a writer is a writer is a writer…

August 22, 2010August 22, 2010 ~ carin ~ Leave a comment

“For some time now many people, and publishers, have been asking Gertrude Stein to write her autobiography and she had always replied, not possible..

“She began to tease me and say that I should write my autobiography. Just think, she would say, what a lot of money you would make. She then began to invent titles for my autobiography. My Life With The Great, Wives of Geniuses I Have Sat With, My Twenty-five Years With Gertrude Stein.

“Then she began to get serious and say, but really seriously you ought to write your autobiography. Finally I promised that if during the summer I could find time I would write my autobiography.

“When Ford Madox Ford was editing the Transatlantic Review he once said to Gertrude Stein, I am a pretty good writer and a pretty good editor and a pretty good business man, but I find it very difficult to be all three at once.

“I am a pretty good housekeeper and a pretty good gardener and a pretty good needlewoman and a pretty good secretary and a pretty good editor and a pretty good vet for dogs and I have to do them all at once and I found it difficult to add being a pretty good author.

“About six weeks ago Gertrude Stein said, it does not look to me as if you were ever going to write that autobiography. You know what I am going to do. I am going to write it for you. I am going to write it as simply as Defoe did the autobiography of Robinson Crusoe. And she has and this is it.”

—From The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, by Gertrude Stein.

a short, sweet time in stratford

August 20, 2010October 27, 2017 ~ carin ~ 4 Comments

Sometimes it only takes one perfect day to re-jig and re-wire yourself, to see things in perspective again. Thing is you can never plan such a day—it just appears out of ordinary moments that turn magical for unknown reasons. Like yesterday when we played hookey and drove to Stratford with tickets for Michel Tremblay’s For the Pleasure of Seeing Her Again—the first ‘moment’ occurring when a detour in town led us to Romeo Street where we decided to stretch our legs awhile at Gallery Stratford. Co-incidentally, the main exhibit, ‘Natural History’ was about the evolution of zoos, a subject recently on my mind. One element of the installation was a two minute video of a deer and a wolf together in an empty and windowless room. Extraordinary to watch their behaviour, their eyes and breathing—so anxious are they in this unnatural space that they forget they’re prey and predator and become strangely equal in their discomfort. In another area are framed photos of animals in various North American zoos, their cages essentially ’empty rooms’ but for the jungle murals, or fake rocks, which may make the audience perceive the space as much more tolerable but (we can assume) does squat for the animals.

After that we went downtown and browsed Inuit art, stopped by Rocky Mountain Chocolate to inhale, visited the tea place (which could surely convert the staunchest coffee drinker) for supplies to re-fill our larder with lapacho bark, peach flavoured oolong, powdered rooibos and the various assams that Peter fancies. Then on to lunch at Woolfy’s where the staff was delightful, the wine list excellent and well priced, and the Lake Erie perch crispy battered, delicate, and served with a delicious homemade ketchup. I’m not even going to mention dessert…

Finally, the play—a complete joy (but when is Tremblay not?). The premise being the playwright’s memory of his mother—a wildly passionate woman, dominant, loud, gossiping, yet loving and nurturing, who is also a master storyteller.

When, after 90 minutes (no intermission), it ended, I was stunned and horrified. Surely this was a mistake, it couldn’t be the end. Not like that. There must be an intermission.

But the lights came on and the actors took their bows. Ridiculous, I thought. Everything had been so brilliant up until then, every word, gesture, I wanted it to go on another hour at least, maybe two.

As we filed out of the theatre I seriously thought of writing Tremblay and pointing out his shocking error in judgment. Cher Monsieur Tremblay: Tout etait tres bon, sauf… I would begin. Then use google translate from there. Shuffling toward the exit, I was just getting to the part where I’d offer up my suggestions to improve the ending… when I suddenly understood.

I won’t spoil things with details but let’s just say if you leave feeling like it’s all over too quickly—yeah, it is. And that’s just the point.

Good things are always over too quickly.

However, if we’re lucky, and paying attention, sometimes those bits of ‘magic’ linger, just long enough to change us a tiny bit for the better.

