Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 31

Here comes the sun and I say, it's all right

Someone tweeted that God made a deal with Toronto: we'd have the mildest January ever, but no sun. And so it came to be — day after day, week after week, overcast grey skies but early spring weather. As if we were living in Vancouver or London, without mountains and ocean or fabulous theatre and history. Just a hypocritical mayor, hideous traffic and development, scores of homeless people in tents, but no snow.

And then, a big snowfall and cold — and SUN pouring in my window right now. If anything will help my frazzled lungs, it's this. I'll take cold and sun over mild gloom any day. Thank you, powers that be. My God that feels good!

Had lunch yesterday with Ruth and Merrijoy. At one point Ruth said, "What's lovely about this gathering is that one of us is in her seventies, one in her eighties, and one in her nineties." And I thought - wait, are you including ME? Not possible. Seventies?! No, sorry, you must mean someone else.

Sigh. So be it. Seventies. But barely. 

Being with Ruth and Merrijoy is always inspiring, phenomenal women full of curiosity and life. Merrijoy is 95, still a beautiful redhead, chic, au courant. Ruth is a mere 84, also a marvel. And I - a youngster, taking notes on how it's done.  

Work continues on the essay book, moving pieces around to find the right order, some rewriting. I sneered reading a review in the Guardian of Love Me Tender, by the controversial French writer Constance Debré, who writes memoir and says it's fiction, as almost all French memoir writers do, including Emmanuel Carrère and Annie Ernaux. I guess it's French to tell excoriating truths about your life but pretend it's not you. CLAIM YOUR TRUTH, I say in class, but am not sure what that would be in French. 

The protagonist and narrator, who is not named, is clearly Debré herself, following in a long French tradition of creative writers who draw closely on real-life events – the most notable being last year’s Nobel laureate Annie Ernaux. Yet though the events are real, Debré firmly considers her work fiction rather than autobiography or memoir, because it relies on the literary art of constructing a narrative, creating a relationship between a character and events. “What makes a novel is its form,” she says.

Phooey, is what I say to that. As if memoir doesn't construct a narrative and create relationships. PHOOEY. Réclamez votre verité!

There's a cat in the sun beside me. 

She follows me around and is to be found nearby almost all the time. I love her. She had to be shut in my bedroom, however, when Bandit came to visit the other day. She's not ready for a big, bouncy, enthusiastic dog. 

Have you ever seen two more handsome creatures? Very good boys, both. 

Hope there's sun on your face, too. 

The Wonder and Harry

A turning point - yesterday, Wednesday, is the day of the Y class I've been doing, for better or worse, for over three decades; the group of us have been together there so long, they feel like another, sweaty kind of family. I've been too sick to go for a couple of weeks, so wanted to go yesterday. No, I thought, it's cold and wet outside and I'm not well enough.

And then I thought, I'm going! And I went. And there they were, the team, my buddies. How are you? they cried. We missed you! I wasn't able to do much, but I was there, and just seeing their faces was healing. I was never ever a fitness buff, started to go to the Y regularly in 1990 as a divorcee, just to meet people, get out, have an anchor to my day. The place, the class has been a lifesaver, over and over again. Lolita, on her knees centre here in a class last week, had a thermos with her in the gym that was not water but soup, she told me - kale, pumpkin, and carrot soup. She insisted I take more Vitamin C. I assured her I would.

Thanks to everyone. Love you.

Watched Harry interviewed on Colbert. Have to say, he comes across as a sincere, conscientious, traumatized, courageous man with a great sense of humour and a lot of humility. Hard not to like and root for him, especially when you understand the extent of the vileness of the British press and how it has impacted his life. One of the best interviews ever. Colbert going on and on about his frostbitten penis! A rare moment. 

And then I watched The Wonder, from the Emma Donahue novel. Beautifully filmed and acted, though I think Florence Pugh is almost too strong and self-possessed to be realistic in the 1860s, not to mention her perfect teeth, a detail that always makes me smile in historical British movies. A mystery, a psychological thriller, and once again, a powerful condemnation of the Roman Catholic church.

Re work: just got the first comments back on the essay manuscript from friend and student Jennifer. Valuable comments, especially that I have given no thought to chapter titles. Work to do. 

And the latest episode of the podcast has just dropped. Six down, many to go.

