the review.
the archives.
And they're off!
Today is day one of National Novel Writing Month, the thing that will be occupying my brain for the next thirty days.
Write a novel in a month? What are we crazy? In a word: yes.
Procrastinators such as myself need impetus. This is a kick in the pants. Like most of the population of Toronto, outside of the banking community, that is, I have a novel (well, actually three) curdling in my brain. It's been there for a while, just waiting for me to write it. I think about it, I turn it over in my mind, I wonder about it, I rework plots and am delighted to discover that recurring themes seem to have grown spontaneously in its inner workings, as though planned, as though somewhere deep in my subconscious mind, there is a huddled sentient being yearning to breathe free.
And so: during the month of November, I will be posting progress reports. Maybe even an excerpt or two.
National Novel Writing Month: Day One
Awoke at six o'clock this morning. Lay in bed for a moment, and then remembered: it's the first of November! Time to start the novel! And I hadn't fiddled with the computer last night like I meant to!
I currently have three non-functioning computers at home: quantity rather than quality (which is what NaNoWriMo is all about, although I think all participants hope that some quality will sneak in there somewhere). I had meant to see if I couldn't get one of them to at least run notepad last night, but hadn't gotten round to it, due to various telephone conversations etc. So this morning I picked up each of two identical boxes, and gave them a gentle shake, to see which was the plausibly functioning one, and which was the one with stuff rattling around loose inside. I plugged it in, turned it on, and - lo and behold! - it appeared to work. On a whim, I tried to start MS Word, knowing it had been installed incorrectly by the person who "fixed" (and I use the term loosley) the machine. No dice. I tried Wordpad. The system hung up. I turned it off, turned it on again (a classic technique). It made an odd "beep beep" noise that no machine should make. That was all it would do. I am hoping tonight, after a day's rest, it will be more forgiving.
So, we move on to plan B: pen and paper. I set the kitchen timer for an hour and sat down in a comfy chair.
The night before, I had figured out what my opening line would be, where to start. I know most of the characters, most of the plot. But this morning, oddly enough, although I started where I had planned to, I ended up spending most of my time working with a character I hadn't thought about at all, the mother. I just sort of ended up in the car with her. On her way home from work (Where does she work? Think fast - um, the mum of someone I went to highschool with works at a bedding shop now. That'll do. Hey, and coincidentally, that meshes perfectly with my main theme!). So far, so good. Six and a half pages - not too shabby!
Of course, I've no idea how many words that translates too. And I almost don't want to know. Maybe what seems like an impressive effort (to me, at least) now will turn out to be a disappointment if I count the words (which would be a bloody boring task anyway). Maybe it's better not to know, at least until I'm further along. A friend of mine who's working on a novel uses this technique: her goal is to spend x amount of time per day, rather than worry about the number of usable words she's produced. She rewards herself for the effort, and finds it works. So that's what I'll try for now. At least until I've got a significant enough stack of paper.
The other good thing about longhand: editing-as-you-go is trickier, so it's easier to avoid self-censoring, and just keep going, rather than triple-thinking every word and getting caught up in questions like, should this bit go first? Should I change that? No drag'n'drop here. Also, when I do get around to inputting it into a word processor, I'll have a chance to re-read it with a bit of distance, I can edit as I type and I won't have accidentally deleted the wrong bits - there's room to change my mind, to read through the cross-outs, to put back in what I might have taken out. And it'll force me to re-read it all at one go, to see if it flows or not.
It's an experiment. We'll see if it works. Right now, my only goal is to get the thing done.
updated 1 november 2002. permalink
read the complete national novel writing month diary.
hiya.
No ranting today. Instead, we bring you a plug for Hive, a new magazine about Canadian art, music, & culture.
Issue one is online-only; the first print version will be out later this fall. Check it out online and come to the launch party 27 September at the Luft Gallery.
updated 26 september 2002. permalink
offensive art.
An "offensive" statue was just removed from the Rockefeller Center in New York.
Reaction from one member of the public: "It's not art. It's very disrupting when you see it."
Um, not to be mean or anything here, but, like, duh. Isn't that the point?
Art was never supposed to be comfortable and cheering. It can be, at times, but that is rarely if ever the underlying purpose. Paul Klee said, "Art is to make people see." Generally when someone "makes" you do something, it's disruptive. Why is this seen as a bad thing?
Most of the greatest things that happen in people's lives are disruptive. Having children is the obvious example that springs to mind. It's disruptive and difficult and most parents will tell you it's one hundred per cent worth it.
