March 2nd, 2009
Echoes of Awesomeness
That Shakespeherian Rag guy Steven W. Beattie gets charmingly interviewed by Winston the penguin at the Pages Books website. Featuring shocking revelations about martial arts, authors being polite, and Martha Wainwright.
Seen Reading lady Julie Wilson writes a wonderful piece of fairground fiction, Instamatic on Joyland. Featuring nostalgic glimpses of Wack-a-mole, summer sunburn, requests for Queen and sad awkwardness.
And of course, tomorrow night, I’m reading with the Vagabonds at Gallery 1313:
He’s got a date / and I don’t care
RR
Rose-coloured Reviews Yesterday’s Weather
Saturday February 28, 2009, dawned a bit watery, but the dawn did come before 7 am (only the third day of the year that we got light before 7!) and by the time sun was fully in the sky, the flimsy cloud cover had delicately burnt off or blown away, leaving us with a ravishing yellow and blue to breakfast by. In the warm indoors near a southern exposure window, it was easy to feel that the day was in fact balmy, and this mis-appris was aided by the actual warm weather of last week, which melted the snowbanks and even the black piles of black toxic sludge that were underneath. So the sidewalks were bare and clean and springlike, although of course the naked treebranches waving in the brisk winter wind were a bit of a giveaway, even from the southern exposure.
Outside it was in the low-negative-teens all morning and that brisk wind made for some brisk walking. But those clean sidewalks were a joy to walk briskly upon, and the sun made for good morale. It was just important to stay out of cavernous black building shadows; for perhaps the first time this year, it felt that the sun was close and strong enough to make a difference in warmth. Or, yes, it could’ve been just a morale issue.
The day stayed bright and lovely clear and even warmed into the negative aughts into the afternoon, and then sunset was a sweet distant pink with the occasional cotton-snag cloud for texture. Without the sun, it felt much colder, though in truth it wasn’t a significant slide in temperature and the wind had in fact dropped a bit. In truth, it could’ve been some poor wardrobe choices on the part of the reviewer: it was not a night for a short-sleeved sweater under one’s coat, no matter how fetching the deep-burgundy wool.
As lovely as the sidewalks were for walking, so were the highways for driving, and there is not better a better time to view the steel mills of Hamilton in full flame than in a navy night with lights and stars and fires reflecting on the flat of Lake Ontario. Weather in Hamilton did not seem to vary from the above Toronto description, although perhaps with a touch more lake breeze. The chill made it all the more pleasurable to burst indoors and be greeted affectionately. It was a night for warm hugs, torrid embraces, shoulder-rubbing, football huddles, or whatever form of shared warmth suits your fancy. Also for spicy sauces and soup and tea-based beverages, perching on radiators and draping things across shoulders.
And for bursting back outside hours later, to a sky so clear stars could be seen even from beneath the parking lot sodium-glare lights.
It’s a perfect day
RR
February 27th, 2009
Big Screen/Little Screen
I am a sucker for the big screen–I think it makes every movie about 20% better to see it in a big dark room full of like-minded citizens, with the images larger than lifesized and some fancy sound-system. I am not much of a cinophile, I just like movies a lot a lot a lot. To the point that if my viewing companion talks to me, it is always a delicate etiquette moment–ignore and be rude to companion, speak and be rude to other theatre-goers and possibly miss something crucial on-screen. The only exception to this is city-skyline establishing shots; for some reason, I feel permitted–nay, bound–to talk during those. It’s not just me: every Rosenblum feels compelled, as soon as we see a skyline, to name it, and simultaneously to jab our companions in the ribs. No idea why.
Maybe my love of the theatre experience is why I’ve been so out of the loop about the You Tube revolution (there was another post about this a while back, but I’m too lazy to find it right now). The screen is all little and YouTube is a non-event–you don’t plan the time, book the evening free, invite the escort. You just watch a two-minute video here, a 30-second one there as a breather from work, and maybe a week later, it comes up in conversation and you can jab someone in the ribs and say, “That was set on Mars, you know.”
