Big day today, as I submitted final grades for my courses. It’s always such a hectic time, these last few days of the semester. Whenever you think you’ve got it all done, there are always new details to be taken care.
Beyond all the work is the emotional aspect of this time of the semester. Inevitably, there will be those students who struggle and don’t do as well as I, or they, wanted them to. For some reason, they froze in the exam room or just couldn’t get it in gear. Then there are those that chose not to do their best, especially near the end of the semester, even though they were doing well in the course. I often wonder what happens—what goes so wrong in a person’s life that the thing they’ve invested so much money in, so much of themselves in, and so many hopes and dreams in—that it suddenly takes a back seat to everything. So they don’t bother showing up for class, thinking it won’t hurt their grades. But it does. Or they don’t pass in that last essay, or they just do a sloppy job on it, thinking that whatever they pass in will get the same grade. Not true. Rarely is. These are the kinds of people I feel slip through my fingers, making me wish I could have one last chance to help them, just to show them that there’s a better way to end the semester after having done so much work already. But there’s nothing I can do. Nothing they can do. Just let it go.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Then there are the students who sort of floated under the radar all semester, who didn’t raise their hands in class, never came to see me in my office, only hoped to get by day after day without being noticed. If that was the goal, then, to some extent, they succeeded. But I always notice when someone’s trying not to be noticed. They become like ghosts in my daily life, and, as a person who’s made a life out of studying and writing about ghostly figures, they would actually be the first ones I’d take note of and remember. I understand the need to be still, to be silent, to hope the danger passes. Maybe it’s out of self-preservation, a sense of fear, of not really wanting to participate except to observe. Maybe some of you are even reading this blog. Just want you to know: I get it. It’s okay by me. I’m not sure my approval would (or should) even matter. But just letting you know.
Not Waving, But Drowning
Of course, then there are the students who inspire—who somehow find a way to do better than they have all semester. Now, this rarely happens unless a student has been working hard and coming to see me in my office to talk things over once in a while, and genuinely striving to improve their thought process and their ability to express those thoughts both aloud and on paper. There are always a few students who surprise me on the final exam by suddenly showing that they “get” it—that they finally understand what it is I’ve been saying to them all semester long. Thankfully, there were some of those this time around, and I was only too happy to reward them for their enlightenment because it is an enlightenment that comes only from hard work and perseverance. Those qualities are not always rewarded in life, and it’s nice when they are.
I appreciated those of you have taken the time to stop by and say a few words, either in my office or at the end of the exam, to say you enjoyed the experience this past semester. It reminds me of why I teach—because I want to inspire, to make you want to learn, to be better able to express what you see in the world, to be able to see and understand more of what the world, and your own life, reveals to you. It is a sad person who is filled with experience and thought but is unable to share insight for lack of the right words. If I can somehow contribute to your own ability to communicate your thoughts and feelings, or to introduce you to an author or poet who inspires you, or simply to entertain you on your way for a few minutes every day, I am honored for the privilege.
There are many of you I will never forget, but, alas, many of you whom I will forget in time—I will always remember your faces, even when your name inevitably gets lost in the sea of names that whirls in my head like thousands of leaves in a hurricane. Right now, your faces and names are fresh in my mind and I am aware of so many hopes and triumphs, and so much heartache and sadness at the same time, that you have gone through in these past four months alone. When I look out across the exam room, or when I put in those final grades, I think of you, what I know about you, imagine how I think you will react to the number. And in the end, it is just a number, even if you are not. It doesn’t define you. I did my best, as I hope you did, to ensure that that number reflects the quality of your effort in the past few months. But that truly depends on a communication between you and me. In that regard, I’ve done everything I can. The rest, as I like to say, is between you and your God. Only you can say whether you showed up each day. And if you showed up, did you have something to say?
And the other voices—mine, fellow students, the authors we studied—did you allow them to speak to you? Or did you close your mind, along with your eyes? Sometimes, just showing up is not enough. Sure, it can be an act of bravery to show up (not just in class, literally, but in life, figuratively)—to make the moments count for something. You have to be present in order to truly live. If you managed to do that, then you’ve impressed me. More important, I hope you impressed yourself. Because sometimes it’s just not that easy.
I plan to keep writing in this blog over the holidays, to lighten things up or to put some things in perspective, mostly having to do with my own life experiences and observations. If you’re still reading this, I’m assuming you’re along for the ride, willing to see where this one goes.
Right now, it goes to stores around the St. John’s area, as starting tomorrow the Christmas shopping must begin in earnest. After that, a few days of well-earned rest, hopefully. It won’t be too long before the preparation for next semester must begin.
*Shudder.*
Best not to think about it.
Best to keep on moving. Except, occasionally, to stop by woods on a snowy evening. Or at least for an afternoon at the movies with my loving, patient wife.
See you around.
Thanks for being present.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Blog #3: Exam Talk
So it comes down to this.
This is my third blog entry for the day. Keep reading after the end of this post. Please cast a vote in my poll, on the right hand side of this blog entry. Also, I have office hours tomorrow (Thursday) afternoon from 2:30 to 3:30, possibly longer if numbers warrant.
The final exam for English 1080 is on Friday, December 12 @ 9 a.m. in the Phys. Ed. Gymnasium. My students go to the left just as you enter the gym. Look for me standing there in the back of the rows where you’re supposed to be sitting.
There’s not much left to say at this point that hasn’t been already said a half dozen times, but there is likely some full-blown, and half-blown, anxiety going on out there, I’m sure. So I’m hoping to calm some nerves by talking a little about what to expect.
First, I’ll be having office hours Thursday afternoon, the day before the exam, starting at 2:30 and ending (most likely) at 3:30, depending on how many people show up. I’ll certainly stay longer if there is anyone waiting to see me. In fact, I’ll stay until there’s no one left to see, just as I’ve done all semester long. Friday morning, I’ll try to be around before the exam, but I need to be in the gym well before exam time just to get things set up.
The exam has two parts, Part A being “Poetry” and Part B being “Short Stories”. Make sure you flip over the page because there are two sides to the exam just as there are at least two sides to everything. Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to answer ONE question from each section, for a total of TWO essays.
Make sure you’re writing the correct exam: the one with MY name on the top right hand corner.
The questions are straightforward, but make sure you understand what you are being asked to write about, and focus on answering the question directly. The idea, of course, is to show me what you know about the two stories (or poems) as it pertains to the subject I’ve given you to write about. Remember: the questions are designed for you to show me what you know, not what you don’t know.
It’s a two and a half hour exam, so take time to get your thoughts together by making notes to yourself before you begin. You’ll need about an hour to write each essay, with a little time left over. If you’ve had certain problems all semester long (especially comma splice, sentence fragment, tense shift, and passive voice), make sure you take time to go back over the essay and make corrections.
VERY IMPORTANT: Make sure you write TWO strong essays. Don’t spend all your time on the first question and leave yourself less time for the second one. Your grade will probably suffer if you don’t manage your time well. I’ve seen far too many exams in which a student wrote only one good essay and ran out of time for the second one. So time management is crucial once you’re in the exam room. By 10:15 a.m. or so, you should be starting on the second question. I don’t care which order you do them in, just make sure you clearly mark which number you’re answering, as well as which section.
How to prepare? For the short story section, just know the tales really well. If there’s one that you don’t feel strongly about, you’re not likely to use it on the exam. But I would re-familiarize myself with four or five stories, paying attention to the details, maybe some images, symbols, quotations, entire scenes, and so on that stood out during the semester when we talked about these stories. When you’re writing the exam, you should be able to envision how the plot, or character journey, goes from beginning to end, focusing on the key moments (with some detail) along the way. This trick will be immensely helpful when you’re writing and trying to recall certain parts of the story, giving yourself more and more to talk about as you go. If you focus on the literal and/or figurative journey each character takes and how the character has changed by the end of the story, then you will be well-prepared. (Of course, remember that no character exists in isolation: feel free to discuss other characters as well, showing how they relate to what you’re proving about the protagonist, or even a minor character. It’s always your choice as to which characters you will discuss.)
The same is true for the poetry, of course. We talked about them quite a bit in class, so certain images, symbols, word choices, and other poetic techniques should stand out in your mind as you re-read. You should be familiar with the poems as much as possible, enough so that you can do a comparative analysis of two of them. Certain poems go really well together, while others are more of a stretch, but might prove to be an interesting contrast to one another on an exam—your choice. Don’t just try and memorize the poems. It will work better for you if you go through each poem, word by word, line by line, and figure out what it means for you that way. It will make more sense to you now than it did the first time you read it or we read it together in class.
Again: there’s no substitute for knowing the literature (both stories and poems) really well. Success is rarely dependent upon luck (like crossing your fingers and hoping for the right questions). Success is more likely if you have a game plan, just as in any sport or competition or test of one’s self.
In a way, that’s what this is all about—you’re being tested as much on how you react to adversity as you are on the stories themselves. The vast majority of you will probably do just fine in that regard. All of you, I hope, will at least be able to say, when this is over, that you can look at yourself in the mirror, knowing you at least showed up and tried your best. For any exam, 95% of the work is done before you even show up in the classroom.
I’ll be blogging at least once more before the end of term, likely after the final exams have been written, just to sign off for the semester. Meanwhile, if you have question, feel free to e-mail me at gnc@nf.sympatico.ca.
This is my third blog entry for the day. Keep reading after the end of this post. Please cast a vote in my poll, on the right hand side of this blog entry. Also, I have office hours tomorrow (Thursday) afternoon from 2:30 to 3:30, possibly longer if numbers warrant.
The final exam for English 1080 is on Friday, December 12 @ 9 a.m. in the Phys. Ed. Gymnasium. My students go to the left just as you enter the gym. Look for me standing there in the back of the rows where you’re supposed to be sitting.
There’s not much left to say at this point that hasn’t been already said a half dozen times, but there is likely some full-blown, and half-blown, anxiety going on out there, I’m sure. So I’m hoping to calm some nerves by talking a little about what to expect.
First, I’ll be having office hours Thursday afternoon, the day before the exam, starting at 2:30 and ending (most likely) at 3:30, depending on how many people show up. I’ll certainly stay longer if there is anyone waiting to see me. In fact, I’ll stay until there’s no one left to see, just as I’ve done all semester long. Friday morning, I’ll try to be around before the exam, but I need to be in the gym well before exam time just to get things set up.
The exam has two parts, Part A being “Poetry” and Part B being “Short Stories”. Make sure you flip over the page because there are two sides to the exam just as there are at least two sides to everything. Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to answer ONE question from each section, for a total of TWO essays.
Make sure you’re writing the correct exam: the one with MY name on the top right hand corner.
The questions are straightforward, but make sure you understand what you are being asked to write about, and focus on answering the question directly. The idea, of course, is to show me what you know about the two stories (or poems) as it pertains to the subject I’ve given you to write about. Remember: the questions are designed for you to show me what you know, not what you don’t know.
It’s a two and a half hour exam, so take time to get your thoughts together by making notes to yourself before you begin. You’ll need about an hour to write each essay, with a little time left over. If you’ve had certain problems all semester long (especially comma splice, sentence fragment, tense shift, and passive voice), make sure you take time to go back over the essay and make corrections.
VERY IMPORTANT: Make sure you write TWO strong essays. Don’t spend all your time on the first question and leave yourself less time for the second one. Your grade will probably suffer if you don’t manage your time well. I’ve seen far too many exams in which a student wrote only one good essay and ran out of time for the second one. So time management is crucial once you’re in the exam room. By 10:15 a.m. or so, you should be starting on the second question. I don’t care which order you do them in, just make sure you clearly mark which number you’re answering, as well as which section.
How to prepare? For the short story section, just know the tales really well. If there’s one that you don’t feel strongly about, you’re not likely to use it on the exam. But I would re-familiarize myself with four or five stories, paying attention to the details, maybe some images, symbols, quotations, entire scenes, and so on that stood out during the semester when we talked about these stories. When you’re writing the exam, you should be able to envision how the plot, or character journey, goes from beginning to end, focusing on the key moments (with some detail) along the way. This trick will be immensely helpful when you’re writing and trying to recall certain parts of the story, giving yourself more and more to talk about as you go. If you focus on the literal and/or figurative journey each character takes and how the character has changed by the end of the story, then you will be well-prepared. (Of course, remember that no character exists in isolation: feel free to discuss other characters as well, showing how they relate to what you’re proving about the protagonist, or even a minor character. It’s always your choice as to which characters you will discuss.)
The same is true for the poetry, of course. We talked about them quite a bit in class, so certain images, symbols, word choices, and other poetic techniques should stand out in your mind as you re-read. You should be familiar with the poems as much as possible, enough so that you can do a comparative analysis of two of them. Certain poems go really well together, while others are more of a stretch, but might prove to be an interesting contrast to one another on an exam—your choice. Don’t just try and memorize the poems. It will work better for you if you go through each poem, word by word, line by line, and figure out what it means for you that way. It will make more sense to you now than it did the first time you read it or we read it together in class.
Again: there’s no substitute for knowing the literature (both stories and poems) really well. Success is rarely dependent upon luck (like crossing your fingers and hoping for the right questions). Success is more likely if you have a game plan, just as in any sport or competition or test of one’s self.
In a way, that’s what this is all about—you’re being tested as much on how you react to adversity as you are on the stories themselves. The vast majority of you will probably do just fine in that regard. All of you, I hope, will at least be able to say, when this is over, that you can look at yourself in the mirror, knowing you at least showed up and tried your best. For any exam, 95% of the work is done before you even show up in the classroom.
I’ll be blogging at least once more before the end of term, likely after the final exams have been written, just to sign off for the semester. Meanwhile, if you have question, feel free to e-mail me at gnc@nf.sympatico.ca.
Rock the Vote!
Yes, you too can make a difference. You can't actually vote for change in government (not today, at least), but you can let me know how you felt about parts of English 1080 this semester. I'm constantly changing and adjusting my courses, so I'd truly appreciate it if you'd take the time to go to the "vote caster" at the top right of this blog and let me know what's what. Just click on "Cast Your Vote" and you're there. It's completely anonymous and, best of all, it's free and for a somewhat worthwhile cause.
More blogging again later today.
Again: office hours tomorrow afternoon (see blog entry below).
More blogging again later today.
Again: office hours tomorrow afternoon (see blog entry below).
Extra Office Hour
I'll blog more about the final exam for English 1080 later today--got a few things to say.
For now, I just wanted say I'll be in my office tomorrow afternoon (Thursday), from 2:30 p.m. until 3:30 p.m. or so. If the numbers warrant, I'll certainly stay longer. So if you have a quick question or two, drop by. Because time is so short and it is last minute, I'll be asking you to keep it short, though, so I can manage to see everyone.
Hope to see you. More blogging later. Hope your studying is going well.
GC
For now, I just wanted say I'll be in my office tomorrow afternoon (Thursday), from 2:30 p.m. until 3:30 p.m. or so. If the numbers warrant, I'll certainly stay longer. So if you have a quick question or two, drop by. Because time is so short and it is last minute, I'll be asking you to keep it short, though, so I can manage to see everyone.
Hope to see you. More blogging later. Hope your studying is going well.
GC
Monday, December 1, 2008
Yesterday
Hey there. Haven't posted in a while so I thought I'd pop in and say some stuff.
I won't say too much because last classes are coming on Wednesday. I'll say it all then, most likely, and anything that's left to say I'll say it here when the time comes.
So many things I've been wanting to comment on, but because of the constraints on my time, I haven't been able to.
I recall a week or so ago there was big news out of the Vatican that they'd "forgiven" John Lennon for his remark forty years ago that "the Beatles are bigger than Jesus". They issued a statement that said, and I'm paraphrasing here, that the Beatles music was so much better and important than the music being made today. John was apparently speaking out of his misguided youth and sudden fame, too out of his mind with celebrity to understand the consequence and import of his words. But all is forgiven now. Horse, the barn door is now behind you.
Well, roll over Tchaikovsky and tell John Lennon the news! I'm sure John would be chuckling over that one if he were alive. Forgiveness? First of all, for what? Second of all, who died and made you God?
Also, and here's my real point: how the H-E-double-hockey-sticks would they know what good music was? Has the new pope (whoever he is; I can never remember his name, but for some reason, I can't get that face out of my mind) been listening to Beyonce and Nelly, or maybe R. Kelly or Kanye West? Is that where the comparison comes from? I wonder what the pope has on his iPod these days. Could it be...the Beatles? Maybe The White Album--the one with "Why Don't We Do It in the Road?" and "Happiness is a Warm Gun" and "Helter Skelter"--you know: the Charlie Manson serial killer theme song.
I love the Beatles' music, personally. I never thought they were so bad. I also happen to think that blasphemy is possible only in the face of extreme seriousness and, dare I say, arrogance. But yesterday's blasphemy seems so far away. And hindsight's got 20/20 vision. It's like looking through a glass onion, I guess. All is I know, I can hardly imagine (pardon the expression) that all those young Christians to whom the Vatican is suddenly trying to appeal running out and buying Rubber Soul and Revolver just because the new old pope thinks they're okay now. Of course, I don't image the young Christians were ever into Beyonce and Nelly to begin with. Or maybe I'm wrong.
