Category Archives: Diary

Books And Stuff

Was I the only person on the planet who didn’t watch Lathe of Heaven on TV last night? I woke up this morning to half a dozen e-mails in my in-box either ranting or raving about it. Please tell me someone taped it so I can figure out what the fuss was about.

I had a nightmare this morning and woke up in a jolt of freezing terror around five, and lay there shaking till six when my husband got up. Bad dreams are so frustrating; your logical mind says, “Okay, car, knife, bad man, night, these things are highly unlikely to happen, it was just a dream,” but your system is still stuck in that shadow fight-or-flight a nightmare produces. I call it the shadow version because with real fight-and-flight, you can actively shake the tremors and cold sweats and pounding heart. Shadow fight-and-flight is an echo sort of reaction that happens while you’re asleep, and it lingers insidiously until your husband wakes up and rubs your back and brings you cats to scare away the bad stuff with purrs. I had good dreams too, although most had a chorus of invisible monks breaking into a chant of “Esca-flowne” all over the place, a direct result of watching the first Escaflowne DVD last night. Escaflowne is my very first foray into the world of anime, and I can say at the very least the score is having some sort of effect on me, evidently. Nothing like invisible monks chanting the name of a giant robot as a dream soundtrack to really highlight the ludicrous aspect to my quality dream-time.

My parents are back from their annual holiday drive into the States, and they’ve picked up their new four-month-old kitten friend, who is a Maine Coon. His name is Seamus, and he’s following them around a lot. Their established old cat is not amused. So now my mother and I get to exchange kitten stories. And speaking of kittens, they’re getting nice and plump, and Nix is filling out nicely. As of yesterday their milk formula was blended with a spoon of pablum, so it’s now like a very thin gruel, and they’re a bit upset. When you’re five inches long, a week is forever, so when the viscosity of their food alters once weekly, it must come as a real shock to their little kitten brains.

While going through my filing cabinet looking for a label I came across a picture taken at my one and only public cello recital. Ceri’s right; my cello is huge next to me. For everyone who is waiting with bated breath to know what my string decision will be, I’m going to try a Eudoxa A string, since that’s the crucial replacement and the string I always have the most trouble with sound-wise, and if it sounds horrible then I’ll order a set of Aricores. If it doesn’t, then I’ll try a D string too, and so forth.

I went out yesterday and wandered around downtown a bit. I went into Paragraphe, and wondered why on earth I don’t do it more often. It’s just around the corner from Indigo, after all, and it stocks all the books I like, and is nicer, and an independent, too. (Let’s never mind the fact that the owners sold out to become the directors of the distribution company owned in majority by Chapters a few years ago; water under the bridge and all that.) I suddenly thought that I ought to be reading the type of book I’m writing, to get a feel for what was being published. And then, something that an old customer who was an author from the F/SF shop told me once drifted across my mind: this counts as research. Save the receipts.

Hmm. I buy books anyway. If it doesn’t work come tax-time, I haven’t lost anything. Woo-hoo! So I bought Adam Davies’ debut novel The Frog King, which was one of those brilliant debuts last season. It began really well, then descended a bit into maudlin self-abuse. Still better than some of the stuff out there. Just finished it this morning. Lesson learned: does your protagonist really have to hit rock bottom in an unpleasant way for your story to be told? Is your audience going to come away from the novel with an unpleasant taste in their mouths? If so, is it ultimately key to the plot? I didn’t think so in this case, so my lesson note reads: put your protagonist through symbolic hell. Forcing your audience to read every little bit of ick and dredge before your protagonist sees a scrap of blue sky drags your tale down.

I also picked up Sophie Kinsella’s Confessions of a Shopaholic, which is rather amusing because the cover is pink, and my ex-colleagues know how much I foam at the mouth when I see a pink or purple book. (Pink or purple pages and/or fonts are even worse.) Mind you, that’s in the New Age sort of book, so maybe this slipped past my pink radar because it was in the Literature section.

I made tons of notes on what other books I would buy when I went back, too. It’s been ages since I got excited about books like this. I think it’s because for the first time in eleven years, I don’t work at a bookstore, so I don’t have my surprises spoiled for me by ordering from forthcoming catalogues. It also has to do with the style of book Paragraphe stocks. I don’t have to wade through crap, the way I do at a chain store. It’s all higher quality stuff. Call me elitist, I don’t care. Label me; just let me have good books.

Paragraphe has a web site, so I thought I could start linking the books I talk about. I haven’t before because I refuse to funnel money into a Canadian chain that doesn’t need it (I’m a staunch supporter of independant booksellers, and you should be too), let alone an American company (Bleah! Amazon.com sucks! Okay, they have a decent review system, I check them out for reviews all the time; and they have tempting shipping deals, but they’re American! So is the Amazon.ca site – Canadian shipping address, owned by a Seattle company! Don’t get suckered! Support your own economy – please!) (Okay, rant over.) So I checked the Paragraphe site this morning. Alas, it is counter-intuitive, doesn’t list all their books, doesn’t have a page per title describing it, etcetera. Still, it’s an excellent place in person, which is what you want when you’re looking for a good bookstore anyway. More nifty Montreal bookstores you might not know about: The Double Hook on Greene, which deals exclusively in Canadiana, and Nicholas Hoare, also on Greene (with another location in the basement of Ogilvy’s if you’re feeling particularly swanky someday). Anyone else have a favourite?

