Turning The Page On A Book
27/09/10 19:48 Filed in: Writing
Life
Nobody likes a quitter, or so they say. I
pride myself on finishing (eventually) most things
I start, such as stories, poems, plays, etc.
And, of course, books. It is rare that
I don't finish a book once I have read the first
page. There have been books that I have slogged
through, such as The Shipping News, which
took me the first hundred pages before I actually
got into it. There are books that I have seen
through to the last page, more out of stubbornness
than interest. But I feel a sense of personal
failure when I give up on a book. This happened
recently with A Million Little
Pieces by James Frey.
From the first page I didn't care for the writing, first person/present tense, which adopted a highly stylized, haphazard quality. The obvious desired effect was to put the reader in the mind of the addict narrator. Nothing wrong with that. Immediately, I was reminded of the controversy when Oprah Winfrey championed the book as a harrowing memoir of drug addiction and recovery, only to later publicly vilify Frey on her show when she discovered that some of the "facts" had been embellished. So when I saw for myself how stylized the writing was, I could only think how naive Oprah had been to take the narrative as verbatim fact. For that reason I decided to be patient and give Frey a chance to tell his story.
This book was recommended to me by someone who knew that I was writing a play on addiction and recovery. That was another reason I patiently waded through the unnecessarily repetitive prose, hoping to glean some insight into the mind of an addict. On that score there were some interesting passages and moments when my sympathy was on the narrator's side. But half way through the book I decided enough was enough. It's hard to say exactly what straw broke the camel's back. It seemed to be an accumulation of things. More often than not, the prose style got on my nerves rather than drawing me into the narrator's world. The story itself also became annoyingly repetitive: first he wants to get better, then he decides he'll leave the centre and get high,then something (or someone) happens to change his mind, then he decides to stick it out and on and on. Obviously this is true to life in the pattern of recovery, but as a story I have to say I just stopped caring.
Some may argue that this is a true-to-life memoir, that Frey is writing from his own experience, fudged facts or not. As a fiction writer, who often draws from his own experience, I believe the facts shouldn't ever get in the way of the truth. The great thing about fiction is that it is a lie. The better the lie, the more we want to read. If, when we close the final page and put the book aside, we actually retain anything of what we read, whether it's something in the story or the way it was told, I would say that is the truth of the story.
Still, I feel some guilt in giving up on A Million Little Pieces. On the one hand, Frey's story just didn't keep my interest. On the other hand I can't help but feel that if hung in there just a few pages more my patience might have been rewarded. Ridiculous, I know, considering I stuck it out for half the book. Or is that what is really bothering me? Misplaced trust? Either way, it was clearly time to turn the page.
From the first page I didn't care for the writing, first person/present tense, which adopted a highly stylized, haphazard quality. The obvious desired effect was to put the reader in the mind of the addict narrator. Nothing wrong with that. Immediately, I was reminded of the controversy when Oprah Winfrey championed the book as a harrowing memoir of drug addiction and recovery, only to later publicly vilify Frey on her show when she discovered that some of the "facts" had been embellished. So when I saw for myself how stylized the writing was, I could only think how naive Oprah had been to take the narrative as verbatim fact. For that reason I decided to be patient and give Frey a chance to tell his story.
This book was recommended to me by someone who knew that I was writing a play on addiction and recovery. That was another reason I patiently waded through the unnecessarily repetitive prose, hoping to glean some insight into the mind of an addict. On that score there were some interesting passages and moments when my sympathy was on the narrator's side. But half way through the book I decided enough was enough. It's hard to say exactly what straw broke the camel's back. It seemed to be an accumulation of things. More often than not, the prose style got on my nerves rather than drawing me into the narrator's world. The story itself also became annoyingly repetitive: first he wants to get better, then he decides he'll leave the centre and get high,then something (or someone) happens to change his mind, then he decides to stick it out and on and on. Obviously this is true to life in the pattern of recovery, but as a story I have to say I just stopped caring.
Some may argue that this is a true-to-life memoir, that Frey is writing from his own experience, fudged facts or not. As a fiction writer, who often draws from his own experience, I believe the facts shouldn't ever get in the way of the truth. The great thing about fiction is that it is a lie. The better the lie, the more we want to read. If, when we close the final page and put the book aside, we actually retain anything of what we read, whether it's something in the story or the way it was told, I would say that is the truth of the story.
