Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 91
December 5, 2019
NYC Day One
This city! So noisy and crowded and frantic and overwhelming, I keep swearing I'll never come again. The wind tears at you, the sirens shriek, the homeless people, the disgusting displays of wealth, consumption, shopping, the exhausted workers keeping this insane place going - why am I here?! I sometimes ask. Get me out!
Well, because, first, there's family. In fact, most of my family, with the exception of my children, is here, since through my mother I have only two cousins left. Here, a few more and memories of many - my grandmother had ten siblings, though she wasn't speaking to many of them, and my grandfather had six. There were a lot of people to visit when we came during my childhood. Now, I see my father's cousins Ted and Lola. Who incidentally have not spoken in years. But there's also Ted's husband Henry and Lola's daughter Patti and sometimes, for celebratory events, there are others, lots of others.
Plus theatre and museums and more fascinating people per square inch ... but it's still frantic and overwhelming.
The trip here wasn't great. With my usual nervous miscalculation I was at the gate nearly two hours early, but I'd rather that than having to rush. We were sitting on the plane when they told us there was a mechanical problem, we'd have to deplane, another one was on the way. We had to go through the chaos of new boarding passes and milling about waiting, but it was a very Canadian event, hardly any bitching. And we got there, two and a half hours late.
Just in time for the build up to New York's rush hour. I thought La Guardia would be easier than Newark - it used to be - but now they're renovating, and now to get a cab you have to line up and get on a shuttle bus to the cab area. Anyway, again, eventually, I got to 77th and 3rd, not mid-afternoon as I'd planned but at dinnertime, deeply grateful I hadn't missed a connecting flight or an afternoon appointment. Ted came home with a superb bottle of red wine for me - he knows me well - Henry came in from Northport, which is their real home, and we walked a few blocks for a superb Chinese meal. It means so much that Ted adored my dad - "I thought of him as the big brother I never had" - and knew Mum, and I knew his eccentric artistic mother Hazel and lawyer father Leo. Family. Blood.
Today Ted went to work - he's a lawyer in the firm Leo founded, along with his older brother to whom he barely speaks - are you seeing a pattern here? Henry and I went out for a bagel and lox - (click to enlarge)
Fifty-six kinds of cream cheese
dear Henry
and then he went to his volunteer activities and I to MOMA, the brand new building for the Museum of Modern Art. I only found out they'd done a huge renovation from the New Yorker. It's an incredible building, spacious, elegant, even with the crowds there seemed to be lots of room. The collection is vast and they'll change what's on the walls regularly. I didn't go to the modern stuff, but to the fifth floor, 1880-1940 - Impressionists, Bauhaus furniture, photographs, film, prints, a room simply devoted to shapes - glorious. My favourites in all the world - Matisse and Kandinsky - but also a room for folk art, non-professional artists given pride of place, and a great effort to include women artists. One of the best museum experiences anywhere.
Kandinsky - the best. "Picture with an archer."
A close-up of Matisse's pot of pencils or brushes in his red studio.
An amateur artist who did some 800 detailed drawings of household artefacts on looseleaf paper, discovered after her death. Pearl Blauvelt. How wonderful that she and others like her are at MOMA.
Water lilies to sooth the weary soul.
Nearly two hours there, and then, saturated, out into the bitter wind. From the sublime to the ridiculous - to Bloomingdales, to see if I could find a winter coat. Mine, I bought on sale, 25% off, at Bloomie's with my uncle's chargecard 25 years ago. I was amazed to find exactly what I was looking for, a Canadian brand that's light and very warm, and started trying them on - sale 25% off! Another woman was looking and I told her, these are Canadian and really good, so she got interested, found one in size large and decided to buy it. I wanted a large too - the medium was too small. But there wasn't one. They went to look for another in the stock room. None.
When will I learn to shut my mouth? Oh well. My old coat is still warm. Looked around at others but was glad to get out of there.
Then I got on the wrong subway and ended up going west instead of north, got out before ending up way west, started to walk instead, froze, got a cab 12 blocks. Heaven. Bought some soup and cheese at Citarella's and came back to Ted's to rest.
Out again to another feast - of theatre. It's thanks to Ted I came to see Fiddler on the Roof in Yiddish; he said it was a superb production that made Henry cry. This time I'd got the subway figured out - Lexington Ave. to Grand Central, transfer to the 7 to Times Square. Emerge into insanity, four trillion people in the dazzle and glare and harsh wind.
The theatre was so far along 42nd Street, it's considered off-Broadway. Oh, my friends, what a treat was in store. I saw Fiddler at Stratford with my friend Brent Carver playing Tevye, thought it was wonderful, and recently saw a documentary about the making of the musical, how difficult it was to produce, how dubious everyone was about its success, and how it has gone on to international renown - not limited to Jews, relevant for everyone.
But seeing it in Yiddish - with English and Russian subtitles - with an enormous mostly Jewish cast - and yet still its universality shone. It's about the devastating difficulties of change, about how hard it is to be a good father. The cast was fabulous, and the music - the music is breathtaking. It meant so much. I started weeping almost as soon as it began, and so did the woman I talked with at the intermission who'd come from Portland, Oregon to see it. The moment when Tevye has to contend for the first time, thanks to his daughters, with the word 'love' in connection with marriage, and he turns shyly to his wife and asks, Do you love me?
More weeping. Very lucky to be there.
And then out, walk along 42nd to the 7, change at Grand Central, Lex north to 77th - leapt onto the train and then asked anxiously, "Is this going uptown?" and several kind New Yorkers assured me it was and laughed about how often they'd gone the wrong way. Home to Ted's - the boys are back in Northport, I have the apartment to myself, had some more soup, wrote to my ex that he has to come and see the show, now writing to you. My legs and feet ache and my eyes are puffy and sore from wind and tears. I will be very happy to go back home. I'm so glad I came.
Well, because, first, there's family. In fact, most of my family, with the exception of my children, is here, since through my mother I have only two cousins left. Here, a few more and memories of many - my grandmother had ten siblings, though she wasn't speaking to many of them, and my grandfather had six. There were a lot of people to visit when we came during my childhood. Now, I see my father's cousins Ted and Lola. Who incidentally have not spoken in years. But there's also Ted's husband Henry and Lola's daughter Patti and sometimes, for celebratory events, there are others, lots of others.
