Author Archives: Autumn

Contradiction

Yesterday was another odd day.

I met with Ceri to exchange our creative efforts for the two previous weeks, and I was late; I had been involved in my writing, finally looked at the clock, and proceeded to dash about trying to print things out, change, and catch a bus. I hate being rushed. I also dislike waking up and being slightly out of sorts, which I was yesterday; not in a bad mood, just slightly out of step with everything else. Ceri offered me tea and made me a grilled cheese sandwich, like any good Maritimer would if you collapsed in their kitchen and said, “I feel wrong.” It helped. So did the Advil.

I had dinner with MLG which was as enjoyable as always, and yet uncomfortable on other levels. We’d made the date previous to my implosion on Sunday, so rather than having an evening getting away from it all, we ended up troubleshooting and problem-solving, which isn’t a bad thing, just not what I had originally intended. Although I am an excellent listener, I am admittedly reluctant to ask people for help, and these days I’m incredibly blessed to have people who see that I need it and give it to me whether I’ve asked or not. I think that reluctance partially stems from the belief that my feelings and problems are private, and partially from the desire to not burden others (who have their own problems) with mine as well. To a certain extent, it’s also learned behaviour: throughout high school and CEGEP, my friends would pour their problems out to me, but when I tried to share my own, they were uninterested. The idea that people are determined to get me to talk and open up is rather new. I am, however, looking forward to a day when I can have a conversation with other adults that doesn’t revolve around my problems. I get twitchy when a conversation rests on me for too long and start looking for a place to hide, and when you’re in a corner at a pub with a single rather sharp individual, hiding is rather difficult. I suppose this is good for me – doesn’t it build character or something?

Apart from dinner being terribly delicious (nothing like colcannon when you need comfort food!) and being introduced to Boddingtons, I acquired a battery for my laptop, hurrah! I got home and spent an embarrassing amount of time looking for the slot to install it before realising that the only logical place for it to go was the CD-ROM drive slot, so I took out the disc drive and lo and behold, the battery slid right in. The unit didn’t self-destruct when I turned it on this morning, so I must have done something right – it has even produced a battery indicator on the display. I feel more freedom already. The Loyola campus library is three minutes away from me, and I have many fond memories of hours spent there before and after class during my BA years; there’s also a perfectly lovely park across the way which I will have to test out soon as a writing location as well.

I have an odd contradiction of feeling about my home these days. I want to cocoon, to stay home, read, and write; on the other hand, I’m feeling a little house-bound by the recent weather and want to be Out Doing Things. The latter is a very new experience for me, so I’m indulging it at the right times. In fact, Ceri and I are headed for more fabric stores today, questing for the perfect trim for sewing projects. Little expeditions like this are just perfect; they get me out, I can read on the metro, I share a couple of hours with another intelligent life form other than a cat, and then I’m home again. I have discovered by not working for an employer during the week, I no longer feel like I Have To Have Fun on my days off; as a result, when the sun goes down I no longer feel as if I’ve wasted a day somehow. This is a definite improvement.

They say it will rain this weekend. They said that last weekend too. I’ll believe it when I see it.

Possession: The Response

Hmmm.

Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm.

The last images faded from the screen, and we looked at each other, and she made a face, and I laughed and said, “What was that face all about?”, and we both went, “Hmmm” in a thoughtful fashion.

We know the book too well. We couldn’t get into the movie. We need someone who’s never read the book but who is sympathetic to the academic atmosphere to see it, and tell us if it succeeds as a movie in and of itself, which we cannot.

We tried. We talked about it with a couple of other teachers for a while afterwards; we had cakes and tea at Calories and tried to puzzle it out (and apart from the costuming, that cappuccino truffle cake was the high point of the day). The book had so much more that we were constantly aware of what was missing. The story didn’t appear to suffer; the depth of the emotion, however, did. Our final conclusion is that the pacing seemed wrong, somehow – it was the same pace from beginning to end, no exciting bits, no slower parts to sit back and take in… just, well, plodding along. Alas indeed, for Possession is a tale of undeniable attraction and, yes, fateful unfolding, but there’s more to it than “A leads to B, just follow the paper trail.”

