Oyez, oyez!
His Majesty's web mistress is pleased to announce that The King of Canada now has his very own blog, serving as weekly updates in his quest to restore Canada to a monarchy.
Serve us well and you will be rewarded when he is victorious. (I think MLG has a lock on the Buckingham position, but there are several other places about this court in exile that are equally exciting career opportunities.)
I honestly didn't mean to announce it for another couple of days, since I literally only founded it as he was making dinner last night, but the timing in the conversation at MLG's housewarming last night was too perfect. Speaking of the housewarming, is't possible that JD didn't get a picture of the Mediaeval Baebes who were in attendance?
Got my new birth certificate in the mail! My husband handed me an envelope from the Prince Edward Island Department of Vital Statistics, and I bent it back and forth; hmm, no hard laminated certificate. Maybe they've rejected my application for a certificate; maybe I don't exist?
I tore it open. They've changed the format. (After thirty-one years - keeping up with the times, you know.) Now it's a slip of bank-note paper with all the pertinent info on it, in a plastic sleeve. On the back it says "Void if altered or laminated."
I liked my laminated birth certificate. It was sturdy. Oh, well.
Now the missing one can show up any time.
Here, birth certificate; I've got a friend for you to play with. Here, certificate, certificate, certificate....
Certainly the oddest thing ever heard as I’m putting together an outfit for a party: “Does this say Early Slut to you? It does, doesn’t it. Maybe some other time.”
Oh - gods -
Ceri gave me a tablet of real chocolate as a thank-you for feeding her cat whilst she and her consort were away on their mini-break. Dolfin's Chocolat noir au thé Earl Grey. Mmm, I said, two of my favourite things.
Egad. This stuff is like chocolate-covered coffee beans for coffee-addicted persons. I broke a corner off this morning while I was working, and crunch - yes, it's actual loose tea blended in with the fine chocolate.
I'm putting this stuff far, far away from me.
After a semi-disastrous day that imploded around six o'clock, I managed to get my cello to the luthier last night, half an hour before they closed.
As soon as I walked in, I relaxed. Wilder & Davis is in an old townhouse on Rachel street, just a block west of St Denis. As I lifted the cello up the stone steps to the doorway, a woman in an apron enjoying the night air on her break smiled and said, "Bonsoir." As the door closed I could hear, somewhere upstairs, a cello being played very slowly. To my left was the empty reception area, which has a lovely bay window and a fireplace; to my right was the workshop, wide open. "Bonsoir," said a youngish luthier; "votre violoncelle?" I explained that I needed the bridge replaced and the fingerboard examined. He beckoned me into the workshop (into the workshop!) and motioned for me to take it out of the travelling case and lay it on the workbench while he cleared a space for it. We stood on either side of it as he squinted at the bridge ("Ah oui," he said immediately. I wanted to apologise; I know I should have brought this in a couple of years ago, but I held my tongue) and then pulled out a level and moved it all over the fingerboard. "Vos cordes - ils brisent ou?" he asked. (Actually, he tried in very broken but quite earnest English: I had explained about the bridge and fingerboard in my mother tongue, since in my imploded mental state the French terms for "bridge" and "fingerboard" had completely escaped me. I insisted on speaking French after that initial mind-blank, though.) "Mes cordes ne brisent pas," I explained, "c'est le vernis; ca s'enleve pendant que je joue, mes doigts se rendent tous noirs apres seulement quelques minutes." "Je vais le nettoyer quand je remplace le pont," he said after he'd grabbed a bottle of cleaning solution, then looked at the viola he'd been working on next to him. I have a funny feeling that when he goes to clean it he'll get a swipe of black colour on his rag, but he'll figure something out to stabilise the stain, I'm sure.
It was so peaceful. I felt like collapsing in the papasan chair by the plants in the front bay window and just closing my eyes. The whole place smells like orange oil, and wood; there's no sense of the busy St Denis strip a few hundred metres away. He filled out a work order, looked at me anxiously and said, "Mercredi prochain, ca va?" "C'est parfait," I said. Actually, I knew darn well that as soon as I didn't have it I'd want to play it, so getting it back today would have been nice, but my husband has a whole three days off in a row because it's Labour Day weekend, and I wouldn't end up playing it anyway. So Wednesday is just fine. (I did, in fact, indulge in a pre-emptive strike against seperation anxiety in the form of a Mendelssohn trio yesterday. I love Opus 49 in D minor.)
The bonus: I get to go back next week, to pick it up. Hurrah!
For years now, my friend Annika and I have had photos taken of the two of us - light and dark, day and night. And in every single one, someone's eyes are closed. That's about fifteen years' worth of snaps.