Still, I feel some guilt in giving up on A Million Little Pieces. On the one hand, Frey's story just didn't keep my interest. On the other hand I can't help but feel that if hung in there just a few pages more my patience might have been rewarded. Ridiculous, I know, considering I stuck it out for half the book. Or is that what is really bothering me? Misplaced trust? Either way, it was clearly time to turn the page.
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Words & Music
24/09/10 21:00 Filed in: Writing
Life |
Fatted
Calf Blues
I recently attended a reading by poet and novelist
Anne Simpson, whom, I am
proud to say, I know. In the middle of
the reading she stopped to take some questions
and was asked by a student about whether she
had ever turned any of her poems into songs.
She answered that she had not and began
to speak a bit about the difference between
poems and song lyrics when she suddenly called
my name, knowing that I have written both song
lyrics and poems, and asked me to weigh in on
the subject.
I was sitting at the back of the room, liking to be as inconspicuous as possible, and so was rather startled to have the audience's attention turn to me. I remember my mind racing for an answer and my wife tells me that I handled myself well (as a good and supportive wife should, although I well know she would have no qualms in telling me if I screwed up royally). Essentially I said that poems and lyrics are two very different animals. No matter how accomplished a lyric may be, it will always be merely one half of that entity called a song. When writing a lyric, one is always aware that there is another component to come, which is the music, unless one is setting lyrics to an established melody. A poem, on the other hand, must stand on its own and somehow engender its own music, which can happen in a number of ways.
In the following days I thought more and more about the difference between these two disciplines, in particular the different ways in which a poem creates its own music. First of all, there is language and the musicality of words. The best example I can think of is the poetry of Dylan Thomas, whose incredible lines seem to leap from the page. In fact the musicality of his language was sometimes a target for criticism and some have said his poems have more music than meaning. I don't agree with that. In a way it reminds me of the film Amadeus, where the king tells Mozart that his composition has too many notes. Both seem to be criticisms for their own sake and not very well thought out.
After Anne took questions she returned to her reading and asked if there was anything that the audience wanted her to read. I immediately put up my hand as asked her to read the poem Clocks Of Rain from her collection, Quick. It is one of my favorite poems and I have heard her read it on a number of occasions. As I listened, I realized that I could not have asked for a better example of a poem's musicality. First of all, I must say that I think this poem is a departure from Anne's usual work (she may very well disagree with me on this). Anne does not so much read the poem as she performs it. It is a poem about a car accident and is very intense. There are many pauses in the printed version and orally these come across as disturbing silences. In retrospect, I am reminded of a quote about music (was it Stravinsky who said it?) that goes, roughly: The real music exists between the notes (incidentally, I used this myself in a poem). In that sense, the real poetry in Clocks Of Rain exists in those silences. You would have to hear Anne's performance to fully appreciate it.
A poem also creates music in its juxtaposition of images. I seem to remember an interview with James Merrill, where he likened his juxtaposition of images as being like billiard balls knocking against each other. That definitely has a musical sound to my ear. That's why the complexity of poetry, which in itself can evoke a rich musicality, doesn't always work well as a song. I know from experience that composers always prefer simple words to work with. When read on the page, many lyrics seem rather banal and simplistic, yet when sung reveal an inner richness of meaning and emotion.
It often is the case that lyric and melody are a unique marriage, a juxtaposition of meaning and emotion, knocking against each other in their own peculiar fashion. The example that springs to mind is the standard Blue Skies . The lyric seems to be clear enough (pun intended): Blue skies smiling at me, nothing but blue skies do I see. Yet, there's something odd about the music. If I knew more about the technical aspects of music I could describe it better, but there seems to be some minor notes (any of you musicians out there can take me to task on this) that give the song a sense of foreboding that adds a different layer of meaning on the lyric. In a way, it reminds me of an Alex Colville painting, where things seem serene enough, but one somehow has a sense that something is not quite right.
Last year I read at a reading series in Hamilton, Ontario called Lit Live. When it was advertised in a local Hamilton arts newspaper, the readers were listed with a small blurb beside their names. Beside mine it said that I was going to perform songs from my collection Fatted Calf Blues (which, of course, is a story collection). Nevertheless, I really liked the typo and feel that it caught the essence of what I am always trying to do in my writing, which is to capture that sense of mystery - that indescribable something that cannot always be expressed by words alone - in the seemingly limited medium of language.