This term's teaching starts tonight with the home class, and then next Monday and Tuesday, two U of T classes on Zoom. I hope to have my lungs back by then. The Y will help.

letter about the J. K. Rowling controversy

I wish I didn't care about certain things so deeply, as I'm sure it's a waste of my time and energy. Today there was a front page article in the Star about how the game quiddich, invented by J.K. Rowling for her Harry Potter series, has taken off in popularity. But they're changing the name to quadball, because they've decided J.K. is a vicious anti-trans activist and want nothing to do with the writer who invented not just the game but the entire world around it.

The article quotes several people excoriating her but offers no opposing viewpoint: i.e., where exactly are these spewings of hatred they're talking about? Could you quote one, please? Like so many others, the journalist accepts the received "wisdom" of the Twitter mob.

So, because I'm a dork, I had to write. Like J.K., I am an absolute supporter of the human rights of trans women. But I do not insist that a woman born as a woman, and a man who makes the often painful, difficult, and much desired transition to becoming a woman, are the same. They are not. That does not make me, or her, a bigot, a terf. It makes us realistic about biological science. That's all.

Dear Janet Hurley:

I cannot let your front page article go by without addressing it. 

            You are a respected senior journalist, so I wonder at your one-sided article on the J. K. Rowling controversy. Her story is a case study in how misinformation is amplified by hysterical social media mobs and then by legacy media, in articles such as yours. 

You quote an incendiary tweet about “TERF wars” without putting it into any kind of context. You quote a millennial ex-fan about Rowling “spewing such hurtful and hateful and … dangerous things.” Then you quote an academic saying she’s behaving “like a complete dick and destroying people’s childhoods.” Really?

Where are the opposite viewpoints any good journalist should include? Have you done any investigating into exactly where Rowling spews hateful things? 

Recently, a gay journalist in England decided to check for herself. She reported that she could find no such hatred.

https://www.scotsman.com/news/opinion/columnists/jk-rowling-transphobic-how-i-went-from-spreading-this-false-narrative-to-seeing-right-through-it-ej-rosetta-3961211

            Rowling has the audacity to believe that women born as women, and men who become women later in life, are biologically different. To deny this scientific reality is lunacy, but that is what some trans activists and their supporters wish to do. That is why she has drawn such hatred.

            She fiercely objects to the erasure of the word ‘woman,’ as do I. A recent ad for a vibrator states that this object is for “vulva havers.” There are perhaps four billion women or so on the planet, but we are no longer allowed to use the word? 

            As soon J. K. spoke up in defense of biological women and the actual word “women,” she was viciously attacked as a terf. No one stopped to question why a woman who has written a glorious series of books fundamentally about tolerance of the other would suddenly start to spew hatred for a persecuted minority. A woman who has donated a vast portion of her hard-earned fortune to charities for the vulnerable, especially women and children.

            What has happened to her is indefensible. Why would a respected journalist use defamatory quotes without even an attempt to look deeper into the issue?

            Your job is to tell all sides of important stories. This one is important, not because of renaming a game for spurious reasons, but because it’s just one of a series of profound injustices caused by Twitter mobs. J. K. can defend herself. Others cannot.

            I hope you will rectify this.

PS. An early Twitter thread from Rowling: 

The idea that women like me, who’ve been empathetic to trans people for decades, feeling kinship because they’re vulnerable in the same way as women—i.e., to male violence—‘hate’ trans people because they think sex is real and has lived consequences—is a nonsense.”

“I respect every trans person’s right to live any way that feels authentic and comfortable to them. I’d march with you if you were discriminated against on the basis of being trans. At the same time, my life has been shaped by being female. I do not believe it’s hateful to say so."

Amen, sister. But I have to say that even posting this on my blog frightens me.

a manuscript out in the world

Not much better, but not worse. It's the lungs. I do wonder if I had or have something besides Covid, though it's not bad enough to go to the doctor. Still, short of breath, coughing, wheezing. The lungs hurt.

My cat and I are watching sparrows and juncos in the garden, busy not just at the feeder but in the bushes, pecking, chattering. It's like an early spring day, as it has been all week - gloomy but mild, not like winter at all. Sun was promised for today and is eagerly awaited, but so far, elusive.