The idea that art should be non-disruptive is antithetical to almost all of art history. Most works which are hailed today as masterpieces were considered controversial in their time. Which is not to say that controversy for controversy's sake is necessarily a good thing. There is a glut of C-grade for-shock-value-only stuff out there that is best avoided. But controversy, disruption, is often an integral element that makes the difference between a mediocre sculpture and a work of greatness.
When it was first unveiled, Maya Ying Lin's Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall was considered by some to be atrocious, "that it did not appropriately honour the veterans of Vietnam." It was too stark, inhuman. But the Vietnam War was inhuman, and the monument reflects that. Over time more and more people went to visit the wall, and it became apparent that popular opinion did not necessarily coincide with what the original critics felt. People were moved by its simplicity, overwhelmed by this stark face engraved with countless names.
Art is disruptive. Art should be disruptive. Disruptive is a good thing.
updated 19 september 2002. permalink
st*r w*tching.
You're probably wondering why I'm not writing about the film festival. Everybody else is.
Well, firstly, I was just out of town for a self-made three-day-weekend, and doing a seven-hour drive after drinking champagne till five o'clock in the morning wears me out more than it used to.
Secondly, well, it can be summed up with one sentence from one article in the Globe & Mail, erroneously titled "Keeping it real on the festival circuit"
With my Pradas firmly wedged in my mouth, I cha-cha'd to the party for Frida, which was held in Hazleton Lanes.
I stopped reading right there, remembering why I hadn't got around to renewing my Globe subscription. It's because the Globe caught the National Post disease. Be flashier! Be trashier! Be dumb! People like that! Except that the Post has no paying subscribers. Oopsy.
But I digress.
Now, I know there are many good films at the festival, and many film buffs, recognizable by their coffee cups and bleary-eyed stares, and by the pallor gained from sitting in darkened rooms for sixteen hours a day.
But there is an even larger contingent of see-and-be-seen types, people who think Kevin Costner can act, people who can't even name a single director, but are busy trying to crash Bistro 990 in the middle of the night, because drinking hours are extended and they want to say they were there.
Of course, ninety per cent of the people there are nobody in particular, just more party-crashers, all wearing clothing that is too tight and too skimpy. I haven't done one of those parties in a few years, mind you, so perhaps the plebes that flock to these things have gotten over the pimp'n'ho thing and stopped shopping at Le Crapeau.
Somehow, I doubt it.
If it were possible to enjoy the films without getting crushed by the celebrity stalkers and would-be-famous, there are tons of films I'd love to see at the festival. But as long as it's populated by name-dropping bottle-blondes, I'd rather hide under a blanket with a book until it's all over.
updated 12 september 2002. permalink
Sorry, nothing new this week, as I am off travelling. Tune in next week for a fresh rant!
updated 5 september 2002.
Anti-elitism is a dangerous thing.
No one is afraid of seeming anti-elitist. People brag about being anti-elitist. They’re snobby about not being snobs, about not knowing which fork to eat with when, about appreciating low-brow pop-culture.
Not that there’s anything wrong with low-brow pop-culture.
Thing is, elevating ignorance to an ideal is dangerous in a number of ways.
For one thing, it’s what led to the Presidency of George W. Bush. Remember how he sold himself as an "outsider," one of the people, and laughed along at his own ignorance with a "what me worry" shrug on the late night talk shows? While people disdained Gore for being too erudite, too knowledgable about foreign policy issues, too much smarter than the average bear? Now, you’d think you’d want the leader of your country to be smarter than average. I certainly do, just as I want my doctor to be sharper, and more compassionate and thoughtful than the average guy, and if I had need of a lawyer, I’d want one who was much smarter, more fiercely logical, and more determined than the man on the street. Running a country isn’t a job for just anyone.
But now that just about every position imaginable has become in essence a popularity contest, seeming average or below is considered a pre-requisite for power.
Go figure.
The most stereotypical manifestation of the anti-elitist bias is the low-brow family whose son or daughter goes off to university, resulting in an inferiority complex among the elders. "You think your book-learning makes you better than us." We’ve seen it over and over again in books, film, and on television. Preston Sturges’ classic Sullivan’s Travels plays into this notion: the socially conscious filmmaker who wants to make Important Films to educate the masses as to their plight. He goes among the people in the name of research, to discover that the downtrodden are not interested in watching the plays of Clifford Odets, but would rather watch the slapstick of Charlie Chaplin. And he learns the error of his ways: he shouldn’t be trying to convince the downtrodden to educate themselves and escape their circumstances; no, they would much rather be entertained, be given a few chuckles to ease the misery of their days.
After all, who needs bread when you’ve got circuses?
