Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 41
June 15, 2022
in mourning for my damaged, neglectful city
Today, after getting off the streetcar, I walked up Yonge Street to the Y. In almost every doorway, a homeless person was camped and sleeping. Often it was hard to tell if there was someone inside the bundle of rags and blankets piled up on the step. And then, there was a woman, naked from the waist down, filthy, squatting to pee on the sidewalk before returning to her shelter in a doorway.
This on the main street of downtown Toronto.
The other day, I rode to one of my favourite stores, the pen and paper emporium Laywine's, to buy an essential, my annual academic daytimer without which my life would disintegrate. The store is in Yorkville, the streets of which are a parody of wealth and white privilege on display - the cars, the clothes, the arrogance.
Something is deeply wrong in our city. Our mayor is decent, blinkered, boring. No real solutions to homelessness and the epidemic of mental illness and opiate addiction. Instead, we have rampant development, giant high-rises going up everywhere, which include no affordable housing; there are more construction cranes in Toronto than anywhere else in North America. Drivers are beyond entitled, speeding, careening, partly out of frustration because the streets are impassable due to construction and street repairs - though most streets are so full of holes, they look as if they've been attacked by giant asphalt-devouring digger dogs.
And now we've elected as premier a right-wing car- and development-loving blowhard who's going to spend billions constructing new highways through the formerly protected Green Belt.
Not to mention Ukraine. And another smart, fit writer friend locked away with dementia.
The world, today, is too much with me. Late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
What comfort? For one, the January 6th commission, which has done an extraordinary job of presenting the facts, entirely from former Trump loyalists, about the former president's criminal delusions — the most vital work of democracy and journalistic investigation we've seen this century. Thank God for it.
Yesterday, one of the most marvellous classes ever, watching writers take flight. A joy.
Reading: right now, Rebecca Solnit's wonderful Orwell's Roses, following her nimble mind as she explores George Orwell's garden and everything connected to him — fascinating, heavily researched, wide-ranging.
And mostly, my own garden. How is it possible these plants and flowers keep gracing us with their scent and beauty year after year? Sometimes I think we don't deserve them. I go out in the morning and kiss the roses and talk to them. They feel like friends.
Will we pull through this time of darkness? I don't know. Perhaps we won't. But they will. Solnit quotes Orwell in 1941, back in his country home after time in London sheltering from the Blitz: "Crocuses out everywhere, a few wallflowers budding, snowdrops just at their best. Couples of hares sitting about in the winter wheat and gazing at one another. Now and again in this war, at intervals of months, you get your nose above water for a few moments and notice that the earth is still going around the sun."
Mock orange. The smell is heavenly.
June 13, 2022
Word on the Street, CNFC, the Tony awards
How I started the day: Googling "rose leaves turning yellow." Might be "chlorosis" - iron deficiency. Oh no!
How I spent last night: watching the Tony awards, which were as always thrilling, except more so than usual - extremely diverse and hosted by a young woman of astounding confidence, beauty, and talent, Ariana deBose. Made me want to go to NYC and see some shows. "Broadway's back, baby!" was the rallying cry.
What hit me yesterday: I got out the silver polish to polish a little necklace of my mother's, silver and I think lapis, and suddenly realized, I'm turning into her. She loved silver and was always polishing something. And she loved this necklace. I'm wearing it now. I polished, however, dancing in my kitchen with Nicky's Zoom dance party, something my mother most definitely did not do. And she used Silvo.
A packed weekend, first Word on the Street back at last on the actual street - rode to Queen's Park to take it in, booth after booth of books, writers, publishers, editors, aka heaven. It was supposed to rain, torrentially on Sunday, but happily it did not, it was beautiful all weekend. I hope those poor battered book people did well.
A brave young writer taking marketing into her own hands. And cart.Then the Creative Nonfiction annual conference, on Zoom from Edmonton, a series of gripping panels, talks, webinars. So good to meet friendly nonfiction faces from around the country. At one talk, on research, I was dumbfounded, the young presenter zipping around apps and programs, showing me just how very old I am. At one point, he said, "And then plug in your pen."
All good.