Plus theatre and museums and more fascinating people per square inch ... but it's still frantic and overwhelming.
The trip here wasn't great. With my usual nervous miscalculation I was at the gate nearly two hours early, but I'd rather that than having to rush. We were sitting on the plane when they told us there was a mechanical problem, we'd have to deplane, another one was on the way. We had to go through the chaos of new boarding passes and milling about waiting, but it was a very Canadian event, hardly any bitching. And we got there, two and a half hours late.
Just in time for the build up to New York's rush hour. I thought La Guardia would be easier than Newark - it used to be - but now they're renovating, and now to get a cab you have to line up and get on a shuttle bus to the cab area. Anyway, again, eventually, I got to 77th and 3rd, not mid-afternoon as I'd planned but at dinnertime, deeply grateful I hadn't missed a connecting flight or an afternoon appointment. Ted came home with a superb bottle of red wine for me - he knows me well - Henry came in from Northport, which is their real home, and we walked a few blocks for a superb Chinese meal. It means so much that Ted adored my dad - "I thought of him as the big brother I never had" - and knew Mum, and I knew his eccentric artistic mother Hazel and lawyer father Leo. Family. Blood.
Today Ted went to work - he's a lawyer in the firm Leo founded, along with his older brother to whom he barely speaks - are you seeing a pattern here? Henry and I went out for a bagel and lox - (click to enlarge)
Fifty-six kinds of cream cheese
dear Henryand then he went to his volunteer activities and I to MOMA, the brand new building for the Museum of Modern Art. I only found out they'd done a huge renovation from the New Yorker. It's an incredible building, spacious, elegant, even with the crowds there seemed to be lots of room. The collection is vast and they'll change what's on the walls regularly. I didn't go to the modern stuff, but to the fifth floor, 1880-1940 - Impressionists, Bauhaus furniture, photographs, film, prints, a room simply devoted to shapes - glorious. My favourites in all the world - Matisse and Kandinsky - but also a room for folk art, non-professional artists given pride of place, and a great effort to include women artists. One of the best museum experiences anywhere.
Kandinsky - the best. "Picture with an archer."
A close-up of Matisse's pot of pencils or brushes in his red studio.
An amateur artist who did some 800 detailed drawings of household artefacts on looseleaf paper, discovered after her death. Pearl Blauvelt. How wonderful that she and others like her are at MOMA.
Water lilies to sooth the weary soul.Nearly two hours there, and then, saturated, out into the bitter wind. From the sublime to the ridiculous - to Bloomingdales, to see if I could find a winter coat. Mine, I bought on sale, 25% off, at Bloomie's with my uncle's chargecard 25 years ago. I was amazed to find exactly what I was looking for, a Canadian brand that's light and very warm, and started trying them on - sale 25% off! Another woman was looking and I told her, these are Canadian and really good, so she got interested, found one in size large and decided to buy it. I wanted a large too - the medium was too small. But there wasn't one. They went to look for another in the stock room. None.
When will I learn to shut my mouth? Oh well. My old coat is still warm. Looked around at others but was glad to get out of there.
Then I got on the wrong subway and ended up going west instead of north, got out before ending up way west, started to walk instead, froze, got a cab 12 blocks. Heaven. Bought some soup and cheese at Citarella's and came back to Ted's to rest.
Out again to another feast - of theatre. It's thanks to Ted I came to see Fiddler on the Roof in Yiddish; he said it was a superb production that made Henry cry. This time I'd got the subway figured out - Lexington Ave. to Grand Central, transfer to the 7 to Times Square. Emerge into insanity, four trillion people in the dazzle and glare and harsh wind.
The theatre was so far along 42nd Street, it's considered off-Broadway. Oh, my friends, what a treat was in store. I saw Fiddler at Stratford with my friend Brent Carver playing Tevye, thought it was wonderful, and recently saw a documentary about the making of the musical, how difficult it was to produce, how dubious everyone was about its success, and how it has gone on to international renown - not limited to Jews, relevant for everyone.But seeing it in Yiddish - with English and Russian subtitles - with an enormous mostly Jewish cast - and yet still its universality shone. It's about the devastating difficulties of change, about how hard it is to be a good father. The cast was fabulous, and the music - the music is breathtaking. It meant so much. I started weeping almost as soon as it began, and so did the woman I talked with at the intermission who'd come from Portland, Oregon to see it. The moment when Tevye has to contend for the first time, thanks to his daughters, with the word 'love' in connection with marriage, and he turns shyly to his wife and asks, Do you love me?
More weeping. Very lucky to be there.
And then out, walk along 42nd to the 7, change at Grand Central, Lex north to 77th - leapt onto the train and then asked anxiously, "Is this going uptown?" and several kind New Yorkers assured me it was and laughed about how often they'd gone the wrong way. Home to Ted's - the boys are back in Northport, I have the apartment to myself, had some more soup, wrote to my ex that he has to come and see the show, now writing to you. My legs and feet ache and my eyes are puffy and sore from wind and tears. I will be very happy to go back home. I'm so glad I came.
December 3, 2019
heading to Noo Yawk
In a frantic flurry, as always happens before I travel - mind you, only to New York and only for four days. I like many others have sworn not go to a U.S. dominated by the now officially impeachable Trump and his disgusting party. But to me, New York is not the U.S., it's a separate place entirely.
I'm going tomorrow morning, for two main reasons: to visit my father's cousin Lola, who's still living in her apartment at 97, the age my dad would also have been if he'd lived, and to see Fiddler on the Roof in Yiddish. Apparently it's a marvellous production, directed by Joel Grey - the original written by Sholem Aleichem, a contemporary and rival of my great-grandfather. Most big Broadway shows now come to Toronto shortly after NYC, so I want to see things that definitely won't come, like Fiddler in Yiddish. There's a play about a creative writing teacher, if I can get a ticket at TKTS, I'll see that.
Also the new MOMA and dinner tomorrow with Cousin Ted and his husband Henry, and then they go to their big house in Northport, leaving their apartment at 77th and 3rd empty all weekend. A great blessing. Otherwise, I would not be going regularly to the great city of my birth.