Anyway, I think it's all just a big reminder to not take any of it so seriously, starting with ourselves and including music and religion.
As for John Lennon, well, maybe now his soul will be free to haunt some other institution. Or maybe he'll finally be able to go into the light, knowing that the pope forgives his sins.
Or maybe, just maybe, he's still befuddled about what the fuss is all about. Betcha.
I won't say too much because last classes are coming on Wednesday. I'll say it all then, most likely, and anything that's left to say I'll say it here when the time comes.
So many things I've been wanting to comment on, but because of the constraints on my time, I haven't been able to.
I recall a week or so ago there was big news out of the Vatican that they'd "forgiven" John Lennon for his remark forty years ago that "the Beatles are bigger than Jesus". They issued a statement that said, and I'm paraphrasing here, that the Beatles music was so much better and important than the music being made today. John was apparently speaking out of his misguided youth and sudden fame, too out of his mind with celebrity to understand the consequence and import of his words. But all is forgiven now. Horse, the barn door is now behind you.
Well, roll over Tchaikovsky and tell John Lennon the news! I'm sure John would be chuckling over that one if he were alive. Forgiveness? First of all, for what? Second of all, who died and made you God?
Also, and here's my real point: how the H-E-double-hockey-sticks would they know what good music was? Has the new pope (whoever he is; I can never remember his name, but for some reason, I can't get that face out of my mind) been listening to Beyonce and Nelly, or maybe R. Kelly or Kanye West? Is that where the comparison comes from? I wonder what the pope has on his iPod these days. Could it be...the Beatles? Maybe The White Album--the one with "Why Don't We Do It in the Road?" and "Happiness is a Warm Gun" and "Helter Skelter"--you know: the Charlie Manson serial killer theme song.
I love the Beatles' music, personally. I never thought they were so bad. I also happen to think that blasphemy is possible only in the face of extreme seriousness and, dare I say, arrogance. But yesterday's blasphemy seems so far away. And hindsight's got 20/20 vision. It's like looking through a glass onion, I guess. All is I know, I can hardly imagine (pardon the expression) that all those young Christians to whom the Vatican is suddenly trying to appeal running out and buying Rubber Soul and Revolver just because the new old pope thinks they're okay now. Of course, I don't image the young Christians were ever into Beyonce and Nelly to begin with. Or maybe I'm wrong.
Anyway, I think it's all just a big reminder to not take any of it so seriously, starting with ourselves and including music and religion.
As for John Lennon, well, maybe now his soul will be free to haunt some other institution. Or maybe he'll finally be able to go into the light, knowing that the pope forgives his sins.
Or maybe, just maybe, he's still befuddled about what the fuss is all about. Betcha.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Revised poetry list.
Here's the revised poetry list for English 1080. I've had to cut the ones that would've taken two or more classes each to discuss. No time, granny no time (Bugs Bunny reference--look it up. It's probably on You Tube.) This is all we'll have time for this semester. I got too ambitious with the Yeats and the Ginsberg especially. Next time, I might start with those.
Here goes. This is what we'll be doing for the rest of the term:
1. “Stopping By Woods” by Robert Frost (Handout)
2. “Daffodils” by W. Wordsworth (Handout)
3. “London” by William Blake (Handout)
4. “Constantly Risking Absurdity” by Lawrence Ferlinghetti (442)
5. “Things” by Lisel Mueller (445)
6. “Not Waving But Drowning” by Stevie Smith (433)
7. “True Love” by Judith Viorst (Handout)
8. “My Mistress’ Eyes” by William Shakespeare (405)
9. “A Kite is a Victim” by Leonard Cohen (452)
10. “My Papa’s Waltz” by Theodore Roethke (354)
11. “Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night” by Dylan Thomas (438)
That should keep us busy.
More to come.
GC
Here goes. This is what we'll be doing for the rest of the term:
1. “Stopping By Woods” by Robert Frost (Handout)
2. “Daffodils” by W. Wordsworth (Handout)
3. “London” by William Blake (Handout)
4. “Constantly Risking Absurdity” by Lawrence Ferlinghetti (442)
5. “Things” by Lisel Mueller (445)
6. “Not Waving But Drowning” by Stevie Smith (433)
7. “True Love” by Judith Viorst (Handout)
8. “My Mistress’ Eyes” by William Shakespeare (405)
9. “A Kite is a Victim” by Leonard Cohen (452)
10. “My Papa’s Waltz” by Theodore Roethke (354)
11. “Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night” by Dylan Thomas (438)
That should keep us busy.
More to come.
GC
Monday, October 13, 2008
Giving Thanks For A Free Country
Happy Thanksgiving. I hope you're all enjoying a relatively carefree day filled with gratitude for the good in this country and in this world.
I was thinking about the soldiers in Afghanistan this morning, how they'll awaken to yet another Thanksgiving in a country so very different from the one in which they were raised or in which their families live.
I was thinking about the freedom we have in this country, in large part thanks to soldiers just like them, but also to people who exercise the right to vote and do so responsibly.
I hope you'll all envision the kind of country you want to live in, ask yourself the right questions about the present and especially about the future of Canada and of this world and take the time tomorrow to vote in the federal election. It's not just your right; it's your duty. Your country doesn't ask much of you in a democracy. But it does ask that you vote.
If you don't vote, you surrender your right to complain about how society treats you or your friends. You concede that nothing will ever change for the better. You surrender, period.
Just vote. It doesn't cost anything. You might think your voice doesn't count, but if you don't vote, you guarantee it won't count. But somebody else's voice will.
What a dumb thing to let happen.
In a democracy, people get the government they deserve, not necessarily the one they need.
I was thinking about the soldiers in Afghanistan this morning, how they'll awaken to yet another Thanksgiving in a country so very different from the one in which they were raised or in which their families live.
I was thinking about the freedom we have in this country, in large part thanks to soldiers just like them, but also to people who exercise the right to vote and do so responsibly.
I hope you'll all envision the kind of country you want to live in, ask yourself the right questions about the present and especially about the future of Canada and of this world and take the time tomorrow to vote in the federal election. It's not just your right; it's your duty. Your country doesn't ask much of you in a democracy. But it does ask that you vote.
If you don't vote, you surrender your right to complain about how society treats you or your friends. You concede that nothing will ever change for the better. You surrender, period.
Just vote. It doesn't cost anything. You might think your voice doesn't count, but if you don't vote, you guarantee it won't count. But somebody else's voice will.
What a dumb thing to let happen.
In a democracy, people get the government they deserve, not necessarily the one they need.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Just In Time For Thanksgiving: quick fixes for sentence structure problems.
I gave back the first 1080 essays for the semester this week, and they were mostly better than I normally expect. It’s the first time in a decade of teaching at MUN I’ve given out three A’s on the first assignment, and several other people were close to getting one. Section 15 had no A’s at all, which is more the norm for this time of term.
There’s still a lot of work to do, as can be seen by the number of students lined up outside of my office door lately. With another assignment due on October 22, I figured a little advice wouldn’t hurt. So the next couple of bloggings from me will concern how to fix up some of the major problems nearly everyone had on the first essays. (Some info re-posted from an earlier blog entry, but revised to fit English 1080).
First of all, I don't make these things up. Sentence fragment, tense shift, and comma splice are real words and have real consequences for your writing. You should have learned about them in high school English, but either no one showed you or the lesson just didn't take. Or maybe in the time since you last wrote an essay, you forgot how to do it. That's all understandable, but what can we do about it? First, you might notice that I used some abbreviations on your essays: 1. "T.S." means tense shift. 2. "C.S." means comma splice. 3. "S.F." means sentence fragment (probably not what you were thinking SF could stand for).
Here's what those terms mean: 1. Tense shift just means that you're switching from speaking in the present voice to speaking in the past voice. You're using "was" when you should be using "is". You're ending words in an "-ed" suffix instead of ending them in "-es" or just "s". Just be consistent. Somtimes, it's fine to use past tense, but most of the time you should consistently use the present tense when talking about fiction, as if the action were happening right now as you read it. So if you said something like "Elisa worked in her garden most of the time," it should read: "Elisa works in her garden most of the time."
2. Comma splice means that you're joining (i.e. "splicing") together two sentences using a humble comma. The comma wasn't intended for such heavy labor. It's like using a screwdriver as a chisel. You can do it, but eventually there will be breakage. Your sentences get too long and, usually, tough to follow.
Here's how to recognize a comma splice: read what you've written on both sides of the comma; if both sides read like a complete sentence, then you've used a comma splice, which is a major grammatical error, not to mention confusing. See, a comma tells you to pause. But periods, for the sake of clarity, require you to stop. (See what I mean there in that last sentence?)
So how do you fix a comma splice, supposing you should see one? 1. Use a period and make two separate sentences. 2. Or use a semi-colon, which is designed to join/separate two complete sentences that are related to each other in thought/theme. 3. Or use a conjunction (e.g. “but,” “however,” “and,” “because,” and so on) and (sometimes) use a comma with it. That's probably the easiest and most common fix. You'll have to get used to recognizing comma splices in your sentences. That's the only way to eradicate the problem from your writing: practice. After a while, it will become natural. I've seen it happen for thousands of students in a matter of weeks and it can happen for you. Depends on how bad you want it. Here's an example of a comma splice:
Comma Splice: Henry leans over the fence, he startles his wife.
Fix: Henry leans over the fence. He startles his wife.
Fix: Henry leans over the fence; he startles his wife.
Fix: Henry leans over the fence, but he startles his wife.
Fix: Henry leans over the fence and startles his wife.
Fix: When Henry leans over the fence, he startles his wife.
3. Sentence Fragment just means that what you've said (and obviously think is a full sentence because it starts with a capital letter and ends in a period after a string of seemingly meaninful words) is not a complete sentence. It's a fragment of a sentence, a mere piece of one: a pretend sentence in disguise, and it's up to you to start recognizing its covert behaviour. It shouldn't be hanging out with the other sentences because, well, it just isn't one and it should just solve the problem by BECOMING one. Their main offense is that they just don't make sense on their own, sort of like Nick Lachey. That's how you fix a sentence fragment: either make it a full sentence by itself OR join it to the preceding clause. That's right: if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
Here's an example of a sentence fragment.
Sentence fragment: Arnold Friend, standing outside her door, asking if he can come in, which Connie refuses.
Looks, smells, sounds, and feels like a sentence, doesn't it? And yet, on closer look, it isn't quite complete. It needs something else, doesn't it? The sentence lacks context.
So the fix is in: Arnold Friend is standing outside her door, asking if he can come in, which Connie refuses.
Or: Arnold Friend stands outside her door, asking if he can come in, but Connie refuses.
See the difference a simple verb can make? I just added the word "is" or change “standing” to “stands” and now it all makes sense because we can (sort of) see them doing what we've implied they are doing. Fixing sentence fragments is usually just a matter of revising your verb (the word that implies action).
The other way to fix this problem would be to simply connect the fragment to a preceding sentence. For example, let's say you (okay, somebody else. Denial has its uses.) wrote this:
Connie looks into mirrors a lot and looks at other people’s faces. Which tells her how she is doing.
You no doubt recognize that the second "sentence" is an imposter: a mere sentence fragment.
Here's a quick fix: Connie looks into mirrors a lot and looks at other people’s faces, which tells her how she is doing.
Notice that all it takes is a simple comma (also notice that what follows the comma is NOT a complete sentence, so we haven't created a dastardly comma splice, and so everyone sleeps well).
Anyway, I hope this helps. If you're still confused, just come see me or get in touch, okay?
There's no need to feel like you're out there on your own with nowhere to turn. Help is available. :-) And my e-mail address is toll-free. Act now and you'll get free advice about plot summary (which means you're tell me what happens instead of why such details are important for your thesis). Offer available for a limited time only (till December 12, 2008).
It’s almost Thanksgiving weekend, and I’m guessing most of us have a lot to be thankful for. I’ll be very grateful if I never have to talk about comma splice, sentence fragment, or tense shift again this semester because that would mean people are getting it.
Next time: paragraphing and organizing your essay, perhaps a little on thesis statements and topic sentences too.
Till later,
GC
There’s still a lot of work to do, as can be seen by the number of students lined up outside of my office door lately. With another assignment due on October 22, I figured a little advice wouldn’t hurt. So the next couple of bloggings from me will concern how to fix up some of the major problems nearly everyone had on the first essays. (Some info re-posted from an earlier blog entry, but revised to fit English 1080).
First of all, I don't make these things up. Sentence fragment, tense shift, and comma splice are real words and have real consequences for your writing. You should have learned about them in high school English, but either no one showed you or the lesson just didn't take. Or maybe in the time since you last wrote an essay, you forgot how to do it. That's all understandable, but what can we do about it? First, you might notice that I used some abbreviations on your essays: 1. "T.S." means tense shift. 2. "C.S." means comma splice. 3. "S.F." means sentence fragment (probably not what you were thinking SF could stand for).
Here's what those terms mean: 1. Tense shift just means that you're switching from speaking in the present voice to speaking in the past voice. You're using "was" when you should be using "is". You're ending words in an "-ed" suffix instead of ending them in "-es" or just "s". Just be consistent. Somtimes, it's fine to use past tense, but most of the time you should consistently use the present tense when talking about fiction, as if the action were happening right now as you read it. So if you said something like "Elisa worked in her garden most of the time," it should read: "Elisa works in her garden most of the time."
2. Comma splice means that you're joining (i.e. "splicing") together two sentences using a humble comma. The comma wasn't intended for such heavy labor. It's like using a screwdriver as a chisel. You can do it, but eventually there will be breakage. Your sentences get too long and, usually, tough to follow.
Here's how to recognize a comma splice: read what you've written on both sides of the comma; if both sides read like a complete sentence, then you've used a comma splice, which is a major grammatical error, not to mention confusing. See, a comma tells you to pause. But periods, for the sake of clarity, require you to stop. (See what I mean there in that last sentence?)
So how do you fix a comma splice, supposing you should see one? 1. Use a period and make two separate sentences. 2. Or use a semi-colon, which is designed to join/separate two complete sentences that are related to each other in thought/theme. 3. Or use a conjunction (e.g. “but,” “however,” “and,” “because,” and so on) and (sometimes) use a comma with it. That's probably the easiest and most common fix. You'll have to get used to recognizing comma splices in your sentences. That's the only way to eradicate the problem from your writing: practice. After a while, it will become natural. I've seen it happen for thousands of students in a matter of weeks and it can happen for you. Depends on how bad you want it. Here's an example of a comma splice:
Comma Splice: Henry leans over the fence, he startles his wife.
Fix: Henry leans over the fence. He startles his wife.
Fix: Henry leans over the fence; he startles his wife.
Fix: Henry leans over the fence, but he startles his wife.
Fix: Henry leans over the fence and startles his wife.
Fix: When Henry leans over the fence, he startles his wife.
3. Sentence Fragment just means that what you've said (and obviously think is a full sentence because it starts with a capital letter and ends in a period after a string of seemingly meaninful words) is not a complete sentence. It's a fragment of a sentence, a mere piece of one: a pretend sentence in disguise, and it's up to you to start recognizing its covert behaviour. It shouldn't be hanging out with the other sentences because, well, it just isn't one and it should just solve the problem by BECOMING one. Their main offense is that they just don't make sense on their own, sort of like Nick Lachey. That's how you fix a sentence fragment: either make it a full sentence by itself OR join it to the preceding clause. That's right: if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
Here's an example of a sentence fragment.
Sentence fragment: Arnold Friend, standing outside her door, asking if he can come in, which Connie refuses.
Looks, smells, sounds, and feels like a sentence, doesn't it? And yet, on closer look, it isn't quite complete. It needs something else, doesn't it? The sentence lacks context.
So the fix is in: Arnold Friend is standing outside her door, asking if he can come in, which Connie refuses.
Or: Arnold Friend stands outside her door, asking if he can come in, but Connie refuses.
See the difference a simple verb can make? I just added the word "is" or change “standing” to “stands” and now it all makes sense because we can (sort of) see them doing what we've implied they are doing. Fixing sentence fragments is usually just a matter of revising your verb (the word that implies action).
The other way to fix this problem would be to simply connect the fragment to a preceding sentence. For example, let's say you (okay, somebody else. Denial has its uses.) wrote this:
Connie looks into mirrors a lot and looks at other people’s faces. Which tells her how she is doing.
You no doubt recognize that the second "sentence" is an imposter: a mere sentence fragment.
Here's a quick fix: Connie looks into mirrors a lot and looks at other people’s faces, which tells her how she is doing.
Notice that all it takes is a simple comma (also notice that what follows the comma is NOT a complete sentence, so we haven't created a dastardly comma splice, and so everyone sleeps well).
Anyway, I hope this helps. If you're still confused, just come see me or get in touch, okay?
