Caramel Kit Kat:
Disappointing. It’s not even worth buying one to try. If you’re a Kit Kat fan, stick with the regular kind. If you’re a caramel fan, buy something else.
This misses the point of a Kit Kat, and the point of caramel, on so many levels.
We finally saw Matrix Revolutions, and all the Pagans in the back row of the theatre sort of nodded and understood why masses of people Just Don’t Get It: it’s about cycles, not about a linear storyline. In every ending, there is a beginning. The story was told in order to show us how a cycle can function without being a carbon copy of the previous (or successive) cycle. Of course, because the protagonist died, folks are confused – the Wachowski Brothers didn’t provide a nicely gift-wrapped Happy Ending (TM) to the Hollywood pap-fed masses. Granted, the film can’t stand on its own; then again, it wasn’t originally designed to be a film unto itself, so I don’t count that against it. I’ll be very interested in seeing all three installments in a row when Revolutions comes out on DVD, in order to get the proper overarching storytelling flow. The film felt very different from the previous two in the trilogy, most likely due to the emphasis on story as opposed to action. It was, if you’ll forgive me, a more human story. The men in our party were suitably impressed by the King Arthur/barge send-off for Neo as he Returned to the Source (which I missed, somehow – odd for me. But then, a burning ship sort of burial isn’t my personal cup of tea. I think it’s a guy thing.) Had there been four queens in attendance, I’m sure I would have seen it. No, really.
Teaching didn’t really pause for the holidays due to the mid-week placement of the civic holiday. Yesterday’s class on animal energies included a beautifully behaved Great Dane, a flamepoint Siamese, a corn snake and a fat-tail gecko. Nox, the corn snake, got extra cuddles from me after his turn at show and tell, and after wrapping himself around my waist for a while slipped into the hood of my cardigan for an hour of serious napping. There’s something remarkably smugness-inducing about walking around a store knowing that there’s a four-foot snake curled up between your shoulderblades and no one else is aware of it.
The weekend ended with a nice relaxed dinner with Scarlet and Skippy, and giving holiday love to the many cats who were boarding at the vet over the vacation period. An excellent weekend, all around.
There’s something odd about going home for the holiday season as an adult. Sure, my parents now live in a different province, in a house that features in absolutely zero of my childhood memories, but there’s more to it. My parents seem to look forward to having us here, but sometimes I wonder why. I arrive with laundry to do, change their radio stations, have classical music on all the time, and light candles. I either sleep at odd times, or hide in a corner with a book, or go out to roam Oakville (they have a remarkable invention here called parking lots, making shopping a much less harrowing experience).
I look forward to coming here. There’s something terribly comforting about having familiar meals served to you by your mother. Sometimes they’re new meals instead, which I look forward to discovering just as much because my mother is a fabulous cook. Last night we had slow-cooked lamb shanks with polenta, which was divine. Some things are best left to discovering as an adult. Had my mother served me polenta as a child, I would have pushed it around my plate until it got stone cold and even less appealing, tasted a speck and decided it was too much like oatmeal, which I hated. (I’m still not fond of oatmeal; it’s something about the texture. Thin or thick, I just really have to be in the mood, and it needs plenty of salt.)
For the second year in a row, my parents haven’t put up the Christmas tree; they put white fairy lights on their six-foot-tall silk fig in the corner and gather gifts underneath it instead. I don’t have any seasonal decorations up at home, either, which might have contributed to my lack of holiday cheer. Christmas seems to have arrived awfully quickly, something like all that snow at home.
The drive down was a breeze. The three feet of snow that the Montreal city crews are ignoring gradually vanished as we drove west, disappearing completely by a half-hour past Cornwall. I’ve been going about in my cardigan over a t-shirt outside here. Last night I woke up to the sound of rain hitting the roof and the window. I had forgotten how much I love that sound.
Tonight after dinner we have a date with some popcorn and The Return of the King; tomorrow we pick up our borrowed printer and do the official seasonal dinner and the ritual opening of gifts. For the rest of this afternoon, though, I think it’s going to be dozing with a book and perhaps a Maine Coone cat.