The excitement is that I spent all yesterday finishing a draft of the essay book and sent it to four beta readers, all my longterm home class students so fierce critics and wonderful writers themselves. It's thrilling to anticipate that kind of expert feedback. So far no one except my excellent editor Ellie has seen the ms., so I've no idea if it works. Tenterhooks.

What are tenterhooks?

I've been very lucky with Tiggy Stardust. She's a lap cat, so much so that the minute I sit in my favourite chair and pull on the blanket, she's there, keeping me warm. My last cats were neither of them lap cats, although the whole POINT of a cat is to sit in your lap. Tiggy knows that. She's a delight, the perfect companion. So glad we found each other.

My friend Margaret posted this lovely image on FB: 'Breakfast of the Birds', 1934, by Gabriele Münter. It feels like here, except for the absence of cat.

The US debacle, "Miss Austen Regrets," and health returns, kind of

Apparently Americans can watch the debacle in the US House of Reps on C-Span. Nothing I'd rather less do than watch these kindergarteners fight, except that it is good to know Dems are having such a triumphant moment of solidarity. Who'd have predicted this turn of events, this log-jam of absurdity? Only a few months ago, the Red Wave, the decimation of the left, etc. predicted. But no. Human decency and good sense still exist, though still not much in evidence down there.

Good news up here: It's been eleven days since symptoms started. I just took another home test, and it's negative! Now I can go out and share my germs with the world. I've not been outside in a week — not just quarantine, but because the weather has been impossible, not cold at all, but dark and damp and uninviting to sodden lungs. I'm not feeling much better, ironically, but I'll get there; this thing has moved through, leaving havoc in its wake.

Watched a film called Miss Austen Regrets, about Jane Austen's love life, or lack of it. Nice to see her portrayed as feisty, sarcastic, fiercely independent — a woman who knew love but rejected several suitors because she wanted to write. It's sad in the final scenes; as her brothers' fortunes collapse and she, her mother, and sister risk being ejected from their cottage, her mother accuses her of selfishness for not marrying well and so leaving them all vulnerable. Money is safety! she cries — marrying it being the only way a woman without means could achieve security. 

To think such a genius wasn't recognized by her own family ... but it happens, I'm sure more often than we know. Oh that she had not died so young.

So tomorrow is a new day. I've been stuck in a tunnel since Christmas, getting through but without much pleasure. Have managed to do Nicky's dance party and Gina's Essentrics class on Zoom once or twice, though, so the body wasn't completely stagnant. But mostly. Time to MOVE. I've been working on the essay book manuscript. Getting there? I hope so. Maybe. Maybe not. 

I will call my housemate Tiggy Stardust. Hope David Bowie doesn't mind. He was British, so it's sure he loved cats.

Surveying the estate from afar and keeping an eye on the pace of work in my office.

Life in Squares, and just life

There's life in these old bones. I'm not perky, but definitely better than yesterday. Finally noticed my plants are dying and am getting around to watering. Have kept my cat alive for two days, and myself too. There's hope.

Today I wrote a furious letter to Lisi Tesher at the Star, who's been allowed to take her mother Ellie's place several times a week as an advice columnist. Ellie is sensible; Lisi often gives glib responses, but today's was particularly infuriating. A woman wrote that she and her husband, who have 3 school-age children, are divorcing. "Now what?" Lisi responded with great cheer that no problem, "there's no failure in divorce," "Co-parenting is different than what you're used to," "Think of all the positives."

Co-parenting is different, no question. As someone whose children had to go through the agony of divorce, I wrote to her that, unless the circumstances are exceptional, there's no way to sugarcoat what that family are all about to go through. They will need help, not cheery bromides. Jesus. Divorce, except for cases of abuse or addiction or other violence, is almost certainly disastrous for children. That doesn't mean the problems can't be overcome, but a great deal of work on both sides is needed to do so. Making light of what's ahead is a huge disservice to them all, but particularly to the children.

I'm especially aware of all this now because I'm working on my essay book, which has a number of pieces about divorce and single parenting. The ten or fifteen years after my divorce were in many ways nightmarish, yet I had financial support from my ex that allowed us to stay in our home and to pay for my shrink, who helped me through. Most custodial parents are not so lucky. If there is one thing I would NEVER do, it's downplay the cost of divorce for children.