But everything always goes wrong just before I leave. Big crisis with downstairs tenants, John came over to fix things which took the morning; then my printer simply decided to stop working and it took half an hour with my tech guy Matt to get it connected again. How could a printer decide at a fraught time to disconnect from my wifi? But it did, all by itself. Now I've printed my boarding pass and all is well. Robin upstairs will keep the plant running, and Sam may come by to watch the cable TV liberated from his mother's grasp. Or not. (His Dark Materials last night, Doc Martin tonight. Love is.)
Dear friends Suzette and Jessica came for dinner Sunday night, and we discussed current television at length. Also our frustration with political correctness, various aches and pains, the generational differences in female pubic hair. What use was feminism, someone asked, if women are now supposed to be as hairless as children?
An upsetting experience: U of T sends assessment questionnaires to its students every term, to evaluate how well the course and its instructor are working. These are anonymous and forwarded to my boss and then to me; it's valuable to find out how students really feel. I'm happy to say my assessments are almost always pretty damn good. This term I thought it was a great class; several have said they're coming back in January. But one assessment came in that devastated me; a student who'd given no indication of being unhappy vented for paragraphs about the huge problems of the class and its teacher, who, it was asserted, is limited and made insensitive by her "white, middle-class" viewpoint. The U of T needs to train its instructors better or else it needs "more dynamic and engaged" professors. And much much more.
I read it over and over, knew immediately who it was, a student, also incidentally white and middle-class, who'd given no indication of distress, and felt as if I'd been kicked in the gut. However. My boss supported me 100%, and it's over. But God - I've had many good reviews, but the review that haunts is - of course - that one. Aren't I dynamic and engaged? I think I am.
Plus much much snow, Christmas looming, life. Waking at 5 a.m. from vivid dreams, including one about a beautiful house in the woods where I'd love to go write but where I knew in the dream I couldn't live because I'd be afraid of such isolation. Not solitude, but isolation - no neighbours, no one to go for help, fear of intruders and big spiders and things breaking down. Yet I can see the place now.
So, feeling a bit strained and drained. But as always, once I'm there, the thrum of the metropolis will sweep me up, and I'll have four exciting days before returning, with enormous relief, to the tiny little town of Toronto and its snowy December.
I'm going tomorrow morning, for two main reasons: to visit my father's cousin Lola, who's still living in her apartment at 97, the age my dad would also have been if he'd lived, and to see Fiddler on the Roof in Yiddish. Apparently it's a marvellous production, directed by Joel Grey - the original written by Sholem Aleichem, a contemporary and rival of my great-grandfather. Most big Broadway shows now come to Toronto shortly after NYC, so I want to see things that definitely won't come, like Fiddler in Yiddish. There's a play about a creative writing teacher, if I can get a ticket at TKTS, I'll see that.
Also the new MOMA and dinner tomorrow with Cousin Ted and his husband Henry, and then they go to their big house in Northport, leaving their apartment at 77th and 3rd empty all weekend. A great blessing. Otherwise, I would not be going regularly to the great city of my birth.
But everything always goes wrong just before I leave. Big crisis with downstairs tenants, John came over to fix things which took the morning; then my printer simply decided to stop working and it took half an hour with my tech guy Matt to get it connected again. How could a printer decide at a fraught time to disconnect from my wifi? But it did, all by itself. Now I've printed my boarding pass and all is well. Robin upstairs will keep the plant running, and Sam may come by to watch the cable TV liberated from his mother's grasp. Or not. (His Dark Materials last night, Doc Martin tonight. Love is.)
Dear friends Suzette and Jessica came for dinner Sunday night, and we discussed current television at length. Also our frustration with political correctness, various aches and pains, the generational differences in female pubic hair. What use was feminism, someone asked, if women are now supposed to be as hairless as children?
An upsetting experience: U of T sends assessment questionnaires to its students every term, to evaluate how well the course and its instructor are working. These are anonymous and forwarded to my boss and then to me; it's valuable to find out how students really feel. I'm happy to say my assessments are almost always pretty damn good. This term I thought it was a great class; several have said they're coming back in January. But one assessment came in that devastated me; a student who'd given no indication of being unhappy vented for paragraphs about the huge problems of the class and its teacher, who, it was asserted, is limited and made insensitive by her "white, middle-class" viewpoint. The U of T needs to train its instructors better or else it needs "more dynamic and engaged" professors. And much much more.
I read it over and over, knew immediately who it was, a student, also incidentally white and middle-class, who'd given no indication of distress, and felt as if I'd been kicked in the gut. However. My boss supported me 100%, and it's over. But God - I've had many good reviews, but the review that haunts is - of course - that one. Aren't I dynamic and engaged? I think I am.
Plus much much snow, Christmas looming, life. Waking at 5 a.m. from vivid dreams, including one about a beautiful house in the woods where I'd love to go write but where I knew in the dream I couldn't live because I'd be afraid of such isolation. Not solitude, but isolation - no neighbours, no one to go for help, fear of intruders and big spiders and things breaking down. Yet I can see the place now.
So, feeling a bit strained and drained. But as always, once I'm there, the thrum of the metropolis will sweep me up, and I'll have four exciting days before returning, with enormous relief, to the tiny little town of Toronto and its snowy December.
November 30, 2019
Pain and Glory
Funny - we had winter and then it went away, no snow anywhere and mild weather, and now, they tell us, it's coming back in a big way tonight. Suzette and I were invited to spend the night at Jessica's cottage in Prince Edward County tomorrow; Jess has made a pot of chili, we old friends were going to explore vineyards, eat lunch at a local restaurant, walk in the woods, have chili and wine that night by the fire. But we do not want to navigate a snowstorm on country roads, so Jess is bringing the chili here for dinner tomorrow; we'll explore her country locale in better weather.
Good smells here - I'm making leek and potato soup for us. How I love leeks!
Today I saw Pain and Glory, an autobiographical film by the great Spaniard Pedro Almadovar. Beautiful, slow-moving but always compelling, the film mirrors Almadovar's life. It stars the gorgeous Antonio Banderas playing a famous filmmaker stymied by age and physical and mental pain, reconnecting with an actor with whom he had a major falling out after they made a film together decades before - just as Almadovar stopped speaking to Banderas after the actor's work decades ago in one of his movies. A contemplation of aging, creativity, addiction, success, and writing, a completely open vision of bisexuality and the dawn of homosexual desire - much, much to think about. Highly recommended.