This presented a problem when she was my maid of honour at my wedding three (ye gods, three) years ago. The wedding proofs are a riot.
Anyway, at a party last Saturday night, Hobbes was waving around a digital camera. At last! we thought. Let's get a photo with our eyes open! If it doesn't work, we'll just keep erasing the ruddy things until we get one that's right!
So we did. If we look glassy-eyed, it's because we're making sure our peepers are bright and wide.
Then we decided that we could look serious and have our eyes open too. MLG tried to take that one. He decided that two such stunning examples of feminine beauty should by all rights be smiling instead, and stood there waiting for us to give up. We were all set to outwait one another when a little sprite with blonde braids ran between us on her way to a parental unit. We cracked up. He took the picture.
At least our eyes are open!
You'd think I'd learn. Well, maybe I have, since I haven't actually acted upon this insane urge to visit Ikea.
(A) I really need nothing in the way of Ikea products. (Well, more bookshelves; I always need more bookshelves, but I also need more space for the bookshelves, which Ikea for some reason does not sell. Apparently it's related to batteries-not-included or something.)
(B) I really, truly do not need the aggravation which is parking/strolling/standing in line at Ikea. Especially now, the week before school begins.
For some arcane reason, for the past couple of years, my husband and I have decided to go to Ikea on the day after Canada Day (a.k.a. the day after Moving Day here in Montreal), the two weeks that bracket Labour Day, and usually a day around New Year's as well. We don't plan it, honestly; it's just coincidence. I personally believe it has something to do with the amount of "Must-go-to-Ikea" thoughts that are in so many people's minds around those paticular shopping days; I become infected by the sheer volume of Ikea-connected mental noise. Last week, we picked up a catalogue at a friend's apartment; today we got a card in the mail saying "Come get your new English catalogue and get X$ off before October somethingth!"; and Ikea's just generally been on my mind.
Maybe it's the change of weather. Nice cool nights, days which have finally shed that wet-blanket humidity... yep, it's back-to-school season all right. We moved the funiture around in our bedroom last night, too, something that I do around this time of year for no particular reason other than I'm seized by the urge to reorganise. Ah, that stretch of the year between high summer and fall; September appears to have arrived early. I'd love it if more of the year were like September.
I did something I haven't done in a few weeks.
I walked past my cello, paused, and said, "I really should play something." Before I could talk myself out of it, I sat down, pulled the cello towards me, picked up my bow, and just started playing whatever was on my music stand. It happened to be the second movement of a Breval sonata. When I'd done that, I flipped the page with the tip of my bow and started playing the next thing: the Prelude to the first Bach solo cello suite. The I played both Minuets from the same suite - with repeats.
Not bad. Not bad at all. Nice sound. I now have throbbing fingers, however.
Then I picked up the phone and called a luthier. I haven't played my cello these past three weeks because the bridge is so badly warped that I'm afraid that it will slip and smash the belly of the instrument, turning a minor repair job into a major disaster. Not only can the luthier replace my bridge ($120 - eep), they can stabilise the black stain that's wearing off the fingerboard and onto my fingers every session. (Ick.) This is a good thing, of course.
Naturally, however, now that I will be bringing the cello in for minor surgery, I'm getting all antsy. I just know I'll want to play it while I don't have it. I'm taking it in on Thursday afternoon, and I'm already wondering how much playing I can safely indulge in tomorrow without threatening the safety of the instrument.
Anyone know a good place to get real sundaes in the city (RIP Swenson's)?
So I finally saw Bridget Jones's Diary last week, hard on the heels of reading the second book in the series, and discovered that the film was a blend of both books. I think what might have happened was that Helen Fielding, who co-authored the script (love it when they actually get the author to work on the film) was writing the second book while coming up with a couple of key scenes for the film, and ended up using similar versions in both movie and new book, never dreaming that a second film might be made.
Clicking on Bill's link to Bridget Jones today, I discovered that they're making a film based on the second book.
Er?
This should be interesting. How they're going to top Colin Firth and Hugh Grant pounding each other and crashing through windows on a snowy street, I truly do not know.
The other wonderful bit of meta-fiction, Bridget's obssession with Pride & Prejudice's Mr Darcy and Colin Firth, was by necessity disposed of in the first film, since, well Colin Firth was in it, providing fans of the book with a deliriously smug in-joke. (And heaven forbid we mention Jane Austen in a pop film. Pride and What? Good Lord, no, we might lose the audience!) The second book has Bridget actually interviewing Firth in Italy. However, and I quote (although I have cleaned up the spelling and the punctuation), Colin Firth has suggested that the scene in which Bridget interviews, er... Colin Firth may not appear in the sequel. Firth said in a recent interview, "He won't be there, he'll become George Clooney or something." This may not have quite the same effect as the original way Fielding intended but since Firth is not in the scene maybe they'll simply hope the audience doesn't notice the remarkable resemblance."