Speaking of which, I watched the 3-part British TV series Life in Squares, about the Bloomsbury group, particularly Vanessa Bell and her marital arrangements. Her husband Clive moved on after they had two sons, living separately with his own lovers but visiting regularly. She was desperately in love with the gay painter Duncan Grant, who lived with her for most of his life; eventually, in what you gather was their only moment of sexual intimacy, they conceived a daughter. Angelica Bell didn't know until adulthood that Duncan not Clive was her father. Eventually she married David Garnet, who again she didn't find out until later had for years had been her father's lover. 

Can you imagine learning your husband was for a long time your father's lover? Yikes. These people were ahead of their time in defining bisexuality in their own way! Not to mention, of course, Virginia and her passionate affair with Vita Sackville-West, while her dear husband Leonard Woolf tried to guard her sanity and talent. 

Complicated. You gather few actual divorces; people just moved in and out of each other's beds and gorgeous country homes. 

And then I watched my favourite Finding Your Roots. Such a great show, delving into people's pasts, often hundreds of years back. Last night's was about actors Edward Norton and Julia Roberts; at the end we find out that DNA tests revealed they're distantly related. 

How helpful Amazon is. Just discovered my Jewish Shakespeare hardcover is on sale for nearly $90. No wonder the sales are pouring in. 

Here are my animals, new and old:

It's another dark dark dark gloomy day, as it has been for the entire week - mild but oppressive. Another neighbour has just tested positive. A little sunshine would go a long way for us all, Powers That Be. Asking for a friend.

report from the front lines

Am still so sick today, I called my doctor, who's still my doctor until March, and tonight she called back. Here's something perhaps you didn't know — Paxlovid gives you "rebound symptoms," where Covid symptoms have a resurgence. Well, isn't that a treat! I was wondering about pneumonia, but she said everything I was telling her - coughing, no energy, bad stomach, weak lungs - are resurgence. 

Good to know. Time, she said. Rest and hydration. Okeley dokeley. Am beyond impatient to get my life back, but this thing has other plans. Still, I can read, write, watch Netflix - everything that matters, except getting outside and moving my body.

In the meantime, I may have found a new doctor. Thanks to Toronto Lynn who sent out a call for suggestions, I have an appointment with a young doctor setting up a new practice in March to see if there's a fit. A huge relief, if so. I did tell my current doctor that being dumped two days before Christmas from the clinic I've been part of since 1988 made me cry. She was apologetic, but "it had to be done."

Phooey. 

On a more important note, I have a pussycat. After years with an old lady in a small retirement apartment, she's adapting wonderfully to this big house with so very much to sniff and look at. She already winds around my ankles and Robin's too, and is relaxed and interested in everything. I'm so happy to have a cat again, and such a pretty one too.

This is what my daughter had to go through to get her here: Uber or transit with her boys to the island airport car rental, the only one open on New Year's Day. Rent a car and drive it onto the ferry to the mainland, a huge thrill for Ben who loves all vehicles. Drive over an hour to Waterloo. Have lunch, find the place, meet the people, pick up the cat and her many possessions, stuff her in a carrier. She yowled all the way home; Anna said they tried to figure out what she was telling them.

Drop the boys off at home with Thomas. Drive across town, unload everything, try not to catch Covid from her mother who forgot to put on her mask, and go to pick up friends and do a million other things possible with a car. Today they gave her the car for another day free, so she went to Costco. This family knows how to have a good time. 

Very grateful to my girl for going above and beyond. Have to say - I wouldn't have done all that for her. But then, she loves driving and I hate it.

Skyped with Lynn in France for an hour and a half. She's a phenomenon, picking up speed as she gets older, amazing. 

Meet Tiggy. Her name was Twiggy, but that name has negative connotations for me, stick-thin model and all. So, Tiggy. Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, if you're feeling formal. She'd love to meet you. Or, if you're a bird or squirrel, to eat you.

2023, Day One

It's like being underwater sometimes, submerged in Sickland, unable to surface into real life. Yesterday was okay, with energy, so I wondered if true to form, there'd be a backlash, and sure enough, today was dreadful, sore lungs, coughing, achey body and head, no desire to move. And the weather has been dark and wet - amazingly mild, 12 degrees - but too wet for walking. I've been outside once, briefly, in the last days. My legs twitch in bed at night because I've moved them so little.

But I'm not in hospital. 

It's January 1 2023. 

Robin asked if I was going to make resolutions, and I said, no, I'm perfect. And he said, I am too.

