Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 79
May 26, 2020
Cynthia Nixon in the heat
Just watched this marvellous 9 minute playlet starring Cynthia Nixon, had a great laugh, and emerged more glad than ever that I am not suffering through this pandemic in a small apartment with a spouse.
https://www.instagram.com/p/CAYrCp5pDxJ/
It was unbelievably hot today, and I think of parents in apartments with children - no splash pads are open, no pools, no playgrounds. Brutal. Cathy, who's a nurse, said she thinks the mental health issues we'll have to deal with later will be as devastating as the physical effects of the virus.
I will not turn on my A.C. in May, that's ridiculous, and the fan stored in the basement now does not work. So it was just sitting around being hot for much of the day. I did make a suicidal run to get a few groceries - line up, mask on, rush about, get out! - and for the first time in months to Shoppers, to mail my writing books to Lani who is giving them to three would-be writers of her acquaintance. That's a friend for you.
Importantly, Anna came with her friend and did more heroic clearing out downstairs. It's now starting to resemble a habitable apartment. A lot of stuff needs to be trucked out, maybe on the weekend, and then it can be cleaned and the repairs can begin. My shoulders lift a bit more.
But there was a big disappointment about the manuscript today - a vague hope I'd had that in the end was for naught. Nothing new there.
And another disappointment from my longtime hairdresser Ingrid. Ingrid and I have been through a lot together over decades; I was thrilled when she and her new partner moved their business to Cabbagetown and then bought a house up the street. It took me 3 minutes by bike to get to my hair appointments. I just wrote to ask if I could be on the list for when she came back to work, and she said she's closing the salon, at least until there's a vaccine. I will miss them both a great deal. And I will be hairy for some time, until I find someone else.
At day's end, the big treat was to welcome Monique and Cathy for rosé at the bottom of my garden. It's cool and shady back there, and quiet, and they told me it's the most magical place in all Toronto. The cardinal even dropped in for a bit.
Wish I could end on a cheery note. Hmmm. Nope, I got nothin'. Sorry.
Oh yes, there is something cheery, for me at least - I'm not sick. Anna bought me a thermometer, and I'm fine. A bit of a summer cold. Maybe I'll live till my 70th birthday, which is coming right up. Impossible as that is to believe.
https://www.instagram.com/p/CAYrCp5pDxJ/
It was unbelievably hot today, and I think of parents in apartments with children - no splash pads are open, no pools, no playgrounds. Brutal. Cathy, who's a nurse, said she thinks the mental health issues we'll have to deal with later will be as devastating as the physical effects of the virus.
I will not turn on my A.C. in May, that's ridiculous, and the fan stored in the basement now does not work. So it was just sitting around being hot for much of the day. I did make a suicidal run to get a few groceries - line up, mask on, rush about, get out! - and for the first time in months to Shoppers, to mail my writing books to Lani who is giving them to three would-be writers of her acquaintance. That's a friend for you.
Importantly, Anna came with her friend and did more heroic clearing out downstairs. It's now starting to resemble a habitable apartment. A lot of stuff needs to be trucked out, maybe on the weekend, and then it can be cleaned and the repairs can begin. My shoulders lift a bit more.
But there was a big disappointment about the manuscript today - a vague hope I'd had that in the end was for naught. Nothing new there.
And another disappointment from my longtime hairdresser Ingrid. Ingrid and I have been through a lot together over decades; I was thrilled when she and her new partner moved their business to Cabbagetown and then bought a house up the street. It took me 3 minutes by bike to get to my hair appointments. I just wrote to ask if I could be on the list for when she came back to work, and she said she's closing the salon, at least until there's a vaccine. I will miss them both a great deal. And I will be hairy for some time, until I find someone else.
At day's end, the big treat was to welcome Monique and Cathy for rosé at the bottom of my garden. It's cool and shady back there, and quiet, and they told me it's the most magical place in all Toronto. The cardinal even dropped in for a bit.
Wish I could end on a cheery note. Hmmm. Nope, I got nothin'. Sorry.
Oh yes, there is something cheery, for me at least - I'm not sick. Anna bought me a thermometer, and I'm fine. A bit of a summer cold. Maybe I'll live till my 70th birthday, which is coming right up. Impossible as that is to believe.
May 25, 2020
Good People: Mark Sakimoto
Oh joy! My friend Marisha came today; she has cleaned my house and kept me sane for at least 15 years but has not been here since February. She was due to come in March when ... well, you know. I've managed to keep the dustballs from taking over, but barely, and today, there she was, six feet away and smiling. Her family is well. Her husband the truck driver is not driving long distances so is home more; she groaned, and we laughed.
At the same time, a miracle - my daughter appeared with her old friend who used to live with her family in my basement apartment, and they started to sort and clean. When they left, 3 hours later, there was a giant pile of toys and clothes in front of the house which we hope people will cart away; you can't donate to charities right now, they're all closed, but people around here do a good job of carting. There's a ton more to be done so they're back tomorrow, but the process has at last, at very long last, begun. See the writer's shoulders loosen slightly. My girl really came through.
So I cleaned with Marisha and kept an eye on downstairs, and then I started the "Marketing for creatives" course that I signed up for through the CNFC website. It says you should really consider keeping a blog. As they say on The Simpsons: Okeley dokeley.