—tout etait bon indeed.

vegans beware!

August 19, 2010August 19, 2010 ~ carin ~ 2 Comments

A good reason to check each freshly picked garden leaf before chopping.

Audible sigh of relief as guest is returned to place of origin. (Note: no caterpillars were harmed in the making of either this post or pot of sorrel soup.)
~

you didn’t hear it from me

August 18, 2010August 18, 2010 ~ carin ~ Leave a comment

I don’t want to cause alarm.

But…

for samantha

August 17, 2010August 18, 2010 ~ carin ~ 1 Comment

I have a thing for gorillas, but not for zoos, so it’s been years since I’ve had the pleasure of being in the presence of Charles, Samantha, et al, denizens of the Toronto Zoo. And it was a pleasure. I marvelled at how, unlike the orangutans—and people—the gorillas carried themselves with such dignity, grace despite their size, and purpose.

I remember trying to lock eyes with them—not easy—but when it happened, instead of the thrill I’d expected, I’d feel suddenly humbled by my stupid aim. So now we’re looking at each other, so now what? the gorilla seemed to be saying. Good point, I thought. It’s all about control for us humans. I got you to look at me. I win. This is how small and daft we are by comparison—while they spend their time in much more useful pursuits. Picking nits off each other, for instance.

My anti-zoo stance has been gradual, strengthening every time there’s a sideshow-like marketing campaign to announce the koalas or pandas or dancing white tigers are in town. Or some other spectacle—how about an authentic African Savannah, right here, in Toronto? Because we can all believe that can’t we? Imagine the smiles on the faces of all those African animals…

No one ever mentions the polar bears are still pacing, the elephants are eating jellybeans and the whales are going stark raving mad.

When I heard that Samantha the gorilla died this morning, I felt unexplainably sad and overcome with a kind of regret—the sort one feels when an old uncle passes away who, for whatever reason, you’ve neglected visiting and now it’s too late and you realize you’ve missed something.

While I’d rather learn about exotic animals from books and films produced by a handful of serious folk who respect and study them, than from invading their territory as a ‘tourist’ (eco or otherwise) or hauling them out of it into ours, I recognize that there is something magical when that connection between human and animal is made. At least for the human. I do believe we can be the better for it. It might even have been one of those connections with one of the Toronto gorillas that started my own ‘thing’ for them. And I guess that’s not entirely bad.

Even so, I can’t support zoos, at least not the run of the mill variety that allow for the import of camels and giraffes to Ontario and the export of dolphins to Asia and the Middle East. However, if they were designed to house indigenous animals only, and then for reasons of rescue, safety and rehabilitation, only, well, that would be a beast of a different colour. Our relationship with animals should be something special—when it happens it’s a gift. It shouldn’t be on tap for us to view as merely an ‘exhibit’, as if the very purpose of animals is to entertain us. And oh, of course, teach us. Mustn’t forget how much we’re constantly learning at the zoo and on safari and watching seals jump through hoops while we nibble on hot dogs and wonder what time the elephant rides start. If we really wanted to learn about animals, how about starting with the ones right around us? Cats, dogs, horses, foxes, coyotes, deer. Or how about the ones we eat—chickens, cows, pigs, lamb. We could do well to understand them a bit more and how we all affect one another, before we line up to watch a whale in a tank in the name of education.

Co-incidentally (I love a good co-incidence) I recently found an excellent book (Gorillas, by Sara Godwin) at the Sally Ann that I’m anxious to pass along to my young niece who has yet to discover the brilliance of gorillas and still thinks they’re scary, a la Godzilla or King Kong (unfair myths if ever there were any). I plan to give her a DVD of Gorillas in the Mist at the same time, and any good documentaries I can find, and then maybe after we’ve read and watched and talked—maybe I’ll take her to the zoo to pay our respects to Samantha’s friends and family.

I’ll tell her why I don’t much like to go there, as well as the magic of making connections, and she might get what I’m saying or she might find me tiresome and un-fun, but either way, I’ll let her take it from there to wander her own path because, ultimately, that’s all any of us can do.