On Wednesday, I had the unique experience of watching a couple animated shorts (a YouTube staple) on a big screen in a dark room full of likeminded citizens. The films were wonderful, and I think they would’ve been on any size screen. This is the work of animator Nick Fox-Gieg, set to various texts. Check out his site now to see “Foxhole Manifesto” and “I Wanna Be Famous”, among others, then go back at the beginning of March to see the one about the orange (we got a sneak-preview). It’s one of the best things I’ve seen in a long while.
I don’t know about the other two, but the setting of “I Wanna Be Famous” sorta looked Toronto-y.
This party’s over
RR
February 26th, 2009
Let Us Compare Mythologies
Like all book-lovers, and I think a fair amount of those who aren’t even *that* bookish, I am certain my lens on the world is distinctly tinted by what I read when I was young. What I read now, too, but in those impressionable years I do think I internalized stories more thoroughly than perhaps I do now in my older jaded years. I feel those books formed my internal mythology.
Naively, perhaps, I assumed that school-inflicted part of this lens was semi-universal; that many if not most of the books I read in school were on syllabi all over the country. But then I asked around my friends of like age and station…and *no one* had read what I read in school. Did I go to a mutant school? I find it so odd to think that I read the world in the light of *Antigone* and most don’t.
So here is a list of all that I can remember reading in high school. I think some of the years are off, as there is more in some than others, but it’s a good approximation. The starred items are book-report books, chosen off a list of 3-4 (I don’t think we ever had free choice). I would love to see other people’s lists, if you feel like posting’em somewhere or in the comments or sending them to me. I’m once again really curious about something minor and irrelevant.
English Course Requirements, Wentworth County, Middle Nineties
Grade 9 English, Enriched
–Selection of Greek and Roman mythology (plus excerpts of The Iliad
—Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw
—Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare
—Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut*
Grade 10 English, Enriched
–A short story collection about multiculturalism–the only story I remember being A Class of New Canadians by Clark Blaise
—Obasan by Joy Kogowa
—Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare
–A selection of ballads–the only ballad I remember being The Lady of Shalott by Alfred Lord Tennyson
—The Diviners by Margeret Laurence*
Grade 11 English, Enriched
—Everyman, a medieval morality play and my pick for most-hated high-school text
—The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
–a selection of sonnets, the only sonnets I remember being Shakespeare’s love sonnets
—Saint Joan by George Bernard Shaw (I remember nothing about this play)
—Macbeth by William Shakespeare
Grade 12 English, Advanced
—The Oedipus Plays by Sophocles–we read all three, but only studied Antigone in-depth
—The Tempest by William Shakespeare
—Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
–something else that I am forgetting
OAC English
—Hamlet by William Shakespeare
—Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy (my pick for most-loved high-school text)
—The Edible Woman by Margaret Atwood*
—The Stone Angel by Margaret Laurence
Never, sadly, anything by Leonard Cohen, whose work I didn’t read until university (and never the title work of this post, actually). But I sure did like the songs when I was a teenager!
There’s music on Clinton Street all the through the evening
RR
February 24th, 2009
Rose-coloured Reviews *Lord of the Flies* by William Golding
In 1954, when Lord of the Flies was published, the wrenching adventure story did not immediately grab readers, but 10 years on it was getting onto many school syllabi, and there it remains. The initial premise–a plane crash on a deserted island that leaves alive only boys aged twelve and younger–is certainly fascinating for kids around that age, and the protagonists’ attempt to fashion their own society, and that society’s disastrous disintegration, invites good solid lessons on allegory, dystopia, the failure of socialism, and a host of other good discussion topics.