Oh, and I'm better but not 100%. It must be a summer cold, a little bug with a bit of throat and body ache, but of course these days, any twinge leads to sheer terror. OMG THIS IS IT I'M DEAD.
Not. Thank you very much.
Today, extremely hot, and tomorrow, 31 degrees. It's July, and I'm not dead. Yet.
Yesterday I watched more episodes of Good People on CBC Gem, with the handsome talented empathetic Mark Sakimoto exploring our country's great problems and highlighting possible solutions. In my vivid dream last night, I was backstage at a concert with a man I really liked, and it was not - gasp! - Paul McCartney. I think it was Mark Sakimoto. Now going to watch more episodes. We'll see what tonight's dreams bring.
At the same time, a miracle - my daughter appeared with her old friend who used to live with her family in my basement apartment, and they started to sort and clean. When they left, 3 hours later, there was a giant pile of toys and clothes in front of the house which we hope people will cart away; you can't donate to charities right now, they're all closed, but people around here do a good job of carting. There's a ton more to be done so they're back tomorrow, but the process has at last, at very long last, begun. See the writer's shoulders loosen slightly. My girl really came through.
So I cleaned with Marisha and kept an eye on downstairs, and then I started the "Marketing for creatives" course that I signed up for through the CNFC website. It says you should really consider keeping a blog. As they say on The Simpsons: Okeley dokeley.
Oh, and I'm better but not 100%. It must be a summer cold, a little bug with a bit of throat and body ache, but of course these days, any twinge leads to sheer terror. OMG THIS IS IT I'M DEAD.
Not. Thank you very much.
Today, extremely hot, and tomorrow, 31 degrees. It's July, and I'm not dead. Yet.
Yesterday I watched more episodes of Good People on CBC Gem, with the handsome talented empathetic Mark Sakimoto exploring our country's great problems and highlighting possible solutions. In my vivid dream last night, I was backstage at a concert with a man I really liked, and it was not - gasp! - Paul McCartney. I think it was Mark Sakimoto. Now going to watch more episodes. We'll see what tonight's dreams bring.
May 24, 2020
hot hot hot
Hard to believe yet not, because we are Canadian: it is now high summer, nearly 30 degrees and sweltering, sweat dripping. I always joke that there's winter, and then spring happens on Tuesday between 2 and 5, and then it's summer. Not true this year, it was a long confusing spring, some heat, then cold, then hail and even a sprinkling of snow, then heat. And now - HEAT. The great wardrobe shift has begun - wool to the basement, shorts and tank tops out.
I have a sore throat. Usually that's something I'd ignore, but now, not. So I am sticking close to home. John came over to do some repairs and I kept far away and made him wear gloves. Otherwise, no one is coming close to me. Yesterday Jannette came to help me garden, but she always wears a mask. We planted like crazy, and my body hurt afterwards, but the veggies are mostly in. There's more to do, but then there's always more to do.
Right now, sore throat or not: rosé. Because nothing says summer like a chilled glass of rosé, on the deck, under the umbrella. And since I'm not feeling great, I will drink it alone.
A lovely animated essay about playing the piano at a late age - I identify completely.
https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2020/05/20/magazine/quarantine-covid-learning-piano.html?action=click&module=Editors%20Picks&pgtype=Homepage
I have a sore throat. Usually that's something I'd ignore, but now, not. So I am sticking close to home. John came over to do some repairs and I kept far away and made him wear gloves. Otherwise, no one is coming close to me. Yesterday Jannette came to help me garden, but she always wears a mask. We planted like crazy, and my body hurt afterwards, but the veggies are mostly in. There's more to do, but then there's always more to do.
Right now, sore throat or not: rosé. Because nothing says summer like a chilled glass of rosé, on the deck, under the umbrella. And since I'm not feeling great, I will drink it alone.
A lovely animated essay about playing the piano at a late age - I identify completely.