Today, out in the garden, of course, admiring, marvelling. The wisteria was planted by my friend Dorothy in the mid-nineties and took many years to bloom, but eventually, bloom it did. Its beauty means more, knowing how long it took.
The raspberries grew from a cutting taken before my mother left Edmonton in about 2000, and also took many years to do well. In fact, they haven't yet, but it looks like this year will be the one. I hired someone to come and advise me about their unhappiness; she prescribed worm casings, so I dumped some on and they obviously like it. Maybe I'll give some to the roses.
This morning: back to the Jan. 6 hearings. Talk about riveting television, saving the world, or at least, we hope, that benighted country. Later today, the termite inspectors come, cross your fingers. I wonder if they know about yellow leaves? And mice?
Below, the story of my current life:
June 10, 2022
What You Won't Do For Love, and the Jan. 6 commission
We've had the oddest spring, cold, hot, blazing sun, torrential, biblical rain. Yesterday I set off, all dressed up, on my bike, to be turned back by a sudden rainstorm. Set off again in rain gear; ten minutes later, by the time I got to my destination, it was boiling hot again.
I was on my way to an opening night party for old family friends David Suzuki and Tara Cullis, who've written and are performing a moving play about their activist lives and their very long marriage, What you won't do for love. I've seen the film online and will see the play next week; couldn't go last night because I was teaching, but enjoyed celebrating them beforehand. David will no longer fly because of the climate; they took eight days to drive across Canada in an electric Volvo. An admirable, idealistic, extremely hard-working couple. An extraordinary family.
My father, who was a good friend of David's and loved him, always credited himself with introducing David and Tara. David disputes this, but I'm going with Dad.
Last night, after class ended, I turned on the January 6 enquiry. It was mesmerizing, with damning testimony and footage, incontrovertible proof of Trump's guilt and the craven collusion of his allies - as if any of us had any doubts. The testimony of that beautiful young police officer, about slipping in the blood of her colleagues, was incredibly powerful. But who's watching? Will it get through to the other side? I was flipping around to find other reports and happened upon Fox "news" - we didn't used to get it in Canada, when did that change? They were interviewing a woman who said, "It was all antifa." Will all the thousands of hours of interviews leading to this ground-breaking hearing change anything? Let us pray.
A busy weekend ahead - both Word on the Street, which is again actually on the street, and the annual Creative Nonfiction Conference, still virtual. And gardening. The garden is one of my greatest joys, as perhaps you know. Best of all, the William Morris heritage roses are about to burst, with many buds. One reason I don't travel much in summer; I just want to sit and look at the roses.
Babies. Blowing own horn department: lots of great feedback about the Helen Humphreys workshop:
That was such an excellent talk. Amazing what can be packed into an hour. The two of you were so effective together (and it was gracious of you to make so many comments specifically about Helen’s work).
The best part of the workshop for me was when you and Helen asked each other questions about the process of writing, the challenges of writing such as being vulnerable and open and taking risks. It was a different learning experience from the writing coach/student, to two distinguished and accomplished writers sharing their wisdom and knowledge with each other.
Ha! Distinguished and accomplished, that's a first for me. 'Distinguished' makes me feel old. But then, Helen is younger than I am, and she's definitely both distinguished and accomplished.
A former student sent her second essay in the Globe:
And this, from a student who wrote, "I love when my books match my breakfast tray!"
In the midst of all this, I wrote a fan-girl piece about Paul McCartney's 80th birthday, which is coming up Saturday June 18, and am trying to get it placed somewhere. Hello, editors, a distinguished, accomplished writer is sending you something, could you open your email please? Sigh.
Off into this stunning day.
June 5, 2022
WOTS: the joy of memoir, and honouring family
Happy to report that the WOTS memoir workshop with Helen Humphreys went well, at least, I think it did. A few people have emailed their appreciation. Because I was focussed on the talk, I didn't see how many were there or read the questions in the Chat or the words that came in at the end. Helen is warm and open; I liked her very much, could have spent the whole hour talking to her, but we each spoke and answered a lot of questions.