The statement made me laugh. Probably not for the right reasons, but I laughed.
Yesterday we cleaned out the fridge. We do this out of self-defence periodically; not because we've run out of room, but because we don't know what might be back there. We liberated a few Tupperware containers from bondage and discovered not one, but four bottles of wine that were open. This comes about as a result of people bringing wine over for parties and such, not finishing the bottles, and saying, "Hey, that wine in the fridge, it's all yours," as they leave. I forget it's there until a time such as this.
"How many bottles of wine are in here?" my husband asked, peering into the depths.
"We should pour them all together in a pitcher," I said. I was joking. But then, all of a sudden, I wasn't. "We could mix them and blend them with 7-Up and have kind of a sangria," I said. My husband looked at me oddly, but gave me the bottles of wine. I tasted each first to make sure it hadn't soured; nope, the three whites were fine. The single red, however, was definitely past its prime. I wouldn't even be able to cook with it. Down the sink it went while the husband went to buy 7-Up. I found a bottle of lime cordial in the fridge that had only an inch or so of cordial left; I poured that in as well, being minus the lemons and limes I like to put in mixes like this. And the whole thing tasted divine.
We made dinner, poured glasses of the mystery mix, and decided to play Junior Trivial Pursuit. Ordinarily this means it's a quicker game than the adult edition. However, the edition of Junior Trivial Pursuit I own is the original version, dating back from 1984. (Go ahead. Count on your fingers. Yes, it's perilously close to twenty.) This means it asks many questions based on contemporary pop culture like information about hockey leagues and now-defunct sports teams, and the question that stumped us both: what is the Sugar Crisp bear holding on the Sugar Crisp box? The box has since been redesigned, so it was more of a challenge that we'd anticipated. This is definitely a game we'll have to pull out at a party, just to watch people rummage around their two-decade old store of history. It was terrific; a mix of a walk down memory lane, a high school reunion, and a realisation of how much the world has changed.
I know I'm definitely coming out of a bad patch when I start enjoying parties again.
I've always been a poor fan of large groups of people; I prefer intimate gatherings. Lately, though, I've not been bothered by being in public places, which usually include crowds and noise. And last night, I was at a party which I absolutely loved. As a rule, I also dislike arriving late, because it means that a whole ton of people turn around and fall on me at once with hellos and hugs. Last night, what with the husband arriving home at 6.30, picking up groceries, stopping by the SAQ, and then going across town to pick up a spare key from a friend, we arrived not only fashionably late, but so late that it was hard to see people in the backyard as we tried to barbecue chicken over rapidly failing coals. But I loved it anyway.
It might have had something to do with the fact that I saw about ten people I hadn't seen in a year or more, and one or two that I hadn't seen in a few months. It also might have had something to do with the fact that I saw people I see frequently (whose company I enjoy, hence the frequency). The grilled chicken salad we created was pretty darned amazing. My Smirnoff Ice was unchilled but I didn't care.
Darn it all, I was just in a really good mood. And I was enjoying the good mood; part of me saw what was going on and rather than saying, "You know, this probably isn't a good idea for the following reasons", it said, "Aw, heck, you just have fun. Stop censoring; stop worrying what people think." (Sage advice from someone I respect. It worked perfectly last night.) As a result, I think I was probably more positive and more open to laughing and being relaxed than I have been in a very long time. I'm usually so serious; last night, I most definitely was not.
Not only that, but I was actually disappointed when my husband walked up to me and said, "I have to go home; I'm working tomorrow." If I don't want to leave, that's a certain sign of having a very good time.
The only iffy spot was, once again, being pegged as an experienced Pagan and being approached by a couple of eager novices for advice in a sticky situation. To protect me from similar future situations where I'm too polite to walk away, I have been given a code word (which I am not sharing here!) so that a handful of people will know to rescue me by removing me bodily from the conversation. Even that discussion, though, had a good side: it proved to me that I can speak excellent French even while drinking my second terribly yummy Smirnoff Ice. Go me!
My husband just came home and said, "I brought you mice."
Yes, I did a double take as well. He handed me a package of, yes, white mice. Little ones, about the size of a peanut. They're candy.
"I got them free with my Sloche today," he said. "And I know you love trying to figure out the Sloche ads, so here."
'Dead in your hand, Alive in your mouth' the slogan proclaims on the back. I opened the package; we tried them. They're raspberry-flavoured gummy mice. I love them. He hates them.
Woo-hoo! More mice for me!
Heavy cream is lighter than light cream because it contains more butter fat, which weighs less than water.