Incidentally, what an encompassing title - don't we all know pain and glory? Ain't that life?
Thursday, the not so painful and totally glorious last session of my home class, seven fabulous writers taking us on a trip around the world, from Israel in the fifties to Hanoi in the sixties and many other places. We are family.
Speaking of family, welcome to a new Cabbagetowner: Shani, my basement tenant whom I've known since she was 5, is home with Tiger Lily, her new baby born yesterday, a perfect tiny person, less than 6 pounds, with minuscule wrinkled hands and a busy mouth. Amazing to have a newborn living under this roof for the first time; Sam was a robust 22 months when we moved here. Blessings.
And, in my persona as a grouchy, opinionated, mouthy, aging woman, I have been writing letters. Yes, the dreaded letters! Today I visited the site of a Canadian winter coat manufacturer; a friend at the Y had bought one of their coats and raved about its lightness and warmth. All my winter coats are second hand except for one that's 25 years old; I was thinking, perhaps it's time ... but I was horrified to see that their coats use real fur, and I emailed them to say I would not be considering their products, and why.
I've been writing for years to the mayor, the city, and the newspapers - never published - about our murderous streets, but now there is a daily hue and cry in the papers about the slaughter of pedestrians and cyclists - hooray! But I'm always ready with another letter. I wrote to the Cabbagetown BIA about the fact that the C'town Youth Centre may have to close because the province cancelled its grant. This centre provides after-school activities for needy kids in our 'hood and is an essential service. A GoFundMe page has been set up, and I contributed, but so much more is needed. So I wrote to our BIA to say - what will you do? We're watching you. Get busy.
I tell my students - use your power as a writer to make your voice heard. Mind you, I say this with the hope that my students want the same things for the world that I do. I'm pretty sure they do.
So, a quiet Saturday evening, waiting for the snow to start, waiting for the soup to be ready, waiting for Randy Bachman to come on the radio so I can dance.
Blessings.
Good smells here - I'm making leek and potato soup for us. How I love leeks!
Today I saw Pain and Glory, an autobiographical film by the great Spaniard Pedro Almadovar. Beautiful, slow-moving but always compelling, the film mirrors Almadovar's life. It stars the gorgeous Antonio Banderas playing a famous filmmaker stymied by age and physical and mental pain, reconnecting with an actor with whom he had a major falling out after they made a film together decades before - just as Almadovar stopped speaking to Banderas after the actor's work decades ago in one of his movies. A contemplation of aging, creativity, addiction, success, and writing, a completely open vision of bisexuality and the dawn of homosexual desire - much, much to think about. Highly recommended.
Incidentally, what an encompassing title - don't we all know pain and glory? Ain't that life?
Thursday, the not so painful and totally glorious last session of my home class, seven fabulous writers taking us on a trip around the world, from Israel in the fifties to Hanoi in the sixties and many other places. We are family.
Speaking of family, welcome to a new Cabbagetowner: Shani, my basement tenant whom I've known since she was 5, is home with Tiger Lily, her new baby born yesterday, a perfect tiny person, less than 6 pounds, with minuscule wrinkled hands and a busy mouth. Amazing to have a newborn living under this roof for the first time; Sam was a robust 22 months when we moved here. Blessings.
And, in my persona as a grouchy, opinionated, mouthy, aging woman, I have been writing letters. Yes, the dreaded letters! Today I visited the site of a Canadian winter coat manufacturer; a friend at the Y had bought one of their coats and raved about its lightness and warmth. All my winter coats are second hand except for one that's 25 years old; I was thinking, perhaps it's time ... but I was horrified to see that their coats use real fur, and I emailed them to say I would not be considering their products, and why.
I've been writing for years to the mayor, the city, and the newspapers - never published - about our murderous streets, but now there is a daily hue and cry in the papers about the slaughter of pedestrians and cyclists - hooray! But I'm always ready with another letter. I wrote to the Cabbagetown BIA about the fact that the C'town Youth Centre may have to close because the province cancelled its grant. This centre provides after-school activities for needy kids in our 'hood and is an essential service. A GoFundMe page has been set up, and I contributed, but so much more is needed. So I wrote to our BIA to say - what will you do? We're watching you. Get busy.
I tell my students - use your power as a writer to make your voice heard. Mind you, I say this with the hope that my students want the same things for the world that I do. I'm pretty sure they do.
So, a quiet Saturday evening, waiting for the snow to start, waiting for the soup to be ready, waiting for Randy Bachman to come on the radio so I can dance.
Blessings.
November 27, 2019
the joy of testosterone
Monday night - no class to teach! Heaven. Instead I watched His Dark Materials on HBO. They've changed a lot from the book - which by chance I just read - but still, they're doing a great job. I mean, there are armoured bears in the book, and now they're on the screen, magnificent and more or less believable, as are the daemons, the animals that accompany everyone in this universe. It takes me back to reading Harry Potter, the sublime pleasure of rediscovering my youth by sitting plunged into a fantasy novel.
I also watched the moving if a tiny bit hokey last episode of the new Anne series - really wonderful work, even if its portrayal of how welcoming PEI residents in the late 19th century were to citizens of colour is surely also a fantasy. But a lovely one. My friend R.H. Thomson - we were the two Canadians in our year at theatre school in London - is perfect as Matthew, shy, incoherent, but yearning. Beautiful.
If you're careful to avoid the endless, ceaseless crap, there's some pure gold on television.
A change of plans on Tuesday - Anna called to say she wasn't feeling well, was there a possibility I could get the boys at school and take them to their after-school activities? There certainly was, especially as it was a spectacularly mild day. They came blasting out of school, Ben at 3.15 and Eli at 3.30, and spent the next 45 minutes careening around the playground; the two of them and a friend invented a game of pressing their arms across their chests and trying to knock each other over with the force of their bodies that kept them busy slamming and falling for a good 20 minutes.