Sometimes it seems all of popular culture is devoted to making people feel more superior the less educated they are. Educated people are nearly always portrayed as foolish, foppish, unreal. Only barmaids and police officers are considered to be honest, down-to-earth characters, possessed of the common sense which is so much more valid than book learnin’.
Of course, most of the people who write these scripts have a fair amount of book learnin’ behind them. But that’s different.
It’s sort of like the argument that cigarettes shouldn’t be taxed so highly, because they’re mainly smoked by poor people, and don’t poor people deserve a few small luxuries? And isn’t it just a coincidence that the luxuries we’ll allow them are not just toxic, but the basis of a multi-billion dollar industry. Funny how that works. After all, capitalist society is dependent on a large number of poor people working to feed the rich. You can’t be wealthy unless you have poor people to compare yourself to. And the poor people won’t complain as long as you keep them complacent.
A friend of mine in the States was explaining how school funding works down there. There are no equalization payments; money is spent in the district in which it was raised. She told me of a nuclear power plant in a generally poor district. Because the plant is big and wealthy and pays a lot of taxes, the local school is phenomenal. It has every amenity imaginable, including its own planetarium. It has amazing academics and athletics programs. Nobody who can afford it wants to live next to the plant. The only residents of the school district are the working poor who live in a nearby trailer park.
I thought the story was going to be that the trailer park had sprung up next to the power plant because it was the one way these poor families could ensure their children got the kind of education that would be their elevator out of poverty.
No, the story was that the families were resentful of their children’s education. As in, why are you making my kid work so hard? As in, we don’t trust book learnin’.
Nevermind that their attitude would ensure the poverty of their children and their children’s children. They bought the anti-elitist line wholesale. Why not, when it’s all there is to watch on television? Oh Brave New World, and so much more legal than soma.
updated 29 august 2002. permalink
Presto-change-o.
When I saw the first grafitti-splattered garbage can, I was intrigued. After passing a dozen of them, the intrigue was replaced by foreboding. Obviously this was not some small group trying to get their message out on the cheap: they wouldn't have been able to afford the space on that many trash receptacles.
Although, come to think of it, trash receptacles are an awfully appropriate place for Nike's latest scheme.
Now, I work in marketing. But I work on getting our name out there. I'm not embarrassed by the company I work for. I don't try to hide it, or sell it under a different name. I don't try to sneak it past anyone.
What offends me more than anything is reading that the bands who have played at presto were sold on it as a charity gig - and some even took pay cuts as a result. Yes, Nike is purifying its soul by sending presto's profits to a local soup kitchen, but can they really pretend they can't afford to pay local bands what they're worth? Hey, why not just give drinks away, since it's all in the name of marketing.
Let's get this straight: Nike is not a charity. Whatever amount that they do give to charity (all corporations do, it's called a tax break and some nice publicity) is a drop in the ocean of profit they make on the backs of third-world workers.
Of course Kensington isn't putting up with this. Kensington doesn't like interlopers: I know, I lived there for years. It's a homegrown kind of place, where you know your neighbours, the shopkeepers, you keep tabs on what's happening on the street. The people care. That's why the neighbourhood is vibrant. And those are the coattails Nike is trying to ride on. But they're missing the point. The point is that cool communities like Kensington can't be bought and sold. They're built of people.
It's the same as the yuppies moving into Little Italy. They think they want to live in a cool downtown neighbourhood, but they bring their suburban sensibilities with them. They don't want to talk to their neighbours. They build fences. And they suck the life out of the places they go.
Just what Nike is sneakily trying to do to Kensington.
Things must be pretty bad if they're trying to hide their name.
It's reminiscent of the pseudo-micro-brews that the big breweries came up with a few years ago when they felt their market share slipping. Rickard's, anyone? Not for me, thanks.
It makes you wonder what else they're hiding.
updated 18 july 2002. permalink
So. Last week, on Canada Book Day, a panel of canadians selected a Canadian book for Canadians across Canada to read.
I don't know whether to be pleased or embarrassed.
On the one hand, it's great publicity for Canadian books in general, and it's important to celebrate homegrown talent of all stripes, and it's important for people to read.
But then there's the eek factor. The similarities between the read-a-book campaign and the participaction campaign. Do this healthy thing, you civic-minded person you! It's like anti-smoking ads: they make the irritated contrarian want to light up. They're so embarrassingly wholesome. And smug. Aren't we good people, promoting literacy? Oh my, we are good.
Another eek factor is the copycat aspect. Last year, all of Chicago read "To Kill a Mockingbird." Other cities have had similar "One Book, One City" campaigns. Like giant moose/cows/lizards populating the downtowns of would-be "world-class" cities across North America, it reeks of desperation. There's that unthinking "What, are we missing out?" quality to this kind of project.