I was sitting at the back of the room, liking to be as inconspicuous as possible, and so was rather startled to have the audience's attention turn to me. I remember my mind racing for an answer and my wife tells me that I handled myself well (as a good and supportive wife should, although I well know she would have no qualms in telling me if I screwed up royally). Essentially I said that poems and lyrics are two very different animals. No matter how accomplished a lyric may be, it will always be merely one half of that entity called a song. When writing a lyric, one is always aware that there is another component to come, which is the music, unless one is setting lyrics to an established melody. A poem, on the other hand, must stand on its own and somehow engender its own music, which can happen in a number of ways.
In the following days I thought more and more about the difference between these two disciplines, in particular the different ways in which a poem creates its own music. First of all, there is language and the musicality of words. The best example I can think of is the poetry of Dylan Thomas, whose incredible lines seem to leap from the page. In fact the musicality of his language was sometimes a target for criticism and some have said his poems have more music than meaning. I don't agree with that. In a way it reminds me of the film Amadeus, where the king tells Mozart that his composition has too many notes. Both seem to be criticisms for their own sake and not very well thought out.
After Anne took questions she returned to her reading and asked if there was anything that the audience wanted her to read. I immediately put up my hand as asked her to read the poem Clocks Of Rain from her collection, Quick. It is one of my favorite poems and I have heard her read it on a number of occasions. As I listened, I realized that I could not have asked for a better example of a poem's musicality. First of all, I must say that I think this poem is a departure from Anne's usual work (she may very well disagree with me on this). Anne does not so much read the poem as she performs it. It is a poem about a car accident and is very intense. There are many pauses in the printed version and orally these come across as disturbing silences. In retrospect, I am reminded of a quote about music (was it Stravinsky who said it?) that goes, roughly: The real music exists between the notes (incidentally, I used this myself in a poem). In that sense, the real poetry in Clocks Of Rain exists in those silences. You would have to hear Anne's performance to fully appreciate it.
A poem also creates music in its juxtaposition of images. I seem to remember an interview with James Merrill, where he likened his juxtaposition of images as being like billiard balls knocking against each other. That definitely has a musical sound to my ear. That's why the complexity of poetry, which in itself can evoke a rich musicality, doesn't always work well as a song. I know from experience that composers always prefer simple words to work with. When read on the page, many lyrics seem rather banal and simplistic, yet when sung reveal an inner richness of meaning and emotion.
It often is the case that lyric and melody are a unique marriage, a juxtaposition of meaning and emotion, knocking against each other in their own peculiar fashion. The example that springs to mind is the standard Blue Skies . The lyric seems to be clear enough (pun intended): Blue skies smiling at me, nothing but blue skies do I see. Yet, there's something odd about the music. If I knew more about the technical aspects of music I could describe it better, but there seems to be some minor notes (any of you musicians out there can take me to task on this) that give the song a sense of foreboding that adds a different layer of meaning on the lyric. In a way, it reminds me of an Alex Colville painting, where things seem serene enough, but one somehow has a sense that something is not quite right.
Last year I read at a reading series in Hamilton, Ontario called Lit Live. When it was advertised in a local Hamilton arts newspaper, the readers were listed with a small blurb beside their names. Beside mine it said that I was going to perform songs from my collection Fatted Calf Blues (which, of course, is a story collection). Nevertheless, I really liked the typo and feel that it caught the essence of what I am always trying to do in my writing, which is to capture that sense of mystery - that indescribable something that cannot always be expressed by words alone - in the seemingly limited medium of language.
Fast & Slow
20/09/10 22:14 Filed in: Personal
"Have an easy fast" is the typical remark one says
at Yom Kippur, a wish that one will easily get
through the next 24 hours without food,
entertainment and other "luxuries." I
expected this past Yom Kippur, being the first one
I have observed with a fast in the last thirty
years, to be somewhat difficult. In fact, it
was relatively easy. It started at sunset on
a Friday and the hunger pangs didn't start until
around 4 the next afternoon. What I struggled
with most was not being able to check my email and
do my usual on line routine (Facebook, news,
crosswords, etc).