Then the streetcar and the bus to a community centre, with a quick stop beforehand to charge around another playground - then Ben to a swimming lesson and Eli to drumming, free classes given by the city provided you rise at dawn to fight the crowds to get on the list. Anna waits on the day with several cellphones and is now a master at getting the courses and times she wants. I then took them at their request to a fish and chip shop nearby, which to my sadness was not licensed. I needed a drink. Waiting for the streetcar, their game was hurling themselves from the bus shelter to the stone wall of the park and back. On the streetcar home, Ben stood by one of the back doors pushing the button to open it at every stop. He takes his job very seriously. My job was to make sure he didn't fall out.
By the time we got home, I was beyond exhausted, and that was mostly from watching them. Whereas they were still going. Testosterone - what a phenomenal chemical it is! If you could channel it only for good, the world would be saved in ten minutes.
I also watched the moving if a tiny bit hokey last episode of the new Anne series - really wonderful work, even if its portrayal of how welcoming PEI residents in the late 19th century were to citizens of colour is surely also a fantasy. But a lovely one. My friend R.H. Thomson - we were the two Canadians in our year at theatre school in London - is perfect as Matthew, shy, incoherent, but yearning. Beautiful.
If you're careful to avoid the endless, ceaseless crap, there's some pure gold on television.
A change of plans on Tuesday - Anna called to say she wasn't feeling well, was there a possibility I could get the boys at school and take them to their after-school activities? There certainly was, especially as it was a spectacularly mild day. They came blasting out of school, Ben at 3.15 and Eli at 3.30, and spent the next 45 minutes careening around the playground; the two of them and a friend invented a game of pressing their arms across their chests and trying to knock each other over with the force of their bodies that kept them busy slamming and falling for a good 20 minutes.
Then the streetcar and the bus to a community centre, with a quick stop beforehand to charge around another playground - then Ben to a swimming lesson and Eli to drumming, free classes given by the city provided you rise at dawn to fight the crowds to get on the list. Anna waits on the day with several cellphones and is now a master at getting the courses and times she wants. I then took them at their request to a fish and chip shop nearby, which to my sadness was not licensed. I needed a drink. Waiting for the streetcar, their game was hurling themselves from the bus shelter to the stone wall of the park and back. On the streetcar home, Ben stood by one of the back doors pushing the button to open it at every stop. He takes his job very seriously. My job was to make sure he didn't fall out.
By the time we got home, I was beyond exhausted, and that was mostly from watching them. Whereas they were still going. Testosterone - what a phenomenal chemical it is! If you could channel it only for good, the world would be saved in ten minutes.
November 25, 2019
So True recap
There must be a producer gene in our family. My ex is of course a lifelong successful producer of theatre. My kids are producers, in their own way, Sam the performer of warm experiences for his customers, Anna of massive parties and demonstrations, perfectly planned and executed. And I guess I too am a producer, now no longer, after many years, of the Christmas pageant at Riverdale Farm, but as part of the team for the CNFC conferences, and, especially, of So True.
Yesterday was definitely a high point in the five-year history of this event. Every single one of the eight stories we heard resonated and worked, both the writing and the reading, one powerful truth after another. We wept, we laughed. I always speak and read at the end and do not enjoy having to follow this stellar bunch, but I do my best - and yesterday, I ended by asking everyone in the room to shout "Happy Birthday Ken!" to my dear friend in the audience, who has missed only one So True since the beginning. We made a joyful noise.
The room was packed, standing room only - so much so that we might have to look for another space, though I don't want to, I love the Social Capital. Its only drawback is that it's not accessible for wheelchairs or anyone who can't climb a steep flight of stairs. But otherwise - east side, near the subway, warm and dark, a bar at one end and a stage at the other - I love it.
A few notes from today, from the readers to each other:
What a privilege to have this experience with you all today. You all are great writers and I am a more full person for having shared in the experience with you.
Sincerely thank you for giving me the courage to share my story today, and be my true self. Thanks Beth for all you do!
It was a MAGICAL day! I loved all of it, especially the supportive, fun atmosphere. I was so incredibly moved and humbled by your words, your delivery, your stories.
One writer told the crowd she gives nicknames to everyone who matters to her, and that her nickname for me is "The Master." LOL. Makes me feel like I need a twirly moustache and big biceps. But anyway, something to be proud of - and also to be relieved it's over for another six months. I once did this four times a year! Then three, and now two. That's plenty.
Went across town for dinner on Saturday; Thomas's relatives are no longer living there and calm has returned, or at least, as much calm as is possible with these two high octane boychiks.
Eli told me he was doing alphabet work with his teacher and he told her "G is for Glamma." Be still my beating heart.
It's a grey gloomy day today but my heart is light; one more class on Thursday and my teaching responsibilities are over till January. Christmas looms, but first a few bits of travel. Time to sit at my desk. Time to focus on that neglected part of my life, the part that produces, not other people's words, but my own. It's time.
Yesterday was definitely a high point in the five-year history of this event. Every single one of the eight stories we heard resonated and worked, both the writing and the reading, one powerful truth after another. We wept, we laughed. I always speak and read at the end and do not enjoy having to follow this stellar bunch, but I do my best - and yesterday, I ended by asking everyone in the room to shout "Happy Birthday Ken!" to my dear friend in the audience, who has missed only one So True since the beginning. We made a joyful noise.
The room was packed, standing room only - so much so that we might have to look for another space, though I don't want to, I love the Social Capital. Its only drawback is that it's not accessible for wheelchairs or anyone who can't climb a steep flight of stairs. But otherwise - east side, near the subway, warm and dark, a bar at one end and a stage at the other - I love it.
A few notes from today, from the readers to each other:
What a privilege to have this experience with you all today. You all are great writers and I am a more full person for having shared in the experience with you.
Sincerely thank you for giving me the courage to share my story today, and be my true self. Thanks Beth for all you do!
It was a MAGICAL day! I loved all of it, especially the supportive, fun atmosphere. I was so incredibly moved and humbled by your words, your delivery, your stories.
One writer told the crowd she gives nicknames to everyone who matters to her, and that her nickname for me is "The Master." LOL. Makes me feel like I need a twirly moustache and big biceps. But anyway, something to be proud of - and also to be relieved it's over for another six months. I once did this four times a year! Then three, and now two. That's plenty.
