So, after a weekend spent throwing up and watching more bad movies because I can't leave the house, feeling guilty because it was my mother's birthday and we didn't go down to the hospital to see her, and not cleaning like I usually do, I managed to accomplish one thing: I read another chicklit book, Party Girl by Sarah Mason. Yes, that Sarah Mason, author of Society Girls. She does like to use the word 'girl' in a title, that's for sure.
The book centres around party planner whose childhood sweetheart was actually an awful bully (with a heart of gold, of course). She ends up having to plan a giant fete for said fellow and his family, which ends up exactly as you'd expect: with the two leads in the closet making out. Ah, British chicklit, you never tax me nor make me frustrated with plot holes and other annoying things about these kinds of novels.
I should really only count these books as .5 and not a full whole.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Phone Frustrations
Whoever thought getting something for free would be such a freaking hassle. So, RRHB got a free phone from his video shoot last weekend. That's all good; it's a totally cool phone with lots of gadgets and an MP3 player.
But because it's with a particular carrier, we had to cancel his current phone and order a new one. Only it doesn't exist. No one has a record of the phone I have sitting in front of me on the desk.
I was on the phone with customer service for almost ninety minutes trying to figure something out when he said, "Just tell them we'll go into the store."
Sigh. Life is never easy, is it?
But because it's with a particular carrier, we had to cancel his current phone and order a new one. Only it doesn't exist. No one has a record of the phone I have sitting in front of me on the desk.
I was on the phone with customer service for almost ninety minutes trying to figure something out when he said, "Just tell them we'll go into the store."
Sigh. Life is never easy, is it?
Thursday, February 02, 2006
#4 - Society Girls
I have a soft spot in my cold, black heart for British chicklit. As you know, I'm a fan of chicklit anyway and think that it's the perfect kind of book to read when you wake up at 4.45 AM, throw up from your meds, have the runs, and can't get back to sleep.
Ahem. Was that TMI?
Annnnywaaay. I finished Sarah Mason's Society Girls. Nowhere near the level of sophistication of Gemma Townley, Mason's book is okay (judging on the chicklit curve, of course). The plot is totally predictable, and there are characters that are mentioned but never discussed so what's the point of them even being there (two extra brothers who never come home and don't even seem to have names, so wha?). But the main character, Clemmie, was delightfully free of a job in publishing and/or marketing—hooray!
The title refers to a girl who goes missing just before her wedding, and Clemmie and her sister Holly, a journalist, end up getting in over their heads in terms of the whole situation surrounding this girl Emma. As with most chicklit, the plot is preposterous and all just a rouse to get the wayward lovers together, but this book did a lot to keep my mind off my rotten stomach at 5.30 this morning.
Now how's that for a book review!
Ahem. Was that TMI?
Annnnywaaay. I finished Sarah Mason's Society Girls. Nowhere near the level of sophistication of Gemma Townley, Mason's book is okay (judging on the chicklit curve, of course). The plot is totally predictable, and there are characters that are mentioned but never discussed so what's the point of them even being there (two extra brothers who never come home and don't even seem to have names, so wha?). But the main character, Clemmie, was delightfully free of a job in publishing and/or marketing—hooray!
The title refers to a girl who goes missing just before her wedding, and Clemmie and her sister Holly, a journalist, end up getting in over their heads in terms of the whole situation surrounding this girl Emma. As with most chicklit, the plot is preposterous and all just a rouse to get the wayward lovers together, but this book did a lot to keep my mind off my rotten stomach at 5.30 this morning.
Now how's that for a book review!
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Time Is A Wastin'
At school on Monday night, someone had written something and I immediately had assumed it was based on a pop tart (like Britney but much younger). Now why would I immediately make the assumption that some smart woman in my class was writing about an American teenager whose famous for having one name, an attitude and not much else?
Hummm. Perhaps because I've been watching way, way, way too much television these past few weeks. In fact, I'm pretty sure I had a television hangover on Sunday night, after spending three days at home, feeling super-sick by myself watching movie after movie after movie.
My brain hurts.
I've even been too tired to read. So not only is the stupid disease ruining my life, or rather, ensuring that I have no life, it's limiting the things that I really love to do too.
Say it with me: stupid Wegener's.
Hummm. Perhaps because I've been watching way, way, way too much television these past few weeks. In fact, I'm pretty sure I had a television hangover on Sunday night, after spending three days at home, feeling super-sick by myself watching movie after movie after movie.
My brain hurts.
I've even been too tired to read. So not only is the stupid disease ruining my life, or rather, ensuring that I have no life, it's limiting the things that I really love to do too.
Say it with me: stupid Wegener's.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Things That I Have Learned Today
In the grand TRH tradition of creating lists when I'm too tired to write a proper blog post. Here are some things that I've learned today:
1. I'm right to oppose my RRHB's pleas to get rid of our land line and only use cell phones. Not only is that bad for the environment, but it's annoying too. Oh, and he's always mocking me for turning the phone off when I'm not using it (it's a work cell phone so I've pretty much only got it on during business hours). This way I only charge it about once a week, thus saving that energy for other good things, like running this damn computer.
2. The world is seriously pissed at James Frey. Now he's been dumped by his agent and idiotic people in the States are suing him—over 'misrepresented reading experiences'. Yes, I'm being serious.
3. My RRHB is more famous today for having an article up on the homepage of Sympatico/MSN. It's here if you want to read it.
4. The world (well, the Oscars) seriously loves the Annie Proulx-inspired Brokeback Mountain. But you've got to holla when "It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp" is nominated for Best Song. And go Terrence Howard.
1. I'm right to oppose my RRHB's pleas to get rid of our land line and only use cell phones. Not only is that bad for the environment, but it's annoying too. Oh, and he's always mocking me for turning the phone off when I'm not using it (it's a work cell phone so I've pretty much only got it on during business hours). This way I only charge it about once a week, thus saving that energy for other good things, like running this damn computer.
2. The world is seriously pissed at James Frey. Now he's been dumped by his agent and idiotic people in the States are suing him—over 'misrepresented reading experiences'. Yes, I'm being serious.
3. My RRHB is more famous today for having an article up on the homepage of Sympatico/MSN. It's here if you want to read it.
4. The world (well, the Oscars) seriously loves the Annie Proulx-inspired Brokeback Mountain. But you've got to holla when "It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp" is nominated for Best Song. And go Terrence Howard.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Kicking It Old School
On Tuesday night, the RRHB and I went to a benefit for a film that our friends are producing independently. It was the first and only time this week I actually left the house for something other than work or school. The whole night was fun until about 10 PM when my stomach started acting up again and the whole am-I-or-aren't-I going to barf thing started up. Stupid meds.
Bob Wiseman played. The first show I ever crept into when I was underage was a Bob Wiseman show at the Rivoli. I went with my crazy ex-boyfriend from high school who ended up becoming a heroin addict. The RRHB was there too. We were in a car with windshield wipers that didn't work and it was raining. I wore a Mexican poncho my father had brought back for me from some vacation he was on.
Six months later I was with a different boy and half the school wasn't talking to me because of said "drama." Six months after that I was diagnosed with Wegener's for the first time. I listened a lot to Bob Wiseman that year.
Then, I spent a few years at university going to Bob's shows, watching him in different bars, learning all of his songs, each time probably with a different boyfriend-of-the-week. Once, after one of his shows, he was packing up and we were introduced, albeit briefly. He said, "You have a very interesting voice." And then just looked at me strangely.
Ah, the joys of being so young.
"We got, we got, we got, we got, time."
It's funny how when you're young, you think that you actually do have a lot of time. These days, I think I'm already one foot in the ground with all the crap from the disease. But it's nice to remember how much fun I used to have, even if I can't have so much of it these days.
Bob Wiseman played. The first show I ever crept into when I was underage was a Bob Wiseman show at the Rivoli. I went with my crazy ex-boyfriend from high school who ended up becoming a heroin addict. The RRHB was there too. We were in a car with windshield wipers that didn't work and it was raining. I wore a Mexican poncho my father had brought back for me from some vacation he was on.
Six months later I was with a different boy and half the school wasn't talking to me because of said "drama." Six months after that I was diagnosed with Wegener's for the first time. I listened a lot to Bob Wiseman that year.
Then, I spent a few years at university going to Bob's shows, watching him in different bars, learning all of his songs, each time probably with a different boyfriend-of-the-week. Once, after one of his shows, he was packing up and we were introduced, albeit briefly. He said, "You have a very interesting voice." And then just looked at me strangely.
Ah, the joys of being so young.
"We got, we got, we got, we got, time."
It's funny how when you're young, you think that you actually do have a lot of time. These days, I think I'm already one foot in the ground with all the crap from the disease. But it's nice to remember how much fun I used to have, even if I can't have so much of it these days.
The Mantle Of Truth
A Letter to James Frey (after the style of McSweeneys).
Dear James Frey,
O ye truth slayer! O man who exaggerates! O man who battles with drug and alcohol addiction! How dare you challenge the world's belief in truth! How dare you, gasp, "lie" for the sake of narrative indulgence! How dare you, gulp, use the benefits of writing a memoir to write a great book! Shame on you.
Yawn.
I'll bet you're thinking twice about the good fortune of finding yourself in a position to reap the benefits of the Oprah Book Club right about now. And I'm guessing Oprah's pretty unhappy she stopped sticking to dead authors.
But after seeing your humiliating visit on Oprah, James, I'd have to say that it must really suck to be you right about now. However, the bajillions of dollars you've made in royalties and will continue to make off of your hotly contested memoir A Million Little Pieces should go a long way to keeping you warm at night. But honestly dude, the whole thing is just so ridiculous. It's a great book. You should be proud of writing it. You should be proud of your voice. That's what matters.
So what if you changed a couple of things here and a couple of things there. In the end, it's embarrassing to me that so much of the world has started to slay you like you're personally responsible for the death of truth in popular culture.
Now let me state that these are people who hold up Paris Hilton as an icon and who honestly believe that Nicole Richie doesn't have an eating disorder.
The whole thing was ridiculous, Oprah was ridiculous. It's a memoir. In truth, it's more creative nonfiction than it is anything else. Of course you wrote what you thought would be a better story, but in the end that's never going to matter because not a single person on that stage defended you.
Not a single person stood up and said, "What's wrong with all of you. He didn't set out to lie to you. He wrote a book that had a powerful and lasting affect on people."
Not a single person stood up and said, "How can a person possibly remember every string of dialogue they've spoken in their entire lives. Memory is by definition a difficult thing. Memory by its nature calls for recreations and adaptation."
Oh Oprah, so glad that you can be so high and mighty, talking down from your mountain about the death of truth in the world. Who did you vote for? What fictions have you created in your own life just to get through it? Here's one: you call your dogs, your children. The last time I looked there was a slight biological difference between dogs and kids. Aren't you lying to yourself just a little bit or adapting the truth because that's how you feel or how you want something to be perceived?
But heh, ho, it's okay, it's okay for everyone to hang the mantle of truth upon you, poor James Frey, because you wrote the book, and some web site decided to debunk the fundamental facts. It's not journalism. It's not an autobiography. It's a memoir. An account of what happened. The form by its nature reeks of incorrect facts, misinterpreted events and opinions that are more point of view than by the book. I am honestly surprised that Oprah, refusing to see both sides of the story, didn't bring a single person to that taping who might have seen it your way.
And if anyone in this world believes that truth isn't something that's mutable, well then I'd suggest you acquaint yourself with a little known philosophy called post-modernism. Look it up in a dictionary, if you must.
You know James, my friend Kate made an extremely smart point in an email she sent to me today. She said that what's the big deal when there's an entire war being fought, billions of dollars being spent, and lives being lost in the war in Iraq, which is for all intents and purposes, based on a pack of lies. Anyone see George W. up there in the audience calling out for the truth?
Honestly, I think you should have told everyone to shut the hell up. Especially the blow-hard journalists who claim to search for truth when the black and white, right and wrong, good and bad, nature of our society stood up, had a martini and left about a hundred years ago laughing because it's never been true in the first place.
I'm furious with Oprah. I'm furious with a lot of people and stand by the fact that your voice is authentic, which means a hell of a lot more to me than whether or not you spent three hours or three months in jail.
Hold your head up James. And hold on.
Dear James Frey,
O ye truth slayer! O man who exaggerates! O man who battles with drug and alcohol addiction! How dare you challenge the world's belief in truth! How dare you, gasp, "lie" for the sake of narrative indulgence! How dare you, gulp, use the benefits of writing a memoir to write a great book! Shame on you.
Yawn.
I'll bet you're thinking twice about the good fortune of finding yourself in a position to reap the benefits of the Oprah Book Club right about now. And I'm guessing Oprah's pretty unhappy she stopped sticking to dead authors.
But after seeing your humiliating visit on Oprah, James, I'd have to say that it must really suck to be you right about now. However, the bajillions of dollars you've made in royalties and will continue to make off of your hotly contested memoir A Million Little Pieces should go a long way to keeping you warm at night. But honestly dude, the whole thing is just so ridiculous. It's a great book. You should be proud of writing it. You should be proud of your voice. That's what matters.
So what if you changed a couple of things here and a couple of things there. In the end, it's embarrassing to me that so much of the world has started to slay you like you're personally responsible for the death of truth in popular culture.
Now let me state that these are people who hold up Paris Hilton as an icon and who honestly believe that Nicole Richie doesn't have an eating disorder.
The whole thing was ridiculous, Oprah was ridiculous. It's a memoir. In truth, it's more creative nonfiction than it is anything else. Of course you wrote what you thought would be a better story, but in the end that's never going to matter because not a single person on that stage defended you.
Not a single person stood up and said, "What's wrong with all of you. He didn't set out to lie to you. He wrote a book that had a powerful and lasting affect on people."
Not a single person stood up and said, "How can a person possibly remember every string of dialogue they've spoken in their entire lives. Memory is by definition a difficult thing. Memory by its nature calls for recreations and adaptation."
Oh Oprah, so glad that you can be so high and mighty, talking down from your mountain about the death of truth in the world. Who did you vote for? What fictions have you created in your own life just to get through it? Here's one: you call your dogs, your children. The last time I looked there was a slight biological difference between dogs and kids. Aren't you lying to yourself just a little bit or adapting the truth because that's how you feel or how you want something to be perceived?
But heh, ho, it's okay, it's okay for everyone to hang the mantle of truth upon you, poor James Frey, because you wrote the book, and some web site decided to debunk the fundamental facts. It's not journalism. It's not an autobiography. It's a memoir. An account of what happened. The form by its nature reeks of incorrect facts, misinterpreted events and opinions that are more point of view than by the book. I am honestly surprised that Oprah, refusing to see both sides of the story, didn't bring a single person to that taping who might have seen it your way.