https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2020/05/20/magazine/quarantine-covid-learning-piano.html?action=click&module=Editors%20Picks&pgtype=Homepage
TRUE TO LIFE: Chapter 21, Claim your truth
21
Claim your truth_
I once wrote an essay about visiting my grandparents in their dark, stuffy apartment in New York. My father—allowed to read the piece late in the process—protested. “There was nothing dark and stuffy about that apartment!” he said. “In comparison with the others, it was flooded with sunlight.” My childhood home in Halifax with its huge windows was the opposite of my grandparents’ flat on West 79th with its dark shroud of curtains. But my dad grew up in places with fewer windows and heavier curtains.It’s your story, so you get to tell it your way. If my father had written the story, the apartment would have been bright.I also believe you can, within sensible limits, change slightly or “recreate” the truth in order to fashion a better tale. Two friends were with me when a fire broke out in my home, but in writing the story, I didn’t need two bystanders to bring the drama to life, so I left one out. Her absence does not change the fundamental truth of the story: There was a fire and no one was hurt. Without an extra person, it’s a cleaner, clearer tale. But that’s as far as I would go with changes.Beware of the pitfalls of fudging the facts. In 2006 James Frey’s forced admission that his memoir A Million Little Pieces contained blatant exaggerations caused a huge controversy about the issue of truth in creative non-fiction. Frey originally wrote his book as fiction but was persuaded by his editors to call it a memoir. If they’d printed a brief disclaimer—“Parts of this story have been embellished for effect”—Oprah and a million readers would not have felt cheated.There is no universal truth. Ask your siblings to describe a dinnertime or holiday ritual from your childhood; their memories and yours will be so different, you could have come from different families. In fact, you did. (See Mary’s story in Step 19.) If they read your memoirs, they might be outraged. “It wasn’t like that at all!” they might say. No, it wasn’t, for them. But you are the one writing the story; your experiences and insights are unique. And you might also be reimagining the truth slightly to fashion a better story.But only slightly. Beware of veering into fiction, a.k.a. making it all up, a.k.a. lying. And tell your siblings to write their own version.After calling for honesty, I hope I don’t bewilder you when I say writers can be too honest. I don’t remember exactly, but I think my mother worked in a circus when I was young may be truthful, but it’s also opaque. If you can’t see the picture clearly, how will I? Do not tell me what you don’t remember (unless the whole point of the story is that you don’t remember). Contact someone who does know or do other kinds of research.Without a way to ascertain something, you can make it up in the interests of a good story, but only to a certain point: only if it does not change the fundamental truth of your tale. If you have a general but not a specific memory of what you’re writing, like dialogue between your parents when you were small, make it up. Those memories are buried in there somewhere. I’ll bet what you write will be pretty close to what was actually said.Be aware that this is controversial: Non-fiction writers who feel we should stay as close as possible to the strict letter of the truth will be outraged. I preach there are all kinds of truth, your truth and somebody else’s. But behind all of them there is only one truth and that is that there’s no truth.flannery o’connor
I have been corrected on some points, mostly of chronology. I’ve allowed some of these points to stand, because this is a book of memory, and memory has its own story to tell.tobias wolff
Si non e vero, e ben trovato. (Even if it’s not true, it’s a good story.)verdi
Claim your truth_
I once wrote an essay about visiting my grandparents in their dark, stuffy apartment in New York. My father—allowed to read the piece late in the process—protested. “There was nothing dark and stuffy about that apartment!” he said. “In comparison with the others, it was flooded with sunlight.” My childhood home in Halifax with its huge windows was the opposite of my grandparents’ flat on West 79th with its dark shroud of curtains. But my dad grew up in places with fewer windows and heavier curtains.It’s your story, so you get to tell it your way. If my father had written the story, the apartment would have been bright.I also believe you can, within sensible limits, change slightly or “recreate” the truth in order to fashion a better tale. Two friends were with me when a fire broke out in my home, but in writing the story, I didn’t need two bystanders to bring the drama to life, so I left one out. Her absence does not change the fundamental truth of the story: There was a fire and no one was hurt. Without an extra person, it’s a cleaner, clearer tale. But that’s as far as I would go with changes.Beware of the pitfalls of fudging the facts. In 2006 James Frey’s forced admission that his memoir A Million Little Pieces contained blatant exaggerations caused a huge controversy about the issue of truth in creative non-fiction. Frey originally wrote his book as fiction but was persuaded by his editors to call it a memoir. If they’d printed a brief disclaimer—“Parts of this story have been embellished for effect”—Oprah and a million readers would not have felt cheated.There is no universal truth. Ask your siblings to describe a dinnertime or holiday ritual from your childhood; their memories and yours will be so different, you could have come from different families. In fact, you did. (See Mary’s story in Step 19.) If they read your memoirs, they might be outraged. “It wasn’t like that at all!” they might say. No, it wasn’t, for them. But you are the one writing the story; your experiences and insights are unique. And you might also be reimagining the truth slightly to fashion a better story.But only slightly. Beware of veering into fiction, a.k.a. making it all up, a.k.a. lying. And tell your siblings to write their own version.After calling for honesty, I hope I don’t bewilder you when I say writers can be too honest. I don’t remember exactly, but I think my mother worked in a circus when I was young may be truthful, but it’s also opaque. If you can’t see the picture clearly, how will I? Do not tell me what you don’t remember (unless the whole point of the story is that you don’t remember). Contact someone who does know or do other kinds of research.Without a way to ascertain something, you can make it up in the interests of a good story, but only to a certain point: only if it does not change the fundamental truth of your tale. If you have a general but not a specific memory of what you’re writing, like dialogue between your parents when you were small, make it up. Those memories are buried in there somewhere. I’ll bet what you write will be pretty close to what was actually said.Be aware that this is controversial: Non-fiction writers who feel we should stay as close as possible to the strict letter of the truth will be outraged. I preach there are all kinds of truth, your truth and somebody else’s. But behind all of them there is only one truth and that is that there’s no truth.flannery o’connor
I have been corrected on some points, mostly of chronology. I’ve allowed some of these points to stand, because this is a book of memory, and memory has its own story to tell.tobias wolff
Si non e vero, e ben trovato. (Even if it’s not true, it’s a good story.)verdi
May 23, 2020
Sam Heffer on CBC, Michael Moore, Roz Chast
It is the most sublime day - will be 26 later, but right now sunny, fresh, sweet. Has the air ever been this fragrant, the city so still, the birds so happy? I was awake at 5 and up at 6 again, and at the market by 7. We lined up outside but only for a few minutes and all wore masks. The nut lady was back - the best crunchy almonds ever - the Mennonite butchers, the Merchants of Green Coffee, tons of asparagus, leeks, two pots of leafy basil to plant, $3 each. Only my favourite bread guys were not there.
