Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 90
December 26, 2019
survived another one
Giving thanks for the breath in my lungs and for so much else, on this mild, gloomy Boxing Day. Anna is feeling better and has opened her presents. I just made lunch - hot turkey sandwiches - for old friend Kathleen, nicknamed Fla, my first roommate when I moved out of home to an apartment in Ottawa at 18. She lives in Montreal, and we see each other rarely.
Then I made turkey soup while listening to CBC 1 play Prokofiev's "Romeo and Juliet," one of my favourite pieces of music, just magnificent - and it was the National Youth Orchestra of Canada too. He builds such tension, such strident power and darkness, and then the Juliet music shines through - how could a forty-something Russian capture the lightness of a young girl so perfectly? That last note - Juliet's high note of hope, held forever - goosebumps.
And now Shostakovich, something sweet, unlike what I know as his music. Thank you, CBC 1.
Last night, after the family left, laden down with gifts and leftovers and Anna's pile of presents, I did more cleaning up and then turned on the Call the Midwife Xmas special, set this time in the Outer Hebrides. This is a show brimming with heart, just beautiful; I adore it.
Wept - not just for the babies, for the loveliness of the show - but for the world, for the fact that somehow, despite the horror, the doom-laden forecasts, we have no choice but to go on. To love one another, celebrate one another, do our best to be open and caring and generous and kind.
Speaking of kind, a student wrote, on Xmas Day: I took your class at Ryerson a couple of years ago and attended your 'writing in the garden' workshop last summer, both experiences I hold close to my heart. Wanted to share with you that a piece I wrote was published in the Globe yesterday. I'm very proud, and wanted to say thank you for teaching me much of what I know about writing a personal essay. "No beautiful sentences" is something I try to remember!
https://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/first-person/article-how-do-i-fill-that-christmas-shaped-hole-when-family-traditions-change/
Now I will walk to the Y to sit in the hot tub and recuperate, and then the real post-Xmas time begins. I have two weeks till teaching begins again, though I do have a talk to prepare for next week. And a fridge stuffed with leftovers and soon, soup. A radio pouring out music. A warm house, a heart full.
Then I made turkey soup while listening to CBC 1 play Prokofiev's "Romeo and Juliet," one of my favourite pieces of music, just magnificent - and it was the National Youth Orchestra of Canada too. He builds such tension, such strident power and darkness, and then the Juliet music shines through - how could a forty-something Russian capture the lightness of a young girl so perfectly? That last note - Juliet's high note of hope, held forever - goosebumps.
And now Shostakovich, something sweet, unlike what I know as his music. Thank you, CBC 1.
Last night, after the family left, laden down with gifts and leftovers and Anna's pile of presents, I did more cleaning up and then turned on the Call the Midwife Xmas special, set this time in the Outer Hebrides. This is a show brimming with heart, just beautiful; I adore it.
Wept - not just for the babies, for the loveliness of the show - but for the world, for the fact that somehow, despite the horror, the doom-laden forecasts, we have no choice but to go on. To love one another, celebrate one another, do our best to be open and caring and generous and kind.Speaking of kind, a student wrote, on Xmas Day: I took your class at Ryerson a couple of years ago and attended your 'writing in the garden' workshop last summer, both experiences I hold close to my heart. Wanted to share with you that a piece I wrote was published in the Globe yesterday. I'm very proud, and wanted to say thank you for teaching me much of what I know about writing a personal essay. "No beautiful sentences" is something I try to remember!
https://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/first-person/article-how-do-i-fill-that-christmas-shaped-hole-when-family-traditions-change/
Now I will walk to the Y to sit in the hot tub and recuperate, and then the real post-Xmas time begins. I have two weeks till teaching begins again, though I do have a talk to prepare for next week. And a fridge stuffed with leftovers and soon, soup. A radio pouring out music. A warm house, a heart full.
December 25, 2019
Christmas 2019 = the flu
The best laid plans etc. Thank heavens we are not a family that cares particularly about creating a perfect scenario at Xmas. Because we're way off track this year. On Monday morning, Ben and Thomas were sick and Anna was coping with Eli, so I came to get him. Luckily I was pretty organized here for presents and food. So we had that day, a sleepover, and all next day together, by the end of which - after several playground visits in the mild air, where he wanted to play tag - Glamma was utterly spent. There was a lovely moment as I was chasing him around the playground, when I looked up to see a woman in a hijab beaming at us, and I beamed back at her.
Anna by then was also not feeling well, but she came across last night to get Eli after the Xmas pageant which he and I attended together. Thank God, again, that I was not producing this year. The holy family dropped out at the last minute, and they recruited a family which had come to see the production; instead they found themselves gamely sitting in the straw with their baby. Perfection.
Everyone gets a gift of a home baked cookie as they leave the barn. On the way home, as Eli munched his treat, I was explaining the myths of Xmas - the baby in the barn, the star, the Wise Men - and he said, "That cookie was really good!" So much for myths. I realized this time that producing the pageant is like corralling cats - so many things go wrong. And yet it's indestructible because so essentially sweet and spiritual. Standing, singing carols surrounded by hundreds of neighbours, small children, the very old, I always weep. Mary, Stephen, and I started this thing 20 years ago. What a blessing. I wrote to Mary today, it will show well on our ledger sheet when we're standing at the Pearly Gates.
Last night, went to Mary's after Anna and Eli left - her yearly party in the loveliest house in Cabbagetown, with the fire blazing and a huge feast and people I've known for 35 years, since our kids were very small, and now we're grandparents.