And if anyone in this world believes that truth isn't something that's mutable, well then I'd suggest you acquaint yourself with a little known philosophy called post-modernism. Look it up in a dictionary, if you must.
You know James, my friend Kate made an extremely smart point in an email she sent to me today. She said that what's the big deal when there's an entire war being fought, billions of dollars being spent, and lives being lost in the war in Iraq, which is for all intents and purposes, based on a pack of lies. Anyone see George W. up there in the audience calling out for the truth?
Honestly, I think you should have told everyone to shut the hell up. Especially the blow-hard journalists who claim to search for truth when the black and white, right and wrong, good and bad, nature of our society stood up, had a martini and left about a hundred years ago laughing because it's never been true in the first place.
I'm furious with Oprah. I'm furious with a lot of people and stand by the fact that your voice is authentic, which means a hell of a lot more to me than whether or not you spent three hours or three months in jail.
Hold your head up James. And hold on.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Should I Be Surprised?
So the new and improved, slightly 'evolved' Stephen Harper is the new prime minister. Huh. I was more stupified to learn that a measly 64% of the population actually voted and judging from the results, I'd say there were many opportunities to make a difference that were wasted.
Some of the things I heard on the radio:
1. A woman who said she was too wrapped up in her own "bubble" to vote. Is she kidding? What could be more important to her than the right she has to decide what happens to her own body? On what kind of a country she's living in? On whether or not health care will continue? No offense honey, but nothing in your life should have been more important than voting. It takes five minutes. You even get time off from work to vote if you need it.
2. One woman wanted the Conservatives to win but voted Liberal in her riding because she thought the Tory (and I loathe to call them that) candidate wouldn't win. So a lot of thought went into that vote, that's for sure.
3. People were voting for the Conservatives because they are 'sick' of the Liberals. This makes absolutely no sense to me. The same thing happened in Ontario after Bob Rae and the NDP frustrated people; they voted for Mike Harris, who then proceeded to be the worst premier the province had seen in decades, maybe ever. It's a knee jerk approach with no understanding for the larger issues, the greater good. And now when the crazy sh*t starts happening and things start to change, people will start complaining and wondering what went so very wrong. When unemployment creeps up and our troops are getting killed in Iraq and we carry a deficit for the first time in over a decade, then they'll all be wondering why they voted for the knucklehead in the first place.
Some of the things I heard on the radio:
1. A woman who said she was too wrapped up in her own "bubble" to vote. Is she kidding? What could be more important to her than the right she has to decide what happens to her own body? On what kind of a country she's living in? On whether or not health care will continue? No offense honey, but nothing in your life should have been more important than voting. It takes five minutes. You even get time off from work to vote if you need it.
2. One woman wanted the Conservatives to win but voted Liberal in her riding because she thought the Tory (and I loathe to call them that) candidate wouldn't win. So a lot of thought went into that vote, that's for sure.
3. People were voting for the Conservatives because they are 'sick' of the Liberals. This makes absolutely no sense to me. The same thing happened in Ontario after Bob Rae and the NDP frustrated people; they voted for Mike Harris, who then proceeded to be the worst premier the province had seen in decades, maybe ever. It's a knee jerk approach with no understanding for the larger issues, the greater good. And now when the crazy sh*t starts happening and things start to change, people will start complaining and wondering what went so very wrong. When unemployment creeps up and our troops are getting killed in Iraq and we carry a deficit for the first time in over a decade, then they'll all be wondering why they voted for the knucklehead in the first place.
Monday, January 23, 2006
If You Do One Thing Today
Please vote. It's the most important election of our adulthood, this one. The ramifications of today's election will resonate for years to come. I'm not one to tell you who to vote for, please just vote.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Weekend Antics
So a couple friends of my RRHB came over on Friday night and we played cards. They were all drinking our neighbour's homemade wine ($20.00 for 25 bottles—oh what a steal!). After the exasperating few days I spent being very ill after the non-wedding, and because of the meds, I abstained.
For the very first time in a long while, I sat and watched the three of them get absolutely hammered. It was pretty enjoyable, especially when they gave me a new name to go along with my new last name, and I shall forever be known to the three of them as Sparkle Poirier. Heh.
I lost every single game we played at Euchre, which is fine because I really just like to play cards, I don't care if I win or lose. And drunken euchre players are always funny. And then the evening digressed into talking about politics because it's on everyone's mind.
Then today we got up and had breakfast with a dear old friend of ours, who we regaled with tales of the drunken debauchery from the night before. He laughed. A good time was had by all.
But here's the coup de grace of my day—we saw Underworld: Evolution. I'm still processing it. But damn, I love that series. It's an okay sequel, not as good as the first movie, but certainly a good set-up for the third, which I'm already hoping to see in the next few years.
Now, I'd like to take a survey. Put your hands up if you think small children should really be allowed to see a film where people are shot, decapitated, mortally wounded, viciously killed, de-blooded, and a whole host of other cool vampire and werewolf-like stuff happens? Yeah, I didn't think so. Shame on you parents who brought their five and six-year-olds to see a film meant for an adult audience. Oh, and Scott Speedman is totally hot. It's almost a crime.
It's a very full weekend for a girl with Wegener's Granulomatosis. And it's not even over yet!
For the very first time in a long while, I sat and watched the three of them get absolutely hammered. It was pretty enjoyable, especially when they gave me a new name to go along with my new last name, and I shall forever be known to the three of them as Sparkle Poirier. Heh.
I lost every single game we played at Euchre, which is fine because I really just like to play cards, I don't care if I win or lose. And drunken euchre players are always funny. And then the evening digressed into talking about politics because it's on everyone's mind.
Then today we got up and had breakfast with a dear old friend of ours, who we regaled with tales of the drunken debauchery from the night before. He laughed. A good time was had by all.
But here's the coup de grace of my day—we saw Underworld: Evolution. I'm still processing it. But damn, I love that series. It's an okay sequel, not as good as the first movie, but certainly a good set-up for the third, which I'm already hoping to see in the next few years.
Now, I'd like to take a survey. Put your hands up if you think small children should really be allowed to see a film where people are shot, decapitated, mortally wounded, viciously killed, de-blooded, and a whole host of other cool vampire and werewolf-like stuff happens? Yeah, I didn't think so. Shame on you parents who brought their five and six-year-olds to see a film meant for an adult audience. Oh, and Scott Speedman is totally hot. It's almost a crime.
It's a very full weekend for a girl with Wegener's Granulomatosis. And it's not even over yet!
#3 - Never Let Me Go
Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go might just be the most well crafted piece of writing I have ever read. Not a sentence, not a word, not a single piece of punctuation is misplaced or out of step. In short, it's a bloody brilliant book.
The book tells the story of three clones: Kathy, Ruth and Tommy. Each has a particular role in their lives; their destinies so to speak. Ruth and Tommy become 'donors' (of what is exquisitely left to your imagination), while Kathy is a carer, someone who spends her days taking care of the donors after they've, well, donated.
All three grow up in an extremely cloistered way at Halisham, a private boarding school for other clone children, designed for them to express their creativity and have a well-rounded upbringing. Once they're finished at Halisham, the three end up at a place called the Cottages, where they spend a few years becoming adults before their real jobs begin.
There is a deep sense of suspense written into the novel. It's a page turner in the purest sense, but the plot and the chapters are so intricately developed that you don't feel like you're being manipulated. The book moves along so quickly that it creates a world in your head even before you realize that your imagination has taken the story over and made it into something of your own. If that makes any sense.
I know I've only read 3 books so far this year (well, I have read 4 but I can't talk about the other one until it's been published, which isn't until March), but it's the best book I've read in a long, long while. Truly deserving of its Booker nomination, and later on this year when I read The Sea, I'll be able to compare the two—but something in my mind tells me Ishiguro will come out on top.
The book tells the story of three clones: Kathy, Ruth and Tommy. Each has a particular role in their lives; their destinies so to speak. Ruth and Tommy become 'donors' (of what is exquisitely left to your imagination), while Kathy is a carer, someone who spends her days taking care of the donors after they've, well, donated.
All three grow up in an extremely cloistered way at Halisham, a private boarding school for other clone children, designed for them to express their creativity and have a well-rounded upbringing. Once they're finished at Halisham, the three end up at a place called the Cottages, where they spend a few years becoming adults before their real jobs begin.
There is a deep sense of suspense written into the novel. It's a page turner in the purest sense, but the plot and the chapters are so intricately developed that you don't feel like you're being manipulated. The book moves along so quickly that it creates a world in your head even before you realize that your imagination has taken the story over and made it into something of your own. If that makes any sense.
I know I've only read 3 books so far this year (well, I have read 4 but I can't talk about the other one until it's been published, which isn't until March), but it's the best book I've read in a long, long while. Truly deserving of its Booker nomination, and later on this year when I read The Sea, I'll be able to compare the two—but something in my mind tells me Ishiguro will come out on top.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
What's Up Doc?
So here's a list of the things I've been doing this week. It's so not exciting:
1. Attending a conference for work. It was three days long and even though you don't do anything, you literally just sit there hearing about all the fun stuff that's coming down the pipes, you are brain dead and exhausted at the end of it.
2. Going to school, watching television (hello Jack Bauer), listening to Metro Morning, going to work, eating dinner and sleeping.
3. Oh, and I barfed, again. Also not fun.
4. Reading Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro and loving every single word.
5. Discovering that it's actually easier on me to walk from Dundas down to King Street vs. trying to navigate the stairs of the subway station. That's how pathetic I am at the moment from the disease. Talk about a weakened state.
6. Trying not to take too much Gravol but then giving in because it's better to be sleepy that to be throwing up. Can I get a witness?
7. Missing my friends because I couldn't really carry on any email conversations while I'm sitting in a conference.
8. Wanting to sleep like Rip Van Winkle because I'm so tired.
9. Waiting for a hug. Really from anyone.
10. Wishing I could stay home all the time and watch Ellen.
And that about sums me up this week? What's up with y'all?
1. Attending a conference for work. It was three days long and even though you don't do anything, you literally just sit there hearing about all the fun stuff that's coming down the pipes, you are brain dead and exhausted at the end of it.
2. Going to school, watching television (hello Jack Bauer), listening to Metro Morning, going to work, eating dinner and sleeping.
3. Oh, and I barfed, again. Also not fun.
4. Reading Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro and loving every single word.
5. Discovering that it's actually easier on me to walk from Dundas down to King Street vs. trying to navigate the stairs of the subway station. That's how pathetic I am at the moment from the disease. Talk about a weakened state.
6. Trying not to take too much Gravol but then giving in because it's better to be sleepy that to be throwing up. Can I get a witness?
7. Missing my friends because I couldn't really carry on any email conversations while I'm sitting in a conference.
8. Wanting to sleep like Rip Van Winkle because I'm so tired.
9. Waiting for a hug. Really from anyone.
10. Wishing I could stay home all the time and watch Ellen.
And that about sums me up this week? What's up with y'all?
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Procrastination Pays
My RRHB was clearing out one of the rooms he's going to demolish on the main floor of our house when I got in from brunch. One of the boxes he pulled out was from my old work, after they 'let me go' I wasn't allowed to pack up my office—they just wanted me gone. I couldn't look at the stuff before now, I guess, because the box has been sitting in our storage room for months.
A lot of it is garbage. A funny poem from McSweeney's. A picture of the young beat generation writers, Kerouac, Burroughs. A funny newspaper clipping of Johnny Rotten holding a press pass with an awesome look on his face. Essentially, a pile of stuff that I used to personalize my office while I had one.
But in a copy of Girl With A Pearl Earring, I found a $50.00 bill. Now, that's way above and beyond finding money in your pants or your winter coat. Usually, you're lucky if you find $5.00 or $10.00. But $50.00? Man, that's my spending money for the week. See, it paid for me to ignore the residual effects of being forced out of that job—I'm $50.00 richer than I was yesterday.
A lot of it is garbage. A funny poem from McSweeney's. A picture of the young beat generation writers, Kerouac, Burroughs. A funny newspaper clipping of Johnny Rotten holding a press pass with an awesome look on his face. Essentially, a pile of stuff that I used to personalize my office while I had one.
But in a copy of Girl With A Pearl Earring, I found a $50.00 bill. Now, that's way above and beyond finding money in your pants or your winter coat. Usually, you're lucky if you find $5.00 or $10.00. But $50.00? Man, that's my spending money for the week. See, it paid for me to ignore the residual effects of being forced out of that job—I'm $50.00 richer than I was yesterday.
Friday, January 13, 2006
The Grossest Day Ever
So, ever since the non-wedding, my stomach has been precious, to say the least. But today it finally went overboard. Not enough sleep combined with some yoghurt for breakfast equals a truly nasty trip to the bathroom where my imaginary friendship with James Frey seems more real than ever. You know when he's talking about pieces of his stomach coming up, yeah. I've been there. It's not a fun place to be.
Dear Stephen Harper
Dear Stephen Harper:
With all your tax-cut bullsh*t and your faux 'evolution' (I think I just barfed a bit in my mouth, seriously), I have just one question for you. Will you be funding all of us liberal-minded, free-thinking, social-program supporting, non-neo-conservative thinking Canadians who will want to move if you, shudder, are elected to a majority government as the Globe and Mail is reporting?
Thanks,
ragdoll
With all your tax-cut bullsh*t and your faux 'evolution' (I think I just barfed a bit in my mouth, seriously), I have just one question for you. Will you be funding all of us liberal-minded, free-thinking, social-program supporting, non-neo-conservative thinking Canadians who will want to move if you, shudder, are elected to a majority government as the Globe and Mail is reporting?
Thanks,
ragdoll
Frey Redux
There's a great article in today's Publisher's Weekly about the whole controversy over James Frey's memoir. I suppose it's not shocking that the editorial team moved the book into nonfiction because they hoped it would sell better, anything and everything to get people to read is an honourable thing to do in my mind.
But the people who are crying because not every word is 'true', I might have to go all post-modern on their ass and ask them what does truth mean in today's world? We can't get a straight story from anyone; news is embellished for ratings; creative nonfiction vilified for turning out a solid narrative; actors are held up on pedestals usually reserved for well, writers, poets, statesmen/women and politicians; and truth becomes so utterly relevant to the person who is speaking it that, again, I don't see what the big deal is.
But the people who are crying because not every word is 'true', I might have to go all post-modern on their ass and ask them what does truth mean in today's world? We can't get a straight story from anyone; news is embellished for ratings; creative nonfiction vilified for turning out a solid narrative; actors are held up on pedestals usually reserved for well, writers, poets, statesmen/women and politicians; and truth becomes so utterly relevant to the person who is speaking it that, again, I don't see what the big deal is.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
James Frey Fizzles?
With the publication of the creepily in-depth investigative journalism of The Smoking Gun, whose mug shot gallery remains one of the all-time greats in terms of internet pages, James Frey must be shaking in his sober boots about now.
