Dusting. I've been at it for a half hour, and in that time I've thought of ... well, let's see. I approached the TV set and console-thingy it sits on, thinking of how long it had been since I last dusted (at least an administration ago), and then as I applied my dampened j-cloth in a circular motion, my mind roamed free, like a vulture over the Serengeti, looking for something dead to feast on. I thought of the way an old girlfriend bit her upper lip when she was excited, of dinner last night (couscous with peppers and onions and sausage slices in a spiced broth), and how maybe cumin would have helped, of how good the new Son Volt cd is, and how not quite so good the new Sigur Ros disc, and of how cul8r is faster than see you later, but dumber.
By now I had finished the TV set and moved on the the coffee table. Followed the couch, deep window sill and standing lamp with the goose-neck side feature. A positive dust trap, that one. I dusted and thought, picking through my past and current events, and coming out in favour of hb pencils and crunchy peanut butter and boxer-briefs and French roasted coffee and kissing. And dusting. Because without mind-freeing tasks, I would not have been able to indulge in this delightful thought ramble. I lack the mental discipline to daydream for its own sake. I need an excuse. Left on my own, I find tasks for my mind. But when already engaged on a simple task -- a beautiful repetitive mind-numbing, freeing task -- then I can allow myself the luxury of a real speculation. It's philosophy without rigour or cares. There may even be a name for it. But I'm not going to look it up.
The j-cloth is dirty -- time to rinse.
Wednesday, 30 May 2007
Monday, 28 May 2007
easy to like
My daughter Thea is a stern and judgmental teen (sounds like a tautology, hey? Teen morality, properly understood, is as narrow as the Inquisition's) and her opinion is quickly stated. Any fashion that is embraced by both babies and old people alike can not be stylish. Sounds correct, doesn't it. No way I will wear them, she says. They are without doubt the ugliest thing ever put on feet.
She is talking, of course, about crocs, those colourful plastic cloggy -- but I don't have to describe them, do I. (Like saying: A hot dog: you know, a frankfurter placed on a split roll ... or The Beatles: you know, a popular band from the 1960s ...) You know what crocs are. I agree with my daughter in her assessment of the shoe. Ugly. I do not own a pair, had no intention of ever putting them on ... and then this weekend, staying at a friend's cottage, I had to get something from the car, and there was a pair of crocs sitting by the back door. And I (forgive me, daughter, for I have sinned -- a fashion crime is still a crime, even if it is committed in the dark in a rural community) slipped them on and dashed down the drive. I was back in a few seconds, but the brief encounter changed my opinion. Crocs are ... easy. Easy on and off, easy wearing.
Hmm. Makes you think. If everyone likes something, maybe it's likeable. Maybe it's filling a need, striking a chord. I mean, I'll eat a hot dog. I'll listen to the Beatles. I won't rush out to buy a pair of crocs, but that has nothing to do with fashion sense (heaven help me) and everything to do with inertia.
She is talking, of course, about crocs, those colourful plastic cloggy -- but I don't have to describe them, do I. (Like saying: A hot dog: you know, a frankfurter placed on a split roll ... or The Beatles: you know, a popular band from the 1960s ...) You know what crocs are. I agree with my daughter in her assessment of the shoe. Ugly. I do not own a pair, had no intention of ever putting them on ... and then this weekend, staying at a friend's cottage, I had to get something from the car, and there was a pair of crocs sitting by the back door. And I (forgive me, daughter, for I have sinned -- a fashion crime is still a crime, even if it is committed in the dark in a rural community) slipped them on and dashed down the drive. I was back in a few seconds, but the brief encounter changed my opinion. Crocs are ... easy. Easy on and off, easy wearing.
Hmm. Makes you think. If everyone likes something, maybe it's likeable. Maybe it's filling a need, striking a chord. I mean, I'll eat a hot dog. I'll listen to the Beatles. I won't rush out to buy a pair of crocs, but that has nothing to do with fashion sense (heaven help me) and everything to do with inertia.
