I've been flipping through Best New American Voices 2004: The Best New Fiction From America's Top Writing Programs, and being frustrated by the endings. None of the endings are good! The stories are good - better than mine - obviously - but the endings all fizzle, they just end, with no apparent thought, no circular elements which, as a Canadian, I have come to demand in short fiction. It's like the stories are just stories, which in my view is unacceptable: every story should be a metaphor. When you get to the end, the story should function on a narrative level, and provide logical closure, but to be successful I feel it should also echo some larger idea, or at least some other idea: something seperate from the narrative, but that has thematic residue. Evelyn Lau, I think, has this problem in her work, and in a less obvious way so did Carol Shields - brilliant writers both, but they doom their stories with simplistic, one-dimensional endings. The only American that can get it right, consistently, is Lorrie Moore, and sometimes Joyce Carol Oates. So I guess what they say is true - Canadians are masters of the short story, whereas Americans blow our socks off when it comes to the novel. Maybe.
Ugh. I'm still getting over the embarassment of being kicked out of a strip club. Why did that have to happen? Why? I can't find it funny, yet. I can't make a good story out of it, yet. Good thing I have a "fiction" workshop this semester ...
Speaking of "fiction": I've been toying with the title "Deconstructing Dinner." The possibilities are limitless!
It's the last day of 2004. The end of the year has never struck me as particularly exciting - all it means is that I'm going to be writing the wrong dates on things for the next couple of weeks. But the parties will be good: a sushi thing at Ben's place, a sushi-and-wine-tasting party at some mansion in Rockland, and a mysterious house party in Fernwood. I'm feeling sick though so maybe I'll just skip it all. Maybe. It is the last day of 2004! And that's exciting.
Saw The Life Aquatic last night, which was fabulous. Not the best one - I still prefer The Royal Tanenbaums - but I think it's amazing to have four hits in a row. The only bad part is that Kumar wasn't in it! Pagoda, Mr. Littlejeans ... Where are you now?
A wild and confusing quote:
"All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his." - Oscar Wilde.
I love it! But what does it mean?
Here is a one-sentence movie review:
Is it bad - is it very bad - to avidly wish for the protagonist's death every time he is threatened, because that will mean the movie is over?
That's for The Aviator.
Back in Victoria - had a fabulous 5-day visit to Comox and brought home lots of lovely presents (hemp clothing! a milk frother! Moving Targets! a hanging plant!), plus Matt's mum gave us a load of food, including two different kinds of salmon, five different kinds of cheese, and TEN garlic bulbs! I am giddy with excitement about the TEN garlic bulbs! Have been poring over recipes.
Also got a cool Christmas parcel from my mum, with a nifty hat, a new bowl for the Sisterhood of the Blue Bowls, and a hemp skirt.
This morning has been spent cleansing the kitchen of the Stench of Death, which appears every three months or so. What is it? It smells like a rotting buffalo, but I never buy buffalo, so maybe it's just rotten vegetables and tofu. Mysterious. But it's gone now.
Today will be spend watching movies, creating various homemade Christmas presents for Victoria friends, picking up Sark's new book which I have on hold at the library, and drilling holes in the ceiling to find the perfect spot to hang my new plant.
Ryan - if you read this blog, and I've heard you do - I've had your Sex and the City dvd set and your Perl book for a long time. Where do you hang out? Can I stop by some time to return them?
Watched Shaun of the Dead last night. Mint. I've never been much for zombie movies, other than the original Dawn of the Dead series, but this one is cool because it's a strange mixture of horror, romantic comedy, philosophical rumination, and all-around British Weirdness. ***1/2
Yay! Not since the final days of The BC Report have I been given such a perfect target for political RAGE! His name is Rex Murphy, and even Camille Paglia looks well-rounded in comparison.
The book is Points of View, and it's a collection of Murphy's "essays" over the past few years. For some reason he's a weekly Globe and Mail colimnist - this, despite the fact that he is radically anti-feminist, contemptuous of "left-wing universities," and - perhaps most shocking of all - the final essay in the book is titled "The Removal of a Tyrant: George W. Bush Got it Right."