There's no need to feel like you're out there on your own with nowhere to turn. Help is available. :-) And my e-mail address is toll-free. Act now and you'll get free advice about plot summary (which means you're tell me what happens instead of why such details are important for your thesis). Offer available for a limited time only (till December 12, 2008).
It’s almost Thanksgiving weekend, and I’m guessing most of us have a lot to be thankful for. I’ll be very grateful if I never have to talk about comma splice, sentence fragment, or tense shift again this semester because that would mean people are getting it.
Next time: paragraphing and organizing your essay, perhaps a little on thesis statements and topic sentences too.
Till later,
GC
Monday, September 29, 2008
Young Goodman Brown: A Sock's Tale
Here's an adaptation of Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" that I thought you'd enjoy.
I particularly like the actor who plays the devil figure. I think he shows a lot of range, while the one who plays YGB is a bit stiff. The actress who plays Faith is appealing in her own way, though fairly one-dimensional.
Also, please note that the video contains scenes of nudity that might be offensive to some. Or not. Enjoy!
http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=4RbgjOa34wI
I particularly like the actor who plays the devil figure. I think he shows a lot of range, while the one who plays YGB is a bit stiff. The actress who plays Faith is appealing in her own way, though fairly one-dimensional.
Also, please note that the video contains scenes of nudity that might be offensive to some. Or not. Enjoy!
http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=4RbgjOa34wI
Thursday, September 25, 2008
New story
By the way, in English 1080, we'll be starting "Young Goodman Brown" by Nathaniel Hawthorne on Monday, Sept. 26. Just a reminder.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
The Grapes of Wrath
I was talking about John Steinbeck's "The Chrysanthemums" in class on Friday, reflecting on how, being published in 1938, it really does reflect the social, cultural, political, and economic realities of the Depression era. As I mentioned, the Great Depression really began in 1929, triggered by Black Tuesday, which began a decade of massive unemployment, with millions of jobs lost, people losing their houses and life savings, losing hope, losing everything. That era, more than anything, is a reminder to most of us in the Western World (though the Depression was felt everywhere, not just in the USA and Canada) of just how bad it can get, economically. It's a benchmark of how terrible our social and economic problems can become if we, our governments, and big business don't actually mind our business properly.
The same conditions appear to exist today. Although I'm no economist, it doesn't take one to see that our financial system is built on a house of cards--even more now because we no longer even have paper money and hard cash so much to produce. Most of what we own is a bank machine printout that says how much, or how little we have. It's all just numbers being traded back and forth. Same with Wall Street, as it always has been, I suppose. The U.S. government seems to have no clue to the value of a trillion dollars, buying out huge companies (though arguably, they are also preventing dozens of other companies from filing for bankruptcy in a sort of domino effect), shelling out billions and trillions to pay for wars they can't afford and, arguably, shouldn't even be fighting.
Beyond that, people are losing their houses in record numbers because banks loaned them money they really shouldn't have loaned them. So the banks foreclose, but that's not the same as the bank getting its money back. So the people are in debt, the banks lose money, and the whole thing starts to go up in smoke. The banks are getting bailed out by government, which only means the government goes in debt by trillions more, and the government is actually the people themselves.
Factor in massive layoffs, a global economy that depends on American stability (an oxymoron if I ever heard one), and the impending financial and other catastrophes as a result of global warming, and you have the recipe for a perfect storm. Great Depression II. Will it happen? Maybe there's a solution, or maybe someone's working on one. Let's hope so because it's not just an American problem.
Anyway, I mentioned in class on Friday that, for my money, The Grapes of Wrath by that same John Steinbeck feller is one of the top four American novels of all time. I consider The Great Gatsby, The Catcher in the Rye, and To Kill a Mockingbird to be the others--though I admit I need to reconsider my list and maybe update it one of these days. But my point, really, in writing this entry is that the movie version of The Grapes of Wrath is actually on CBC television tonight at 1:30 a.m. (Newfoundland time; midnight ET) in case you're interested in taking a peek. It's in black and white (which I love) and stars Henry Fonda, one the greatest actors of all time. You'll get to see his portrayal of the character in Bruce Springsteen's best song of all time (my opinion, anyway) "The Ghost of Tom Joad." That song gives me shivers every time I hear it because it makes me think of the fragility of our social fabric, but the strength of the human spirit at the same time.
The highway is alive tonight,
And where it's headed, everybody knows.
Just sittin' down here in the campfire light,
Waitin' on the ghost of Tom Joad.
If you're interested in seeing the video, I just found it on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1DEtA5fhk4k
And if you've a mind to watch a clip from the movie, you'll see where Springsteen got his inspiration, from one of the most famous speeches in literary or movie history: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wke1RBvcNQ
The same conditions appear to exist today. Although I'm no economist, it doesn't take one to see that our financial system is built on a house of cards--even more now because we no longer even have paper money and hard cash so much to produce. Most of what we own is a bank machine printout that says how much, or how little we have. It's all just numbers being traded back and forth. Same with Wall Street, as it always has been, I suppose. The U.S. government seems to have no clue to the value of a trillion dollars, buying out huge companies (though arguably, they are also preventing dozens of other companies from filing for bankruptcy in a sort of domino effect), shelling out billions and trillions to pay for wars they can't afford and, arguably, shouldn't even be fighting.
Beyond that, people are losing their houses in record numbers because banks loaned them money they really shouldn't have loaned them. So the banks foreclose, but that's not the same as the bank getting its money back. So the people are in debt, the banks lose money, and the whole thing starts to go up in smoke. The banks are getting bailed out by government, which only means the government goes in debt by trillions more, and the government is actually the people themselves.
Factor in massive layoffs, a global economy that depends on American stability (an oxymoron if I ever heard one), and the impending financial and other catastrophes as a result of global warming, and you have the recipe for a perfect storm. Great Depression II. Will it happen? Maybe there's a solution, or maybe someone's working on one. Let's hope so because it's not just an American problem.
Anyway, I mentioned in class on Friday that, for my money, The Grapes of Wrath by that same John Steinbeck feller is one of the top four American novels of all time. I consider The Great Gatsby, The Catcher in the Rye, and To Kill a Mockingbird to be the others--though I admit I need to reconsider my list and maybe update it one of these days. But my point, really, in writing this entry is that the movie version of The Grapes of Wrath is actually on CBC television tonight at 1:30 a.m. (Newfoundland time; midnight ET) in case you're interested in taking a peek. It's in black and white (which I love) and stars Henry Fonda, one the greatest actors of all time. You'll get to see his portrayal of the character in Bruce Springsteen's best song of all time (my opinion, anyway) "The Ghost of Tom Joad." That song gives me shivers every time I hear it because it makes me think of the fragility of our social fabric, but the strength of the human spirit at the same time.
The highway is alive tonight,
And where it's headed, everybody knows.
Just sittin' down here in the campfire light,
Waitin' on the ghost of Tom Joad.
If you're interested in seeing the video, I just found it on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1DEtA5fhk4k
And if you've a mind to watch a clip from the movie, you'll see where Springsteen got his inspiration, from one of the most famous speeches in literary or movie history: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wke1RBvcNQ
Sunday, September 7, 2008
A New Chapter
It being September, I've begun teaching English at MUN as of this past Friday. So "Hi!" to all the new readers who'll be checking in over the next few weeks to see what's on the go.
I started this blog a little over a year and a half ago with the intent of keeping students informed about assignments, as well as providing some extra information and inspiration whenever possible, to help them get through my in-class ramblings a little easier. By the end of that semester there were about two thousand posts, telling me the experiment was a success--although most well-meaning people had told me it wouldn't fly. Since then, I've received e-mails, comments and notices from, not only former students, but people all over the world, really, who've been reading the blog and getting something out of it. Some people like the lessons on grammar and essay writing (there'll be more of that); others like my musings on fiction writing (there'll be some of that, though a bit less for a while); others were interested in the accounts of my attempts to publish my own work; while still others just seem to see something they liked in general.
I can't explain it really, but I appreciate that so many people seem to be reading this blog. After a couple of semesters off from teaching, though, I'm back at it again and so this blog will take on more of a collegial tone. I'll be writing more about assignments and essay-writing, while also offering the occasional bit on life in general, just to keep it interesting. So for those of you who've been tuned in all along, there's no need to go anywhere.
For you newbies: welcome. My hope is that you'll get something out of this that will help you on the journey. Feel free to poke around through past entries and comment wherever you'd like. Mostly though, just come visit once in a while and I'll try to have something here for you as often as the need arises.
The nature of blogs, for better or for worse, is that they inevitably become about the person who's writing them. Really, though, this one was never meant for that. It still isn't. And now, at last, we return to regularly scheduled programming.
And so it ends. And so it begins.
I started this blog a little over a year and a half ago with the intent of keeping students informed about assignments, as well as providing some extra information and inspiration whenever possible, to help them get through my in-class ramblings a little easier. By the end of that semester there were about two thousand posts, telling me the experiment was a success--although most well-meaning people had told me it wouldn't fly. Since then, I've received e-mails, comments and notices from, not only former students, but people all over the world, really, who've been reading the blog and getting something out of it. Some people like the lessons on grammar and essay writing (there'll be more of that); others like my musings on fiction writing (there'll be some of that, though a bit less for a while); others were interested in the accounts of my attempts to publish my own work; while still others just seem to see something they liked in general.
I can't explain it really, but I appreciate that so many people seem to be reading this blog. After a couple of semesters off from teaching, though, I'm back at it again and so this blog will take on more of a collegial tone. I'll be writing more about assignments and essay-writing, while also offering the occasional bit on life in general, just to keep it interesting. So for those of you who've been tuned in all along, there's no need to go anywhere.
For you newbies: welcome. My hope is that you'll get something out of this that will help you on the journey. Feel free to poke around through past entries and comment wherever you'd like. Mostly though, just come visit once in a while and I'll try to have something here for you as often as the need arises.
The nature of blogs, for better or for worse, is that they inevitably become about the person who's writing them. Really, though, this one was never meant for that. It still isn't. And now, at last, we return to regularly scheduled programming.
And so it ends. And so it begins.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
The Toughest Fight
"To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else, means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting."
e.e. cummings
e.e. cummings
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Fumbling Through Ecstasy
I went swimming at the Aquarena this morning. When I got home, my wife asked, "Was it fun?"
"I hurt all over."
"But did you enjoy it?"
Enjoyment had nothing to do with it, I told her. I haven't been swimming since Jesus was a baby (not that that was my reason for doing it back then; the two events are completely unrelated), but I've been meaning to.
When I was a kid, I spent my summers in water. I'd swim in the ocean day after day. I knew the tides better than I knew my friends' habits. There was this huge rock at Sandy Cove I used to stand on and use as a diving platform. When the tide was in, only the very top of that boulder--which was really about the size of a small shed--protruded from the salty brine, making it a perfect launching pad. I'd do somersaults, back flips, and jackknife dives into the North Atlantic, eyes wide open as I explored the seabed filled with rocks and sand, seaweed, starfish, shellfish, jellyfish, and whatever else the ocean had to offer. The last time I did that I was seventeen years old and the rush just never got old--that feeling of exhiliration from doing something forbidden and even potentially dangerous, especially since I swam alone a lot. I'd go there with friends too, but, as with skating (also on the ocean) it was my habit to get up early most days and enjoy it in solitude. Nothing but me and nature. Sometimes, I'd get out of the water and just sit there, not even breathing heavy, and just listen to the birds, the tide, and the wind.
Sounds pretty idyllic. Of course, we also had a community outdoor swimming pool just down the hill from our house, and it was open from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. It would kill me to have to wait until 9 a.m., to be honest. Most days, I'd be there at the door, rushing to be first in line, with my money in hand. I'd stay there all day if I could, though most days I had enough money for only two or three hours. I'd swim pretty much all day. Up and down, deep end or shallow end, teasing the girls of course, diving off the board, though none too pretty. It was a swimmapalooza, all summer long. I hated when the pool would shut down for the day and I had to wait all night and early the next morning for it to open again. It wasn't that I had no life; it's just that, when I was young, this pretty much was my life. If I wasn't reading a book, I was playing some kind of sports. It wasn't that I had to choose swimming over softball, basketball, or hockey. I'd do those things too, often all in the same day.
Well, things have changed. I still run a few miles several days of the week and play badminton occasionally, putting the same amount of effort in that I always did. But it's been YEARS, actually decades, since I've been swimming, except for the occasional dip over the years at Butterpot Park (once about fifteen years ago) or glacier fed (thus, extremely cold in August) Harrison Lake in British Columbia's lower mainland.
I made up my mind I was going to get back to it--been meaning to for years. Well, this morning, I finally did. It's a little unnerving to don the swim trunks again after so many years. Back in the day, I didn't worry about how I looked; I just went. Now it's in the back of your mind, after years of hearing things in the media about how you're supposed to wear the right things to the beach and be in shape for summer, and all the rest of it, that you can't help it. You just know you're being assessed by everyone in the pool, lifeguards and all.
Then there's the fact that I never really was a very strong swimmer. Sure, I could do it. But I never learned the techniques you're supposed to learn. So I wondered: could I really do it after all these years?
Turns out I can, but there's a price to be paid. First of all, forget about how I look in swim shorts. Everyone at the pool, except for the twenty-year-old lifeguards who looked like they wouldn't put me out if I was on fire, let alone rescue me from drowning on their watch, was at least a little overweight. I was easily the smallest and (I thought) most fit person there.
So I went there, got in the water, didn't think about it, just dove in. Figured that was the best way. Well, it seems that somewhere along the way the muscles that one normally uses for swimming had decided to retire without telling me. Swimming is like giving birth (or so I've been told): no one tells you that, if you've never done it before, it's FREAKIN' HARD! Michael Phelps is a god. No two ways about it. But the thing is, he practices. He swims five hours a day. He eats, sleeps, breathes, and dreams about swimming. And so do most of those other aquine Olympians.
I swam thirty metres out, and I thought I was gonna die. Honestly. My heart was pounding. My arms were already sore, and my legs were like jelly. I only thought I was physically fit. I mean, sure I am fit for the most part, but nothing had prepared me for that burning sensation of my limbs and lungs.
But I stuck it out. I stayed for about forty minutes, forcing myself to swim though I felt like quitting. I knew that the only way I was going to get better and stronger at this was to practice. And it's not going to happen overnight. Just like when I start running after a long absence, I'll have to start slowly (in this case, excruciatingly slow) and work my way up to it. Maybe in a month or so I can do an entire 100 metre lap. That's the goal for now. It's not easy to do these things when so many people are watching. The Aquarena is a very public space, with eyes on you everywhere you turn, including the two lifeguards, who looked so bored and disgusted with my feeble efforts. I mean, it was obvious I'm no swimmer or that I haven't done it in a very long time. So give me a break.
The thing I often think about is, when you guys are in your thirties and forties, are you still going to be stretching yourself athletically and in other ways? Are you still going to be daring yourself to try new things or things that scare you a little? Are you going to be willing to teach yourself something slowly, painstakingly slowly, until you at least become good enough at it that you can enjoy it?
I can honestly say I've lived my life that way. Every now and then I do something to shake things up. So I take up a new sport or creative pursuit. I remember once, in my early twenties, I woke up one morning and went downtown with my guitar to busk for a day. It was a horrible experience in some ways, but exhilirating in other ways. Thing is, I wanted to know how it felt just so I could empathize with those who did it, but also because it was such a scary, public thing to do--I mean, singing for strangers on a street corner, most of them looking at you like you were a freak or a hobo. I didn't want money. I wanted self-respect: knowing that I could do such a thing meant that I had nothing to be afraid of in life.
The experience of taking up swimming this morning was just like that. You just take the thing that scares you the most in life and dive right in.
The next step, of course, is to take some lessons. I need them, just to get my technique down. After that: practice, practice, practice. It's not just how you get to Carnegie Hall. It's how you get the most out of life.
"I hurt all over."
"But did you enjoy it?"
Enjoyment had nothing to do with it, I told her. I haven't been swimming since Jesus was a baby (not that that was my reason for doing it back then; the two events are completely unrelated), but I've been meaning to.
When I was a kid, I spent my summers in water. I'd swim in the ocean day after day. I knew the tides better than I knew my friends' habits. There was this huge rock at Sandy Cove I used to stand on and use as a diving platform. When the tide was in, only the very top of that boulder--which was really about the size of a small shed--protruded from the salty brine, making it a perfect launching pad. I'd do somersaults, back flips, and jackknife dives into the North Atlantic, eyes wide open as I explored the seabed filled with rocks and sand, seaweed, starfish, shellfish, jellyfish, and whatever else the ocean had to offer. The last time I did that I was seventeen years old and the rush just never got old--that feeling of exhiliration from doing something forbidden and even potentially dangerous, especially since I swam alone a lot. I'd go there with friends too, but, as with skating (also on the ocean) it was my habit to get up early most days and enjoy it in solitude. Nothing but me and nature. Sometimes, I'd get out of the water and just sit there, not even breathing heavy, and just listen to the birds, the tide, and the wind.