Went across town for dinner on Saturday; Thomas's relatives are no longer living there and calm has returned, or at least, as much calm as is possible with these two high octane boychiks.
Eli told me he was doing alphabet work with his teacher and he told her "G is for Glamma." Be still my beating heart. It's a grey gloomy day today but my heart is light; one more class on Thursday and my teaching responsibilities are over till January. Christmas looms, but first a few bits of travel. Time to sit at my desk. Time to focus on that neglected part of my life, the part that produces, not other people's words, but my own. It's time.
November 22, 2019
So True - eight stars coming up
We had our rehearsal for the 16th So True last night, and Jason, our MC since the beginning, declared it one of the very best. It's especially exciting because five of the eight readers have never done this before, hence the importance of rehearsal. Hope to see you there, Toronto friends! We will celebrate the power of story - and also the fact that it's mild outside again and the snow has melted. That patch of terrible weather was all a dream. It will stay like this, mild and snowless, till next May. For sure.
Sigh.
Sigh.
November 20, 2019
the sun, and Margaret Atwood
My friend Isobel wrote to point out that I'd titled the last post "anals of aging." If you look up 'anal,' you'll know what a mistake that was. Thanks for your editing eye, Isobel! Especially embarrassing for me, because I am keeping a file of absurd spelling mistakes.
As I am finally able to pour through my Abbey Road super deluxe Anniversary Edition …
2 of these groups pray on week and the vulnerable with no ability to communicate ...
Sheesh.
The weather is beautiful, a little gift for us, warm and sunny - well, relatively warm, enough to melt the snow and allow us to wear light coats and shoes, not boots. Very welcome.
On Monday night, the last class of the Ryerson terms, a terrific bunch. As usual, we had a party with food and drink, though we also worked, of course. When I left at the end of class, no one noticed, they were busy eating and drinking and talking about setting up an ongoing writing group. Now that felt like success.
Ran home to watch the Gillers but only caught the end. It's great to catch glimpses of people I know; loved watching Anne Collins, one of Canada's best editors and publishers, erupt into tears when her author, Ian Williams, won. And what an amazing story that guy has. It's too bad I don't have time to read much fiction. Maybe one day.
And then a documentary about Margaret Atwood, A word after a word after a word is power. This must be the week for docs on Canadian artistic celebrities. It shows what a focussed woman she has always been, winning a GG award with her very first book of poetry and then continuing with novels, polemics, a children's book, more poetry, more activism, countless novels - historical fiction, dystopian fiction - an extraordinary talent.
I was shocked to realize, however, that I don't think I have read a single of her novels straight through. To me, there was always something sour about them, at least the early ones. Reading, I felt my mouth pucker as if I was sucking lemons. Maybe it's just a reaction to her way of speaking, the way her dry voice seems to come through her nose. But I do admire her enormously, her limitless drive and sense of humour, the spotlight she has never stopped shining on some of the world's intractable problems.
I met her once at a party at the home of an acquaintance who was very well connected. She and her husband Graeme Gibson were there along with other famous Canadians including the then current governor general and her husband - a stellar assembly. I ended up in a circle with Peggy - if I may be so bold - and others talking about childhood, and Brownies came up. She told her Brownies story, and then I told mine.
That's all, but it felt huge to be telling a story next to one of the world's great storytellers. Incidentally, I was never invited to another of this man's parties again.
Today, a big CNFC meeting and raking leaves in the sun. Tonight, the film McCabe and Mrs. Miller is on. It was shot in B.C., some actor friends are in it, and I've never seen it. Perhaps tonight I'll rectify that. Can you go wrong with Julie Christie, Warren Beatty, and the mountains of British Columbia?
As I am finally able to pour through my Abbey Road super deluxe Anniversary Edition …
2 of these groups pray on week and the vulnerable with no ability to communicate ...
Sheesh.
The weather is beautiful, a little gift for us, warm and sunny - well, relatively warm, enough to melt the snow and allow us to wear light coats and shoes, not boots. Very welcome.
On Monday night, the last class of the Ryerson terms, a terrific bunch. As usual, we had a party with food and drink, though we also worked, of course. When I left at the end of class, no one noticed, they were busy eating and drinking and talking about setting up an ongoing writing group. Now that felt like success.
Ran home to watch the Gillers but only caught the end. It's great to catch glimpses of people I know; loved watching Anne Collins, one of Canada's best editors and publishers, erupt into tears when her author, Ian Williams, won. And what an amazing story that guy has. It's too bad I don't have time to read much fiction. Maybe one day.
And then a documentary about Margaret Atwood, A word after a word after a word is power. This must be the week for docs on Canadian artistic celebrities. It shows what a focussed woman she has always been, winning a GG award with her very first book of poetry and then continuing with novels, polemics, a children's book, more poetry, more activism, countless novels - historical fiction, dystopian fiction - an extraordinary talent.
I was shocked to realize, however, that I don't think I have read a single of her novels straight through. To me, there was always something sour about them, at least the early ones. Reading, I felt my mouth pucker as if I was sucking lemons. Maybe it's just a reaction to her way of speaking, the way her dry voice seems to come through her nose. But I do admire her enormously, her limitless drive and sense of humour, the spotlight she has never stopped shining on some of the world's intractable problems.
I met her once at a party at the home of an acquaintance who was very well connected. She and her husband Graeme Gibson were there along with other famous Canadians including the then current governor general and her husband - a stellar assembly. I ended up in a circle with Peggy - if I may be so bold - and others talking about childhood, and Brownies came up. She told her Brownies story, and then I told mine.
That's all, but it felt huge to be telling a story next to one of the world's great storytellers. Incidentally, I was never invited to another of this man's parties again.
Today, a big CNFC meeting and raking leaves in the sun. Tonight, the film McCabe and Mrs. Miller is on. It was shot in B.C., some actor friends are in it, and I've never seen it. Perhaps tonight I'll rectify that. Can you go wrong with Julie Christie, Warren Beatty, and the mountains of British Columbia?