To backtrack: roughly one-eighth of the book is devoted to a lambasting of "gender-neutral speech," a phenomenon that Murphy seems to think is frivilous in light of famine, war, etc. He mocks feminists - specifically - for being so shallow as to question the line "in all our son's command" in the national anthem. His main argument is that, as sons, the subjects of this line also have mothers, which means that this line praises mothers. Meh? It is worth noting here that Murphy is white and old. I love at least two men of this description, but please. Having never had experience as a minority or - as I have - being a majority (52%) that is treated as a minority, I don't believe Murphy is qualified to comment on progressive language. Well okay, he is, because everyone is, but this tolerant attitide seems foreign to him. When ruffling his feathers over feminists' reappropriation of the offensive line, he seems not to take into account little Joy Waller's in early-80's schoolgrounds who stared at the swings as they wondered why their were no daughters in the song we had to sing every morning. When blaming feminists for various revisions of Bible texts, he never seemed to interview any 12-year-old Joy Waller's who cried themselves to sleep after they read rape-glorifying passages in the Old Testament. Methinks the gentleman doth research too much!
One essay is called "Wayne Gretzky: The Great One." After admitting to zilch knowledge of hockey, he goes on to write a glowing review of the life of this guy. Why? Yes, I wouldn't kick him out of bed for spilling cracker crumbs on the sheets, but does he really have to be an icon? Does he? Really? He's just a jock. He didn't CONTRIBUTE, dammit. And if Murphy had to phallus-worship someone, why didn't he choose a less over-exposed jock?
There is an "In Memoriam" section of the book. Six prominent Canadians are profiled, including W.O. Mitchell and Mordecai Richler. No women. The absence of Carol Shields is glaring.
Perhaps the final insult is the final essay: "The Removal of a Tyrant: George W. Bush Got it Right." Food for thought? Yes.
People have arrived to take me to the cinema, but - I will complate this later!
Watched 32 Short Stories About Glen Gould with Matt and Barry last night. It is one of those typical, ponderous Canadian films, directed by Francois Gerard, featuring shots of barren houses covered in snow while doomy piano music thunders in the background. I loved it! My favourite short story was "45 Seconds and a Chair," which is just that. Mint.
The cute, well-mannered little shitzu went feral on Barry when he came over, shocking everyone by barking and growling and generally being mean. No one could figure out this weird change in behaviour, but I'm almost positive it's because she had been given a lot of turkey earlier in the day, and the meat made her overly aggressive.
Today's agenda: shopping (VERY briefly - I hate Boxing Day shopping - I only want to see if I can get a cheap copy of Marge's "Moving Targets" essay collection), writing at the Komox Grind while drinking lots of coffee, a few cold ones at the Lorne, The Life Aquatic at the cinema (yes!), and a house party/gathering at Matt R's house later in the evening. I want everything to be primarily artistic, but will probably be reduced to using movie quotes in all my conversations.
Christmas morning has come and gone ... It's been a wild couple of days, lots of beer, seafood, an adorable shitzu named Zoe, Chinese Checkers, Family Feud (played on DVD!), The Ladykillers, and morning coffee spiked with Irish Creme liquer. Matt's dad is shocked at the drinking - it is mainly Matt, his sister and brother-in-law, and me - and makes comments under his breath like "Beerswillers!" and "Who drinks an entire bottle of Kahlua in one night? My children, that's who," as he's packing empties out to the patio. He is very sweet and cool - everyone here is, and there are two children who just about had fits when they saw all the presents under the tree. ("Does is smell like ... children?")
Gah! In Comox for just over 48 hours, and already I've incited riots re: Canadian foreign policy, and the mysoginist subtext in Indiana Jones films. I feel like a bitch ... In vernon I would be one among many, but here I'm solo. Whhhhhat? (said in a Professor Farnsworth voice) But times is fun.
How do you know when it's Christmas in Victoria?
- When I go out to the patio for my morning cigarette and coffee dressed in only pajama pants, a hoody, and socks, basking in the warm sunlight.