I decided that this would be more of a cultural observation,rather than a religious one. I don't consider myself to be at all religious. It's a bit of a stretch to think of myself as spiritual, although I could probably make the argument for it. I like the cliché that says we are not humans on a spiritual journey, but instead we are spirits on a human journey. Like most clichés there is a nugget of truth there. A spiritual journey sounds as if it would be fraught with a need for perfection. A human journey seems to allow for a lot of stumbling and mistakes.
Although Thelma didn't fast, and I wouldn't have expected her to, she was respectful of my observance by not having the radio on and listened to it on her iPod with headphones. And so my 24 hour period of atonement had a somewhat monastic feel as the house was mostly silent. Ideally, I was supposed to spend my time meditating on my sins. There was very little of that. I went for long walks, as I do most days. On my walks I tend to let anything and everything pop into my head. Part of the Yom Kippur rule is that we are not supposed to work, but I did think about the play that I have yet to start and came up with some interesting ideas about how the story might unfold. If there is anything spiritual about me it is connected to being a storyteller, so I'm hoping it all evens out somehow.
When I wasn't going for walks I sat in my office and read a wonderful collection called Great Jewish Short Stories. That is the cultural part of the observance. My favorite were a couple of stories by Sholom Aleichem, who is best known as the source of the musical Fiddler On The Roof. In fact, one of the stories I read, Hodel, is about one of Tevye's daughters and makes up part of the musical's plot. There was a story from the Apocrypha and one by the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber, so I did get a something of a lesson in Jewish history. If nothing else, Judaism is best defined in its stories.
As I said earlier, by the time 4 p.m. came my stomach was starting to rumble and the hours seemed to drag. 24 hours goes by slowly when all you do is read and go for walks, but the slowness of a fast always provides food for thought. My fast ended with a takeout turkey dinner that my mother-in-law brought from a Presbyterian church supper. Blintzes would have been nice, but I always like a meal that's rich in irony.
I decided that this would be more of a cultural observation,rather than a religious one. I don't consider myself to be at all religious. It's a bit of a stretch to think of myself as spiritual, although I could probably make the argument for it. I like the cliché that says we are not humans on a spiritual journey, but instead we are spirits on a human journey. Like most clichés there is a nugget of truth there. A spiritual journey sounds as if it would be fraught with a need for perfection. A human journey seems to allow for a lot of stumbling and mistakes.
Although Thelma didn't fast, and I wouldn't have expected her to, she was respectful of my observance by not having the radio on and listened to it on her iPod with headphones. And so my 24 hour period of atonement had a somewhat monastic feel as the house was mostly silent. Ideally, I was supposed to spend my time meditating on my sins. There was very little of that. I went for long walks, as I do most days. On my walks I tend to let anything and everything pop into my head. Part of the Yom Kippur rule is that we are not supposed to work, but I did think about the play that I have yet to start and came up with some interesting ideas about how the story might unfold. If there is anything spiritual about me it is connected to being a storyteller, so I'm hoping it all evens out somehow.
When I wasn't going for walks I sat in my office and read a wonderful collection called Great Jewish Short Stories. That is the cultural part of the observance. My favorite were a couple of stories by Sholom Aleichem, who is best known as the source of the musical Fiddler On The Roof. In fact, one of the stories I read, Hodel, is about one of Tevye's daughters and makes up part of the musical's plot. There was a story from the Apocrypha and one by the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber, so I did get a something of a lesson in Jewish history. If nothing else, Judaism is best defined in its stories.
As I said earlier, by the time 4 p.m. came my stomach was starting to rumble and the hours seemed to drag. 24 hours goes by slowly when all you do is read and go for walks, but the slowness of a fast always provides food for thought. My fast ended with a takeout turkey dinner that my mother-in-law brought from a Presbyterian church supper. Blintzes would have been nice, but I always like a meal that's rich in irony.
Life In The Fasting Lane
15/09/10 08:44 Filed in: Personal
Yom Kippur begins this Friday
at sundown. The last time I fasted was roughly
thirty years ago. I have decided to observe
this Friday's Day of Atonement by not eating,
watching TV, listening to the radio or opening
my lap top. I will spend the twenty-four hours
(the waking ones at least) either sitting in
my office or walking through our surrounding
woods. I will also, no doubt, go for a walk or
two on my usual route along the Rafferty Road
and the Canadian Road. Theoretically, I will
be spending all this time contemplating my
sins. I may actually start out doing that,
but, knowing my wandering monkey mind, I
expect to wander down numerous mental side
routes and maybe even some spiritual back
roads.