Hunh?
Science. It gets me every time. It explains the unexplainable. And proves, of course, exactly how much we don't get it; how much we just don't understand the world around us. Even when we think we do.
Take, for example, the popular expression "it's so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk!" Sure; it's a figure of speech. But Robert Wolke, professor emeritus of chemistry at the University of Pittsburgh, actually tested it out for his book What Einstein Told His Cook. Others have done this (even at least one person of my own acquaintance). Wolke, however, went a step further. Actually, he took a whole hike further:
To investigate the egg assertion, he actually went out and measured the pavement temperature in Austin, Tex., during a heatwave. He found that the hottest it got, even on blacktop, was 145 degrees F -- well below the 158 degree minimum needed for an egg to start coagulating. Not satisfied with pure theory, he cracked an egg on the pavement and waited. Nothing happened.
Helpfully, Wolke then went around measuring the temperature of other surfaces, and reports that a dark blue Ford Taurus reached 178 degrees F, making it a better frying pan than sidewalks or roadways."The wonderful thing about science is that it can even explain things nobody needs to know," Wolke concludes.
Heck, yes.
Makes you want to go out and experiment. Our dark blue station wagon won't work; it's a Saturn and made of resin. Hmm; I know someone with a dark blue Ford. I wonder if she'd be willing to experiment - all in the name of science, of course.
(Check out BusinessWeek Online's article called Plenty of Food for Thought, their review of Wolke's latest venture into science.)
Over at The Times Online, author Jeanette Winterson has written a rather straightforward look at art in our time, what it means to create it, and what it means to appreciate it.
Of course much of what passes for art today is merely hype, or fashion, or showmanship, but this has always been the case. Art makers and art fakers live side by side in any century. Time sieves them out. What matters is not to be endlessly labelling and judging, but to be open to our own culture — to assume we have something to say. The past was not better or richer, but it was slower. Art needs time. Our impatience with art might be just that — we’re in a hurry, and art needs time.
Hmm. Wasn't I arguing this a month or two ago? Something about our contemporary culture being rush-rush and beset by microwaves and lightning-fast internet connections, and losing our ability to appreciate culture?
Winterson says something similar:
The released energies of art, in whatever medium, are a kind of radar trying to steer us back to sanity. We are not sane. We live in a 24-hour emergency zone called real life, where money is the core value, and where our inner life is denied.
Hmm. So, art validitates inner worth? Art constitutes a sort of moral compass?
When you sit down to read a book or to listen to a piece of music or walk round an exhibition, without interruption, the first thing you are doing is turning your gaze inwards. The demands and distractions of the world have to wait.
This, I think, is the problem. People can't stop to listen to what art evokes from within them, because they're afraid. Why else do we stop up our metaphorical and literal ears with noise and busyness? We're losing our ability to listen; yes. What should we do about it? Telling people to go walk through an art gallery is fine, but will it actually succeed? I doubt it. The people who are going to go to an art gallery are those who are already predisposed to do so. Those people who are filling their lives with white noise are precisely the ones who have no idea that silencing the tumult around them might be beneficial.
As appreciative as I am of the article, and as much as I agree with it on the surface, I sense an imbalance. I know it's supposed to focus on art as opposed to the rest of life, but it seems to infer that anything not art (nice, quiet, slow, coaxing out our valuable inner lives) is detrimental. The article is, of course, arguing for a balance, a contrast, a healing change of pace now and again, but she's preaching to the converted, I think.
Magneto: He's a supervillain AND an allegory!
The Brunching Shuttlecocks review Marvel Supervillains. And this is only part one.
Operation Hallowe'en has begun.
Muah-hah-hah-hah!
I have cut the paper pattern out; I have cut jacquard pieces out for trim; I have dyed said jacquard pieces; I currently have another six meters of dyed fabric drip-drying in my bathtub. I have purchased Fimo and sparkly things and been successfully creative in that department as well.
The dryer downstairs is being used by someone who obviously does not comprehend how imperative it is that I dry those six meters of wet fabric RIGHT NOW so I can cut out more fabric and move on to the sewing. I'm on a roll, here. S/he is being most annoying.
I was worried about the dying process, but it was a beautiful success. What was once a medium blue is now a lovely ripply pewter grey, and the jacquard pattern shows up much better to boot. I'm now a dye convert. Now if I find a fabric that I love in a shade that's not quite right, Dylon it is! None of that Tintex stuff; I've had such horrible results with that before. (It occurs to me that I have enough of the blue jacquard left to make a corset. A-ha! Do I leave it blue, or do I find a sage green dye? Must put that on the List Of Things To Think About.)
Onward, ever onward. Muah-hah-hah-hah-hah!
