Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 30

Joe Biden triumphs; Beth and Chris design her blue commemorative plaque

Sleepy Joe no more! I was teaching during the first half of Biden's State of the Union address but caught the second. Thank God for a sane, empathetic man and skilled politician at this lunatic time. The divisions of the country were in stark relief — his loud call to ban assault weapons to a standing ovation from the Dems, the entire Repug side motionless. 

If only he were sixty instead of eighty. Or even my age, a mere seventy-two. If only he'd pick a successor and remain in the background as a trusted, invaluable advisor. I keep swearing I won't get involved in American politics, but it's like Greek tragedy playing out in front of us. And speaking of tragedy - Turkey and Syria, from one moment to the next, such horrendous suffering. 

I lay in bed last night, fantasizing that human beings changed fundamentally, that we became peaceful, generous creatures who used all our resources to feed, house, and heal our neighbours. Imagine if all the money flooding into war were invested instead in humanitarian causes. And then I thought, no, somebody would emerge who'd want more of the resources and start plotting against the others and there we'd be, again. That's who we are: a flawed species, marvellous but greedy. 

Speaking of greed, an outraged friend emailed me a link; years ago she and her husband sold their warm, friendly home in a family-oriented neighbourhood. It's now back on the market for well over two million dollars, renovated to death, marble, stark white, showy Italian fixtures, a huge covered deck with built-in speakers in the small backyard — a monstrosity, designed not for comfort and living but for showing off and prestige. Highlighted in the magazine as something praiseworthy. Made me sick. 

On another note, I had a mad thought yesterday. A huge Vermeer exhibit is opening in Amsterdam soon, running till June. Why, I thought, don't I go to visit my favourite painter? And friends in France too? It has been three almost travel-less years, I have a ton of travel points, I'm aching for Paris. But I've been hesitant to travel, with the world as it is. Maybe it won't happen. Maybe it will. Stay tuned. 

I'd have to put on a bra and fix this haircut and take off the sweatpants. Yikes. 

Walked in the 'hood the other day and was happy to see more of those lovely blue plaques honouring artists who lived here. Paris and London are full of them, but we're catching up. Both of these are new. Writer Richard Gwyn lived just up the street. Varley the painter lived where a friend used to. 

One day a blue plaque will go up in front of my house. "Beth Kaplan. 1950-2070. Blathered in a blog for decades, testing the patience of her readers."
I'd like to test you further by sharing, once again, the welcome words of another fan: I read All My Loving  and Loose Woman in quick succession and loved both of them--they were so compelling to read. Your childhood reminded me of my own--though I am a few years younger, I was also Beatles obsessed and I also kept a diary. I loved the way you balance a "quest pattern" with evocative descriptions and thoughtful reflections in both. The L'Arche section felt very religious to me. Given the unfortunate revelations about Jean Vanier, I was glad to read your postscript. I think you handled it with great sensitivity. People aren't only "one thing." 

She's a former writing student and current editing client who has given me a name: "Bracha." It means "blessing," in Hebrew. 

I'll take it. Put that on the plaque too. 

PS Chris the genius just sent this. My dream come true. LOL!!

A fan gets in touch

Woke up this morning to find this in my email inbox, from someone I don't know: I loved everything about Loose Woman. It was readable, relatable, informative, authentic and a page-turner. The details were impeccable.