November 18, 2019
annals of aging # 643, Lightfoot, Verlyn Klinkenborg
One of those days - rain turning the snow to slush - that we dread in February. But - may I remind you, Powers That Be - it's November! A little early for all this weatherly misery, don't you think? Though, to cheer me up, the gardenia Wayson bought me years ago that's parked in my bright upstairs hall until next spring has just produced its third bloom, perfuming the whole upstairs. So - we who are prematurely winter-bound take what blessings we can.
Went to the massage therapist last week with a few specific spots to work on: a sore shoulder and foot. I didn't even know what a rotator cuff was before; now I do. Somehow I have pulled it, or one of them - are there several rotator cuffs, like on pants? - and if I lift my right arm, it hurts. There's a constant pain in my left foot under the bunion. My knees crack like branches in the wind. Yesterday, after riding my bike to the Y through bitter cold, I had a sparkling halo dominating my right eyeball for hours.
But you know, when you consider how many moving parts make up this machine which has been running steadily for nearly 70 years, the thing is pretty miraculous. How many washing machines last 70 years? And yet here I am, going sort of strong.
Though the brain concerns me sometimes. I can laboriously learn a piece by heart on the piano, but if I don't play it for a few weeks, it vanishes. Pouf, gone from the overcrowded, shrinking grey matter. Discouraging.
But the good news is, I don't have to wade outside till Ryerson tonight - last class of term. We'll have a party to celebrate. They've been a stellar bunch.
Watched If You Could Read My Mind, a doc on Gordon Lightfoot on the Doc channel last night, and soon will get out my scratched, beloved Lightfoot albums from the sixties and put them on. Steve Earle thinks Lightfoot is the most important singer/songwriter ever to come out of Canada - fighting words, Joni! - and I agree, one powerful, lyrical song after another. He had a happy childhood in Orillia, was a choirboy, grew up to be a hard-drinking womanizer which he now regrets - he won't sing his misogynist That's what you get for loving me any more - an interesting man who was in youth extremely handsome, gifted, and hardworking. His idol: Bob Dylan. But Dylan admires him too. A great Canadian story, with great great music.
To inspire me for the weeks of unemployment, aka holiday, ahead - 6 weeks with no income so free to do my own thing - I have a new library book, Several short sentences about writing, by a writer with the unlikely name Verlyn Klinkenborg. He sounds like a character from a comedy about Nazis, but in fact, he's a marvellous writer and this is a very interesting book - a lot admonishing young people about how badly they've been taught to write, but much aimed at someone like me. He writes about the importance of each sentence. The book is condensed, like poetry:
Your job as a writer is making sentences.
Most of your time will be spent making sentences in your head.
In your head.
Did no one ever tell you this?
That is the writer's life.
Never imagine you've left the level of the sentence behind.
Most of the sentences you make will need to be killed.
The rest will need to be fixed.
This will be true for a long time.
The hard part now is deciding which to kill and which to fix and how to fix them.
This will get much, much easier, but the decision making will never end.
A writer's real work is the endless winnowing of sentences,
The relentless exploration of possibilities,
The effort, over and over again, to see in what you started out to say
The possibility of saying something you didn't know you could.
Beautiful, no? I just looked him up - he's a modern day E. B. White, writing about rural life in the New York Times, and he's two years younger than I am. I hope his machine is running well. A long happy life to you, Verlyn.
Went to the massage therapist last week with a few specific spots to work on: a sore shoulder and foot. I didn't even know what a rotator cuff was before; now I do. Somehow I have pulled it, or one of them - are there several rotator cuffs, like on pants? - and if I lift my right arm, it hurts. There's a constant pain in my left foot under the bunion. My knees crack like branches in the wind. Yesterday, after riding my bike to the Y through bitter cold, I had a sparkling halo dominating my right eyeball for hours.
But you know, when you consider how many moving parts make up this machine which has been running steadily for nearly 70 years, the thing is pretty miraculous. How many washing machines last 70 years? And yet here I am, going sort of strong.
Though the brain concerns me sometimes. I can laboriously learn a piece by heart on the piano, but if I don't play it for a few weeks, it vanishes. Pouf, gone from the overcrowded, shrinking grey matter. Discouraging.
But the good news is, I don't have to wade outside till Ryerson tonight - last class of term. We'll have a party to celebrate. They've been a stellar bunch.
Watched If You Could Read My Mind, a doc on Gordon Lightfoot on the Doc channel last night, and soon will get out my scratched, beloved Lightfoot albums from the sixties and put them on. Steve Earle thinks Lightfoot is the most important singer/songwriter ever to come out of Canada - fighting words, Joni! - and I agree, one powerful, lyrical song after another. He had a happy childhood in Orillia, was a choirboy, grew up to be a hard-drinking womanizer which he now regrets - he won't sing his misogynist That's what you get for loving me any more - an interesting man who was in youth extremely handsome, gifted, and hardworking. His idol: Bob Dylan. But Dylan admires him too. A great Canadian story, with great great music.
To inspire me for the weeks of unemployment, aka holiday, ahead - 6 weeks with no income so free to do my own thing - I have a new library book, Several short sentences about writing, by a writer with the unlikely name Verlyn Klinkenborg. He sounds like a character from a comedy about Nazis, but in fact, he's a marvellous writer and this is a very interesting book - a lot admonishing young people about how badly they've been taught to write, but much aimed at someone like me. He writes about the importance of each sentence. The book is condensed, like poetry:
Your job as a writer is making sentences.
Most of your time will be spent making sentences in your head.
In your head.
Did no one ever tell you this?
That is the writer's life.
Never imagine you've left the level of the sentence behind.
Most of the sentences you make will need to be killed.
The rest will need to be fixed.
This will be true for a long time.
The hard part now is deciding which to kill and which to fix and how to fix them.
This will get much, much easier, but the decision making will never end.
A writer's real work is the endless winnowing of sentences,
The relentless exploration of possibilities,
The effort, over and over again, to see in what you started out to say
The possibility of saying something you didn't know you could.