Today I garden in the jungle of green awaiting me outside. Also lilac, lilies of the valley, viburnum, and Wayson's gardenia - the smell!
Last night, Michael Moore on Bill Maher was apocalyptic. DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE HIM! he told us, straight to the camera. "He knows his base. He could still win the electoral college. We must mobilize."
So, moving on to the good news: longtime home class writing student and friend Sam Heffer wrote a beautiful piece for our first Zoom class last month, about teaching children online. We gave her our critiques, she rewrote for the next class, and we said, Send it now to Karen Levine at the Sunday Edition. She bought it instantly, and Sam taped it in her basement.
Yesterday, I received this. Hope you give it a listen. It's powerful and moving. Brava, Sam!
Hi Beth,I hope you’ve enjoyed this gorgeous day! So, when Karen emailed me back about my essay early on, she said she wasn’t crazy about the last two sentences, but could live with them. And that’s when I “heard” you asking me, “Sam, what’s this story really about?” Lol. That’s when I added some things - wrote more about grieving, getting outside, and missing the kids; the stuff that makes the piece matter, I think. And if you hadn’t scheduled our first Zoom class, I may not have found time to write this essay at all. So, thank you Beth. I hope you like the final version.xo Sam https://www.cbc.ca/radio/thesundayedition/stream-announce-assign-post-comment-sam-heffer-learns-to-teach-from-a-distance-1.5575637
I like it very much, Sam.
The last word to Roz Chast:
Today I garden in the jungle of green awaiting me outside. Also lilac, lilies of the valley, viburnum, and Wayson's gardenia - the smell!
Last night, Michael Moore on Bill Maher was apocalyptic. DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE HIM! he told us, straight to the camera. "He knows his base. He could still win the electoral college. We must mobilize."
So, moving on to the good news: longtime home class writing student and friend Sam Heffer wrote a beautiful piece for our first Zoom class last month, about teaching children online. We gave her our critiques, she rewrote for the next class, and we said, Send it now to Karen Levine at the Sunday Edition. She bought it instantly, and Sam taped it in her basement.
Yesterday, I received this. Hope you give it a listen. It's powerful and moving. Brava, Sam!
Hi Beth,I hope you’ve enjoyed this gorgeous day! So, when Karen emailed me back about my essay early on, she said she wasn’t crazy about the last two sentences, but could live with them. And that’s when I “heard” you asking me, “Sam, what’s this story really about?” Lol. That’s when I added some things - wrote more about grieving, getting outside, and missing the kids; the stuff that makes the piece matter, I think. And if you hadn’t scheduled our first Zoom class, I may not have found time to write this essay at all. So, thank you Beth. I hope you like the final version.xo Sam https://www.cbc.ca/radio/thesundayedition/stream-announce-assign-post-comment-sam-heffer-learns-to-teach-from-a-distance-1.5575637
I like it very much, Sam.
The last word to Roz Chast:
May 22, 2020
26 degrees and all's well. No, Joe Biden is not a racist.
Long silence - three whole days! It's 26 degrees and glorious in Toronto right now; you can see and hear the plants grow. Yesterday, Sam and my toothless and very strong helper Bill moved all the big plants - giant oleander, hefty jasmine, gardenia - that wintered indoors out to the deck; I'd already moved the small ones. Flourish, my friends, and thank you for providing me with much-needed green through the long winter.
So - a lot going on, and I cannot report on it yet. You'll just have to wait, as I do, for Monday or Tuesday. In the meantime, things downstairs will also start to move around then. The young tenant just wrote to say they'd be there soon to continue clearing out, and he also apologized for the hole in the bedroom wall, which I have not even noticed yet.
The important event was Eli's 8th birthday yesterday. I took my life in my hands many times. John my handyman friend drove me over; I asked if he was riddled with disease and he said no, I should sit in the front seat with him. While I was there, he COUGHED. Do not cough!! I said. As soon as I got to Anna's, I asked for hot tea, because I was told if you suspect you've been near the virus, drink something hot and it will be washed from your throat to your stomach. That's what I heard. So I did.
Anna had only a few kids there yesterday, not the usual 19 or 20, so it was manageable and lovely; the mothers, Anna's old friends, were there, Sam arrived, the boys played basketball with a very tall man, they splashed in the wading pool, there were screams of laughter, and there was cake.
Sam and I Ubered back - nobody wearing a mask, yikes!; he spent the evening here cooking for me as always, and then we watched much of Season 2 of Ricky Gervais's After Life which is good but annoying, because his character is such a sad sack you want to shake him. And there are scenes with a psychiatrist which are 100% grotesque; this man would be disbarred or whatever they do to shrinks in any jurisdiction, so his portrayal is offensive. However, there are the usual fabulous British character actors.
