Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Oh no it couldn't be




(Two middle-aged women, overheard talking at Tim Hortons yesterday).

Oh well you know I can’t stay in the sun longer than

Well, aren’t you using sunscreen?

Isn’t it a little late for that, I mean

Oh my God, I’ll bet you were one of those people who baked in the sun.

I don’t bake in the sun any

Use sunscreen

By the way I got some news about, you know, all that trouble he's been having

Oh, tell me, what did they find?

Oh well, they didn’t exactly find anything

Whadda you mean? He went through every test that existed, didn’t he?

Yeah, and they kept not finding anything, and he was, you know, wanting to give up. And I said, I've been with you twenty years and I'm not about to give up yet.

Well, why don't you just have the tests done again? These machines, you know

Yeah, and that’s about all there is now. Machines. No real doctors.

Tell me about it. Doctors don’t do anything at all now except sit there and delegate.






Then you get to the hospital and your body is stuck in a big tube, or you have to get your insides reamed out

(giggles)

So they still don't have a clue what it is?

No, I told you! I got the news on (muffled)

News. What do you mean by news?

They think they do know what’s wrong with him.

So, what, tell me!

Depression.

(silence)

No.

Yeah, see it’s

Oh NO. No, no, no, no, no. That’s what they all say now. It's the disease of the week.

Yeah, but he -

It’s just a way of pushing those pills. Maybe it’s his adrenal glands.

But he’s been so –

Everybody gets that way. Listen, I know what will help. Turmeric.




Turmeric? Isn’t that something that goes in a pie or something?

No, no. It’s a miracle substance. I’ve seen it happen again and again.

But I’ve tried everything like that. I mean, alternative stuff. He just sits there

Get him out! Just get him out more. Talk to him. Get him to be more positive.

This isn’t a matter of will. That’s what the doctor said.

Doctor?

Psychiatrist.

PSYCHIATRIST?

They’re not witch doctors, you know.

They’re not? They’re funded by the pharmaceutical companies! You should know that. They’re nothing but pill-pushers.

But I don’t know what to do. He’s talking about killing (muffled)

(Silence)

No.

(unintelligible; sounds of weeping)

No.

But it’s true that (muffled)

No. Just get him out more. I mean, spiritually this might mean he’s trying to break out into the light.

LIGHT! He wants to jump off a bridge!

Keep your voice down! Everyone can hear you.

Yes. Everyone is uncomfortable about this.

Well, no wonder!

When he took a six-month leave at work, no one phoned.

(low voice, almost unintelligible) It's because people don’t know what to say. And when you're away that long, after a while they start to talk.






It’s like they just expect him to pull himself together.

Well, what else can he do? Just lie there? Take pills and turn into a zombie?

They don’t “turn you into a zombie”.

How do you know?

Well, I –

OH GOD! Don’t tell me YOU’VE been conned into this!

I couldn’t stand it any longer, he couldn’t work, he felt useless, he was around the house all the time talking about suicide and how much he hated himself. I couldn't sleep either and I

Listen, everybody’s depressed now. Next year it’ll be something else. And every time, there’s a drug for it.

What else can we do?

Well, maybe there’s a higher purpose in all this. You know, as if you’re about to break through to joy.

Is that what they told you at that retreat?

Don’t get sarcastic with me.

I wasn’t! Don’t you hear me?




Not if you take that line with me. Listen, if you expect any support at all, from anyone, you’re both going to have to stop the pity party.

But this isn’t self-pity.

Who told you that, the “doctor”?

I read it in a book called

Oh, for God’s sake, a BOOK?

Yes, a book. I wanted to find out if

That’s worse than pills!

But better than turmeric.

Oh, now you’re being sarcastic! Hey, don't forget I'm your best friend! Who else is ever going to listen to all this? 

Nobody.

Right, so don't talk to anyone else. And don't tell me anything more. It's better that way.

(One of the women gets up and storms out. After a while, the other woman leaves. It is obvious she has been crying.)




Sunday, July 27, 2014

This life is bittersweet. . . again






Now all of the planes have landed
The soldiers are in their beds





Smoke rises from their clothing
And sweet dreams through their heads







Truth faced leaves a strange taste
When joy and sadness meet






A country rain on a city street
This life is bittersweet




The boy with the bloated belly
Hears today's truck arrive






He puts down his baby sister
And makes his way outside






Truth faced leaves a strange taste
When joy and sadness meet
A country rain on a city street
This life is bittersweet






Everyone's a novelist
And everyone can sing
But no one talks when the TV's on...