But outside of LotF’s appeal to teachers and the taught, it cannot be denied that with his first novel, William Golding wrought something stunning. This is *not* primarily a piece of social comment or pedagogy, or at least not as I read it; it is a brilliant novel. The island that the boys inhabit is so deeply imagined that topography works seamlessly into the narration. The boys’ examination of their surround gives us an action-oriented way to examine it ourselves, smell the damp and taste the fruit and see the trees again and again from eye level, ground level, and on top of “Castle Rock” looking down. And as we examine the island through their eyes, we get to know the boys who inhabit it. Not everyone is described, not everyone is named, and the number of boys is ominously unknown (and, they claim to each other, unknowable) but the characters that are described become indeliably individual. This is done very simply, and largely through dialogue–we see the characters in what they say and do, though their physical presences are certainly felt.
Into this fully realized world, with these relatable characters, Golding gradually introduces terror. The circumstances on the island–isolated, alone without shelter or food other than tree-fruit, with the rest of the world possibly involved in nuclear war–are not ideal to start with. However, the kids are kids and they embrace the freedom and the adventure of it for a while. However, things start to go awry–“break down” in the words of their elected leader, Ralph. There are divisions and power struggles in the group, boredom and frustration sets in, and many boys seem to lose a bit of sanity after so much privation in such a strange place.
The best thing about this book is that, though it is commonly referred to as an “allegorical novel,” it’s not an allegory first. It’s a story first, and a riveting one. How the boys come apart and torment each other has a little to do with the fate of nations, but a lot to do with schoolyard cruelty, and thus I think any reader can get sucked right into the position of cocky Ralph, or cowardly Sam and Eric, or chubby wise Piggy (is there *any* book about kids that does not have the outcast-intellectual figure who would become Author?) And for a while, their bullying mainly takes a form we recognize…name calling, chants and shoves, storming off, threats.
But the stakes are much higher here, where schoolyard hierarchy is all there is. The slide beyond “you can’t play on our team” is incremental and it is Golding’s genius to build up all that empathy for these ill-behaved kids and then show them sliding into behaviour the reader (this reader) could likely never fathom.
By the time the book ends, lines have been crossed and violence done that cannot be forgotten or undone…by characters or by readers. And unnervingly, we feel as if both are about the same.
*
I loathed this book. I found it painful reading from start to finish–Ralph taunts Piggy on the second page (“Sucks to your ash-mar!”) and it devolves from there. Since I’m more than twice as old as one is supposed to be when first reading this book, I couldn’t even enjoy the initial wonder of the adventure of the island. Though I appreciated the world-building, the array of characters, the magnificient emotional and sensory creation of this book, I knew bad things were afoot (*Lord of the Flies* has a bit of a reputation, natch) and I read the whole thing with my shoulders up around my ears.
What’s more is that I am not the ideal reader for the dystopian allegory; this is the Rose-coloured blog after all. As I was saying above, I related primarily to the characters as themselves, and not as heavy-shouldered metaphors for the whole of the human race. I think at this point in history most have had to accept that the “beast is in us,” but I’m sure there’s a few schools of philosphy lurking around that don’t think it’s preordained that the beast will eventually dominate, all our (inter)actions. Which maybe isn’t even a correct reading of Golding’s intention, but it sure is the predominant one.
Even though I somehow escaped seeing the movie, reading a summary, or anyone telling me the ending lo these 30 years, I felt pretty confident I could guess how *Lord of the Flies* would end. I was wrong, and was genuinely shocked by the final pages, in a miserable sort of way. I still haven’t fully worked out the ramifcations and will be spending some sleepless nights trying to work it out. Which is the mark of a good book, but hardly good news for me.
I’m always saying I can tell the difference between a bad book and a book that I don’t personally like, so I wanted to write this review to see if I could prove it. Not sure if I did, but an interesting exercise.
There’s a floating town of eiderdown / in a mist of mystery
RR
February 23rd, 2009
Admirable Words (I’ve lost track of the numbers)
I was putting together a set of great short-story openings for my class on ideas, and this is one of my all-time favourites.