- When the digerido player appears outside of Munro's books, panhandling with an assortment of doom-filled, New Zealand underworld melodies, completely overpowering the scattered knots of carolers.
- When a homeless man in a bright green cape charges down Douglas St, singing at the top of his lungs, "So this is CHRISTMAS! And what have you DONE!"
- When all the pedestrians look miserable and haggard, stooped under the weight of bags from GUESS?, A&B Sound, Wal-Mart, the Bay, Chapters, etc ...
Anyhow. Tis the season, I guess. Matt and I are off to Comox in a couple of hours, where we intend to watch dozens of movies, write at least five short stories each, and pay a visit to Portuguese Joe's for cod burgers ("I got crabs at Portuguese Joe's!"). Should be a good-er.
(A poem from a writing gathering of Matt, Ben, and myself.)
These characters we invent
disappear without notice.
Matt Bigelow had Everyman Carl
while Ben Rawluk knew Teiresias Jones
I created truckloads of girls
whose names started with J
but they have left us.
We know how our mothers felt
when we left them.
How they would walk
to the end of the driveway
and watch the different cars
glimpse into the windows
How they would eat too much
How they called us
too often, too urgently.
We have grown matronly
in our young age.
(c) copyright 2004 Joy Waller
Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto Number 2 is playing on iTunes, and I just commented, "Oh! This song! A lot of - " and Matt cut in, "Yes, yes, a lot of Russian figure skaters used it. I know." Interesting.
Potluck on Friday was decadent - lots of food, gin, good peeps, etc. I drank too much, but in a very good sense. The following morning I vomited sadly into the toilet and then Matt and I went for breakfast at Floyd's Diner, bumped into Caroline, and wandered through the Mall for an hour, horrified at all the consumerism. Do you know that round bars of soap are now called "spheres of soap"? I certainly didn't. Wound up at a craft fair in Second Story, where I bought some sweat-shop free merchandise for my mum and grandma's Christmas presents. Hurrah! Then off to the last truly democratic institue in Canada - the public library - where I checked out books on reincarnation, Western feminism, and the women's resistance movement in Afghanistan. In January I'm going to organize a fundraising drive to raise art supplies and such for the underground schools there - apparently when the kids get pencil crayons it's like Christmas, and they are used with reverence and respect. I'm tired of reading about these horrible political regimes, and then doing nothing - or, going to a movie, or a coffeehouse, or socializing. What is the point? The point is pencil crayons, and I'm going to try and collect a massive box of them.
Essay is finished. No responsibilities for the next three weeks! Well, except for work.
And now there are Christmas light catastrophes.
My essay is called "Melodrama in 2004: Biology Keeps On Truckin'." Am I intentionally dooming myself? And if so, why?
The Christmas potluck is tonight, which shall be uber-fun, and if it isn't, well, I'll find someone to blame! The food better be good, is all I can say.
It is 4:30pm, and my final assignment of the semester, a 10-12 page film essay, is due tomorrow. Have I started it yet? Certainly not! These things are best done on a last-minute basis - more energy, dontachknow. Meh. I have high hopes of getting at least half of it done by 8, so I can go watch The O.C. at Steph's house. I actually don't like that show very much but something compels me to watch it - it's that weird soap opera appeal, the same thing that made me watch "Another World" and "General Hospital" and "The Bold and the Beautiful" when I was growing up. I hate the Ryan character. He's too sincere, and has only one expression ...
So, I'm rambling. I've already got Weboggle out of my system, so what next? Perhaps housecleaning and a perusal of rottentomatoes.com.
Oh - just watched the worst set of movies ever! "The Home at the End of the World" and "The Anniversary Party." Yeah. Just a heads up. Is it bad that I find "sincere" characters aggravating? That was my main complaint with "Home" - too much sincerity.
Also last night Matt rented "Swept Away," a 1970's era Lena Wertmuiller film, and "Last Tango in Paris," for essay purposes. Did women get beat up a lot and like it in the 70's? Is that why it's so prevalent in films of that time? Maybe a bruised cheek really does make sex better, but somehow I'm not buying it. (Matt wants to re-title "Swept Away" as "Come Stay With Me on the Island So I Can Physically Abuse You Some More.")