And there is no fun in it.
Why is reading an event? This kind of stunt doesn't present reading as something you do everyday; it presents it as a one-off thing, like climbing the cn tower to raise money for the United Way. And this is the appeal: you do this big difficult task once a year and feel like you've achieved something. If reading (or climbing the CN tower) was presented as something entertaining that you do everyday for personal amusement, it would lose a certain amount of cachet.
This doesn't make sense to me. I do believe that reading is important for developing and maintaining acuity as well as for keeping informed. Older people are always advised by physicians to keep reading for the sake of their mental health. But that doesn't mean reading has to be a dull project wrapped in a veneer of self-righteousness. I mean, people have made eating healthy into something sexy and enjoyable, by using exotic ingredients. Why not do the same for books? Why not celebrate the richness of language as an indulgence like a sumptuously flavoured risotto with wild mushrooms? Why not treat allegory as a flavourful sauce instead of as something healthy and painful?
The definitive moment of the book-choosing deliberations, I thought, was when several panel memebers admitted they hadn't read all five (count 'em! five!) books on the list. Hm, if the experts/enthousiasts found it too difficult, why should jo everyperson bother?
Marketing books as bran for the brain is a singularly foolish idea. Sell them as red wine, I say: something complex and delicious, an indulgence, one that we can justify doing regularly because it's supposed to be good for you, according to the French.
6 june 2002. permalink
Once again the pundits have been debating whether or not the arts are useful. Usefulness is determined via economic impact, naturally. Blame Thatcher for the idea that if something doesn't produce hard cash rewards in the first quarter, it should be scrapped.
The best part about the latest round of mudslinging is that it lumps the arts in with sporting events, and then claims that because million-dollar hockey players tend to spend their money on import cars and vacations, rather than on shopping sprees in, say, Ottawa, the whole "all of the money goes back into the community" argument flies out the window.
So let's leave sports out of this, since not a single one of the artists receiving grant money has anything like a hockey player's spending money or spending habits. I have no interest in defending sports; they can defend themselves.
Back in the real world, the average Canadian artist is making under $30,000 a year, and paying a quarter of that in taxes. So the government has already recouped one quarter of its cash.
People making under thirty grand can ill afford vacations, so they spend their money at home by default. One of the occupational hazards of being an artist is knowing other artists, and so a fair percentage of what remains of the initial 30 grand after paying rent (which is money pumped into the local economy plus property tax) is spent supporting other artists, thereby reducing the government's burden.
Not to mention the increase in business at all of the local restos (just look at the number of dinner-and-theatre deals there are out there).
But all of this is moot.
The real value of the arts lies in their ability to make people think. And to make people happy. You walk down the street, you see a meager sidewalk tree festooned with dozens of tiny red birdhouses, how can you not smile? Have people forgotten that we'd still be working eighty-hour weeks in sweatshops were it not for Charles Dickens? How can anyone even pretend to quantify the value of music in monetary terms?
But small-minded people do. Monetary terms are all they understand.
Perhaps they might be able to grasp the big picture if they went to see a play once in a while.
updated 28 march 2002. permalink
Lately there has been an overabundance of complaints about speed and efficiency. Two full pages of the Globe & Mail's Saturday Review section was devoted to the perilous busy-ness of modern life, which was caused, of course, by telecommunications. Janice Gross Stein's massey lecture was devoted to the "cult" of efficiency. In it, she noted that an internet search of academic articles today produces fifty-five thousand references, whereas a decade ago it would only have produced eight thousand. Of course, anyone who had any experience with the internet ten years ago could tell you that there wasn't a hell of a lot there; it was barren, compared with the internet of today. But why let logic interfere, when you have a point to make?
There have been many, many articles in the past year or two regarding the "fast pace of modern life" and the fact that "everyone" is obsessed with speed and efficiency.
Rubbish.
Some people are, certainly. But the idea that cell phones and email have forced people to become little more than consumers running madly to keep their hamster-wheels turning is foolish at best, and dangerous at worst. Dangerous, because it is yet another manifestation of the victim syndrome: another way for people to evade responsibility for their worst behaviour.
Keeping up with the Joneses (or not) is a choice. Immersing onesself in consumerist culture via overindulgence in television and commercial radio is a choice. Deciding to live an hour's drive away from one's office is a choice.