I grew up in small-town Ontario, moved away for university, moved to Toronto to start working, but after four years the work-station walls were closing in and I was spending part of the day in the washroom reading children’s book. Then I had a panic attack.
I was sitting in a stall with Peter Pan on my knees when a co-worker opened the washroom door and called my name. Apparently I was wanted. I arrived at my boss’s office to finder her seated at the conference table with our VPDP, our vice president of development and production: a twitchy, beige-suited man whom I’d spoken to only once, during a quiet elevator ride in which he’d turned and, as if clearing the air between us, said, “You’re anorexic, aren’t you?” Just slim, I assured him.
–from “The Cosmic Elfs” by Sharon English
The author, by the way, is reading at The Box Salon this Wednesday, as is the wonderous Claudia Dey, and many other fine folks. Coming?
I wanna be the one
RR
February 22nd, 2009
My Plot Variant Exercise
Three different plot variations inspired by this scenario–woman attempts to step into crosswalk, man jogs a few steps to catch up from behind her and grabs her arm to pull her back.
#1.
Her foot was almost off the sidewalk, when he cupped his palm around her elbow when and somehow managed to yank her back. His heart pounded, but not much, it had been so quick. He saw the dumptruck turn left into the condo construction lot before she turned on him.
“The hell? What do you want?”
“You were about to walk right in front of that truck. I just—”
“It turned. It was turning.”
“But I didn’t know, it was coming straight—”
“It signalled.”
He drew himself up a little, still under her hairlines. “It’s never safe to jaywalk, you know.”
#2.
Tentatively, he jabbed her arm as she was about to step off the kerb. Pushy, yes, but he just had to see if it was Sienna. Sienna, after all these years, the same silky hazelnut hair down her back…
She turned, a faceful of freckles under wide Britney sunglasses, a tiny mischief mouth. Not Sienna.
“Oh, sorry, I thought I knew you from—”
“Do we?” Underneath the big lavender lenses, her eyebrows scrunched.
“No, I’m sorry, I—”
The brows unscrunched, popped back over the tops of the glasses. “Yes, from the gym, of course.”
He startled, took a step back. Did she go to his gym? He didn’t look at people very closely there, mainly–certainly no eye-contact. “Is it that?”
“Of course!” She flapped her hands, yanking shopping bags up and down. “The free-weights hog, from—”
“Well, I don’t really hog them. I just use a range….” He grinned.
“Yeah, you do.” She grinned back. “Everyone at Bally’s knows about you.”
A taxi whizzed by, windows crowded with heads.
“Bally’s?”
She nodded, still smiling.
“I guess you’ve…ah, got the wrong guy. I go to Trainers.”
Her smile fumbled, eyebrows reclenched. “Trainers?”
“On, ah. Bathurst. Good gym.”
She stared.
“Just a case of…mistaken identity. I guess.” And, not knowing what else to do, he brushed past her into the crosswalk.
#3.
He couldn’t believe it when the white “Walk” man appeared and she actually turned to go.
“Wait,” he said but her shoulders continued to twist as if she would not wait, and his hand shot out to snatch her elbow.
She spun, silk hair flowing away from her shell ears, so lovely. Her eyes were wide on his face. Her mouth of opened pink, but she didn’t say anything.
“I just—so, we’re broken up, then?”
“Broken…? Were we– It was just a coffee, David, a couple of times. We were never–“
“It was, Aisha…something. To me. I felt, with you, I felt— God, you’re amazing, you know that? You don’t even know that, do you?”
“David, I don’t want–“
“I think I could impress you, Aisha. When I think of how I feel about you, I think I could be impressive. I could do anything.”
“David, I’m sorry–“
“Aisha, would you listen? You don’t listen.”
“David!”
He looked down and saw his hand still on her arm, his fingertips digging white bloodless dents into her honey skin.
When your home is your headstone
RR
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