Tuesday, 22 May 2007
my friend sleep,
Happiness, says a book I read and enjoyed, but can not now recall, consist in getting enough sleep. (You're asking, How do you know you enjoyed the book if you can't remember anything about it except this one line? Don't have a real answer, except that in recalling this line I am aware of a feeling of pleasure. Good things are associated with this line. It's like the song intro you don't recognize, but somehow you know belongs to a good song. That happens to me all the time. Oh, yeah, I'll say, nodding my head to the beat, turning up the radio. What song is this? my kids will ask. Don't know, I'll say, but I like it. And they exchange that crazy old man look.)
So this book, which I enjoyed, defines happiness in terms of sleep. Now, I've thought a lot about sleep the last few days, since I haven't been getting much. (The more you have, the less you worry: money, sleep, sex, health. The more you have, the more you worry: speeding tickets, employees, balls in the air, letters from the government -- especially the ones that begin, It has come to our attention that .... They say money can be a worry, but I don't believe them. And kids are a worry whether you have one or ten.) Is there a better feeling than getting up slowly, stretching, and then settling back against the pillow? Luxury, peace, bodily contentment --it's all there, much more so than, say, pushing back your chair after a big dinner. Waking after a good sleep is like getting a huge hug from someone you love, only you're all by yourself.
I can go a long time on little sleep. In fact that's my default template. But there's a limit to wakefulness. Sleep is serious. Sleep is important. Mess with it all you like, with your caffeine and fear-induced deadlines. But know that it will find you. Sleep is like water -- it finds its own level. Sleep is a force, a sacrament, an absolute. I've been short this last week, and not even coffee, not even fear, is doing much of a job keeping me awake. I am yawning as I write this.
Maybe I'll grab an afternoon nap today -- the joy of sleep when others are working. (Like a midweek movie matinee in a quiet theater. Why are so many morally ambiguous activities associated with the afternoon? Topic for another day.) And ... ooh, another yawn ... maybe I won't last until afternoon.
So this book, which I enjoyed, defines happiness in terms of sleep. Now, I've thought a lot about sleep the last few days, since I haven't been getting much. (The more you have, the less you worry: money, sleep, sex, health. The more you have, the more you worry: speeding tickets, employees, balls in the air, letters from the government -- especially the ones that begin, It has come to our attention that .... They say money can be a worry, but I don't believe them. And kids are a worry whether you have one or ten.) Is there a better feeling than getting up slowly, stretching, and then settling back against the pillow? Luxury, peace, bodily contentment --it's all there, much more so than, say, pushing back your chair after a big dinner. Waking after a good sleep is like getting a huge hug from someone you love, only you're all by yourself.
I can go a long time on little sleep. In fact that's my default template. But there's a limit to wakefulness. Sleep is serious. Sleep is important. Mess with it all you like, with your caffeine and fear-induced deadlines. But know that it will find you. Sleep is like water -- it finds its own level. Sleep is a force, a sacrament, an absolute. I've been short this last week, and not even coffee, not even fear, is doing much of a job keeping me awake. I am yawning as I write this.
Maybe I'll grab an afternoon nap today -- the joy of sleep when others are working. (Like a midweek movie matinee in a quiet theater. Why are so many morally ambiguous activities associated with the afternoon? Topic for another day.) And ... ooh, another yawn ... maybe I won't last until afternoon.
boot descends
Wonderful weekend catching up from and trying to get over last week, sleeping, playing with the kids, sleeping some more, and now I'm faced with a deadline -- page proofs of Into The Ravine by Friday morning. No extensions. Some people are motivated by thoughts of a wonderful distant future. I am motivated by fear of a boot up the rear end in the next few minutes. Until I see the boot, I don't run.
In fact, it goes deeper than that. My inertia is in my marrow. See, an extension wouldn't do me any good. If time stopped for everyone but me, and I was suddenly magically gifted with a two-week extension, I'd probably take a week or ten days off, and then look over my shoulder, see the boot descending, and get busy. I don't look far ahead. It may have something to do with my short-sightedness. It may be philosophical: like Mr Wright says, Hard work pays off sometime in the future; laziness pays off now.