Most people, of course, make the choice that seems, at first glance, to be the easy one: sitting in front of the tv is easy. Buying into the contentment-via-consumption attitude is easy, especially for anyone who spends large amounts of time in front of the tv. Once you've bought that notion, spending your way to status seems necessary for happiness. Which necessitates working overtime, which causes stress, which the short-sighted drone erroneously believes can be solved by "moving someplace quiet," aka commuting to and from some hideous suburb. Where the whole consumerist lifestyle is reinforced endlessly.
Many so-called "culture jammers" like to push the view that people are helpless to prevent this; when confronted with advertising, we become mindless zombies, doing the bidding of the evil one. So we are told.
In fact, the culture jammers are once again taking the short-sighted easy route: let's face it, messing around with billboards ain't gonna change the world. I guess it makes the agitators feel smug'n'self-righteous for a while, but ultimately it is a waste and time of energy.
And people are not as stupid as the culture jammers would have you believe.
Ultimately, it is up to the individual to choose. Most people take the short-sighted-easy-route, because most people are, well, short-sighted and lazy (just look at the fellows they keep electing).
Or, one can choose to say to hell with it, and ignore all of the prodding and advertising. No one is forced to watch television; most pay for the privilege. If the fogeys who moan about efficiency and email chose to forward their phones to voicemail once in a while, thy might mellow out. If they chose to live within walking distance of work, they wouldn't need to waste time commuting, or going to the gym.
The fact is, most people like to seem busy. They like to brag about it. Underlying this, is the need to brag: why? Why care about what the rats in the rat race think? It's your choice.
I guess that's why most people prefer to buy into the "society made me this way" credo: if they admitted to free will, their excuses would be gone. And maybe, heaven forbid, they'd have to stop whining about the messes they get themselves into.
updated 21 march 2002. permalink
CBC Radio's Metro Morning host Andy Barrie made headlines this week with his stupidity.
Interviewing Sarah "Fergie" Ferguson, duchess of york, he played a frankly insulting film clip, and said, "What do you think of that?"
Unsurprisingly, her thoughts were not kind to Andy Barrie.
Worse, he seemed completely surprised that she was offended, and unable to formulate a response. The next day he explained his behaviour by explaining that he meant to interview her as "a cultural artifact" rather than a human being. Good one.
This, of course, is just one (the biggest one) in a series of gaffes that show his inability to comprehend basic courtesy or logic.
For example, a week ago, following a Commentary piece about a black man's frustrations with people quizzing him on his origins and then telling him he's not "black enough," barrie spoke with singer Ivana Santilli, asking her "where are you from?" a question lifted directly from the Commentary piece, and then offering his opinion (as a suburban white guy) that she is "a real Latin - we usually think of South Americans as being Latin [Santili is part Italian], but you are a real Latin." Did he even listen to the commentary piece? It certainly didn't sound like it.
Could a journalist miss the point more thoroughly and consistently?
Barrie tried to pass off his stupidity in the fergie interview as hard-hitting journalism. Um, no. For an example of "real" journalism, he might try listening to As It Happens. Earlier in the week, Mary-Lou Finlay interviewed a spokesman for Mugabe in the ongoing Zimbabwe elections; despite his condescending ("oh, my dear") tone, and determined avoidance of questions, she retained her composure as well as her persistence and integrity.
Being rude does not equal being "hard hitting." If the CBC wants to expand their listener base, they can start by removing the brainless deadwood (bye bye, Andy), and giving listeners smart, quick-witted hosts, who can ask the tough questions without embarrassing the nation.
updated 14 march 2002. permalink
The sins of the parent shall be visited upon the daughter.
That is the lesson learned the hard way by wtn, soon to be rechristened "W." The women's television network, now in its thirteenth year, was a success. Earnings (ebitda) in the neighbourhood of nine million annually, on revenues of thirty-five million. "It certainly ain't broke," said one executive, "but we think it can do better."
Sure. Especially now that the competition has tripled (or more), what with the advent of digital cable. Whatever. The new owners (wtn's parent company was bought, and wtn subsquently ended up in the hands of corus) want more profits, and they think they can get them by luring younger viewers. Corus' business sense is easily demonstrated by the fact that it is massively in debt, losing Money daily, and selling off assets to cover its losses. Yep, they know what they're doing. They've laid off most of the staff (and then hired them back as contracters to keep the channel running). They're moving the head offices from Winnipeg to Toronto (because, um, rents are cheaper here? Not!). And you can bet the programming will suffer.
Some of it was suffering already, no doubt about it. Showing old movies is only tenuously connected to the network's mandate, and basically cheap filler. Ditto the britcoms. But WTN had a lot going for it, too. Canadian productions, including a home-repairs show and the much-watched sunday night sex show, are quite popular. "Shameless Shorts" featured short films by Canadian women - where else could you find such diverse programming?