Sounds pretty idyllic. Of course, we also had a community outdoor swimming pool just down the hill from our house, and it was open from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. It would kill me to have to wait until 9 a.m., to be honest. Most days, I'd be there at the door, rushing to be first in line, with my money in hand. I'd stay there all day if I could, though most days I had enough money for only two or three hours. I'd swim pretty much all day. Up and down, deep end or shallow end, teasing the girls of course, diving off the board, though none too pretty. It was a swimmapalooza, all summer long. I hated when the pool would shut down for the day and I had to wait all night and early the next morning for it to open again. It wasn't that I had no life; it's just that, when I was young, this pretty much was my life. If I wasn't reading a book, I was playing some kind of sports. It wasn't that I had to choose swimming over softball, basketball, or hockey. I'd do those things too, often all in the same day.
Well, things have changed. I still run a few miles several days of the week and play badminton occasionally, putting the same amount of effort in that I always did. But it's been YEARS, actually decades, since I've been swimming, except for the occasional dip over the years at Butterpot Park (once about fifteen years ago) or glacier fed (thus, extremely cold in August) Harrison Lake in British Columbia's lower mainland.
I made up my mind I was going to get back to it--been meaning to for years. Well, this morning, I finally did. It's a little unnerving to don the swim trunks again after so many years. Back in the day, I didn't worry about how I looked; I just went. Now it's in the back of your mind, after years of hearing things in the media about how you're supposed to wear the right things to the beach and be in shape for summer, and all the rest of it, that you can't help it. You just know you're being assessed by everyone in the pool, lifeguards and all.
Then there's the fact that I never really was a very strong swimmer. Sure, I could do it. But I never learned the techniques you're supposed to learn. So I wondered: could I really do it after all these years?
Turns out I can, but there's a price to be paid. First of all, forget about how I look in swim shorts. Everyone at the pool, except for the twenty-year-old lifeguards who looked like they wouldn't put me out if I was on fire, let alone rescue me from drowning on their watch, was at least a little overweight. I was easily the smallest and (I thought) most fit person there.
So I went there, got in the water, didn't think about it, just dove in. Figured that was the best way. Well, it seems that somewhere along the way the muscles that one normally uses for swimming had decided to retire without telling me. Swimming is like giving birth (or so I've been told): no one tells you that, if you've never done it before, it's FREAKIN' HARD! Michael Phelps is a god. No two ways about it. But the thing is, he practices. He swims five hours a day. He eats, sleeps, breathes, and dreams about swimming. And so do most of those other aquine Olympians.
I swam thirty metres out, and I thought I was gonna die. Honestly. My heart was pounding. My arms were already sore, and my legs were like jelly. I only thought I was physically fit. I mean, sure I am fit for the most part, but nothing had prepared me for that burning sensation of my limbs and lungs.
But I stuck it out. I stayed for about forty minutes, forcing myself to swim though I felt like quitting. I knew that the only way I was going to get better and stronger at this was to practice. And it's not going to happen overnight. Just like when I start running after a long absence, I'll have to start slowly (in this case, excruciatingly slow) and work my way up to it. Maybe in a month or so I can do an entire 100 metre lap. That's the goal for now. It's not easy to do these things when so many people are watching. The Aquarena is a very public space, with eyes on you everywhere you turn, including the two lifeguards, who looked so bored and disgusted with my feeble efforts. I mean, it was obvious I'm no swimmer or that I haven't done it in a very long time. So give me a break.
The thing I often think about is, when you guys are in your thirties and forties, are you still going to be stretching yourself athletically and in other ways? Are you still going to be daring yourself to try new things or things that scare you a little? Are you going to be willing to teach yourself something slowly, painstakingly slowly, until you at least become good enough at it that you can enjoy it?
I can honestly say I've lived my life that way. Every now and then I do something to shake things up. So I take up a new sport or creative pursuit. I remember once, in my early twenties, I woke up one morning and went downtown with my guitar to busk for a day. It was a horrible experience in some ways, but exhilirating in other ways. Thing is, I wanted to know how it felt just so I could empathize with those who did it, but also because it was such a scary, public thing to do--I mean, singing for strangers on a street corner, most of them looking at you like you were a freak or a hobo. I didn't want money. I wanted self-respect: knowing that I could do such a thing meant that I had nothing to be afraid of in life.
The experience of taking up swimming this morning was just like that. You just take the thing that scares you the most in life and dive right in.
The next step, of course, is to take some lessons. I need them, just to get my technique down. After that: practice, practice, practice. It's not just how you get to Carnegie Hall. It's how you get the most out of life.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
No Country For Old Men
I was reading an article a few days ago that suggested John McCain should not be allowed to become president of the United States because he is old. I've also heard that Mats Sundin should no longer be a Maple Leaf because he's in his thirties and, therefore, too old to be of use to the team anymore. I've seen dancers and figure skaters, tennis players and actors contemplating retirement because they've reached their late twenties and can hear the clock ticking. We live in a time when a new artist of any sort--singer, writer, actor--has to be a teenager (preferably between 13 and 17, as 18 is getting a little long in the tooth) in order to warrant any kind of attention.
What the hell is wrong with us?
Even older people are trying to look younger and will do whatever it takes, including (gasp!) exercise and eating right. Of course, more people are figuring out early that you have to start doing those things when you're young, say in your early twenties, so that your face doesn't look like a road map by the time you're in your forties. If they've cheated all along and eaten all the wrong foods, stayed up every night till dawn, partied with the wrong drugs and people, and avoided exercise like it was a deadly form of torture, then there's always the nip-and-tuck version of youth and beauty.
I've got to ask though: what's wrong with having a wrinkled face or a few gray hairs? I won't even go so far as to say that they are signs of anything except getting older. But that's my point: what's wrong with getting older? It happens to all of us, and yet we treat aging as if it should be a source of shame. Well, shame on us all if that's how we feel because the fact is we are all getting older, every second, every minute, every day. It's one of those things that unites us as a race of human beings.
Recently, I've had arguments with people about the idea of mandatory retirement. It seems some people think as soon as a person (say a university professor, which was the profession under discussion) reaches an age when they can get a pension, they should just bow out gracefully and go out to pasture, go live in an old folks' home or something like that. But isn't it when a person gets into their sixties and seventies that they have accumulate the most wisdom they have ever had? We need the old to teach the young, and we need the young to be interested enough to listen and to act. Of course, the young will still make the mistakes of the young, and the old will still shake their heads. But it's another thing altogether for either group to dismiss the other as being too rebellious or irrelevant. To say an entire group of people is irrelevant because of their age (whether old or young) is a sort psychological genocide, where an entire sector of the population is wiped out and invisible. And don't tell me it doesn't compare to real genocide because, although it doesn't involve physical death, it does involve a moral, spiritual, and philosophical death. If you tell someone they don't matter because they are old, you are effectively cutting them off from your life and the lives of others who your own age. You are also sentencing yourself, and others, to an inevitable, hoary old age--one in which you don't matter, ultimately, because you only matter when you are young and shiny, new and relevant.
Mick Jagger turned 65 yesterday. I wish people would stop criticizing him for still rocking when he's a grandfather and start applauding him, unanimously for keeping the dream alive, for ignoring what he himself probably believed when he was young. The Who once sang, "Hope I die before I get old." That pretty much sums it up.
I think a lot of us would like to die before we get old. Look at how we revered John Kennedy, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Kurt Cobain, Heath Ledger. All great talents who never grew old. Forever young, and all that. Even Jesus H. Christ didn't have the audacity to age before our very eyes. He died in his early thirties, before he started to not look like the portraits we all have of him in our heads. But how many people have I heard say that they won't go see Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, or Elton John in concert because, "Dude, they're old." Fine. These singers are predominately of an earlier generation. But it seems that they still have a lot to say while a lot have people have tuned out. That's no way to treat your grandfather, your mother, yourself, or your own children. Can you look at your new-born child, niece, or nephew and say, "I like you now, but when you get old, people should stop paying attention to you"? That seems wrong, and yet it's what we do to OTHER people's children. No wonder Tom Waits sang, "I don't wanna grow up." Not much fun in that.
But I've found the answer. See, I'm getting older. Surprise! (The real kicker is, so are you.) But I find that I often forget how old I am, unless I'm forced to answer the question for some government census or something like that. I've gone entire years thinking I was older than I am so that when my birthday came, I was pleasantly surprised to get to live that year of my life over again. A do-over!
But the real trick is to not fall into the trap of allowing yourself to feel old and act old, while at the same time avoiding the pitfalls of trying to be younger than you are. I don't pay much attention to birthdays, but at the same time, I've always been somewhat athletic in my own way, always keeping on the move, running, weightlifting, sports, and that sort of thing. I take care of my mind too by reading books, playing chess and Scrabble, engaging in political discussion, paying attention to what's going on in the world, engaging with the lives going on around me. When it comes to your mind, you either use it or lose it, and that doesn't start when your fifty or sixty-five. It starts when you're young.
There's a forty-one-year old swimmer from the United States in the upcoming Olympics and she wasn't expected to make the team. I'll be cheering for her when the Games begin in August. Just the same as I'll be cheering for the youngest athletes who are there for the first time. In spite of all this, my point really is that I don't care about age. I can learn something from someone of any age. When I teach university courses, I love teaching first-year because I learn from their vitality, their ability to look at everything with fresh eyes, to question everything. But I also learn that just because you're young doesn't mean you do all these things naturally. Sometimes you need to be taught, and that comes from your peers, to some extent, and from your (gulp) elders, to a larger extent. Sometimes the young are afraid, and that's okay. Sometimes they are bold and brash, and they'll break your heart by either trying too hard or not trying hard enough. Either way, they know things, and I can learn from them.
Which brings me back to where I started. Sometimes a country or a sports team needs an old warrior to bring some wisdom and dignity to the proceedings. They've been there before and they've learned some things that might be used as weapons, either offensively or defensively. Don't cast them aside, but let them fall on their own swords at their own time and place of choice. Don't force them to go gentle into that good night because, if they're smart, they won't go--not without a fight. And neither should you.
But then, you've got lots of time, right? And when you're old, you're someone else.
Right.
Oh, and I actually wouldn't vote for John McCain if I were American, but that's just a matter of politics. I don't really care if his heart's in good condition, as long as it's in the right place. I wouldn't vote for Barack Obama because he's relatively young, as long as he's relatively smart, compassionate and strategic.
The whole age debate is stupid and pointless. It's hard enough getting older without feeling like the whole world's against you. But I swear some days, it is.
I feel young today, but I can see the day coming when my words will fall on deaf ears because my hair is mostly white, my muscles aren't toned, and my voice is shaky. Heck, I already need to wear glasses more often and often have to ask people to repeat what they said. The signs are there, and they all say, "Yield!" Well, I won't be yielding any time soon. I'll need to be knocked out of the way or hauled off the stage when the time comes. Anything else is a contradiction of what I've stood for since the day I was born. Why would you work hard all your life to become something just so you can give it over to someone younger than you, who will inevitably do the same thing when their time comes? That's what we teach the young: it's all over at a certain age, so if you haven't succeeded by the time you're thirty (or forty, at most), then you should just stop trying. And if you are successful by then, well, move over because the kids want to sit in your chair.
The time is now. No matter what your age, your time is now. Don't let anyone ever tell you different. Sometimes the young are too young to know, and sometimes the old are too old to care. The former I can forgive--it's okay not to know, but it's not okay to remain intentionally ignorant. The latter I can forgive, too. They've had a lifetime of people telling them what's on the road up ahead.
Nothing but road kill.
What the hell is wrong with us?
Even older people are trying to look younger and will do whatever it takes, including (gasp!) exercise and eating right. Of course, more people are figuring out early that you have to start doing those things when you're young, say in your early twenties, so that your face doesn't look like a road map by the time you're in your forties. If they've cheated all along and eaten all the wrong foods, stayed up every night till dawn, partied with the wrong drugs and people, and avoided exercise like it was a deadly form of torture, then there's always the nip-and-tuck version of youth and beauty.
I've got to ask though: what's wrong with having a wrinkled face or a few gray hairs? I won't even go so far as to say that they are signs of anything except getting older. But that's my point: what's wrong with getting older? It happens to all of us, and yet we treat aging as if it should be a source of shame. Well, shame on us all if that's how we feel because the fact is we are all getting older, every second, every minute, every day. It's one of those things that unites us as a race of human beings.
Recently, I've had arguments with people about the idea of mandatory retirement. It seems some people think as soon as a person (say a university professor, which was the profession under discussion) reaches an age when they can get a pension, they should just bow out gracefully and go out to pasture, go live in an old folks' home or something like that. But isn't it when a person gets into their sixties and seventies that they have accumulate the most wisdom they have ever had? We need the old to teach the young, and we need the young to be interested enough to listen and to act. Of course, the young will still make the mistakes of the young, and the old will still shake their heads. But it's another thing altogether for either group to dismiss the other as being too rebellious or irrelevant. To say an entire group of people is irrelevant because of their age (whether old or young) is a sort psychological genocide, where an entire sector of the population is wiped out and invisible. And don't tell me it doesn't compare to real genocide because, although it doesn't involve physical death, it does involve a moral, spiritual, and philosophical death. If you tell someone they don't matter because they are old, you are effectively cutting them off from your life and the lives of others who your own age. You are also sentencing yourself, and others, to an inevitable, hoary old age--one in which you don't matter, ultimately, because you only matter when you are young and shiny, new and relevant.
Mick Jagger turned 65 yesterday. I wish people would stop criticizing him for still rocking when he's a grandfather and start applauding him, unanimously for keeping the dream alive, for ignoring what he himself probably believed when he was young. The Who once sang, "Hope I die before I get old." That pretty much sums it up.
I think a lot of us would like to die before we get old. Look at how we revered John Kennedy, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Kurt Cobain, Heath Ledger. All great talents who never grew old. Forever young, and all that. Even Jesus H. Christ didn't have the audacity to age before our very eyes. He died in his early thirties, before he started to not look like the portraits we all have of him in our heads. But how many people have I heard say that they won't go see Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, or Elton John in concert because, "Dude, they're old." Fine. These singers are predominately of an earlier generation. But it seems that they still have a lot to say while a lot have people have tuned out. That's no way to treat your grandfather, your mother, yourself, or your own children. Can you look at your new-born child, niece, or nephew and say, "I like you now, but when you get old, people should stop paying attention to you"? That seems wrong, and yet it's what we do to OTHER people's children. No wonder Tom Waits sang, "I don't wanna grow up." Not much fun in that.
But I've found the answer. See, I'm getting older. Surprise! (The real kicker is, so are you.) But I find that I often forget how old I am, unless I'm forced to answer the question for some government census or something like that. I've gone entire years thinking I was older than I am so that when my birthday came, I was pleasantly surprised to get to live that year of my life over again. A do-over!
But the real trick is to not fall into the trap of allowing yourself to feel old and act old, while at the same time avoiding the pitfalls of trying to be younger than you are. I don't pay much attention to birthdays, but at the same time, I've always been somewhat athletic in my own way, always keeping on the move, running, weightlifting, sports, and that sort of thing. I take care of my mind too by reading books, playing chess and Scrabble, engaging in political discussion, paying attention to what's going on in the world, engaging with the lives going on around me. When it comes to your mind, you either use it or lose it, and that doesn't start when your fifty or sixty-five. It starts when you're young.
There's a forty-one-year old swimmer from the United States in the upcoming Olympics and she wasn't expected to make the team. I'll be cheering for her when the Games begin in August. Just the same as I'll be cheering for the youngest athletes who are there for the first time. In spite of all this, my point really is that I don't care about age. I can learn something from someone of any age. When I teach university courses, I love teaching first-year because I learn from their vitality, their ability to look at everything with fresh eyes, to question everything. But I also learn that just because you're young doesn't mean you do all these things naturally. Sometimes you need to be taught, and that comes from your peers, to some extent, and from your (gulp) elders, to a larger extent. Sometimes the young are afraid, and that's okay. Sometimes they are bold and brash, and they'll break your heart by either trying too hard or not trying hard enough. Either way, they know things, and I can learn from them.
Which brings me back to where I started. Sometimes a country or a sports team needs an old warrior to bring some wisdom and dignity to the proceedings. They've been there before and they've learned some things that might be used as weapons, either offensively or defensively. Don't cast them aside, but let them fall on their own swords at their own time and place of choice. Don't force them to go gentle into that good night because, if they're smart, they won't go--not without a fight. And neither should you.
But then, you've got lots of time, right? And when you're old, you're someone else.
Right.
Oh, and I actually wouldn't vote for John McCain if I were American, but that's just a matter of politics. I don't really care if his heart's in good condition, as long as it's in the right place. I wouldn't vote for Barack Obama because he's relatively young, as long as he's relatively smart, compassionate and strategic.
The whole age debate is stupid and pointless. It's hard enough getting older without feeling like the whole world's against you. But I swear some days, it is.