Aside from thinking, we are also allowed to read, preferably from the bible or some other spiritually edifying material. I am currently reading A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. Although it is, to some degree, about self-examination, I don't think it is particularly relevant literature for such a solemn observance. I have decided to allow myself to read from Great Jewish Short Stories, a collection edited by Saul Bellow which contains stories by Isaac Babel, Sholom Aleichem, Bernard Malamud, Isaac Bashevis Singer and others.
The question is why have I decided to observe the holiest of Jewish holidays now? Am I looking for spiritual clarification? Do I really believe I can find it by abstaining from food and work? Am I just getting soft in my old age? On all three accounts I could probably argue yes and no. I think I am mostly interested in the ritual and the symbolism that goes along with it. I do believe that writing stories, poems, plays and whatever gives me, along with the usual frustration and obsessiveness, a connection to something spiritual, even - dare I say it? - divine. In a way, exploring daily rituals, often of the most banal nature, and the commonplace symbols that most people overlook, are a part of my trade as a writer. I'd like to believe that I'm searching out the extraordinary in daily ordinariness.
In the end, the short answer as to why I am observing Yom Kippur this year is that I'm doing it just to do it. As a writer and as a Jew (and I suppose as a Jewish writer) that is the best reason of all.
Aside from thinking, we are also allowed to read, preferably from the bible or some other spiritually edifying material. I am currently reading A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. Although it is, to some degree, about self-examination, I don't think it is particularly relevant literature for such a solemn observance. I have decided to allow myself to read from Great Jewish Short Stories, a collection edited by Saul Bellow which contains stories by Isaac Babel, Sholom Aleichem, Bernard Malamud, Isaac Bashevis Singer and others.
The question is why have I decided to observe the holiest of Jewish holidays now? Am I looking for spiritual clarification? Do I really believe I can find it by abstaining from food and work? Am I just getting soft in my old age? On all three accounts I could probably argue yes and no. I think I am mostly interested in the ritual and the symbolism that goes along with it. I do believe that writing stories, poems, plays and whatever gives me, along with the usual frustration and obsessiveness, a connection to something spiritual, even - dare I say it? - divine. In a way, exploring daily rituals, often of the most banal nature, and the commonplace symbols that most people overlook, are a part of my trade as a writer. I'd like to believe that I'm searching out the extraordinary in daily ordinariness.
In the end, the short answer as to why I am observing Yom Kippur this year is that I'm doing it just to do it. As a writer and as a Jew (and I suppose as a Jewish writer) that is the best reason of all.
A Perfect Day
It was a long day beginning at 7:30 in the morning
and ending after 10:00 at night, but our
anniversary celebration on September 11th couldn't
have been more perfect. The weather gods
decided to test us with cloudy skies, wind and
intermittent showers, then teased us with a few
rays of sunshine only to cloud over again and blow
more wind than a politician at election time.
Nevertheless, we motored into Charlottetown
and had a delicious breakfast at Casa Mia Cafe. Their
pan-tossed potato with caramelized onions
really hit the spot. Thelma had a few shopping
errands on her list and, with an unwavering
focus, we managed to carry them out with
military precision. By that time we were
a mite peckish (what else is new?), and so we
dropped by the Farmer's Market .
I had hoped that we could take a walk on the beach or possibly on the boardwalk in North Rustico, but the weather was not on our side. So we passed by the Empire Cinemas to see if there was anything worth seeing. Much to our surprise they were showing a live BBC broadcast of the Last Night of the Proms from the Royal Albert Hall. The Proms is a series of summer concerts and the last one is always a huge event. This movie theatre often shows live broadcasts of opera and these are usually well-attended. Apparently they didn't publicize this Last Night broadcast very well because there were only three other people in the theatre.
When I found out it was a three and a half hour show (including a twenty minute intermission) I was prepared for a long sit, but it went by faster than I expected. The BBC camera work was excellent with some incredible aerial shots on the inside of the formidable Royal Albert Hall and some brilliant close-ups of the orchestra, choir and soloists, who included American soprano Renee Fleming, and Dame Kiri Te Kanawa. There were corresponding outdoor concerts in Hyde Park, Wales, Ireland and Scotland. At one point, through the miracle of technology, audiences at all the concerts sang together in a rousing rendition of the Rodgers and Hammerstein classic, You'll Never Walk Alone. In all, it was a great way for Thelma and I to spend our anniversary. But that was not the end of it.