And as I jump onto the blogosphere bandwagon for just a moment, keep in mind that I have read and enjoyed A Million Little Pieces. On the whole, I found the whole premise of The Smoking Gun's article to be slightly surreal, but I guess when you reach the kind of Oprahfied success of Frey, you're sort of inviting the detractors, especially if you written the best-selling nonfiction book of, like, all time, the Bible excluded of course.
But what I don't understand is why people care so much, and I'm finding so many parallels with what's going on right now in Canadian politics, where smear campaigns, name calling and corrupt finger-pointing seems to take away from the real issue at hand. Did Frey write a great book? Yes, he did. Did Frey take liberties with some of the events for the sake of the narrative? I'm sure he did. What does that man in terms of it being classified 'nonfiction'? Well, not much considering there's license with the classification anyway.
So what if he embellished here and there? So what if he made some of the events more intense than they were -- it doesn't make the book any less powerful to know that the author may have changed a few of the details. It's an accepted fact that it's hard to write a memoir. That it's almost impossible to remember exactly what happened to an extent that your life will still make for good reading. In the end, Frey seems to be on the end of a long line of people wanting to attack him simply because of his success.
A Million Little Pieces is a really good book. It's got a great message and its author seems genuine in his quest to be a better person, to live a good life, so what if memoir is more fiction than non, does it make it any less persuasive or any less of a read? I don't think that it does.
Funny how Frey's own advice will come back to haunt him. I'm guessing that the simple idea of "Holding on" might be coming in handy right about now.
And as I jump onto the blogosphere bandwagon for just a moment, keep in mind that I have read and enjoyed A Million Little Pieces. On the whole, I found the whole premise of The Smoking Gun's article to be slightly surreal, but I guess when you reach the kind of Oprahfied success of Frey, you're sort of inviting the detractors, especially if you written the best-selling nonfiction book of, like, all time, the Bible excluded of course.
But what I don't understand is why people care so much, and I'm finding so many parallels with what's going on right now in Canadian politics, where smear campaigns, name calling and corrupt finger-pointing seems to take away from the real issue at hand. Did Frey write a great book? Yes, he did. Did Frey take liberties with some of the events for the sake of the narrative? I'm sure he did. What does that man in terms of it being classified 'nonfiction'? Well, not much considering there's license with the classification anyway.
So what if he embellished here and there? So what if he made some of the events more intense than they were -- it doesn't make the book any less powerful to know that the author may have changed a few of the details. It's an accepted fact that it's hard to write a memoir. That it's almost impossible to remember exactly what happened to an extent that your life will still make for good reading. In the end, Frey seems to be on the end of a long line of people wanting to attack him simply because of his success.
A Million Little Pieces is a really good book. It's got a great message and its author seems genuine in his quest to be a better person, to live a good life, so what if memoir is more fiction than non, does it make it any less persuasive or any less of a read? I don't think that it does.
Funny how Frey's own advice will come back to haunt him. I'm guessing that the simple idea of "Holding on" might be coming in handy right about now.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
#2 - A Long Way Down
Nick Hornby's delicious novel is meant to be devoured in one sitting like a Toblerone bar. Out of the two books I've read so far this year, it's definitely the best, but that's not saying much as the comparison novel is The Da Vinci Code.
On New Year's Eve, four people, as disparate as four people could honestly be, end up atop of Toppers' House, and infamous high rise where Londoners go to kill themselves. As luck would have it, the four sort of talk each other down, which begins and odd and strangely unique friendship between them.
The sadness of each of their lives remains entirely empathetic; it doesn't make the move into parody, but remains real and honest and good. The characters aren't necessarily likeable, but I've learned from Hustle & Flow that you can even sympathize with a pimp, if he's human enough.
All in all it's a book I truly couldn't put down. I read in one giant gulp, half awaiting the brain freeze I was sure was to follow. It never came. And I feel oddly satisfied, in a strange Sunday kind of way.
On New Year's Eve, four people, as disparate as four people could honestly be, end up atop of Toppers' House, and infamous high rise where Londoners go to kill themselves. As luck would have it, the four sort of talk each other down, which begins and odd and strangely unique friendship between them.
The sadness of each of their lives remains entirely empathetic; it doesn't make the move into parody, but remains real and honest and good. The characters aren't necessarily likeable, but I've learned from Hustle & Flow that you can even sympathize with a pimp, if he's human enough.
All in all it's a book I truly couldn't put down. I read in one giant gulp, half awaiting the brain freeze I was sure was to follow. It never came. And I feel oddly satisfied, in a strange Sunday kind of way.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Hustle & Flow
Now, I know I can't compare my semi-charmed life to that of the main character in Hustle & Flow, but that movie has been in my head all night. Especially when DJay says, "I'm squeezing a dollar out of a dime when I ain't even got a penny."
It's like a metaphor man, one that ain't even all mixed up, but so pure that I could rest my head on it and dream big, because everyone has got to have a dream.
It's like a metaphor man, one that ain't even all mixed up, but so pure that I could rest my head on it and dream big, because everyone has got to have a dream.
Oh. The. Irony.
How ironic is it that I'm reading this article about newspapers surviving in their long forms online? Just when the author touts the success of Gutenberg and dead trees. Heh.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
#1 - The Da Vinci Code
So, the very first book I've finished this year is North America's most over-read, over-interpreted, overly successful novel. Soon to be a major motion picture, I have little more to say about it except that like 25 million other poor souls, I have finished it. But one thing I'll say for sure, Dan Brown is a master of writing short chapters. And I think the casting agents did a super good job. I can totally see all of the actors cast in the roles as the characters in the book. Yawn. I'm very sleepy now. Maybe I'll dream of the Holy Grail. Double yawn.
But I know I'll be screaming, "It's fiction!" at the top of my lungs the week the movie is released, just like Ron Howard.
But I know I'll be screaming, "It's fiction!" at the top of my lungs the week the movie is released, just like Ron Howard.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Is This Guy For Real?
Honestly. Is he actually writing these things down and believing that he's speaking the truth? But when a national magazine spreads such anti-feminist and, frankly, anti-women propaganda you've got to wonder about the state of our union.
Of the sentences that make me the most angry: "Thus, every December 6, our own unmanned Dominion lowers its flags to half-mast and tries to saddle Canadian manhood in general with the blame for the Montreal massacre..."
Huh. In every single, thoughtful tribute to the Montreal massacre, one of which I encountered at a downtown Toronto hospital, people spoke out against the violence, which is increasingly dangerous and/or over-exposed in our culture. I doubt that most feminists would blame anyone other than Marc Lepine for the actual massacre, but perhaps the date has come to stand for a more general protest to support the fight to stop violence against women; sort of like how we remember the contribution by our Canadian soldiers by wearing a poppy, we don a ribbon on December 6 so we don't forget.
And then: "If abortion is, as Kate O'Beirne calls it, feminism "holy grail," there are more than a few countries that must wish they'd never stumbled upon it. In the seventies, the average Russian woman apparently exercised her "right to choose" no less than seven times. Today, abortions outnumber live births. As a result, Russia is at the start of a demographic death spiral unprecedented in a relatively advanced society not at war."
Right, so the problems with Russia have nothing to do with a severely oppressed country battling economic and sociological problems. Nothing to do with the lack of food or medicine or access to basic life needs—oh no, it's because Russian women are having too many abortions. Anyone ask the question as to why other methods of birth control aren't available, or even assume they just might not be considering the termination rate is so high. No, no, Mr. Steyn, you're so right, it's the fault of feminists, that's what it is. Ridiculous.
And what's probably the most offense line in the entire, abysmal article: "That's a Gloria Steinem line, of course. These days Gloria is -- what? 83? 112? -- and still looks fabulously hot, but, like The Feminism of Doria Gray, it's her ideology that's gotten all wrinkled and saggy."
Wonderful. So he's actually stooped to the level of criticizing a woman based on both her age and appearance, while at the same time claiming that feminism has conquered all of the problems women need to overcome in the Western world. So glad he's obviously gotten the point, ahem, and I'm even happier that he decided to write this pap down, my goodness what if men were denied their right to free speech by us abortion-supporting, well educated, happily feminist women? No, that's right, there are no more battles to fight on that front, none at all, especially considering men like this have obviously challenged themselves to think, act and, well, be feminists. Not.
Oh, you are so right Mark Steyn, "C'mon, gals! Anyone can beat up post-feminist neutered Western males. Why not pick on a target worth the effort?" Why not indeed, sir, why not indeed. Oh, and just because I can: "Shut up Mark Steyn. Shut the hell up while you're still on a pulpit worth sprouting from." And that's 100% Ragdoll.
Oh and just for the record, I heart the Macleans web site; it's one of my favourites, and my heart broke just a bit when I found this article there. What was Ken Whyte thinking? Can anyone tell me?
Edited to add: I know Steyn in his own misogynist way, was trying to call attention to the struggles of women outside the Western world, and in no way does my criticism of him downplay and/or disagree that women all around the world are in terrible positions because of various different socio, economical and political or even religious reasons, my point here is to simply state that he went about making that argument all wrong.
Of the sentences that make me the most angry: "Thus, every December 6, our own unmanned Dominion lowers its flags to half-mast and tries to saddle Canadian manhood in general with the blame for the Montreal massacre..."
Huh. In every single, thoughtful tribute to the Montreal massacre, one of which I encountered at a downtown Toronto hospital, people spoke out against the violence, which is increasingly dangerous and/or over-exposed in our culture. I doubt that most feminists would blame anyone other than Marc Lepine for the actual massacre, but perhaps the date has come to stand for a more general protest to support the fight to stop violence against women; sort of like how we remember the contribution by our Canadian soldiers by wearing a poppy, we don a ribbon on December 6 so we don't forget.
And then: "If abortion is, as Kate O'Beirne calls it, feminism "holy grail," there are more than a few countries that must wish they'd never stumbled upon it. In the seventies, the average Russian woman apparently exercised her "right to choose" no less than seven times. Today, abortions outnumber live births. As a result, Russia is at the start of a demographic death spiral unprecedented in a relatively advanced society not at war."
Right, so the problems with Russia have nothing to do with a severely oppressed country battling economic and sociological problems. Nothing to do with the lack of food or medicine or access to basic life needs—oh no, it's because Russian women are having too many abortions. Anyone ask the question as to why other methods of birth control aren't available, or even assume they just might not be considering the termination rate is so high. No, no, Mr. Steyn, you're so right, it's the fault of feminists, that's what it is. Ridiculous.
And what's probably the most offense line in the entire, abysmal article: "That's a Gloria Steinem line, of course. These days Gloria is -- what? 83? 112? -- and still looks fabulously hot, but, like The Feminism of Doria Gray, it's her ideology that's gotten all wrinkled and saggy."
Wonderful. So he's actually stooped to the level of criticizing a woman based on both her age and appearance, while at the same time claiming that feminism has conquered all of the problems women need to overcome in the Western world. So glad he's obviously gotten the point, ahem, and I'm even happier that he decided to write this pap down, my goodness what if men were denied their right to free speech by us abortion-supporting, well educated, happily feminist women? No, that's right, there are no more battles to fight on that front, none at all, especially considering men like this have obviously challenged themselves to think, act and, well, be feminists. Not.
Oh, you are so right Mark Steyn, "C'mon, gals! Anyone can beat up post-feminist neutered Western males. Why not pick on a target worth the effort?" Why not indeed, sir, why not indeed. Oh, and just because I can: "Shut up Mark Steyn. Shut the hell up while you're still on a pulpit worth sprouting from." And that's 100% Ragdoll.
Oh and just for the record, I heart the Macleans web site; it's one of my favourites, and my heart broke just a bit when I found this article there. What was Ken Whyte thinking? Can anyone tell me?
Edited to add: I know Steyn in his own misogynist way, was trying to call attention to the struggles of women outside the Western world, and in no way does my criticism of him downplay and/or disagree that women all around the world are in terrible positions because of various different socio, economical and political or even religious reasons, my point here is to simply state that he went about making that argument all wrong.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Things To Do: Today Being A Monday In January
So, here's the list of things to do this week:
1. Vote for my RRHB's band on MuchMoreMusic.com.
2. Vote again.
3. Finish North America's most over-read book, The Da Vinci Code. I'm honestly not trying to pre-judge the damn book, but I kind of resent having to read it..but I kind of have to read it for work.
4. Try not to throw up. This one is crucial because ever since the non-wedding, I've been an almost-barf machine.
5. Watch Scrubs. Thank goodness it's back on the air. The world needs more Zach Braff.
1. Vote for my RRHB's band on MuchMoreMusic.com.
2. Vote again.
3. Finish North America's most over-read book, The Da Vinci Code. I'm honestly not trying to pre-judge the damn book, but I kind of resent having to read it..but I kind of have to read it for work.
4. Try not to throw up. This one is crucial because ever since the non-wedding, I've been an almost-barf machine.
5. Watch Scrubs. Thank goodness it's back on the air. The world needs more Zach Braff.
New Year's Revolutions Redux
Keep in mind that just a mere 365 days ago, I went back to work after sick leave only to be laid off due to "restructuring." So today when someone said to me, "Ragdoll, the boss wants to see you," my stomach dropped to my knees. The last thing I needed was to get fired again!
Of course, I wasn't getting fired from my almost-new job—she just wanted to let me know that we got cost of living increases, which is always nice. But my panic attack led me to another New Year's Revolution: try to look at things more positively.
I decided that there's little I can actually do to control the health situation. I need to give in to the fact that the disease is sort of having its way with me right now and as soon as it's back into remission, I can concentrate on being super-duper-ooper healthy. For now, surviving is the best I can do.
But thinking positively? Well, that's something I can start right away. And it comes in small doses, so it shouldn't be all that hard to keep for the next 365 days.
Of course, I wasn't getting fired from my almost-new job—she just wanted to let me know that we got cost of living increases, which is always nice. But my panic attack led me to another New Year's Revolution: try to look at things more positively.
I decided that there's little I can actually do to control the health situation. I need to give in to the fact that the disease is sort of having its way with me right now and as soon as it's back into remission, I can concentrate on being super-duper-ooper healthy. For now, surviving is the best I can do.
But thinking positively? Well, that's something I can start right away. And it comes in small doses, so it shouldn't be all that hard to keep for the next 365 days.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
New Year's Revolutions
In the past, I celebrated the coming of the new year by getting really drunk and dancing the night away, hopefully ending up in bed with some fellow I only half knew. Ah, the ever-present memory; the stench of my youth. Now that I'm such an old lady, the last thought on my mind was finding some excuse to go out last night. Instead, my RRHB and I stayed home and watched a marathon session of The Lord of the Rings—all three extended editions. The. Entire. Trilogy. In a row. We started at 8 PM last night and finished at 5 PM today (after sleeping in until 10 AM, of course). That's a perfect New Year's Eve to me now. How old am I? Sheesh, and just think it was only last year when then RRBF was playing with The Weakerthans opening up for The Tragically Hip at Copp's in the Hammer. Even now, that seems like a distant memory.