Throwing The Audition

For everyone who has been asking, Friday night went rather badly — I choked, I dropped lines, I wobbled. As I expected, I didn’t get the part. Thoughtful condolence gifts of dinner, flowers, expensive chocolates etc are always appreciated.

In fact, only one person out of the truckload of excellently qualified friends who also auditioned for various roles was cast. Which leads me to wonder, who the heck is in this show?

The casting chairman who called me was evidently rather distressed about the state of things, for he chatted with me for a few minutes about how he’d shown the committee clips he’d videotaped the past year of my vocal and stage work, and tried in every way possible to get me to come back. He also told me that the committee had authorised him to offer me an understudy role of the smallest part in the show, which is out of my range. And for a moment, I balanced between rage and laughing; I finally chose to laugh. He asked my reasons why I wasn’t coming back at all, and I told him frankly that I had been extremely frustrated last year by the lack of effort put into the show by the chorus, and that I felt as if I had been pulling more than my fair share of weight (apart from understudying two other roles and learning three different sets of blocking, I mean). The bickering, the attitudes, and the lack of professionalism amongst the chorus members irritated me to a point that it’s not worth going back. (In retrospect, being in the chorus last year was supposed to help me get a role this year, so technically I could count last year as a loss. I’m not going to think about that too hard.) The only two really bitter things about this are (a) that I won’t be working with Rob on-stage again, and (b) that Phoebe was the second of the two G&S roles I’ve ever actively wanted to sing (the first was Iolanthe, and if you’ve known me for over three years you know the nasty story behind that one too).

I was really upset on Friday night. I hate auditions because they suggest that it’s the best I can do, which I (and the casting committee) know damn well is not true. Some people audition better than others, and then (Iolanthe being a case in point) don’t improve through rehearsal. I think the shame and embarrassment I feel about audition failure revolves around the suggestion that I can’t do better, past proof to the contrary. I’m also trying to figure out why my auditions get worse as I get older and gather more experience singing. (I could trace the beginning of the end to being in a relationship with my husband, actually – I haven’t succeeded in an audition since we began courting.) The dialogue part of the audition, however, was fantastic, a fact with which I’m soothing my injured soul. This audition has shown me that it’s time to go back to straight theatre. As much as I love singing, and as good as I am at it, I’m not trained, nor do I have a piano or a teacher to work on my audition pieces with me, as other candidates do; I’m feeling it out and hoping I do it right, doing it by instinct. Time to stop agonising and just do what I’m good at for a while. So, all you theatre people out there — drop me a line and let me know when auditions pop up! I do have fourteen years of varied stage experience, after all (and I’m not counting high school).

The good part: I can re-join my book club (and re-read The Princess Bride by Tuesday — no problem), and have Fridays free for socialising and what-not (with all those friends who also won�t be in the show!). Silver lining.

Too Easy

I sat down between kitten-nursing yesterday and whipped off three pages of the Great Canadian Novel.

The ease with which I do this is beginning to worry me. (I know, I know – remove major sources of stress and I’ll instinctively create something new to obsess me.) How can I be writing something meaningful if I’m not trying?

Oh, wait – this is connected to the work-ethic thing that says, “If it doesn’t hurt, you’re not growing”, isn’t it? Always reminds me of that wonderful Calvin & Hobbes strip where Calvin’s pretending to be his dad and says, “Go to your room! Being miserable builds character!”

I do honestly worry sometimes, though, that because I don’t seem to be putting a lot of work into my writing, it’s useless. And yet, I’ll take this ease over the seven or so years of writer’s block I had, thanks very much. I’m not complaining that things are flowing, I’m just… concerned. Okay, yes, it’s a first draft (“This is your first draft?” Ceri says, looking up from my weekly sheets with big round eyes), and I can always “work” on it later, where I will no doubt cry and moan and tear my hair. (Y’know, just as an irritating aside, I used to get A minuses on the papers I used to write and hand in without rewriting. When I finally caught on to the idea of rewriting and improving a first draft, I still got A minuses.)

Today

I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: I love hearing music I’ve played in concert on the radio. Particularly the fourth movement to Beethoven’s second symphony. I get all excited. Small things amuse, I know.

I also became strangely excited when I realised that it was so darned cold in the office this morning that I had to go put socks on. After a summer of bare feet, it Meant Something.

The computer finally defragged, on the fourth go-round. I can’t see that it’s any quicker, but it sure moved stuff around. This morning I installed a pop-up ad blocker, which works beautifully – so well, in fact, that I couldn’t get the YACCS comments boxes to come up on a blog this morning. Oh, right – they’re pop-up windows. Duh. Must hold Ctrl down while clicking on link. Small price to pay, though.

