Was stunned to hear an old and dear friend had suffered a stroke. Since she was one of the people who introduced me to horses, I had to come up with something uniquely equine. This just brought it home to me, as I came home from my 64th birthday celebration: we aren't forever. Our loved ones are just as temporary.
Stunning wildlife videos just fall into my lap these days, and it's mid-winter! I've only ever seen these hooded mergansers as white blobs in the distance, too far away to film. Now for some reason they are swimming much closer to shore. We also see cormorants, sea birds which you almost never see in freshwater lakes, though the fact this lake is stocked with fish might have something to do with it.
A short excerpt from a book I return to again and again for spiritual renewal. It's not a book so much as an old friend I visit, and it does not disappoint.
I have a few things to say here. And I'm sorry if I called Joseph Boyden a bad name (but not really), and sorry I blew a raspberry at Jonathan Kay. But not really. I try to stay out of this fracas, because I'm not really IN it, except that I care. I care that people's feelings and life's work are being stepped on by writers who are considered "la creme de la creme" by everyone, especially the media. Why? Because they sell copies,that's why, enough copies to make the literary Who's Who that the media never stop yammering about. Anybody who's anybody is in it. Everyone else is jealous, see? That's why they make such a fuss over things. Besides, the literati are the only ones who can write anyway. Such was, and is, the tweeting and twatting in the nasty little world of Canadian literature, which has become the realm of bad feeling and poison darts.
And I mention that the big publishers are American. Well, they ARE, so the big publishers better get over it. You're not Canadian, you don't reflect anything but moving copies and winning Gillers, but the small presses, struggling along, barely able to make it, are. Every ten years or so a "marginalized" writer from a "small independent press" is tossed a Giller nomination, and the signatories of the UBC Accountable open letter say something like, "See? We're all equal here. You're almost as worthy to sit at the same table as we are." It's considered by the press to be a minor miracle, and such lucky writers are asked, "How in God's name did you manage to do that?" Just to explain, the bad name I called Joseph Boyden doesn't reflect my usual language, but it DOES reflect the language of people who lack cultural sensitivity. And how about people who pretend to be something they're not, winning literary prizes galore in the process? Becoming famous for something you actually aren't. Does the name Grey Owl mean anything to you? How about Iron Eyes Cody?
(From Wikipedia) Iron Eyes Cody (born Espera Oscar de Corti April 3, 1904 – January 4, 1999) was an Italian-American actor. He portrayed Native Americans in Hollywood films. He also played a Native American shedding a tear about litter in one of the country's most well-known television public service announcements, "Keep America Beautiful". In 1996, Cody's half-sister said that he was of Italian ancestry, but he denied it.
There is something very strange about this video, because it's neither black-and-white nor colour: it's pink! Washed-out pink, almost pinkish-grey, ashes-of-roses pink. I suppose this is the effect of ageing, film stock changing colour as it slowly degenerates.
I became re-fascinated (as opposed to re-fastened) with the Studebaker Lark when a certain jingle recently popped into my head: "You're gonna have a ball in the Lark/The '62 Lark!" This ad ran on TV when I was eight years old, and I remember it as if it were yesterday. Certain ads seem permanently recorded in my brain, along with a lot of other useless stuff.
I'm trying to find one that goes, "Plymouth's on the move, Plymouth, Plymouth, Plymouth's on the move. . . ", but so far no luck.
It interests me how this car is presented. Obviously it's a jazzed-up version of what used to be a very stodgy, dull family car. The fact that the woman who drives it is running around in a bathing suit is never explained, but the voiceover insists that it's a "very sexy car". I believe this short film was meant for dealers rather than consumers, but it's still very interesting. They're obviously supposed to give it a certain spin.
It didn't work, and Studebaker collapsed, I think the year after the "ball in the Lark" ad (video below). Up to that point, the "Studey" had been a serviceable, solid, conservative car. A safe bet. Did the Lark kill it? More likely, it was competition from the other swank sports cars of the era: the T-bird (of Beach Boys fame), the Stingray, the Porsche 911. And yes, I had to look those up. Though I've made some very long gifs of these ads (OH how I love to make gifs of old car ads, late at night!), I want to include the "ball in the Lark" jingle, along with that hectic dance number, like an Archie comic on amphetamines.
BONUS GIFS:The 1957 Studebaker! For some reason, old ads that are sepia rather than black-and-white make the best gifs. There is a certain crispness to them, and an ivory tone which is quite sensuous. And these are long, about a full minute each, when the average gif is a few seconds.
To me, it already looks pretty sexy. But what do I know.
It took a long time for me to dredge this back up from the vast canyon of YouTube oblivion. I saw it several years ago - when? 2013 or something, which now seems like forever, and posted it somewhere on the blog, but couldn't remember any identifying details. It was just some sort of bizarre religious procession in Brazil that looked more like a circus. When I finally found where I posted it, the original video had been taken down. I just kept clicking, and finally discovered it (or a version of it, quite different actually) re-posted with nothing but a Spanish description. I'm not sure I understand the significance of the kids in white clothing and chains in the middle part, nor the huge glowing multi-colored heads that bring to mind the Mexican Day of the Dead. The music is excruciating, awful synthesizer stuff, until about 6:30 when it briefly becomes quite haunting. And at 7:13, there is a sight of astonishing beauty. This actually isn't a lot different from most Catholic events in Latin America, and I'm not faulting them for this: when I think of the drab, wheezy, stultifying quasi-ceremonies of the middle-of-the-road Christian church I grew up in, I almost want to say HOLA! and go Catholic. Almost. But it's not likely I'll ever hook up with a church again. It amazes me I lasted as long as I did. The only thing I miss is the sense that someone, somewhere, unshakeably and eternally loved me. I don't think I will ever experience that again.