Eli and I spoke about missing Wayson - our first Christmas in many years without him. The ache of loss.
Today, Anna is really sick and Thomas only a bit better, though Ben has recovered. Sam was on his way here and had to turn around and go back and get the boys. So the boys are here, and Anna and Thomas are at home, probably will not make it over at all, their stack of presents still under the tree. We cancelled the friends with a new baby who were coming for dinner - risky since there's sickness around - so it'll be the four of us. The turkey, sweet potatoes, and stuffing are in the oven, potatoes are mashed, brussels ready to heat up, crackers to pull. We'll watch The Grinch, give them a bath, and then Sam will take them home to their poor parents.
No, just learned Thomas is going to come soon. Hooray. We'll be five.
So - Christmas 2019, another memorable one, perhaps not for the right reasons, but c'est la vie. Lani gave me socks that are patterned with library stamps, Lynn sent from France some sparkling peridot earrings, I've been given TONS of chocolate and a big framed picture of ... the Beatles. The racetrack I bought the boys is set up in the dining room and they've been zipping around. Sam just took them to the playground and Glamma has a moment's peace with J. S. Bach as everything cooks. The kitchen smells divine.
What matters most is health. My beloved friend Patsy has had a devastating diagnosis this year but so far is fine. She always sends a beautiful poem for Xmas, and this year was no exception. It's on the tree. It reads:
each leaf
knows when to
fall
to fly with wind
then drift
to ground
and trusts the Earth
will bring
new leaves
come spring
It made me weep, of course.
From my house to yours, I wish you health, both physical and psychic. May you have a joyful day and a healthy, happy, prosperous 2020. And thank you for sharing my journey through this blog. As Wayson loved to say: Onward.
With love,
Beth
Anna by then was also not feeling well, but she came across last night to get Eli after the Xmas pageant which he and I attended together. Thank God, again, that I was not producing this year. The holy family dropped out at the last minute, and they recruited a family which had come to see the production; instead they found themselves gamely sitting in the straw with their baby. Perfection.
Everyone gets a gift of a home baked cookie as they leave the barn. On the way home, as Eli munched his treat, I was explaining the myths of Xmas - the baby in the barn, the star, the Wise Men - and he said, "That cookie was really good!" So much for myths. I realized this time that producing the pageant is like corralling cats - so many things go wrong. And yet it's indestructible because so essentially sweet and spiritual. Standing, singing carols surrounded by hundreds of neighbours, small children, the very old, I always weep. Mary, Stephen, and I started this thing 20 years ago. What a blessing. I wrote to Mary today, it will show well on our ledger sheet when we're standing at the Pearly Gates.Last night, went to Mary's after Anna and Eli left - her yearly party in the loveliest house in Cabbagetown, with the fire blazing and a huge feast and people I've known for 35 years, since our kids were very small, and now we're grandparents.
Eli and I spoke about missing Wayson - our first Christmas in many years without him. The ache of loss.
Today, Anna is really sick and Thomas only a bit better, though Ben has recovered. Sam was on his way here and had to turn around and go back and get the boys. So the boys are here, and Anna and Thomas are at home, probably will not make it over at all, their stack of presents still under the tree. We cancelled the friends with a new baby who were coming for dinner - risky since there's sickness around - so it'll be the four of us. The turkey, sweet potatoes, and stuffing are in the oven, potatoes are mashed, brussels ready to heat up, crackers to pull. We'll watch The Grinch, give them a bath, and then Sam will take them home to their poor parents.
No, just learned Thomas is going to come soon. Hooray. We'll be five.
So - Christmas 2019, another memorable one, perhaps not for the right reasons, but c'est la vie. Lani gave me socks that are patterned with library stamps, Lynn sent from France some sparkling peridot earrings, I've been given TONS of chocolate and a big framed picture of ... the Beatles. The racetrack I bought the boys is set up in the dining room and they've been zipping around. Sam just took them to the playground and Glamma has a moment's peace with J. S. Bach as everything cooks. The kitchen smells divine.
What matters most is health. My beloved friend Patsy has had a devastating diagnosis this year but so far is fine. She always sends a beautiful poem for Xmas, and this year was no exception. It's on the tree. It reads:
each leaf
knows when to
fall
to fly with wind
then drift
to ground
and trusts the Earth
will bring
new leaves
come spring
It made me weep, of course.From my house to yours, I wish you health, both physical and psychic. May you have a joyful day and a healthy, happy, prosperous 2020. And thank you for sharing my journey through this blog. As Wayson loved to say: Onward.
With love,
Beth
December 21, 2019
it's the winter solstice and all's well
The house up the street. And a Cabbagetown Christmas to you too.What's different this year? It's Dec. 21 and I'm not frantic! And I realize - this year I'm not producing the pageant on Christmas Eve at Riverdale Farm. It was a tiny bit more stress at a stressful time; I was one of the producers for nine years while my children were at home - Sam playing Wise Man #1 for some years and Anna holding up the illuminated star ahead of the carollers. I quit with relief and then came back after a bit when it seemed they could use a producing hand. And now I've left again; they're a capable bunch. I'll attend on Tuesday evening with the audience, including, I hope, my grandsons, and then we'll go to Mary's magnificent house where the fire is burning and a feast awaits; the smoked salmon is the best anywhere.
On Thursday, a gathering with Y friends, the nicest people in the world, people with real jobs - lawyers, financial analysts, civil servants - I'd never have met anywhere else. It was a great get-together at Fran's but small and noisy. Next year, we decided everyone from class should come here for a potluck. It's fun for us to meet each other with our clothes on. A Y joke.