I fear we won't find it here anymore. When money becomes an issue, the interesting stuff and the local stuff are usually the first to go.
The problem is, money shouldn't be an issue. WTN made money. Corus should be happy to be the new owner of a goose that lays golden eggs. But omelets aren't as glamourous as a roast, and the corporate community is never happpy with some when it thinks it can have all. Funny, but we keep hearing again and again about the demise of companies who were too busy reaching for brass rings to nurture the assets they had.
Part of this problem is inherent in the type of personality it takes to climb the corporate ladder: you've got to be ambitious, you've got to be hungry, you've got to keep pushing. You've got to want exponential growth, and want it now. And make it happen. Of course, exponential growth that lasts is a rarity in the real world. The corporate community is like a classic yoyo dieter: that one-week juice fast produced great results! Why not a three-week fast? But oops, the body revolts when abused like that, before you know it the dieter is exhausted, off the wagon, and heavier than before. But they'll follow the same cycle over and over. They don't learn.
Neither do the executives. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Maybe you can increase viewership in the short-term - people might surf over to a "new" heavily-marketed station out of curiosity - but will it last? Probably not. Everyone is aiming at the youth market, and the youth market is notoriously fickle. But don't expect the old, loyal viewers to stick around. They don't like having their favourite shows taken away from them.
It's too obvious. If a layperson like me can see this pattern, why can't the corporate overlords?
updated 7 march 2002. permalink
There is a strong tendency in this country to define ourselves by what we are not: "we are not American" is the obvious example, but the syndrome doesn't end there.
There is an even more horrifying sub-group of this definition-by-negation thing: the "my incompetence makes me cool" schtick.
A recent example of this is Leah McLaren's Globe and Mail article on not knowing how to drive. Fortunately she ended the article by learning how, but not before regaling her audience with comments insisting that being unable to drive is "urbane."
Actually, no.
Being unable to drive does not make one "urbane," it makes one unable to drive, which can be a royal pain in many situations, especially when doing what every snotty urbanite adores to do in the summer, which is to leave town.
The most common arena in which one encounters this "my inability makes me cool" is in the arts, where many labour under the misapprehension that an inability to comprehend math, or simple logic, is "proof" of one's creativity. In reality, inability to comprehend math is just a poor excuse for undertipping, and results in otherwise avoidable accountants' fees. It does not make you a better writer. It does not mean you are "above such worldly concerns."
There are also legions of daughters-of-feminists who were raised believing that not knowing how to cook or sew would free them from the slavery of wifehood, only to discover that those alteration people charge an arm and a leg just to re-attach a button.
Incompetence is not cute, does not make you a better person, does not elevate you to a higher plane. Incompetence is something to be accepted and hopefully overcome. Celebrate what you can do, not what you can't.
Or maybe anti-accomplishment is all that some people have to be proud of?
updated 28 february 2002. permalink
Taking a break from packing. I've done fifteen boxes of books so far, and am beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Packing books is a funny task. It reminds me of being forced to clean my room as a kid; I'd always start by putting the books and magazines away, and end by rereading a decade's worth of Mad magazines. Something catches your eye, something you'd forgotten you had, maybe, and you're doomed.
I've come across a number of books I'd forgotten I borrowed from people (I am so sorry). And books I'd started reading and mislaid so I'd started reading something else so by the time I found the first book there was nothing for it but to put it back on the shelf.
There are the project books. The copy of l'ƒtranger in the original French, when I thought I'd brush up on (okay, learn) French by reading French. This is a notion I picked up from my father, which explains why his collection includes many copies of the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and the Bible (two of the most widely available books in the world) in just about every language known to man.
I also have the books and tapes that went with the course in russian that I dropped out of in first year. Someday, I will use these materials to teach myself russian. No, really.
It's easy to see the phases I've gone through as a reader. Complete works of E.F. Benson, Edward Gorey, Robertson Davies, Chekhov, Kilodney, Kafka, Kundera, and Kosinskie (I remember a guy in school wondering if he should change the spelling of his last name from "Carson" to "Karson" to capitalise on some of that letter "k" karma).
The best part of packing books, however, is the juxtaposition factor. I have a complex filing system, based on chronology and spatial relation. Books get shelved in the order I looked at them last, next to whatever is the same height. Which results in the Oxford Book of French Verse being next to "Jughead Jones Double Digest!" Norton anthologies packed in with the Girl-Crazy Millennial Comic Book. Turgenev next to "The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer: a Twin Peaks Book," and the New Yorker Album cosying up to "All About Upholstery."