So, my husband is an artist.
This may come as a surpise to those of you who have known him only as Unemployed or Terraforming Engineer (aka landscaper). It grates severely upon his soul that he's still paying off student loans for a career he's not currently enjoying. (Never mind the fact that he paid off about $15, 000 of student loan debt in the four or so years that he was working as an artist.)
He's going into his ex-place-of-employment today to remind them all that he's still alive and available for high-paying work - er, rewarding career-focused creative exercise, I mean. I hope things go well. He loves landscaping, but he misses animation a lot.
He's good at what he does. Really good. He designs backgrounds for animated TV series, and he's aces. He's also an excellent supervisor of others - a good motivator, a terrific communicator, etcetera - and that's what he was doing at the end before the industry started its downward spiral into the crumpled, dry thing it was for about eighteen months.
I think it's because he loves art so much that it's bothered me for the past couple of years to see him have no interest in sketching at home any more. He used to sketch all the time, but over time it has petered out to the point that in the past twelve months, I think I'd be lucky to count half a dozen sketches. He designs pieces of furniture, which he then constructs for people here and there, but drawing for the pure pleasure? It went the way of the dodo.
Which is why I'm so thrilled that he walked out of Omer De Serres today firmly intent on beginning oil painting again this fall.
I've never seen my husband paint. (Apartment walls really don't count.) There are pieces of artwork stored at his parents' house, and his colour and black and white works framed on their walls, but I've never actually seen him put brush to canvas. I'm wild to see him do it. So wild, as a matter of fact, that when my next cheque comes in, I'm going to pick up oil paints and brushes for him, since his old ones are all dried up and falling apart. (Thus falls the plan of picking up a piece or two of new clothing every cheque; on the next one I have to replace the badly warped bridge on my cello, which will cost about $120, and I want my husband to have those paints. Well, I bought shoes yesterday; I'll use that as part of my clothing goal.)
Understandably, everyone wants to leave work behind when they come home at night. It's disturbing, though, to see an artist come home and not be able to draw for fun and relaxation, since they've been doing it for someone else all day. I'm all for this renaissance in my husband's artistic life. I'd also love to see him back in his original career. This time, though, I'm going to make sure he keeps up the personal artistic expression as well as the work sort of art. I think oil painting and designing backgrounds are varied enough that he can stay interested in both.
Cross your fingers.
Okay, last post for a while, I promise. I'm moving to the laptop where I will write.
For a while now I have been sneaking tastes of Going Bridal, a truly well-written blog that details a bride-to-be's insanity of planning her wedding. Having gone through this personal hell not once but twice, I enjoy her site immensely. (Just to be clear, I only actually got married once.) Anyone who has been through Wedding Hell should check it out.
I don't know if I could have been that erudite whilst in Wedding Hell. I recently found a whole file of e-mails to people during the six months, however, and I appear to have had some sort of sense of humour. (Except when it came to the co-ordinator at the McMichael Gallery, where we had our reception, who tracked me down at 8:30 am the day of my wedding at the hairdresser's to tell me that everything was under control and not to panic. Not to panic? Well, thanks; now you've got me worried, passing your worry-germs on to nice, calm me, who was actually having fun with my maid of honour and the hair stylist until you called.)
Example: On September 10, 1999 (that's fifteen days before the wedding) I found this in an e-mail I had written to our musician, a lovely flautist:
"Well, the wedding hell that everyone warned me about with such glee is beginning. The odd thing is, it seems to be everyone else who's obsessing about it, not Ron and I, nor our parents!"
And warn us with glee they did. We planned everything down to the last minute and the co-ordinator at the McMichael still managed to mess things up, forgetting we had asked for a full bar service (fixed seven days before the wedding, thank goodness), forgetting we had asked that the gallery be open to our guests (fixed two days before the day), and conveniently forgetting our entire schedule so that the reception room wasn't ready for the guests when they arrived. (With grim and great joy my husband sent Taras and MLG after her. Muah-hah-hah-hah-hah.)
Also found this gem from the same day:
"Ah, yes, that game called "Real Life" where if you miss your perception check you either end up owing a lot of money or with a healthy chunk of foot in your mouth. In the words of the Immortal ROb, "Real Life? I hate that game".
You forget, Marc, this is the guy who said he had until Aug 25 to tell us if he was coming or not. [...] Or maybe he's just trying to be funny. Please note that the very stressed bride-to-be isn't laughing.
Rain "rescue me from wedding hell" Murphy"
That "guy who said he had until Aug 25 to tell us if he was coming or not" was in fact the best man. He eventually sent us his reply card so he could actually be counted among the final number in order to be fed.