For supper we drove to Rustico and ate at the cozy Pearl Cafe. I had already eaten there in August with members of the Seawords Workshop, but this was Thelma's first time. We were not disappointed. Thelma started off with a roasted tomato soup with an arugula emulsion. It had a beautiful flavor. I had the chicken confit terrine with warm brioche and a rhubarb preserve. For our main courses Thelma chose a tea-rubbed chicken breast and I went with the pan-fried scallops with potato rosti. If Rustico is the oyster then this comfortable and unassuming little cafe is definitely The Pearl. As mentioned earlier, we got home a little after 10:00 pm, tired and satisfied by our day's celebration. I'm already thinking about what we might do next year.
I had hoped that we could take a walk on the beach or possibly on the boardwalk in North Rustico, but the weather was not on our side. So we passed by the Empire Cinemas to see if there was anything worth seeing. Much to our surprise they were showing a live BBC broadcast of the Last Night of the Proms from the Royal Albert Hall. The Proms is a series of summer concerts and the last one is always a huge event. This movie theatre often shows live broadcasts of opera and these are usually well-attended. Apparently they didn't publicize this Last Night broadcast very well because there were only three other people in the theatre.
When I found out it was a three and a half hour show (including a twenty minute intermission) I was prepared for a long sit, but it went by faster than I expected. The BBC camera work was excellent with some incredible aerial shots on the inside of the formidable Royal Albert Hall and some brilliant close-ups of the orchestra, choir and soloists, who included American soprano Renee Fleming, and Dame Kiri Te Kanawa. There were corresponding outdoor concerts in Hyde Park, Wales, Ireland and Scotland. At one point, through the miracle of technology, audiences at all the concerts sang together in a rousing rendition of the Rodgers and Hammerstein classic, You'll Never Walk Alone. In all, it was a great way for Thelma and I to spend our anniversary. But that was not the end of it.
For supper we drove to Rustico and ate at the cozy Pearl Cafe. I had already eaten there in August with members of the Seawords Workshop, but this was Thelma's first time. We were not disappointed. Thelma started off with a roasted tomato soup with an arugula emulsion. It had a beautiful flavor. I had the chicken confit terrine with warm brioche and a rhubarb preserve. For our main courses Thelma chose a tea-rubbed chicken breast and I went with the pan-fried scallops with potato rosti. If Rustico is the oyster then this comfortable and unassuming little cafe is definitely The Pearl. As mentioned earlier, we got home a little after 10:00 pm, tired and satisfied by our day's celebration. I'm already thinking about what we might do next year.
9/11-24/7
It was our first year in PEI. Thelma and I had
moved here on May 1, 2001 with a car full of stuff
packed around a cage with two crying cats in it.
All our other stuff came by moving van. We were
living in the bucolic splendor of Foxley River in a
log cabin (with green siding that has now been
stripped off). Our 2nd anniversary was coming up in
September. We met on September 11, 1999 at a mutual
friend's birthday dinner at an excellent Italian
restaurant in Toronto called Grappa. Our
anniversary celebration that first year in PEI was
going to be quite simple. We were going to go out
for an Island treat called fries with the works (a
plate of french fries covered in gravy, peas and
chopped up hamburger meat!). Needless to say world
events had different plans for us. We were
glued to our TV and radio all day and night in our
leafy little corner, feeling both isolated from yet
very much a part of the world.
There are so many things about September 11th that make me angry. That so many people had to lose their lives. That a few radical extremists were able to grab the world's attention with such a heinous act. That governments around the world were able to use fear to manipulate the people under the guise of protecting them. That the current racism against Muslims is still justified by this fear. Even today there is an ignorant reverend in Florida who believes he is justified in burning another religion's holy book as a message to a radical minority. I am angry that radical minorities get all the media attention while the majority of sensible, law-abiding people are cast in the shadows.
When I asked Thelma to marry me on our anniversary, September 11th, 2005, I specifically requested that we get married in exactly one year so that our official anniversary would be September 11th. It was important to me to have this date be about something other than violence, fear, madness and mourning. I needed to remember that life is worth living. I needed to find a way (as Bruce Cockburn so eloquently put it) to kick at the darkness till it bled daylight. We live in the shadow of September 11th every day of our lives. I'm glad to say that I also live in a ray of hope with my darling Thelma here in our little corner of the world. Every day of our lives.