I normally get bored during books and give up reading them or slog through. Not the case here. So well done Beth! You will make a reader of me yet. I am also tapped into your blog and the True to Life book, which I ordered from Amazon. I am really enjoying getting to know you through your work and accomplishments. You are an amazing woman. Thank you for the work you do. 
I look forward to learning more about you and your life, and I hope to find the words and courage to tell my own stories. 
I hope you find the words and courage too, dear reader. Thank you for your generous note, a balm to my writerly soul. 
I was going to watch Tàr last night, but instead, in the final stages of this draft of the essay book, which is entitled Solo Woman: Writing through the storm, I spent most of the day going over and over it, changing one word then changing it back, cutting here, adding a line there. This stage is like a craftsman carpenter polishing a newly-made chair, making sure it's perfect. Though the next stage for him is for someone to enjoy sitting in his chair, whereas for me, it's the work off to an editor who'll rip it to pieces. Diff'rent strokes.
It's milder but gloomy; we seem to be able to have only gloom and tolerable temperatures, or extreme cold and sun. Is there not middle ground, O powers that be, mild and sunny sometimes, even in February? Hmmm?
Today, danced at 10 with Nicky and gang, a blessing. Now, cleaning, cooking with Eleanor, much TV tonight. Forcing myself to leave the manuscript alone. But she needs me! No, she needs a break, and so do you. Johann Hari recommends going for a walk. So I shall.

Stolen Focus, by Johann Hari: a superb must-read

January was something else - mild and gloomy - but now a polar vortex has descended. Yesterday Ruth and I went for lunch at Annie's in the Beach and walked down to the lake only a stone's throw away. It was minus 27 with wind chill; the cold and wind burned our skin, and we nearly froze. Today much milder and snowing. It's winter. 

The sparrows are busy at the feeder, though. The cat is washing herself, as usual. I am sitting here looking out there, as always. 

Finished a most excellent, important, and, I hope, life-changing book by Johann Hari, Stolen Focus: why you can't pay attention - and how to think deeply again. His premise is that democracy is in danger because the tech giants have thrown all their resources into keeping us distracted and unfocussed. Citizens who can't focus can't think deeply about anything and instead turn to simplistic authoritarian answers. That the ethos of economic growth above all leads to a culture of frantic overwork and lack of sleep, again, destroying our brains. 

He spends a great deal of time on the future of children in this environment, not just the attacks on kids' focus with phones and video games but the degradation of food, the rigidity of the school system, the lack of essential free play time. We diagnose a huge number of kids with ADHD and treat them with drugs instead of looking at why they might be restless and distracted. (Though my grandson with ADHD was that way from birth, moving constantly even in the womb. When he emerged, he'd somersaulted so much, there was a double knot in the umbilical cord; amazing he survived. Some ADHD is genetic. But much, Hari shows, is simply children whose needs are not being met.)

He points out that we blame ourselves for the splintering of our energy and focus - for wasting time on FB and IG, eating junk, being tired. But there are enormous forces beyond our control pushing these things on us. Thousands of engineers are designing ways to make sure we don't put down our phones; the longer we stay on them, the more money they make. The food industry, like drug dealers, pushes ultra-processed food full of dyes, sugar, and chemicals. His final chapter is on how we must band together to fight these forces, that citizen armies — environmentalists, feminists, those struggling for civil right and gay rights — have brought huge changes in how we treat women, people of colour, gay people. We banned lead paint and smoking in many places; we used to smoke on airplanes! We need to regulate tech giants to work for us rather than allowing them to colonize us. It can be done. 

Of course, after finishing the book and swearing I'd regulate my social media time, I did a "quick check" of FB and Twitter and other sites this morning and surfaced after an hour. Will not blame myself but will work to change that. It's not that we must disconnect completely; we need to learn how to use these tools rather than being used by them. And to join organizations fighting for change.

Gearing up for So True: eight powerful storytellers plus me. Very proud of the group and their work. It will be a blast of warmth in the midst of our frigid season. 

Here is how I intend to spend at least some of today: by the fire, cat on lap, focussed. It doesn't get better than that.

Jean Vanier and L'Arche

 So lots of people are getting in touch with me, because L'Arche has released its report on Jean Vanier, and they know of my bond with L'Arche. The report could not be much worse. Well, it could. It seems he did not actually rape any of the twenty-five or more women he lured into sexual activity in the guise of spiritual communion. None of the women was handicapped. Mostly I guess they were devout souls, some of them married and some nuns, all vulnerable, who bought into his cover story, the saintly man who simply wanted a naked dalliance because they were like Jesus and Mary, as he said. Or something. 