I've been busy in the house; for some reason, it was time to do more with my family picture wall, and then I moved the CD shelf to a better place and put my CD's in alphabetical order. I know, no one uses CD's any more. I not only do, I also use tapes. The discovery that's a game changer: I can write listening to music. So now I will.
A great-grandfather, grandparents on both sides, parents through the years, uncle and aunt, ex-husband, children, inlaws, a few friends, grandsons. My childhood pussycat Dido painted by my grandmother. So good to get these out of the big box and on the wall. House problems: not just the bees upstairs, but a mouse infestation down. I spent an hour today cleaning out under the sink and trying to patch the huge hole they use to get in, which was hard as it's where the pipes and the water shut-off valve is. I cut up the Kristyn Wong-Tam election sign and patched over the hole, put steel wool in places I couldn't tape. Presumably if that keeps them away from under the sink, they'll just go elsewhere. Hate traps, don't want to use poison. I need a cat.
And a bee chaser. The termite guy is coming to check in a few weeks, because my neighbour two houses over says the termites are back at her place.
Jeez.
Yesterday, dear Annie, who's had a stressful few weeks, came for dinner on the deck. It was nice to decompress after the workshop with a friend; I was speedy and buzzing as after a stage performance. Today, the Cabbagetown Garden Tour with Lynn and Nick. A gorgeous day, perfect, to tromp 5 kilometres around the 'hood poking in people's gardens. Have to say, I'll take mine, any day.
June 3, 2022
new tickets for WOTS workshop and Where the Blood Mixes
The WOTS workshop with the marvellous Helen Humphreys and moi was sold out, but people have been protesting, so they have opened up ten new spots. They were going to limit the attendance to 30, then 50. Now it's 70. Wonderful!
Quick!
Won't discuss the election. Will not watch the news today. Imagine, huge numbers of people voted for a petty high school drug dealer eager to pave over farmland for new highways, to pander to his developer buddies, to cut healthcare and education budgets, who's now a second term leader of Canada's biggest province. Turns the stomach.
BUT: a fantastic evening last night. While Sam and Bandit babysat the boys, Anna and I had a delicious dinner at El Catrin, a Mexican restaurant in the Distillery District, and then sauntered next door to watch Where the Blood Mixes, by Kevin Loring, produced by the Native Earth company and Soulpepper. My poor Anna was awash in tears at the end of this powerful play, which begins in great humour and takes us through the incalculable tragedy of residential schools and the Sixties Scoop, as experienced by one family, one small community. My tenant Sheldon Elter stars and is superb; he's a musician and comedian who has done stand up and a one man show, and now reveals himself to be a great tragic actor.
One of the actresses had contracted Covid so the director Jani Lauzon stepped in to the part and did a fantastic job.
Art will keep us alive. Until it can't and won't. But until then, it will.
June 2, 2022
trying to ignore the election
It's election day in Ontario, and the polls are predicting another Con majority. Over 60% of the population will vote for one of the three centre-left parties, but we'll have another four years of these execrable rightwing politicos doing irreparable harm to this province, as the execrable Mike Harris did years ago, his policies leading to this day. My heart is heavy.
But yes, at least we're not dealing with a populace armed to the teeth and murdering each other with assault weapons, or with a hostile foreign power smashing our towns, slaughtering our citizens, and kidnapping our children. Good to keep our tiny disaster in perspective.
Life goes on. I did an interview with a freelance writer for the Globe today about - you guessed it - writing memoir. She couldn't shut me up. I'm so looking forward to the workshop on Saturday with Helen Humphreys, who's my new favourite writer. I'm reading Field Study, in which she spends a year at a herbarium studying dried plants. Yes, that's the book, moving, funny, and fascinating. How does she do it? And The Frozen Thames, in which she invents vignettes, moments from lives each year the river Thames froze solid, from 1142 to 1895. Not memoir, no, and yet she's there, heart and soul. How does she think of such quirky, interesting topics?