I feel young today, but I can see the day coming when my words will fall on deaf ears because my hair is mostly white, my muscles aren't toned, and my voice is shaky. Heck, I already need to wear glasses more often and often have to ask people to repeat what they said. The signs are there, and they all say, "Yield!" Well, I won't be yielding any time soon. I'll need to be knocked out of the way or hauled off the stage when the time comes. Anything else is a contradiction of what I've stood for since the day I was born. Why would you work hard all your life to become something just so you can give it over to someone younger than you, who will inevitably do the same thing when their time comes? That's what we teach the young: it's all over at a certain age, so if you haven't succeeded by the time you're thirty (or forty, at most), then you should just stop trying. And if you are successful by then, well, move over because the kids want to sit in your chair.
The time is now. No matter what your age, your time is now. Don't let anyone ever tell you different. Sometimes the young are too young to know, and sometimes the old are too old to care. The former I can forgive--it's okay not to know, but it's not okay to remain intentionally ignorant. The latter I can forgive, too. They've had a lifetime of people telling them what's on the road up ahead.
Nothing but road kill.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Dark Seeds, Dead Ends, and The Happy Fisherman
Been working on my short story sequence lately (Moonlight Sketches), and it’s been an exhausting, exhilarating process.
I started out with a few stories that have already been published and a few more that have won literary awards but have not necessarily been published. I definitely don’t send my stories out to publishers enough, which is probably the main reason why those award-winning stories haven’t sold yet. I’d rather just write and write, submit occasionally but if a story gets rejected, I tend, subconsciously at least, to say, “Well, that’s that.”
But that isn’t that. I have to admit the few stories I’ve published were all accepted the first time out. I’m not sure I’ve ever published a story that got rejected once, and that’s just not right. Rejection is such a normal part of the publication process that it’s just understood, when you send something out, chances are it will come back to you with a note—a form letter if they’re too busy and unimpressed to be bothered with you or a handwritten bit of encouragement if they liked your writing style but the story itself wasn’t quite what they usually publish, or it was flawed or whatever. Most of mine have been of the latter variety. Fifteen years ago, an editor at Random House in New York wrote me a note a silly novel I’d written, saying “Please don’t give up. You write very well.” The same year, Redbook rejected a story of mine that in no way, shape or form was right for their magazine (I can see that now): “Very nice. Try us again” the editor said.
Well, I didn’t try either one of them again. Not intentionally. I just went in a different direction. Perhaps even a foolhardy direction, but different nonetheless.
I’m beginning to see a trend.
Anyway, this summer, I’ve been writing my damn head off, trying to stockpile manuscripts so that I can just send them all out at the end of summer and hope for the best. Like scattering seeds to the wind. Maybe some of them will take root.
I received an arts grant to write my short story collection, and so I’ve already written quite a few. It was quite a challenge, and very intense, as I wrote them all in a two-week span. Of course, they’re not perfect, but I have the rest of the summer to fluff them up and make them look nice. I still have two or three stories to write in order to finish the series, but I am very pleased with it. It’s amazing the stuff that comes out of your head when you work intensely like that. I can see now why some of the best Gothic and horror novels get written in a short period of time. You’re just in a different head space, and the intensity of writing, writing, writing produces a sort of vortex in your mind. Imagine Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson) in The Shining, sitting at his typewriter in that big hotel, writing page after page of “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” I imagine the original novel was written by Stephen King in pretty much the same way—though that scene doesn’t appear in the book. That was all Kubrick.
But, yes, it’s been a spiraling vortex of energy all around me, and what came out was dark. Very dark. I’m exploring the worst side of humanity and, conversely, the best side of humanity, if only for contrast’s sake. I find that I let my mind go where it wants to go. And we live in such dark times. Really. Bodies getting chopped up and left in suitcases for children to find in the back yard. People getting beaten and robbed in broad daylight. A serial rapist who’s never been caught by city police. And then there’s all the stuff happening in the bigger world, with global catastrophes greeting us on the news every day, along with the rising prices of oil, causing an enormous strain on public and private economies, among other things. All of this has a human cost.
Which is where I come in. As a writer, I don’t necessarily feel the need to comment on any of this stuff. After all, tomorrow it might be all different again, and I’m not about to start trying to catch any waves. That’s a dead end.
But what happens is that all of this stuff comes swirling down the pipe and into my brain, coursing through my veins like that dark sludgy stuff that transformed Spider-man last summer and what oozes out is, well, dark sludgy stuff that somehow unintentionally catches the vibe of the twenty-first century. The characters are darker, the places descending into madness, and the plots strive for something hopeful to cling to. But sometimes, I don’t follow the road toward the light; sometimes, it’s the darker road that beckons the loudest.
So that’s where my head is at. So then the phone rings and some telemarketer wants me to answer questions very politely. I don’t even try, to be honest. They’ve got jobs to do, and if I was to call them at their work place and ask them to answer some questions about the state of the world, they’d probably hang up on me. So when I’ve spent three hours in my proverbial basement, mining the dark depths of my mind and dwelling in the land of nightmares, I just don’t feel like being cordial for a while.
The collection is called “Moonlight Sketches,” but I’m leaving it for a little while to simmer on the back burner while I think of a few more stories that need telling.
I’ve turned my attention to a re-write of my novel, Finton Moon, which I’d left off in order to do the short stories. But FM is nearly done now. Another couple of weeks should do it, and then I’ll be finishing that darkest of stories, The Ghost of Emily Dickinson. The title of that one’s going to have to change, of course. But I like it for now. That one’s about two characters, a man and a woman, who find each other and fall in love, but don’t know much about one another. It’s really all about the way in which St. John’s, and Newfoundland, is changing from this ridiculous “happy fishermen” idea to an oil-driven, economic powerhouse that takes a massive toll on those who aren’t slurping from the gravy train. It’s hard, hard times. And the more they change, the more they stay the same.
Now there’s a pleasant thought for the day.
Anyway, I have to get some stories in the mail. Maybe there’ll be a happy ending to that, at least.
I started out with a few stories that have already been published and a few more that have won literary awards but have not necessarily been published. I definitely don’t send my stories out to publishers enough, which is probably the main reason why those award-winning stories haven’t sold yet. I’d rather just write and write, submit occasionally but if a story gets rejected, I tend, subconsciously at least, to say, “Well, that’s that.”
But that isn’t that. I have to admit the few stories I’ve published were all accepted the first time out. I’m not sure I’ve ever published a story that got rejected once, and that’s just not right. Rejection is such a normal part of the publication process that it’s just understood, when you send something out, chances are it will come back to you with a note—a form letter if they’re too busy and unimpressed to be bothered with you or a handwritten bit of encouragement if they liked your writing style but the story itself wasn’t quite what they usually publish, or it was flawed or whatever. Most of mine have been of the latter variety. Fifteen years ago, an editor at Random House in New York wrote me a note a silly novel I’d written, saying “Please don’t give up. You write very well.” The same year, Redbook rejected a story of mine that in no way, shape or form was right for their magazine (I can see that now): “Very nice. Try us again” the editor said.
Well, I didn’t try either one of them again. Not intentionally. I just went in a different direction. Perhaps even a foolhardy direction, but different nonetheless.
I’m beginning to see a trend.
Anyway, this summer, I’ve been writing my damn head off, trying to stockpile manuscripts so that I can just send them all out at the end of summer and hope for the best. Like scattering seeds to the wind. Maybe some of them will take root.
I received an arts grant to write my short story collection, and so I’ve already written quite a few. It was quite a challenge, and very intense, as I wrote them all in a two-week span. Of course, they’re not perfect, but I have the rest of the summer to fluff them up and make them look nice. I still have two or three stories to write in order to finish the series, but I am very pleased with it. It’s amazing the stuff that comes out of your head when you work intensely like that. I can see now why some of the best Gothic and horror novels get written in a short period of time. You’re just in a different head space, and the intensity of writing, writing, writing produces a sort of vortex in your mind. Imagine Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson) in The Shining, sitting at his typewriter in that big hotel, writing page after page of “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” I imagine the original novel was written by Stephen King in pretty much the same way—though that scene doesn’t appear in the book. That was all Kubrick.
But, yes, it’s been a spiraling vortex of energy all around me, and what came out was dark. Very dark. I’m exploring the worst side of humanity and, conversely, the best side of humanity, if only for contrast’s sake. I find that I let my mind go where it wants to go. And we live in such dark times. Really. Bodies getting chopped up and left in suitcases for children to find in the back yard. People getting beaten and robbed in broad daylight. A serial rapist who’s never been caught by city police. And then there’s all the stuff happening in the bigger world, with global catastrophes greeting us on the news every day, along with the rising prices of oil, causing an enormous strain on public and private economies, among other things. All of this has a human cost.
Which is where I come in. As a writer, I don’t necessarily feel the need to comment on any of this stuff. After all, tomorrow it might be all different again, and I’m not about to start trying to catch any waves. That’s a dead end.
But what happens is that all of this stuff comes swirling down the pipe and into my brain, coursing through my veins like that dark sludgy stuff that transformed Spider-man last summer and what oozes out is, well, dark sludgy stuff that somehow unintentionally catches the vibe of the twenty-first century. The characters are darker, the places descending into madness, and the plots strive for something hopeful to cling to. But sometimes, I don’t follow the road toward the light; sometimes, it’s the darker road that beckons the loudest.
So that’s where my head is at. So then the phone rings and some telemarketer wants me to answer questions very politely. I don’t even try, to be honest. They’ve got jobs to do, and if I was to call them at their work place and ask them to answer some questions about the state of the world, they’d probably hang up on me. So when I’ve spent three hours in my proverbial basement, mining the dark depths of my mind and dwelling in the land of nightmares, I just don’t feel like being cordial for a while.
The collection is called “Moonlight Sketches,” but I’m leaving it for a little while to simmer on the back burner while I think of a few more stories that need telling.
I’ve turned my attention to a re-write of my novel, Finton Moon, which I’d left off in order to do the short stories. But FM is nearly done now. Another couple of weeks should do it, and then I’ll be finishing that darkest of stories, The Ghost of Emily Dickinson. The title of that one’s going to have to change, of course. But I like it for now. That one’s about two characters, a man and a woman, who find each other and fall in love, but don’t know much about one another. It’s really all about the way in which St. John’s, and Newfoundland, is changing from this ridiculous “happy fishermen” idea to an oil-driven, economic powerhouse that takes a massive toll on those who aren’t slurping from the gravy train. It’s hard, hard times. And the more they change, the more they stay the same.
Now there’s a pleasant thought for the day.
Anyway, I have to get some stories in the mail. Maybe there’ll be a happy ending to that, at least.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
It's been more than a week since that amazing Leonard Cohen concert at Holy Heart, and my feeling that it was a spiritual experience is borne out by the fact that I still can't get the show, those songs, or His incredible presence out of my head. I keep playing the CD in the background whenever I'm doing anything--it's the only music I find fit to listen to these days.
BUT, having said that, I was at the annual arts and letters gala Saturday night and saw another wicked show. As usual, the entertainment was fantastic, especially from the younger winners. It wasn't Cohen or Dylan, but I enjoyed every second of it. With all of the writing, music, and visual arts talent we have here, it's just a feast for the sense whenever you get that many artistic souls and their work together in one spot. I did pick up my third consecutive award for fiction, this time for my short story "Hold Out". Earlier in the week, I was lucky enough to receive a much-coveted arts grant for the writing of my short story collection called Moonlight Sketches--the title being a sort of backhanded homage to perhaps the most famous short story collection in Canadian history, Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town by Stephen Leacock. So I'm hard at work writing the remaining stories in that collection while I put my novel(s) on hold for a little while. There's a lot to get done over the summer, that's for sure. I wrote a new story today called "The Darkness and Darcy Knight," which is easily one of the darkest stories I've ever written. I think it's a keeper. Once that one was done, I immediately started work on another new story. My goal is to write at least three complete stories by the weekend--for me that's a lot. I've never written more than one in an entire month before, although when they come, they usually only take a day or two to put them together. I like to write fast when I'm channelling a short story. It's just the way my brain works. Poe said that the short story had to be able to be read in one sitting. Well, the best way to accomplish that as a writer is to compose the whole thing in one sitting, more or less.
Anyway, tomorrow's my birthday, about the same time as last year, in fact. I'll be taking some time off, though I'll probably be working a few hours. Not feeling older and not necessarily any wiser. If I was, maybe I wouldn't be working so much on my birthday.
Peace out.
BUT, having said that, I was at the annual arts and letters gala Saturday night and saw another wicked show. As usual, the entertainment was fantastic, especially from the younger winners. It wasn't Cohen or Dylan, but I enjoyed every second of it. With all of the writing, music, and visual arts talent we have here, it's just a feast for the sense whenever you get that many artistic souls and their work together in one spot. I did pick up my third consecutive award for fiction, this time for my short story "Hold Out". Earlier in the week, I was lucky enough to receive a much-coveted arts grant for the writing of my short story collection called Moonlight Sketches--the title being a sort of backhanded homage to perhaps the most famous short story collection in Canadian history, Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town by Stephen Leacock. So I'm hard at work writing the remaining stories in that collection while I put my novel(s) on hold for a little while. There's a lot to get done over the summer, that's for sure. I wrote a new story today called "The Darkness and Darcy Knight," which is easily one of the darkest stories I've ever written. I think it's a keeper. Once that one was done, I immediately started work on another new story. My goal is to write at least three complete stories by the weekend--for me that's a lot. I've never written more than one in an entire month before, although when they come, they usually only take a day or two to put them together. I like to write fast when I'm channelling a short story. It's just the way my brain works. Poe said that the short story had to be able to be read in one sitting. Well, the best way to accomplish that as a writer is to compose the whole thing in one sitting, more or less.
Anyway, tomorrow's my birthday, about the same time as last year, in fact. I'll be taking some time off, though I'll probably be working a few hours. Not feeling older and not necessarily any wiser. If I was, maybe I wouldn't be working so much on my birthday.
Peace out.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
One For the Money, Two For the Show
Well, here it is the morning after the biggest concert weekend St. John’s has ever seen, and it feels like it was all a dream. Two full-length shows by two contrasting giants of the music world—in fact, it was two nights of Bob Dylan, followed by three nights of Leonard Cohen. I enjoyed the Dylan show, but I’ve got to say that the Cohen show was the best concert I’ve ever seen.
It occurs to me that some so-called performers could take a lesson from LC. It was a rare treat to see Bob Dylan in concert and I was thrilled just to be in the audience. In fact, I felt privileged that he would come back here not only for the second time, but also on his birthday, which was the night I saw him. When he and his band took the stage, all wearing dark hats and suits, it took me a couple of minutes to figure out which one was him. We had fantastic seats, but Dylan didn’t do anything to distinguish himself. He stood at his keyboard the entire night, with his back turned to half the stadium, including us. He sang a couple of songs that most people knew (bluesy versions of “Shelter From the Storm” and “Blowin’ in the Wind”), a few more lesser knowns that I recognized, but the rest were relatively obscure. That’s all fine and good, but I couldn’t really tell if he was enjoying himself or not. I did sense a restlessness from the crowd, though, and that speaks volumes for Dylan’s performance skills, which are pretty much nil.
Don’t get me wrong. He’s a pretty good musician, with a unique voice, and a gift for lyrics. He can write strong melodies too, but he didn’t showcase many of those when I saw him. The audience was extremely appreciative of his meager efforts and coaxed him into an encore, though I sensed (much like Ron Hynes whom I saw a couple of weeks ago) that he just wasn’t all that interested in audience reaction or staying any longer than he had to. That’s his prerogative and, again, I enjoyed just being there. I mean, it’s freakin’ Bob Dylan deigning to come to St. John’s, Newfoundland. We should be grateful. And we were. Problem is, he acted as if we should be grateful too.
I understand all about Dylan’s reputation as an artist. And just like “Manny being Manny” in baseball, when Dylan hides under a hat and refuses to play guitar, sing popular hits, or acknowledge the audience in any way, that’s just Dylan being Dylan. We love him for it, but almost in spite of his behaviour. His greatness as a songwriter and pop culture icon is beyond dispute. I just don’t feel like I really SAW Bob Dylan. Or maybe what I saw really was Bob Dylan, who’s a bit of a ghost at the best of times. Either way, I’m glad I went, glad he came, but his show didn’t even compare to Leonard Cohen’s.
Leonard was warm, entertaining, intelligent, witty, self-effacing and appreciative of an audience who adored his every word, lyric, or tip of the cap on stage. From the opening song, “Dance Me to the End of Time” to the 11 or 12-song encore (there were several encores), he was fully engaged with the people who’d paid 80 bucks a ticket to sit in his presence. There were a few songs I would have liked to have heard, but he sang so many of his best tunes that it’s impossible to fault him. “I’m Your Man.” “Take This Waltz.” “Tower of Song.” “Democracy”.” “The Future.” “Suzanne.” And my personal favorite “Hallelujah”. There were so many great songs, and he executed them to perfection, sounding far better than his recordings. Leonard’s voice has just gotten better, deeper, and more resonant as he’s aged. He’s 74 and makes a few jokes at his own expense, but on stage he dances and moves more gracefully than most grandfathers, I assure you.