It's deeply disturbing, in fact, heartbreaking, that a humanitarian organization that does such vital work - providing a home-like safe haven for those with disabilities - is now tarnished by this profoundly fucked up man, and his mentor, an even worse monster, the priest Père Thomas, revered when I worked at L'Arche as founder and spiritual father. 

But then, these men were acolytes of a religion that has as one of its most powerful symbols a woman who's supposed to have been impregnated not by her husband but by a ghost and who gives birth as a virgin, a physical impossibility. A complete denial and repression of sexuality, one of the most fundamental aspects of being alive for our species and all the others. Why? Anglican priests can marry; Jews delight in carnal pleasures. Only Catholics hate and condemn the sexual needs of the body. No? 

And yet, a student writing a book about her past in Quebec's Gaspé told us that if two years went by between pregnancies, a priest would appear in her home to ask her overloaded mother, who had nine children, what was the delay. Criminal. Endless children, but no sexual pleasure. And a centuries-old cover up of pedophilia and perversion. 

Okay, that's my rant for today. It's very cold. Yesterday, my third grandson Bandit had an important operation. The priest can ask in vain where Bandit's babies are, there will be none. He's a bit miserable today, with his floppy collar, but his dad is on the case. Does he know what's missing, I wonder?

My little grey friend, on the other hand, is slowly taking over this house. She meows outside my door early in the morning, lonely little cries - Why O why, heartless one, are you shutting me out? So then I let her in and she settles on my legs and cuts off circulation. I love it. 

I am trying to change my life as a result of the marvellous book Stolen Focus, though I'm only half-way through. TURN OFF THE SCREENS that are colonizing your mind and destroying your concentration! 

Easy to say when I write and look up everything and watch films on one and text my family and check transit on the other. But I'll try. You try too, and let's check in and see how we do.

A Girl's Story, Stolen Focus, a gratitude letter

Recently, because of the hoo-ha around looking for a new doctor, I thought back to our first family doctor in Toronto when we rented a house in Riverdale; she worked at a clinic on the Danforth and I liked her a lot. Though when we moved to this house we switched to a local clinic, I turned to this doctor when my marriage was falling apart a few years later and asked her to recommend a shrink or counsellor. She gave me the name of a Dr. O'Neil and told me, "You'll like her. She's fast."

Remembering her words made me laugh, as I lay on Dr. O'Neil's couch four times a week for four years and continued consulting her irregularly for decades. Not so fast after all! But extremely effective - a wonderful doctor who helped me survive a tumultuous time and figure myself out, my past, my parents, my ex.

I thought, I should thank that doctor. Googled - oh, the miracles of modern tech. She's now living in rural Ontario; there was an address. So I sent her a letter, saying of course she wouldn't remember me, but I wanted to thank her for giving me a name that changed my life immeasurably for the better. 

Only a few days later, I got this email: It was wonderful to hear from you. Such a thoughtful thing to do. I remember you quite well. I wish you’d been a friend instead of a patient. I see you’ve gone on to do such interesting things.   

I left Toronto in 2003 to work in a rural area.  I’m sitting in my cozy farm house in my little town watching the snow come down today. Different places - different spaces.

So kind of you to remember the tiny input I had to your life. It would be fun to see you if you are ever by this way. Let me know.

Beth - thank you.  

There's a new friend out there. Hope we connect. Always take time for gratitude. 

I'm reading a phenomenal book that also might be life-changing — Stolen Focus: why you can't pay attention - and how to think deeply again, by Johann Hari. I saw him interviewed and immediately ordered the book from the library. It's wonderfully written, vivid and engaging, but with a vitally important message about how social media is colonizing our brains in many ways. I'm only a third of the way through and am riveted. Will report when I've finished. 