I heard an interview on As It Happens with Rev. Rob Shenk, one of the anti-abortion zealots who was part of the team that manipulated and paid "Jane Roe" - Norma McCorvey - of the famous case Roe v Wade, to say she regretted her abortion and was now anti-abortion. She was paid! There's a new documentary. The reverend now regrets what he did and said. "The decisions around having a baby or not are deeply personal, painful, and enormously complex," he said. "A woman needs to make that decision as best she can; I can't impose it on her because I will never sit in her place." Imagine! People can change.
On the other hand, I am reading an article in the New Yorker on Mitch McConnell, and each time I finish another few paragraphs I want to go take a shower: a portrait of pure evil, a man without even a shadow of conscience or ethics or basic decency, interested only in power and money. A hideous human being.
Today, checking in - a long Skype with Lynn in France, which is still more strictly locked down than we are, and a Zoom with Judy in Vancouver. Yesterday, a Zoom board meeting for CNFC, and Wednesday, a Zoom movement class with Jane.
My son just texted, "Joe Biden just fucked up so bad." I do not want to hear this on such a beautiful day.
So - a lot going on, and I cannot report on it yet. You'll just have to wait, as I do, for Monday or Tuesday. In the meantime, things downstairs will also start to move around then. The young tenant just wrote to say they'd be there soon to continue clearing out, and he also apologized for the hole in the bedroom wall, which I have not even noticed yet.
The important event was Eli's 8th birthday yesterday. I took my life in my hands many times. John my handyman friend drove me over; I asked if he was riddled with disease and he said no, I should sit in the front seat with him. While I was there, he COUGHED. Do not cough!! I said. As soon as I got to Anna's, I asked for hot tea, because I was told if you suspect you've been near the virus, drink something hot and it will be washed from your throat to your stomach. That's what I heard. So I did.
Anna had only a few kids there yesterday, not the usual 19 or 20, so it was manageable and lovely; the mothers, Anna's old friends, were there, Sam arrived, the boys played basketball with a very tall man, they splashed in the wading pool, there were screams of laughter, and there was cake.
Sam and I Ubered back - nobody wearing a mask, yikes!; he spent the evening here cooking for me as always, and then we watched much of Season 2 of Ricky Gervais's After Life which is good but annoying, because his character is such a sad sack you want to shake him. And there are scenes with a psychiatrist which are 100% grotesque; this man would be disbarred or whatever they do to shrinks in any jurisdiction, so his portrayal is offensive. However, there are the usual fabulous British character actors.
I heard an interview on As It Happens with Rev. Rob Shenk, one of the anti-abortion zealots who was part of the team that manipulated and paid "Jane Roe" - Norma McCorvey - of the famous case Roe v Wade, to say she regretted her abortion and was now anti-abortion. She was paid! There's a new documentary. The reverend now regrets what he did and said. "The decisions around having a baby or not are deeply personal, painful, and enormously complex," he said. "A woman needs to make that decision as best she can; I can't impose it on her because I will never sit in her place." Imagine! People can change.
On the other hand, I am reading an article in the New Yorker on Mitch McConnell, and each time I finish another few paragraphs I want to go take a shower: a portrait of pure evil, a man without even a shadow of conscience or ethics or basic decency, interested only in power and money. A hideous human being.
Today, checking in - a long Skype with Lynn in France, which is still more strictly locked down than we are, and a Zoom with Judy in Vancouver. Yesterday, a Zoom board meeting for CNFC, and Wednesday, a Zoom movement class with Jane.
My son just texted, "Joe Biden just fucked up so bad." I do not want to hear this on such a beautiful day.
May 19, 2020
way better, thank you very much
Well, it's true what they say: what a difference a day makes. I woke as usual at 5.30 a.m., but instead of getting up way too early, I stayed put and eventually drifted off for another hour, was not waterlogged by too little sleep all day.
The sun was shining - that alone was enough to help the day take off.
And there was an email in my inbox about the manuscript - the publisher, Iguana Press, wants to move on it and quickly. So suddenly, after months - well, more than a year, really - of either nothing or NO, there was talk about the title, the subtitle, the cover, the pictures. Lots to decide, but it is moving through the birth canal at last. Thanks to the gods. Let the pushing begin.
Downstairs, they were supposed to come move out more today but did not appear or get in touch. That's nothing new. The clearing will be endless. But the family member and I are emailing again.
Had a coaching/editing client come over for a distanced meeting on the deck - a student ten years ago, a beautiful, vibrant woman now back for more punishment. And another friend wrote asking for my editorial services. Since I've lost teaching and rental income, coaching and editing is vital work for me. And of course, soon, there will be a fortune to make with my book. I've registered for an online course called "Marketing for Creatives"... A fortune, I tell you!
LOL. Onward.
Had a Zoom piano lesson at 2 which was mostly chatting about life because I haven't had much time or inclination to practice. But Peter is wonderfully kind and supportive. And then wine with Monique at 5 and banging the tambourine at 7.30. Chicken sandwich for lunch and roast chicken with veg for dinner. And thou. Another busy day.