Speaking of heart and soul, I watched a short play on Zoom on my computer yesterday; a company called Theatre Ouest, out of Montreal, produced Still Got Something to Say: 6 plays about age, starting with one by Judith Thompson starring Clare Coulter. If you ever have the chance, don't miss it; Clare Coulter is a Canadian acting legend, a treasure, magnificent even in the short time she's on screen, her eyes blazing, her soul laid bare. I ponder what makes a truly great actor: a profound honesty and generosity and commitment, a sense they are giving us everything they have to give. Clare Coulter does that.
Though I've known her for decades, she moved to Montreal and I haven't seen her for a long time, but I immediately wrote to the email address I had for her. And she wrote back to say my note had meant a great deal. She was performing for the camera, no audience, no sense of how the work landed.
Never miss an opportunity to let an artist know what their work has meant to you, how it has affected you - at least, if it's positive! I'm letting Helen Humphreys know how much I love her books. After Helen's I have two library books to finish and then, it's on to Blue Portugal, the new book of essays by my dear blog friend Theresa Kishkan. Can't wait.
Tonight, a special treat: my downstairs tenant Sheldon Elter is in a play opening tonight, and Anna and I are his guests. Where the Blood Mixes is I gather an entirely Indigenous project. It may make us sad, but I'll be happy for Sheldon that it's off and running. It's traditional to wish an actor "Break a leg" on opening night, but he said, for Indigenous actors, you wish them "two wounded knees." So I did.
Also, got a royalty statement from Audible.com for the audiobook of Loose Woman: 18 people have bought the audiobook. It was launched in Dec. 2020, so that's about one sale a month. Flying off the shelves, so to speak. LOL.
A final bit of happiness, to offset anything bad you may be feeling today: yesterday was record-breaking hot, so Sam cooled Bandit down in the bathtub. If that's not a gleeful face to make you smile ... Even with a Con majority barreling at us. Sob.
May 30, 2022
worry and good news
Was awake in the night for hours: Ukraine dragging on and the world losing interest, the appalling tragedy of Uvalde and the Repugs coming up with doors as a solution, it beggars belief!, and the election in Ontario, in which the three centre-left parties could not consider a merger of some kind, working together to make sure the disgusting Conservs and our doofus premier will not be re-elected - with a majority! - to decimate our province with highways through farmland, cutting and privatizing health care, slashing education and more. If the Green, NDP, and Lib votes were consolidated, we'd win by a long shot. But no, there's a three-way split on the left, because the egos are unsurmountable.
Tossing and turning and raging and worrying.
But then I got good news. A writing student and dear friend was diagnosed with breast cancer and has been writing with force about her journey through the nightmare: operation, chemo, radiation. She's been waiting for a new biopsy. Today she received the news: no further carcinomas. The @#$#@ fickle finger of fate has moved on. BRAVA!
And a FB friend sent me a message on FB messenger. Something else to brighten my day:
DianeHi Beth, Just want you to know how much I'm enjoying your book "Loose Woman." A friend lent it to me, but since it has so many great lines and thoughts I I want to mark in the margins, I just ordered my own copy. Take care, Diane
You sent
Thank you! Glad to receive more good news.
The garden is bursting forth. It's 30 degrees, the humidex 35 today, hotter tmw, but it's a blip, will cool down Wednesday. To brighten your day: a man of my acquaintance and his pup.
May 29, 2022
pets, motherhood, art
Finished Helen Humphreys's lovely memoir And a Dog Called Fig, about writing and dogs, not in that order. Made me wonder how I've managed to write without owning a dog; all the walking, she feels, helps her writing greatly. She suggests we should all live the way a dog does, in the moment, filled with curiosity, enthusiasm, and a complete lack of negativity.
I will try.
Now am reading two library books: Rebecca Solnit's Orwell's Roses, which so far I love, and The Baby on the Fire Escape: creativity, motherhood, and the mind-baby problem, by Julie Phillips. The cover art is by Alice Neel, and the first chapter is about Alice as artist and mother. Phillips also talks about Doris Lessing, Audre Lord, Alice Walker, Ursula LeGuin, and other artist-mothers.