Just finished Nobel winner Annie Ernaux's A Girl's Story. She writes with excoriating honesty and clarity about her 17-year-old self, a sheltered convent girl arriving as a counsellor at a camp, subjected to a degrading sexual assault she not only allows willingly but is desperate to repeat. Reading it brought me back to several episodes from my own youth that I've consigned to the junk-heap of memory - frantic obsessions on the least likely candidates, abysmal insecurity and yet loud showing off, oh God, she brings it all to the fore. Gripping writing so candid, it makes a reader uncomfortable — unlike anything I've read before. 

Helena Bonham Carter, asked in a recent interview about her "issues," replied, I’ve got so many issues, but as you get older you go: “Whatever.” The curse of being young is you take your complexes too seriously. Or you take your opinion of yourself too seriously. As soon as you’re older, you tell the demons to shut up because they’re boring.

Absolutely. Whatever. Shut up, YOU'RE BORING! 

A quiet Sunday ahead - snow is falling. Tiggy is sleeping nearby. I'll dance with Nicky and gang at 10, finish this draft of the essay book, clean up my office, edit student work, cook with Eleanor at 3, and sit by the fire to watch PBS at 9. Touchstones. 

Grateful. 

Everything Everywhere — no, not so much

It's 5.30, and I'm drinking a small glass of pinot. Life-threatening, I know, but I like to live dangerously. Will I have another small glass with dinner? Probably not. Because. But maybe I will. 

So, a few disappointing things these days. First, I got the results of recent blood tests. They said I'm pre-diabetic and have moderately high cholesterol levels. WHAT?! I'm more or less the right weight, eat more or less healthily, exercise more or less regularly - so what's going on? I know, I boast about my mayonnaise-based diet, but still, I don't eat much junk food, my sugar is mostly dark chocolate every day... Who knows? Maybe genetics - my uncle Edgar had diabetes. Here are the symptoms of pre-diabetes:

unusual thirst, frequent urination, weight change (gain or loss), extreme fatigue or lack of energy, blurred vision, frequent or recurring infections, cuts and bruises that are slow to heal, tingling or numbness in the hands or feet, or trouble getting or maintaining an erection.Well ... None of the above. Though some of the symptoms could also be from Covid or winter. It's true, I do have trouble getting an erection, but that's caused by something other than imminent diabetes. Not sure how to fix things, except take another test in awhile and hope things look better.
When I heard about the film Everything Everywhere All at Once, I thought it sounded goofy and not for me. But there's been so much ballyhoo, including a ton of Oscar nominations, I decided to see it. Well - may I announce the minority position? It's goofy, not for me, and not that good. Yes, extremely imaginative, crazy, over the top. Offensively over the top, I thought, including butt plugs that give superpowers - I imagine the two director writers stoned and giggling as they came up with that one. 
I have no idea what it was about except an overloaded immigrant mother raised by a critical father who's too critical with her own daughter, who learns to value herself, to relax, see, and love. An important topic that could have been conveyed without a million speedy special effects and a ton of kung fu fights, endless fights, again, many stoned giggles as they planned. Sophomoric - which means pretentious and juvenile. Ingenious, with marvellous performances from a skilled, courageous Asian cast, wasted on an absurd plot, including a religion that worships bagels. Or something. Let me know please what I don't get. Maybe I'm just too old. 
Incidentally, when I told Anna about pre-diabetes, she said, "Well Mum, you're 75, that's just what happens as you age." Imagine, my own daughter! "I'm not 75, I'm only 72!" I shrieked. "And these things do not just happen to me!"