The lightning flashed, and the thunder rolled
Dark clouds filled the sky




A country rain on a city street
This life is bittersweet 
 



Moxy Fruvous



Post-blog notes. Once again I lost an entire post, with all my thoughts about my favorite '90s pop/folk group, Moxy Fruvous, gone forever. (Barenaked Ladies were a close second, with their anti-rockstar geekster appeal predating The Big Bang Theory by 20 years.) I'm trying to piece it together now, but it's traumatic. What I was going to say was, I never expected to hear this song again. Every so often I'd check YouTube to see if someone had posted it, and though King of Spain and the cutesie My Baby Loves a Bunch of Authors ("spilled some dressing on Doris Lessing, these writer types are a scream") were all over the place, this one wasn't. It has a smoky, dust-rising, melancholy Gulf War feeling to it, along with two of the greatest non-Dylan lines in pop music: 

Everyone's a novelist, and everyone can sing
But no one talks when the TV's on

Once again, this predates the cult of narcissism, the American Idol and easy one-click authorhood by twenty years or more. And yet, unlike the Ladies, these boys gradually drifted into obscurity. But that one song, somehow redolent of Jim Morrison's melancholy bleakscape, smolders on.

(And oh. When I went looking for Google images to illustrate this post, most of them were from my blog. From my post. On this. On this song, a while back, two years maybe, or three. So I just pirated my own work. I don't care who pirates mine. I remember when it was a real issue "using" a photo, then Pinterest came along and everybody was stealing everything from everyone. I've used TinEye Reverse Image a lot, trying to find the provenance of certain photos, but all I ever find are different sizes and what web sites it has appeared on. I would hate to be a photographer now. By the way, what possible use is Pinterest? It seems almost as useless as LinkedIn.)


When dry of inspiration, think of a panda



Friday, July 25, 2014

Lots of cool alien shit












I go weird at night, well, sort of. I stay up too late, which I never used to do when I was younger and went to bed at 9:30 or 10:00. I do my straight blogging in the morning, and my way weird blogging late at night (or is it very early in the morning?)  Something in my head went "sproinggggg" a few years ago, and now everything is upside-down. But that was then, when things were normal. Now I have the Aliens.

Hey, I liked The X Files as much as anyone, though I don't think any of it exactly convinced me. But then came YouTube, and plenty weird shit. Most of these things look like animatronics, puppets, or just somebody's idea of a joke. But that big-headed one, you've gotta wonder. The long gangly body with the long fingers. I want to call Whitley Streiber and say, "Whitley, come home. We believe you now. All is forgiven."


Thursday, July 24, 2014

Should we be more like the States?





Over the past several weeks, I have been trying to sort out what I saw in New York City, especially in The Cloisters, the brilliant collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Fine Art's Medieval Collection. I have come to the conclusion that even though none of the museum's collections was American (how could it be?), it was genius of them to recognize genius in
others. This is a key cultural failing of Canadians (sorry to say but it is true). Until we learn to recognize genius in others we will not be capable of recognizing genius in ourselves and our own works and we will remain a second rate culture dominated by cliques and second rate conversation among those who are merely self-serving. It is time we took that conversation to a
different level. Rather than just patting ourselves on the back, we should ask why we are patting ourselves on the back. Rather than just saying that our poetry is good because it has been promoted and discussed in trade journals, we should be asking ourselves why something is good, what made it good, and how it could be better. We aren't pushing our brains enough and because of that we're casually accepting things merely because they appear on bookstore shelves or because they've been reviewed in publishing journals. That isn't culture. That's just marketing and we need to recognize the 

difference.







Those brave words were posted on Facebook by one Bruce Meyer, a much-published poet who has his ear to the ground on all matters cultural (and NOT just Canadian culture, folks!). I always pay a lot of attention to what he writes, because he comes out and says things the rest of us tiptoe around while we keep our mouths safely bandaided shut.

I don't think this is a screed against CanLit or anything else Canadian, except perhaps its insularity and near-desperate attempt to prove to itself that, yes, in spite of all the evidence, it DOES have a thriving arts community not dependent on constant handouts to survive.




OK then, what if it's true (which it is, largely) and artists DO need government funds and/or constant scrambling on social media in order to go on? The problem is, someone has to name the problem first or it continues to worsen through denial. I've been re-reading the brilliant works of Margaret Laurence, and what I see is work that speaks for itself, with a quality of greatness that does not exist any more. I don't know how much schmoozing writers needed to do then. Maybe a lot. But I don't think it was the main event. Laurence, after all, was widely quoted as saying, "Don't be a writer in this country unless you absolutely have to." (And that was in the 1960s, an era when Jack McClelland took manuscripts home in his briefcase to personally read in bed.) In The Diviners, Laurence's most autobiographical novel, Morag is portrayed as a "successful"published author barely scraping by while she raises her daughter on a pauper's income.



