Sunday, December 18, 2005
Mid-December on the TTC
On the subway tonight, two men. Two identical gaps in the upper rows of teeth, displayed in equal grimaces. The conversation is about snow and the likelihood, or lack thereof, that they would be inclined to travel to the island under such conditions. It is not actually all that cold out and the snow has been cleared from the streets and sidewalks – it is more the thought of it upon which the discussion gains ground. There are questions about the nature of the event. How good would it be anyway? There was an invitation, but it was vague and impersonal. And besides, it’s cold. The older of the men makes a face, says “not a chance” and looks away. The conversation, with its matching gaps, is over.
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Have a little faith
For some reason I have had several discussions and/or thoughts about spiritual things in the last few days. It started with Spalding Grey. I was reading his book, Morning Noon and Night (best described, I think, as a lyrical little glimpse into the life of a self-obsessed family man who later, although not over the course of the book, kills himself off the side of a bridge), and he was talking about death.
"Then just the other day I had a hopeful fantasy. What if, when we are dying, instead of our breath stopping, it instead shifts from us into the breath of the Universe. Yes, I suddenly had a peaceful sense that the whole universe was actually breathing and that at our last breath we can, if we choose, breath into it and become one with the great swelling and retracting breath of the universe. I felt almost hopeful...Then in no time I thought, who really wants to become part of an eternal egoless universal energy field? It feels too much like spiritual communism. I couldn't lay that on my son..."
Irony aside, I am actually quite taken with this idea. Being a hindu when it suits me, I very much subscribe to the idea of reincarnation. It's been a long time since I took my degree in Religious Studies, so I won't pretend to know what other people mean by that multi-syllabic concept, but to me it means something to do with the way energy moves around. It just makes sense that when the flesh stops being something viable, the energy that made it move, moves on. Out through the mouth and into the wind.
And anyway, it makes for a good excuse to go out with some heavy breathing...
"Then just the other day I had a hopeful fantasy. What if, when we are dying, instead of our breath stopping, it instead shifts from us into the breath of the Universe. Yes, I suddenly had a peaceful sense that the whole universe was actually breathing and that at our last breath we can, if we choose, breath into it and become one with the great swelling and retracting breath of the universe. I felt almost hopeful...Then in no time I thought, who really wants to become part of an eternal egoless universal energy field? It feels too much like spiritual communism. I couldn't lay that on my son..."
Irony aside, I am actually quite taken with this idea. Being a hindu when it suits me, I very much subscribe to the idea of reincarnation. It's been a long time since I took my degree in Religious Studies, so I won't pretend to know what other people mean by that multi-syllabic concept, but to me it means something to do with the way energy moves around. It just makes sense that when the flesh stops being something viable, the energy that made it move, moves on. Out through the mouth and into the wind.
And anyway, it makes for a good excuse to go out with some heavy breathing...
Friday, November 18, 2005
Even a bad party
I was working last night on something for the Geist Postcard contest and in going through old writing found a short little piece I thought I might use. It's a bit too short, however, so instead I'm going to cheat a little for today's post, and try this out on whoever's out there...let me know what you think...
EVEN A BAD PARTY.
I’m his first fare of the day. 4:36am. He leans over the seat with his arm. “Sorry I didn’t slow down earlier”, he says, the residue of German in his voice, “I thought you were one of those girls. Then I noticed you got a bag. They don’t usually have a bag.” He gives me a big smile. Turns back to the changing light. “Where do you want to go?” I give him the address and close my eyes for a moment. The sky is losing its pitch and with the window down I can hear the birds are starting in.
“This is the best time of the day. It’s usually bumper and bumper. This is the only one hour when the city is really asleep.”
“Yup” I say, fighting the lull of the soft car motor. “It’s pretty bad, usually…the traffic”.
He nods, grimacing into the rear view mirror. “Yah. Between you and me” he says, “we know everything.” I look out the window and think about this.
“Good party?” He asks.
“Yeah, it was a good party.”
“Well, yah.” He says, turning onto my street. “Even a bad party is better than a funeral.”
EVEN A BAD PARTY.