In fact, it goes deeper than that. My inertia is in my marrow. See, an extension wouldn't do me any good. If time stopped for everyone but me, and I was suddenly magically gifted with a two-week extension, I'd probably take a week or ten days off, and then look over my shoulder, see the boot descending, and get busy. I don't look far ahead. It may have something to do with my short-sightedness. It may be philosophical: like Mr Wright says, Hard work pays off sometime in the future; laziness pays off now.
I wonder if I can get a marrow transplant? Get rid of my crippling inertia, replace it with good healthy ertia. Problem might be to find a donor.
Sunday, 20 May 2007
prom fashion
In my small town, high-school prom is, apparently, the second biggest day of a girl's life, behind only her wedding. My neighbor told me and she should know -- she's lived here all her life. I asked if she was kidding.
Heavens, no. Why, I can still remember every detail of my prom, she said, her muscles creaking and her rheumy old eyes misting over. And that was thirty years ago.
(Quickly counting on my extremities and running out, I realized my own prom was back about the same time as my neighbor's. I hastily revised my opinion of her. Her muscles firmed up. Her eyes sharpened and lost their rheum.)
This would be an appropriate spot to talk about sexism or small-town values, but in fact my mind goes immediately to my own prom. (Not the second biggest day of my life. Or the third biggest. In fact I don't know how far down the days we'd have to count. Yesterday I cooked ribs, and they turned out great! A darn good day.) Back to my prom. Chiefly I remember the tux, a gorgeous creation in powder blue with navy trim, and a fake velvet bow tie about the size of Cleveland. A classic piece of 70s culture. For years the very thought of it has made me laugh.
But fashion is a cannibal, nourishing and renewing itself on the carcass of its own past. (That sounds harsh and slightly confusing. I'll try again.)
But fashion, like two-headed Janus at the gates of the year, looks forward and back. (Better.) Awkward hard-to-wear 70s fashions are (or were recently -- I don't even pretend to keep up) in vogue again. My son Sam is wearing a standard black tux to his girlfriend's prom. When I described my own promwear, his eyes bulged. That ... is ... awesome! he choked. That sounds so cool. I wish I could wear something like that.
Wanting to look like his old man. My eyes misted over for a moment.
Heavens, no. Why, I can still remember every detail of my prom, she said, her muscles creaking and her rheumy old eyes misting over. And that was thirty years ago.
(Quickly counting on my extremities and running out, I realized my own prom was back about the same time as my neighbor's. I hastily revised my opinion of her. Her muscles firmed up. Her eyes sharpened and lost their rheum.)
This would be an appropriate spot to talk about sexism or small-town values, but in fact my mind goes immediately to my own prom. (Not the second biggest day of my life. Or the third biggest. In fact I don't know how far down the days we'd have to count. Yesterday I cooked ribs, and they turned out great! A darn good day.) Back to my prom. Chiefly I remember the tux, a gorgeous creation in powder blue with navy trim, and a fake velvet bow tie about the size of Cleveland. A classic piece of 70s culture. For years the very thought of it has made me laugh.
But fashion is a cannibal, nourishing and renewing itself on the carcass of its own past. (That sounds harsh and slightly confusing. I'll try again.)
But fashion, like two-headed Janus at the gates of the year, looks forward and back. (Better.) Awkward hard-to-wear 70s fashions are (or were recently -- I don't even pretend to keep up) in vogue again. My son Sam is wearing a standard black tux to his girlfriend's prom. When I described my own promwear, his eyes bulged. That ... is ... awesome! he choked. That sounds so cool. I wish I could wear something like that.
Wanting to look like his old man. My eyes misted over for a moment.
