Star Wars: Episode 1, in iambic pentameter.

Go. Go now.

I have such brilliant, witty, intelligent, and learn�d friends. Sarcastic, too.

I would just like to say that Ralph Vaughn-Williams’ London symphony is absolutely glorious.

Thank you.

Yesterday was a very odd day.

Friends came over on Saturday, which was fine, and enjoyable. I started a slow simmering anger when I woke up, however, when I realised that not a jot of the housework had been done before my husband had left for work that morning. I dislike being taken advantage of (haven’t we had this post already?), but worse than that, I hate people who just don’t think. So on top of all the things I had to do on my own personal list, I single-handedly cleaned up the entire apartment, did three loads of dishes, scrubbed, swept, and pressed the first man who arrived for the afternoon into vacuuming, since I’m not tall enough to use the appliance (let’s just not go there, okay?), let alone control the mad thing.

I think things would have been all right again if my husband had come home later. Instead, he walked in half an hour after all the cleaning had been finished – an easy day at work, and they’d ended early. He showered and sat down with the rest of us, nice and relaxed.

So long as I ignored him, I was fine. I thought things were all right by the time the last people left and I went to bed. I woke up the next morning, though, just as angry, and in no mood to be in company with anyone at all. This was a great pity, since I had agreed to sit down with a couple of other people to do a bit of writing exercise. I had a choice: I could try to force myself into the right frame of mind to do it, or I could graciously bow out and make it easier for everyone else.

I bowed out. I wrote a short apology to the co-ordinator of the exercise and left it for her, then practically ran out the front door before anyone could ask me questions.

I fled, basically, and didn’t tell anyone where I was going or how long I’d be. For some reason I absolutely couldn’t stand the thought of being around people I knew, or in my own house, or certainly being polite and civil. I ended up wandering through secondhand bookstores, the new Les Ailes complex, and reading in a cafe for a while. It was good for me to get out.

No doubt practical people are thinking, “Well, if there was a problem with your husband, why didn’t you just tell him?” Because, o sage and pearl-dispensing readers, it wasn’t just him. Certainly I had an issue with him, but what would it end up being phrased as? “Why can’t you wash the dishes while you’re waiting for your coffee in the mornings”? It was more than the dishes; the dishes and the clutter were symbols of other stuff, and things that have been building for a while. Until I figured out what the real problem was, I wasn’t engaging in any kind of mutual conversation about the situation.

Since being in my own house was grating, I left it. And it felt rather good just walking out without a backward glance, without leaving an estimated time of return, without an indication of where I might be. I didn’t turn my cell phone on, either. I had no clear destination in my mind; I certainly didn’t want to drop by anywhere where I’d run into someone I knew, so other than that, it was driven purely by whim. I didn’t return until four and a half hours later.

Something I noticed while I was out was other people’s conversations. When you’re out with someone, you’re usually talking with them, focusing on their conversation to the exclusion of everyone elses’ words. If other conversations make it through to your ears, it’s because they’re being loud and obnoxious, and hence you become irritated. Being alone, however, means you don’t have someone else’s words to fill up the space, and you hear what everyone else has to say.

Everyone is unhappy. With themselves, with their lives, with others. And it made me wonder – if no one is happy… why do we even bother?

Other than that, the other major discovery I made was that I am, for some unknown reason, interested in clothes again.

My clothes rarely wear out, and my shape doesn’t change, so I usually get about a decade’s worth of wear out of an article of clothing. This means I buy things that I fall in love with, or t-shirts because I need them. I tend to hate trendy things, so wearing out-of-date styles isn’t a danger. Yesterday, however, I walked into a couple of boutiques, and realised that I hadn’t been clothes shopping seriously for over six years. And, for some odd, unfathomable reason… I wanted to.

My wardrobe can stand with a good, severe cleaning out. And I figure with about six hundred dollars, I can replace it with a decent, sturdy, timeless set of clothing that will see me through for another six years or so, and through whatever career I end up in. I love the tailored stuff that’s out there now, and the cream/chocolate colours that are showing up with all the fall clothes, too, and the long charcoal grey cardigan sweaters with the belts…

As I realised this, I had an odd sort of shock. Clothes shopping is a girl-type thing. I dislike shopping intensely as a rule; I dislike the clothes in stores as a rule as well. Where this urge arose from, I cannot tell, but it is disconcerting in the extreme.