A day later, September 11, 1999, the subsequent message sent out to the same people:
"Apology graciously accepted. Things aren't funny these days, just very irritating. If one more person asks if I'm nervous I'll eat their liver. No, I'm not nervous; it's everyone else's stupid questions I have to put up with. And that includes the wedding co-ordinator at the McMichael and the attitude-problem minister in charge of the Doctor's House. I'm fine; Ron's fine; the parents are fine (even though Ron's great-aunt is positive his mother collapsed of stressing out over the wedding (ha!)). We're not stressing out over details like people seem to keep gleefully hoping. We're stressing out because we're trying to keep up with normal lives while making final lists for travel, outfits, scheduling, putting up with stupidity and people not thinking things through on their own. [...] You know how much I hate organizing things and making sure everyone is set. Well, some people are conveniently forgetting that. All this to say that tempers are short and please be careful.
"Gods this was depressing. My deepest apologies back at both of you. I - we - are going to need a lot of support and understanding in the next thirteen days. Yes, thirteen days. And I *still* have to buy stockings. Sigh."
I think I ended up buying stockings less than a week before the day. Yes, I bought two pairs - just in case. One is still in the package. The other pair which I wore doesn't even have a run.
That's as bad as I got, though. Didn't lose my temper with my husband-to-be, or with any parental unit. I remember being surprised that we were as relaxed as we were. (I sincerely hope we disappointed the McMichael co-ordinator, and all of the elderly relatives who were being doomsayers.)
No, I certainly don't miss organising a wedding. But I am enjoying being a voyeur over at Sara's Going Bridal. Especially since she's making a corset to wear under her dress. Ooooh. Maybe instead of a nice blue patterned satin I'll do one in sage green.
So I took the plunge and before I went to Pennsylvania to meet a bunch of people I'd never seen in person before, I made up business cards. You know, so I wouldn't have to find a pen and scribble my e-mail address on a scrap of paper that people would lose the first time they sent their jeans through the wash.
I say "plunge" because on a business card one usually puts one's career path or job description somewhere. No longer being in sales or management, I got to choose how to describe myself.
I chose the word "writer".
I mention this because I just came across the first one I did, put aside for sentimental reasons. I quite like it. It's stuck on my monitor now, so I can remind myself frequently.
AAAAUGH! Organ music on CBC Radio Two! Quick - to the Moulin Rouge CDs!
I think my hair is definitely nearing Pre-Raphaelite-ness. (Pre-Raphael-ity?)
Three cheers for me.
Star Wars: Episode 1, in iambic pentameter.
Go. Go now.
I have such brilliant, witty, intelligent, and learnèd friends. Sarcastic, too.
I would just like to say that Ralph Vaughn-Williams' London symphony is absolutely glorious.
Thank you.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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...
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.
Why, when it is so damned hot outside, does my tea reach a temperature of "stone cold" all the quicker?
As if I hadn’t already learned this year that life is a cycle and things come and go, our family dog has just been diagnosed with cancer of the spleen with internal bleeding. I called my parents right away when the e-mail landed in my inbox this morning. Poor Megan; she’s always had a delicate digestion, and we’ve always known something was wrong, but these x-rays have finally proved it. She’s eleven, and still puppyish, and a goofball; she loves car rides and going to market and new people; but she has her days where she’s listless and has no appetite. Mum and Dad are taking her round on her daily walk this morning, then they’re going to the vet to say goodbye.
I hate not being able to say goodbye to my family pets in person. Our thirteen year old grey kitty Bo’sun had lung cancer and was put down not too long ago as well, and it ate away at me that I couldn’t stroke her and kiss her one last time. Now Megan the Wonder Dog will be missing the next time I go home as well. I know it’s life, and I know that out of death comes life, and I know that death is not final for any kind of energy; my issue is with the difficulty of closure when you lose someone you love unexpectedly. At nineteen one of my best friends died in his sleep of an undetected brain aneurysm, and apart from trying to make head or tails of the death of a young man in excellent health with a promising future, I struggled with the fact that I hadn’t said goodbye to him. Two nights before he died we had been at a birthday party, and when I left he was engrossed in a conversation, so I didn’t want to intrude to tell him I was leaving. I have always regretted that decision, and it became an obsessive thought in the weeks that followed his death: not only had I not said goodbye to him that night, I hadn’t been able to bid him farewell before his death, either, like everyone else. As a result, I always track down my parent’s pets when I depart to give each of them a kiss and a cuddle, because I never know when I might return to an empty chair instead of a warm cat, a quiet front hallway instead of a dog going insane with joy because I’ve walked through that door.
