my package to get HBO. I had a feeling cuddling pigs on his wife's abused animals farm, while important work, wouldn't be quite enough for this great man. Welcome back, my dear Jon. Can't wait to see you again.
He was asked if he'd thought of his father on this day, and he replied of course, he was sure his father was pleased to see that Canadians had chosen to celebrate diversity, something like that. But then he said, "Sorry Dad, but I'm really thinking more of my children and all the children of Canada, whose lives we are going to work to make better."
"There is a god," I said out loud, and people in the room nodded. The new government was led in by a Cree drummer and entertained by very young Inuit throat singers; the speaker acknowledged that they were all standing on First Nation lands, and there, in the front row, Margaret Trudeau, who has waged such public battles of her own. Respect, thoughtfulness, kindness, generosity: this is what I want my country to be. I did weep. As someone wrote on FB: "Sugith Varughese Defense minister is a badass who saw combat. Science minister actually is a scientist. Former refugee who escaped the Taliban in cabinet. Transport minister is a fricken' astronaut. I could go on and on. And the capper was "Because it's 2015." Boom.
It was the most heavenly day ever, soft and warm, the trees golden and scarlet, everyone in this city blissful in the sun, because we know this will not last. I thought of a student who read an incredibly moving piece yesterday about being diagnosed with terminal leukaemia at the age of 30, then given an experimental treatment with a 12% chance of success - and here she was, many years later, perfectly healthy. She'd been given the gift, she said, of being alive each day. Today was like that in Canada. Even the weather was celebrating the rebirth of our nation.
We know winter is coming, and we know Justin Trudeau will have to disappoint us as political realities set in - but for now, he is like the sun itself. I am sure every other country on earth envies us. And I can only imagine how deep is the despair in the NDP party these days, because there's not a word Justin Trudeau spoke today that could not have been spoken by an NDP prime minister. Where's the place for a party that's further to the left or the right or wherever it tries to land?
On the other hand, yesterday, I went out of my way to show what an idiot I still am. For some time, I've been preoccupied with getting rid of a bunch of jewellery I was given through the years - some by my grandfather after my grandmother's death many years ago - that I'll never wear. A heavy ornate garnet bracelet, my mother's cameo brooches, chunky rings - get rid of them, I thought, and I found Cynthia Findlay Antiques on line. After much back and forth, I brought a bunch of stuff in yesterday for her to see.
The place is unbelievable - miles of gorgeous vintage jewellery, yes, but tons of other stuff - china, silver, vintage clothing, books and old wooden boxes, which are my own weakness. Overwhelming.
She looked at what I had to sell, noted how dated it is, and finally made an offer which, though I thought it was much too low, I accepted. For about ten seconds, it was a relief to have got rid of the stuff. And then the second thoughts began. In bed that night, I was awake for hours, tossing, trying to still my mind - it's only stuff, it doesn't matter, you've got rid of it hooray. But my mother's gold Victorian brooch, my grandmother's bracelet, for so little - no! It felt wrong. Finally, at 3.30 a.m., I did the only thing I could think to do besides take a sleeping pill, which I also did - I got up, called Cynthia's office and left a message - I was sorry but I'd made a mistake and please could I return her money and have my jewellery back.First world problems.
What a waste of her time and mine. What a fool I am. I will never NEVER try to sell something ever again. I take the first offer that's made without negotiating and then torture myself because it was too low. I've done it many times before in my feeble, failed attempts at selling vintage clothing. Poor Cynthia will have to find and return all that stuff, and then I will find a way to sell the pieces I really don't want and keep the rest. Including my mother's brooch. I am convinced her appalled ghost appeared and kept me awake until I made that call.
After that debacle, I went down the street to TIFF to attend the latest in Scott Freiman's wonderful series Deconstructing the Beatles. I've attended two others, but this was the best yet - an exploration of the making of 1965's Rubber Soul, showing in detail their influences, how these geniuses walked into the studio with not a single song written and four weeks later had not only an album but two other hit songs for a single. The big TIFF theatre was, again, sold out, all ages, older people like me learning more about an iconic album from their youth, and young people learning how these incredible musicians did what they did. What a treat.
I gave Scott Freiman my memoir during his last visit, and today he told me it was, "A really sweet story and well written." Thanks, Scott - that means a lot from one of the great Beatles experts of the planet.
At lunch today I watched Trevor Noah on my computer - a wonderful interview with Gloria Steinem. He was interested that she has written a book about travel but doesn't drive. "When you don't drive," she said, "your adventure begins as soon as you leave the house." Drivers, she said, are "in little tin cans all by themselves", whereas taxi drivers are fascinating company. I concur. Whether it's struggling to survive on my bicycle or chatting with the taxi drivers from Pakistan, I love it all.
In February, not so much. But we have more sun to celebrate first.