Somehow, women do it; they just do it, their art, their parenting. It's not easy, though it's easier now, I'm pretty sure, than it was decades or a century ago. I was talking today to Judy in Vancouver about Helen Humphreys, who's eleven years younger than we are and has published NINE novels, six nonfiction books, a ton of poetry collections, and won a bunch of awards. How is it possible? Well, Helen does not have children; she has dogs. It's harder, Judy and I laughed, to put your children in a crate so you can get some work done.
That's my excuse for not having accomplished more, and I'm sticking to it.
I wrote to Helen that though I do not currently have a pet, my garden provides comfort and companionship, at least for half the year. Not much use on walks, though.
I had an altercation a few days ago with the neighbourhood cat, a hilarious fat tabby who patrols the block, strolling up and down checking out the activity and making friends. Somehow he ended up in my yard. Because the way out involves steep stairs, I picked up the huge beast to help him down, and he let me know, with his claws in my flesh, what he thought of that. I have 7 or 8 punctures in my arm, one of them badly infected, puffy and red. I assume my body will take care of it and we will not have to amputate. The adventures of life. Who'd think a pet cat could dig so deep?
Sixty Minutes had a segment tonight on the horrific damage AK-47 assault rifles do to the body; one doctor recommends that all Americans carry around emergency packs with tourniquets to stop bleeding, in case of a mass shooting. Insane! How can a country be so wilfully blind? A terrific opinion piece by Omar al Akkad in the Globe said the gun lobby cares not at all about ideology, about freedom and the 2nd amendment, but simply profit. The more guns sold, the more profit, that's all, so it's worth their while to pump vast sums into the Republican party which does its best to terrify the population and stop any efforts at gun control. And they do.
The definition of evil.
On the other hand, my New York cousin Ted's husband, Henry, went recently with his rabbi and others from his synagogue to Poland, bringing emergency supplies for the Ukrainian refugees there. Henry was interviewed in the local paper on his return, and spoke movingly about the extraordinary welcome the Poles are making for over a million Ukrainians, whom they call, not refugees, but their guests, and treat with dignity and care. It was heartening, much needed, to read good news about human beings, for once.
Anna and the boys are in Nova Scotia, I gather having a superb time; she posted a picture of herself on a beach with a fresh oyster and a Keith's beer, Anna's definition of heaven. Sam came over yesterday with his Bandit shadow. At one point he went out for a bit and left Bandit with me. The pup pressed himself by the closed door, lifted his head, and howled some puppy howls, showing his wolfy roots: OOOOOOO. Eventually he settled down, lay his head on his water dish, and waited for his human to return.
Yes, he lives in the moment with curiosity, enthusiasm, and a lack of negativity, but also with loyalty and devotion. We should all be like dogs.
Not like cats.
May 25, 2022
Word on the Street panel with BK and Helen Humphreys
The heart breaks. We're living in a surreal time of madness — when children are murdered, slaughtered in their schoolrooms, and American politicians claim their deaths have nothing to do with easy, near limitless access to guns. How to comprehend the faces of pure and total evil, those who benefit from the bribes of the NRA. How to comprehend the abject failure of a country that puts access to guns ahead of the lives of its citizens, especially its children. Madness. Insanity.
Trump was not the cause but the symptom, sure, but still, it's as if he's the Pandora who opened the box to liberate human vileness of every kind. It's all acceptable now. Here — Victoria Day celebrations marred with violence, teenagers aiming fireworks at celebrants and police. Many arrests. Has never happened before.
Have to say, if I lived in the States and gun murder happened to a loved one of mine, my first impulse would be to buy a gun and murder a Republican senator.
Wouldn't help, I know. But I'd want to do it. To make a point.
Okay, moving right along. I cannot do anything, cannot vote there, can only mourn and rage. And mourn.
I spent Victoria Day with my grandsons. Their mother was working with her Indigenous group of food providers, Dashmaawaan, at a kids' festival at Harbourfront; we went down to see her. Back home, we played basketball and baseball in the alley until they wore me out and then watched Turning Red, such a superb animated film, I highly recommend it for adults even if you don't have a child to watch it with. And it's set in a recognizable Toronto! A beautiful, wise film. Don't miss it.