I’m his first fare of the day. 4:36am. He leans over the seat with his arm. “Sorry I didn’t slow down earlier”, he says, the residue of German in his voice, “I thought you were one of those girls. Then I noticed you got a bag. They don’t usually have a bag.” He gives me a big smile. Turns back to the changing light. “Where do you want to go?” I give him the address and close my eyes for a moment. The sky is losing its pitch and with the window down I can hear the birds are starting in.
“This is the best time of the day. It’s usually bumper and bumper. This is the only one hour when the city is really asleep.”
“Yup” I say, fighting the lull of the soft car motor. “It’s pretty bad, usually…the traffic”.
He nods, grimacing into the rear view mirror. “Yah. Between you and me” he says, “we know everything.” I look out the window and think about this.
“Good party?” He asks.
“Yeah, it was a good party.”
“Well, yah.” He says, turning onto my street. “Even a bad party is better than a funeral.”
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
That’s semantics for you
I had a conversation with a friend the other day about liking big words, and it made me think. One of my greatest frustrations in debate is when someone says, “well, that’s just semantics”. It may be semantics, but when you think about it, semantics is pretty much all we’ve got. If you say that’s a chair and I say it’s a table, one of us is going to have a very messy meal. What we mean may be more important than how we say it, but it doesn’t matter ‘a hill of beans’ (as my grandma would say) unless we are understood to mean what we think we just said.
When I was in university we read a theorist named Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak. She was known for being completely incomprehensibly brilliant. An example:
“What if the two projects of epistemic overhaul worked as dislocated and unacknowledged parts of a vast two-handed engine? Perhaps it is no more than to ask that the subject of the palimpsestic narrative of imperialism be recognized as ‘subjugated knowledge’…”
I wrote a paper in which I argued that it was important for her to write in such an obscure way precisely because the concepts she was writing about had been obscured by the words we had so far tried to use to describe them. Although I think I still agree with myself, when I read the paper now I can’t understand a word of it.
The best thing about pieces of language, the perfect word, is the ability to say something no other word says in exactly the same way.
Take onomatopoeia, for instance. How fabulous that we have a word to describe words that sound like themselves. Or incremental . A word that makes you work at it. Or exquisite. A completely self-indulgent word that sounds like it’s leaking something vaguely obscene from the edges, but still, a good word in the right context.
And, of course, a word doesn’t have to be big to be strong. Take broken, curiosity, rotation, witness, depth, terror, reason, remember, some, bruise, quiet, slippery, burn, wind, tarnish. I could rattle off favourites forever. Some of them have a kind of internal rhythm. Some of them feel really good in your mouth. Some of them feel good to get out. Some of them are sharp, others are squishy. God, I love words. This is probably part of why I find it so hard to learn another language. I’m so smitten with the one I’ve got, it’s hard to make room for another. Well, okay, that probably doesn’t have anything to do with it, but at least, as excuses go, it has some poetry.
So, wait, what was I saying? Basically, that it’s good to be understood but we mustn’t forget that understanding sometimes takes some work. It’s not just about keeping it simple – but paying attention and saying what we mean, even if it does involve a multitude of syllables.
And you, what are your favourite words?
When I was in university we read a theorist named Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak. She was known for being completely incomprehensibly brilliant. An example:
“What if the two projects of epistemic overhaul worked as dislocated and unacknowledged parts of a vast two-handed engine? Perhaps it is no more than to ask that the subject of the palimpsestic narrative of imperialism be recognized as ‘subjugated knowledge’…”
I wrote a paper in which I argued that it was important for her to write in such an obscure way precisely because the concepts she was writing about had been obscured by the words we had so far tried to use to describe them. Although I think I still agree with myself, when I read the paper now I can’t understand a word of it.
The best thing about pieces of language, the perfect word, is the ability to say something no other word says in exactly the same way.
Take onomatopoeia, for instance. How fabulous that we have a word to describe words that sound like themselves. Or incremental . A word that makes you work at it. Or exquisite. A completely self-indulgent word that sounds like it’s leaking something vaguely obscene from the edges, but still, a good word in the right context.