PS As if there weren't enough joy today, just read an announcement that Jon Stewart is going to land on HBO in 2016. I need to call Rogers and change my package to get HBO. I had a feeling cuddling pigs on his wife's abused animals farm, while important work, wouldn't be quite enough for this great man. Welcome back, my dear Jon. Can't wait to see you again.
November 3, 2015
new day
A big day for Canada tomorrow - our new PM Justin Trudeau is sworn in. Friend Richard sent me this picture of another famous swearing-in that Justin attended. How odd it must be, as you try to lead a country, to have cute boyhood pictures of yourself circulating on the web! And did you see the pictures of his family at Hallowe'en? We have a human being as our leader.
The sub-zero timber wolf who used to lead this country has moved back to Calgary, to a soulless subdivision of huge brand new homes. The subdivision is called "Tuscany". Stephen Harper now lives in a subdivision called Tuscany. That's all you need to know.
Oh stop. He has gone and you can forget him. Just look out at this glorious day - it's going to be 18 degrees under a hot sun! - the leaves scarlet and yellow, the sky bright blue - and thank the gods for this new day for my country, my family and friends, my own tiny self.
Time is scrambling by - hard to believe it's November. Where did September go, let alone October? No idea. I have never been so busy; life is very full. Work - not so much. The memoir has been on the backest of back burners for weeks now. Time to move it forward, try to get it into shape before I go away at the end of November and then Xmas madness hits. Okay, so upstairs to work. DO NOT CHECK FACEBOOK FIRST.
Not even a tiny peek.
No.
The sub-zero timber wolf who used to lead this country has moved back to Calgary, to a soulless subdivision of huge brand new homes. The subdivision is called "Tuscany". Stephen Harper now lives in a subdivision called Tuscany. That's all you need to know.
Oh stop. He has gone and you can forget him. Just look out at this glorious day - it's going to be 18 degrees under a hot sun! - the leaves scarlet and yellow, the sky bright blue - and thank the gods for this new day for my country, my family and friends, my own tiny self.
Time is scrambling by - hard to believe it's November. Where did September go, let alone October? No idea. I have never been so busy; life is very full. Work - not so much. The memoir has been on the backest of back burners for weeks now. Time to move it forward, try to get it into shape before I go away at the end of November and then Xmas madness hits. Okay, so upstairs to work. DO NOT CHECK FACEBOOK FIRST.
Not even a tiny peek.
No.
October 31, 2015
playing dress up
Unbelievable, the excitement of Halloween. Earlier tonight, I went past Church Street, where all the straight people go in costume to be able to let loose and have a good time - thank you, gay people, for releasing us from ourselves, at least for a night. I saw Long John Silver hand in hand with the Pope, I saw the Joker with Little Red Riding Hood, and I saw many tourists with cameras, come to take in the fun.
Surely Cabbagetown must be one of the most crowded Halloweens on the continent - which is why, exhausted after two decades, I don't give out candy any more. This night was one of the worst as a single mother - getting two kids made up and in costume and filled with at least a little bit of protein before they went out the door safely accompanied by friends or someone, while I manned the door for hundreds of other people's children. I did not enjoy it, though seeing the immigrant children with wonder on their faces was always wonderful. Anyone who has been in the theatre does not appreciate the pleasure of dressing up as someone else - that was how I made a living. So this fest is a bit of a bust for me.
But not for my neighbours. Richard had 700 little candy bars and was nearly out by 7.20.
Susan across the street at the helm of her pirate ship, above, and below, Rob with an entire graveyard behind him and a bottle of Cab Sauv for the grown ups.
And then there's the aftermath - sugar high. Good luck, mama!
Surely Cabbagetown must be one of the most crowded Halloweens on the continent - which is why, exhausted after two decades, I don't give out candy any more. This night was one of the worst as a single mother - getting two kids made up and in costume and filled with at least a little bit of protein before they went out the door safely accompanied by friends or someone, while I manned the door for hundreds of other people's children. I did not enjoy it, though seeing the immigrant children with wonder on their faces was always wonderful. Anyone who has been in the theatre does not appreciate the pleasure of dressing up as someone else - that was how I made a living. So this fest is a bit of a bust for me.
But not for my neighbours. Richard had 700 little candy bars and was nearly out by 7.20.
Susan across the street at the helm of her pirate ship, above, and below, Rob with an entire graveyard behind him and a bottle of Cab Sauv for the grown ups.
And then there's the aftermath - sugar high. Good luck, mama!
gifts
Click to enlarge
HAPPY HALLOWEEN from my little pumpkins to yours.
And while we're showing photos, here are a few from the past few days:
Best friends: Lynn and I, friends since 1967, Ken and Lynn since 1970, Ken and I more recently but it feels like forever. This is on the Danforth after the So True event.
A few nights later, celebrating Eleanor Wachtel chez moi, since Lynn and I missed her triumph at the Writer's Festival, where the 25 years of her brilliant hosting of CBC's Writers & Company was feted; she received a standing ovation, well-deserved. Here, she just received dinner. El and I go back to the mid-70's in Vancouver. Old old friends - the greatest of gifts.