There are so many things about September 11th that make me angry. That so many people had to lose their lives. That a few radical extremists were able to grab the world's attention with such a heinous act. That governments around the world were able to use fear to manipulate the people under the guise of protecting them. That the current racism against Muslims is still justified by this fear. Even today there is an ignorant reverend in Florida who believes he is justified in burning another religion's holy book as a message to a radical minority. I am angry that radical minorities get all the media attention while the majority of sensible, law-abiding people are cast in the shadows.
When I asked Thelma to marry me on our anniversary, September 11th, 2005, I specifically requested that we get married in exactly one year so that our official anniversary would be September 11th. It was important to me to have this date be about something other than violence, fear, madness and mourning. I needed to remember that life is worth living. I needed to find a way (as Bruce Cockburn so eloquently put it) to kick at the darkness till it bled daylight. We live in the shadow of September 11th every day of our lives. I'm glad to say that I also live in a ray of hope with my darling Thelma here in our little corner of the world. Every day of our lives.
My Ever Changing Moons
Today marks a new moon. According to my horoscope,
the new moon is in my opposite sign of Virgo and
the accent will be on the relationships in my life.
Yes, I read my horoscope. And while I
am open to the concept that our lives might be
somewhat influenced by the movements of heavenly
bodies, I have become more skeptical that any
so-called astrologer can accurately predict how,
when or why they influence us. Of course,
that won't stop me from reading my horoscope.
I look at it as a blatant bit of egotism,
like checking one's reflection in a store window.
On a good day I can treat the actual predictions as
general suggestions about how to conduct my life
("Let your
nearest and dearest know how much you love them..."
etc, etc). On a bad day I just shake my head in
bewilderment and wonder why I even bother.
The influence of stars and planets soar over my head, so to speak, but the moon brings it all much closer to home. Living out here in the country has clarified my connection to the lunar phases. When the moon is full the night sky is so bright I could stand outside and count the blades of grass. It shines through my bedroom window like an insomniac's halo and I have to burrow into the basement to watch late-night chat shows and Law and Order reruns until fatigue mercifully overcomes me. One would hope that this would be a perfect opportunity to get some writing done, but there always seems to be some kind of mental static that makes any kind of concentration all but impossible. I never have the urge to grow hair and howl, but it always feels like there is some kind of inner werewolf on the prowl.
There are other times when the full moon has the opposite effect and I am hopelessly lethargic. All I want to do is sleep for days. I can't begin to imagine what is in my chemical make-up that makes me so susceptible to Io's unpredictable whims. It is no secret that the full moon has this pull over most of the human and animal population. It is the other phases that interest me. A few days ago I saw a beautifully lit crescent moon that looked like a phosphorescent fingernail paring. I think this is the most aesthetically pleasing of all the phases, so much so it inspired a simple lyric a few years ago.
Thumbnail Moon
Old thumbnail moon,
crescent and thin,
scratched out
from the night like a grin.
Bloodless and bone white
it sheds its meager light
on a heart that’s filled with gloom
whose last hope
hangs on an old thumbnail moon.
Money and love,
losses and gains,
funny how luck
waxes and wanes.
Bowed but unbroken
I vowed to start again,
cradling my pride’s frail wound
in the curve
of that old thumbnail moon
As for this new moon... only time will tell what strings it is going to be pulling down here on earth. No matter what changes it may bring, globally or personally, the only constant is - to paraphrase a song by The Style Council - I'll always be caught up in the whirlwind of my ever changing moons.
The influence of stars and planets soar over my head, so to speak, but the moon brings it all much closer to home. Living out here in the country has clarified my connection to the lunar phases. When the moon is full the night sky is so bright I could stand outside and count the blades of grass. It shines through my bedroom window like an insomniac's halo and I have to burrow into the basement to watch late-night chat shows and Law and Order reruns until fatigue mercifully overcomes me. One would hope that this would be a perfect opportunity to get some writing done, but there always seems to be some kind of mental static that makes any kind of concentration all but impossible. I never have the urge to grow hair and howl, but it always feels like there is some kind of inner werewolf on the prowl.