And, of course, a word doesn’t have to be big to be strong. Take broken, curiosity, rotation, witness, depth, terror, reason, remember, some, bruise, quiet, slippery, burn, wind, tarnish. I could rattle off favourites forever. Some of them have a kind of internal rhythm. Some of them feel really good in your mouth. Some of them feel good to get out. Some of them are sharp, others are squishy. God, I love words. This is probably part of why I find it so hard to learn another language. I’m so smitten with the one I’ve got, it’s hard to make room for another. Well, okay, that probably doesn’t have anything to do with it, but at least, as excuses go, it has some poetry.
So, wait, what was I saying? Basically, that it’s good to be understood but we mustn’t forget that understanding sometimes takes some work. It’s not just about keeping it simple – but paying attention and saying what we mean, even if it does involve a multitude of syllables.
And you, what are your favourite words?
Monday, November 14, 2005
Today's message is about safety
Today’s message is about safety .
I received an email today from my aunt. The subject was “safety precautions for women” and I decided to scan it quickly before deleting. I would strongly advise both men and women to take a minute to learn the facts.
The first couple points are fairly common sense. Watch where you’re going, look both ways when you’re crossing the street…that sort of thing…
Number three reads: “If you are ever thrown into the trunk of a car, kick out the back tail lights and stick your arm out the hole and start waving like crazy. The driver won't see you, but everybody else will. This has saved lives.”
Even assuming that this email originated in the United States, I am boggled that enough women are getting thrown into the back of a car that this would useful information for the masses. Not that it doesn’t appeal to my worst-case-scenario tendencies…I always wondered what I would do if I were locked in the back of a mobster’s beemer…
Number four: “Women have a tendency to get into their cars after shopping, eating, working, etc., and just sit (doing their checkbook, or making a list, etc.) DON'T DO THIS! The predator will be watching you, and this is the perfect opportunity for him to get in on the passenger side, put a gun to your head, and tell you where to go. AS SOON AS YOU GET INTO YOUR CAR, LOCK THE DOORS AND LEAVE.”
The predator will be watching you. If you have been paying attention, you are now convinced. There is a predator and he is watching you. I guess no one told the 80% of sexual assault victims who were attacked in their home by people they know [Sexual Assault Care Centre: Violence, Myths and Facts of Sexual Assault (1999)] that the “bad man” wasn’t the black stranger flossing his teeth in the Wal-Mart parking lot.
“If you are parked next to a big van, enter your car from the passenger door. Most serial killers attack their victims by pulling them into their vans while the women are attempting to get into their cars.”
There have been 8 convicted serial killers in Canada. In the USA, where the vast majority of serial killers appear to operate, about 65 have been convicted since records were kept, with three or four cases left unsolved. Even if every serial killer in the world drove a van, thinking you’re likely to park next to one should probably be identified as egomania rather than caution.
Number six tells us: “ALWAYS take the elevator instead of the stairs. (Stairwells are horrible places to be alone and the perfect crime spot).” And then, number seven: “If the predator has a gun and you are not under his control, ALWAYS RUN! The predator will only hit you (a running target) 4 in 100 times; and even then, it most likely WILL NOT be a vital organ. RUN!”
So here’s my question. I drive to the mall to avoid dark alleys. I park in the driveway so there’s less distance between me and the front door (ignoring for a moment what goes on behind the closed front doors of North America). I never take the stairs because stairwells are where crime happens. I am probably wearing heels because they make me look sexy while I’m waiting for the elevator. My legs (never mind my brain) have atrophied for lack of use and now I’m supposed to RUN?
And finally, “As women, we are always trying to be sympathetic: STOP. It may get you raped, or killed.”
If there’s a dotted line I signed on to join up for this kind of world, you can take my name off now.