Yesterday, dear friend Nick Rice and his lady love Beth Anne Cole the actress and singer came for dinner. Nick and I appeared in a number of shows together in Vancouver in the seventies. He is still an actor, dashing off to regional playhouses on a regular basis, and working as a supply teacher in T.O. to keep himself afloat. Heroic.
Sent this to Nick today. Never was a truer word said.Another no on the memoir arrived in the mail yesterday. It was however a very nice, almost regretful note that gave me a bit of comfort. Onward.
Tomorrow, lots going on, but today, completely alone, had lots of options, did none of them, barely left the house despite the blessedly sunny day — decorated my $20 Charley Brown tree that's tied to the wall to keep it upright and wrapped presents, using colour comics and advertising flyers from the newspaper - thank you Greta.
It's the winter solstice and Chanukah. Whatever you celebrate, may it be without stress.
December 19, 2019
Beth speaking Jan. 2 at the Yiddish Vinkl
The next meeting will take place on
Thursday January 2nd at 12 Noon At Free Times Cafe, 320 College St.
We invite you to hear Beth Kaplan speak about Jacob Gordin, The Jewish Shakespeare. Beth Kaplan, MFA in creative writing, is the author of three nonfiction books: Finding The Jewish Shakespeare: The Life and Legacy of Jacob Gordin, the biography of her great-grandfather; All My Loving, a memoir of the sixties; and True to Life, a guide to writing a memoir and the textbook for her courses.She has taught memoir and personal essay writing at Ryerson University for 25 years and for 12 years at U of T as well, where in 2012 she was given the Excellence in Teaching Award. A former actress, Beth produces So True, a curated reading series for her long-term students and herself twice a year at the Black Swan in Toronto. Her website and blog are at bethkaplan.ca.Beth will speak about her journey of many years in search of her great-grandfather’s extraordinary story: his idealistic early life in Russia, his flight to the Lower East Side, the rapid start of his career in the Yiddish Theatre, his worldwide success, and the tragedy of the last years before his untimely death in 1909. And she will speak about her bond with him - the power of his on-going genetic legacy through family members and her own theatrical and literary calling.
Please go to the website do more information yiddishvinkl.com
Cost: $23.00.
Includes buffet lunch (brisket, latkes, blintzes, salads, non alcoholic beverage and dessert); Includes tax, tip, and program.
We are unable to reserve seating. However, it would be appreciated if you RSVP to yiddishvinkl@yahoo.ca so that we can prepare for the appropriate size of the audience.
Please pass this on and keep the first Thursday of the month open.
Spongebob Squarepants
Quick update - the busy season is upon us. It's bitterly cold out there but warming up a bit this weekend, apparently - yesterday, walking to dinner at 6.45 p.m., I wore a down coat under my other winter coat to keep me alive.
Dinner was at former student now dear friend Jason's and his partner Louie, dear men. Louie persuaded me to down a vodka shot, something I've never done, when I arrived, frozen, at their door. And yes, it warmed me up instantly. On to the wine, and much much talk. For the walk home, I was so warmed by friendship and food that I did not feel the cold. A few nights before, another fine dinner, this time with Gretchen; we ate in front of her fireplace. I said, I'll just stay here till May.
The excitement on Tuesday was meeting Anna and her boys for an early dinner and then taking Eli to see Spongebob Squarepants at the Sony Centre. I've never seen the TV show, though of course he had, but had read rave reviews for the musical version. I'm happy to report they were right; it was fantastic, imaginative, funny, with great music by musicians like David Bowie and The Flaming Lips, and an unmistakable anti-Trump message about how when people are frightened, they turn on each other, on those who are different, on science and the media. Cheerful, kind Spongebob saves the day. Truly fun.
And then a sleepover with my older grandson, our bedtime story Alice In Wonderland, a copy given to me by my British grandparents in 1957 when I was 7, the age he is now. Next day he beat me cold at Sorry and later, at the Y, at basketball. How phenomenally lucky I am to have very young people in my life, and very old people too.
Tonight, a social event for the Y runfit class. Always fun to meet each other fully clothed, doesn't happen often. Sunday, two more events. It must be Christmas.
Dinner was at former student now dear friend Jason's and his partner Louie, dear men. Louie persuaded me to down a vodka shot, something I've never done, when I arrived, frozen, at their door. And yes, it warmed me up instantly. On to the wine, and much much talk. For the walk home, I was so warmed by friendship and food that I did not feel the cold. A few nights before, another fine dinner, this time with Gretchen; we ate in front of her fireplace. I said, I'll just stay here till May.
The excitement on Tuesday was meeting Anna and her boys for an early dinner and then taking Eli to see Spongebob Squarepants at the Sony Centre. I've never seen the TV show, though of course he had, but had read rave reviews for the musical version. I'm happy to report they were right; it was fantastic, imaginative, funny, with great music by musicians like David Bowie and The Flaming Lips, and an unmistakable anti-Trump message about how when people are frightened, they turn on each other, on those who are different, on science and the media. Cheerful, kind Spongebob saves the day. Truly fun.
And then a sleepover with my older grandson, our bedtime story Alice In Wonderland, a copy given to me by my British grandparents in 1957 when I was 7, the age he is now. Next day he beat me cold at Sorry and later, at the Y, at basketball. How phenomenally lucky I am to have very young people in my life, and very old people too.
