August 11th, 2008

Warnings

1) If you are taking a bubble bath, do *not* put your head under if you are easily upset by loud noises. Upon re-emerging, your ears will be filled with bubbles that will pop, creating the sound of a forest fire burning a path directly to your brain. Very upsetting.
2) $13 is enough to pay a hair-dresser to obtain a tidy, competent haircut, but it is NOT enough to pay a hair-dresser to try to dissaude you from your own bad ideas. If you say anxiously, “Do you think that would work for me?” a salon-type will say, “Sweetie, maybe you need to rethink this,” but a barber-shop type will say, “Please sit back in the chair.”
3) The air tastes like fall.

I think it’s coming and it comes so fast
RR

July 23rd, 2008

Creative Endeavours

I don’t really mind heat, even on the extreme side–I have a lowish body temperature, and sort of even like an occasional scorching day. Some do, some don’t, with heat–but does anybody really like humidity? Other than making my skin look really good, I don’t know what there is to like about maple-syrup textured air. If you have pro-humidity theorems, I’d love to hear’em–it might make me feel better. I hate air-conditioning, but I think I hate humidity more, so it’s a fine dice of discomfort lately and really just hard on morale. Also on getting anything done: I’m working as much as ever, but at much slower rates. To slow down ones running or lifting of heavy objects in the heat seems logical, but since mine are mainly endeavours of the mind (wow, that’s a new height of pretension–I’m leaving it in!) it seems odd that the humidity has dragged me down.

It’s better tonight, whetherwise, so maybe work will improve also. In the meantime, inspiration!

I discovered The Ting Tings on David Whitton‘s website and felt an immediate sympathy with the plaint, “That’s Not My Name.” Besides having a wicked beat, the song perfectly captures my pain: despite my so-called “cool name” (I certainly think so), I am frequently called “Jane.” Also, “Rachel.” Also, very often, “you” and yesterday, “whatsyername.” This song makes me feel less alone and anonymous, but the other ones I’ve heard are good too.

Virginia at UofT Alumni endeavours made a beautiful webpage for *Once* on the Great Books by Great Grads site. You can’t see it unless you are an alum, unfortunately, but if you are one, I urge you to check out the full roster–who knew there were so many published past students?

Finally, a dead-sexy website showcasing a designer’s talents–that works. Even if you don’t need a website or letterhead designed, you should look at Create Me This for sterling examples in the form.

Ok. I’m gonna go accomplish stuff now. Really. Yeah.

Maybe Julisa / always the same / that’s not my name
RR

April 25th, 2008

Rebecca Has a Bad Week

RR–I’m such a loser, I think I’ve called you every day this week.

Mom–That’s not true. I haven’t heard from you in ages. I’ve missed you.

RR–I called you on Sunday, and another day besides today…

Mom–So?

RR–And today is Thursday.

Mom–That leaves lots of days you didn’t call…well, several.

This weekend will be better, not least because I’m going to see my Mom (and Dad), because Kerry was wearing a spring skirt yesterday, because I am booked solid with frivolous things to do. So in case I don’t get a change to post before then, I just wanted to say that my brothers-and-sisters in educational trajectory, the masters in creative writing crew ’08, will be reading on Monday evening, and they are charming and I’ll be there and maybe you’d like to come, too?

Deets:

Monday, April 28
Bar Italia (582 College Street, between Manning and Clinton)
7:30pm
No cover

See you soon!

Don’t worry girl you weren’t around
RR

April 20th, 2008

This weekend

Friday–I sat on a metal patio chair with an icy drink in my hand after sunset, brain shrieking, “This is patio weather, this is patio weather!” It wasn’t, not after sunset, but that I could even delude myself for a couple hours is progress.

Saturday–A small child hit me quite hard with his bicycle. Although I very much wanted to yell at this small child, I did not, because a) I like to pretend I am a good person who could not yell at children, b) the child had fallen into the road and had his own problems, c) it is weather that children ride bikes in, and weather that a foot can be rather badly hurt by a bicycle tire because it is bare. I asked the child repeatedly if he was all right, and he repeatedly apologized, until he was able to ride off and me to hobble onward.