And it was short – it was just about an hour and a quarter! I really and truly feel that there was so much more to this movie that was left on a cutting room floor. It felt sparse. Now, that might be due to the fact that we know the novel so well, but knowing that the movie has been in re-editing for two years leads me to believe that there were other levels to the movie that were abandoned. It did feel, well, dumbed down a bit. Granted, academic romances aren’t truly the thing to seize the American populace’s imagination, but the book had an irresistible draw to it that pulled the reader in with words and subtext. The film failed in that respect; it felt a bit tepid. The end, too, was rushed, which was unnecessary considering how short the running time is. Finally, the elimination of the poetry from the whole thing cut out an entire dimension of the novel. The poets fall in love through their poetry, as well as their letters. They exchange pieces of verse, telling stories, exploring issues about male and female identity and placing within the social and natural world (couched in Victorian poetry – makes for lush reading, let me tell you!) For a movie that claims to be about the sensuous use of words, limiting the poet’s writing to letters on-screen seems dreadfully severe.

Was the creative team concerned that the average American wouldn’t get it? We were told at every step of the turn, rather than shown. An issue that arose in discussion later revolved around audiences: the sort of people who are going to see this movie are likely to be the ones who have read the book (or Byatt’s work in some form), hence able to exercise intellectual ability to some degree. Dumbing it down was, in our opinion, unnecessary. And by dumbing it down, the urgency surrounding the unfolding research and revelation is lost, particularly at the end. (Connected and yet not: I didn’t mind the main male character being American. Not at all. It was fine.)

Visually, it was perfect – settings (modern and Victorian), costuming, characterisation… the stage trickery was brilliant as well. No special effects for Possession – when the Victorian characters walk out of a room, close the door, and the modern characters walk right into it, stagehands have moved false walls and silently switched furniture to effect the change. Gabriel Yared’s music was excellent as well, a wonderfully unintrusive companion to the visuals (except for that operatic piece used in the end credits). The editing between eras was also excellently done.

Something else I noticed, however, is that the title appears meaningless. With the apparent lack of emotional involvement, the term “possession” doesn’t connect anywhere. The word is never used (although “obssession” is); nor do the various applications of the term ever come into question (except through a certain minor character’s appearance at the opening auction, attempting to buy up as many pieces of a poet’s literaria as possible – and even then, I think I might only have realised the significance because there are so many mentions of his obssession to own these and other ephemera in the book) in any way. I don’t know if any audiences are going to be astute enough to catch that (or care to question it if they do), but it did bother me.

I’m going to sleep on it for a couple of weeks, then I’ll catch a matinee on a Tuesday and try again. Maybe now that my mind’s gone through the requisite “this as compared to the original book”, I’ll be able to approach it as a piece of art in its own right.

Possession: Feeling Wary

I’m going to see a movie today, and I am trepidatious.

I rarely see movies; they’re too darned expensive for what they are, and frankly, Hollywood sucks. The Paramount is dreadful too. Thirteen fifty for an hour and a half of second-rate entertainment? Not bloody likely. I also find the Paramount too flashy – loud, bright, sparkly… just the thing for people with no attention spans. It gives me a headache. If I see movies, I try to see them in any of the smaller theatres, just on principle.

Three years ago (bear with me, this is pertinent) I began writing my thesis. I wrote about three modern British novels set in academic surroundings, namely, A.S.Byatt’s Possession, Graham Swift’s Waterland, and David Lodge’s Nice Work. (I passed brilliantly, thank you very much for asking.) Possession is a book I have loved since it was published in 1990.

For as long as I can remember (no, this is pertinent too) I have generally been disappointed by movies based on books. (Until Fellowship of the Ring came along, bless Peter Jackson’s little heart, and the hearts of his creative team, too.) They’re inevitably flat, and miss the point of the novel. I know they’re different forms of storytelling, but they’re so different that I find directors in search of a hit movie discard the heart of the novel in their single-mindedness. Notable exceptions to this rule include Howard’s End (but not Remains of the Day, alas), and Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (thanks be to all the supreme beings out there), as well as the aforementioned LOTR:FotR.