Last year, I had one revolution: to find a new job. Funny how it ended up finding me as today's the anniversary of the day I got fired by the Boss From Hell. And to think my bionic hip has carried me through a solid 365 days of walking on both legs with no cane and with no pain.
So much happens in a year that you forget what you hoped to accomplish. I guess my only goal for this upcoming year is to be healthy, to be able to live like a regular girl again. I don't think that's too much to ask of myself. If it's a revolution instead of a resolution, there just might be a chance I'll stick to it and will myself into good health by eating right and at least attempting to exercise.
"Tomorrow's another day," she says as she finishes off the last of the Christmas baked goods...
Last year, I had one revolution: to find a new job. Funny how it ended up finding me as today's the anniversary of the day I got fired by the Boss From Hell. And to think my bionic hip has carried me through a solid 365 days of walking on both legs with no cane and with no pain.
So much happens in a year that you forget what you hoped to accomplish. I guess my only goal for this upcoming year is to be healthy, to be able to live like a regular girl again. I don't think that's too much to ask of myself. If it's a revolution instead of a resolution, there just might be a chance I'll stick to it and will myself into good health by eating right and at least attempting to exercise.
"Tomorrow's another day," she says as she finishes off the last of the Christmas baked goods...
Friday, December 30, 2005
"Champagne Flu"
So, I've discovered that drinking far too much champagne in celebration of your nuptials ends with a serious bout of barfing (3.5 hours just wasn't enough for my body—it was in it for the long haul).
After 48 hours of feeling like the dog's breakfast, I'm finally starting to feel better. Hey, at least I got to watch 4 movies and when do you get to just sit around and watch 4 movies?
At least I had a good time and isn't that what your non-wedding is supposed to be, serious fun?
After 48 hours of feeling like the dog's breakfast, I'm finally starting to feel better. Hey, at least I got to watch 4 movies and when do you get to just sit around and watch 4 movies?
At least I had a good time and isn't that what your non-wedding is supposed to be, serious fun?
#65 - A Great And Terrible Beauty
Sometimes, I wonder if I should count YA novels towards the final count, but when the book runs over 250 pages, I think it's a solid book. Libba Bray's A Great and Terrible Beauty is a fanciful tale about a young girl named Gemma whose mother is murdered. She's sent off to a finishing school (it's the Victorian age) where she discovers a lot about herself (she's got magical powers) and finds herself in over her head in terms of how to use said power for good.
A lot happens, but I found the book kind of silly, perhaps because I'm not a sixteen-year-old, but I loved the character and might read the next installment next year.
So I made it to 65 books this year. I wanted to hit 75, but I didn't even come close. Guess that's my goal for 2006!
A lot happens, but I found the book kind of silly, perhaps because I'm not a sixteen-year-old, but I loved the character and might read the next installment next year.
So I made it to 65 books this year. I wanted to hit 75, but I didn't even come close. Guess that's my goal for 2006!
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Happy Wedding?
We just got home from our "non-wedding" and it's very strange and wonderful to be Mrs. RRBF. I had the most fun of my entire life with everyone (*except my Hannah) there to celebrate the marriage of me and my now-RRHB (rock and roll husband). And I'm still so plastered, I can't believe I'm typing).
Friday, December 23, 2005
#64 - Galveston
Paul Quarrington's Galveston comes out of nowhere to knock you on your ass just like the storm hitting Dampier Clay. I had put the book down and picked up Tipping the Velvet it its place—what a mistake that was! The beginning of Galveston didn't really grab me. I sort of read happily along, feeling out the characters and half-enjoying the tragic mess of each of their lives. But then, as soon as the wind picked up and the rain started, a hurricane of words on the page sped along, and I couldn't put it down. All in all it's a supreme read and one I truly enjoyed.
Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy!
In the spirit of the season, I'm going to forgive the following people today:
1. To the person who honked at me while I tried to get on the Gardiner this morning to go to work, I'm sorry if you thought I cut you off, but I'd rather not die on the day before the day before Christmas, and I had to either get in the lane or hit the concrete wall. I chose the latter.
2. To the crazy lady who butted in front of me not once, but twice (once at the bank, the next time at the drug store); it's okay, we forgive you for being rude, at least you smiled when you were jumping ahead of me, each time.
3. To the idiot tellers at the bank who gave me a hard time about cashing my cheque from a US bank, I know you're only doing your job, but I'm just looking to get paid.
4. To the wacky drivers of Toronto, I know you're all just trying to get home for the holidays, so I'll forgive you for blocking the intersection, for honking at a traffic jam to get into the beer store parking lot that was holding up traffic, for just about every wrong turn and foul temper that made my afternoon that much longer.
I forgive you, all of you, in the true spirit of the holiday.
God bless us, every one.
Happy Christmas!
1. To the person who honked at me while I tried to get on the Gardiner this morning to go to work, I'm sorry if you thought I cut you off, but I'd rather not die on the day before the day before Christmas, and I had to either get in the lane or hit the concrete wall. I chose the latter.
2. To the crazy lady who butted in front of me not once, but twice (once at the bank, the next time at the drug store); it's okay, we forgive you for being rude, at least you smiled when you were jumping ahead of me, each time.
3. To the idiot tellers at the bank who gave me a hard time about cashing my cheque from a US bank, I know you're only doing your job, but I'm just looking to get paid.
4. To the wacky drivers of Toronto, I know you're all just trying to get home for the holidays, so I'll forgive you for blocking the intersection, for honking at a traffic jam to get into the beer store parking lot that was holding up traffic, for just about every wrong turn and foul temper that made my afternoon that much longer.
I forgive you, all of you, in the true spirit of the holiday.
God bless us, every one.
Happy Christmas!
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Deliverance & The Graduate
My Zip.ca membership has been working overtime these past few weeks. I ordered a bunch of older movies, ones that I'd never seen, but read a fair amount about, including The Graduate and Deliverance.
My favourite lines from each:
"Mrs. Robinson - you are trying to seduce me."
(See organic, organic I say!)
"You push a little more power into Atlanta...a little more air conditioners for your smug little suburb...and you know what's gonna happen? They're gonna rape this whole landscape."
You said it Burt and ain't it still the truth.
My favourite lines from each:
"Mrs. Robinson - you are trying to seduce me."
(See organic, organic I say!)
"You push a little more power into Atlanta...a little more air conditioners for your smug little suburb...and you know what's gonna happen? They're gonna rape this whole landscape."
You said it Burt and ain't it still the truth.
#63 - Tipping the Velvet
Let me get something straight, I have nothing against velvet, nor do I fear any tipping of it, but lord, this is the first book in a long, long time I really didn't like. The story felt so contrived and soap-opera-inspired that I was bored mid-way through. And considering Sarah Waters's epic is over 400 pages, that's a lot of trudging to get to the end.
Generally, I love a good Victorian thriller, but this is neither thrilling nor purely Victorian. Oh, it's chalk full of great historical tidbits—if I truly wanted to know that dildos existed in 1985, which I really didn't need to know. And if tons of hideously cliched sex scenes get you off, well Tipping the Velvet is the book for you. Because it certainly wasn't for me.
I don't like it when books feel contrived. When they set out to prove a point more than tell a story. The story itself was a good one, a young girl in Victorian England leaves home when she falls in love with a music hall singer named Kitty Butler. When Kitty can't face what life would be like coming out in that century, she betrays Nan, the protagonist, who then runs away.
A lot of other things happen to Nan before the story comes full circle toward the end as Nan joins a burgeoning socialist movement at the behest of her 'sweetheart,' a very noble and dedicated woman named Florence. But in the end, it felt too much like the author's voice was interfering with Nan's story. That characters were simply devices for her to explore the lesbian community in the 1890s, which I think is a fabulous goal, and if it felt organic, I'd be the first one to cheer from the rafters.
All in all I finished the book because it was a book club choice and I'm looking forward to debating why I hated it so much at our next meeting! After loving Fingersmith so much I was convinced I couldn't go wrong suggesting the book, whew, how wrong was I.
Edited to add: Is a sex scene any less contrived because it takes place between women? Just because the sex in the novel is lesbian sex should I hold it to different literary standards? I don't think I should, but this book, if you look at it in terms of shows like Queer as Folk where the point of the matter was to bash the viewer over the head with the idea of gay sex until they came to accept it, maybe I should be more sympathetic to the book. But if it's badly written with 'torn bodices' and 'panting', it's bad writing, regardless of its subject matter. However, the fact that it was her first novel might be worth mentioning. And Sarah Waters's Fingersmith is truly excellent; there's not a cliche in sight.
Generally, I love a good Victorian thriller, but this is neither thrilling nor purely Victorian. Oh, it's chalk full of great historical tidbits—if I truly wanted to know that dildos existed in 1985, which I really didn't need to know. And if tons of hideously cliched sex scenes get you off, well Tipping the Velvet is the book for you. Because it certainly wasn't for me.
I don't like it when books feel contrived. When they set out to prove a point more than tell a story. The story itself was a good one, a young girl in Victorian England leaves home when she falls in love with a music hall singer named Kitty Butler. When Kitty can't face what life would be like coming out in that century, she betrays Nan, the protagonist, who then runs away.
A lot of other things happen to Nan before the story comes full circle toward the end as Nan joins a burgeoning socialist movement at the behest of her 'sweetheart,' a very noble and dedicated woman named Florence. But in the end, it felt too much like the author's voice was interfering with Nan's story. That characters were simply devices for her to explore the lesbian community in the 1890s, which I think is a fabulous goal, and if it felt organic, I'd be the first one to cheer from the rafters.
All in all I finished the book because it was a book club choice and I'm looking forward to debating why I hated it so much at our next meeting! After loving Fingersmith so much I was convinced I couldn't go wrong suggesting the book, whew, how wrong was I.
Edited to add: Is a sex scene any less contrived because it takes place between women? Just because the sex in the novel is lesbian sex should I hold it to different literary standards? I don't think I should, but this book, if you look at it in terms of shows like Queer as Folk where the point of the matter was to bash the viewer over the head with the idea of gay sex until they came to accept it, maybe I should be more sympathetic to the book. But if it's badly written with 'torn bodices' and 'panting', it's bad writing, regardless of its subject matter. However, the fact that it was her first novel might be worth mentioning. And Sarah Waters's Fingersmith is truly excellent; there's not a cliche in sight.
My Name Is Earldyne
So, here's what karma does to you: if you complain wholeheartedly about not wanting to eat what you've brought for lunch, said lunch will end up on the floor, totally ruining any chance of eating it in the first place.
Oh, and then add insult to injury -- you will have no money to buy a new lunch and because your job is stuck in the middle of suburbia with no close bank machines to remedy the situation -- you have nothing else to eat.
Damn karma.
Oh, and then add insult to injury -- you will have no money to buy a new lunch and because your job is stuck in the middle of suburbia with no close bank machines to remedy the situation -- you have nothing else to eat.
Damn karma.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
In A White Boy Rap-Off...
I think Chris Parnell would kick Tom Green's ass. I'm just sayin'. And that's not to say that I don't heart the pants off of Tom Green, because y'all know that I do. I bought and actually read his book last year—in hardcover. Yeah, you know it.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Holiday Shopping - Celebrity Style
Awesome celebrity sightings yesterday while Christmas shopping. We saw Christopher Walken wearing plastic leisure pants and a down jacket in Yorkville, not once, but twice. The second time it looked like he was with Art Bergman, but there could be more than one craggy looking aging rock stars in Toronto with small dogs—you never know. The RRBF half-considered saying something to him but didn't. I wondered if he'd mind if I asked him to dance with me right there on Bloor Street.
Then we saw Bruce Greenwood as we were driving out of Yorkville. He was standing on the street looking like he wanted to cross, but when we stopped to let him, he waved us off. He looked kind of pissed off too, and he was wearing this awful sweater; it was white with blue dogs. Dude!
And we saw Christie Blatchford too. She was in Aveda on Bloor Street. I didn't have the courage to tell her she writes some of the worst run on sentences in the history of Canadian media. But I thought it. Does that count?
Then we saw Bruce Greenwood as we were driving out of Yorkville. He was standing on the street looking like he wanted to cross, but when we stopped to let him, he waved us off. He looked kind of pissed off too, and he was wearing this awful sweater; it was white with blue dogs. Dude!
And we saw Christie Blatchford too. She was in Aveda on Bloor Street. I didn't have the courage to tell her she writes some of the worst run on sentences in the history of Canadian media. But I thought it. Does that count?
Mock-lorette Party Extravaganza
I am hungover. First off, I'm not even supposed to be drinking with the meds, but last night I made an exception. Next, I'm not really in any shape to be out all hours of the night, but again I made an exception. My lovely friends were kind enough to take me out last night to celebrate the impending non-wedding. I had such a good time I can't thank them enough.
We ate a fab meal at Kalendar, then went to the Supermarket, which for Kensington is way, way too hip. It kind of scared me actually. Then we went to see the drag show at El Convento Rico, yay dancing! Yay cool looking drag queens I couldn't see. Boo slimy fellows trying to dance with you. Boo spinny room because you've had too much beer.
Then, we topped off the evening with a College Street staple: nachos at Sneaky Dee's.
It's hard to sum up the evening in one or two funny, witty comments, but in the end I felt very special, which is a nice feeling. Although I'm damn glad Scarbie didn't dare bring the veil she threatened me with. Also, it was nice to be out in the world after spending so much time at home by myself, I had almost forgotten how nice it is just to be a girl and hang out with your friends.
And it's pretty damn fun to shake your ass too.
We ate a fab meal at Kalendar, then went to the Supermarket, which for Kensington is way, way too hip. It kind of scared me actually. Then we went to see the drag show at El Convento Rico, yay dancing! Yay cool looking drag queens I couldn't see. Boo slimy fellows trying to dance with you. Boo spinny room because you've had too much beer.
Then, we topped off the evening with a College Street staple: nachos at Sneaky Dee's.
It's hard to sum up the evening in one or two funny, witty comments, but in the end I felt very special, which is a nice feeling. Although I'm damn glad Scarbie didn't dare bring the veil she threatened me with. Also, it was nice to be out in the world after spending so much time at home by myself, I had almost forgotten how nice it is just to be a girl and hang out with your friends.
And it's pretty damn fun to shake your ass too.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Podcast = Word of the Year
The OED has picked "podcast" as it's word of the year according to The Book Standard, which is kind of cool. It's wonderful how technology has infiltrated everyday life and how everyone now is either blogging, listening to podcasts or downloading some hot tune from iTunes.