Tonight, a social event for the Y runfit class. Always fun to meet each other fully clothed, doesn't happen often. Sunday, two more events. It must be Christmas.
December 15, 2019
Rubens and "Manon"
I was changing after a class at the Y Friday and said to a friend, "I'm on my way to the AGO to see Rubens - a bunch of corpulent naked women," and she said, "Why go to the AGO? Just look around you!"
LOL.
Two viewings of great classical art this weekend, invited by friends, as both are things I would almost certainly not have been to on my own. Friday afternoon, the early Rubens exhibition at the AGO with Ruth. Have to say - have never been much of a Rubens fan and am still not. He had a marvellous life as a very successful artist whose second wife was 16-years old, but he's not for me. Lovely to sit in the elegant members' lounge, though, for a cappucino and dessert.
Ruth's beautiful essay that she read at So True, about her husband Eric's death and her subsequent widowhood after 57 years of marriage, has been accepted by CBC's the Sunday Edition; she's taping next week, so she came over today for a rehearsal. What an inspiration she is.
Yesterday, in the pouring rain, to the Met on film with Eleanor - one of the great treats of our modern age, sitting in a cinema watching opera singers so close-up, you can see their tonsils. It was Manon by Massenet, and we both concluded it's really not a great opera, in fact, even more ridiculous than most, with event after event completely defying belief. BUT the leads were stupendous. Lisette Oropesa, an American with Cuban parents, was made for the role, and her co-star Michael Fabiano was magnificent also. It was very long, four hours with two intermissions, during the first of which El and I are our picnic lunch. If the singing hadn't been so good, I would have left after the second intermission. But the singing was exceptional. And when we did get out, it was still raining.
In between all this, I've almost finished my binge of season three of "The Crown." Except for the slow and rather dull episode about Philip's mid-life crisis triggered by the American moon landing, I'm finding each episode gripping, powerful, beautifully written and produced. Just a stellar piece of art, all round. Who knew Anne was so feisty and tough? We feel sorry for shy hesitant Charles, for his mother who'd love to work with horses and is trapped in a job she doesn't want, for his bully of a father whose own mother was crazy and neglectful. A profound act of empathy, the writing here.
Was just listening to Eleanor's radio show - haunting interviews about Primo Levi, the brilliant Italian writer and survivor of the Holocaust - when there was a huge crash. A picture fell off the north wall of my dining room, the wall adjoining my northern neighbours, and smashed and with it lots of the Fiestaware inherited from Great-aunt Helen. Ah well.
Today's lesson: ask my neighbours to let me know if they're doing something to their south wall. Also, do not get attached to material things. Done.
LOL.
Two viewings of great classical art this weekend, invited by friends, as both are things I would almost certainly not have been to on my own. Friday afternoon, the early Rubens exhibition at the AGO with Ruth. Have to say - have never been much of a Rubens fan and am still not. He had a marvellous life as a very successful artist whose second wife was 16-years old, but he's not for me. Lovely to sit in the elegant members' lounge, though, for a cappucino and dessert.
Ruth's beautiful essay that she read at So True, about her husband Eric's death and her subsequent widowhood after 57 years of marriage, has been accepted by CBC's the Sunday Edition; she's taping next week, so she came over today for a rehearsal. What an inspiration she is.
Yesterday, in the pouring rain, to the Met on film with Eleanor - one of the great treats of our modern age, sitting in a cinema watching opera singers so close-up, you can see their tonsils. It was Manon by Massenet, and we both concluded it's really not a great opera, in fact, even more ridiculous than most, with event after event completely defying belief. BUT the leads were stupendous. Lisette Oropesa, an American with Cuban parents, was made for the role, and her co-star Michael Fabiano was magnificent also. It was very long, four hours with two intermissions, during the first of which El and I are our picnic lunch. If the singing hadn't been so good, I would have left after the second intermission. But the singing was exceptional. And when we did get out, it was still raining.
In between all this, I've almost finished my binge of season three of "The Crown." Except for the slow and rather dull episode about Philip's mid-life crisis triggered by the American moon landing, I'm finding each episode gripping, powerful, beautifully written and produced. Just a stellar piece of art, all round. Who knew Anne was so feisty and tough? We feel sorry for shy hesitant Charles, for his mother who'd love to work with horses and is trapped in a job she doesn't want, for his bully of a father whose own mother was crazy and neglectful. A profound act of empathy, the writing here.
Was just listening to Eleanor's radio show - haunting interviews about Primo Levi, the brilliant Italian writer and survivor of the Holocaust - when there was a huge crash. A picture fell off the north wall of my dining room, the wall adjoining my northern neighbours, and smashed and with it lots of the Fiestaware inherited from Great-aunt Helen. Ah well.
Today's lesson: ask my neighbours to let me know if they're doing something to their south wall. Also, do not get attached to material things. Done.
December 13, 2019
Knives Out
I am not celebrating the end of the hapless Andrew Scheer. It's much better for our side to have a bumbling retrograde goof than one of the smarter and more dangerous replacements. In the meantime, we mourn for England. "Unbelievably depressing," wrote my friend Penny from Sheffield, "we're a bit of red in a sea of blue. Even Boris Johnson's colleagues don't trust him!"
Yesterday's treat - a movie date with my son, who bought us the tickets and rushed to the Varsity after work. We saw Knives Out, the perfect mother-son film, richly funny with great actors and an unmissable undertone of vicious anti-Trump social satire. A brief chat with a tall young man before he went west and I went east, walking along Bloor St. arm in arm - my arm reaching way up just to loop through his. A glimpse, a sighting of him, and he's off.