“Fear of violence also limits many women's lives. Forty-two percent of women compared with 10% of men feel "totally unsafe" walking in their own neighbourhood after dark, which in Canadian winters can begin at 3:30 pm, even earlier in the north. [Statistics Canada, Women in Canada: A Statistical Report (1995).] This, despite the fact that, “Canadian, British and U.S. studies indicate that women are at far greater risk of being assaulted by men they know.” [Public Health Agency of Canada website] and “More than half of all reported physical assaults on adult women are by family members, half by their spouses.”[Statistics Canada, Family Violence in Canada]
The email concludes with this final piece of wisdom. “IT IS ALWAYS BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY. (And better paranoid than dead.)”
Today’s message has been brought to you by fear.
I received an email today from my aunt. The subject was “safety precautions for women” and I decided to scan it quickly before deleting. I would strongly advise both men and women to take a minute to learn the facts.
The first couple points are fairly common sense. Watch where you’re going, look both ways when you’re crossing the street…that sort of thing…
Number three reads: “If you are ever thrown into the trunk of a car, kick out the back tail lights and stick your arm out the hole and start waving like crazy. The driver won't see you, but everybody else will. This has saved lives.”
Even assuming that this email originated in the United States, I am boggled that enough women are getting thrown into the back of a car that this would useful information for the masses. Not that it doesn’t appeal to my worst-case-scenario tendencies…I always wondered what I would do if I were locked in the back of a mobster’s beemer…
Number four: “Women have a tendency to get into their cars after shopping, eating, working, etc., and just sit (doing their checkbook, or making a list, etc.) DON'T DO THIS! The predator will be watching you, and this is the perfect opportunity for him to get in on the passenger side, put a gun to your head, and tell you where to go. AS SOON AS YOU GET INTO YOUR CAR, LOCK THE DOORS AND LEAVE.”
The predator will be watching you. If you have been paying attention, you are now convinced. There is a predator and he is watching you. I guess no one told the 80% of sexual assault victims who were attacked in their home by people they know [Sexual Assault Care Centre: Violence, Myths and Facts of Sexual Assault (1999)] that the “bad man” wasn’t the black stranger flossing his teeth in the Wal-Mart parking lot.
“If you are parked next to a big van, enter your car from the passenger door. Most serial killers attack their victims by pulling them into their vans while the women are attempting to get into their cars.”
There have been 8 convicted serial killers in Canada. In the USA, where the vast majority of serial killers appear to operate, about 65 have been convicted since records were kept, with three or four cases left unsolved. Even if every serial killer in the world drove a van, thinking you’re likely to park next to one should probably be identified as egomania rather than caution.
Number six tells us: “ALWAYS take the elevator instead of the stairs. (Stairwells are horrible places to be alone and the perfect crime spot).” And then, number seven: “If the predator has a gun and you are not under his control, ALWAYS RUN! The predator will only hit you (a running target) 4 in 100 times; and even then, it most likely WILL NOT be a vital organ. RUN!”
So here’s my question. I drive to the mall to avoid dark alleys. I park in the driveway so there’s less distance between me and the front door (ignoring for a moment what goes on behind the closed front doors of North America). I never take the stairs because stairwells are where crime happens. I am probably wearing heels because they make me look sexy while I’m waiting for the elevator. My legs (never mind my brain) have atrophied for lack of use and now I’m supposed to RUN?
And finally, “As women, we are always trying to be sympathetic: STOP. It may get you raped, or killed.”
If there’s a dotted line I signed on to join up for this kind of world, you can take my name off now.
“Fear of violence also limits many women's lives. Forty-two percent of women compared with 10% of men feel "totally unsafe" walking in their own neighbourhood after dark, which in Canadian winters can begin at 3:30 pm, even earlier in the north. [Statistics Canada, Women in Canada: A Statistical Report (1995).] This, despite the fact that, “Canadian, British and U.S. studies indicate that women are at far greater risk of being assaulted by men they know.” [Public Health Agency of Canada website] and “More than half of all reported physical assaults on adult women are by family members, half by their spouses.”[Statistics Canada, Family Violence in Canada]
The email concludes with this final piece of wisdom. “IT IS ALWAYS BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY. (And better paranoid than dead.)”
Today’s message has been brought to you by fear.
Friday, November 11, 2005
oh my aching teeth!