I think the best present anyone could get me is the Oxford English Dictionary. My daily email from them sort of pales in comparison to what it might be like to own the entire glorious set of bajillion volumes. Oh, the things I would learn.
Like today for example, the Word of the Day was "girl power," and are you as shocked as I was to learn that it was not, in fact, a product of the Spice Girls marketing team, but the Catholic church who coined it, well the church according to a British writer anyway. In 1952, Malcolm Lowry's book Let contained this sentence: "Nearby is a Catholic church within which it says: ‘We want girl-power for our convent'."
Words are awesome.
I think the best present anyone could get me is the Oxford English Dictionary. My daily email from them sort of pales in comparison to what it might be like to own the entire glorious set of bajillion volumes. Oh, the things I would learn.
Like today for example, the Word of the Day was "girl power," and are you as shocked as I was to learn that it was not, in fact, a product of the Spice Girls marketing team, but the Catholic church who coined it, well the church according to a British writer anyway. In 1952, Malcolm Lowry's book Let contained this sentence: "Nearby is a Catholic church within which it says: ‘We want girl-power for our convent'."
Words are awesome.
Holiday Shopping
Where to begin? I'm a cold-hearted scrooge this year with the whole wonder and magic of Christmas lost years ago to season after season of disappointments. Oh. So. Cheerful.
But there's one thing I do love, and that's shopping for presents. But because I've been so under the weather lately, I haven't even really started my holiday shopping and am at a loss as to whether or not I'll get finished by, ahem, the 25th. See, the main problem is that I generally buy people books, but now that I work for a publisher, I can't really do that anymore. Or at least can't give people books without them knowing where they came from -- the cat's kind of out of the bag on that one.
What does a girl who only ever buys books as presents do when that option is no longer available to her?
I'll be sitting in the corner sucking on my candy cane trying to figure it out.
But there's one thing I do love, and that's shopping for presents. But because I've been so under the weather lately, I haven't even really started my holiday shopping and am at a loss as to whether or not I'll get finished by, ahem, the 25th. See, the main problem is that I generally buy people books, but now that I work for a publisher, I can't really do that anymore. Or at least can't give people books without them knowing where they came from -- the cat's kind of out of the bag on that one.
What does a girl who only ever buys books as presents do when that option is no longer available to her?
I'll be sitting in the corner sucking on my candy cane trying to figure it out.
Let's Get Political
Although I'm not usually outwardly political in this space, an article in today's Globe made me furious. So the US Ambassador is 'upset' with the current non-government because, and I quote,
Why should we accentuate the positive? Should we be jumping for joy at the fact that Bush is destroying the environment without a concern for future generations? We should celebrate the fact that neo-conservatives are reversing 40 years of hard earned rights for women? There might be a lot of things wrong with the Liberal Party, but everything seems fodder for "election", which I honestly believe is a complete waste of our time. Harper didn't need to take down the government; Layton didn't need to side with him, the whole thing smacks of playground antics.
Men grabbing at power because someone else is perceived as weak to pursue their own ends. Oh, I'll be voting on the 23rd, but it might not be for the party that I've voted for in every single local, provincial and federal election since I was 18, and that's saying a lot to get someone like me to change her mind.
Now, has anyone read eOnline lately—what's happening in the real world?
Edited later to add: Oh, and are we supposed to take it at face value that this "criticism" of the Liberals is coming at a time where the neo-Conseratives, the party most likely to let Bush sweep in and use up all of our natural resources like we're another state, are poised to take power and turn North America into one big blue-loving map? Pul-lease.
"[The US Ambassador] said Canada shows little respect for U.S. concerns. He acknowledged irritants such as the softwood lumber dispute and the war in Iraq, but called on Canada to accentuate the positive."
Why should we accentuate the positive? Should we be jumping for joy at the fact that Bush is destroying the environment without a concern for future generations? We should celebrate the fact that neo-conservatives are reversing 40 years of hard earned rights for women? There might be a lot of things wrong with the Liberal Party, but everything seems fodder for "election", which I honestly believe is a complete waste of our time. Harper didn't need to take down the government; Layton didn't need to side with him, the whole thing smacks of playground antics.
Men grabbing at power because someone else is perceived as weak to pursue their own ends. Oh, I'll be voting on the 23rd, but it might not be for the party that I've voted for in every single local, provincial and federal election since I was 18, and that's saying a lot to get someone like me to change her mind.
Now, has anyone read eOnline lately—what's happening in the real world?
Edited later to add: Oh, and are we supposed to take it at face value that this "criticism" of the Liberals is coming at a time where the neo-Conseratives, the party most likely to let Bush sweep in and use up all of our natural resources like we're another state, are poised to take power and turn North America into one big blue-loving map? Pul-lease.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year
The New York Times 10 Best Books of 2005 and the 100 Notable Books of the Year articles are up. For the most part, I based the majority of my reading in the past on these lists. Now I use a combination of these lists, the Globe's list, Chicklit recommendations and book club, Canadian prizes and word of mouth suggestions from friends. It's a constant challenge to find the next thing to read. Oh, and I'm trying to throw in some classics, although that usually only lasts for about a week. It honestly took me ten, no almost fifteen, years to read Crime and Punishment.
Lord knows I love a good list. And I'm happy to report that I've already read four of the books on the Top 10 list: Saturday, Prep, The Lost Painting and The Year of Magical Thinking. Not bad for a year in which I've been sick, moved house, lost a job, found a job, written 4 abridgments, taken 2 classes, planned one non-wedding and went to Europe for 3 weeks.
Alas, I have read but one book on New York magazine's list. Is it okay that Didion keeps popping up and I keep counting her? I think so, it'll be the book found on most lists this year, I'm guessing.
Lord knows I love a good list. And I'm happy to report that I've already read four of the books on the Top 10 list: Saturday, Prep, The Lost Painting and The Year of Magical Thinking. Not bad for a year in which I've been sick, moved house, lost a job, found a job, written 4 abridgments, taken 2 classes, planned one non-wedding and went to Europe for 3 weeks.
Alas, I have read but one book on New York magazine's list. Is it okay that Didion keeps popping up and I keep counting her? I think so, it'll be the book found on most lists this year, I'm guessing.
Monday Night Fights
We had a semi-busy weekend, on Saturday we went to see Body Worlds 2 at the Science Centre. The RRBF loved every minute of it; he couldn't get enough. I was not so taken with the exhibit because I couldn't get over the fact that the specimens, if you could call them that, were once living, breathing people. There were even some parts I just couldn't look at all, but I am glad we went, if only to get to hold a human brain in your hands. I mean, when do you get to do that?
We got home around 3 PM and I collapsed on the couch. My sinuses were so sore from the stupid disease that I passed out and was in bed by about 9.30 PM. So much for going to a poetry reading with Kate.
Then on Sunday we drove up to Peterborough to see my aunt and uncle so he could bottle up the giant jug of wine our neighbours gave him. We now have over twenty bottles of homemade wine that'll probably last the entire year because I don't drink it.
Then I had class last night. They critiqued another one of my stories, which is always good, but so hard to sit through. It's funny how I can be so objective for someone else's work, knowing that my comments are genuine in their intentions to make the piece of writing better, but I can't do that with my own work. I'm mortified when people talk about my writing. I'm frightened to death of what people think. I'm convinced it's a piece of crap and why am I even bothering. I'm disappointed that my imagination doesn't work better. I'm angry that everything I write comes out like one big, giant cliche. The list of self-doubt goes on until I can't stand it anymore and I'm sitting there in class thinking, "Why am I doing this to myself? I'll never be a writer."
In the end, it sort of feels like a boxing ring: left hook comes from classmate A, "show don't tell"; ragdoll puts up a good block; the bout continues when classmate b throws combination punch, a left jab, straight right, left hook, "it feels like you're including everything, you need to make some decisions about the story so it reads better"; ragdoll feints, throws a limp uppercut, and then dances back towards her corner; classmate c punches into the ring and weaves around, making it incredibly hard to catch her; ragdoll is down for the count, and it's a win by knockout for classmate d!
We were talking a lot about the story until I finally said, "Can we stop there, it's all a bit too much." And then we moved onto the next match, so the next person could line up for a long ten rounds of betterment.
Bah!
We got home around 3 PM and I collapsed on the couch. My sinuses were so sore from the stupid disease that I passed out and was in bed by about 9.30 PM. So much for going to a poetry reading with Kate.
Then on Sunday we drove up to Peterborough to see my aunt and uncle so he could bottle up the giant jug of wine our neighbours gave him. We now have over twenty bottles of homemade wine that'll probably last the entire year because I don't drink it.
Then I had class last night. They critiqued another one of my stories, which is always good, but so hard to sit through. It's funny how I can be so objective for someone else's work, knowing that my comments are genuine in their intentions to make the piece of writing better, but I can't do that with my own work. I'm mortified when people talk about my writing. I'm frightened to death of what people think. I'm convinced it's a piece of crap and why am I even bothering. I'm disappointed that my imagination doesn't work better. I'm angry that everything I write comes out like one big, giant cliche. The list of self-doubt goes on until I can't stand it anymore and I'm sitting there in class thinking, "Why am I doing this to myself? I'll never be a writer."
In the end, it sort of feels like a boxing ring: left hook comes from classmate A, "show don't tell"; ragdoll puts up a good block; the bout continues when classmate b throws combination punch, a left jab, straight right, left hook, "it feels like you're including everything, you need to make some decisions about the story so it reads better"; ragdoll feints, throws a limp uppercut, and then dances back towards her corner; classmate c punches into the ring and weaves around, making it incredibly hard to catch her; ragdoll is down for the count, and it's a win by knockout for classmate d!
We were talking a lot about the story until I finally said, "Can we stop there, it's all a bit too much." And then we moved onto the next match, so the next person could line up for a long ten rounds of betterment.
Bah!
Friday, December 09, 2005
Cocktail A La Wegener's
Now that I'm back taking Septra, it's the trifecta of meds I'm used to in terms of the treatment of the disease. For the next two weeks anyway, I'll be on imuran, Septra and prednisone (until it's totally weaned off). So, of course, my body is getting used to another combination of pills, my mind is resisting taking them and my soul is very tired today.
But we had a lovely holiday luncheon at work. Which is kind of funny considering how subdued and, well, decorous the party was considering the holiday festivities at my last job usually ended up with a visit to the strip club. Honestly. I'm not even kidding.
But we had a lovely holiday luncheon at work. Which is kind of funny considering how subdued and, well, decorous the party was considering the holiday festivities at my last job usually ended up with a visit to the strip club. Honestly. I'm not even kidding.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Where Will Ragdoll Be Tonight?
Oh, it's burning question you all are asking isn't it? Well, I'll be at the Taddle Creek launch, celebrating my poem along with the other contributors, at Supermarket in Kensington Market. If you're free, come out! If not, go buy a copy!
What A Sentence
Only Annie Proulx has a gift like this:
"At first glance Jack seemed fair enough, with his curly hair and quick laugh, but for a small man he carried some weight in the haunch and his smile disclosed buckteeth, not pronounced enough to let him eat popcorn out of the neck of a jug, but noticeable."
From the story that inspired Brokeback Mountain.
Somehow the teeth got lost in translation, seems Jake didn't feel a prosthetic set were really necessary.
"At first glance Jack seemed fair enough, with his curly hair and quick laugh, but for a small man he carried some weight in the haunch and his smile disclosed buckteeth, not pronounced enough to let him eat popcorn out of the neck of a jug, but noticeable."
From the story that inspired Brokeback Mountain.
Somehow the teeth got lost in translation, seems Jake didn't feel a prosthetic set were really necessary.
Imagine All The People
I've been reading Galveston by Paul Quarrington, which I've been enjoying. Two of the characters are sitting around talking when one explains that they don't have memory, an idea of how their life played out chronologically, but memories, and he has trouble putting them all order. And that's kind of what my memory is like too, I think.
One of the scenes (can you call it that if it actually happened to you?) that sticks in my mind or has been stuck there now for twenty-five years, is of the morning my father came into my room to tell me that John Lennon had been shot. It was early because I wasn't awake yet, and I was young, nine years old, my room still decorated in blue butterflies, not yet sleeping on the waterbed he would buy me when I was a teenager. My dad came into my room and said, "John Lennon is dead." And then he went and looked out the window. I don't know what I said, but I remember that it was very important news at the time.
My father would have been somewhere close to the age I am now, but I never think of him in that way. Never compare his chronology to my own like I do with my absent mother. He grew up listening to the Beatles, felt akin to their songs, their lyrics, which trickled down to me, who grew up with him. And now a quarter century has past since that morning, and I can give no reasonable explanation as to why it's there, tucked away in my brain, why other things have been lost or forgotten, or why this sticks—I just don't know. But maybe I don't have to know. Maybe I can just remember, maybe that's the point.
One of the scenes (can you call it that if it actually happened to you?) that sticks in my mind or has been stuck there now for twenty-five years, is of the morning my father came into my room to tell me that John Lennon had been shot. It was early because I wasn't awake yet, and I was young, nine years old, my room still decorated in blue butterflies, not yet sleeping on the waterbed he would buy me when I was a teenager. My dad came into my room and said, "John Lennon is dead." And then he went and looked out the window. I don't know what I said, but I remember that it was very important news at the time.
My father would have been somewhere close to the age I am now, but I never think of him in that way. Never compare his chronology to my own like I do with my absent mother. He grew up listening to the Beatles, felt akin to their songs, their lyrics, which trickled down to me, who grew up with him. And now a quarter century has past since that morning, and I can give no reasonable explanation as to why it's there, tucked away in my brain, why other things have been lost or forgotten, or why this sticks—I just don't know. But maybe I don't have to know. Maybe I can just remember, maybe that's the point.
Poetry Thursday - April
April
Months late, I dive into my New Year's resolutions.
Promptly giving up sugar, caffeine, cigarettes, you.
Days, moments, seconds, minutes, hours pass
But even when I'm tired of will power, I manage
To hold back the cravings and call out a victory
Stomping angrily on budding grass and happy birds
I smoke in my sleep, visit past lives, then drink too much
And spend the next day penitent, doing spring cleaning.
Promptly giving up sugar, caffeine, cigarettes and you,
For the second time in as many weeks.
Months late, I dive into my New Year's resolutions.
Promptly giving up sugar, caffeine, cigarettes, you.
Days, moments, seconds, minutes, hours pass
But even when I'm tired of will power, I manage
To hold back the cravings and call out a victory
Stomping angrily on budding grass and happy birds
I smoke in my sleep, visit past lives, then drink too much
And spend the next day penitent, doing spring cleaning.