Phooey.
And finally, I followed the recommendation of a friend who had a haircut at the Vidal Sassoon Academy, which trains hairdressers. I knew it would take three hours, so was prepared with editing work, books, and sandwich. Hoped it would be worth it because it cost $27. Well - you get what you pay for. It's the worst haircut I've ever had. Luckily, I don't care what I look like. Much. It'll grow.
And an op-ed essay I sent to the Star about the idiot politicians in this city and province has been rejected. At least, the editor simply did not respond, as he hasn't several times before. Phooey. But perhaps what I wrote is summarized by this person, on Twitter, about violence on the TTC: The TTC isn't the problem. housing is the problem. public washrooms are the problem. lack of mental health supports is the problem. funding the police is the problem. John Tory is the problem.
But — big snowfall yesterday, and I got to sit by the fire. So, lucky. Still coughing, but mostly better. 
Just got a library book I'd ordered: Stolen Focus: Why you can't pay attention and how to think deeply again, by Johann Hari. Heard a terrific interview with him and had to get the book. Maybe my thinking will deepen. Maybe with deeper thinking I'll understand the movie. Stay tuned. 
PS Had a SECOND small glass with dinner. The Evil Knievel of drinkers. Actually, that flirting with danger turned out to be true. I defrosted a small pot of my pesto from the freezer to have with pasta and fish, but as I ate, I felt something hard. And then something else. I found a tiny screw, and then a second, and then a small nail, about ten in all. I remembered that a small, very old picture frame came apart years ago; I must have stored the hardware from it in the jar and then filled it, somehow, much later, with pesto.
I think I swallowed at least one. If this is my last day on earth, at least I had a very nice pinot to go out on. 

Turn Every Page: the adventures of Robert Caro and Robert Gottlieb: must see

There were four people in the tiny Carlton Cinema viewing room yesterday, including moi. While waiting for the film to start, I asked the woman in front if she was a writer or an editor. She's a retired journalism professor. Of course.

The film is Turn Every Page: the adventures of Robert Caro and Robert Gottlieb, and it's glorious, I loved every minute. Filmed by Gottlieb's daughter, it's about two giants of the American literary scene, Caro, 87, author of five massive books, almost 5000 pages, his entire life's work — all those books and hundreds more edited by Gottlieb, 91, spry, witty, generous, sharp. The film explores their lives and decades of working together, bitter fights about commas and semi-colons. As Gottlieb says, "A semi-colon is worth fighting a civil war over. We read with our breath. With a semi-colon there's tension; you know something's coming." (Yes, I took extensive notes all through. And I've wrestled with proper use of semi-colons myself; they're important.) (Does that work?)

When Gottlieb undertook to edit Caro's first book, the enormously influential The Power Broker, about Robert Moses, he told the writer they'd have to cut 350,000 words - not because the words were bad, far from it, but because the book was simply too long to be contained within covers. Caro says about the gruelling cutting process, "I don't think anything in my life was harder than that." We see a meticulous man, cautious and stubborn, who must do incredible amounts of research but whose wife is his only research assistant. 

"He does the work, I do the cleanup, then we fight," says Gottlieb. Caro has a marvellous Bronx accent: "I awlways type with a cawbin." (He types on a Smith-Corona and makes a carbon copy.) Lawng, awfice, tawk. (long, office, talk.) 

Gottlieb, who like Caro had an unhappy childhood with an angry, judgemental father - is there an important pattern here? - read as a boy to escape home, and knew he'd be a great editor because he was a great reader. He boasts that he's very fast at his work and tackles new projects immediately. "Not reading a manuscript as soon as it arrives is like cruelty to animals," he says, with his usual twinkle. 

How I loved both these men. I watched as both a writer and an editor, but also as someone familiar with their milieu, the Jewish intellectuals of NYC, which includes some of my family. And I have to say, watching Caro at work brought back my own massive research project, my first book Finding the Jewish Shakespeare about my great-grandfather, which I undertook with absolutely no idea what I was doing. And yet I did what Caro does, interviewed important parties, travelled to dig up raw material, somehow cobbled it together into what I hope is a compelling narrative. 

Most moving is the idealism of both men. Caro wrote his books about the powerful but unelected Moses and the consummate politician Lyndon Johnson so Americans would understand the machinations of political power and be able to make informed choices, Gottlieb because editing is about making books better, helping writers achieve their vision. They're spectacular human beings who both, incidentally, are in happy longterm marriages. 

Anyone interested in words and the creative process, I hope you can see this film. 

 Caro, left, and Gottlieb.

