Saturday, January 20, 2018

January 20, 2009, a great day

I didn't march today. Last year's march was inspiring and ennobling, and I'm sure today's was too. But I was busy this year.

Just happened to open one of my first books - "Yours Truly, a book of the blog," compiled from the first years of my blog (especially my 5 months in France in 2009,) shaped into a narrative, designed by my friend Chris, and self-published in 2010. My mother called it "the best book I've ever read," but then she did not read much. Reading again, though, I did find lots compelling. From exactly nine years ago:
Tuesday January 20, 2009
Hail to the chief, President Barack Hussein Obama

Dear planet, at last! I can't believe that from now on when we talk about the U.S. and say "the President," we are referring to the superb, the sublime Barack Obama ... It's hard to believe today really happened not only because Barack is black, but because he's intelligent and open, literate and generous, good-hearted, youthful, fine. How is it possible that we have gone from eight years of depraved darkness to this brand new hope and air and light, practically overnight? From the worst of human nature to the best? 

Well, it turns out we didn't know from depraved darkness or the worst of human nature. Who could ever have guessed what, or who, was to come? That we'd look back on the glorious days of George W. Bush?


Oh well. I also found, online, a photo from 1978 - a production called The Shadow Box, about cancer and family, with marvellous actors like Janet Wright, Goldie Semple, Allan Gray with particularly effective pale "I've got cancer" makeup - and a very young Michael J. Fox. Oh, and moi, in a role I had no idea how to play. Here's a shot of our dinnertime between shows on Saturdays.
That's me in a particularly unflattering shot, shrieking at the back, and Mikey at the front. RIP beautiful Goldie and powerful Janet. But Mikey, despite Parkinson's, is going strong. And yours truly, hanging in there.

And celebrating her students, as ever. Kathryn Belicki wrote a lovely piece for the home class, which we encouraged her to send out; it was just published in the United Church Observer. 
When I wrote to congratulate her, she replied:
You have created such a great space for our writing community to grow and flourish—and have a great time while doing it. The word “thanks” just doesn’t cover it.
It does feel good when something goes so right. Like January 20, 2009.

Friday, January 19, 2018

new driver in the family

Great excitement today: Anna passed her driver's test on Wednesday, and today we rented a car together - she can't rent one till she gets a credit card, which is coming - and she drove us across town. She is of course a terrific driver, steady and confident, hilariously quoting her stern driving instructor with his Serbian accent as we glided through the city. We went - where else do you go when you first get a car? - not far from her house to Ikea with the kids, for lunch and a play in the playroom for Eli, candles for me, and blackout blinds and much else for Anna. And then, back across town, not on the streetcar or in a cab, but in a car driven by my competent daughter, who also has just recently been to an optometrist and bought the glasses she has needed for years. So - glasses, a driver's licence and soon a credit card - a grown up, without a doubt.
Last night, my home class annual potluck - what a treat, eight dear friends, like family, who arrive bearing delicious food and great stories. We eat, and then they read. We're off again.

And ... the fabulous architect Jennifer Turner who designed my gorgeous kitchen after the fire has agreed to come next week to take a look at my ideas for the renovation. I went onto her website; last year she brought a photographer over to take shots of her work in this kitchen. They spent ages taking out all the stuff that I have on every shelf, so that the fine bones of Jennifer's work would show. Though it looks glorious, it certainly doesn't look as if I, the stuff collector, live here.

But I do.

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

The Post

On the weekend I went to visit dear friends, a couple who have been swept away by a tide of misfortune - and are fine. He was diagnosed with cancer and had to undergo radiation and chemo, and as he was beginning to recover, they discovered that their house had been contaminated by a flood of heating oil from a renovation being done poorly and cheaply next door. And then she broke her pelvis. They lived in a nursing home for awhile while they both got well and now are in a condo downtown; it will be many months, while the contaminated soil under their house is removed, before they can move back home. Not that long ago, all was hunkydory, and then all that slammed them. But they are remarkably resilient and cheerful, and the condo is lovely.

"But it's not home," he said.

Speaking of home, my reno is on. I've had the go-ahead from the bank and met with John and his architectural consultant friend, and we came up with a plan that looks great. It'll be excruciating and expensive and totally disruptive, I'll have to get rid of a ton of stuff and will end up with a bit more than half the house I have now - and that's as it should be. Now looking for a contractor. Please let me know if you have a lead.

Last night, the first class of the Ryerson term - it's always exciting to meet new people, and this time, to find 3 students from past terms back for more, including one from 5 years ago, a sports writer for the Star. And tomorrow night, my home class. The adventure begins.

Tonight, "The Post", how a brave newspaper printed leaked documents despite an injunction, and saved us from the deceitful American government. Wait - what year was that?! Meryl Streep and Tom Hanks, superb, but best of all, the smoky newsrooms with their clacking typewriters, lovingly recreated, and closeups of printing presses, oily metal machinery turning, typesetters at work with blocks of type - heaven. A free press could not matter more. A great film at just the right time. Thank you, Steven Spielberg.

Thursday, January 11, 2018

warmest Jan. 11 on record - we'll take it

Toronto weather just broke another record. Jan. 4 was the coldest on record, and today, Jan. 11, was the warmest - over 12 degrees! The temperature jumped 35 degrees in six days - and will be dropping 20 degrees back down on the weekend. Utterly confusing. Today felt like spring, except for the mounds of filthy melting snow.