Saturday, 19 May 2007
carrots, trampolines, girls and boys
And we're back. Sorry, small time away from blogging due to busy in-town week, late nights early mornings and (causal relationship) lack of sleep. (Don't worry about me being a martyr. This was work-related but fun too.) Meant to go to sleep early yesterday, but it was prom time and my two eldest had parties to be driven to. I'm still a bit groggy, but duty calls me to the keyboard.
All right, I'm a martyr to my blog.
More on boys and girls today. A few years ago I was serving dinner to a collection of teen friends of my kids, boys on one side of the table, girls on the other. Everyone has to eat their veggies at my place but no one likes the same ones, so we'd found a lowest common denominator: raw carrot sticks. (Pretty darn low. If veggies were numbers, carrot sticks would be a 2, I figure.) One of the boys began nibbling daintily on the end of his carrot, tapering it to a point. Before I was fully aware of his intent he had turned to the guy next to him and, with a savage cry, stabbed him in the chest. "Take that!" he cried, flourishing his carrot-blade around.
Well, before you could say methahemaglobinemia (the word appears on the first page of my new book; it's going to skew the reading level to hell), the boys' side of the table was busy nibbling their carrots into swords, then reaching into the middle the table for more (stockpiling weapons! This is where it begins). A full- fledged fight ensued, thrusts and parries and cries of anguish. Across the table, the girls regarded the exuberant display with open-mouthed, wide-eyed incomprehension. Was this the stupidest thing they had ever seen? I think it was.
I smiled with sympathy for both sides. I am enough of a grown-up to realize that the boys were behaving idiotically. But I am enough of a little boy to think: Yeah, sword-fight.
I was reminded of this incident yesterday. On my way to the grocery store I stopped at a stop sign (what are you smiling at? I always stop at stop signs) by a house with a trampoline in the front yard, where a girl -- maybe 11 years old -- was bouncing sedately. When I drove back, the trampoline had been taken over by two younger wild-eyed boys, who were circling each other in giant leaps, swinging inflatable plastic hammers (the kind of thing I win at fun fairs when everyone has to win something), knocking each other down and bouncing back up again.
I wondered if the girl was staring and shaking her head. This was, after all, dangerous and stupid behaviour. I laughed so hard I nearly ran the stop sign. Nearly.
All right, I'm a martyr to my blog.
More on boys and girls today. A few years ago I was serving dinner to a collection of teen friends of my kids, boys on one side of the table, girls on the other. Everyone has to eat their veggies at my place but no one likes the same ones, so we'd found a lowest common denominator: raw carrot sticks. (Pretty darn low. If veggies were numbers, carrot sticks would be a 2, I figure.) One of the boys began nibbling daintily on the end of his carrot, tapering it to a point. Before I was fully aware of his intent he had turned to the guy next to him and, with a savage cry, stabbed him in the chest. "Take that!" he cried, flourishing his carrot-blade around.
Well, before you could say methahemaglobinemia (the word appears on the first page of my new book; it's going to skew the reading level to hell), the boys' side of the table was busy nibbling their carrots into swords, then reaching into the middle the table for more (stockpiling weapons! This is where it begins). A full- fledged fight ensued, thrusts and parries and cries of anguish. Across the table, the girls regarded the exuberant display with open-mouthed, wide-eyed incomprehension. Was this the stupidest thing they had ever seen? I think it was.
I smiled with sympathy for both sides. I am enough of a grown-up to realize that the boys were behaving idiotically. But I am enough of a little boy to think: Yeah, sword-fight.
I was reminded of this incident yesterday. On my way to the grocery store I stopped at a stop sign (what are you smiling at? I always stop at stop signs) by a house with a trampoline in the front yard, where a girl -- maybe 11 years old -- was bouncing sedately. When I drove back, the trampoline had been taken over by two younger wild-eyed boys, who were circling each other in giant leaps, swinging inflatable plastic hammers (the kind of thing I win at fun fairs when everyone has to win something), knocking each other down and bouncing back up again.
I wondered if the girl was staring and shaking her head. This was, after all, dangerous and stupid behaviour. I laughed so hard I nearly ran the stop sign. Nearly.