DEADLINE DAY! DEADLINE DAY! Day to spin in tight circles on the living room floor, oblivious to Sambuca who rushes over in concern! Day to mutter to myself on the patio! ("Conflict must arise from characterization, not theme. No really. It must.") Day to fend of Matt's questions of "Where are you? Where are you?"! Day, day, day! Nothing is soothing! Nothing is helpful! Cigarettes, coffee, rye, and eggs leave me scornful as they haven't achieved anything! I've been quoting the Disney version of "Robin Hood" and thinking that's very funny for some reason! ("Release the royal fingers.") Oh, oh, no, I can't seem to concentrate on the end. Every line feels like it belongs in a different play. And it will be dark soon, even though it's only 2 o'clock, which is entirely weird!
I've just finished reading 'Life and Death in Shanghai" by Nien Cheng. It's been about two weeks since I read "Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China" by Jung Chang, and highly recommend both books to anyone seeking an understanding of the Cultural Revolution in China, as well as a crash course in the method of Marxist/Leninist Communism practiced in that country. As a diehard socialist I've often been confused about the failure of Marxism in other countries - even with the whole "Germany was industrial and China/Russia were agricultural" thang - and these books explain the complexity of the power struggles in China that resulted from a former peasant (Mao) evolving into a dictator due to his access to unconditional power. Sweet stuff!
I think the coolest part of these books was an explanation, through biography, of the roots and particulars of the Cultural Revolution. I've always been fascinated by that term - it confused me for years, as it seemed like the oddest name for a revolution ever, plus when I was about 10 I saw some kind of CBC documentary in which an older Chinese woman talked about how all of her antique paintings were slashed during the Cultural Revoltion, and, as an intellectual, she was imprisoned for many years, and I wondered about that statement on and off all the way up until now. It's weird how people wonder about things and then don't research them for years.
"Wild Swans" details the life of three generations of Chinese women, the second of whom was a high-ranking Communist official who was subsequently persecuted for "rightest" beliefs, while ""Life and Death in Shanghai" tells the story of a woman who, with the blessing of the People's Republic of China, was a translator for the Shell oil company before being thrown into solitary confinement for 6 and a half years for being an "imperialist spy." Both are illuminating, though I would recommend reading "Wild Swans" first as it delivers a more comprehensive history of the Maoist Regime whereas "Life and Death" is more of a personal (though no less fascinating) history.
Anyhow: I guess this isn't really a book review. It's just a recommendation that people interested in the topic read these books, as they're clear, autobiographic, and provide a history of events that is more articulate than any so-called "history text" I have ever read.
To all the utter assholes who hang up on me when I apologize for dialing the wrong phone number: FUCK THE FUCK OFF. If I was prime minister, I would create a New Australia for your pus-filled kind.
Ben and Michael: I am not dead.
But if that's true, why am I listening to Rachmaninov?
A truly jam-packed weekend, including official staff parties - one of them rather huge - on Friday and Sunday nights, plus a performance by Semi-Louise in Nanaimo on Saturday after which the band and I crashed in the Cambie hostel. Memories include speaking to Pete about some matter of intense importance - biochemistry? Latin? - while perched on the roof of the second storey of the building; falling off the second bunk of a bunk-bed (onto Devon!) and running through the hostel hallways screaming that I had to find "Window Number Six." All in all, a baffling experience.
I'm supposed to be revising my "Ask Paris" play this evening, but have opted to read "Life and Death in Shanghi" instead. Will wonders never cease!
Ahhh - good ol' visit to Health Services today, where I was informed that, based on new studies, since I've been taking Depo-Provera for four years, I am now "at risk" and must change my birth control method before my next shot, which gives me TWO MONTHS TO DECIDE, ladies and gentlemen.
Virgos do not like change.