There are other times when the full moon has the opposite effect and I am hopelessly lethargic. All I want to do is sleep for days. I can't begin to imagine what is in my chemical make-up that makes me so susceptible to Io's unpredictable whims. It is no secret that the full moon has this pull over most of the human and animal population. It is the other phases that interest me. A few days ago I saw a beautifully lit crescent moon that looked like a phosphorescent fingernail paring. I think this is the most aesthetically pleasing of all the phases, so much so it inspired a simple lyric a few years ago.
Thumbnail Moon
Old thumbnail moon,
crescent and thin,
scratched out
from the night like a grin.
Bloodless and bone white
it sheds its meager light
on a heart that’s filled with gloom
whose last hope
hangs on an old thumbnail moon.
Money and love,
losses and gains,
funny how luck
waxes and wanes.
Bowed but unbroken
I vowed to start again,
cradling my pride’s frail wound
in the curve
of that old thumbnail moon
As for this new moon... only time will tell what strings it is going to be pulling down here on earth. No matter what changes it may bring, globally or personally, the only constant is - to paraphrase a song by The Style Council - I'll always be caught up in the whirlwind of my ever changing moons.
Rising To The Fall
It's been a lovely Labour Day three-day weekend.
Things looked a bit dicey Friday night when
we were preparing for the arrival of Hurricane
Earl, in whatever form he might take. We were lucky
that when Saturday rolled around we suffered very
little. The wind was strong and we got a nice
downpour of rain (which our garden sorely needed).
There was a hairy moment when we found water
dripping from a kitchen light fixture (on my
mother-in-law's side), but that subsided when the
rain stopped. A few small branches got blown off,
but luckily there was no major damage. We didn't
even lose our power (which usually happens to us).
I know that many areas across Atlantic Canada were
not as lucky and I hope things are slowly getting
back to normal for everyone concerned.
After the previous week of muggy, uncomfortable weather, Earl left gentle cool temperatures in his wake. Sunday was crisp and sunny and was spent having a sociable lunch with friends at the Dunes Cafe in Brackley Beach, where my dear Thelma bought me a small statue of Ganesh for my office. Today being Labour Day Monday, I felt some kind of labour might be in order and so a long-needed clean up of my office took place. We moved our fax machine (do people still send faxes?) into the basement and shifted the printer off my desk, giving me more room (for the Ganesh!). The place where I spend most of my day looks more or less orderly.
An orderly work space, cool weather... I'm starting to get that autumnal feeling, that strange sense of renewal I used to feel when I was a mere shirt-tail tad getting ready to start to school. I'm hoping this feeling carries me into a more productive period. Not that I've been entirely idle, but ever since July I seem to have been finding one reason or another to not get started on the play I've been saying I will write since July. The need to do some research was the main excuse, but I think there is something else: that moment of panic in the pit of my stomach just before embarking on a new project. Facing the blank screen is one thing, but putting fingers to keyboard always involves a certain leap of faith, not unlike walking into a new classroom. It's nice to know that I don't take these things for granted and I hope I never will. All the same, I think I will savor the orderliness of my office before I step off the cliff.
After the previous week of muggy, uncomfortable weather, Earl left gentle cool temperatures in his wake. Sunday was crisp and sunny and was spent having a sociable lunch with friends at the Dunes Cafe in Brackley Beach, where my dear Thelma bought me a small statue of Ganesh for my office. Today being Labour Day Monday, I felt some kind of labour might be in order and so a long-needed clean up of my office took place. We moved our fax machine (do people still send faxes?) into the basement and shifted the printer off my desk, giving me more room (for the Ganesh!). The place where I spend most of my day looks more or less orderly.
An orderly work space, cool weather... I'm starting to get that autumnal feeling, that strange sense of renewal I used to feel when I was a mere shirt-tail tad getting ready to start to school. I'm hoping this feeling carries me into a more productive period. Not that I've been entirely idle, but ever since July I seem to have been finding one reason or another to not get started on the play I've been saying I will write since July. The need to do some research was the main excuse, but I think there is something else: that moment of panic in the pit of my stomach just before embarking on a new project. Facing the blank screen is one thing, but putting fingers to keyboard always involves a certain leap of faith, not unlike walking into a new classroom. It's nice to know that I don't take these things for granted and I hope I never will. All the same, I think I will savor the orderliness of my office before I step off the cliff.