The great ongoing treat is finally getting to Season Three of The Crown - just watched the third episode about the ghastly disaster in Aberfan, Wales, which I remember reading about when I was 16. Just about the best hour of film I've seen anywhere - stunning.
Went across town the other day - Ben was sick and Anna had much to do at the school, so I babysat.
Anna's cat Naan under the tree
My daughter is phenomenally organized, despite two small boys in a small apartment. This is the superhero garage.
Her seasonal bins and clothing ones that say "Next season" and "up next." I'm not disorganized, but this wondrous level of meticulous order comes from her dad's side.
Jean-Marc sent this, a shot of my semi-detached house - the third down, with a big car out front - in the late sixties or early seventies, before the stucco was blasted off. Just realized I've lived in this house nearly half my life! Yikes.
That empty lot on the corner was once farmed by the kids of Sprucecourt School using Clydesdale horses from Riverdale Farm. Yes, only 25 years ago or so. Now it's a row of nondescript buildings, of course.
Today, meeting Ruth at the AGO to see the exhibit of early Rubens. I'm glad she asked me to join her; though I make a point of visiting museums in foreign cities, I tend to neglect the ones here, and they're terrific. And it's not too cold and the sun's shining. So - 10 o'clock and all's well. Over and out.
Yesterday's treat - a movie date with my son, who bought us the tickets and rushed to the Varsity after work. We saw Knives Out, the perfect mother-son film, richly funny with great actors and an unmissable undertone of vicious anti-Trump social satire. A brief chat with a tall young man before he went west and I went east, walking along Bloor St. arm in arm - my arm reaching way up just to loop through his. A glimpse, a sighting of him, and he's off.
The great ongoing treat is finally getting to Season Three of The Crown - just watched the third episode about the ghastly disaster in Aberfan, Wales, which I remember reading about when I was 16. Just about the best hour of film I've seen anywhere - stunning.
Went across town the other day - Ben was sick and Anna had much to do at the school, so I babysat.
Anna's cat Naan under the tree
My daughter is phenomenally organized, despite two small boys in a small apartment. This is the superhero garage.
Her seasonal bins and clothing ones that say "Next season" and "up next." I'm not disorganized, but this wondrous level of meticulous order comes from her dad's side.Jean-Marc sent this, a shot of my semi-detached house - the third down, with a big car out front - in the late sixties or early seventies, before the stucco was blasted off. Just realized I've lived in this house nearly half my life! Yikes.
That empty lot on the corner was once farmed by the kids of Sprucecourt School using Clydesdale horses from Riverdale Farm. Yes, only 25 years ago or so. Now it's a row of nondescript buildings, of course.Today, meeting Ruth at the AGO to see the exhibit of early Rubens. I'm glad she asked me to join her; though I make a point of visiting museums in foreign cities, I tend to neglect the ones here, and they're terrific. And it's not too cold and the sun's shining. So - 10 o'clock and all's well. Over and out.
December 10, 2019
a tiny bit of gloom
Back to reality: winter darkness, Christmas, responsibility, work. Teaching done till January, so now's the time for writing. I feel I should be doing something about my manuscript, but I don't know what. It went out in July to four or five publishers, and I have heard exactly nothing from any of them. Perhaps I should start again? Send a sharp reminder? Show up naked at their offices and fling pages about in ecstasy?
So new writing has not been forthcoming. Stuck, you might say.
However, I've been reading about writing, which is nearly as good. LOL. Several short sentences about writing, by Verlyn Klinkenborg, is a terrific book. And I just got Catching the big fish: Meditation, consciousness, and creativity, by David Lynch, out of the library. All inspiring.
Perhaps it's a failure of confidence. Perhaps I'm feeling that a new generation of writers is taking over and I have no idea what's going on. I just checked Wattpad, a Canadian site for stories, to see what it is, and here's what they say:
From cozy mysteries to LGBTQ+ meet-cutes, technothrillers to cyberpunk fairytales, your story has an audience through Wattpad. Tag your stories. Use genre, sub-genre, descriptive, and trending tags to not only help readers find your story but to also rank in a range of topics.
That's barely English to me. What story does this old white woman want to tell, a vampire meet-cute? I'm feeling a bit lost right now.
However, in response to my last moan about a bad review of my teaching, a former student posted this on my blog, and it's so kind, I'd like to repost it here in the Blowing Own Horn department. I don't know who this is, but I like him or her really a lot.
UnknownDecember 8, 2019 at 3:26 PMI can't think of anyone more dynamic or engaged in life than you Beth. You teach 2 university classes, hold biweekly home sessions, write a daily blog all while maintaining a lovely home and tenants. And you entertain two lively grandsons, travel, share meals and special events with your family near and far. You produce storytelling afternoons and dance nights and your local Nativity play every Christmas. And you ride a bicycle 6 or 7 months a year!Thinking of all you do Beth reminds me of something Fred Astaire once said when he was being praised for his dancing abilities. He said that what he did was nothing compared to Ginger Rogers who matched him step for step, while moving backwards and in high heels. Beth, you are a fabulous writer, grandmother and human being. And as a past student I can say you were a generous, knowledgeable and inspiring teacher
Thank you, whoever you are. It means a lot. I enjoy a bit of self-pity once in a while. A pat on the back, a kiss on the cheek, all it takes to get the spirit moving again. Plus - toothless Bill just arrived to put up the Christmas lights and I got a wonderful gift for Thomas at Doubletake today - a handcrafted canoe paddle for $24. And now it's wine time. More cheerful already!