The sun is out! I'm at my south-facing desk absorbing those rays. This weekend, I'm ashamed to say, I barely moved from my kitchen chair except to go to the film. As I listened to CBC's Cross Country Checkup, which was about the evils of drinking, I had a sip of wine. Lynn wrote from France that my last post was wrong, French authorities recommend drinking far less, but that in a country where people still haven't made any obvious link between smoking and lung cancer, even with warnings on cigarette packages and increased prices, there is absolutely no chance  we will ever be advised to drink no more than 2 glasses a week. 

I drink so little now, but something odd: I slept really badly all through my Covid time and the weeks after, my Dry January. Since I started drinking a bit of wine a few days ago, I've been sleeping wonderfully. Hmmmm.

"Every subject is interesting the deeper you get into it," says Gottlieb.

PS Just found out that my cousin, a New York lawyer who specializes in artists, represents both Gottlieb and his daughter the filmmaker. Had no idea. Woo hoo! 

PPS He sent Lizzie, Gottlieb's daughter who made the film, this blog post, and she wrote back, Aw. Thank you for sending this! It makes me so happy to know the film is reaching people and affecting them. Hope you are well! 

xo

 

Lizzie

Bill Nighy's Living and Beth Kaplan's drinking

I'm sorry, but the new rules about alcohol strike me as absurd overkill. No amount is good for you?! I mean, people in France often drink several glasses of wine with every big meal. Are les français keeling over from cancer at a rate far greater than in North America? Surely we'd have noticed. Despite their regular wine intake, the French are just as healthy and alive as we are, if not more so because generally slimmer and fitter. Or am I wrong?

As someone with a son in recovery, I understand the difficulties and excesses, even sometimes the horrors of alcohol, and I do think emphasizing moderation is a very good thing. I myself have been doing Dry January, started on Dec. 25 because of Covid but continued to give my liver a rest. It's been a month without wine, so tonight I broke the fast and sipped a bit. I'll start again slowly, but a glass of wine just makes the meal more of an occasion.

And I believe in occasions. Today's: seeing the movie Living with Ken. The film is slow, a bit laborious, but that's not a problem because we get lots and lots of Bill Nighy, a closeup in almost every frame. The director was I think in love with Bill's face, and so are we. An actor like no other - incredibly British and restrained, especially in a role like this, when the whole point is British and restrained, but sensitive, open, thoughtful - a beautiful human face, a beautiful human soul. 

A haunting film with many great performances and one spectacular one.

Very good news: Yesterday I went to see my doctor probably for the last time, because, as you know, she dumped me and my daughter, but not my son, randomly from her case load before Xmas. She explained that she'd thought when she took over the practice a large group would jump ship, but almost no one did. She couldn't cope, so she had to throw some of us out. "There's a chronic doctor shortage in Ontario," I said. "Did you really think a lot of patients would leave?" No answer. Nothing to be done. 

But here's the lesson: the receptionist at this family health clinic is a calm, sensible woman with whom I always chat when I'm there; I've thanked her often for her skill at keeping the place functional. This time, I confided my grief at being kicked out after 35 years at the clinic, and when I was getting ready to leave, she told me she'd spoken to the longterm doctor there, who'd agreed to take me on. 

I have a doctor! Incredible relief. Anna still does not, but I think I can help her with that.

Always pay attention to the receptionists, the secretaries, the gatekeepers, who have far more power than we know.

After the doctor, across town to get the boys from school, give them a snack, and read the first three chapters of the marvellous Hatchet by Gary Paulsen, which grabbed them immediately - a boy surviving a plane crash who must survive alone in the bush. We got the bus to their swimming lessons in a nearby high-school — a hot, very noisy room with scores of kids of all ages, Eli in one group doing a good crawl up and down, and Ben in another, mostly cannonballing into the pool. He's compelled to jump. Anna has a fat futon in the middle of the living room floor, so Ben can hurtle and somersault and crash onto it upside down. 