This was a particularly bittersweet weekend, now that I look back on it.
Saturday was Montreal’s F/SF convention, and it was glorious to be back in the midst of adult geekdom. I saw people I hadn’t seen in years, talked SF talk I hadn’t heard from my own lips in ages. The main difference between working with the occult community is that people come into a store asking you to save their lives and solve their problems. In the SF book community, the worst thing that happens is they bore you with all the details of a story.
I met two wonderful authors whom I’d never met before, and spent time with two others I had met way back when I was still working at the F/SF bookshop. I met famous artists and other funky retailers (let’s face it, a convention is for networking as well as enjoying). And I counted at least six NaNo participants who ought to have been at home writing. Okay, three of us were working, but still. And there were probably more that I didn’t recognise on sight.
I had to field repeated eager queries regarding our defunct F/SF bookstore, which was the bitter part. It closed three and a half years ago due to loss of customer base to the big box stores like Indigo and Chapters. We resurrected the store sign to hang next to the author signing table for the duration of the convention, and while it was a terrific idea, it dredged up all sorts of cry-in-your-beer feelings among ex-staff and customers alike.
I’ve been struggling with that cold for about five days now, and medication made me foolishly think that my vivacious rosy-cheeked healthy appearance at the convention was a reflection of reality. To my deep disappointment I awoke on Sunday feeling like someone had pummeled me all night and poured sand into my mouth. I was stiff all over, and the sinus congestion, hoarse voice and runny nose were present once again.
If I’d been able to stay home on Sunday it would have been ideal. I had a rehearsal for one orchestra and a concert for the other, however, so off I went. We’ve lost yet another cello in my new orchestra, so they put me in the second chair next to the principal, which scared the hell out of me. I’ve had the music for two weeks and frankly, I suck. I was feeling dreadful as I packed up after rehearsal when one of the other cellists stopped me and said that if our mythical replacement cellist didn’t arrive for the dress rehearsal and concert, she’d sit in the second chair. I fell over myself thanking her. She proceeded to give me a lovely pep talk, telling me that I was doing just fine, that it was difficult to come into any group a couple of weeks before performance, and to do so when the piece was the Elgar was even more difficult. She was absolutely darling, and so genuine that I walked away feeling much better. On top of that, they’ve asked me if I’d be interested in playing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony with them in February, and of course I said yes.
My husband had baked peanut butter cookies and prepared a roast beef dinner for me, so I was fed and warmed for a bit before we dashed off to my LCO concert. I have to say that this was the unexpected highlight of the day, and definitely among the top three performances the orchestra has pulled off in the last couple of years. It was thrilling, absolutely thrilling, and it’s unfortunate that we had only a half house. My stand partner turned to me and said, “Seems like this will be one of those nights where the performers outnumber the audience.” “They call this intimate,” I told him with a grin. We blew them away, and it’s a pity that more people couldn’t be there for it. Heck, even I didn’t want to be there: I wanted a warm bath, candles, bed, and cats. I felt completely energised when we left, though, a switch from the dragging reluctance I’d experienced on the way in. Kudos to Ceri and my husband for making it out to support us. At least we have proof that the night was stunningly successful on the artistic front, if not the financial front.
So yes, my overall weekend was quite bittersweet. Good things; painful things. I haven’t added to my NaNo word count since last Tuesday. Ceri’s coming over for another round of dueling laptops today, and I’m hoping to double my current total. I’ve lost five days due to work and illness, although I’ve been writing in my notebook at bus stops and so forth. I have major catching up to do. It will be nice to sit and create as opposed to running about like a mad thing. Lots of tea, more peanut butter cookies, and a hot tasty supper will go a long way towards kicking this cold, too.