Promptly giving up sugar, caffeine, cigarettes and you,
For the second time in as many weeks.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
Dr. Mr. Fancypants
So, I saw the fancypants disease doctor yesterday, which was good. They're stopping the prednisone because my bloodwork is so good (yay kidneys getting better!). But the super-extreme exhaustion is still there. So the answer is more tests and more drugs. I'll be starting Septra for the next three months. It should help with the sinus stuff from the disease. More side effects, I can't wait.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
Do You Hate Yourself As Much As I Do?
Last night in my creative writing class, my teacher said something that struck me. We were talking about creating characters that a reader hates and whether or not that would work in story. For the most part, it's hard to read a book or a short story when you absolutely despise the main character, simply because you don't care, and then you don't bother—there's no emotional investment. After we talked for a while about how to approach it, the teacher said, "Because everyone likes themselves," meaning no one outwardly hates themselves, so why would they be so hateful in a story.
But I thought that was such a funny thing to say, coming from such a different place where someone does actually like themselves. It's a concept I've been struggling with for years. I've always hated myself, hated things about myself, thought I was a bad person, thought bad things happened to me because I was a bad person, worried about how other people must hate me too and had a hard time even taking the palest of compliments. I guess he was trying to say, that even people that the reader hates wouldn't necessarily hate themselves, so you need to find an element that they can relate to, to make them more human.
The example he used was Travis Bickle, from Taxi Driver. He's a totally despicable person, but you don't hate him, and you don't really know why. I chimed in that maybe it's because you see him fall in love, and that gives him an edge of humanity, something that makes him not just pure evil. It was an interesting discussion. I'm still thinking about it today, and maybe trying not to hate myself just that little bit less so all my characters don't come out as fuct up as I am...
But I thought that was such a funny thing to say, coming from such a different place where someone does actually like themselves. It's a concept I've been struggling with for years. I've always hated myself, hated things about myself, thought I was a bad person, thought bad things happened to me because I was a bad person, worried about how other people must hate me too and had a hard time even taking the palest of compliments. I guess he was trying to say, that even people that the reader hates wouldn't necessarily hate themselves, so you need to find an element that they can relate to, to make them more human.
The example he used was Travis Bickle, from Taxi Driver. He's a totally despicable person, but you don't hate him, and you don't really know why. I chimed in that maybe it's because you see him fall in love, and that gives him an edge of humanity, something that makes him not just pure evil. It was an interesting discussion. I'm still thinking about it today, and maybe trying not to hate myself just that little bit less so all my characters don't come out as fuct up as I am...
#61 & #62 Two "Classic" Books
I finished Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and Around the World in 80 Days. Funnily enough, I don't have a lot to say about either of them, but might later on...
I will say, however, that I am consistently amazed at the types of books that have become "classics."
I will say, however, that I am consistently amazed at the types of books that have become "classics."
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Rocking The Royal Theatre
So the RRBF's show went very well last night. The theatre was almost full and the show went off without a hitch. They sounded amazing and it was nice to see everyone give them a standing ovation at the end. Even my perennially grumpy father loved the show—and that's saying something.
I'm super tired today though, and am still working on my last abridgment. I'm in the home stretch. But I'm kind of glad that when I'm finished this book we'll have a bit of a break before everything goes crazy for the holidays. And there's just one more Fembots show of the year, next Friday in Brantford, which means my RRBF will have a bit of a break too.
I'm super tired today though, and am still working on my last abridgment. I'm in the home stretch. But I'm kind of glad that when I'm finished this book we'll have a bit of a break before everything goes crazy for the holidays. And there's just one more Fembots show of the year, next Friday in Brantford, which means my RRBF will have a bit of a break too.
Saturday, December 03, 2005
#60 Life Mask
I picked up Emma Donoghue's Life Mask on a whim one day before seeing a movie a few months back. I had read Slammerkin after reading about how much everyone on Chicklit loved it, and remembered how much I enjoyed it. (I had read it deep into the night, and there's a wickedly fun twist in the middle that made me gasp out loud, and I was by myself because the RRBF was on tour). But not knowing anything about this latest novel, I bought it on a whim.
Much to my surprise, it's a completely different novel about the British artistocracy during the period of 1787-1797. In particular, it's about three members of 'the World', the Beau Monde, whose lives are tied together by friendship, scandal and society.
The novel follows the lives of Eliza Farren, an actress who eventually marries the Earl of Derby after a courtship that lasts almost two decades (see, he's waiting for his unfaithful wife to die, how cruel society was then, how cruel!), the aforementioned Earl of Derby and Anne Damer, a sculptor who dogged the gossip of being a Sapphist for much of her adult life. The human story is set against the backdrop of the political unrest of the time, the French Revolution, and the changes to both society and the social order.
It's a complex book that manages the history, story and politics extremely well, creating this fictional world out of real events and real people. And I really liked how it was set too within the world of the theatre, creating yet another layer of to the metaphorical idea of this 'Beau Monde' all of these characters exist within.
Way back in university, I had taken a class in Restoration literature, and I remember the teacher outlining a basic day for members of the upper classes: they would sleep to well into the afternoon, get up, eat a sticky bun, get dressed, pay their calls and then go to the theatre. I love the intimate details of Donoghue's book, how it brings to life that very scenario, but also casts it into a fresh understanding in terms of our own obsession with celebrity in this day and age. Add to it the civil unrest of the time, the political potboilers between the Torys and the Whigs, and it makes for a fascinating read. It's a bit hard to keep all the Ladys and Lords straight, but I still get a thrill from it all, considering it's one of my favourite periods of British history to read about.
What's next? I've got a number of things on my to read list to try to get to before the end of the year—I hope to make it to 75, but with only four weeks left to do it in, and with re-writes and final drafts on my next two abridgements to get through, it's not looking likely. It looks like Stephen King will win again, damn him!
Much to my surprise, it's a completely different novel about the British artistocracy during the period of 1787-1797. In particular, it's about three members of 'the World', the Beau Monde, whose lives are tied together by friendship, scandal and society.
The novel follows the lives of Eliza Farren, an actress who eventually marries the Earl of Derby after a courtship that lasts almost two decades (see, he's waiting for his unfaithful wife to die, how cruel society was then, how cruel!), the aforementioned Earl of Derby and Anne Damer, a sculptor who dogged the gossip of being a Sapphist for much of her adult life. The human story is set against the backdrop of the political unrest of the time, the French Revolution, and the changes to both society and the social order.
It's a complex book that manages the history, story and politics extremely well, creating this fictional world out of real events and real people. And I really liked how it was set too within the world of the theatre, creating yet another layer of to the metaphorical idea of this 'Beau Monde' all of these characters exist within.
Way back in university, I had taken a class in Restoration literature, and I remember the teacher outlining a basic day for members of the upper classes: they would sleep to well into the afternoon, get up, eat a sticky bun, get dressed, pay their calls and then go to the theatre. I love the intimate details of Donoghue's book, how it brings to life that very scenario, but also casts it into a fresh understanding in terms of our own obsession with celebrity in this day and age. Add to it the civil unrest of the time, the political potboilers between the Torys and the Whigs, and it makes for a fascinating read. It's a bit hard to keep all the Ladys and Lords straight, but I still get a thrill from it all, considering it's one of my favourite periods of British history to read about.
What's next? I've got a number of things on my to read list to try to get to before the end of the year—I hope to make it to 75, but with only four weeks left to do it in, and with re-writes and final drafts on my next two abridgements to get through, it's not looking likely. It looks like Stephen King will win again, damn him!
Friday, December 02, 2005
A Rainy Night in Soho
So my RRBF was singing an old Pogues song this morning, "Dirty Old Town," and asked if I had the record around, which I don't. But I remembered the song from a tape an old high school boyfriend made for me years and years ago, after he had written out the words to "Bottle of Smoke" on a jean jacket, after we had broken up, gotten back together, broken up and gotten back together again. Another song on that tape, "A Rainy Night in Soho," was one of my all-time favourites the year between high school and university, when I was sick with the Wegener's for the very first time.
"You're the measure of my dreams," Shane sings, "The measure of my dreams."
And I'm glad I still know the words, and thank you iTunes for having the very song I want to listen to at the very moment I'm feeling sentimental for old boyfriends and days when I still cared about what was written on the back of my jean jacket.
"You're the measure of my dreams," Shane sings, "The measure of my dreams."
And I'm glad I still know the words, and thank you iTunes for having the very song I want to listen to at the very moment I'm feeling sentimental for old boyfriends and days when I still cared about what was written on the back of my jean jacket.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
RRBF News
The RRBF had a good show last night in Guelph, and his Now magazine cover is on newsstands today. Also, what might just be the sweetest thing he's ever said is now here on TorontoLife.com.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Born in the Sign of July
The lion inside me
roars mute, quiet to
the outside world
A victim of my
misplaced sun sign,
born perhaps a month too late
A victim of my
constant craving for
warmer weather
Summer in the city
feels foreign
hot pavement aches underfoot
I long to be
beside the lake,
feet dangling
Sweat melting all
signs of sunscreen,
hearing your car
Drive up the road
butterflies everywhere
including my stomach
It’s been a long year
long road, from
childhood to now
Where I still fit
on your lap
in your heart
At least for now
until we leave
summer vacation
Spent, like the last
few dollars
in my wallet.
We don’t fit
in places with
hot pavement
I roar up north
rip my clothes off
during a thunderstorm
Let loose that lion
that privilege of my birth
for you to hear the roar
roars mute, quiet to
the outside world
A victim of my
misplaced sun sign,
born perhaps a month too late
A victim of my
constant craving for
warmer weather
Summer in the city
feels foreign
hot pavement aches underfoot
I long to be
beside the lake,
feet dangling
Sweat melting all
signs of sunscreen,
hearing your car
Drive up the road
butterflies everywhere
including my stomach
It’s been a long year
long road, from
childhood to now
Where I still fit
on your lap
in your heart
At least for now
until we leave
summer vacation
Spent, like the last
few dollars
in my wallet.
We don’t fit
in places with
hot pavement
I roar up north
rip my clothes off
during a thunderstorm
Let loose that lion
that privilege of my birth
for you to hear the roar
Poetry Wednesdays
My friend Kate just started a really cool blog. She's brave enough to put her poetry right out there for comments, throwing it to the virtual wind and seeing what it catches. So I'm going to copycat her and post a new poem up here on Wednesdays. Considering I've only written about a dozen poems, I can't do it every day. So here you go (see next post), please keep in mind that this poem was just rejected by Contemporary Verse 2. Bastards!
Little Victories
Ah, what fun the mail brings! In this cyber-centric world, I'm always impressed when I get exciting mail. Two things came this week: 1) the new issue of Taddle Creek, the one with my poem in it; and 2) my advance copies of Frankenstein and Robinson Crusoe, which look amazing. They go on sale March 28, so mark your calendars now—just kidding. Kind of. They'd be perfect Easter presents, come on! Support the arts! Support the artist!
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Testing Tests
There comes a point in any sick girl's day where she's entirely sick (ha ha) of a) taking medicine and b) having tests. This point comes very soon after a burly woman of Eastern European descent pokes, pulls and prods her, leaving bruises all over her chest, during an echo cardiogram (which is an ultrasound people, an ultrasound—there's no need for bruises, no need!).
Entirely tired of bringing along a book to read in waiting rooms while waiting for a doctor. Entirely tired of seeing a puffy, pimply face. Entirely tired of being so bloody tired. Entirely tired of watching daytime television, even for a moment (with the exception of Ellen dancing, that's always fun).
Ah, but the end is in sight. The great prednisone countdown of 2005 has begun. As of tomorrow I've only got two weeks left on the evil drug. Whee-hoo! Now that deserves a bit of ass shaking and some high kicks!
Entirely tired of bringing along a book to read in waiting rooms while waiting for a doctor. Entirely tired of seeing a puffy, pimply face. Entirely tired of being so bloody tired. Entirely tired of watching daytime television, even for a moment (with the exception of Ellen dancing, that's always fun).
Ah, but the end is in sight. The great prednisone countdown of 2005 has begun. As of tomorrow I've only got two weeks left on the evil drug. Whee-hoo! Now that deserves a bit of ass shaking and some high kicks!
Monday, November 28, 2005
Medical Analogies
Sooo, I'm so out of it that I've been reading way, way too much celebrity gossip. How do I know this? I just had a short conversation with an old friend via IM and this is what I said:
Ahren says:
which med is causing all the grief...the 3 weeker or the 6 monther?
ragdoll says:
the three weeker
ragdoll says:
it's the tara reid to the paris hilton
Yes, the prednisone is the bad fake-breasted, falling down drunk, low-rent version of the meds I'm taking right now. I am going straight to hell.
Ahren says:
which med is causing all the grief...the 3 weeker or the 6 monther?
ragdoll says:
the three weeker
ragdoll says:
it's the tara reid to the paris hilton
Yes, the prednisone is the bad fake-breasted, falling down drunk, low-rent version of the meds I'm taking right now. I am going straight to hell.
Missing Out On Life
Now that I've added a cold to the ever-growing list of ailments, I'm starting to get seriously peeved at the number of things I'm missing being stuck in the prison of ill-health otherwise known as my house.
1. The Lowest of the Low Goodbye Shows at the Horseshoe. I spent so much of my youth seeing this band, and one of the first post-high school rock shows I went to with my then friend, now RRBF, was the Low. So many memories. So crappy that I was stuck at home blowing my nose into kleenex.
2. Going to the movies. I want to see Harry Potter, Walk the Line, Rent and so many more—but I can't. Because I can't leave the house. Because I'm sick. AGAIN.
3. Holiday shopping. 'Tis the season and we've got a new niece who needs Christmas presents. Grrr.
4. Dinners with friends, old-fashioned drink-ups, catching up over a pint, basically being social beyond email and instant messenger. I'm sick, tired and lonely.
5. Looking good while leaving the house for trips other than to the doctor. Which I haven't done all week really. Oh, and the RRBF keeps laughing at me and saying things like, "It's okay honey, I know what you're supposed to look like."
1. The Lowest of the Low Goodbye Shows at the Horseshoe. I spent so much of my youth seeing this band, and one of the first post-high school rock shows I went to with my then friend, now RRBF, was the Low. So many memories. So crappy that I was stuck at home blowing my nose into kleenex.
2. Going to the movies. I want to see Harry Potter, Walk the Line, Rent and so many more—but I can't. Because I can't leave the house. Because I'm sick. AGAIN.
3. Holiday shopping. 'Tis the season and we've got a new niece who needs Christmas presents. Grrr.
4. Dinners with friends, old-fashioned drink-ups, catching up over a pint, basically being social beyond email and instant messenger. I'm sick, tired and lonely.
5. Looking good while leaving the house for trips other than to the doctor. Which I haven't done all week really. Oh, and the RRBF keeps laughing at me and saying things like, "It's okay honey, I know what you're supposed to look like."