I was looking out the window this morning, waiting for my tea to steep, and I saw a man walk casually into the depanneur across from us. He had a ball cap on and a messenger-style bag over his shoulder, and wore a denim button-down shirt. It was around seven-fifteen, and all of a sudden I got hit by a wave of back-to-schoolness. For a moment, I, too, wished I had somewhere to be, to dress up and pack my bag and leave the house for, walking down the street early in the morning, when the light is still clear and cool, and on your way to the bus stop, you can swing by the dep for an orange juice and maybe a granola bar.

Only for a moment, though. Then I came back into the office with my tea, sat down, and looked at my list of work things I had drafted for today, with CBC Radio Two on behind me, with cats chasing one another around the apartment, and torn jeans and a summer sweater on.

Farewell, Birdie

Birdie gone home. The bird staff at Nature checked their files for the leg band number, found who had bought it, and called him; he called us around seven-forty-five, desperately glad someone had found her. She had flown out the door on Sunday, and had caught him by surprise since her wings had been clipped not long ago. When we dropped her off tonight, he couldn’t stop thanking us. I’m a little puzzled; if someone had found one of my lost pets, I’d want her back as soon as possible. We were just doing what we hope someone else would do for us.

Anyway, happy ending to an adventure. Man and little girl thrilled their bird came home; husband feeling tired and good about himself, but a little disappointed too, methinks. He was growing rather attached to the creature.

Feathered Friend

Yep. We are currently in possession of a Sun Conure , a tropical bird about three times the size of a budgie and multi-coloured in the yellow/red/orange/green spectrum. She’s just over a year old, not full-grown, and had a terrible fright – she’s evidently escaped from someone’s home and was all muddy and shaking when she burst out of a hedge my husband was trimming in the West Island. He took her to a clinic or two, who all said they couldn’t help him either by taking the bird or by locating an owner, since they don’t treat birds, then to the Nature pet store up by Fairview to ask for what kind of food to give her. They identified the breed for him, noted that it had a breeder’s band, and he brought her home with a phone number or two of bird shelters to report her. He drove home with her on his shoulder; she’s evidently a shoulder bird, and cuddles close to the neck, talking to herself. She’s a bit afraid of hands at the moment, and who can blame her – something that’s lived inside all its life, lost in the big wide world for who knows how long? I’m surpised she’s not more freaked out. My husband says she’s a lot calmer than she was this afternoon, though.

Now, the craziest thing is, when we go to pet stores and look at the birds, this is the bird that we call “the Buchanan bird” because it is, I kid thee not, the exact same colours as those in my husband’s kilt. For him to find one of these things loose and scared, and to have it cling to him so completely, is just, well, odd – out of all the tropical birds he could have run into outside, it was this one. She tried to fly after him when he went downstairs to get the birdcage. While she sat on my shoulder, waiting for him to come back, she was nodding off; she could barely keep her eyes open. We fed her and gave her water, and I think she’s asleep now.

Turns out my husband broke Cardinal Rule #1 today as well. He calls her Cail. (Or Kael, for those who know the RSW spelling.)

Kitten Nurse, Day One

Why is it that disk defragmentation always freezes up the computer?

My first day as a kitten nurse, and I am proud of my little furry charges, particularly the tiny black one that had us worried. She’s been scheduled an extra feeding, around dinner-time, and I am pleased to report that she’s getting this lapping thing down quite well, and polished off just as much formula as she did at lunch-time. At the moment I’m calling her Nix, as in ‘nix on any more cats’, because it’s just too hard to nurse something and only call it ‘kitten’. (I know, I’ve broken Cardinal Rule #1: never name an animal.) Despite her size, she’s the first to wiggle out of the cage when I sit down with the bowl of formula, and the also one who has the best control of her back legs at the moment — I’d forgotten how floppy three-week old fuzzy things are. My mother used to breed Cairn Terriers, and I remember when she used to let me help feed them in the transitional period between milk and puppy-chow. She’d soak a bit of kibble in the milk formula, put it in an old pie tin, and cover your lap with an old towel. Then you’d grab a puppy and introduce its nose to the mess by gently bouncing its head into it. Sneeze, sputter, and so forth; it took some of them a surprisingly long time to get it. When you’re ten years old, it’s great fun.

It’s still fun. Feeding the kittens is very like that, only different somehow. I think it has to do with how the kittens are even more delicate than the puppies were, and also with the Fall baby-cravings my husband and I get annually. If a baby is an impossibility right now, then caring for kittens will do just fine. So if I end up with another cat, I consider it partially the fault of Fiona, Debra, Paze and Val (along with their equally guilty significant others), who have all had babies within the past nine months.

When I’d walked home from the second round of kitten-feeding, there was a message on the machine from my husband about what an odd afternoon he’d had, and that he’d be coming home with a colourful friend who seems to have gone astray. I have an odd feeling we’ve acquired another bird, however temporary….