Also Saturday–I saw the movie *Leatherheads*, which made very little sense and didn’t really even try, and yet there were a few scenes that were so charming that the rest of the film can coast on that.

Sunday–I strolled and ate brunch and strolled and got an enormous number of free beauty products and found the Luminato magazine (as far as I can tell, it was in the Globe, but neither Stars nor Nows) and felt good about the world.

Name it and I’ll pull it out your ear
RR

April 14th, 2008

Compassion

I have extremely weak eyes. Aside from being some godawful prescription that renders me unable to go to the beach with people whose hands I feel uncomfortable asking to hold, my eyes also water at almost anything. Pepper, bright reflections, laughter: all render me teary. Wind is the worst–it totally reproduces the effects of tragedy on me. In addition to streaming tears, wind actually turns my eyes red; even the edges of my nose. If I have to walk very far on a windy day, I look like my heart is broken.

Which never used to matter, until I became a pedestrian in chill and populous cities. Now long walks are one of my principal means of locomotion, and I can’t stay home because it’s gusty. Thus, I find myself the recipient of many compassionate stares as I stroll through Toronto, bouncing to my iPod, carrying my groceries, looking like I’m about to throw myself on the casket. People offer tight-lipped smiles, encouraging nods, nervous stares. Bus drivers look horrified, possibly worried I will look to them as authority figures to solve whatever problem I am having (many, it seems, do).

I can’t explain, because no one ever asks. Not once in all my watery years in Toronto has anyone asked the question I see itching behind their own eyes: “Are you ok?” Compassionate people, Torontonians, but even compassion has its limits.

A little boy under a table with cake is his hair
RR

March 10th, 2008

Scenic

Standing at the bus stop, kicking a frozen snowdrift, talking about how much everything sucks.

D: So you wanna stand here and wait or you wanna walk?
Me: Walk!
(we start walking single-file, D in the lead)
D: I wasn’t sure if you’d want to walk through all the snow…
(sidewalks unploughed since Saturday’s blitz)
Me: This will be hilarious, and end in tears.
D: As long as we get both!
(walk for some time, talk about cartoons. Arrive at massive snow mountain in middle of sidewalk, constructed by snowplough. Toronto officially hates pedestrians. D climbs mountain, begins descending other side. I climb halfway, teeter sideways, half collapse in snow, right myself, climb to top. Descent looks far steeper than ascent)
Me: This is where it ends?
D (turning to look) Ends?
Me: It’s over.
D: As in, the end of you?
Me; Yes!
D: Death?
Me: Yes.
D: The drapes go or I do?
Me: Oscar Wilde!
D: Do you want a hand?
Me: Yes!

December 17th, 2007

Snowy days

Hey, we had a blizzard. It was great–I bailed on all parties (which, to be fair, would also have been great), all errands and the world at large. I spent the entire weekend reading and writing and, when I got too stir-crazy, going to the gym. I managed to lure writing/performance partner J. to the house last night, but other than that, I did not see a lot of other humans.

Perhaps that is why, despite the ONE AND A HALF HOURS it took me to get to work, I found the commute a great pleasure. The bus was so packed with so many humans going crazy, and yet everyone was in a good mood. Things that happened on the bus:
–woman speaking to a toddler, both aloud and in sign language, about how many people might be on the bus. The tot’s ASL was still weak–she kept signing the zero first in 50. While this was being debated, we hit a stop and someone boarded. The caregiver was patiently explaining how digits worked, when the little girl, who could not speak, impatiently signed something. The caregiver laughed, and said/signed, “Ok, yes, 51.”
–a teenager shrieking into a phone, “You *broke Jordan’s nose*?? That’s not good. Ok, how? Is it really broken? Is she ok? Ok, honestly, that’s sort of funny. Has school started yet? I’m gonna be *so* late.”
–when I finally got a seat, it was next to a man with an enormous, old-school, 1990s-style CPU in his lap. It came up to his chin and out to his chest, but when I dropped a piece of paper on the floor and couldn’t reach it, he got it for me…somehow. So chivalry isn’t dead.