I know I'm lucky that I even HAVE a choice regarding birth control - after all, I could be Catholic, or living 40 years ago - but the one thing I really want, which is tubal ligation, will not be granted me until the ripe old age of 30. It's obvious how immature, prone to whimsy, and altogether un-informed 23-yr-old women are, so it's only natural our right to choice should be restricted until over halfway through our child-bearing years, but still. On my 30th birthday I'm going in for the operation, and the next day I will visit each and every doctor who told me my biology would kick in by my late twenties, and I shall say, "Ha!" (That's so shallow and like, immature. Maybe I should throw cream pies in their faces instead.)
So I will probably be getting an IUD. Ick. But I'm far too immature and impetuous to remember to take the Pill, so perhaps it's for the best.
And the typewriter gang emerges!
Except ... We have no typewriters.
Tuesday was a wild afternoon evening of Ben, Caroline, me, and occasionally Matt roving the streets of Victoria in search of that elusive instrument. Highlights included actually running into a typewriter mechanic in the aisles of Value Village, finding several mysterious boxes at the Salvation Army that Ben was convinced were time machines, purchasing a bottle of Jack Daniels at the mall and swigging it outside the main entrance (and other places), sushi at the Japanese grocery store (an 8-piece California roll, a 6-piece asparagus roll, and an egg nigiri all for $6!) and a very sketchy man at a thrift store that shall remain un-named (actually I don't think it has a name anyway) who forbade C to take photographs (she documented the whole day in black-and-white film for when we become famous) and had to close up shop early for an "appointment." Oh, and there was a man at an auction house who actually had a number on his leg, and became embarassed when C and I tried to buy him.
But ... No typewriters. I'm beginning to think that anyone who has one inherited it from their grandparents.
Ha! A Friday Five, even though it's Sunday!
1. If you have a phobia (or something close to one), what is it?
Where to begin? (1) Often, I awake in the middle of the night and count all of my toes to make sure they're still there. This sounds funny and ridiculous, and sort of like I'm making a desperate grab for attention or something, but it's actually very painful and true. (2) These are things I have to double-check 8 or 9 times before I do anything: Is the stove off? Is the coffee maker off? Is my back-pack zipped up? Do I have my bus pass? (3) In the darkness, when people touch me (ie in bed when one of Matt's feet is touching my own) I panic until I'm convinced by the guilty party that it's their foot, and not a ghost's foot. (Those of you who know Matt can only guess what he says when I scream, "Is that YOUR foot??") (4) Whatever that word is when you think you have cancer all the time.
2. How long have you had the phobia (or something close to it)?
Earliest phobia: age 4 or 5, when I thought spiders would fall on my head and therefore walked around all day with my head facing the ceiling. My mother was torn between thinking I was an idiot eccentric or just insane.
3. If you know anyone with a phobia (or something close to it), how does s/he act when s/he is experiencing it?
I don't know of any of my friends who have specific phobias, but they're all rather crazed and nonsensical anyway.
4. What is one phobia you would wish not to have?
I wish I didn't have the thinking-I-have-cancer-all-the-time phobia. It's wearing, and then I start eating healthy, which is exhausting.
5. What is one phobia you wouldn't mind having, if you were to face one?
The phobia in which you're frightened to leave your house. Then I would write! And next weekend, I could learn French!
I've just finished reading Dan Savage's latest opus, "Skipping Towards Gomorrah." It's one of those vivid, wonderful, and intensely frustrating books, in that I agree wholeheartedly with about 90 per cent of what he says, and am scandalized and bitterly opposed to 10 per cent.
Okay ... "Bitterly" and "scandalized" are perhaps too strong. But a couple of examples:
1) Dan Savage is pro-war. Who could have guessed it? Not pro-Iraq - the book was written before then - but pro-Afghanistan, which is almost worse. He mocks Toni Morrison for suggesting we bomb the East with "love," and claims that, like the majority of Americans, he wants to bomb the shit out of them with actual nukes. Yes, the peasants in Afghanistan. Where bin Laden - who may or may not have been responsible for Twin Tower attacks - was never even present.