The audience just hung on his every word. The air was electric, a standing ovation occurring at the end of at least half (if not two-thirds) of the songs. The backup band was absolutely amazing, with everything from a harp and harmonica to a saxophone, keyboards, drums, various stringed instruments that I didn’t even recognize—each played expertly. Leonard kept making sure his band and backup singers were well-recognized, and they were. I could go on for half an hour just about how good Sharon Robinson and the Webb sisters were, but suffice to say they added strength and substance to an already magnificent show. In all, he played for three hours and ten minutes, including a short break, and I’m sure the audience would have stayed for two more hours at least. I, for one, just didn’t want to leave.
So what’s the difference? I think there’s an arrogance that accumulates in the soul of certain performers after they’ve had a measure of success. I mean, Cohen has just as much reason to be full of himself and “artistic” as Dylan, but I’ve always gotten the feeling that Dylan disdains his audience, despises “having” to perform in order to be heard or to make a living. He’d probably be much happier just writing songs and singing them for himself, but it’s hard to sell CDs that way. So he puts up with us and takes our hard-earned money away with it. I don’t mind that I am grateful for having seen him in concert, but I mind that he takes me and you for granted.
Leonard Cohen has always struck me as a man of passion—a spiritual, sensual soul who genuinely loves life and everything it has to offer. He can be sarcastic and funny, of course, quite cutting in fact. But it’s different from Dylan’s hard-edged dislike for the world (or so it seems). I came away from the Dylan show just glad to have seen a legend, but wondering if maybe he could have done more to win me over. That’s what a performer is. I came away from the Cohen show with a huge smile on my face, my wife and I chattering happily about how it was the best show we’ve ever seen. This morning, there’s almost a sense of loss. I wish I could see him again tonight, but alas, the show is all sold out long ago.
It’s like St. John’s made a friend last night that we’ll never see again. Bob Dylan is a passing acquaintance whose like is rarely seen in these parts, while Leonard Cohen leaves you with a song in your heart and a glimpse into the soul of a man who’s always had an aura of mystery around him, much as Dylan has. And it’s not just because Leonard sang songs that most of his audience knew; even the ones I didn’t know (there were at least a couple) were sung with the intent of an offering, a piece of the songwriter going out to a carefully listening audience. We were being sung to and not merely being sung at.
Not to be too harsh, but while Dylan might appropriately claim “I’m Not There,” Cohen winningly suggests, “I’m Your Man.” Dylan’s not the first performer I’ve seen with that kind of arrogance, merely the best. At least he’s earned the right, sort of. But Leonard Cohen’s earned it too, but chooses instead to include us in the celebration of his talent and success, as well as of life and good music. It just doesn’t get any better.
I have had a religious experience that I won’t be forgetting any time soon.
It occurs to me that some so-called performers could take a lesson from LC. It was a rare treat to see Bob Dylan in concert and I was thrilled just to be in the audience. In fact, I felt privileged that he would come back here not only for the second time, but also on his birthday, which was the night I saw him. When he and his band took the stage, all wearing dark hats and suits, it took me a couple of minutes to figure out which one was him. We had fantastic seats, but Dylan didn’t do anything to distinguish himself. He stood at his keyboard the entire night, with his back turned to half the stadium, including us. He sang a couple of songs that most people knew (bluesy versions of “Shelter From the Storm” and “Blowin’ in the Wind”), a few more lesser knowns that I recognized, but the rest were relatively obscure. That’s all fine and good, but I couldn’t really tell if he was enjoying himself or not. I did sense a restlessness from the crowd, though, and that speaks volumes for Dylan’s performance skills, which are pretty much nil.
Don’t get me wrong. He’s a pretty good musician, with a unique voice, and a gift for lyrics. He can write strong melodies too, but he didn’t showcase many of those when I saw him. The audience was extremely appreciative of his meager efforts and coaxed him into an encore, though I sensed (much like Ron Hynes whom I saw a couple of weeks ago) that he just wasn’t all that interested in audience reaction or staying any longer than he had to. That’s his prerogative and, again, I enjoyed just being there. I mean, it’s freakin’ Bob Dylan deigning to come to St. John’s, Newfoundland. We should be grateful. And we were. Problem is, he acted as if we should be grateful too.
I understand all about Dylan’s reputation as an artist. And just like “Manny being Manny” in baseball, when Dylan hides under a hat and refuses to play guitar, sing popular hits, or acknowledge the audience in any way, that’s just Dylan being Dylan. We love him for it, but almost in spite of his behaviour. His greatness as a songwriter and pop culture icon is beyond dispute. I just don’t feel like I really SAW Bob Dylan. Or maybe what I saw really was Bob Dylan, who’s a bit of a ghost at the best of times. Either way, I’m glad I went, glad he came, but his show didn’t even compare to Leonard Cohen’s.
Leonard was warm, entertaining, intelligent, witty, self-effacing and appreciative of an audience who adored his every word, lyric, or tip of the cap on stage. From the opening song, “Dance Me to the End of Time” to the 11 or 12-song encore (there were several encores), he was fully engaged with the people who’d paid 80 bucks a ticket to sit in his presence. There were a few songs I would have liked to have heard, but he sang so many of his best tunes that it’s impossible to fault him. “I’m Your Man.” “Take This Waltz.” “Tower of Song.” “Democracy”.” “The Future.” “Suzanne.” And my personal favorite “Hallelujah”. There were so many great songs, and he executed them to perfection, sounding far better than his recordings. Leonard’s voice has just gotten better, deeper, and more resonant as he’s aged. He’s 74 and makes a few jokes at his own expense, but on stage he dances and moves more gracefully than most grandfathers, I assure you.
The audience just hung on his every word. The air was electric, a standing ovation occurring at the end of at least half (if not two-thirds) of the songs. The backup band was absolutely amazing, with everything from a harp and harmonica to a saxophone, keyboards, drums, various stringed instruments that I didn’t even recognize—each played expertly. Leonard kept making sure his band and backup singers were well-recognized, and they were. I could go on for half an hour just about how good Sharon Robinson and the Webb sisters were, but suffice to say they added strength and substance to an already magnificent show. In all, he played for three hours and ten minutes, including a short break, and I’m sure the audience would have stayed for two more hours at least. I, for one, just didn’t want to leave.
So what’s the difference? I think there’s an arrogance that accumulates in the soul of certain performers after they’ve had a measure of success. I mean, Cohen has just as much reason to be full of himself and “artistic” as Dylan, but I’ve always gotten the feeling that Dylan disdains his audience, despises “having” to perform in order to be heard or to make a living. He’d probably be much happier just writing songs and singing them for himself, but it’s hard to sell CDs that way. So he puts up with us and takes our hard-earned money away with it. I don’t mind that I am grateful for having seen him in concert, but I mind that he takes me and you for granted.
Leonard Cohen has always struck me as a man of passion—a spiritual, sensual soul who genuinely loves life and everything it has to offer. He can be sarcastic and funny, of course, quite cutting in fact. But it’s different from Dylan’s hard-edged dislike for the world (or so it seems). I came away from the Dylan show just glad to have seen a legend, but wondering if maybe he could have done more to win me over. That’s what a performer is. I came away from the Cohen show with a huge smile on my face, my wife and I chattering happily about how it was the best show we’ve ever seen. This morning, there’s almost a sense of loss. I wish I could see him again tonight, but alas, the show is all sold out long ago.
It’s like St. John’s made a friend last night that we’ll never see again. Bob Dylan is a passing acquaintance whose like is rarely seen in these parts, while Leonard Cohen leaves you with a song in your heart and a glimpse into the soul of a man who’s always had an aura of mystery around him, much as Dylan has. And it’s not just because Leonard sang songs that most of his audience knew; even the ones I didn’t know (there were at least a couple) were sung with the intent of an offering, a piece of the songwriter going out to a carefully listening audience. We were being sung to and not merely being sung at.
Not to be too harsh, but while Dylan might appropriately claim “I’m Not There,” Cohen winningly suggests, “I’m Your Man.” Dylan’s not the first performer I’ve seen with that kind of arrogance, merely the best. At least he’s earned the right, sort of. But Leonard Cohen’s earned it too, but chooses instead to include us in the celebration of his talent and success, as well as of life and good music. It just doesn’t get any better.
I have had a religious experience that I won’t be forgetting any time soon.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Full of Gravy
Is it just me, or have we all gone insane?
The latest piece of chickenpoop we've put up with (and there's so much of it) has to do with Mary Brown's fried chicken. They were going to start advertising their product with the slogan "Hail Mary!"
You KNOW what comes next.
A clergyman in St. John's caught a whiff of what was cookin' and lodged a complaint that maybe the the company had gone too far, suggesting that there was something sacreligious about using those words to sell poultry. After all, Mary the virgin mother-to-be of Jesus, saviour of all mankind (including women, I'd presume, or hope) was greeted with the very same phrase "Hail Mary!" (you know the rest) when the archangel informed her she was with child.
It's not right, the church thinks, to be comparing chicken to the mother of Jesus. And perhaps that priest was right. I dunno. But the whole "Hail Mary!" thing was meant as a bit of a joke (by Mary Brown's, I mean, not by the archangel, who I presume had no sense of humour; otherwise, the church might have one as well). Meant to make people smile in an otherwise dreary world, or a run past the chicken store. Otherwise known as the chicken run.
We live in a time when every time somebody gets upset with something, they yell at somebody or complain really loud until somebody changes it. I don't mind that they complain. But I DO definitely mind that the company always says, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend anyone." Maybe they did intend offense, but I doubt it. Maybe they're just thoughtless. Or maybe (and this is my personal favorite) they're just irreverent. 'Cause nobody's allowed to be irreverent anymore, or else you'll have the Thought Police or the Politically Correct Party (who really does know what's best for everyone) telling on you and you're really gonna get it if you don't change what you said. You don't have to change what you think, I suppose, as long as you don't say what you mean. We got rules against that. We can't handle the truth, and we know it, so don't you dare say it unless you don't mean it.
I first saw this item on the news yesterday evening, and just as they were finished reporting it on CBC, I thought the journalist should have finished by saying, "Mary Brown's unveiled their new slogan today: 'Jesus, this chicken is good!'"
I guess that would be offensive too, though I doubt Jesus would care too much, what with world hunger, war, and pestilence to worry about. The thing is, what that pastor was saying was that he personally was offended by the message from Mary Brown's. Problem is, that pastor has a flock. And that flock listens to that pastor and supposedly believes whatever that pastor tells him is right or wrong, left or right, up or down. He's a man of God, unlike a mere chicken friar, who supposedly isn't a man of God, but is perhaps a man of poultry instead. I don't for a second believe Mary Brown's is the new evil empire. We have enough of those (Starbucks, Wal-mart, the New York Yankees, and the Montreal Canadiens).
Sometimes I just wish that those who have nothing to say wouldn't go around saying it. Live and let live. Let sleeping chickens lie. And don't watch football for fear of catching sight of a "Hail Mary" pass. God doesn't like the hail mary pass or people who use them. Maybe that's why they never work.
Amen.
The latest piece of chickenpoop we've put up with (and there's so much of it) has to do with Mary Brown's fried chicken. They were going to start advertising their product with the slogan "Hail Mary!"
You KNOW what comes next.
A clergyman in St. John's caught a whiff of what was cookin' and lodged a complaint that maybe the the company had gone too far, suggesting that there was something sacreligious about using those words to sell poultry. After all, Mary the virgin mother-to-be of Jesus, saviour of all mankind (including women, I'd presume, or hope) was greeted with the very same phrase "Hail Mary!" (you know the rest) when the archangel informed her she was with child.
It's not right, the church thinks, to be comparing chicken to the mother of Jesus. And perhaps that priest was right. I dunno. But the whole "Hail Mary!" thing was meant as a bit of a joke (by Mary Brown's, I mean, not by the archangel, who I presume had no sense of humour; otherwise, the church might have one as well). Meant to make people smile in an otherwise dreary world, or a run past the chicken store. Otherwise known as the chicken run.
We live in a time when every time somebody gets upset with something, they yell at somebody or complain really loud until somebody changes it. I don't mind that they complain. But I DO definitely mind that the company always says, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend anyone." Maybe they did intend offense, but I doubt it. Maybe they're just thoughtless. Or maybe (and this is my personal favorite) they're just irreverent. 'Cause nobody's allowed to be irreverent anymore, or else you'll have the Thought Police or the Politically Correct Party (who really does know what's best for everyone) telling on you and you're really gonna get it if you don't change what you said. You don't have to change what you think, I suppose, as long as you don't say what you mean. We got rules against that. We can't handle the truth, and we know it, so don't you dare say it unless you don't mean it.
I first saw this item on the news yesterday evening, and just as they were finished reporting it on CBC, I thought the journalist should have finished by saying, "Mary Brown's unveiled their new slogan today: 'Jesus, this chicken is good!'"
I guess that would be offensive too, though I doubt Jesus would care too much, what with world hunger, war, and pestilence to worry about. The thing is, what that pastor was saying was that he personally was offended by the message from Mary Brown's. Problem is, that pastor has a flock. And that flock listens to that pastor and supposedly believes whatever that pastor tells him is right or wrong, left or right, up or down. He's a man of God, unlike a mere chicken friar, who supposedly isn't a man of God, but is perhaps a man of poultry instead. I don't for a second believe Mary Brown's is the new evil empire. We have enough of those (Starbucks, Wal-mart, the New York Yankees, and the Montreal Canadiens).
Sometimes I just wish that those who have nothing to say wouldn't go around saying it. Live and let live. Let sleeping chickens lie. And don't watch football for fear of catching sight of a "Hail Mary" pass. God doesn't like the hail mary pass or people who use them. Maybe that's why they never work.
Amen.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Diggin' Some Dylan!
Bummer. I just spent forty-five minutes telling you why Bob Dylan is the coolest thing ever and, yes, I'm going to his concert on May 24. But Blogger decided to delete my blog post before publishing it. That's time and words I can never have back. Sigh.
Bottom line: At a time when the mass media, corporate America, and conniving politicans are telling us to ignore the fine print below the headline, a songwriter like Bob Dylan, who's influenced almost as many musicians as the Beatles (including influencing the Beatles themselves), is an enemy of the state. Which means we're going to get along just fine.
Looking forward to the concert, on Bob's birthday. He don't sing pretty, he don't look pretty, and he can be as caustic and sarcastic as hell. But, man, his words have changed the world for the better. He questions the stone wall and expects it to answer. But, more than that, he expects us all to question the wall and bring it down, one brick at a time.
This isn't exactly what I'd said before, but it'll have to do.
Bottom line: At a time when the mass media, corporate America, and conniving politicans are telling us to ignore the fine print below the headline, a songwriter like Bob Dylan, who's influenced almost as many musicians as the Beatles (including influencing the Beatles themselves), is an enemy of the state. Which means we're going to get along just fine.
Looking forward to the concert, on Bob's birthday. He don't sing pretty, he don't look pretty, and he can be as caustic and sarcastic as hell. But, man, his words have changed the world for the better. He questions the stone wall and expects it to answer. But, more than that, he expects us all to question the wall and bring it down, one brick at a time.
This isn't exactly what I'd said before, but it'll have to do.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Everybody Knows
Everybody knows I have a list of what I consider my Top Five singer-songwriters of all time. I’ve been saying this to people for years and have even mentioned it in my classes a few times. They are as follows:
1. Bob Dylan.
2. Leonard Cohen.
3. John Lennon.
4. Hank Williams.
5. Johnny Cash.
These five men are the best ever, period, as far as I’m concerned. And the last three people on that list are dead and gone. Hey-hey, my-my.
So, yeah, I got me some tickets to see Leonard Cohen at Holy Heart of Mary auditorium. Leonard and I go a long ways back, see. When I was a teenager, Leonard Cohen supposedly was pretty passé already. He was famous for his days as a poet-singer-songwriter in Montreal in the Sixties and world-renowned for his sardonic, wry insights on the human condition—though mostly, I think, they were the Cohen Condition. No one sees the world quite like Leonard. To me, he was never passé. I don’t even care about passé. I don’t believe in it. But the one word that’s always been associated with Leonard Cohen, whether he was twenty or sixty, is “cool”. That’s just what he is.
I had several of his CDs by the time I was in my twenties. Many a-night when I was an undergrad I would sit up in my (or somebody’s) apartment late at night, sitting in the dark with just a candle glowing, drinking or whatever, gabbing about life and philosophy with whoever was with me, and Leonard Cohen provided the soundtrack. Bird On A Wire. Suzanne. The Future. So Long, Marianne. The Chelsea Hotel. The Sisters of Mercy. I could go on and on. Every one of his songs—every word, for that matter—carried more meaning than a thousand words from Kanye or Eminem or Tupac, or any others who followed in his footsteps. And don’t tell me it’s an unfair comparison. What those other strive(d) for was poetry; what came out was rhyme. Cohen is to modern poetry and songwriting what Neil Young is to Grunge rock. All others just pale in comparison.