Sunday, November 27, 2005
What's Led to What
A bit of exhaustion (a mere understatement), led to a sore throat, being in the company of other ill people, led to a sniffle, a sneeze, a splutter. All of this led to feeling under the weather, caught in a snow storm, a fury of fickle attention to good nutrition, being lazy, being tired, being medicated. Which leads to a cold, a bad cold, an achy cold, a fuzzy head, a heavy chest, a dose of vapour rub, a dash of cough medicine, a warm scarf, a cup of tea, vitamin c, and garlic, nature's cure. A good night's sleep, a warm blanket, a good book, a mediocre movie, a long day's journey spent between the many walls of my house. Will be spending today writing, sleeping, reading and resting in an attempt to led the cold right back out where it belongs, on the side of the street covered in slush, buried in muck, well away from my brittle constitution and my lack of immune system.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
The Globe 100
The annual Globe and Mail 100 list comes out today, telling us all about the best books published this year. It's my second-favourite issue of the paper, right behind the truly awesome crossword they do at the end of every year.
I've read 6 out of the 100 (Saturday, Three Day Road, The Wreckage, The Time in Between, An Audience of Chairs and The Year of Magical Thinking). I've got about another 7 or 8 on my to read list, but they don't count. I also think it's kind of funny that neither of the GG winners are on the list: David Gilmour's A Perfect Night to Go to China nor John Vaillant's The Golden Spruce (which I have read). The Giller winner is there, which sort of shows they kind of got it right, but I still am in shock that Three Day Road didn't win the GG, it's by far the best book of the year, IMHO. Or maybe I've got it all wrong and the Globe's list is way off, but somehow, I don't think so...
And I don't see Best Abridging [ragdoll] for Little Women. Heh. Just kidding.
I've read 6 out of the 100 (Saturday, Three Day Road, The Wreckage, The Time in Between, An Audience of Chairs and The Year of Magical Thinking). I've got about another 7 or 8 on my to read list, but they don't count. I also think it's kind of funny that neither of the GG winners are on the list: David Gilmour's A Perfect Night to Go to China nor John Vaillant's The Golden Spruce (which I have read). The Giller winner is there, which sort of shows they kind of got it right, but I still am in shock that Three Day Road didn't win the GG, it's by far the best book of the year, IMHO. Or maybe I've got it all wrong and the Globe's list is way off, but somehow, I don't think so...
And I don't see Best Abridging [ragdoll] for Little Women. Heh. Just kidding.
Money Changes Everything
In addition to being the worst songwriter in Canadian songwriting history, it is now confirmed that he's also a giant a**wipe. And people are still buying Nickelback records? If the drummer played on the record, he should get royalties. Like Chad's not making enough bloody money already? And his name is Chad which is preppie for a**wipe anyway.
Friday, November 25, 2005
Knit Wit
A couple of years ago, I took a beginner's knitting class at Romni Wools here in Toronto. For $75.00, and for three Sundays in a row, you meet at the bottom of the store and they teach you how to knit. My friend Sam actually introduced me to the class, after she had gone and found it extremely helpful.
My grandmother tried to teach me how to knit when I was a teenager. She gave up after a while because I was left-handed and couldn't figure out how to knit in reverse. This time, I'm knitting right-handed and not worrying about being left-handed and trying to figure it out that way. It's a good exercise for my brain anyway.
My mother, of course, in addition to being a wonderful cook with her own burgeoning catering company, was also a great seamstress and an excellent knitter. People hired her to make sweaters for them. I still have a couple of them. Nothing I would ever wear but they are beautiful. In my quest to know my mother better, to know myself better maybe, I've tried to be like her and do these things, more because it helps me remember her than the fact that I'm any good. Because I'm so not good at either sewing or knitting. I think I'm a half-decent cook, but that fact was highly debated this summer at the cottage by my brother and my RRBF.
Annnywaay. I've been knitting for a few years now, but haven't graduated to anything bigger or more complex then squares, well, rectangles if we're being specific. I can knit scarves and have made one really nice one, but I want to make something more interesting. Like a sweater or a poncho. I don't do it enough to get really good, but I keep trying, which I suppose is all that matters.
The problem being that I don't knit consistently enough. I do it in spurts, a bit here, a bit there, so that when it comes time to start a new project (I'm knitting a scarf for an ex-neighbour), that I forget everything. Oh, the basics come back to me, knit, purl, knit, purl, but I can't remember other things, like how I was taught to slip the last stitch at the end of a row and then what? What comes next? I try purling, it looks funny; I knit the stitch and it looks okay but it's not the clean 'ladder' look that I was taught at Romni. Who knows. I'm just making it all up as I go along. Kind of like when I was in grade 10 and decided I'd make myself a skirt by sewing two pieces of material together and that's it. And I actually wore it. More than once.
My grandmother tried to teach me how to knit when I was a teenager. She gave up after a while because I was left-handed and couldn't figure out how to knit in reverse. This time, I'm knitting right-handed and not worrying about being left-handed and trying to figure it out that way. It's a good exercise for my brain anyway.
My mother, of course, in addition to being a wonderful cook with her own burgeoning catering company, was also a great seamstress and an excellent knitter. People hired her to make sweaters for them. I still have a couple of them. Nothing I would ever wear but they are beautiful. In my quest to know my mother better, to know myself better maybe, I've tried to be like her and do these things, more because it helps me remember her than the fact that I'm any good. Because I'm so not good at either sewing or knitting. I think I'm a half-decent cook, but that fact was highly debated this summer at the cottage by my brother and my RRBF.
Annnywaay. I've been knitting for a few years now, but haven't graduated to anything bigger or more complex then squares, well, rectangles if we're being specific. I can knit scarves and have made one really nice one, but I want to make something more interesting. Like a sweater or a poncho. I don't do it enough to get really good, but I keep trying, which I suppose is all that matters.
The problem being that I don't knit consistently enough. I do it in spurts, a bit here, a bit there, so that when it comes time to start a new project (I'm knitting a scarf for an ex-neighbour), that I forget everything. Oh, the basics come back to me, knit, purl, knit, purl, but I can't remember other things, like how I was taught to slip the last stitch at the end of a row and then what? What comes next? I try purling, it looks funny; I knit the stitch and it looks okay but it's not the clean 'ladder' look that I was taught at Romni. Who knows. I'm just making it all up as I go along. Kind of like when I was in grade 10 and decided I'd make myself a skirt by sewing two pieces of material together and that's it. And I actually wore it. More than once.
Thursday, November 24, 2005
OMT (Add-ons To Trials and Tribulations)
6. So glad that Tom Cruise fired his sister aka "publicist" just in time for this juicy bit of fright night to find its way before the eyes of the unsuspecting public, I mean, his fans. What a wingnut. And why and how is this news anyway?
7. In response to a very loud, shouty email I sent to this fellow about getting unwanted spam, I received this (it's now my most favourite email EVER):
Dude obviously has way, way too much time on his hands. But, heh! How does he know me so well after such a short period of time. Not.
7. In response to a very loud, shouty email I sent to this fellow about getting unwanted spam, I received this (it's now my most favourite email EVER):
Thought I bid you good bye - we have no business - no need to
communicate any further - hopefully it's good bye forever....besides it was just
some friendly advice - I hear a cry for help. You seem like a very very very
angry, tense, moody, miserable person aren't you - is life that
un-pleasant that you let a little email work you last nerve - you let someone you
don't even know effect/affect you like that - some more good advice from a
NOW concerned community colleague who shares this city/country/world with
you - I hear they have a lot of good doctors and lot of shiny new pills
that'll cure this - go visit somebody for that - or try breathing, stretching
and just letting it go, or tai-chi. Whatever you do something but do it b4
you break into road rage or hurt seriously yourself or somebody seriously +
never be a reaction to anyone or anything. have a beautiful life - try
having a more positive outlook to but now your scaring me.....
Dude obviously has way, way too much time on his hands. But, heh! How does he know me so well after such a short period of time. Not.
Band Widow
So I'll be a band widow tomorrow night as my RRBF heads up to North Bay to play a show. He's got rehersal tonight, and then he's away tomorrow night. There are so many things I could do, writing, reading, sleeping—but I'm so bored of being in my house feeling crappy that I wish I could actually leave and go see a movie.
Wow, this blog post is boring even me. I'll stop now.
Wow, this blog post is boring even me. I'll stop now.
Working From Home: Trials And Tribulations
1. Is it really too early (10.22 AM) to be eating cheesies?
2. How long should one wait before taking that shower she really should have taken three hours ago?
3. Why, oh why, must every site I turn to give me juicy information I can't help clicking on about the utter and final demise of Jessica Simpson's marriage?
4. Is it that bad to want to get all your work done so you can watch The Notebook at 4 PM for the, like, 18th time? Because it's so not over for me, either, dude, totally.
5. There's snow outside! It's winter in Canada! I'm so excited. Yawn.
2. How long should one wait before taking that shower she really should have taken three hours ago?
3. Why, oh why, must every site I turn to give me juicy information I can't help clicking on about the utter and final demise of Jessica Simpson's marriage?
4. Is it that bad to want to get all your work done so you can watch The Notebook at 4 PM for the, like, 18th time? Because it's so not over for me, either, dude, totally.
5. There's snow outside! It's winter in Canada! I'm so excited. Yawn.
#59 The Time In Between
I've been reading David Bergen's The Time in Between for months now. I started the book way back in the summer, read about a quarter of it, then went on vacation. By the time I got back, I had moved on to so many other books that it took me some time to get back to it. It took a conversation with a co-worker to get me to pick the book up again, when she mentioned that it hit her so hard she still hasn't completely recovered.
And at first, I didn't see it, I found the book kind of slow going; it didn't grab me like so many of the others I've read this year. But now that I've finished it, I can totally see what she means—the slow burning, sparse prose creeps up on you and takes a hold almost like a good ghost story.
Set mainly in Vietnam years after the war, the book tells the life story of a mainly absent Charles Boatman, first through his eyes, then through the eyes of his daughter, Ada. Having fought in the war, Charles returns to hopefully deal with his demons, and then goes missing. Ada and her brother Jon arrive in Vietnam to try to find their father, or at the very least, find out what happened to him. There's a pivotal scene in the middle of the book, exactly placed, that I won't spoil, but it's a moment that grabbed me so hard that I had to put the story down and take some deep breaths before I could continue.
The setting is such an unrelenting part of this book. Forced to deal with their tragedy in a foreign country, Ada and Jon, while looking for their father, inevitably fall upon their own paths of self-discovery. Rich with metaphor and filled with mystery, the backdrop of being an outsider in a country already riddled with the aftermath of the war becomes an intrinsic part of how Bergen chooses to tell the story. It's almost as if Vietnam becomes a character in its own right, a living, breathing part of The Time in Between.
Dealing with themes of loss, family, understanding and the cultural differences between life in northern British Columbia (where Charles eventually settles with his three kids after their mother dies) and life in Vietnam (where the majority of the story is set), the book feels so universally human, if that makes any sense.
Having it win the Giller seems fitting, and it does a little to take away the sting of Three Day Road being shut out of the awards this year. All in all, I'm glad I actually took the time last night to finish it, to read the last 10 pages that had been bookmarked for months. The time in between The Time in Between finally coming to a close.
And at first, I didn't see it, I found the book kind of slow going; it didn't grab me like so many of the others I've read this year. But now that I've finished it, I can totally see what she means—the slow burning, sparse prose creeps up on you and takes a hold almost like a good ghost story.
Set mainly in Vietnam years after the war, the book tells the life story of a mainly absent Charles Boatman, first through his eyes, then through the eyes of his daughter, Ada. Having fought in the war, Charles returns to hopefully deal with his demons, and then goes missing. Ada and her brother Jon arrive in Vietnam to try to find their father, or at the very least, find out what happened to him. There's a pivotal scene in the middle of the book, exactly placed, that I won't spoil, but it's a moment that grabbed me so hard that I had to put the story down and take some deep breaths before I could continue.
The setting is such an unrelenting part of this book. Forced to deal with their tragedy in a foreign country, Ada and Jon, while looking for their father, inevitably fall upon their own paths of self-discovery. Rich with metaphor and filled with mystery, the backdrop of being an outsider in a country already riddled with the aftermath of the war becomes an intrinsic part of how Bergen chooses to tell the story. It's almost as if Vietnam becomes a character in its own right, a living, breathing part of The Time in Between.
Dealing with themes of loss, family, understanding and the cultural differences between life in northern British Columbia (where Charles eventually settles with his three kids after their mother dies) and life in Vietnam (where the majority of the story is set), the book feels so universally human, if that makes any sense.
Having it win the Giller seems fitting, and it does a little to take away the sting of Three Day Road being shut out of the awards this year. All in all, I'm glad I actually took the time last night to finish it, to read the last 10 pages that had been bookmarked for months. The time in between The Time in Between finally coming to a close.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Rejection!
So Contemporary Verse 2 doesn't want my poems. They "reviewed [my] work carefully and unfortunately [my] writing does not meet [their] needs at this time." So carefully that they've cut and pasted the form letter into an email addressed, "Dear Poet."
Kind of reminds me of my rejection letter from UBC when I applied to graduate school—they paid careful attention to my application as well, and then spelled my name wrong on the letter.
At least my Taddle Creek poem is coming out in two weeks. That's one success for this miserable failure of a year anyway. I'm getting pulled down by the tired, achy, exhausted body...what does that Superman show say: "Somebody save me?"
Okay, now I'm even depressing myself. On to the next journal!
Kind of reminds me of my rejection letter from UBC when I applied to graduate school—they paid careful attention to my application as well, and then spelled my name wrong on the letter.
At least my Taddle Creek poem is coming out in two weeks. That's one success for this miserable failure of a year anyway. I'm getting pulled down by the tired, achy, exhausted body...what does that Superman show say: "Somebody save me?"
Okay, now I'm even depressing myself. On to the next journal!
#58 Bee Season
While I was waiting to see my kidney specialist, I finished Bee Season by Myla Goldberg. It's the story of fifth-grader, Eliza Naumann, who suddenly finds herself the apple of her over-achieving father's eye when she wins her school's spelling bee. The book follows Elly's spelling bee successes right to the nationals, where she comes this-close to winning.
The intimate and delicate balance of Eliza's family life starts to fall apart against this backdrop of the spelling bee season—and through her experiences studying with her father, her life also changes.
I liked the book a lot, but thought that maybe it tried to do too much, and it became a bit overwhelming towards the end. However, I think she's incredibly talented, and I'm looking forward to reading Goldberg's new novel, Wickett's Remedy. I also have no idea how they've adapted it into the movie that's currently playing...but again, I'm immensely curious.
The intimate and delicate balance of Eliza's family life starts to fall apart against this backdrop of the spelling bee season—and through her experiences studying with her father, her life also changes.