So new writing has not been forthcoming. Stuck, you might say.
However, I've been reading about writing, which is nearly as good. LOL. Several short sentences about writing, by Verlyn Klinkenborg, is a terrific book. And I just got Catching the big fish: Meditation, consciousness, and creativity, by David Lynch, out of the library. All inspiring.
Perhaps it's a failure of confidence. Perhaps I'm feeling that a new generation of writers is taking over and I have no idea what's going on. I just checked Wattpad, a Canadian site for stories, to see what it is, and here's what they say:
From cozy mysteries to LGBTQ+ meet-cutes, technothrillers to cyberpunk fairytales, your story has an audience through Wattpad. Tag your stories. Use genre, sub-genre, descriptive, and trending tags to not only help readers find your story but to also rank in a range of topics.
That's barely English to me. What story does this old white woman want to tell, a vampire meet-cute? I'm feeling a bit lost right now.
However, in response to my last moan about a bad review of my teaching, a former student posted this on my blog, and it's so kind, I'd like to repost it here in the Blowing Own Horn department. I don't know who this is, but I like him or her really a lot.
UnknownDecember 8, 2019 at 3:26 PMI can't think of anyone more dynamic or engaged in life than you Beth. You teach 2 university classes, hold biweekly home sessions, write a daily blog all while maintaining a lovely home and tenants. And you entertain two lively grandsons, travel, share meals and special events with your family near and far. You produce storytelling afternoons and dance nights and your local Nativity play every Christmas. And you ride a bicycle 6 or 7 months a year!Thinking of all you do Beth reminds me of something Fred Astaire once said when he was being praised for his dancing abilities. He said that what he did was nothing compared to Ginger Rogers who matched him step for step, while moving backwards and in high heels. Beth, you are a fabulous writer, grandmother and human being. And as a past student I can say you were a generous, knowledgeable and inspiring teacher
Thank you, whoever you are. It means a lot. I enjoy a bit of self-pity once in a while. A pat on the back, a kiss on the cheek, all it takes to get the spirit moving again. Plus - toothless Bill just arrived to put up the Christmas lights and I got a wonderful gift for Thomas at Doubletake today - a handcrafted canoe paddle for $24. And now it's wine time. More cheerful already!
December 8, 2019
New York Day Four
Home. Heaven. A painless return after the shimozzle of the flight in: the 6 train to Grand Central and a short walk to the Newark airport bus. At the airport absurdly early yet again, but had the Sunday NYT to read. Flight on time, sat next to a nice older man who'd been in New Jersey for a wedding and who turned out to be a dual citizen Trump supporter who voted for Doug Ford. "I do not admire Trump's personality," he said, "but I like what he has done for the economy and jobs and immigration." I wanted to scream and did not, but I did let him know, as you can imagine, how I feel about the world's most reprehensible orange blowhole psychopath. We barely had time to touch on Ford. My companion was a surgeon. How extremely selfish and short-sighted smart people can be.
Okay, back to NYC. This is Vija Celmins' work. I loved the way she carefully recreates life with humour and phenomenal care. First, giant things like erasers made out of balsa wood and painted. Then she started to use only pencil and focus on her office. (click to enlarge)
They're huge.
Aren't they alive, these lamps? So funny and human.
And then she got into oceans and deserts - this is all done by pencil. Meticulous. She found nice rocks and recreated them exactly in bronze. Insane. But wonderful.
I went down one flight to their new acquisitions. Agnes Martin makes me laugh. She's from Saskatchewan. How can you tell?
An Ethiopian artist, Elias Sime, uses discarded computer parts and e-waste to make his gorgeous complex panels.
And yes - I did go out again last night to the Met. At 7 on a Saturday night, it's tranquil, overflowing with riches - from ancient Greece to Abstract Expressionism. Wandered in a daze of art love. Three of the million things I saw and admired:
Lewis Carroll took this portrait in 1870 of Alice Liddell, his Alice in Wonderland. She is 18 and doesn't look pleased to be there.
Shoes, by Van Gogh, 1888. He makes me weep.
One of my favourite artists: Louise Nevelson, who turned scraps into art that looks like shelves and here, like a kind of house. She was born in Ukraine, like all my ancestors on the Jewish side of my family, spoke Yiddish at home, emigrated as a child. I think she is creating homes for herself.
I walked home at 8.30 in the dark and cold, peering into people's windows - lots of Christmas lights, people buying trees on the sidewalk, very pretty. Have to say - everyone I asked directions from or spoke to was kind and friendly. There is a miraculous human scale to this monumental metropolis.
Newark is a shabby old airport. I was put into a special line at security, much shorter than the regular line, I thought because the guy figured I was a classy woman travelling first class, but then I learned: people selected for the special line are children, the military, the handicapped, and those over 75.
Sigh. Oh well. A shorter line was worth it. Almost.
Nothing to eat after security but squishy packaged sandwiches and chocolate bars. Even so, they want to be sure you like them. "How was your dining experience..."! Gotta love those Americans.
What I meant to do but did not: see the J. D. Salinger exhibition at the NY Public Library; have a drink at the Algonquin bar; walk in Central Park. Some things I noted: everyone eats on the street, sitting on walls with platters of food or messy stuff rolled up in foil. Everyone wears sneakers and is fixated on phones, as everywhere; I wonder here if it's sanity, withdrawing from the whirl into your own space. I noted the number of shrieking complaining whining children with irritated parents and felt for both sides. Will the U.S. be filled soon with miserable petulant adults? Mind you - look at their president. I guess it already is.