Beautiful, no? I just looked him up - he's a modern day E. B. White, writing about rural life in the New York Times, and he's two years younger than I am. I hope his machine is running well. A long happy life to you, Verlyn.
anals of aging # 643, Lightfoot, Verlyn Klinkenborg
One of those days - rain turning the snow to slush - that we dread in February. But - may I remind you, Powers That Be - it's November! A little early for all this weatherly misery, don't you think? Though, to cheer me up, the gardenia Wayson bought me years ago that's parked in my bright upstairs hall until next spring has just produced its third bloom, perfuming the whole upstairs. So - we who are prematurely winter-bound take what blessings we can.
Went to the massage therapist last week with a few specific spots to work on: a sore shoulder and foot. I didn't even know what a rotator cuff was before; now I do. Somehow I have pulled it, or one of them - are there several rotator cuffs, like on pants? - and if I lift my right arm, it hurts. There's a constant pain in my left foot under the bunion. My knees crack like branches in the wind. Yesterday, after riding my bike to the Y through bitter cold, I had a sparkling halo dominating my right eyeball for hours.
But you know, when you consider how many moving parts make up this machine which has been running steadily for nearly 70 years, the thing is pretty miraculous. How many washing machines last 70 years? And yet here I am, going sort of strong.
Though the brain concerns me sometimes. I can laboriously learn a piece by heart on the piano, but if I don't play it for a few weeks, it vanishes. Pouf, gone from the overcrowded, shrinking grey matter. Discouraging.
But the good news is, I don't have to wade outside till Ryerson tonight - last class of term. We'll have a party to celebrate. They've been a stellar bunch.
Watched If You Could Read My Mind, a doc on Gordon Lightfoot on the Doc channel last night, and soon will get out my scratched, beloved Lightfoot albums from the sixties and put them on. Steve Earle thinks Lightfoot is the most important singer/songwriter ever to come out of Canada - fighting words, Joni! - and I agree, one powerful, lyrical song after another. He had a happy childhood in Orillia, was a choirboy, grew up to be a hard-drinking womanizer which he now regrets - he won't sing his misogynist That's what you get for loving me any more - an interesting man who was in youth extremely handsome, gifted, and hardworking. His idol: Bob Dylan. But Dylan admires him too. A great Canadian story, with great great music.
To inspire me for the weeks of unemployment, aka holiday, ahead - 6 weeks with no income so free to do my own thing - I have a new library book, Several short sentences about writing, by a writer with the unlikely name Verlyn Klinkenborg. He sounds like a character from a comedy about Nazis, but in fact, he's a marvellous writer and this is a very interesting book - a lot admonishing young people about how badly they've been taught to write, but much aimed at someone like me. He writes about the importance of each sentence. The book is condensed, like poetry:
Your job as a writer is making sentences.
Most of your time will be spent making sentences in your head.
In your head.
Did no one ever tell you this?
That is the writer's life.
Never imagine you've left the level of the sentence behind.
Most of the sentences you make will need to be killed.
The rest will need to be fixed.
This will be true for a long time.
The hard part now is deciding which to kill and which to fix and how to fix them.
This will get much, much easier, but the decision making will never end.
A writer's real work is the endless winnowing of sentences,
The relentless exploration of possibilities,
The effort, over and over again, to see in what you started out to say
The possibility of saying something you didn't know you could.
Beautiful, no? I just looked him up - he's a modern day E. B. White, writing about rural life in the New York Times, and he's two years younger than I am. I hope his machine is running well. A long happy life to you, Verlyn.
Went to the massage therapist last week with a few specific spots to work on: a sore shoulder and foot. I didn't even know what a rotator cuff was before; now I do. Somehow I have pulled it, or one of them - are there several rotator cuffs, like on pants? - and if I lift my right arm, it hurts. There's a constant pain in my left foot under the bunion. My knees crack like branches in the wind. Yesterday, after riding my bike to the Y through bitter cold, I had a sparkling halo dominating my right eyeball for hours.
But you know, when you consider how many moving parts make up this machine which has been running steadily for nearly 70 years, the thing is pretty miraculous. How many washing machines last 70 years? And yet here I am, going sort of strong.
Though the brain concerns me sometimes. I can laboriously learn a piece by heart on the piano, but if I don't play it for a few weeks, it vanishes. Pouf, gone from the overcrowded, shrinking grey matter. Discouraging.
But the good news is, I don't have to wade outside till Ryerson tonight - last class of term. We'll have a party to celebrate. They've been a stellar bunch.
Watched If You Could Read My Mind, a doc on Gordon Lightfoot on the Doc channel last night, and soon will get out my scratched, beloved Lightfoot albums from the sixties and put them on. Steve Earle thinks Lightfoot is the most important singer/songwriter ever to come out of Canada - fighting words, Joni! - and I agree, one powerful, lyrical song after another. He had a happy childhood in Orillia, was a choirboy, grew up to be a hard-drinking womanizer which he now regrets - he won't sing his misogynist That's what you get for loving me any more - an interesting man who was in youth extremely handsome, gifted, and hardworking. His idol: Bob Dylan. But Dylan admires him too. A great Canadian story, with great great music.
To inspire me for the weeks of unemployment, aka holiday, ahead - 6 weeks with no income so free to do my own thing - I have a new library book, Several short sentences about writing, by a writer with the unlikely name Verlyn Klinkenborg. He sounds like a character from a comedy about Nazis, but in fact, he's a marvellous writer and this is a very interesting book - a lot admonishing young people about how badly they've been taught to write, but much aimed at someone like me. He writes about the importance of each sentence. The book is condensed, like poetry:
Your job as a writer is making sentences.
Most of your time will be spent making sentences in your head.
In your head.
Did no one ever tell you this?
That is the writer's life.
Never imagine you've left the level of the sentence behind.
Most of the sentences you make will need to be killed.
The rest will need to be fixed.
This will be true for a long time.
The hard part now is deciding which to kill and which to fix and how to fix them.
This will get much, much easier, but the decision making will never end.
A writer's real work is the endless winnowing of sentences,
The relentless exploration of possibilities,
The effort, over and over again, to see in what you started out to say
The possibility of saying something you didn't know you could.
Beautiful, no? I just looked him up - he's a modern day E. B. White, writing about rural life in the New York Times, and he's two years younger than I am. I hope his machine is running well. A long happy life to you, Verlyn.
November 17, 2019
So True next Sunday
Eight superb stories, and moi. For the low low price of $10. Can't be beat.