For the past year and a half, there has been a movie of Possession being retouched and re-edited. At first I was delirious – a movie! They’ve made a movie of one of my favourite books! And then the reality sank in – what if they ruined it? In fact, ruination was likely, considering that it finished shooting over two years ago, they set three different release dates, and scrapped them all. When I discovered that they’d changed the main characters around, I sank further into despair. No, no, no – the fact that both main characters are British is integral to the plot! If they make one American, that means one of the main plot threads is eliminated! Woe!

Equally as delighted at first when we discovered the movie was in the works, another Eng Lit MA agreed that when it finally came out, we’d see it together. Two years later, today is that day. Possession is premiereing this afternoon, and we will be in the audience. (And it’s not at the Paramount – sigh of relief!)

Now, it’s got Gwyneth Paltrow, so it can’t be that bad. It also has Jeremy Northam (who was deliriously good in Emma). And the basic story – that of two modern-day academics slowly uncovering a hithero unknown and certainly unsuspected romance between their respective academic focii, both poets of the Victorian era, through letters and poems. (Give me a break – I’m an academic, and the thought of making such a discovery is heavenly. This sort of thing makes me all weak in the knees.) The book moved back and forth between the modern researchers and the epistolary evidence, so it was, in effect, two novels in one. The term “Possession” ends up being significant on several levels, namely the ownership of body, heart, historical documents, and of course, the spiritual control exterted by another entity, as well as the concept of self-control. (I wrote a thesis on this, remember? They gave me a degree for it.)

The film would be pretty boring if all it showed was modern academics flipping through piles of letters, relying on them to read the information about the Victorian pair aloud, or (even worse) having the camera focus on a handwritten letter in silence for the audience to read. Hence, the Victorian poets have been brought to life for their scenes. Right away, I wince; the point of the novel was to have the poets live only through their words. I know perfectly well this can’t work on-screen, and that due to the story-telling medium the portrayal must change. Apparently, though, Antonia Byatt read the scripts and gave her blessing and approval, believing that the spirit of her story was being preserved. When an author is comfortable with a film, then I know that I too am likely to be comfortable.

The web site describes it as:

“a lushly romantic study of both the transcendent power of language and the seductive nature of literary mystery. In this case, the mystery spirals beyond the past and into the present. Bridging the two eras is the language of love, expressed in grand physical passions yet also at its fullest in the written word.”

Well, even if I’d never read the book before, I’d be hooked: power of language, history, literary mysteries. I told you, this stuff makes me weak in the knees.

So away we go. I am attempting not to have any expectations whatsoever. Alas, however, I do have high standards when it comes to things like this. At least I haven’t re-read the book before seeing it, a sure way to make me hate the movie. No, I’ll read it again soon, after having allowed the movie to sink in for a while. If the movie makes sense on its own, it succeeds. If upon re-reading the book, the movie still works, it gets a big shiny star next to its name and goes on my future DVD list. And, who knows? I might even want to see it in theatres again…

Retreat Recap

I�m back! Why do camping trips always seem like something you need a vacation to recuperate from?

We were one hundred and seventy eight Pagans, in a group campsite that had a couple of Boy Scout troops at the end. We all had coven banners up with animals on them by our campsites; by the end of their stay, they had marked �Lewisberry Coven� under their troop number on their site signs. It was so darned cute. Apparently we weren’t all that bad: when at the end of our main ritual we gave a wolf howl, they howled back (as Scouts are taught to do!). At the end of the weekend, though, their sites had been taken by a Baptist group. When one of the Pennsylvania people had to fetch something as we were packing up, she moaned, �Please don�t make me go past the Baptists � they�re singing, and playing the flute�. The contrast was hilarious.

Something I discovered: my stomach doesn�t like American food. I think it has something to do with the water. One of my fellow Canadian campers also pointed out that the US has different food regulations, so even if it�s the same brand of something I consume with no difficulty in Canada, the US equivalent might have different ingredients.