Canada has always suffered from chronic low self-esteem in every area. It's no secret why. We live next to this giant, the elephant that at any moment might roll over and crush the mouse. We have approximately one-tenth the population of the U. S. spread over a much wider geographical area, consisting of concentrated blobs of population punctuating vast stretches of nothing. We are a much younger country, nearly a century younger, so that we have had a century less time to establish ourselves beside this heaving, seething superpower. Until fifty years ago, we didn't even have our own flag.




Our history has also been vastly different, dull by some standards. Robertson Davies was once quoted as saying, "Historically, a Canadian is an American who rejected the revolution." No rocket's red glare, no bombs bursting in air, just an endless "we stand on guard, we stand on guard".  I do not know one single individual who owns a gun, and in my entire lifetime have only known two (an antiques collector and a cop). I doubt if this would be the norm in the States. You do not see articles published in magazines here telling you (quite seriously, like a fire drill) "what to do if someone has a gun to your head". We have no "right to bear arms" in our constitution. We don't "pledge allegiance", an idea which to the Canadian mind seems very strange.

Am I claiming that as a nation we are morally or perhaps ideologically superior? Sometimes I wish I could say that. On the other side of our peaceable ways seems to be a woeful mediocrity. We can never keep up. I'm a Canadian and I love my country. But art is being drowned in the mad scramble for commerce, to "win", to sell copies, to be "a success". If you aren't, you feel a particular kind of miserable guilt and woe, not to mention an isolation no one should have to feel. You're not "in", you're "out", and the solution is to work even more feverishly to gain admission, to crash the gates. And yet if you say any of this out loud, you're anti-patriotic, hate Canada, hate the arts and just don't understand how it really works. Any time I've tried to write about this, I've been "corrected", shown the ropes, or told, "well, none of that applies to ME, I'm doing just fine" (so, by definition, I must be a loser).




Am I saying we should be "more like the States" (a sentiment which is always both praised and reviled)? No, I am saying we should be more like ourselves. Celebrating only the tiny tip of the vast pyramid which is the arts community in Canada is not going to do it. Imitating the States is not going to do it, because we are not the States.  I am not knocking Americans; my husband has travelled extensively all over the United States
and insists that the vast majority of people he met were warm and welcoming, perhaps a damn sight more warm and welcoming than the average chilly Canadian. Dissing Americans across the board annoys him no end.




I wonder how to transcend all these useless stereotypes, to begin to listen and respond to those powerful inner voices that drive us to create. It can be argued that art has always been elitist, that only the strong survive, etc. But it's a circular argument. An elitist system won't admit any new members, becomes smug and stagnant, and thus even more elitist. Those who need to create are shoved out into the margins, the badlands of existence. Then it's "oh, well, you know what artists are like, they're a crazy lot." The suicide rate among poets is staggering, but also part of the stereotype of crazy writers who for some reason can't cope.

And yet, and yet. I do wonder how many magnificent artists are out there, or HAVE been out there, who refused to play the game and thus remained in total obscurity, unknown to any of us.




It's my blog, and I'll lament if I want to/need to. If I can't, things are even worse than I thought. So often, when I try to express a thought or feeling that comes from a deep part of me, I am clapped down (especially on Facebook, and especially by Canadian authors!). I had an example of this the other day that made my head reel: why must we fire on each other like that? Why the unspoken, unacknowledged status wars, which if you talk about them at all seem to get a reaction of, "Oh, you're not promoting your work vigorously enough"? The unquestioned assumption is that you're clamoring for a higher spot on the totem pole we all clutch for fear of sliding down on top of those unfortunate underlings. If you're not winning the unacknowledged, futile war for ascendency, you're just not playing the game right.

I am saying the game needs to be chucked out altogether. Can't be done? Nothing can be done if it's never ventured or dared.




I can do nothing at this point but quote an old, old song by Joni Mitchell. I am not entirely sure of the message. It has echoes of the Civil War, but below and beneath that, it may be speaking of the uneasy relationship we have with the giant that constantly threatens to erase our identity. But spare a thought for this: they never set out to "erase" anything. They are simply being, huge and turbulent, while we cringe and continually wonder who we are.

And so once again
My dear Johnny my dear friend
And so once again you are fightin' us all
And when I ask you why
You raise your sticks and cry, and I fall
Oh, my friend
How did you come
To trade the fiddle for the drum

You say I have turned
Like the enemies you've earned
But I can remember
All the good things you are
And so I ask you please
Can I help you find the peace and the star
Oh, my friend
What time is this
To trade the handshake for the fist

And so once again
Oh, America my friend
And so once again
You are fighting us all
And when we ask you why
You raise your sticks and cry and we fall
Oh, my friend
How did you come
To trade the fiddle for the drum

You say we have turned
Like the enemies you've earned
But we can remember
All the good things you are
And so we ask you please
Can we help you find the peace and the star
Oh my friend
We have all come
To fear the beating of your drum




Wednesday, July 23, 2014

I don't even KNOW this guy!