I have a suspicion that I am going through some sort of chrysalis stage. Who I’ll be on the other side is a mystery, though. I wonder if I’ll like myself.

I read a book yesterday.

I deliberately didn�t use an adjective, because I can�t settle on one. Yes, it was fantastic; terrific; well-written; thought-provoking; well-told. All of them, though, limit it in some way.

It was Christopher Priest�s The Prestige, and I read it in a single day.

On the surface, it�s a story about a contemporary journalist, certain he had a twin brother in his childhood yet with no records to prove it, who rediscovers his family history. His great-grandfather was a stage magician, an illusionist, and was engaged in a bitter rivalry with another illusionist.

In the murky depths of the unfolding story, however, it�s much more than that. The story passes from the journalist, to his great-grandfather, to the woman who has contacted the journalist, to her great-grandfather who is, of course, the rival illusionist. By the end, you realise that the story isn�t about any one character really; if I had to pin down a character I�d say the story revolves around the rival illusionist, but even so, each portion of the narrative is so interwoven with the rest that they cannot stand in their own.

It takes a large part of the novel before the reader begins to suspect, and eventually realise, the central conceit of the novel. One or two minor aberrations in storytelling style are put down to a charcter’s tortured conscience, until three-quarters of the way through, the diary of the rival journalist reveals those aberrations for what they truly are. Robbed of a mystery? Hardly. The rival illusionist goes on to create what actually stands as the central conceit of the novel, and as a reader, you don�t feel cheated at all.

The layers involved are masterfully created, and well-revealed at the correct moments. Technically, this book is a fantasy; well, it revolves around a fantastic concept. But, well, it�s also science fiction � just science fiction set at the turn of the twentieth century. And it really could be a thriller, too. Well-written books that challenge genre fascinate me. It means the author had a story to tell, and chose not to be chained to a genre�s expectations. (As opposed to an author who simply cannot stay within a genre�s requisite boundaries; that�s just bad writing, and produces an unsatisfactory book.)

Let�s look at that for a moment, actually; it�s relevant. If you write within a genre, there are certain tenets you have to bide by. However, you�re not bound to turn out a stereotypical cardboard story; far from it. Genre writing means you have to push the envelope from within those boundaries, find some way to tell the story anew, involve the tenets in such a way that creates a unique example of the genre.

By deliberately not choosing a genre, Priest has kept his readers from settling comfortably into a set of expectations. (It also means he reaches a broader audience, but that�s beside the point.) Without knowing what guidelines he�s writing by (if he�s writing by any genre guidelines at all) a reader can�t run down a mental checklist and say, �Okay, I expect A, B, C, and D from this book, now I�ll sit down and mark them off as I go.� (No, I don�t actually know of anyone who does this consciously, but it does happen subconsciously, and if you’re deprived of something, you end up unsatisfied. Well, no, I do it consciously if the book is dreadful: �Oh yes, there�s the requisite B event; now C must occur.�)

The Prestige surprised me in that Priest didn�t truly explain the fantastic/science-fictional elements at all. The last three or four chapters could have been expanded; he could have showed his readers how clever he was. He didn�t. He left the reader holding a book and blinking a bit at the end. I turned back a dozen or so pages and reread the ending, in fact, just to make sure I didn�t miss the revelation.

I admire authors who are secure enough to do things like this. No, you don�t have to explain it all to the masses. Assume we�re intelligent and let us figure the nuances out. In addition, an author who bucks the trend of a tragic or a happy ending and leaves the reader with a handful of loose ends snarled with knots is a courageous one. As humans living messy lives, we generally like our fiction (in form of film, or story, or whatever) to have nice, tidy endings, where everyone gets what�s coming to them. I love stories that don�t actually end. The main episode being told concludes, but the characters and their lives go on, without a perfect, pat �The End� to crown the tale. In general, however, I believe that I am in the minority, alas. The general populace needs that �The End� on the screen or on the final page of the book to contain the story, to know that there was a Beginning, a Middle, and an End. (Not that I think we can blame this on junior high English teachers.)

Life�s not like that, though. There is no Beginning other than birth; there is no End but death, and even then just because we can�t turn the page to see what happens after that final breath doesn�t mean that there is nothing to see. Our lives are intricate, with several different events and stories happening simultaneously. After an event, an episode, we go on � changed, perhaps, but we go on, our lives rarely altered in any major, drastic fashion on the surface. I like to have that sense in a story as well. Granted, storytelling is by its nature artificial; yet I enjoy a sense of reality to it. Reality doesn�t mean a stream of consciousness, an every-event-that-happens-in-a-day sort of reality; that would be too boring for words. Storytelling, however, doesn�t need to be about apocalyptic events. It can be intensely personal.