2) Dan Savage believes that human beings have biologically evolved to the point where a lifetime monogomous relationship is impossible. To this end, he suggests that committed partners give each other permission to engage in adultery, thus eliminating all the ill effects that "cheating" has on a relationship. Admirable, Mr. Savage, admirable - but what about ill effects such as STD's? Shattered trust? His point is that no one will ever not cheat, so we may as well condone it. While this might work for prostitution (I applaud everything he has to say about the decriminalization of it), I think it's rash to assume that 100 per cent of the population will willingly commit adultery. By his own admission, half of men and a third of women will - how does this make all of us "biologically evolved" to the point where we can't help it?
3) He ends the book by echoing Buchanan's statement that America is "the last best hope on Earth." Hmmm ... Maybe I'm just one of those "lefties" that he pokes fun of in the book, but I don't see how he can say this. The patriotism is cool, but given that much of the book is devoted to comparing American drug laws, prostitution laws, and marriage laws to those in more progressive countries like Canada, Sweden, and the Netherlands, I find that last statement to be un-justified.
Anyway! The majority of the book was brilliant, filled with his usual caustic wit and nasty jokes at the expense of ignorant right-wing fundamentalists, and several intriguing example of creative non-fiction, such as his trip to the "Fat Acceptance" convention, which is just too bizarre and fascinating to get into here.
I'm going to a zine-making party tonight! All I've been requested to bring is scissors, but I shall bring gin and raspberry juice as well. Perhaps some trashy magazines I bought a while ago for ... research ...
Went to buy Christmas presents today, dithering over the cost of things, then bought a copy of Dan Savage's "Skipping Towards Gomorrah" for myself. Clint: would you be interested in borrowing this book? I know you've had issues with Mr. Savage in the past - you're one of those guys who emails him! - but I thought you might want to give it a look .... A very articulate man, and he looks sort of like you. Best part of the book so far is when he quotes Pat Buchanan: "Europe has begun to resemble the United States. Between 1996 and 2000, out-of-wedlock births soared in Canada from 4 per cent to 31 per cent, in the UK from 5 per cent to 38 per cent, in France from ..." Mint!
The reading on Wednesday evening was wild. I haven't done a large reading in months, and I was more nervous than usual, so I downed three rye and cokes before Matt and I left for Hugo's at 6:30. Once there, I discovered that rye and cokes were on special for $2.50, and over the course of the evening spent an entire crisp twenty dollar bill on them ...
The bar was packed with a mixture of after-work regulars, student filmmakers, writers like myself, and bar star types who were there early for the dancing that would commence at 10 o'clock. I sat on a couch squeezing lime into my drinks and watching bizarre short films that were projected onto a high screen above the dance floor. I was to read third, which I disliked - usually I agree to readings only if I am permitted to read second - and by the time the first two readers and about 12 films has gone by I was drunk and ready. The MC introduced me as "the irrepressible Joy Waller," and a loud roar of shrieks and cheers went up from all corners of the bar. I was shocked, as normally I only get a couple of hoots - then I realized the entire place was drunk and cheering because they could. Beautiful! I read a selection of feminist poems and obscure short-short stories, then it was over and I was swept off the stage to the edge of the bar, where Steph gallantly bought me another drink.
About an hour later Matt read, and the bar was at such a fever pitch of excitement and frenzy that he had to scream his poems into the microphone just to be heard - he read whimsical Zen poems and a nonsensical telephone conversation between a man named Sedrick and his brother in which they shrieked arguments regarding headsets and Christmas presents and mothers. The crowd was delirious, dancing and screaming and cheering. Matt was flushed with confusion and delight.
The only bad thing was that the final reader, a girl named R, was CANCELLED. I've never seen such a thing happen before, and I've done over a dozen readings. It was time for the dance thing to start, but she would only have read for 5 minutes, and I just don't get it. I saw her on the sidewalk after, choking back tears, drunkenly trying to make sense of what had happened.
Off to a party after, where Steph and I split a six-pack of Rickard's Red and chatted on the front steps of a locked house with Matt. Home by around midnight. Went to work the next morning with difficulty, trying to keep my eyes in focus.