More gifts: notes from students. This is from Curtis Barlow, arts professional extraordinaire, who read a beautiful essay at So True on Sunday. How articulate can you get?
I want to add my belated but sincere voice to the chorus of accolades congratulating and thanking you for a superb So True event yesterday afternoon. These productions require a great deal of work and passion to succeed, and you should take great pride in having produced an outstanding event. It was well-organized, well-attended, energetically and eloquently emceed by Jason, and powerfully concluded with your beautiful, funny and moving presentation. And not to be forgotten, as I listened to the wonderfully-presented stories, I felt very proud to have been included in this outstanding group of committed and gifted writers. Thank you for your leadership, hard work and inspiration.
And this from Mary diFrancesco, who read a stunning piece about 9/11:
Thank you Beth for helping us to tell the best version of our stories, to speak the truth out loud and with courage and to dig deeply to the place where we see our truest reflections.
My family was moved to much laughter, tears and gratitude along with great discussion after being privy to your stories, and I was so proud to be connected with you all. Jason, your warmth is such a gift, and I appreciate you representing us so beautifully.
Lynn told me she was extremely dubious about So True - an afternoon of people yammering about their personal woes sounded dreadful to her. But afterwards, the word she used was "perfect." "It was perfect," she said, "the stories themselves, the way they were told, the diversity, the pace - everything." My friend may have been born in Canada, but she has lived in hyper-critical France since 1970 and she's an academic; the word 'perfect' does not often cross her lips. I am honoured.
And finally, from a current student who sent this out to everyone after class last week: Hello all -- I'll write this now, while my heart and soul feel filled to overflowing, and not wait till later in the week when crap may possibly happen and the mood will sink lower and lower.
Thank you all for your inspiring stories today! Shit - you are all one wonderful group of strong women! Am so glad to have met all of you and grateful to share all your stories. Your memories, EVERY one of them, moved me in lots of different ways. I left just feeling --- well, inspired. Thank you for that, it's been ages since I've felt so positive and you all helped me feel that way.
And on that note, dear friends, I'm going to hide until Halloween is over.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN from my little pumpkins to yours.And while we're showing photos, here are a few from the past few days:
Best friends: Lynn and I, friends since 1967, Ken and Lynn since 1970, Ken and I more recently but it feels like forever. This is on the Danforth after the So True event.
A few nights later, celebrating Eleanor Wachtel chez moi, since Lynn and I missed her triumph at the Writer's Festival, where the 25 years of her brilliant hosting of CBC's Writers & Company was feted; she received a standing ovation, well-deserved. Here, she just received dinner. El and I go back to the mid-70's in Vancouver. Old old friends - the greatest of gifts.More gifts: notes from students. This is from Curtis Barlow, arts professional extraordinaire, who read a beautiful essay at So True on Sunday. How articulate can you get?
I want to add my belated but sincere voice to the chorus of accolades congratulating and thanking you for a superb So True event yesterday afternoon. These productions require a great deal of work and passion to succeed, and you should take great pride in having produced an outstanding event. It was well-organized, well-attended, energetically and eloquently emceed by Jason, and powerfully concluded with your beautiful, funny and moving presentation. And not to be forgotten, as I listened to the wonderfully-presented stories, I felt very proud to have been included in this outstanding group of committed and gifted writers. Thank you for your leadership, hard work and inspiration.
And this from Mary diFrancesco, who read a stunning piece about 9/11:
Thank you Beth for helping us to tell the best version of our stories, to speak the truth out loud and with courage and to dig deeply to the place where we see our truest reflections.
My family was moved to much laughter, tears and gratitude along with great discussion after being privy to your stories, and I was so proud to be connected with you all. Jason, your warmth is such a gift, and I appreciate you representing us so beautifully.
Lynn told me she was extremely dubious about So True - an afternoon of people yammering about their personal woes sounded dreadful to her. But afterwards, the word she used was "perfect." "It was perfect," she said, "the stories themselves, the way they were told, the diversity, the pace - everything." My friend may have been born in Canada, but she has lived in hyper-critical France since 1970 and she's an academic; the word 'perfect' does not often cross her lips. I am honoured.
And finally, from a current student who sent this out to everyone after class last week: Hello all -- I'll write this now, while my heart and soul feel filled to overflowing, and not wait till later in the week when crap may possibly happen and the mood will sink lower and lower.
Thank you all for your inspiring stories today! Shit - you are all one wonderful group of strong women! Am so glad to have met all of you and grateful to share all your stories. Your memories, EVERY one of them, moved me in lots of different ways. I left just feeling --- well, inspired. Thank you for that, it's been ages since I've felt so positive and you all helped me feel that way.
And on that note, dear friends, I'm going to hide until Halloween is over.