Sometimes I feel simply insane with the limitations of this new life. WHY AM I STUCK IN HERE AND WHEN CAN I GET OUT? WHERE IS EVERYONE? And sometimes I marvel at how well we've all adapted to the new normal, the masks and hand sanitizer and constant hand washing, the steering far around each other on the sidewalk, the lack of touch and face to face contact, the underlying paranoia and concern about loved ones and the world. While, as we have for over three years, we watch with horror and disgust what is happening in the country to the south. Sometimes - a report on the Rohingya - I have to turn off the news, I cannot bear to listen. I know, that does not help.
All I can do, we can do, is to give what we can, to be kind, to care for each other. To nurture the green. And for me right now, yes, to learn some marketing for creatives and get my book into the world.
Sure. Just what the world needs. Another book.
I'm going to ask my body nicely to give 5.30 a.m. a miss tomorrow morning. See if that works.
The sun was shining - that alone was enough to help the day take off.
And there was an email in my inbox about the manuscript - the publisher, Iguana Press, wants to move on it and quickly. So suddenly, after months - well, more than a year, really - of either nothing or NO, there was talk about the title, the subtitle, the cover, the pictures. Lots to decide, but it is moving through the birth canal at last. Thanks to the gods. Let the pushing begin.
Downstairs, they were supposed to come move out more today but did not appear or get in touch. That's nothing new. The clearing will be endless. But the family member and I are emailing again.
Had a coaching/editing client come over for a distanced meeting on the deck - a student ten years ago, a beautiful, vibrant woman now back for more punishment. And another friend wrote asking for my editorial services. Since I've lost teaching and rental income, coaching and editing is vital work for me. And of course, soon, there will be a fortune to make with my book. I've registered for an online course called "Marketing for Creatives"... A fortune, I tell you!
LOL. Onward.
Had a Zoom piano lesson at 2 which was mostly chatting about life because I haven't had much time or inclination to practice. But Peter is wonderfully kind and supportive. And then wine with Monique at 5 and banging the tambourine at 7.30. Chicken sandwich for lunch and roast chicken with veg for dinner. And thou. Another busy day.
Sometimes I feel simply insane with the limitations of this new life. WHY AM I STUCK IN HERE AND WHEN CAN I GET OUT? WHERE IS EVERYONE? And sometimes I marvel at how well we've all adapted to the new normal, the masks and hand sanitizer and constant hand washing, the steering far around each other on the sidewalk, the lack of touch and face to face contact, the underlying paranoia and concern about loved ones and the world. While, as we have for over three years, we watch with horror and disgust what is happening in the country to the south. Sometimes - a report on the Rohingya - I have to turn off the news, I cannot bear to listen. I know, that does not help.
All I can do, we can do, is to give what we can, to be kind, to care for each other. To nurture the green. And for me right now, yes, to learn some marketing for creatives and get my book into the world.
Sure. Just what the world needs. Another book.
I'm going to ask my body nicely to give 5.30 a.m. a miss tomorrow morning. See if that works.
May 18, 2020
sad today
Today is the first day since this crisis started that our new solitary, silent life has weighed me down. I'm usually a resilient, cheerful person, but today, not so much. It may have to do with waking at 5.30 and getting up at 6.30, having one nap at 8 and another at noon and eating at miscellaneous times. It's a heavy grey day, not actually raining but no sun - damp cool heavy grey. I just looked at the clock and couldn't believe it's still only 2.30. It feels like the end of a loooong day.
But there's also, believe it or not, still stress with the tenant situation. They have moved out but their many many possessions have not. Yesterday there was light; the father of one appeared on the scene and if there ever was a knight in shining etc., it was this man, who filled his truck with just some of the mountain of stuff that is still crammed in downstairs. I have not elaborated and cannot, but what was a newly painted and furnished apartment in no way resembles what it did a year ago. The move may take another week, the clean up and repair and replacement of damaged and broken things much longer than that. And through all this, a member of my family insists that I was wrong to ask these people to find a safer, healthier, more suitable place to live. We're not speaking at the moment.
So my heart is sore today, and my head feels like it's stuffed with cotton balls, and maybe it's time for another meal.
Wait, though. This morning I did a Zoom exercise class with Carole, my Y teacher every Wednesday for the last 30 years. What a treat to see her face - and also that when she and her very fit friends were on the floor, out of camera range, doing many pushups, I was in the child pose thinking about life. Yesterday, in the middle of more basement sturm and drang, I retreated to my bedroom and did Jane Ellison's movement class, which felt like a literal lifesaver; thank God for her calm voice and face. Then went for a walk with Ruth, who was celebrating her 81st birthday with many Zoom celebrations, including one with former colleagues wearing party hats. "It's been one of the best!" she said. Had the usual drink with Monique, who is an anchor. 60 Minutes was all Covid. Finding the Midwife was moving and marvellous, as always, though it too made me sad - it's over for the season. All those women, and Fred, feel like friends.
Saturday I walked to Mark the butcher's, picked up the chicken I'd ordered online, and cooked a fragrant roast chicken and veg dinner. Food in the fridge for days.