I had a wonderful day amid the snowstorms and onslaught of freezing rain and – 7 C temperature yesterday. Ceri came over to escape the chaos of her water-logged apartment and we revisited the dueling laptops/NaNo jams we had last November. Since the weather was dreadful my husband was home as well, and he engaged in his version of the NaNo process: drawing and colouring artwork. It was a wonderfully cosy day. We started with a pot of Lady Grey tea, and progressed to wine after four o’clock (still not sure if this aided or hindered word count), and for dinner we had the first chili of the season and apple crisp. All in all, it was a perfect way to spend a dreary November day. Working within a community really helps progress, I find; no one is distracting anyone else by doing something different, and there’s a feeling of support and companionship in the air. Even from the cats, who were terribly pleased that at last the humans had figured out the secret to happiness: curling up on a sofa or comfy chair and not moving for hours at a time.
I just checked word counts and we did pretty darned okay yesterday. Even my husband did some significant work. (And if we had an operational scanner, I’d show you, too. Stunning stuff.)
NaNo has really forced me back to my laptop, and I’m remembering what last year’s process was like. Although this is a completely different style of story for a completely different audience, I’m encountering the same odd problems now and again. This year, however, thanks to my solitary hour in the Second Cup with nothing but a notebook and a chai latte, I have An Outline. Now when I’m stuck, I can check the outline notes and just go on to the next idea. Combined with the things that I make up on the spot, it makes for a relatively shorter stretch of time spent staring at a blank screen.
And now that I’m back in the swing of creative writing at home, I really, really don’t want to go into work today. This weekend we’re doing two separate conventions, and the chaos of preparation will be insane. I want to stay home with my cats and my tea and my laptop and find out what happens next in my novel.
Although if I go out, I can come home with the new Sarah McLachlan album that was released yesterday. Hmm.
Current word count of Balsamic Moon: 9,075
We had a NaNo launch party at Bev’s lovely house on Sunday (thank you Bev!), and it was so nice to be able to chat with other authors about the cheerful insanity of writing 50K words in thirty days. Emily and I now have witnesses to our challenge to see which of us hits 50K first; Eric thinks I need a title like Emily’s Dread Pirate Queen of Montreal, but Ceri thinks I’m scary enough all on my own.
I took my NaNo notebook to the Second Cup this morning after I’d dropped my husband off at work, and drank a chai latte while trying to figure out certain events. I’d forgotten how motivating it can be to sit alone in a coffee shop with nothing but a notebook and a pen. Rather than sit there and look stupid, you just begin writing and all sorts of things pop up.
Then I made the mistake of stopping by a bookstore while waiting for the bank to open, and I came home with yet another edition of Jane Eyre, my favourite book. This one is about the size of my hand, has thin paper and gold-leaf edges, and a silky ribbon marker. It will be my bedside copy to read when I can’t sleep. (Yes, pretty books impress me, okay?)
Current word count of Balsamic Moon: 4,827
There’s nothing like receiving a present on someone else’s birthday!
We went out to Fondumentale last night (highly recommended!) to celebrate Roo’s first quarter-century, and Maia-at-Twilight gave her a tin of tea from Betjeman & Barton, the Westmount tea shop on Sherbrooke. I bounced around because I love that shop, and seeing the red bag meant that good things were inside. Then Maia-at-Twilight handed me a little packet of tea, a present for no particular reason – the very best kind. “I had to,” she said. “Look at the name.”
Sonate d’Automne. Well, of course she had to.
It’s an eau de fruits, similar to a tisane, and it’s delicious. It has almonds, and a mellow smoky fruit flavour. Perfect for an overcast fall day. I think it’s about to become a NaNo tea. Last year’s NaNo tea was, of course, Twining’s Lady Grey. The drink of choice for the Great Canadian Novel (when I’m working on it, that is; once I realised that I had accidentally finished writing it, I decided to leave it until 2004 and then edit it, since it’s essentially finished and requires only the current chapters rejigged, and possibly a chapter added) is Vanilla Coke. Odd how I associate certain beverages with certain projects.
I scurried about tying up loose ends of work and such yesterday. As of eleven-ish, my contracts still hadn’t arrived in Massachussets, so I’m rolling up my sleeves to give the US postal service a kick to help them along. The Canada Post tracking service informs me that the packet left Canada on the 22nd, so the delay is on the US side. XpressPost guarantees three to five day delivery, so it ought to have been there last week. That sound you hear is my foot tapping.