This morning, a biologist on the radio is talking about “monkey love”. Apparently, animals generally fall into two categories: the monogamous, mate-for-life category and the polygamous, multiple partner category. These categories, apparently, are represented not only by observable behaviour, but down to the level of genetics…the length of their canine teeth, for example. Now this, I guess, is interesting enough. But here’s the kicker. Humans (because really it’s all about us) display a certifiable confusion about which of the two categories we belong in. Are we really looking for that perfect life partner with whom to build a house and multiply? Or are we happier being with someone (or someones) in a particular moment and then moving on to the next when our needs are met? I guess this explains why so many of our stories are either infested with shining armor or overrun with “promiscuity”. Although it doesn’t explain why it is we limit our guilt to the latter. What about feeling remorse for focusing so much on one person at the expense of other possible romances? What about support groups for monogamists? Why do we not have a derogatory term for “married”? (Although, of course, some might argue that’s it)
Anyway, I thought it was an interesting observation that we are the only species, scientifically speaking, that has not evolved towards any particular mating certainty. This is, in a way, kind of reassuring – it’s no wonder we can’t figure things out when even our molars are confused…
Anyway, I thought it was an interesting observation that we are the only species, scientifically speaking, that has not evolved towards any particular mating certainty. This is, in a way, kind of reassuring – it’s no wonder we can’t figure things out when even our molars are confused…
Thursday, November 10, 2005
A word on character
I looked up at about 4pm today and noticed a streak of blue sky disappearing into the impending sunset. A wave of panic seized me as I realized I was about to entirely miss the one moment of sunshine this week. Torn between the need to be productive and the need to be in ocular range of the sun, I decided to sit for awhile in my local coffee shop – yes, it’s still indoors, but the windows are bigger and have a general view of the western sky. I have now been sitting here for about an hour and a half. My decaf coffee is long gone and I keep expecting someone to glare at me, but as I check over my shoulder to see if any of the aproned staff give a shit, I notice another woman who was here when I got here – her laptop plugged in and typing away without a coffee cup in sight. So long as I’m not the only one.
So as for my writing, I have been thinking a lot about characters. Not really how to find them…they’re everywhere…but how to hold on to them and follow them through a piece of their lives. I heard many writers speak on the subject at the writer’s fest this year, and it seemed that most of them were viciously against the idea that a character has a life of its own. I suspect the ones who thought otherwise were cowed into silence by the sheer volume of these opinions, but still, this seemed the majority view. Which, I have to say, does not make it easier to think about these things. I like the idea that a character comes along, states their name and age, and then proceeds to tell me a story. Now that it appears I am the one who has to tell the story, I am altogether cowed.
Oh, I have to interrupt myself to eavesdrop on the conversation in front of me. A guy in his early 30s has been sitting on the couch in front of me for about 10 minutes, clutching a take-out cup of coffee, trying to look relaxed…or at least I think it’s likely, in retrospect, that that is what he was doing, but I wasn’t really paying attention at the time. Then this girl of about the same age walked up from the far door and held out her hand to introduce herself. Any bets that this is not the first date of an on-line dalliance? He is wearing dark framed glasses and a retro brown and cream jacket. The best part, though, is his goatee and handlebar moustache. She’s your classic Main Street chick – mod hairdo, rolled jeans, white boots. Cute. After perching for a few minutes on the edge of the couch beside the guy, she has now removed her scarf and jacket and leaned back a bit. He has his arm slung over the back of the couch when he’s not gesturing rather wildly. I hope he doesn’t smack her in the head by accident. But they seem to be chatting in a fairly consistent way and haven’t looked around vaguely yet, so there’s hope.
So back to characters. I have been practicing by writing out descriptions of people that I see on the bus. I have noticed that novelists often say things like, “By the way he walked, she could tell he was the type of man who hesitated before making even the smallest decision”. So I have been trying to notice these kinds of things. The trouble, I find, is that in real life, people are always surprising me. So as soon as I have made a vast generalization about them, they go and do something that surprises me completely. Take the hesitant decision maker. All of sudden he will mutter to himself, “oh, I feel like a cup of coffee” and jump off at the next stop to fulfill his impulsive desire, and only then will I will realize that the hesitation in his step had nothing to do with indecision, it was only that he had stepped on a piece of gum and was trying to scrape it off.