When I heard that LC was inducted into the rock hall of fame a month or so ago, I said, “Well, it’s about bloody time.” A day later, when it was announced he was going on tour for the first time in sixteen years, I said, “Well, that’s another great show that will never set foot in St. John’s in a million years.” A week after that, it was miraculously announced that Leonard Cohen would, indeed, be coming to St. John’s.
You have to understand—for those who know what he’s about, this is like Jesus coming to Hollywood. It just shouldn’t happen because it’s just too weird and surreal. I’m not into hero worship of any kind, but I know a once-in-a-lifetime event when I see one. And this is one of them. People from Australia to Antarctica are pleading for him to come to their city, but he chose St. John’s, possibly because of the Feast of Cohen show at the LSPU Hall every December, which pays homage to the master’s songs and his vibe.
I’ve decided that I don’t want to just go and think how cool it is to be sitting there, listening to one of the greatest songwriting icons of our time so close up on that stage. It would be so easy to just get caught up in the bigness of the moment that you forget to be in the moment. I want to experience the Leonard Cohen experience. I want to go and listen to what he’s saying when he sings because that’s why he wrote those songs and why he still sings them—because he’s still got something to say that means something to him. And he says it like no one else.
And if that weren’t enough, just a few days later, I found out that Bob Dylan is coming to play on the same weekend.
I mean, freakin’ Bob Dylan! The biggest solo artist, and I do mean artist and poet and songwriter, of our lifetime, is coming to St. John’s.
I’m in heaven. Or at least knockin’ on heaven’s door.
Now if we could only get them both on the same stage, that would be something.
1. Bob Dylan.
2. Leonard Cohen.
3. John Lennon.
4. Hank Williams.
5. Johnny Cash.
These five men are the best ever, period, as far as I’m concerned. And the last three people on that list are dead and gone. Hey-hey, my-my.
So, yeah, I got me some tickets to see Leonard Cohen at Holy Heart of Mary auditorium. Leonard and I go a long ways back, see. When I was a teenager, Leonard Cohen supposedly was pretty passé already. He was famous for his days as a poet-singer-songwriter in Montreal in the Sixties and world-renowned for his sardonic, wry insights on the human condition—though mostly, I think, they were the Cohen Condition. No one sees the world quite like Leonard. To me, he was never passé. I don’t even care about passé. I don’t believe in it. But the one word that’s always been associated with Leonard Cohen, whether he was twenty or sixty, is “cool”. That’s just what he is.
I had several of his CDs by the time I was in my twenties. Many a-night when I was an undergrad I would sit up in my (or somebody’s) apartment late at night, sitting in the dark with just a candle glowing, drinking or whatever, gabbing about life and philosophy with whoever was with me, and Leonard Cohen provided the soundtrack. Bird On A Wire. Suzanne. The Future. So Long, Marianne. The Chelsea Hotel. The Sisters of Mercy. I could go on and on. Every one of his songs—every word, for that matter—carried more meaning than a thousand words from Kanye or Eminem or Tupac, or any others who followed in his footsteps. And don’t tell me it’s an unfair comparison. What those other strive(d) for was poetry; what came out was rhyme. Cohen is to modern poetry and songwriting what Neil Young is to Grunge rock. All others just pale in comparison.
When I heard that LC was inducted into the rock hall of fame a month or so ago, I said, “Well, it’s about bloody time.” A day later, when it was announced he was going on tour for the first time in sixteen years, I said, “Well, that’s another great show that will never set foot in St. John’s in a million years.” A week after that, it was miraculously announced that Leonard Cohen would, indeed, be coming to St. John’s.
You have to understand—for those who know what he’s about, this is like Jesus coming to Hollywood. It just shouldn’t happen because it’s just too weird and surreal. I’m not into hero worship of any kind, but I know a once-in-a-lifetime event when I see one. And this is one of them. People from Australia to Antarctica are pleading for him to come to their city, but he chose St. John’s, possibly because of the Feast of Cohen show at the LSPU Hall every December, which pays homage to the master’s songs and his vibe.
I’ve decided that I don’t want to just go and think how cool it is to be sitting there, listening to one of the greatest songwriting icons of our time so close up on that stage. It would be so easy to just get caught up in the bigness of the moment that you forget to be in the moment. I want to experience the Leonard Cohen experience. I want to go and listen to what he’s saying when he sings because that’s why he wrote those songs and why he still sings them—because he’s still got something to say that means something to him. And he says it like no one else.
And if that weren’t enough, just a few days later, I found out that Bob Dylan is coming to play on the same weekend.
I mean, freakin’ Bob Dylan! The biggest solo artist, and I do mean artist and poet and songwriter, of our lifetime, is coming to St. John’s.
I’m in heaven. Or at least knockin’ on heaven’s door.
Now if we could only get them both on the same stage, that would be something.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Something to write about
Okay, I admit it. I haven't been blogging because I've essentially been out of commission for a while. About two weeks ago, I had to have minor surgery on my throat, which has kept me from eating very much--which means my energy level was pretty much zero for a while. I also couldn't talk for a spell, which I'm sure was pleasant enough for some people. It's the FIRST time I've ever had any kind of medical procedure done, and I have to admit I don't understand why people volunteer for cosmetic surgeries, given what you have to go through. For the first time ever, I got to see the medical system from the perspective of a patient, and while the system itself is a bit cumbersome, the people who took care of me there were the absolute best. No complaints from me. I was in and out in a few hours, and by noon that day, I was home again, sleeping it off. I never want to have to go through anything like it again, mind you, but it was yet another experience I can write about with some authority now. That's what I usually think when something horrible, but not necessarily life-threatening happens: "Something to write about."
It was tempting to write a "Bucket List" while I was there, just for kicks. But I decided that was too morbid, for now at least. I did have one whole night of lying awake afterwards and my mind got to wandering and started coming up with a list of my 100 best experiences ever. It's like an American Film Institute special, except there are no moments with either Harrison Ford, Steven Spielberg, or Citizen Kane. There were some moments, however, with Spinal Tap (I was their drummer in another life. Not kidding), Lee Aaron (met her once), and Barney Bentall (jammed with him at the Ship Inn one night; I'm sure he still brags about it too. He's a rock singer from the early Nineties...I think). There was a Michael Ondaatje moment, which actually didn't make the list, but I just remembered it now, and a bunch of famous and infamous people I met while either teaching or working as a teenage cub reporter at The Daily News. There were some favorite places like SpringGarden Road in Halifax and Cathedral Grove in Vancouver. There were some great moments, of which there were thousands--like standing in a chain lightning storm on a balcony in downtown Chilliwack, or watching a hurricane churn up the waters of Lake Ontario in early fall. But most of my moments involved people, including a few former students, and, to be honest, my top thirty or so (at least) all would involve my beautiful wife. I don't mean that to be romantic or anything; it's just true.
So, yeah, my mind's been occupied, just not with the usual stuff. I'm slowly getting back to writing, but it hasn't been easy just waiting for the energy to come back and for the creative juices to return to their pre-surgery days. And even though it wasn't a serious operation, it does make you appreciate the little things in life--like talking to people, eating your favorite foods, and (believe it or not) being able to work. I even missed exercise. Pretty pathetic, I know. I often play my guitar and sing a bit when I need my mind to stop over-thinking, but I wasn't able to do much of that lately. I'm not much of a guitar player (though I did somehow earn a living with it for nearly four years); I'm really more of a strummer and a singer/songwriter in that regard. Not being able to express myself in that way was almost as hard as not writing for a while. You just don't feel whole, somehow.
I don't mean this as compaining. In fact, I mean it as a contemplation on how much I love this life, how much I love doing the things I do every day. I've come out of the whole thing with a new appreciation for my life, a new zest for writing and an enthusiasm for teaching, walking in the snow, standing in the rain, or lying in the sun. I haven't done nearly enough of that last one, by the way. 'Cause life still isn't just about work. Work is good. It can make you feel connected to yourself and give you as sense of purpose in the world. But it's what you do with the times in between work that count the most.
There's a raging snowstorm today. Campus is closed. And, ironically, my follow-up doctor appointment has been cancelled. I'm going to work this morning--got a novel to finish soon (and yes, I'm still waiting to hear back on a manuscript I sent out in November), some stories to write and a play to work on. But this afternoon, I'll be curled up either reading The Sound and The Fury (again) or watching a movie. Although a nap sounds good too. Or maybe a walk in a snowstorm.
So many options.
It was tempting to write a "Bucket List" while I was there, just for kicks. But I decided that was too morbid, for now at least. I did have one whole night of lying awake afterwards and my mind got to wandering and started coming up with a list of my 100 best experiences ever. It's like an American Film Institute special, except there are no moments with either Harrison Ford, Steven Spielberg, or Citizen Kane. There were some moments, however, with Spinal Tap (I was their drummer in another life. Not kidding), Lee Aaron (met her once), and Barney Bentall (jammed with him at the Ship Inn one night; I'm sure he still brags about it too. He's a rock singer from the early Nineties...I think). There was a Michael Ondaatje moment, which actually didn't make the list, but I just remembered it now, and a bunch of famous and infamous people I met while either teaching or working as a teenage cub reporter at The Daily News. There were some favorite places like SpringGarden Road in Halifax and Cathedral Grove in Vancouver. There were some great moments, of which there were thousands--like standing in a chain lightning storm on a balcony in downtown Chilliwack, or watching a hurricane churn up the waters of Lake Ontario in early fall. But most of my moments involved people, including a few former students, and, to be honest, my top thirty or so (at least) all would involve my beautiful wife. I don't mean that to be romantic or anything; it's just true.
So, yeah, my mind's been occupied, just not with the usual stuff. I'm slowly getting back to writing, but it hasn't been easy just waiting for the energy to come back and for the creative juices to return to their pre-surgery days. And even though it wasn't a serious operation, it does make you appreciate the little things in life--like talking to people, eating your favorite foods, and (believe it or not) being able to work. I even missed exercise. Pretty pathetic, I know. I often play my guitar and sing a bit when I need my mind to stop over-thinking, but I wasn't able to do much of that lately. I'm not much of a guitar player (though I did somehow earn a living with it for nearly four years); I'm really more of a strummer and a singer/songwriter in that regard. Not being able to express myself in that way was almost as hard as not writing for a while. You just don't feel whole, somehow.
I don't mean this as compaining. In fact, I mean it as a contemplation on how much I love this life, how much I love doing the things I do every day. I've come out of the whole thing with a new appreciation for my life, a new zest for writing and an enthusiasm for teaching, walking in the snow, standing in the rain, or lying in the sun. I haven't done nearly enough of that last one, by the way. 'Cause life still isn't just about work. Work is good. It can make you feel connected to yourself and give you as sense of purpose in the world. But it's what you do with the times in between work that count the most.
There's a raging snowstorm today. Campus is closed. And, ironically, my follow-up doctor appointment has been cancelled. I'm going to work this morning--got a novel to finish soon (and yes, I'm still waiting to hear back on a manuscript I sent out in November), some stories to write and a play to work on. But this afternoon, I'll be curled up either reading The Sound and The Fury (again) or watching a movie. Although a nap sounds good too. Or maybe a walk in a snowstorm.
So many options.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Love, Love, Love
Valentine's Day. Not a big fan of it.
Sure, I mean, there can never be too much love in the world. So I would never say that a "holiday" designed to celebrate love is a bad thing.
But it's the design itself that the problem. The way we "celebrate" something that pretty much takes care of itself is the problem.
If you love someone, then you don't need a specific day designated by Hallmark or any other commercial entity to tell you, "Come on, show her how you feel." She already knows.
And I do mean "she". The whole day is meant to lay a guilt trip on men, predominantly, so that they will spend their way out of hell or purgatory or whatever their relationship has become.
I'm lucky enough to be married to a beautiful woman who has always felt the same way about this holiday as I do. Our celebration isn't confined to one day, and if there's no card or flowers or chocolate that day, then there might be on any other given day of the year. And it's not a one-sided thing--we watch each other's back every day of the year and have done so for a couple of decades now. We're the happiest couple I know, and we somehow manage to do it without Valentine's Day deciding whether or not we're worthy of each other.
Oh, I've had my years when I've bought chocolate. This year, I even bought flowers. But that's only because I figured it would be surprise, since we never do that. And it was.
Valentine's Day is for the young, or really I should say, those couples who haven't been together more than a few years. It's also for those whose relationship needs an annual reminder to pay some attention to the one you're with. Other than that, I wish Valentine's Day as a so-called celebration--at least the way we celebrate it currently--would just die off. "Keep it in your own way and I'll keep it in mine," as Scrooge says about Christmas.
I like the celebratory, loving, caring, gentle part of Valentine's. I just could do without the "buy, buy, buy, guilt, guilt, guilt" part of it. It's not necessary.
And, as Forrest Gump would say, that's all I have to say about that. Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day. :-)
Sure, I mean, there can never be too much love in the world. So I would never say that a "holiday" designed to celebrate love is a bad thing.
But it's the design itself that the problem. The way we "celebrate" something that pretty much takes care of itself is the problem.
If you love someone, then you don't need a specific day designated by Hallmark or any other commercial entity to tell you, "Come on, show her how you feel." She already knows.
And I do mean "she". The whole day is meant to lay a guilt trip on men, predominantly, so that they will spend their way out of hell or purgatory or whatever their relationship has become.
I'm lucky enough to be married to a beautiful woman who has always felt the same way about this holiday as I do. Our celebration isn't confined to one day, and if there's no card or flowers or chocolate that day, then there might be on any other given day of the year. And it's not a one-sided thing--we watch each other's back every day of the year and have done so for a couple of decades now. We're the happiest couple I know, and we somehow manage to do it without Valentine's Day deciding whether or not we're worthy of each other.
Oh, I've had my years when I've bought chocolate. This year, I even bought flowers. But that's only because I figured it would be surprise, since we never do that. And it was.
Valentine's Day is for the young, or really I should say, those couples who haven't been together more than a few years. It's also for those whose relationship needs an annual reminder to pay some attention to the one you're with. Other than that, I wish Valentine's Day as a so-called celebration--at least the way we celebrate it currently--would just die off. "Keep it in your own way and I'll keep it in mine," as Scrooge says about Christmas.
I like the celebratory, loving, caring, gentle part of Valentine's. I just could do without the "buy, buy, buy, guilt, guilt, guilt" part of it. It's not necessary.
And, as Forrest Gump would say, that's all I have to say about that. Oh, and Happy Valentine's Day. :-)
Monday, February 4, 2008
Super Size Me
Tomorrow's "Super Tuesday" in the States, which has me wondering why America the Beautiful is so obsessed with size. Nothing can be just what it is--it's got to be "SUPER" Tuesday, or Super Bowl Sunday, or Super-size french fries, or Superman, Super Girl, Super Dog, or just plain "Super-duper."
Nuttin' wrong with that, I suppose. It makes life seem more exciting somehow. Sounds better than "Primary Tuesday," which is pretty bland, I admit. Who's gonna show up to vote for that? I mean, besides the people who care who the next leader of the free world is. By the "free world," I mean all those lands where people are able to vote without fear of repercussions, where people can speak their minds even if the State, the media, and the creepy old busybody next door don't agree with what you're saying.
I've been a bit obsessed by American politics lately. Granted, I've never paid much attention to it in the past, but this time seems different because there's so much at stake. Sure, I always knew who the president was, and I got particularly interested in it during the Clinton years. Those were actually pretty good years--a veritable "Camelot" compared to the Bush years (both Senior and Junior editions). Sure, Bill Clinton was no John F. Kennedy, but by all accounts, neither was John F. Kennedy. Like everything else, the American people (by which I mean the media) tends to make Supermen out of mere mortals. People (by which I mean the media, as well as the average Joe, not to be confused with Super Joe, Sloppy Joe, or G.I. Joe) often forget that JFK had some heavy-duty baggage to carry, especially in his alleged affairs with other women, notably Marilyn Monroe, and the little affair with Nikita Kruschev in which the American president brought the world to the very brink of nuclear self-annihilation. Camelot, indeed. Clinton's eight years weren't exactly peaceful, thanks to the overblown (pardon the pun) affair in the oval office with Monica Lewinsky. Other than that distraction, for which he was nearly impeached by the megalomaniacal, Puritanical Republicans who couldn't stand to see a Clinton in the White House, things weren't so bad--at least in comparison to today. The Blue Meanies took their hatred for him out on the entire country, refusing to let America enjoy its moment in the sun when the economy was going great guns (after those dreadful eight years of Reaganomics), and terrorism most often happened "over there". People still hated America, but it just didn't seem to personal, real and up-close in those days. Or maybe we (meaning North Americans) were just oblivious. Sometimes, igorance truly is bliss.