All of this, of course, gives one pause, makes one stop and contemplate, feel a twinge of guilt over the fact that I've yet to pass page forty in "Mason & Dixon," feel a pang of nostalgia and embarrassment over the damn archie comics. What does a bookshelf say about its owner? That he's well-rounded, or eccentric, or suffering from MPD? That she's a renaissance woman, or that she can't focus on anything for more than twenty minutes running?
Must keep packing. Ugh. It's going to be a long night.
updated 21 february 2002. permalink
Today, on this the one day of the year when even the most apathetic philistine suddenly becomes enamoured of rhyming couplets, some thoughts on poetry.
see earlier thoughts on poetry
Once again I've found myself in the midst of a debate on poetry, and the supposed death of poetry. I suppose the mere fact that these debates occur on a regular basis just go to show there's life in the old girl yet.
A lot of people say they just don't "get" poetry. It's speaking in a foreign language to them. And there is a lot of that kind of stuff out there, true. There is also a lot of damn good stuff being written (see what happens when you start a discussion with some hard-core googlers), stuff that's like a punch in the gut, emotionally speaking.
The funny thing is that one complaint from the "I don't get it" school of poetry dislikers is that poetry doesn't rhyme anymore, there is no standard rhythmic pattern like there used to be in the good old days. Now it's all more complex.
Of course, the rigid rhythmic forms of "good old days" poetry is often its undoing. Think back to grade school when you had to memorise and recite In Flanders Fields. Now there is a poem that ought to tear your heart out, but after hearing scores of ten-year-olds recite it in that sing-songy poetry voice, which is more about trying to remember the words than giving a thought to what they mean, the words come up empty. Blank verse, or any mode that does not conform to a standard repetitive metre, allows the poet to place particular emphasis on particular words, allows certain phrases to jump off the page, allows freedom of composition. In other words, the very thing that makes some people imagine they won't like poetry is the thing that makes it good.
Breaking the rules is a good thing.
Then we are told poetry isn't commercial. But no one seems to explore why. If an inscrutable 900-page doorstopper can hit the bestseller charts, why not a slim volume of verse?
I think some of it had to do with the way readers read.
I know that while I truly love short fiction, I will often choose a novel over an anthology simply because I like to choose when and how much I read. No one expects to read 600 pages at one sitting; you can pick it up for an hour, or fifteen minutes, you can put it away and come back to it.
Short fiction (and verse) tells you how much time you'll spend reading. At least it does if you are me, and can't rush headlong from one story to the next. A story (or novel or poem) needs some space around it, some time to digest. If I'm on a four-hour train, and want something that will immerse me and take me away from the squalling babies etc., a novel can do that, while shorter forms can't; they'll work for the length of each piece, but the gaps in between, instead of being filled with quiet contemplation (as they should be) will be filled with thoughts of violence towards the idiot who keeps kicking my seat. Awfully pedestrian, I know, but still it's a factor.
Poems are tightly packed with meaning, "like concentrated lemonade," as one editor put it. It will take longer to read a page of verse than a page of naturalistic prose, same as it takes longer to drink a shake than a glass of milk. Time is needed to digest the words, to let them sink in. Who has time for anything these days?
Or who knows, maybe it's just the emotional impact that people can't handle. Good verse has a way of provoking a reaction with few words. Poetry often deals with complex emotions rather than the simple boy-meets-girl stuff. Often the reader is left hanging in a snarl of thought and feeling, to fight his own way out of. The average man-on-the-street prefers an easy happy ending that he can "relate to."
Poetry asks the big questions. Maybe that's just too much for some people?
updated 14 february 2002. permalink
It was my old roommate Robert who came up with the game.
It was when he was working at a twenty-four hour restaurant, sometime between midnight and morning. I think the inspiration was an old copy of "Sassy" magazine, maybe with a personality quiz, maybe it was an article about deciding what to do with your life, maybe just with advice to "just be yourself" when dealing with boys.
The game was a question. The question was, "If I were a straight girl, who would I be?"
Of course, it didn't only apply to non-straight non-girls. Anyone who'd ever looked at one of those magazines, full of advice and exhortations and quizzes and polls, could wonder: who reads this? Who are these girls who are so concerned with who they are, and need help to find out?
Robert decided he would be a reporter for vogue magazine, covering nail-colour news, with a severe black wardrobe, and a severe german boyfriend. A friend of his imagined herself ith a dark tan and a skimpy white bathing suit, with lots of gold jewellery and lots of brassy hair. A friend of mine, very career-driven who always dressed in neat charcoal wool suits, imagined being a dirty groupie girl with dreadlocks and musician boyfriends in heavy rotation. I imagined myself a popular seventeen-year-old, the girl with the most cake. With the best clothes and the best boyfriend and maybe not too bright, but happy.