Except the animals of course.

“As thoroughly as Homo sapiens as a species has earned James Joyce’s painfully accurate description of “manunkind”, so Gorilla gorilla gorilla deserves the title “gentleman” in a way few humans can honestly claim.”—from Gorillas, by Sara Godwin, Friedman Group

living in the present with an even goldener rule

August 17, 2010August 17, 2010 ~ carin ~ Leave a comment

“…Confucius’ sayings, his wisdom and philosophy, had deeply influenced the way Chinatown raised first sons like me.

“What kind of human being was he to have established as one of the tenets of his philosophy, “What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others”? How different the assumption that our fear of how others can harm us is the most specific and universal deterrent compared to what has filtered down to Western culture as “Do unto others what you would have them do unto you.” How dangerous to assume that whatever pleases you might please me. None of his teachings ever touched upon the afterlife, none considered the possibilities of a heaven or hell. His concern was with how one might live life in the present. Having survived my almost dying, I was moved by the answer he offered when one of his followers, speaking of death, asked, “But what comes next?”

“Confucius said, “If you do not understand life, how will you know about death?”

—from the memoir, Not Yet, by Wayson Choy, Random House

today’s colour

August 16, 2010July 11, 2015 ~ carin ~ 1 Comment

queen anne’s lace, relative of the carrot, scented only in the sun

I’m kneeling on a kneeling chair as I write, but I keep sliding off. The chair was recommended to me by my massage therapist, Beth, whom I haven’t seen in almost a year—ever since I got the chair, which I got because I slightly screwed up my hip and back from bad sitting habits in my previous chair whose pricey, ergodynamically correct engineering is completely wasted on me given that I sit cross-legged, or with alternating feet tucked under my bottom.

I remember the instructions for the kneeling chair said something like… this chair is not made for extensive kneeling; try to keep most of your weight off your knees and on your butt. Maybe it said derierre.

In any case I’ve never really understood how to work it and am pretty sure I’m doing it wrong because my back and hip still hurt. Also my knees now. Makes me long for the days when my only complaint was excruciatingly tight shoulder and neck muscles that even Beth found shocking.

I’m guessing that a certain amount of ache is part of the territory, that anyone who sits for long periods obsessing about semi colons or whether to use the word ‘car’ or ‘vehicle’ is eventually the beneficiary of a few sore parts and maybe also the owner of a few gadgets to help ease the soreness (heat packs, massage thingies, roller wotsits, cedar blocks for yoga stretches, Theraband bands for other stretches—all of which only work, I’ve discovered, if you use them).

Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m a wimp, or have some unique structural problems. (Actually, least said about structural problems right now the better…)

So I got the kneeling chair and what I’ve been doing is alternating between it, the original chair, and a medium sized Theraband ball, which, when I told a physiotherapist I sat on while working, she laughed, called an associate into the room and had me repeat the story so they could share a professional chuckle.

Despite its apparent effect on physiotherapists, the ball works rather well for me. Furthermore, my chiropractor, whom I also haven’t seen since winter, said it should be fine.

Anyway, moving between these three seats I’ve noticed that—in addition to giving me much needed breaks in my position (because it rarely occurs to me to do anything as simple as stand up and stretch)—I’ve developed a preference for sitting differently for different tasks. For instance, revising is best done on the bouncy Theraband and almost impossible to do effectively on the kneeling chair (which I prefer for composing). Emails are more cheerfully answered, and less often misunderstood, if I write from one of various contortions on the ergo chair, whereas, for on-line reading, I go back to the Theraband. And so on.

Here’s what worries me: at some point will I need a fourth chair?

If so, I’m thinking lawn chair (one of the most brilliantly designed chairs of all time). I’m also thinking spiral notebook instead of screen, pen instead of keyboard… seagull voice, negative ions, beach glass, stones for skipping. Lunch in a paper sack.

In fact that may be exactly what my achy self needs. Not ergo wotsits.

And it just occurred to me—that’s twice in less than two weeks my rambling has led to the same place.

Right. Enough kneeling and bouncing and moaning. I’m off.