With George W. Bush in the White House, I'm sure there hasn't been much sex in the oval office. Pretty sure, anyway. He came to power on a morality ticket--promising to clean up American politics and make America respectable again on the world stage. Beware of any politician who comes to power on such a campaign. The morality ticket is one that gets played way too often and usually comes with a booby prize (aka Stephen Harper, who promised to gut Canadian politics of its corrupt Liberals). Almost single-handedly (unless you count the puppeteer Dick Cheney and Iago-like Karl Rove), Bush Jr. managed to make the United States the most reviled place on the world and its people the most hated in the so-called free world. It was a world that was a lot freer before wire-tapping, e-mail scans, and eternal damnation in Guantanomo Bay became well-known realities. Not so well-known were the unofficial policies of torturing prisoners suspected of plotting terrorist attacks (reminds me of Orwell's nightmare world in 1984) and sanctioning humiliation of p.o.w.'s in Afghanistan and Iraq. His father promised a "kinder, gentler" America, and both father and son delivered a more brutal, more insane America.
I miss the old days. I grew up on stories of cowboys riding the range and roping cattle, of opening up the West, of Daniel Boone and Davey Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier. Of the Wonderful World of Disney, where dreams came true. Of Highway 66 and going to San Francisco to wear sunflowers in your hair. I read the great novels of storytellers like Ernest Hemingway, Mark Twain, and even the benign horrors of Edgar Allan Poe and Stephen King. All the best music came from the U.S.A--jazz, blues, pop, and rocks. Sure, we knew about the serial killers like Son of Sam, Gary Gilmour, and the Boston Strangler. But those wacky American storytellers could make anyone sound like a Sunshine Superman, and these guys seemed like isolated nutcases, larger than life, and almost like folk heroes because of the way people wrote and talked about them in the media. Nobody emulated them, but they did seem like anomalies on a landscape full of normal, good folks.
America was built on certain ideals of the pursuit of happiness, freedom, truth, and justice. It's been a long time since anyone could say that that's what really came out of the war for Independence or the Civil War, Korean War, Vietnam War, or the World War II fire-bombing of Dresden or the holy shit moments and aftermath of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. But, strange as it sounds, at least you usually felt like you were on the side of right, of justice, and truth. Even when JFK double-dared Kruschev to just go ahead and pull the trigger on nuclear warfare, people largely felt that at least the guy in the white hat, metaphorically speaking, was on our side. Even though Bill Clinton embarassed himself and his wife and family, as well as his party and country in the eyes of the world, you felt like he was still a good man and a good president--someone capable of making things right somehow, if only by the eloquence of his language, the brilliance of his brain, and the good intentions of his heart (even when he was lying; but the thing is, if you're gonna cheat, what's the sense in 'fessing up to it without at least trying to squirm out it?).
Long story short, America used to be something to believe in. I had this argument with my brother-in-law a few days ago. He's a fair bit younger than me and, far as I can tell, he only remembers the Bush years. He doesn't remember "America the Good" (and I don't mean the one that Ginsberg told to "go fuck yourself with your atom bomb"--that's a different America, which co-exists with the other America). He knows only that America is messed up and continues to go around the world, sticking its nose into other people's business and creating chaos and dismemberment everywhere it looks.
Come to think of it, I'm not sure I remember that "America the Good" either. I only remember believing in it as a POSSIBILITY because, somewhere along the line, the people who founded the country used to believe in it too. America is a concept--and that's why people get so upset with evil-doing presidents, with terrorist attacks on American soil, with threats on the Statue of Liberty, with the falling of the twin towers in New York, and with people like Donald Imus and the Jenus Six. It's not that we're all (by which I mean people in the Western World) any better or holier than thou. It's just that, sometimes we're reminded of how good we used to want it to be and that somehow we fucked it up.
And yet...and YET...we think we can make it better. It's never too late to turn the ship around and make it right.
And every election year, there's an opportunity to become the America that the people of that country, and of the rest of the world, think it's possible to be. I don't know who's going to win. I like Obama and Hillary Clinton alike. I think he's youthful and idealist, and he's saying all the right things and truly believes in them. I think she's intelligent, well-intentioned, but a bit more realistic because she's "been there and done that," to use her own words. I think they'll do just fine with either of those candidates as president, and preferably a Democratic ticket that includes both.
But let's hope the American electorate get it right this time. They almost elected Al Gore, but he wasn't bright and shiny enough for them, not enough of a celebrity just yet. Plus, they really did give him the most votes, but the courts decided to over-rule the American public and crown King George II. It only matters to me because the world's in an awful mess because the United States is in an awful mess. I also figure that once one right-wing ultra-Christian, control freak is gone from power, it's only a matter of time before that same wicked witch loses its grip on our own little fifedom to the north.
Mostly, though, I just want to return some sanity to the world again. Just a little. Whoever wins the American election is going to have his or her hands full, and it'll take years to clean up the farm after such an enormous, long-lasting twister has hit it full on. In some ways, it's like that big whole in the ground in New York City that still hasn't been re-built. It's a monumental clean-up job, but you've got to at least have the right person with their hand on the broom.
Still, I don't think they need a Superman (or Superwoman) for the job. They just need someone who thinks it's possible to stand for truth and justice, while making "the American way" something other than the punchline of a joke.
Up, up, and away!
Nuttin' wrong with that, I suppose. It makes life seem more exciting somehow. Sounds better than "Primary Tuesday," which is pretty bland, I admit. Who's gonna show up to vote for that? I mean, besides the people who care who the next leader of the free world is. By the "free world," I mean all those lands where people are able to vote without fear of repercussions, where people can speak their minds even if the State, the media, and the creepy old busybody next door don't agree with what you're saying.
I've been a bit obsessed by American politics lately. Granted, I've never paid much attention to it in the past, but this time seems different because there's so much at stake. Sure, I always knew who the president was, and I got particularly interested in it during the Clinton years. Those were actually pretty good years--a veritable "Camelot" compared to the Bush years (both Senior and Junior editions). Sure, Bill Clinton was no John F. Kennedy, but by all accounts, neither was John F. Kennedy. Like everything else, the American people (by which I mean the media) tends to make Supermen out of mere mortals. People (by which I mean the media, as well as the average Joe, not to be confused with Super Joe, Sloppy Joe, or G.I. Joe) often forget that JFK had some heavy-duty baggage to carry, especially in his alleged affairs with other women, notably Marilyn Monroe, and the little affair with Nikita Kruschev in which the American president brought the world to the very brink of nuclear self-annihilation. Camelot, indeed. Clinton's eight years weren't exactly peaceful, thanks to the overblown (pardon the pun) affair in the oval office with Monica Lewinsky. Other than that distraction, for which he was nearly impeached by the megalomaniacal, Puritanical Republicans who couldn't stand to see a Clinton in the White House, things weren't so bad--at least in comparison to today. The Blue Meanies took their hatred for him out on the entire country, refusing to let America enjoy its moment in the sun when the economy was going great guns (after those dreadful eight years of Reaganomics), and terrorism most often happened "over there". People still hated America, but it just didn't seem to personal, real and up-close in those days. Or maybe we (meaning North Americans) were just oblivious. Sometimes, igorance truly is bliss.
With George W. Bush in the White House, I'm sure there hasn't been much sex in the oval office. Pretty sure, anyway. He came to power on a morality ticket--promising to clean up American politics and make America respectable again on the world stage. Beware of any politician who comes to power on such a campaign. The morality ticket is one that gets played way too often and usually comes with a booby prize (aka Stephen Harper, who promised to gut Canadian politics of its corrupt Liberals). Almost single-handedly (unless you count the puppeteer Dick Cheney and Iago-like Karl Rove), Bush Jr. managed to make the United States the most reviled place on the world and its people the most hated in the so-called free world. It was a world that was a lot freer before wire-tapping, e-mail scans, and eternal damnation in Guantanomo Bay became well-known realities. Not so well-known were the unofficial policies of torturing prisoners suspected of plotting terrorist attacks (reminds me of Orwell's nightmare world in 1984) and sanctioning humiliation of p.o.w.'s in Afghanistan and Iraq. His father promised a "kinder, gentler" America, and both father and son delivered a more brutal, more insane America.
I miss the old days. I grew up on stories of cowboys riding the range and roping cattle, of opening up the West, of Daniel Boone and Davey Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier. Of the Wonderful World of Disney, where dreams came true. Of Highway 66 and going to San Francisco to wear sunflowers in your hair. I read the great novels of storytellers like Ernest Hemingway, Mark Twain, and even the benign horrors of Edgar Allan Poe and Stephen King. All the best music came from the U.S.A--jazz, blues, pop, and rocks. Sure, we knew about the serial killers like Son of Sam, Gary Gilmour, and the Boston Strangler. But those wacky American storytellers could make anyone sound like a Sunshine Superman, and these guys seemed like isolated nutcases, larger than life, and almost like folk heroes because of the way people wrote and talked about them in the media. Nobody emulated them, but they did seem like anomalies on a landscape full of normal, good folks.
America was built on certain ideals of the pursuit of happiness, freedom, truth, and justice. It's been a long time since anyone could say that that's what really came out of the war for Independence or the Civil War, Korean War, Vietnam War, or the World War II fire-bombing of Dresden or the holy shit moments and aftermath of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. But, strange as it sounds, at least you usually felt like you were on the side of right, of justice, and truth. Even when JFK double-dared Kruschev to just go ahead and pull the trigger on nuclear warfare, people largely felt that at least the guy in the white hat, metaphorically speaking, was on our side. Even though Bill Clinton embarassed himself and his wife and family, as well as his party and country in the eyes of the world, you felt like he was still a good man and a good president--someone capable of making things right somehow, if only by the eloquence of his language, the brilliance of his brain, and the good intentions of his heart (even when he was lying; but the thing is, if you're gonna cheat, what's the sense in 'fessing up to it without at least trying to squirm out it?).
Long story short, America used to be something to believe in. I had this argument with my brother-in-law a few days ago. He's a fair bit younger than me and, far as I can tell, he only remembers the Bush years. He doesn't remember "America the Good" (and I don't mean the one that Ginsberg told to "go fuck yourself with your atom bomb"--that's a different America, which co-exists with the other America). He knows only that America is messed up and continues to go around the world, sticking its nose into other people's business and creating chaos and dismemberment everywhere it looks.
Come to think of it, I'm not sure I remember that "America the Good" either. I only remember believing in it as a POSSIBILITY because, somewhere along the line, the people who founded the country used to believe in it too. America is a concept--and that's why people get so upset with evil-doing presidents, with terrorist attacks on American soil, with threats on the Statue of Liberty, with the falling of the twin towers in New York, and with people like Donald Imus and the Jenus Six. It's not that we're all (by which I mean people in the Western World) any better or holier than thou. It's just that, sometimes we're reminded of how good we used to want it to be and that somehow we fucked it up.
And yet...and YET...we think we can make it better. It's never too late to turn the ship around and make it right.
And every election year, there's an opportunity to become the America that the people of that country, and of the rest of the world, think it's possible to be. I don't know who's going to win. I like Obama and Hillary Clinton alike. I think he's youthful and idealist, and he's saying all the right things and truly believes in them. I think she's intelligent, well-intentioned, but a bit more realistic because she's "been there and done that," to use her own words. I think they'll do just fine with either of those candidates as president, and preferably a Democratic ticket that includes both.
But let's hope the American electorate get it right this time. They almost elected Al Gore, but he wasn't bright and shiny enough for them, not enough of a celebrity just yet. Plus, they really did give him the most votes, but the courts decided to over-rule the American public and crown King George II. It only matters to me because the world's in an awful mess because the United States is in an awful mess. I also figure that once one right-wing ultra-Christian, control freak is gone from power, it's only a matter of time before that same wicked witch loses its grip on our own little fifedom to the north.
Mostly, though, I just want to return some sanity to the world again. Just a little. Whoever wins the American election is going to have his or her hands full, and it'll take years to clean up the farm after such an enormous, long-lasting twister has hit it full on. In some ways, it's like that big whole in the ground in New York City that still hasn't been re-built. It's a monumental clean-up job, but you've got to at least have the right person with their hand on the broom.
Still, I don't think they need a Superman (or Superwoman) for the job. They just need someone who thinks it's possible to stand for truth and justice, while making "the American way" something other than the punchline of a joke.
Up, up, and away!
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
In the Cold Mid-Winter
Can't believe it's been a month since I wrote last. The month of January just kind of got away from me. I'd like to say I've spent all that time being productive, but the first half of the month was a bust. I got a headache on New Year's for no apparent reason and it didn't leave my head alone until the twentieth of January. I went to a doctor, but he says to live with it. I figure that's better than the alternative.
Meanwhile--I don't know if you've ever had a headache that lasts for twenty-one days or not, but--I wasn't able to do much of anything. No writing, no reading, no exercise (good thing I didn't make any resolutions, well, not really), and very little but lying around waiting for my life to start.
But it's gone now, and life is slowly getting back to normal. I started work on another novel, which means I'm now working on three novels at once. I have one called "Finton Moon" that won the Percy Janes award a few years ago and it got rejected by two publishers (that's really not very many) and three agents (still not very many). But all of them were extremely ethusiastic about the premise of the novel and the quality of the writing. They'd read the first forty pages and go "wow! send me the rest immediately!" It happened like that each time. But then a funny thing happened. They read the whole novel and, though they kind of liked it, they didn't "love" it. Anyway, I knew what I needed to do with it, but never really had the time to do it before. And before I go back to teaching next fall, this is the number one project I'd like to have done. So I'm working on that now, while the other two take my attention once in a while as well. "Finton Moon" is one of those novels that have the potential to really make a splash in the literary world, whereas my other works are just "smaller"--not so much potential for anything big, though I hope they're decent reads.
Besides writing novels, I have to start work on my play for "Break, Break, Break" soon. It ought to be done before spring, I would think. Funny, but when I first agreed to do it it seemed like I had all the time in the world. But suddenly it's 2008, and the play will probably be happening on stage exactly a year from now. That's really not that much time, considering all the work that has to be done with production and acting, etc. between now and then.
I'm also working on a couple of new short stories, hoping to get them done soon. Beyond that, I'm back playing badminton a couple of times a week. Most people think of badminton as a sort of backyard, leisurely game like croquet, with people standing around with drinks and parasols, casually batting the birdie over the net in a genteel fashion. But for me, badminton is an all-out, no holds barred bloodsport. I don't care about winning so much as just trying my absolute best on every shot. Kind of like life, I suppose. Nothing's really THAT important, when you think about it, but it is what you make of it. I choose to make every shot count. Then I go running around Field House track for a couple of miles before calling it quits. I find it helps me think better if I feel better physically, plus I just love to move as fast as possible and work up a sweat.
Then when I come home, my writing tends to go even better.
Speaking of which, I must get back to work. Time's a wastin'.
Meanwhile--I don't know if you've ever had a headache that lasts for twenty-one days or not, but--I wasn't able to do much of anything. No writing, no reading, no exercise (good thing I didn't make any resolutions, well, not really), and very little but lying around waiting for my life to start.
But it's gone now, and life is slowly getting back to normal. I started work on another novel, which means I'm now working on three novels at once. I have one called "Finton Moon" that won the Percy Janes award a few years ago and it got rejected by two publishers (that's really not very many) and three agents (still not very many). But all of them were extremely ethusiastic about the premise of the novel and the quality of the writing. They'd read the first forty pages and go "wow! send me the rest immediately!" It happened like that each time. But then a funny thing happened. They read the whole novel and, though they kind of liked it, they didn't "love" it. Anyway, I knew what I needed to do with it, but never really had the time to do it before. And before I go back to teaching next fall, this is the number one project I'd like to have done. So I'm working on that now, while the other two take my attention once in a while as well. "Finton Moon" is one of those novels that have the potential to really make a splash in the literary world, whereas my other works are just "smaller"--not so much potential for anything big, though I hope they're decent reads.
Besides writing novels, I have to start work on my play for "Break, Break, Break" soon. It ought to be done before spring, I would think. Funny, but when I first agreed to do it it seemed like I had all the time in the world. But suddenly it's 2008, and the play will probably be happening on stage exactly a year from now. That's really not that much time, considering all the work that has to be done with production and acting, etc. between now and then.
I'm also working on a couple of new short stories, hoping to get them done soon. Beyond that, I'm back playing badminton a couple of times a week. Most people think of badminton as a sort of backyard, leisurely game like croquet, with people standing around with drinks and parasols, casually batting the birdie over the net in a genteel fashion. But for me, badminton is an all-out, no holds barred bloodsport. I don't care about winning so much as just trying my absolute best on every shot. Kind of like life, I suppose. Nothing's really THAT important, when you think about it, but it is what you make of it. I choose to make every shot count. Then I go running around Field House track for a couple of miles before calling it quits. I find it helps me think better if I feel better physically, plus I just love to move as fast as possible and work up a sweat.
Then when I come home, my writing tends to go even better.
Speaking of which, I must get back to work. Time's a wastin'.
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