Excitement: Next Saturday I'm appearing at Word on the Street on a panel about memoir, with the marvellous Helen Humphreys, on Zoom. It's free! I've asked them to change my bio - did not send them this one which is out of date - but am thrilled. I'm reading Humphreys's And a dog called Fig right now and loving it; she's a beautiful writer writing about writing and puppies, and these days I'm interested in both.
A much lesser excitement: a small Ikea just opened at Yonge and Gerrard, about ten blocks from me. Never did I imagine I'd be able to ride my bike to Ikea, but today I did. It was packed, of course, but it's surprisingly big for a downtown space. The Ikea designers are brilliant. I bought nothing but watched dazed people filling their carts with cushions, sheets, curtains, shelves, filing boxes, lamps, rugs, frames. Just what we need: more stuff.
Two nights ago, I lay awake thinking of a dear friend of mine, Michèle, in France, saying to myself, I must get in touch with her. A few hours later she called, to tell me her husband Daniel had died suddenly of a brain aneurysm. Daniel, with a head of tangled grizzled curls, was one of a kind, a wild crazy musician, dreamer, idealist; he wanted to change the world. He also at one time had a passionate affair with my mother and after her with many, many other women, yet he and Michèle remained a devoted couple to the end. That's France. It's hard to imagine a world without his lively, joyous, eccentric presence.
My friends, hold your loved ones close. The monsters are out there.
May 22, 2022
celebrating a young life and a vanished life
My older grandson is now ten, wearing size 12. Anna told me, "I have to buy him deodorant. I'm not ready for this!" The party, after school on Friday, was the usual organized yet free-flowing madhouse, a United Nations of children piling into the yard and the laneway behind, for basketball, skateboarding, biking, trampolining, and some game invented by Eli. Anna kept producing food and the kids kept going, while a few parents had a beer in the shade. Anna tells parents if they want to leave their kids and go off to enjoy some quiet time, please do. And they do.
Choosing music on the iPad
Bandit found some mud to roll in and chased everyone joyfully
Some game Eli invented. I know something now about these kids, those on the autism spectrum or with severe anxiety, or who've had to flee an abusive father or rarely see their father or are being raised by grandma because mother is working. Most extraordinarily, I heard two eight-year-olds on the trampoline; one said to the other in response to a question, as they bounced, "I'm non-binary," and they had a discussion about being non-binary. That is indeed a child who's known since sentience the body enclosing the soul was wrong, has always lived and dressed as the other sex.
What a complex world they're growing up in. How proud I am Anna takes care of them all, including a mother and son there who, in crisis a few years ago, lived with Anna and family for over a month.
Birthday boy and his dad Thomas.One of Eli's birthday presents from his mama and me is a trip for him, Anna, and Ben to Nova Scotia next week, to visit dear friends there. And from Holly, the thrill of a Jays game for the whole family.
And a Jay did! The Jays won. Eli was born on Victoria Day; there are fireworks on his birthday every year.
My friend Annie has been planning for months a memorial event for her husband Jim, who died suddenly a year ago of a heart attack. Jim was a screenwriter, so Annie and her kids invited 150 friends to view Jim's entertaining, quirky first film Destiny to Order at the Fox Cinema in the Beach, and then to gather at a nearby church hall. It was a marvellous assortment of people: Annie's friends from Catholic social activism, filmmakers, actors - Jim ran a TO theatre company for many years - Annie's family from England, Beach neighbours. There were tears not just for Jim but for our beloved friend Patsy, who died with MAID last year, since she'd worked in Jim's company, and many who knew her were there, including the wonderful, reclusive Nancy Beatty. Eating, talking, remembering.
Miranda, Dorothy, Sue. Through the years I heard so much about beautiful Miranda from Patsy; what joy to meet her at last.Only a few hours before the event, Ontarians received an emergency notice from the government - a huge thunderstorm heading our way, even possibly a hurricane or tornado. It descended - darkness, violent winds, howling rain. I thought, poor Annie, how can people get through this? About ten minutes later, it was over, and the afternoon was lovely. Apparently, the storm was so powerful, trees were torn up and at least four people died. But there was mild sun when we gathered, as human beings must and do, to celebrate a life.