Which is what Christopher Priest�s The Prestige is about. Two men, their secrets (personal and professional), their lives becoming more and more challenged with obsession and physical secrecy. Their descendants, deeply affected by those professional secrets. The processes by which magic (stage and scientific magic) can occur. And, of course, the consequences.

Apparently he�s written at least eight other books. You can be sure I�ll be tracking them down.

I’ve been eating spaghetti. Yes, I know it’s something like 34 degrees outside; I felt like making spaghetti. I’ve had two big bowls now, which is stunning in and of itself – when it’s hot, I don’t eat. (You all wanted to know the secret of my elfin physique – ta-da!)

And, I have just caught myself picking the mushrooms out of my nice chunky homemade sauce.

This is how I know I’m done. I begin picking the mushrooms out of their hidey-holes – under waves of pasta, coyly cowering behind meat, peeking out from under an onion. When the mushrooms are all gone, then there’s just no point in continuing.

Yes, I made sauce, and had spaghetti, and I caught myself enjoying the whole process. I just don’t get it: if I have to cook for my significant other, I feel as if I have been forced to. If I’m home alone, pretending that once again I am mistress of my own flat, I adore preparing food.

Living alone means the dishes in the sink are yours, the towels on the floor are yours, the cat hair on the carpet is sort of yours by extension. When you live with someone else, these things become issues. You try to keep up your end of the bargain, and feel resentful if you think the other partner doesn’t take them as seriously as you do.

I like being on my own. I enjoy pretending the apartment is all mine. Mind you, significant others are useful for those times where you feel limp and lifeless and someone needs to do the dishes or bring you a cup of tea or help paint a room. Still haven’t managed to train my cats to do things like that yet.

I will now draw a nice cool bath. I received some very nice bath salts as a gift this weekend, and I intend to take advantage of them!

Just when you think you’re on top of things, the sky falls. Sheesh.

I really, really, hate money. I also hate the fact that even though we try our best, sacrifice a lot, and break our backs to be responsible and upstanding citizens, life still jacknifes around and slaps us. I hate the fact that even though we care and we try, other people who don’t care and don’t try live lives of ease, and have the good luck that seems to avoid us like the plague.

Grr.

On the other hand, a friend came over today to sketch me. We’ve known one another since our first year of high school, and she’s definitely my oldest friend. We even roomed together for a year. We have a tendency to weave in and out of one another’s life; a couple of years of being close, a year or so of doing our own thing, a slow amalgamation of lives again…

I sat for two hours while she took different angles, used different media and light, and we talked about everything under the sun: what was new in our lives, what was going wrong, the lessons we’ve learned. The nice thing about friends like this is you can pick up right where you left off – no awkward re-integration, just jumping right into the deep personal stuff that you used to talk about sprawled across each other’s beds years ago, with a glass of wine, late at night.

We tend to forget how similarly we react to life, and how good we are for one another. We really should get together more often. And yet, I wonder – if we did, would things be the same? Would they be as easy? Or would there be all the little things that trip you up, the familiarity-breeding-contempt issue?

So she got work done, I got to sit and do nothing (what a novelty!), and we both downloaded and got to relax. We encouraged one another regarding our artistic pursuits. We shared secrets that even our significant others don’t know. And apart from re-discovering how much we enjoy one another’s company, we also agreed to do another girls’ night like we used to do. We’re currently trying to figure out where we can go to cause as much trouble as possible.

So I was reading Ceri’s wail about summers in Montreal, and I got all homesick too. Then I had the brilliant idea of the two of us being homesick together.

So Ceri’s coming over! Yay! We will lounge in front of fans, moan about the seashore being too far away, eat cool salad and runny Brie and, in general, be transplanted Maritimers. This is good, because after the intense weekend, and the news about the Megan-dog, and the heat, I’d be useless today anyway. Writing? Ha. Reading? I can’t get into anything for some reason. Going for a walk? Are you insane? It was 28 degrees at 9:45 AM.

I forgot to mention that when I came home from Pennsylvania, my cats had apparently been on a Virginia Woolf reading binge, because I found my entire Woolf collection on the floor, along with a Tad Williams book and Patricia C Wrede’s Enchanted Forest Chronicles.