But I like Bob Rae's resolutions on Twitter, so I will try to keep his. Obviously, when I'm better. 

Bob Rae@BobRae48·1hCanada government official40 minutes exercise, 40 minutes extra reading, 40 minutes extra writing (extra meaning non work non social media) and piano every day. More conscious listening and acts of kindness. Try not to be boring about any of these.

Ruth brought me a quiche and a croissant, and Robin bought some nuts and berries. Thank you, foraging friends.

In the meantime, I do have to report that astoundingly, despite aching head and twitchy body, I've been working. A new, better title for the essay book just came to me, and I've written a new preface and have compiled five or six possible new entries for it. 

It's thrilling, to feel my writing self as a kind of machine that, once kicked into motion, can keep going, no matter what. We'll see if any of this matters to the final manuscript. I'm very attached to so many of these essays, and I do think people will enjoy reading them. But we know, no one reads these days.

Except Bob Rae.

Happy NY!

So many congratulations about the cat pouring in on FB and IG — I feel like a newly-wed. But she ain't here yet. 

My childhood cat was grey, perhaps that's why I responded so immediately to her pic. My father named all our pets after Greek goddesses, so he named her Ariadne, and I named her Wusso. I adored her. We had a rule — if you had a cat in your lap, you didn't have to get up to do chores. You could call, "I have a little grey visitor," and my mother would leave you alone. 

Soon I hope to have a little grey visitor.

I'm almost human today, though it was another dark, wet one. My lungs are less porous and I have a bit of energy. The great excitement today is that Annie came over for dinner! Amazingly, this dear friend got Covid at exactly the same time as I, so we can pass our germs back and forth. We had eggplant parmesan Gretchen brought over from Epicure, and Annie's homemade Xmas cake; we watched Endeavour and a few minutes of the Lizzo concert, which was pretty overwhelming in every way, just so not something I want to watch, admire her chutzpah though I do. 

And now it's 9.20 and another thing I do not want to watch is screaming people in Time's Square. One of the joys of getting old: who gives a shit about NYEve? We've seen a bunch of these. It's one year rolling into another, get over it, move on, shut up. 

Oh oh, sounding like a cranky old lady, m'dear. 

My daughter gave me an exquisite piece of Indigenous art, a medicine shield, for Xmas. It's now on the wall facing my desk. May you too have a medicine shield, to get you through the next year with health, kindness, contentment, friendship. Maybe an adventure or two.

Thanks for coming along for the ride, my friends. Happy New Year. 

a new housemate

A powerful dream last night. I had to have a blood test – perhaps this is because I actually do, at some point soon, and am looking for a new doctor, and because I’m sick. After the test, there was something wrong. I could see the doctor making calculations based on what the test had revealed. I sat watching, thinking, Of course it’s fine, I’m a very healthy person.

And then he told me I have cancer of the blood and the prognosis is not good. I felt despair and serenity at the same time. Determination to live my last days as well as I can. Regret for the books I wanted to have written and had not.

Well, that’s a cheery dream. I told Judy, fellow writer, who laughed, Even in dreams, we’re beating ourselves up for not writing!

A good thing about Covid: detox. No wine, not the tiniest desire for wine. But today, I was feeling dreadful in the morning when I realized I hadn't had coffee. Suffering from caffeine withdrawal! Sure enough, a cup of coffee helped. The NYT reported yesterday that people who drink 1 to 3 cups of coffee a day live substantially longer. Good news, for once. 

Today's excitement: How quickly things can change. A friend of a friend posted a picture of a cat on FB, saying her owner had died and she needs a new home. I got in touch instantly. A match made in heaven, literally: I need a quiet older cat who's used to living inside, and that's who she is, so she won't be clawing to get out and hunt my birds. The owner's niece is going to call me tonight, to make sure I'm a nice person; I am waiting to audition as a cat owner. The cat lives in Kitchener, so Anna has offered to rent a car and go pick her up. The boys are already excited about their two kitties having a cousin across town. 

The house has been without its own pet for far too long. I've been waiting for my next cat to contact me, and she did.

We'll have to negotiate Bandit when the time comes. 

I passed! The arrangement is for Anna to go pick up my little grey friend Monday. I can feel the excitement from above, my mother and aunt, cat-lovers in the extreme.

Feels like I've had a very successful day of internet dating.