Ah, the new couple have left on their date. They walked north on the Drive and it is about 6pm, so I’m going to hazard a guess that they are going for dinner. I do hope it goes well, they would make an amusing couple. Actually, maybe it was just that moustache that was amusing…
So as for my writing, I have been thinking a lot about characters. Not really how to find them…they’re everywhere…but how to hold on to them and follow them through a piece of their lives. I heard many writers speak on the subject at the writer’s fest this year, and it seemed that most of them were viciously against the idea that a character has a life of its own. I suspect the ones who thought otherwise were cowed into silence by the sheer volume of these opinions, but still, this seemed the majority view. Which, I have to say, does not make it easier to think about these things. I like the idea that a character comes along, states their name and age, and then proceeds to tell me a story. Now that it appears I am the one who has to tell the story, I am altogether cowed.
Oh, I have to interrupt myself to eavesdrop on the conversation in front of me. A guy in his early 30s has been sitting on the couch in front of me for about 10 minutes, clutching a take-out cup of coffee, trying to look relaxed…or at least I think it’s likely, in retrospect, that that is what he was doing, but I wasn’t really paying attention at the time. Then this girl of about the same age walked up from the far door and held out her hand to introduce herself. Any bets that this is not the first date of an on-line dalliance? He is wearing dark framed glasses and a retro brown and cream jacket. The best part, though, is his goatee and handlebar moustache. She’s your classic Main Street chick – mod hairdo, rolled jeans, white boots. Cute. After perching for a few minutes on the edge of the couch beside the guy, she has now removed her scarf and jacket and leaned back a bit. He has his arm slung over the back of the couch when he’s not gesturing rather wildly. I hope he doesn’t smack her in the head by accident. But they seem to be chatting in a fairly consistent way and haven’t looked around vaguely yet, so there’s hope.
So back to characters. I have been practicing by writing out descriptions of people that I see on the bus. I have noticed that novelists often say things like, “By the way he walked, she could tell he was the type of man who hesitated before making even the smallest decision”. So I have been trying to notice these kinds of things. The trouble, I find, is that in real life, people are always surprising me. So as soon as I have made a vast generalization about them, they go and do something that surprises me completely. Take the hesitant decision maker. All of sudden he will mutter to himself, “oh, I feel like a cup of coffee” and jump off at the next stop to fulfill his impulsive desire, and only then will I will realize that the hesitation in his step had nothing to do with indecision, it was only that he had stepped on a piece of gum and was trying to scrape it off.
Ah, the new couple have left on their date. They walked north on the Drive and it is about 6pm, so I’m going to hazard a guess that they are going for dinner. I do hope it goes well, they would make an amusing couple. Actually, maybe it was just that moustache that was amusing…
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Back home but still finding out
But why a blog, you ask? Why now? Well, I just read my last post to the South Africa blog and realized that I have not upheld my promise to myself to write every day. So I'm hoping this public announcement of my good intentions will hold me to the task a little better...
And why "Kicking Clay"? In the 1920's, across Canada, young men were hired to dig the necessary tunnels for new electrical and telephone wires. They dug these tunnels with their feet - using special shoes with little shovels on the ends. When the war started, their technique took on new possibilities and they were sent off to "the front" to dig tunnels for things like recorders and bombs.
I suppose I'm imagining writers to be a bit like these "clay kickers", burrowing beneath daily life, laying electricity and detonations at will...
We can always hope.
And why "Kicking Clay"? In the 1920's, across Canada, young men were hired to dig the necessary tunnels for new electrical and telephone wires. They dug these tunnels with their feet - using special shoes with little shovels on the ends. When the war started, their technique took on new possibilities and they were sent off to "the front" to dig tunnels for things like recorders and bombs.
I suppose I'm imagining writers to be a bit like these "clay kickers", burrowing beneath daily life, laying electricity and detonations at will...
We can always hope.
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