I told my mother to give the Megatronic Dog a kiss and a pat from me this morning. I’ll say goodbye in my own way tonight. She’s been a good friend, lots of fun, and good for my parents as well since they no longer have a child in the house; she will be missed. After her walk and her car ride today, she will have an endless supply of Snausages and rawhide bones with nary an upset tummy to be seen, many geese to chase, and she will duel and dance with the sprinklers of the Summerlands.
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:
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.
So long! Away we go, on the road again…
Well, actually we’re on the way to bed, so we can rest up to be on the road again at three AM.
The weather for our camping weekend in Pennsylvania looks glorious – sunny to partly cloudy, with temperatures in the high twenties and night-time temperatures of mid- to low-teens. Perfect.
Alas, my lap-top has no battery, so I cannot blog whilst away. You will all just have to do without me till Monday afternoon. Which reminds me – I’d better pack a notebook and some pens so that I can work on the Great Canadian Novel, should the whim seize me.
Ciao!
Not only am I bruised, I am now burned.
I made a pot of ginseng green tea. I am notorious for not noticing the passage of time and leaving a cup of tea next to me for hours, so I drink tepid or cool tea a lot. Just now I picked up my mug, assuming it was cool (as it is, nine times out of ten) and took a rather large sip.
Ow.
They probably won't let me over the border. They'll look at me and turn me back rather than risk my sudden klutziness spreading.
I'm feeling a little foolish; I caught my forearm in the fridge door as it closed yesterday and it's all bruised today. You know, you toss it open, catch it with your foot, grab the water jug, pour a glass, lean in to put away the jug and let go of the door with your foot. Most of us do it, or a variation thereof. Normally I'd be fine. I'm still not used to this fridge, though, and the door is rather heavy. It slammed shut quicker than I'd anticipated.
Ow. That will teach me to pay attention when I get a glass of water from now on.
I'm packing for a four-day camping trip in the States today. Evidently for raingear and towels and such, we'll have to bring an extra duffel bag, since my smallish one is full of a polar fleece sweater, a long-sleeved top, a couple of t-shirts, a pair of extra jeans, a pair of shorts, socks, etc. Camping is such a toss-up when it comes to weather; do you pack light and freeze/swelter, or do you pack sensibly and carry two bags? Being the practical cover-all-bases type, I carry two bags, and end up not using half of what I brought. (If I did use it all it would either mean that the weather was swinging wildly to extremes, or that it was terribly rainy and everything got very wet.)
And am I the only person who brings books when I go camping?
I've been trying to figure out why I enjoy making and wearing costumes so much.
I love dressing up. I know it partially comes from a love of things unordinary. I think it also partially originates from my preference of skirts to pants; most of my costumes are dress-based, after all.
The challenge of creating something is part of it, too. One of my triumphs was finding a classic Trek sourcebook with sketches of uniforms, tracing the six-inch-high picture, enlarging it via the grid method, and making a remarkably authentic bright red classic Trek woman's uniform. (That, I got to wear twice - once at my Hallowe'en party, once a following Hallowe'en at the F/SF bookstore I worked in. Complete with high black boots.) I love putting costumes together because, let's face it, part of showing up in costume is to feel proud of what you've done, to hear other people say, "That's so cool!", and with the proper finishing touches, it's all just so satisfying.
I also enjoy sewing. I'm not patient enough to be perfect, so sewing everyday clothes isn't really an option. However, sewing a costume means you can get away with little mistakes and shortcuts most of the time.
I don't think it originates with a desire to be someone else. I like being me, thank you very much. I just particularly enjoy being me in nifty clothes. However, perhaps it has something to do with special occasions. You wouldn't wear a costume every day; dressing up carries with it an implication of holiday and festivity.
Eh. Whatever. I like costuming. I should just enjoy it, and not question it.
So I spent yesterday with Ceri, and all day something was lurking in the back of my mind, and it had something to do with Ceri herself (indirectly), and Saturday night when I went to a ritual.
It nibbled, and nibbled, and every time I tried to look at it it would vanish into the shadowy depths of my subconscious again. All Sunday it lurked and gnawed. Something like this is like having a mosquito in the room with you: you can hear it, and you know it's there, but you'll never see it, and it just gets more and more irritating.
When I go to ritual I usually wear a hand-made anklet of amber and onyx. I rarely wear it for any other reason, and if I do, I have to be feeling really special. As I did up the clasp on Saturday night I thought about wearing it more often, but I'm always afraid it will break. This casual observation must have been what started that lurky thought that hung around for a day or so. Ceri and I looked at a lot of fabric and trims yesterday, and Ceri mentioned making her wedding dress. The niggling feeling that I was forgetting something floated closer to the surface, but still didn't make it all the way to conscious thought. It wasn't until I was in a bath last night that I finally, triumphantly, dragged that thought out into the light, kicking and screaming.