I'm glad that if my boys ever have to swim to safety from a plane crash, they'll be good at it.

To complete my joy, I received a rave review for the essay book from Kathy, one of the beta readers, who noted all my favourite lines because she liked them too. And then my doorbell rang and it was dear Nick with a jar of homemade soup. 

So many mitzvahs. Thank you, Kathy. Thank you, Nick. Thank you, Dr. Davis, and all the very young swimming teachers. Thank you sublime Bill Nighy, and the people who invented wine. 

RIP David Crosby. "Sweet Judy Blue Eyes." "Don't let the past remind us of what we are not now."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVUwrifwKrI

geeking out over documentaries, and a poem from a friend

Nerd excitement here: OMG! I can't wait. There's a documentary called Turn Every Page: the adventures of Robert Caro and Robert Gottlieb, about the relationship between the fantastic historian Caro and the best editor of his generation, Gottlieb. It's about two brilliant men fighting over semi-colons and commas. Could anything be more delicious and compelling? I must see it this weekend!

Friday, though, the plan is to see the new Bill Nighy film, Living, with Ken. I'd follow Bill Nighy anywhere. And tomorrow, getting the boys after school and taking them to their swimming lessons; their mother is at work.

It's gloomy and mild again; I rode my bike to the Y, where I was wheezing and coughing, but at least there. I definitely had a bad version of this thing. But more excitement: both U of T classes are launched. Monday night, the first level class, full again with a waiting list, one student in Dublin and another in - yes! - Bali. It was 8 a.m. in Bali, and there she was. Tuesday night, seven writers who've taken my class before coming back for more punishment. 

How I love my work. My daughter who listened to the audiobook of Harry's memoir Spare, which she loved, wonders if I'll get even more students because the entire planet is absorbed in a memoir. But I told her, the classes were already full. Still, it's amazing; apparently his book is the fastest selling of all time. 

Like with Justin T.; we watched these young men grow up and feel invested in them, somehow. At least I do.

Good news today: I want to use nine of the essays I wrote and performed for the CBC in the nineties in my new essay compilation, but there was concern I'd not be able to, that they own copyright. It has taken a month to find out: yes, they do own copyright, but they've arranged to allow me to use them. Thank you, gods that be and CBC rights department.

Back to the drawing board.

I watched a repetitive but still interesting doc on Leonard Cohen and his famous song Hallelujah on Monday, and one last night on Zora Neale Hurston, a powerful writer ahead of her time. More documentaries, give us more! "I'm seventy," growled Cohen at one point, "which is the foothills of old age." I don't have much time to finish these songs, he went on. And write them he did, putting out his last album a month before he died. Inspiring. 

I am in the foothills, Leonard, and must get busy.

My dear friend Nick Rice is also in the foothills. Nick and I were actors together, and ever since, for some reason, we call each other Nickynicknick and Bethy Beth. He's a blog reader who sends me letters and sometimes poems, always connected to Beatle songs, and last month, when I was really sick, I received this. 

Among life's great blessings: work we love, documentaries, and dear creative friends.

The So True reading event returns

Speaking, as I do in the last blog post, about my dear friend and writing student Ruth, I must tell you Ruth will be reading one of her great stories at So True, the event I began in 2015 so longterm writing students could speak directly to an audience. We did sixteen of these events, emceed by our beloved Jason Allen, with four curated, rehearsed readers in the first half, four in the second, and then moi, at the Social Capital, an intimate warm space on the Danforth with a bar at one end and a stage at the other.

We were regularly getting about seventy people, as much as the room can hold, when Covid shut us down in 2020. But at last, it's time to start again. From now on, I'll probably produce it only once a year, but the show must go on. 

If you live in or near Toronto, hope to see you there! A good time and breathtaking stories guaranteed. Confirmed presenters: Diana Lee Tran, Ruth Miller, Jennifer Venner, Sam Stanley-Paul, Mary DiFrancesco, Peg Evans, Jason Allen, and yours very very truly.