Friends, faces through the screen, texts on the little phone, matter so very much. And the green outside, every possible shade of green, beyond beautiful. I was up very early yesterday too, went to the garden store on the corner, have a tray of veg ready to plant soon. Got the plants that wintered over upstairs down and out and spent more than an hour cleaning hated scale off the leaves and branches of the gardenia Wayson gave me years ago, that is now blooming with the sweetest scent. When it blooms, it always make me think he is here, keeping me company, cheering me up. And then I weep, because he is not.
Spring is glorious, and my heart will lift again. Just not right now.
Here's a little film to bring you joy:
https://vimeo.com/264137664?ref=em-share&fbclid=IwAR2yOzyoznfEX0esiEOqdiOLUdrbwO8JyYelsbYhlXv4AIi8u99XvF-Jkac
But there's also, believe it or not, still stress with the tenant situation. They have moved out but their many many possessions have not. Yesterday there was light; the father of one appeared on the scene and if there ever was a knight in shining etc., it was this man, who filled his truck with just some of the mountain of stuff that is still crammed in downstairs. I have not elaborated and cannot, but what was a newly painted and furnished apartment in no way resembles what it did a year ago. The move may take another week, the clean up and repair and replacement of damaged and broken things much longer than that. And through all this, a member of my family insists that I was wrong to ask these people to find a safer, healthier, more suitable place to live. We're not speaking at the moment.
So my heart is sore today, and my head feels like it's stuffed with cotton balls, and maybe it's time for another meal.
Wait, though. This morning I did a Zoom exercise class with Carole, my Y teacher every Wednesday for the last 30 years. What a treat to see her face - and also that when she and her very fit friends were on the floor, out of camera range, doing many pushups, I was in the child pose thinking about life. Yesterday, in the middle of more basement sturm and drang, I retreated to my bedroom and did Jane Ellison's movement class, which felt like a literal lifesaver; thank God for her calm voice and face. Then went for a walk with Ruth, who was celebrating her 81st birthday with many Zoom celebrations, including one with former colleagues wearing party hats. "It's been one of the best!" she said. Had the usual drink with Monique, who is an anchor. 60 Minutes was all Covid. Finding the Midwife was moving and marvellous, as always, though it too made me sad - it's over for the season. All those women, and Fred, feel like friends.
Saturday I walked to Mark the butcher's, picked up the chicken I'd ordered online, and cooked a fragrant roast chicken and veg dinner. Food in the fridge for days.
Friends, faces through the screen, texts on the little phone, matter so very much. And the green outside, every possible shade of green, beyond beautiful. I was up very early yesterday too, went to the garden store on the corner, have a tray of veg ready to plant soon. Got the plants that wintered over upstairs down and out and spent more than an hour cleaning hated scale off the leaves and branches of the gardenia Wayson gave me years ago, that is now blooming with the sweetest scent. When it blooms, it always make me think he is here, keeping me company, cheering me up. And then I weep, because he is not.
Spring is glorious, and my heart will lift again. Just not right now.
Here's a little film to bring you joy:
https://vimeo.com/264137664?ref=em-share&fbclid=IwAR2yOzyoznfEX0esiEOqdiOLUdrbwO8JyYelsbYhlXv4AIi8u99XvF-Jkac
May 16, 2020
soupe au pistou
BTW, I forgot to do a bit of boasting about my students earlier this week: Margaret Lynch, who'd never done any creative writing before taking my class, went on to do an MFA in Nonfiction at King's and is now on the short list for the top prize for that year's grads. Brava, Margaret, who has an incredible story to tell. Sam Stanley-Paul wrote a story for class about being an online teacher in the pandemic. After our comments, she rewrote and read it again, and we urged her to send it to CBC's Karen Levine who bought it. Sam taped it in her basement; it will air on The Sunday Edition on May 24. (She's read an essay on the program before, as have many of my students.) Ruth complained that she had nothing to say and then wrote a moving piece for class Thursday about her life in isolation; she rewrote and sent to me for editing, and now it has gone out to a newspaper.
Proud of you all! And of everyone else - all ten who came to class Thursday and the five who read, who have not been stopped by the strange state of the world.
It's a glorious sunny Saturday morning of a long weekend, not that that means anything to most of us. I can see streams of people heading to the garden centre on the corner. Several readers have asked about my tenant issue; happy to report that though it's far from over, it is slowly resolving, thanks for asking. I am no longer losing weight thanks to stress, I am now gaining weight thanks to cheese.
Spent time in the night trying to figure out where the time goes, adding up the (too many) hours on social media, blogging, and email; food; home, garden, and self maintenance; walking or exercise classes; aperitif with Monique (an hour a day); television; teaching and editing; reading newspapers, the New Yorker, and books; and - oh yes - writing. It still didn't add up to the 14 or 15 hours a day I'm awake. Where does the time go? we ask plaintively. And the answer is, No @$#@ idea.
Dear friends Cathy Smalley and Christopher Banks (whom I met when I was a tour guide at the National Art Centre in 1969, the summer it opened), sequestered in Nova Scotia, wrote a few days ago attaching a recipe I gave them years ago. "As you can see by the amount of spillage on every page, this recipe is well used." I'd completely forgotten it but will give it a try soon. Hello to Nova Scotia. We were supposed to be there this summer but now - who knows? Hope to see you soon. Sending love. (PS. I demand billing.)