This is a fictionalized, but NOT wholly-imagined Facebook conversation I saw today:

Kenneth R. Beaverbrooke: You wouldn't believe what just happened to me. AGAIN. Someone tried to "friend" me on Facebook, someone I didn't even know! He looked like some cheap salesman for something, self-promoting all over the place, don't know why he thought he had the right to try that, especially since he probably hasn't even read my seventh bestselling novel, my erotic masterpiece, CHILLED: Blue Balls in the Yukon,  now available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kindle, Kandle, Kundle, and everywhere fine electronic transmissions are sold.

Ronald J. Rottenburger: Oh, yeah, Ken baby, I hear you, I hear you! I know just what you mean. They do that to me all the time. Maybe they just see my astronomical total of friends, all those thousands, you know, and get so intimidated, they try to friend me up to steal some of my glory. (Snort)





Kenneth R. Beaverbrooke: Excuse me. Were you saying something? Never mind. This sort of thing happens to certain authors, because certain authors exist in a special stratum of intelligence to which no one else can aspire. This is especially true if they are in their seventeenth week on the New York Times Bestseller List, and even more true if their seventh novel is an erotic masterpiece titled CHILLED: Blue Balls in the Yukon. I can't believe the presumption of these people thinking they can aspire to being my social and/or literary equal. 

Ronald J. Rottenburger: Ken, Ken. Relax! WE love you, baby. WE know you feel traumatized by all those hundreds and thousands of people trying to friend you every day, people you don't even know, but take heart, Kennie boy. Think of it this way. You're just one of those guys who knows everybody.






Kenneth R. Beaverbrooke: I beg your pardon, whoever you are. Just what is meant by "everybody"? Have you forgotten my staggering powers of discernment? I don't know "everybody", nor would I wish to know "everybody",  though Poppy Dollartree and I have more than a nodding acquaintance.

Ronald J. Rottenburger:  Ken. Ken. Listen to me! I'm not trying to come between you and Poppy.

Kenneth R. Beaverbrooke: Yes you are, you lousy little interloper! It's people like you I have to "unfriend" all the time. Ronald J. Rottenburger, you are not worth my time.





Poppy Dollartree: Squeallll! Kennieeeeeeee, hi, it's Poppy! Let's cozy up and crack a bottle of ice-cold Wild Turkey.

Kenneth R. Beaverbrooke: Poppy! My God, I haven't seen you since the SSWA meeting yesterday afternoon!

Poppy Dollartree: Yes, that's right. Smug and Sociopathic Writers Association, like they say. Of course that's just a joke! Smart and Sexy is more like it. Nothing like those long meetings in the conference room - a conference of two! But back to the issue at hand. I am constantly being propositioned on Facebook by men I don't even know.

Kenneth R. Beaverbrooke: Tell it, girl.





Ronald J. Rottenburger: Hey, guys, I've figured out what to do about this!

Kenneth R. Beaverbrooke: Can I delete that? No? Then let's just carry on, shall we? Poppy, baby, are you up for playing a part in the movie adaptation of my erotic masterpiece,FURBURGERS: Crimes of Passion in the Beaver Trade?  You'd look swell in one of those great big politically-incorrect coats.





Ronald R. Rottenburger: Hey, guys. . .

Poppy Dollartree: Ooooooh! A movie star! I can see myself on the red carpet with a glass of that classy champagne.

Kenneth R. Beaverbrooke: Yes, and it wouldn't be any goddamn Wild Turkey either.






( I have to tell you that this selfsame self-important fictionalized Canadian-famous author later delivered a nasty crack at me for no good reason. Someone had posted a dreadful article called What to Do if you have a Gun to your Head. With a sickening sinking feeling, I realized it wasn't a joke - it was actual, step-by-step instructions, like a fire drill.. I posted a comment about how heartsick this made me feel and about how I wasn't sure I even wanted to live in a world that had degenerated to that level of madness. Kenneth R. Beaverbrooke responded, "well, hey, Margaret, why don't you take a clonazepam?" When I deleted my part of the conversation he made a bunch more snarky comments, so I told him I had been under the delusion that I was no longer in junior high with people sniggering at me and hurting me for sport. But no: this sort of casual mean-spiritedness is alive and well and living on Facebook! I still don't know why he felt the desire to throw that little ball of carbolic acid at me - perhaps it was just to brighten his day. And the ironic thing about it all is, HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW ME!)






Monday, July 21, 2014

A radical transformation




Most of these Facebook-posted YouTube things give me the pip, but this struck me as the real thing. It's realistic about the time, dedication and effort it takes to attain real transformation. I'm reminded once again of a favorite quote:




Sixteen seconds of Harold Lloyd