Wednesday, 16 May 2007
me and the IRA
Spent a long day yesterday with the IRA.
No, not that IRA -- these guys are the International Reading Association, and the convention center in Toronto is full of teachers, librarians, booksellers, and suchlike. Yes, there's a bunch of jokes about getting the IRA conventions confused, but I'll forgo them. (Forgo -- to do without -- rather than forego -- to go before, right? If I weren't so lazy I'd look it up. Probably take less time than typing the sentence. And that one. And ...)
Anyway, there I was smiling and shmoozing and giving away copies of my backlist, having fun with American accents. New York is easy to spot, and there were lots of those. Ohio curiously nondescript (meaning like mine), Florida enormously like mine since the Floridians I saw were all ex-pat Canucks. Tennessee soft and Louisiana even softer, Texas hilarious because the lady was in a motorized wheelchair (you know, this sentence could have started better) which she couldn't control, and she ran over another lady's foot, and hollered, Whoa, theah! as if she was riding a runaway horse. Her apology was sincere, but I had to turn away to hide a smile. And then came a posse (I use the word advisedly) from Nevada. There was a line-up at my booth (I mean, the swag was free) and these dozen guys and gals held it up for a while, chatting, taking pictures, asking questions. I get along well with outgoing friendly Americans. Problem is, they take time. These guys asked me to come down (and over, I suppose) to Nevada next year to deliver a series of talks to schools and reading associations. I said sure, figuring that they were joking, or being polite. Rreally? Rrreally? Would y'all do that? (yes, that's the way the words sounded) they asked me. I looked up at eager non-ironic faces. They blinked, and conferred, and passed out cards, and talked about how grrreat that'd be. (Written down, it makes them sound like Tony the Tiger -- not quite right). Nice, nice people. They stood around me, not awkward at all, without any idea of leaving. I didn't know how to get rid of them. I'm no good at being polite -- not on purpose anyway. Thanks heavens for New Yorkers. Hey, people waiting! shouted a paint-stripper voice from down the line.
No, not that IRA -- these guys are the International Reading Association, and the convention center in Toronto is full of teachers, librarians, booksellers, and suchlike. Yes, there's a bunch of jokes about getting the IRA conventions confused, but I'll forgo them. (Forgo -- to do without -- rather than forego -- to go before, right? If I weren't so lazy I'd look it up. Probably take less time than typing the sentence. And that one. And ...)
Anyway, there I was smiling and shmoozing and giving away copies of my backlist, having fun with American accents. New York is easy to spot, and there were lots of those. Ohio curiously nondescript (meaning like mine), Florida enormously like mine since the Floridians I saw were all ex-pat Canucks. Tennessee soft and Louisiana even softer, Texas hilarious because the lady was in a motorized wheelchair (you know, this sentence could have started better) which she couldn't control, and she ran over another lady's foot, and hollered, Whoa, theah! as if she was riding a runaway horse. Her apology was sincere, but I had to turn away to hide a smile. And then came a posse (I use the word advisedly) from Nevada. There was a line-up at my booth (I mean, the swag was free) and these dozen guys and gals held it up for a while, chatting, taking pictures, asking questions. I get along well with outgoing friendly Americans. Problem is, they take time. These guys asked me to come down (and over, I suppose) to Nevada next year to deliver a series of talks to schools and reading associations. I said sure, figuring that they were joking, or being polite. Rreally? Rrreally? Would y'all do that? (yes, that's the way the words sounded) they asked me. I looked up at eager non-ironic faces. They blinked, and conferred, and passed out cards, and talked about how grrreat that'd be. (Written down, it makes them sound like Tony the Tiger -- not quite right). Nice, nice people. They stood around me, not awkward at all, without any idea of leaving. I didn't know how to get rid of them. I'm no good at being polite -- not on purpose anyway. Thanks heavens for New Yorkers. Hey, people waiting! shouted a paint-stripper voice from down the line.
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