My U of T class Life Stories II has been cancelled; sorry to anyone who wanted to register, please do so earlier next time. And please write to me if you want advice on what to do instead. As for me - I'm sorry to do without the money, but now I have Tuesday afternoons all to myself. Woo hoo! FYI the Ryerson class True to Life is nearly full.

Tuesday, I went across town to babysit Ben while his mama had her driving lesson. Anyone who's depressed for any reason should spend time with a two-year old. Everything is interesting. Thomas had brought some long cardboard tubes, and guess what, when you put a little car in one end, it runs right through and COMES OUT THE OTHER SIDE! The most exciting thing ever!!! Ben's favourite words: NOLIKEIT. For example, frowning at me when I put on my glasses: NOLIKEITGLASSES. I took them off. No messing around with this kid.

And then we picked up Eli from school and went to his first ball hockey class. Eight five-year old boys with sticks - terrifying. Fun. And - ahem - Eli scored the only goal.


The class was at Parkdale Collegiate, and while we walked through the halls - well, we old folks walked, the boys ran at top speed - I saw this:
Is that not fabulous? What would I have thought if that had been on a washroom door in my last high school, Lisgar Collegiate in Ottawa, in 1966? I'd have had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. Nobody would.

Anna's driving test is next week. Now that's exciting.

Wednesday, a meeting with my bank manager, whom I've known for 15 years and who is like a dear friend - and I'm pretty sure most people, especially freelance writers, don't feel that way about their bank managers. His first baby is due in a few weeks - a girl - and I'm getting a present ready. He told me I can have a big loan to do my renovation with no problem and at a pretty low interest rate. So - we're on. (And incidentally, I've just written and sent a letter to his boss about how helpful and hardworking he is. We writers must use our superpowers for good.)

Today, a long meeting for the Creative Non-fiction conference - what a compatible group we non-fiction-writers-and-conference-organizers are, a pleasure to work with.

I got embroiled in a FB argument about #MeToo. There's a level of feminist vitriol in the air that scares me. An American actress responded to Catherine Deneuve and the other French women's open letter, which says #MeToo is going too far and becoming a witch hunt, by saying their misogynistic self-hatred has taken over their minds. Oh come on.

Now there's a huge hooha about sexual assault in theatres and creative writing departments. As a longtime veteran of both, I have to say - is there something wrong with me that I was never assaulted in either? Yes, I made terrible mistakes sexually during my youth, but with my eyes open. No one ever importuned me in a way I could not handle. Was I just lucky? Was I so plain that lecherous men were just not interested? This doesn't mean I'm not sympathetic to women who have been assaulted, not at all. But as I wrote to a furious correspondent on FB, I guess we have different definitions of 'assault.'

In the good news department, there's this, and that's all I need to buoy me on this springlike day. Don't read it too closely. Just keep the headline close to your heart.
To Improve a Memory, Consider Chocolate
A small study shows that an antioxidant in chocolate appears to improve some memory skills that people lose as they age. 

Monday, January 8, 2018

The Florida Project

Dear students and writers, if you are considering taking my advanced course at U of T, I ask you to sign up immediately, because a few more are needed for the course to run. The Ryerson course is filling fast and may soon be full, but the U of T class is only for writers who have taken my course before or who've received permission from me, and sometimes is small.

So if you're interested, don't wait.

I just returned from seeing a horror movie: The Florida Project. It's about poor families who live in welfare, slum motels in Florida, and though it's a brilliant film, I found it profoundly upsetting and depressing. The U.S. as a third world country - we know it's so, and here it is, on view - lives so devoid of meaning, unsupervised children running amok, and yet people struggling to make a community and find kindness and decency. Thank God for Willem Dafoe, with his expressive craggy face, as a manager who cares for the hopelessly lost people who live there.

What's exceptional are the children - utterly natural and unforced and real. How the director achieved what he did with these kids, I have no idea; it's breathtaking. But the film made me sad; not a good film to see in January. I came home to my house - my roof, my walls, the unimaginable luxury of my stable, comfortable, functional life.

And this after watching much of the Golden Globes last night, which was the most politically aware awards show I've ever seen, women rising up, wearing black, Oprah fierce and fiery. An important moment, as women struggle to change the world, or at least, their bit of it. But feminist struggles aside, that motel in Florida is as far from the glitter and champagne of Los Angeles as anywhere on earth.

The night before's excitement: watching "2001, a space odyssey" for the first time since it came out in 1968. A very odd movie - yes, a masterpiece, but also odd and very, very slow, long lyrical passages to Zarathustra or Strauss as spaceships float and dock, and then an utterly surreal ending I had to Google to understand. Interesting that Kubrick foresaw many things clearly about the future, but still had women as pretty stewardesses in pink suits and absurd little hats.

And yesterday, I was on the streetcar passing Allen Gardens on Carlton Street when I blinked and swivelled to look closer. It was a hawk, a big hawk on the ground, tearing at something in its talons, probably a pigeon. How often do you see that in the middle of the city? A magnificent raptor having lunch. Red in tooth and claw.