This is a message
RR

September 10th, 2007

Lit-Life Weekend

I wonder if people wonder about me as a writer: I’m so talky, such “Go Team!” type, that it might not seem immediately apparent how I manage to make a go of any project I have to do in silence alone in a room. And it is difficult for me–the phone and Facebook (and this blog) become great temptations when I go too long without chatter. But the writing life does have its social outlets, I’m beginning to discover, and I’m not the only one who likes to see and hear words in a party-type atmosphere.

So Friday night was an actual party at which pretty much everyone was a writer, and a friendly one at that (why else go to the party?) I feel as though there were 20 books in the brains of that room, just pulsing, ripening. Someday I will read those books and I really can’t wait, but in the meantime it was such a joy to be chattering about what they shall or might be, as well as what my own might become someday. “Somedayness” can be a terrifying feeling or a delightful one, but I am feeling strong today, and so am delighted.

Saturday I actually *did* manage to spend on my own, finishing one story and writing a chunk of a new one. Also sleeping late (8:30!) and going to a Pilates class and doing laundry and all those other things that a solitary day is good for. I felt very productive, and Rose-coloured central is very clean now. Sadly, it is also catless, as Marlene-the-cat got recalled to her home. It was fun while it lasted.

Sunday, as you may already know, was Eden Mills Writers’ Festival, which is basically an afternoon of wonderful readings and book sales in the hills outside Guelph. It’s a gorgeous spot and the volunteers do an amazing job not just rounding up great readers but organizing and presenting and smiling at every attendee as if they are personally thrilled you made it. I was thrilled I made it, despite the cold (I was determined to wear my red sundress, but I had to put tights and a turtleneck underneath. I looked a little odd, especially when I broke down and put a cardigan and a windbreaker on over top) and the rain (I watched a few readings from under my umbrella). Ok, so the weather was decidely poor, but the turnout was still impressive and the readers rose admirably to the occasion. And, well, if I’m a little ill now, it was totally worth it.

I have a lot to learn from such readers, as I myself will be reading from my story “All the Ghostlies” at the Hart House Open House Wednesday evening (7ish, if you are interested). I’m pretty excited, to be honest. More talking!!

Hope your weekend was good, too!

It was the myth of fingerprints / that’s why we must learn to live alone
RR

August 9th, 2007

News from the Land of No News

I’m like some sort lizardy creature who thrives in the sunshine but, when there is a higher than average humidity rating, can barely function just lying on her rock. I even started to hate my rock a little during the nadir of the Civic weekend, when the sky was one colour all day and hair just never dried post-shower. Eventually I mopped the floors of my rock (abandoning simile), which is good since I’m hostessing a dinner party tonight. Also because it improved morale. But really, as holiday weekends go, this one was subpar.

You know who else hates humidity? The main character in Douglas Coupland’s JPod. I’m just mentioning it because that doesn’t come up in fiction a lot. Also because that book was funny. Silly, actually–a big hodgepodge of invention and gags and mess, not your typical CanLit. Jolly good fun, I thought. Even though it probably killed my Canadian satire essay. Oh, well, that essay had lots of problems, really.

You know what’s weird: I might never write an essay again. What a strangely awful thought. Also weird: the fact that it is now cold and humid. Why does this city seem to be perpetually clammy? More weird: girl who just walked into the library looked just like the “this one time? at band camp?” girl from the American Pie movies.

I have nothing to say. I am groggy and damp and tense. The minor-celebrity-doppleganger might be the highlight of my morning. Maybe not. I maintain hope, though minor, that things will improve before noon. The afternoon will definitely be better, because I can go to the gym and be mindless, followed by meeting Kerry to mindful and literary, and then my very literary dinner party. It’s a good thing I know so many smart people–they can fill in the blanks when I am like this. Whatever this is–I can’t think of the noun right now.

Tomorrow will be better
RR

July 11th, 2007

Condiments

Thanks to those who commented, empathetically or otherwise or only in spirit, on the last post. It’s good to know that others are struggling and writing along similar paths, with similar hopes. Heck, it’s good to know people are writing.

Yesterday was a rare thing for me:a non-writing day. Some days I only work for 20 minutes, but I almost always do something. The heat, humidity, lack of hot water in my building, trip to Markham, etc., etc., utterly defeated me. It is tough to get much active done in these, the swamp days of summer.