Oh - and forgot to tell you, at the start of my journey Wednesday, I was up and at 'em early, very organized, set off briskly for Parliament Street to get the bus to the subway - was half way down the street when I realized I was wearing my backpack and carrying my purse but had left my suitcase at home.
I bought almost nothing this trip - just gifts, and for myself, a pair of sunglasses at an extremely reduced price. Usually, there's a pair of shoes or a treat of some kind; this time, nothing. I'm proud of that. Enough. Enough. Enough. At least, until next trip.
Okay, back to NYC. This is Vija Celmins' work. I loved the way she carefully recreates life with humour and phenomenal care. First, giant things like erasers made out of balsa wood and painted. Then she started to use only pencil and focus on her office. (click to enlarge)
They're huge.
Aren't they alive, these lamps? So funny and human.
And then she got into oceans and deserts - this is all done by pencil. Meticulous. She found nice rocks and recreated them exactly in bronze. Insane. But wonderful.
I went down one flight to their new acquisitions. Agnes Martin makes me laugh. She's from Saskatchewan. How can you tell?
An Ethiopian artist, Elias Sime, uses discarded computer parts and e-waste to make his gorgeous complex panels.
And yes - I did go out again last night to the Met. At 7 on a Saturday night, it's tranquil, overflowing with riches - from ancient Greece to Abstract Expressionism. Wandered in a daze of art love. Three of the million things I saw and admired:
Lewis Carroll took this portrait in 1870 of Alice Liddell, his Alice in Wonderland. She is 18 and doesn't look pleased to be there.
Shoes, by Van Gogh, 1888. He makes me weep.
One of my favourite artists: Louise Nevelson, who turned scraps into art that looks like shelves and here, like a kind of house. She was born in Ukraine, like all my ancestors on the Jewish side of my family, spoke Yiddish at home, emigrated as a child. I think she is creating homes for herself.I walked home at 8.30 in the dark and cold, peering into people's windows - lots of Christmas lights, people buying trees on the sidewalk, very pretty. Have to say - everyone I asked directions from or spoke to was kind and friendly. There is a miraculous human scale to this monumental metropolis.
Newark is a shabby old airport. I was put into a special line at security, much shorter than the regular line, I thought because the guy figured I was a classy woman travelling first class, but then I learned: people selected for the special line are children, the military, the handicapped, and those over 75.
Sigh. Oh well. A shorter line was worth it. Almost.
Nothing to eat after security but squishy packaged sandwiches and chocolate bars. Even so, they want to be sure you like them. "How was your dining experience..."! Gotta love those Americans.
What I meant to do but did not: see the J. D. Salinger exhibition at the NY Public Library; have a drink at the Algonquin bar; walk in Central Park. Some things I noted: everyone eats on the street, sitting on walls with platters of food or messy stuff rolled up in foil. Everyone wears sneakers and is fixated on phones, as everywhere; I wonder here if it's sanity, withdrawing from the whirl into your own space. I noted the number of shrieking complaining whining children with irritated parents and felt for both sides. Will the U.S. be filled soon with miserable petulant adults? Mind you - look at their president. I guess it already is.Oh - and forgot to tell you, at the start of my journey Wednesday, I was up and at 'em early, very organized, set off briskly for Parliament Street to get the bus to the subway - was half way down the street when I realized I was wearing my backpack and carrying my purse but had left my suitcase at home.
I bought almost nothing this trip - just gifts, and for myself, a pair of sunglasses at an extremely reduced price. Usually, there's a pair of shoes or a treat of some kind; this time, nothing. I'm proud of that. Enough. Enough. Enough. At least, until next trip.
December 7, 2019
NYC Day Three
5 p.m., lying on Ted's sofa resting my feet, drinking a glass of his great red, and eating artisanal potato chips I bought at the Union Square market yesterday - this is NYC down time. Much needed. In fact, I've done less this trip than I used to on my frazzled stays here, and almost no shopping, but I've accomplished enough. And maybe I'll go out once more tonight, we'll see.
Yesterday, after being overwhelmed by the What's On Today page in the NYT delivered to Ted's door ... (click to enlarge)
I zipped down to Greenwich Village on a cold and sunny morning to explore before lunch with an old friend. Happened on the Union Square market, part of it a green market I'd visited years ago with my uncle to buy veggies and fish and where this time I bought the crisp potato chips that taste like potatoes. There was a Christmas craft market too. I bought a pair of socks for Anna that says "Bitches get shit done." Very her.
They don't compost in NY - so you can bring your wet waste to the market to compost.
Do you see what I see? Sky. In the Village, you can see the sky.
Sheila and I were good friends in the late seventies, until I left Vancouver in 1982 or 3. We lived for awhile in the same apartment building and affected each other in many ways. Her daughter is about 9 months younger than Anna, and I've always thought Sheila visited me in the hospital, saw the baby, and went home with a purpose. Anyway, we lost touch, so met for the first time in over 3 decades. And - she's just the same, lively, fascinating, fun. An incredible life, working for the UN in Africa and in Pakistan - with Benazir Bhutto - and in other exotic places. Now living in Brooklyn, as is her daughter. We had a great deal of catching up to do. I had two glasses of wine; she never did drink. A marvellous reunion.