Their roads are so good! Smooth, well-marked (except for the construction, and the very sudden exits off a 65 mph highway onto a hairpin 35 mph exit ramp), and the two directions are separated for the most part, so you aren�t staring into the headlights of oncoming highway traffic. We drove the I-81 and the I-83 down through New York and Pennsylvania; I don�t know if other interstates are comparable or not. Driving home, in fact, I was inspired by the helpful and repetitive signs to create a little bit of Highway Haiku:

Watch For Falling Rocks
Buckle up for Safety Please
Bridge May Be Icy

Our border crossings both ways were nice and smooth too. If you cross into the US, make sure to smile and wave at the eight visible and likely many more hidden cameras that record you and your vehicle from every imaginable angle. (From my husband as the border guard steps out of his shelter: �God! When did they start arming the border guards? That gun is the length of his thigh!�)

My husband and I had the honour to stand as temple summoners/wedding guards/quarter officers at a marriage (no, we had no idea � we would have brought nicer clothes if we�d had any inkling!). This was an on-site request from the High Priestess and Clan Mother, who had never seen us in ritual before and could have been inviting disaster; as it was, we rose to her trust and the occasion. We ended up being honoured quite unexpectedly for it later on in the day, thereby yet again proving the �what you do returns to you� concept quite nicely to our minds. So, to Tracy and Ken, congratulations! It was an honour to stand at your backs.

We were welcomed at every turn. It was a group of balanced, strong (in more than one sense of the word), happy, secure, and relaxed people, all which was a nice change from the Pagan community in Montreal. No one was snippy, no one was criticising; the internal politics were straightforward and dealt with on a level that I wish all groups could operate on, Pagan or otherwise. It never degenerated into a happy-clappy hugfest; sure, things got teary at times, but they were tears from being moved at the knowledge that these people would stand behind you no matter what, whether you�d been a member of the Tradition for ten years or ten days. This unity is unique in a Tradition: generally groups hive off and sever contact from a mother group. My Tradition reunites yearly, re-affirming strength, maintaining continuity, and creating a sense of family. I am honoured to have been chosen to be part of it, and to have grown as much as I have within its context. My spiritual path, although I don�t talk about it much, is of great importance to me as I move through the challenges life presents: it is strength; it is celebration; it is balance; and it is joy. And now, it has been proven to me that it is family, as well.

Thoughts On Successful Children

So, Wil Wheaton is thirty.

So is Midori.

When people you knew as child prodigies hit their third decade, you get an odd sort of ripply time warp feeling. As if they have been children forever, and suddenly, bang, they’re adults.

Midori’s been performing for twenty years. Twenty. Made her debut at eleven. At fifteen, she calmly went through three violins while playing with Leonard Bernstein and the Boston Symphony. A string broke; she was handed another instrument and kept playing. A string broke on the replacement violin; she was handed a third instrument and finished the piece. Didn’t lose her cool. Didn’t make a mistake.

There are people who think that for a fifteen-year-old to display such sang-froide is proof of something unnatural. From what I can tell, however, Midori has always been polite and level-headed. I have nothing against child prodigies; I do, however, have something against the people who force children into being child prodigies if the child doesn’t want to be there. I also have something against people who convince a child prodigy that they’re something special and encourage them to be arrogant, or who don’t have the sense to keep the child rooted in the real world. This behaviour is hardly limited to child prodigies, of course; there are plenty of adult performers who are nowhere near prodigal who develop arrogance and run wild.

I’ve been trying to figure out why people get so hostile about successful young people. Is it guilt? Is it a sense of failure on their own part? Is it sour grapes? And on the other hand, why do people flock to see an eleven-year-old play the violin? Is an example of the human desire to gawk at something freakish? Or is it a genuine appreciation of the talent that shines?

There are generally two camps that end up emerging: those who disparage child prodigies as being unnatural, saying that while they may display technical brilliance they do not have the life experience necessary to interpret most pieces of music emotionally. My respnse to this particular belief is that there are plenty of adults who have the technical brilliance and the life experience who still can’t play a piece of music that sounds like it has any emotion whatsoever, and so what’s their excuse? The other camp views child prodigies as gifts, inspired by whatever deity you care to assign it to.

Unfortunately for any talented child, if a marketing department gets hold of them, woe betide their reputation. No matter what, people will get sick and tired of “child prodigy this” and “child prodigy that”. Inevitably, we strike out against anything we are overexposed to, and a touchy thing like a talented child, who is not only more skilled than we are but famous and making money at it as well, is all too easy a target.

Yo-Yo Ma began memorising two bars of the Bach Solo Suites for Cello daily when he was four years old. He knew them all by heart in a few years. I take that as an inspiration, not a criticism.