The upside is that my reading, semi-passive as it is (I know, I know, active engagement of the imagination, but it’s still easier than coming up with the story by myself) is way up. Under normal circumstances, although I am a fairly avid reader, I rarely sit myself down on the couch with a book. Instead, I read throughout the day in all the spare squishy moments that would otherwise be boring. I read on the subway, bus and streetcar, and while waiting for them. While waiting for my endless medical and dental appointments, while standing in line, while on the cross-trainer at the gym. I read during the lulls at the library (many) and the school where I teach (few). And when I’m eating alone and when I can’t fall asleep at night. Sometimes I read on escalators or in elevators, but that usually ends badly (on the wrong floor).

Sometimes I wonder if my incidental way of reading is not respectful enough, or not attentive enough. I get a lot out of what I read, and get a lot read, but I wonder if the calibre of my reading could be upped by sitting in silence on my couch with the book instead of dangling from a strap on the subway, half in the lap of some guy who is sweating through his Pink Floyd t-shirt. I wonder if I am treating books too much like a condiment of life, instead of a full meal.

Maybe it is ok because I love condiments so much? So much that I have been known to eat salsa with a spoon because I don’t much like corn chips? So much that, when people complain that veggie dogs don’t taste as regular hot dogs, I ask, “How do you *know*?” because I put so much ketchup/onion/mustard/bbq sauce/corn relish/pickles on that I can’t taste the actual weiner? And that’s the way I like it.

I am not very good with appropriate proportions. If I like a little of something, I don’t see why more isn’t better, and if I like literature, I’d like to get as much into the day as possible. Truth be told, if I waited until I had an unfettered hour to read, I wouldn’t read much. Better to get 7 minute snatches of Salinger than no Salinger at all.

Except this week, when writing, the gym, socializing, even talking on the phone require far to much sweating to be worth my while. So I sprawl about and read. I am still working through Barthelme’s *60 Stories.* Two stories a day, I find, is about right. Fewer and I lose touch with his unique sense of reality. More and I lose mine. Also lots of *The New Yorker* (I’m finally up to date!).

And I finally finished *Jane Eyre,* which I bitched about losing months ago, found, and then promptly forgot to read. And then I did read it, and was startled to hate it greatly. Or hate *Jane*, anyway. It is a surprising reaction. I’d been so looking forward to it. It’s one of those books, I know, that many girls read when they are 12-13, fall in love with, and then are disappointed with as adults, but I read it first when I was 21! Clearly, I have matured greatly since then, or something, since this time round, I found Jane to be insufferably grasping, condescending, socially ambitious and man-crazy. Really, everyone she encounters, from her cousins to her students to the servants, are too coarse and too far beneath her to even be described. Only Rochester and St. John are interesting, because they are high-born *men*. Ugh. What a bitch.

When I mentioned to my mother that I was starting this book, she remarked, “Isn’t it stupid?” and said that she’s only found it worth reading “twice…maybe three times” whereas truly good books are worth rereading annually (my mother is a bit of a terrifying reader). I tried to argue based on my memory of the novel as a dreamy romantic fantasy-adventure. In a certain mood, perhaps it would still be for me, or someone, but not in my current state of social realism. Now that I’ve done this about-face, I’ll have to call my mother and concede.

Perhaps I try it again in another 5-6 years. This time, my favourite parts of the novel were the only bits I still liked much, and those were the descriptions of the various houses, especially Moor House. Now, though, in light of my new insight into Jane’s materialism, the detailed descriptions of property come in rather a different flavour (bile?) If I were still in school, I would write a paper entitled “Architecture and Avarice in *Jane Eyre*”, of which the title would be the best part and on which I would receive an A-. But thank goodness I’m a graduand, so I won’t. I’ll just reread *The Catcher in the Rye* (I don’t read it annually, but close) now while the library is slow, and on my break and on the train to Don Mills and home again. I’m hoping, by the time I actually get home around 9pm, I’ll have read about half that novel, and that it will be cool enough for me to get to at least the salad course, and write.

Far away in my well-lit door
RR