I liked the book a lot, but thought that maybe it tried to do too much, and it became a bit overwhelming towards the end. However, I think she's incredibly talented, and I'm looking forward to reading Goldberg's new novel, Wickett's Remedy. I also have no idea how they've adapted it into the movie that's currently playing...but again, I'm immensely curious.
Doctor Update
Today I saw my kidney specialist about all the strange exhaustion stuff going on. He confirmed what I sort of thought anyway, that it's all probably a side effect of the small amount of prednisone I'm taking. This gives me hope. It means I'll only be feeling crappy for another couple of weeks. He also wants me to tell everything to the super-special disease doctor that I'm seeing in two weeks who might have more insight.
So things are looking up. I've talked to work and they understand everything. I've seen the specialist, and he knows what's going on and doesn't think it's my kidneys (yay!); and I have an appointment with the fancy disease doctor in two weeks if I'm still feeling like there's a bowling ball on my chest and I can't walk to the corner because I'm so tired I feel like I'm going to fall down.
I still have to have the test on Monday, which is kind of yukky, but at least it'll rule out for-sure-for-sure that I don't have an infection in my heart.
So things are looking up. I've talked to work and they understand everything. I've seen the specialist, and he knows what's going on and doesn't think it's my kidneys (yay!); and I have an appointment with the fancy disease doctor in two weeks if I'm still feeling like there's a bowling ball on my chest and I can't walk to the corner because I'm so tired I feel like I'm going to fall down.
I still have to have the test on Monday, which is kind of yukky, but at least it'll rule out for-sure-for-sure that I don't have an infection in my heart.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Are We In Trouble?
The Worst Part...
...is that I don't feel like myself lately. My brain can't focus, I have no energy to do anything. I keep crying because I don't like not feeling like myself, not feeling useful, not feeling like I'm living up to my potential, whatever that might be. There are so many things I wished for when I was a kid, I think, or at least I knew to trust my instincts, that everything would be okay. That I would be okay. The worst part of all of this is losing that inner voice. The lost cry of my own personality being drowned by the disease and my seeming inability to wake up these days.
Would anyone think less of me if I took a break?
Would anyone think less of me if I took a break?
Saturday, November 19, 2005
OMT (One More Thing)
Yesterday, we were sitting backstage after the show, and I can't remember where it came from or if JKS said it himself, but I found this incredibly inspiring:
"I'm an artist. I create the world, not the other way around."
So that's my approach to life and art and blogging and working and being sick and being alive and being tired and reading and thinking and everything. It's truly my world. I'm creating it. It's not creating me.
"I'm an artist. I create the world, not the other way around."
So that's my approach to life and art and blogging and working and being sick and being alive and being tired and reading and thinking and everything. It's truly my world. I'm creating it. It's not creating me.
Frustration With A Capital "Fr"
So I stayed home from work yesterday as per the ER doc's instructions only to find out he never sent the order for my new test. It's now scheduled for November 28. On top of that I never heard back from the specialist, so it seems that whatever's in my chest can't be all that tragic considering no one's really taking it all that seriously.
Our friends were in town playing with Sarah Harmer at the Glenn Gould Studio. It was wonderful to get to see the show, it's beautiful inside and truly sounds amazing. The whole evening was kind of surreal. I'm feeling so out of it that it's hard for me to stand up for long periods of time, so I was glad it was a sit-down show. But at the same time, it's so anti-rock that I didn't know quite what to do with myself. Do I "woo!"? Do I "whoop!"? Can I holler? Should I dance in the aisle (um, no definitely frowned upon)?
The whole evening was full of strange callbacks to my past. Danny Michel was playing with Sarah Harmer. He used to be in this band called The Rhinos. When I was at university the couple times I saw them play I was either drunk or on acid (please don't tell my father). The first time, we were so hammered we totally sat at the front of the very small club (The Toucan) and talked to the band through the entire set. Oh, silly girls.
The second time, they played at this strange club in Kingston (I can't remember the name now, but maybe it was A.J.'s), and I sat on this set of stairs beside the stage. I was so high that I kept reaching through the iron bars to take their things: hats, scarves, mittens, beer, anything I could get my hands on. It was totally bizarre. They kept coming back to look for things and I had moved them, and then moved away so they had no idea what was happening. Oh, being high on acid. So silly.
So it's strange that I have such an intimate memory of him, of his band, and he has no idea who I am, other than the girl he sort of kind of yelled at when the CBC guys gave the rest of our friends crap for smoking outside—the smoke was blowing back in on them. And I wasn't even smoking—because girls with Wegener's really shouldn't be smoking, as much as they might want to.
Earlier that evening, Sarah Harmer and The Weatherthans covered Islands in the Stream, by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. I listened to Kenny Rogers so much growing up at the cottage, that it made me all warm and fuzzy thinking about my grandfather, playing poker and these strange "talent shows" all the kids used to put on in the middle of the summer for our parents. Which made me think of how I grew up, what a great time I had, all the people I love and loved, and all the other things you remember from your childhood.
It could just be the meds that are making me introspective, imagining links from events today that connect me inexorably to who I was ten, fifteen, even twenty years ago. It could be that my body is so tired that the only way for me to expel my energy is through willing my brain to work despite everything that's going on. Who knows?
Oh, but the strangest part of the evening? Danny Michel pulling a totally pimping pair of crocodile leather shoes out of his car, holding them up saying, "Check these out!" Apparently, he thinks they're kickin' but he's not brave enough to wear them just yet. Then everyone finished packing up their rock gear to move on to the next part of the evening. This was the part where I went to bed and they all went out and got hammered. I hate the disease.
Our friends were in town playing with Sarah Harmer at the Glenn Gould Studio. It was wonderful to get to see the show, it's beautiful inside and truly sounds amazing. The whole evening was kind of surreal. I'm feeling so out of it that it's hard for me to stand up for long periods of time, so I was glad it was a sit-down show. But at the same time, it's so anti-rock that I didn't know quite what to do with myself. Do I "woo!"? Do I "whoop!"? Can I holler? Should I dance in the aisle (um, no definitely frowned upon)?
The whole evening was full of strange callbacks to my past. Danny Michel was playing with Sarah Harmer. He used to be in this band called The Rhinos. When I was at university the couple times I saw them play I was either drunk or on acid (please don't tell my father). The first time, we were so hammered we totally sat at the front of the very small club (The Toucan) and talked to the band through the entire set. Oh, silly girls.
The second time, they played at this strange club in Kingston (I can't remember the name now, but maybe it was A.J.'s), and I sat on this set of stairs beside the stage. I was so high that I kept reaching through the iron bars to take their things: hats, scarves, mittens, beer, anything I could get my hands on. It was totally bizarre. They kept coming back to look for things and I had moved them, and then moved away so they had no idea what was happening. Oh, being high on acid. So silly.
So it's strange that I have such an intimate memory of him, of his band, and he has no idea who I am, other than the girl he sort of kind of yelled at when the CBC guys gave the rest of our friends crap for smoking outside—the smoke was blowing back in on them. And I wasn't even smoking—because girls with Wegener's really shouldn't be smoking, as much as they might want to.
Earlier that evening, Sarah Harmer and The Weatherthans covered Islands in the Stream, by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. I listened to Kenny Rogers so much growing up at the cottage, that it made me all warm and fuzzy thinking about my grandfather, playing poker and these strange "talent shows" all the kids used to put on in the middle of the summer for our parents. Which made me think of how I grew up, what a great time I had, all the people I love and loved, and all the other things you remember from your childhood.
It could just be the meds that are making me introspective, imagining links from events today that connect me inexorably to who I was ten, fifteen, even twenty years ago. It could be that my body is so tired that the only way for me to expel my energy is through willing my brain to work despite everything that's going on. Who knows?
Oh, but the strangest part of the evening? Danny Michel pulling a totally pimping pair of crocodile leather shoes out of his car, holding them up saying, "Check these out!" Apparently, he thinks they're kickin' but he's not brave enough to wear them just yet. Then everyone finished packing up their rock gear to move on to the next part of the evening. This was the part where I went to bed and they all went out and got hammered. I hate the disease.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Thursday, November 17, 2005
#57 The Year of Magical Thinking
It was aptly fitting that the book I took with me to the doctor's today was Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. A highly personal and extremely effective memoir about the sudden death of her husband John Dunne and the illness of her daughter Quintana, Didion's book just won the National Book Award for nonfiction.Life changes fast.
Life changes in the instant.
You sit down and dinner and life as you know it ends.
It's a superb read, and it actually calmed me down to the point of thinking it's the perfect book to have with you when you're sitting in a hospital waiting room. Didion's writing style is sometimes hard to follow, she writes long, complex sentences without a lot of punctuation, but that's because they echo long, complex feelings and issues like grief, death and illness.
Her magical thinking is such a brilliant way of looking at how to cope with the death of a spouse, someone she had been married to for almost 40 years, that it becomes a bit of a trope within the book itself. She can't give away her husband's shoes because what would he wear. She doesn't want to move the last stack of books beside his bed because what will he read when he gets back. When she finds out Julia Child has died, she thinks she and her husband can have dinner, wherever they are.
Yet, there's another element to the story: her daughter's illness. It's another example of magical thinking. Didion's own mourning and grief over the death of her husband is totally interrupted by her daughter's terrible illness, and the book moves back and forth over the experiences around these two devastating tragedies that define her life in this period.
It's not a book of advice, nor is it a self-help book, rather it's a brilliant examination of the process of grief and mourning. Throughout everything, Didion notes that her own experiences as a writer, as a reader, tell her in times of trouble, of dis-understanding, to go back to the literature, back to the written word, to find the answers. In an extreme bit of self-reflexivity, Didion's given so many people dealing with tragedy something magical of her own—this book for us to go back to.
"This is my attempt to make sense of the period that followed, weeks and then months that cut loose any fixed idea I had ever had about death, about illness, about probability and luck, about good fortune and bad, about marriage and children and memory, about grief, about the ways in which people do and do not deal with the fact that life ends, about the shallowness of sanity, about life itself."
Frustration With A Capital "F"
Okay, so I made an appointment with my family doctor today to see if I can find out why I'm so tired these days. I've been having this strange pressure in my chest that sort of feels like I've got the wind knocked out of me, and think that might be why I'm so tired. Annnywaaay. I see the family doctor for three fleeting seconds before she's on the phone with Emergency (the clinic is in the hospital), and calling up my kidney specialist to tell him that I'm in her office feeling lowly.
Sooo, she sends me downstairs to the ER. And it's exactly what you'd expect: bedlam. It's the very last place on Earth I want to be. In fact, I can think of no place I'd actually call hell, except an emergency room at a crowded downtown Toronto hospital. I didn't think I needed to go the ER, I just wanted to make sure I didn't have an infection in my heart, which I've had before, because that's what it kind of feels like.
I got to the ER at 11 AM. I left at 6 PM. I had blood drawn, an EKG, and myriad other tests to confirm that maybe it's not pericarditis, but maybe it still is—because I have to go back TOMORROW for another test.
The whole point of me going to see the family doctor was the following: A) not to bother my specialist with the minor ups and downs of my health that may or may not be related to the disease; B) to determine if maybe I'm so tired because of the disease; and C) to AVOID AT ALL COSTS the ER because it's unnecessary and, well, not a bloody emergency.
The resident was super-nice. But he has no answers. He doesn't know if it's the disease. He in his cutie-patootie faux-hawk and super cool brown cords can't tell me if I'm sick because I've got a disease or if I've caught some strange viral infection. His advice? Go see my specialist ASAP. That's actually written on my ER orders: Go see [insert name of ragdoll's super-duper specialist here] ASAP.
There's nothing more frustrating than feeling like you're wasting time and precious resources. I had work to do. I have a life to lead. I have a disease to battle. None of these things can be done from a bed in the ER ward listening to the truly ill people wailing like they need a wall and dying in beds beside me.
Sooo, she sends me downstairs to the ER. And it's exactly what you'd expect: bedlam. It's the very last place on Earth I want to be. In fact, I can think of no place I'd actually call hell, except an emergency room at a crowded downtown Toronto hospital. I didn't think I needed to go the ER, I just wanted to make sure I didn't have an infection in my heart, which I've had before, because that's what it kind of feels like.
I got to the ER at 11 AM. I left at 6 PM. I had blood drawn, an EKG, and myriad other tests to confirm that maybe it's not pericarditis, but maybe it still is—because I have to go back TOMORROW for another test.
The whole point of me going to see the family doctor was the following: A) not to bother my specialist with the minor ups and downs of my health that may or may not be related to the disease; B) to determine if maybe I'm so tired because of the disease; and C) to AVOID AT ALL COSTS the ER because it's unnecessary and, well, not a bloody emergency.
The resident was super-nice. But he has no answers. He doesn't know if it's the disease. He in his cutie-patootie faux-hawk and super cool brown cords can't tell me if I'm sick because I've got a disease or if I've caught some strange viral infection. His advice? Go see my specialist ASAP. That's actually written on my ER orders: Go see [insert name of ragdoll's super-duper specialist here] ASAP.
There's nothing more frustrating than feeling like you're wasting time and precious resources. I had work to do. I have a life to lead. I have a disease to battle. None of these things can be done from a bed in the ER ward listening to the truly ill people wailing like they need a wall and dying in beds beside me.
"2B?NT2B?=???"
Shakespeare via your mobile phone. Makes it even shorter and more succinct than Tom Stoppard. And is that necessarily a better thing? I don't know. How much value do words lose when you strip them of their sentences, shorten them to the point of extinction and then pull them out of context?
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Slowly Melting = Good Karma
Making it through an entire day of work feels almost like climbing Mount Everest. Okay, I've never actually climbed Mount Everest, so I'm sorry if I'm offending any true blue mountaineers out there. By the time I get home I'm flushed and semi-feverish, or at least I feel that way, totally exhausted and thinking about bed. I put on my pajamas (jogging pants, sweatshirt) and I turn on the television. So. Not. Exciting.
But tonight I had a function to go to for work. Flare magazine had a cocktail party to celebrate their year, and it was a lot of fun, despite my lack of energy. In fact, I had a My Name is Earl moment. I had forgotten to dump my business card into the buckets for the door prizes until the very last second, when Zesty pulled a fast one and dropped it in. And I won a $250 gift certificate for Yorkdale Mall! Bring on the shoes, bring them on!
Perhaps the world is being kind to me because I'm feeling so poorly lately. Who knows? But it was kind of funny.
But tonight I had a function to go to for work. Flare magazine had a cocktail party to celebrate their year, and it was a lot of fun, despite my lack of energy. In fact, I had a My Name is Earl moment. I had forgotten to dump my business card into the buckets for the door prizes until the very last second, when Zesty pulled a fast one and dropped it in. And I won a $250 gift certificate for Yorkdale Mall! Bring on the shoes, bring them on!
Perhaps the world is being kind to me because I'm feeling so poorly lately. Who knows? But it was kind of funny.
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