So long as a talented child pursues what s/he is skilled at becauses/he enjoys it, I think they’re on the right track. If someone else is forcing them to do it simply because they’re good at it, that’s where things start to break down.

Speaking of breaking down, I’m dizzy and my stomach appears to be upset, so I think I’m going to go lie down. I slept horribly last night and woke up much too early.

Did you remember to say “white rabbits, white rabbits, white rabbits”?

Determined

I am listless. Lethargic. Languid. Langorous. Languishing. Limp, even.

I have absolutely no energy whatsoever. The most action I have participated in over the last twenty-four hours was waking up much too quickly at 2.30 this morning to bounce out of bed and partially close windows. Some storm! Then, of course, I went back to bed with a headache because of the plummeting air pressure and the waking-up-too-quickly-ness.

I broke three glasses yesterday because someone who shall remain nameless insists on piling all the used dishes into the sink. He claims he can’t stand them being on the counter. My point of view is that the counter is smaller than the sink, so the dishes would get washed faster if they’re on the counter. In addition, piling them into the sink means that as they don’t get washed as often, they take up more room, and I can’t use the faucet to get water in the kettle. Finally, he has a bad habit of just piling, not thinking it through, which means that heavy plates and pots get put on top of glasses and delicate mugs, resulting in breakage of said mugs and glasses when attempts to shift the pots and plates out of the way are made in preparation for washing.

So I was irritated about the glasses. We now have two glasses from that set left. That’s it.

On top of that, I woke up in a crafty mood and pulled out a sewing kit I’d had in my possession for over ten years. Yes, indeed; with all my back problems I’ve been toying with the idea of finally constructing the corset I fell in love with lo these many years ago. Unlike others, I actually have enjoyed my previous experiences wearing a corset; I’ve done it a couple of times now for two runs of stage work, and they’re darned comfortable, let me tell you. So I ordered a reconstructed pattern and supplies from an American dry goods company and then left it, not having time or the sewing skill at that point to accomplish what the pattern asked. After ten years, I’ve acquired a sewing machine and made my share of insanely complicated Renaissance outfits, including a couple of boned bodices, so when I looked at the corset pattern yesterday, hurrah! It made sense! In fact, it was easy! I could put it together in a single day!

Yeah, well, the best-laid plans, etcetera, etcetera.

Having such long legs and a short waist, I have to adjust every pattern I use to shorten the torso, otherwise the waist ends up around my hips. I shortened the corset pattern and then on a hunch, I decided to check to see if the boning and the front busk closing would still fit.

My hunch was correct. The busk was now an inch and a half too long.

Busks are made of metal, like the boning. You can’t just trim it. So I folded the project up and seethed for a bit about the unfairness of the one-size-fits-all mentality. I wasted time on the Internet. I finished my reread of Howards End. I decided to watch the movie while the book was fresh in my mind.

The VCR didn’t work.

By now I understood that the day was in fact out to get me. Fine, said I; I’ll read, then. Upon which I remembered that I had just finished my current fiction and had to find another novel to read. I hate choosing what book to read next. Being between books is dreadful.

Then, of course, I broke the glasses before I even started washing dishes.

The day did get better. I watched Howards End over dinner with my husband once he’d reset the VCR. He had never seen it before and was surprised to discover an energetic examination of what constitutes richness, intellectual riches or material possession. I was delighted to re-discover how true the movie is to the book. I also decided to re-fit the pattern and allow for nice big seam allowances on the top and bottom, which I rarely do (why trim the seams when you can sew tiny ones to begin with?), resulting in the front busk just barely fitting. However, alas, there was no way to rescue the glasses.

Today looks like it will be another horribly listless day. At least I can finish the corset. I started another book, Still She Haunts Me, about Charles Dodgson (whose nom-de-plume was Lewis Carroll) and Alice Liddell (immortalised in Alice in Wonderland), but it’s rather banal, so I think I’ll switch to The Winter King which Tas has lent to me.

Know what else is frustrating? I can’t string my own bow. I manage to flex it to about an inch short of where I’d need it to be to slip the looped bowstring over the tip, and then I’m stuck.

Maybe I’ll go see what’s happening in the Great Canadian Novel, which acquired four and a half more pages on Saturday after all that procrastination, thank you very much.