It seems everyone has an imaginary character they'd like to be for a day. Maybe no longer than that, but for one day, at least.
This is what lies behind the plethora of tests on the internet. There are entire websites devoted to personality quizzes, I.q. Tests, what's-my-gangster-name-generating-machines.
And of course, as with any test, the key is getting the right answer. Don't wanna be Esmaralda? Keep doing the what-character-in-Pulp-Fiction-are-you test until you get to be Uma Thurman. Don't like your cyborg definition? Keep messing with never-used-in-reality nicknames ("jeni") until you get one you like ("judge engineered for nocturnal infiltration." Gotta love the nocturnal infiltration).
These things are epidemic. What kind of squirrel are you? What's your hockey name? Your Myers-Briggs personality type? Are you highly sensitive? Are you in tune with your ass? Are you pure? bitchy? What are your core beliefs? Where do you fit on the political compass? When will you die?
All of these can be manipulated easily to fit whatever image of oneself is desired. Some of them play at being scientific. Some people even imagine they are.
But only the ones that confirm our best instincts about ourselves (the one horoscope out of fifty that's semi-accurate is the one we remember). The ones that confirm our worst fears are bogus.
Each test is simply an extension of the old adage that "the purpose of psychoanalysis is to make simple people feel complex." We need external confirmation that we are all unique and special snowflakes. We also need to be told where we fit on the unique-and-special snowflake scale.
You are special. You lead a rich and complex life. Your eyeshadow matches your hair. Your significant other is astrologically perfect for you. You are your inner fantasy person.
Feel better now?
updated 7 february 2002. permalink
Seems only fitting that my first cultural hoo-ha event of the year should herald my return to complaining about cultural stuff.
Last night was the launch of the Film Ciruit Canadian Short Film Showcase featuring screenings of five short films (I Shout Love, Instant Soup, Strange Invaders, InsŽparables, and Remembrance). Of course, being a TIFF-related event, it was packed to the rafters, especially the after party. Funniest was some guy getting out of the Movie Television SUV and worrying about being mobbed. Not to worry buddy, plenty of people here are more famous than you.
Anyway.
The first film, I Shout Love by Sarah Polley, is the tale of a breakup: the decision has been made, bobby is leaving Tessa, but she convinces (blackmails?) him to stay for one more day, one more night, so they can relive old times, good times. On video.
The opening shot is Tessa crying. Really crying. Crying like a kid with balled up fists and a puffy and red and squished up face. You don't often see this in movies. Hell, you never see it. Real emotion is ugly, and painful to watch. Movie stars do not want to be ugly. Ergo, we lose anything real, in exchange for something bland and pretty.
Take for example The Big Kahuna. Kevin Spacey and Danny Devito are salesmen. They deal in industrial lubricants. They aren't doing so well. But hot damn, can they dress. Armani, no less. Towards the end of the film, spacey is all worked up about something or other, takes off his jacket and tie (maybe he is going to hit someone? Who remembers?). I remember thinking, what a great shirt. It was a really great shirt. I almost wished he would put the tie back on so I could see the ensemble proper.
Of course, by this point, who remembers what the film is about? Actors whose main concern is looking good don't tend to give really compelling performances. So it's easy to get distracted by the scenery.
Special effects have the same distancing quality. Directors who focus on fancy explosions and neat animation lose track of their actors. In my stage managing days, I once worked for a director whose primary career was in lighting design. His idea of direction was saying, "I've got a lighting cue coming up in the next scene, so you have to move over there." Uh, yeah. I imagine the director of Harry Potter had a similar sort of philosophy: he let the visuals drive the film ("But we have to have a quidditch game! It doesn't matter if it's incredibly dull and does little to advance the plot, we have to have kids flying on brooms!"). It distracts the audience. We no longer care about what happens to the characters; we're too busy idly wondering how they do all of that neat stuff.
To see someone crying on screen, really crying, really crying, came as a shock. Raw emotion is rare indeed in the movies. It's a damn shame.
updated 25 january 2002. permalink
more archives:
2007
2006
2005
2004
2003
2002
2001
2000
www.smartygirl.net is hosted by 1&1
books
theatre
music
film
dance
links:
the atlantic
drool
etiquette grrls
eyeshot
hive
ifoa
lazy mick
mcsweeneys
the onion
opium
pindeldyboz
salon
7q
shift
*spark
smw
sfm
zoetrope
zulkey