But it's a mistake to drink 2 glasses of wine at lunch; I had to go back uptown to nap. Then out again in the cold to see theatre - a play called "The Voice Inside," starring Mary-Louise Parker, about a creative writing teacher and a student. A good play, a bit cryptic, lots of literary language and references, including one making me determined to read the works of James Salter; one critic said it's more like a novel than a play. But gripping nonetheless, in a very good production. And - no small matter - an hour and a half long with no intermission, which meant I was out by 9.30, marching many long windy blocks to the subway home. There was a poem on the subway.
Today, to two of my favourite stores on 3rd Avenue - Maison Kayser for bread and croissants every bit as good as in France, and the Flying Tiger, which we don't have in Canada yet, a store full of craft materials, toys, and kitchenware, beautifully designed and very cheap - I bought stocking stuffers.
All my reading glasses come from here - $5. Slime, a back scrubber, a giant pencil, an hourglass, and so much more.
To Lola's for lunch with her and her daughter Patti who'd come in from New Haven. Lola is 97, now has 24 hour care and can hardly walk, but is still at home and fiercely interested in the world, grey matter all there even if the rest isn't working so well. She told me that in the fifties her husband was concerned their son Stephen would not get into medical school because of my father's strong leftist tendencies - though Dad had lived in Canada since 1950. I love these family tidbits.
Anna, a young friend of Lola's, dropped in to say goodbye; both were professional jewellery makers and met in a class. Anna has just sold her apartment in NY and bought a farm in southern Portugal with a friend, will make it a "glamping" kind of place - and I've already decided to go visit her! A wonderful encounter with a stranger who felt like an instant friend. Plus family and take out Chinese.
Home to dump the stuff then out again - was heading to the Frick when by chance I passed the Met Breuer and remembered there was an artist I wanted to see there, written about in the New Yorker: Vija Celmins. But more about this amazing artist anon. Time to heat up some Manhattan clam chowder from Citarella. Life is good.
I may still go out again to the late Friday night at the main Met - an hour or two more of great art. Or maybe not. Ted says I'm a "chicken Kaplan" for not going to the theatre tonight. And I replied, Yes. Yes I am.
Home, James.
Yesterday, after being overwhelmed by the What's On Today page in the NYT delivered to Ted's door ... (click to enlarge)
I zipped down to Greenwich Village on a cold and sunny morning to explore before lunch with an old friend. Happened on the Union Square market, part of it a green market I'd visited years ago with my uncle to buy veggies and fish and where this time I bought the crisp potato chips that taste like potatoes. There was a Christmas craft market too. I bought a pair of socks for Anna that says "Bitches get shit done." Very her.
They don't compost in NY - so you can bring your wet waste to the market to compost.
Do you see what I see? Sky. In the Village, you can see the sky.Sheila and I were good friends in the late seventies, until I left Vancouver in 1982 or 3. We lived for awhile in the same apartment building and affected each other in many ways. Her daughter is about 9 months younger than Anna, and I've always thought Sheila visited me in the hospital, saw the baby, and went home with a purpose. Anyway, we lost touch, so met for the first time in over 3 decades. And - she's just the same, lively, fascinating, fun. An incredible life, working for the UN in Africa and in Pakistan - with Benazir Bhutto - and in other exotic places. Now living in Brooklyn, as is her daughter. We had a great deal of catching up to do. I had two glasses of wine; she never did drink. A marvellous reunion.
But it's a mistake to drink 2 glasses of wine at lunch; I had to go back uptown to nap. Then out again in the cold to see theatre - a play called "The Voice Inside," starring Mary-Louise Parker, about a creative writing teacher and a student. A good play, a bit cryptic, lots of literary language and references, including one making me determined to read the works of James Salter; one critic said it's more like a novel than a play. But gripping nonetheless, in a very good production. And - no small matter - an hour and a half long with no intermission, which meant I was out by 9.30, marching many long windy blocks to the subway home. There was a poem on the subway.
Today, to two of my favourite stores on 3rd Avenue - Maison Kayser for bread and croissants every bit as good as in France, and the Flying Tiger, which we don't have in Canada yet, a store full of craft materials, toys, and kitchenware, beautifully designed and very cheap - I bought stocking stuffers.
All my reading glasses come from here - $5. Slime, a back scrubber, a giant pencil, an hourglass, and so much more.To Lola's for lunch with her and her daughter Patti who'd come in from New Haven. Lola is 97, now has 24 hour care and can hardly walk, but is still at home and fiercely interested in the world, grey matter all there even if the rest isn't working so well. She told me that in the fifties her husband was concerned their son Stephen would not get into medical school because of my father's strong leftist tendencies - though Dad had lived in Canada since 1950. I love these family tidbits.
Anna, a young friend of Lola's, dropped in to say goodbye; both were professional jewellery makers and met in a class. Anna has just sold her apartment in NY and bought a farm in southern Portugal with a friend, will make it a "glamping" kind of place - and I've already decided to go visit her! A wonderful encounter with a stranger who felt like an instant friend. Plus family and take out Chinese.Home to dump the stuff then out again - was heading to the Frick when by chance I passed the Met Breuer and remembered there was an artist I wanted to see there, written about in the New Yorker: Vija Celmins. But more about this amazing artist anon. Time to heat up some Manhattan clam chowder from Citarella. Life is good.
I may still go out again to the late Friday night at the main Met - an hour or two more of great art. Or maybe not. Ted says I'm a "chicken Kaplan" for not going to the theatre tonight. And I replied, Yes. Yes I am.
Home, James.