(Click to enlarge.)
Proud of you all! And of everyone else - all ten who came to class Thursday and the five who read, who have not been stopped by the strange state of the world.
It's a glorious sunny Saturday morning of a long weekend, not that that means anything to most of us. I can see streams of people heading to the garden centre on the corner. Several readers have asked about my tenant issue; happy to report that though it's far from over, it is slowly resolving, thanks for asking. I am no longer losing weight thanks to stress, I am now gaining weight thanks to cheese.
Spent time in the night trying to figure out where the time goes, adding up the (too many) hours on social media, blogging, and email; food; home, garden, and self maintenance; walking or exercise classes; aperitif with Monique (an hour a day); television; teaching and editing; reading newspapers, the New Yorker, and books; and - oh yes - writing. It still didn't add up to the 14 or 15 hours a day I'm awake. Where does the time go? we ask plaintively. And the answer is, No @$#@ idea.
Dear friends Cathy Smalley and Christopher Banks (whom I met when I was a tour guide at the National Art Centre in 1969, the summer it opened), sequestered in Nova Scotia, wrote a few days ago attaching a recipe I gave them years ago. "As you can see by the amount of spillage on every page, this recipe is well used." I'd completely forgotten it but will give it a try soon. Hello to Nova Scotia. We were supposed to be there this summer but now - who knows? Hope to see you soon. Sending love. (PS. I demand billing.)
(Click to enlarge.)
May 14, 2020
Montfort cheese, Zoom, and the Moth
Sometimes it's hard not to feel overwhelmed by our current circumstances. Because of the cruelty of the asymptomatic time lag - we can be infected with the virus for days before manifesting symptoms - we profoundly social animals now need to look on everyone we meet as possible carriers of death.
Horrendous. But we are making our way through nonetheless, some of us with greater openness than others. It's hard not to cower at home, avoiding all contact, but at the same time, we have to live our lives. So - the uneasy balance between calculated risk and the safety of isolation.
Last night, a Zoom version of The Moth, the foremost storytelling event in the States and perhaps the world. 3000 people bought tickets for last night, including moi. I have to say - and yes, I'm a tiny bit prejudiced - our So True event is much better. Their stories are good, yes, though certainly no better than ours, not in the slightest. But they are told, not read, meaning that sometimes the speakers flounder for the next word. The host was annoying, storytelling on and on herself; she has often hosted, and it felt as if she'd told all her good stories and was scraping the barrel for these ones. And the boring music - I've never understood why they feel the need for music. We're there for stories.
So True for the win!
Today, a walkabout with Ruth, who stood under a magnificent magnolia and pointed out, when she saw the picture, that she is leaning one way and the tree the other. (click to enlarge)
My Mother's Day present from Anna arrived - a box of superb gourmet cheeses from the Montfort Dairy in Stratford. Oh she knows me well, my girl.
A calculated risk trip to the LCBO for more wine before aperitif with Monique and Cathy, to share my cheese treasure with them. It was raining and Monique did not want to come inside, so we sat on the deck under umbrellas. I drank tea, because I was teaching later.
Cathy's dog Finn sheltered inside.
Class tonight - it's miraculous that one by one, just as they walk in the door here, my student friends enter the Zoom space. We chat, just as we do here, and then we start reading, commenting, critiquing. It's rich and warm and magical and means the world to me and I hope to them. Something is continuing in its own way, bringing us together despite the fear, the uncertainty and chaos,
Onward, my friends.
Horrendous. But we are making our way through nonetheless, some of us with greater openness than others. It's hard not to cower at home, avoiding all contact, but at the same time, we have to live our lives. So - the uneasy balance between calculated risk and the safety of isolation.
Last night, a Zoom version of The Moth, the foremost storytelling event in the States and perhaps the world. 3000 people bought tickets for last night, including moi. I have to say - and yes, I'm a tiny bit prejudiced - our So True event is much better. Their stories are good, yes, though certainly no better than ours, not in the slightest. But they are told, not read, meaning that sometimes the speakers flounder for the next word. The host was annoying, storytelling on and on herself; she has often hosted, and it felt as if she'd told all her good stories and was scraping the barrel for these ones. And the boring music - I've never understood why they feel the need for music. We're there for stories.
So True for the win!
Today, a walkabout with Ruth, who stood under a magnificent magnolia and pointed out, when she saw the picture, that she is leaning one way and the tree the other. (click to enlarge)
My Mother's Day present from Anna arrived - a box of superb gourmet cheeses from the Montfort Dairy in Stratford. Oh she knows me well, my girl.
A calculated risk trip to the LCBO for more wine before aperitif with Monique and Cathy, to share my cheese treasure with them. It was raining and Monique did not want to come inside, so we sat on the deck under umbrellas. I drank tea, because I was teaching later.
Cathy's dog Finn sheltered inside.
Class tonight - it's miraculous that one by one, just as they walk in the door here, my student friends enter the Zoom space. We chat, just as we do here, and then we start reading, commenting, critiquing. It's rich and warm and magical and means the world to me and I hope to them. Something is continuing in its own way, bringing us together despite the fear, the uncertainty and chaos,Onward, my friends.