I bought another anklet in Halifax last September the day of Ceri's wedding, so I could wear an anklet all the time.
There.
When I emerged from the bath I hunted through my jewelry box until I found it, underneath some stone necklaces. Out of sight, out of mind. Figures.
I shouldn't feel this smug and content about remembering a delicate silver anklet. Really.
The Fellowship of the Ring is released on DVD today.
The summer rehearsal sing-through I'm scheduled to be at tonight is The Pirates of Penzance.
I am wavering. Ah, temptation...
So as I wait for web pages to load as I work I’m flipping through blogs; I hit Ceridwen’s Cauldron, scan it quickly, and say to myself, “No, she hasn’t updated it, this is all familiar.” Then I look at it a little more closely. No, I’m mistaken. She has updated it. It just looks familiar because I lived through it four hours ago with her.
Yes, Ceri had much joy today in shopping vicariously through me. Well, Ceri darling, you can just look forward breathlessly to the days in the not-so-distant future when I call you up and scream that there’s no hope and that the pattern is going to hell. You’ll get the lovely experience of feeling sewing frustration through me, too.
If I had a million dollars, oh, the fabrics I would have bought today. Micro-suede. Jacquard. Printed damask. Silk brocade. Stuff I’d have cut after a stiff drink – immediately after, so I could cut correctly before the alcohol began affecting my system adversely. Just a nip for courage. And I would have looked smashing. (The impressive-in-costume, not the inebriated kind.)
Being financially challenged, however, I am now in possession of fabric that will look just fine, and didn’t cost even a fraction as much as the ones that I coveted. I have to keep reminding myself that only Ceri and I would really appreciate the look and feel of the $65-per-metre fabric. It’s a costume, after all. Like my other costumes, I will look amazing for one night, and then hang it up. I do take them out once in a while and try them on, and stroke them, and feel proud of how well I constructed them, but overall, they see use for about five hours max.
I’m letting myself in for a rough time, too, because I’m kit-bashing. “Kit-bashing?” Ceri inquired today. “Is that the term?” Yes, I say, and it dates back from my model-building days (Aha – something else you didn’t know about me!). Kit-bashing, for those who don’t know, is when you combine two or more model kits to create something new, or use a kit as a basis for something the manufacturer didn’t intend it to be. Never satisfied with doing the things the easy way first, I’m combining two patterns for this year’s Hallowe’en costume. No, I’m not telling you what it is, because then I’ll have to live up to your expectations. Forget it.
I’m giving myself two and a half months, though, so everything should be okay. Right?
It was Lughnassadh this weekend, the first harvest festival, and I baked bread to commemorate it, the way I always do. I got home from the Great Fabric Excursion this afternoon and said, “Ooh! Bread!” I’d forgotten I had a whole other loaf. There’s even Brie in the fridge, and pâté, too. And the husband won’t be home for dinner tonight. If only The Fellowship of the Ring had been released on DVD today, instead of coming out tomorrow – I’d curl up in front of the TV with bread and cheese and pâté, and spend all evening convinced that December simply won’t come fast enough.
Oh, sure. As soon as I write a self-pitying post, the page publishes for the first time in two days.
Muttergrumblegrr.
I'm lonely. My blog will not publish.
I can look at this one of two ways:
1. Look, I am free! I can sneak about and no one will know - until it's too late!
2. I am cut off from the world, and everyone thinks I just don't care.
Hm. Maybe not.
I have discovered a way to beat the heat. And no, it has nothing to do with spending time in a grocery store, hugging bags of frozen peas. I actually dislike grocery stores in heatwaves; they're too cold, so that when you walk outside again the humidity hits you like a huge wet pillow and your knees buckle for a second or two.
No, my solution is a stay-at-home, do-it-yourself kind of answer. It presupposes you were in a supermarket in the recent past, however, and that you have chicken or some such thing in your fridge or freezer.
Go into your kitchen; turn on an element on top of the stove. (I know I've lost some of you already, because most people go into the kitchen to open the fridge for ice water in weather like this. Stove? What stove?) Melt some butter in a pan. Slice your chicken up and stir-fry it. If you want to get fancy you can add some onion, but really, don't worry about it.
Stand there in front of the stove, and fry that meat.
When it's done, slide it onto a plate, cover it loosely, and put it in the fridge. Don't forget to turn off the stove.
Walk out of the kitchen. You will immediately notice a huge drop in temperature. Why, it's almost as if the rest of your place of habitation is cool!
In addition, you have the handy cooked chicken to chop up and toss into a salad for dinner later, because that's about as warm a meal as you want to have. Nice, cool salad, with chicken. Mmm.
You're welcome.
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"?