I had an immediate reaction to this meme (or whatever it is): truer words were never spoken! Of course, if you truly embrace this perspective you're seen as crass. But what is a writer to do? I've said many times that we don't expect a trained concert pianist to play in an empty hall. But that's the equivalent of what professional writers are expected to do. That is, those who aren't at the top of what is starting to look like a literary slag heap.
I'm a little sick of being disappointed, and I do try to comfort myself with the three novels I did get published (NOT self-published, by the way - I had to wangle contracts from three different publishers). I also have three or four manuscripts stashed in my computer, and ran one in parts (Bus People - if you wanna see it, the link is here)on this blog. I think ten people looked at it. I just think if it's meant to be, it's meant to be, and in this case it wasn't. http://margaretgunnng.blogspot.ca/2016/10/bus-people-quick-links-to-parts-1-12.html But was there some sort of weird karma going on? If not karma, then guardian- angel-ship, which I absolutely did not believe in. But maybe something was protecting me from "success", after all: the kind of success that lifts the privileged class out of the slag heap of anonymity and onto the shoulders of the gods (while selling lots and lots of copies).
It seems the game changed before I could catch up. I was only interested in writing well, which I believed would result in having a healthy readership. I don't think that's an unreasonable goal. But it didn't happen, and now I know it won't. But my melancholic acceptance of failure was disturbed by the current CanLit "dumpster fire" which is threatening to consume the whole industry (and yes, believe me when I say it IS an industry, though that's not such a bad thing - we all need to pay the rent). Though someone came down hard on me for posting the wrong piece on this (though there is no such thing as a RIGHT piece on this!), I will share a link (below) which gives you some idea of what's been going on in the schoolyard. If nothing else, it will give you an idea of the sheer complexity of the situation, how twisted and tangled it has become. Worst of all, it has made some writers afraid to say anything, knowing they risk having their most innocent comments mangled and distorted by the monstrous sharks of social media.
What vexes me is that NO ONE has yet said anything at all about how Twitter has poisoned the well: without even having to face your adversary, and having spent an entire nanosecond composing your thoughts, you can fire off the most hateful volleys, only to be met by a Greek chorus of approval from somewhere before your enemy fires back. Without context, and I mean ANY context at all, even relatively innocent statements can appear to be soaked in poison like a lethal dart. I will be accused of being a crusted barnacle for saying this, but in the past, if a writer read something in a magazine that made her furious, and she wanted to write a letter to the editor in protest, she would have to take the following steps: find a piece of paper and a pen, compose it, fold it up, address it, find a stamp, walk to the nearest post box and drop it in. At any point, she might think better of it, or at least rewrite it. Then, after a long wait, perhaps weeks or months, it might be published (likely severely edited). But once a tweet is tweeted, there is no taking it back.
Poison darts are poised everywhere, and can't even be deleted because someone will take a screenshot and use it as a weapon. Those who wish to have a future as a published author are on thin ice, and it doesn't help that the stodgy, arthritic, unmoveable CanLit establishment is sawing a hole in it. Speaking out is risky. NOT speaking out is crippling, and plays into the hands of elitist powermongers interested only in disenfranchising marginalized groups who MIGHT bring fresh perspectives to the table, if only they were allowed to. But the reins of power, not to mention the purse strings, are in the hands of the Big Few - bestselling writers, hotshot agents, major publishers. So perhaps some unknown angel prevented me from getting what I thought I wanted. Or not? Are the grapes sour? Who gives a shit, at this point! CanLit-dumpster-fire-disaster
If you'd rather not wade through this long piece, here's a short excerpt which demonstrates how rancorous and confusing this has become: Then, a new twist: B.C. author Angie Abdou wrote on Facebook that she in fact had notified Kay about Wunker's post as "part of a conversation about troubles raging in the [CanLit] community and how those issues are making their way into the classroom." But by the time Abdou went back to look for the post to send it to Kay, Wunker had unfriended her. So Abdou asked Bok to screen-cap it. In her confession, Abdou apologized for unintended consequences against Bok and Wunker; she called Wunker "a committed teacher and writer." She then left Facebook and Twitter. (On Thursday, Abdou provided The Globe with a statement. "I made a mistake, and I'm extremely sorry. I did not intend to betray anyone's confidence or to harm the reputations of anyone involved.")
Are you with me still? . . . No? Well, don't feel bad. Neither am I. The twists and turns of it are giving me vertigo. Come OFF it, people! Try to come up with some sort of armed truce, before the whole thing collapses and entire books are lost due to discouragement and pain. Creativity will be extinguished along with the flames. If people are not allowed to express themselves, if works of real literature (NOT TWEETS!) die on the vine, everyone loses. Everyone. Do you hear?
