Speculating on the year that will be

Back when we were in our early 20s, my best friend H. and I used to have the same resolution every new year. Simply, it was "less fretting, more fucking." (I think the two were intertwined: it reasons that we were probably fretting because we weren't doing enough fucking. Ah, such simple times...) Over the past few years, I've resisted creating a laundry list of new year's resolutions, probably because they seemed to be so cliche. (Lose weight! Eat healthier! Live every day as if it's your last!) Still, putting up a new calendar on the kitchen wall does seem like a good opportunity to set a few (hopefully attainable) goals. So in that spirit...

But before we get to that, perhaps a recap of last year's goals and my success at attaining them. Unfortunately, I can't remember them! Thinking back, I'm not even sure I indulged in the exercise last December. If I did, they probably revolved around things like taking better advantage of the city's pleasures, such as its music, its theatre, its bars, etc. I think I was partially successful: I attended more live music shows in 2008 than in past years, attended the opera (including finally seeing my favourite of all time, The Marriage of Figaro; thankfully it was a great production), and tried some new bars. I'm also sure exploring new music was on there too. I'm happy to report that my knowledge of interesting Canadian music has skyrocketed since the end of last year. Oh, I'm sure "less fretting and more fucking" was somewhere on the list. I think I did ok there...

I'm sure there are some goals I set that I didn't meet. Writing more, for one, immediately springs to mind. And running a marathon (which I think I've put as a goal every year since I started running seriously), although I was in some previous serious shape by the end of the summer. But overall, I think 2008 was one of my better years. I'm feeling very positive and (yes) happy as we approach the last few hours of the calendar year. I can honestly say that, as I look back on the year, there's nothing that I feel bad about not accomplishing.

That said, I've been thinking about some of my 2009 goals. (This year is also shaping up to be a somewhat momentous one, largely because I'm approaching a "milestone" birthday - ie., one that ends in zero - and because I'll finally get these braces off my teeth, resulting in the straightest teeth I've ever had. Watch for those incoming, full-toothed smiles. Topics for another post, however.) It's probably best to split these into categories like "easily attainable," "more difficult" and "geez, that's a longshot, but you never know." (I reserve the right to revisit this list, of course, as more come to my head.)

Easily attainable:
- Writing more. I feel good about my personal writing going into 2009, that I'm gaining some momentum both with this blog and my writing outside it. I've even been writing some poetry, although it's mostly hackneyed garbage. But fun to write, nonetheless.
- Reading more "classics." I think this is a holdover from a couple of years ago when I had this idea that I'd split my reading equally into contemporary works with acknowledged classics that I "should" (bad word) read. Like Tolstoy or Dickens or Proust or Cervantes. The problem is that I get intimidated by the huge tomes many of these great writers produced (not to mention they ain't easy to carry in a shoulder bag), but I'm hoping to conquer that fear.
- Discovering more "contemporary classical music." Since this year was about new Canadian music, next year should be about more challenging modern music. Reading Alex Ross' wonderful The Rest is Noise fueled my interest.
- See more theatre. A holdover from this year. Except for the opera, my theatre viewing in 2008 was pathetic.
- To make better use of my immediate after-work hours. This could mean indulging myself at a cafe or bar for an hour or so immediately after work rather than rushing home. This falls under another long-held (and partially achieved) goal of taking better advantage of the city's offerings.
- Throwing away socks the minute I discover a hole. Along with this, cutting my toenails more often...
- Keeping a clutter-free, more minimalist home. Moving helped since it allowed me to cull a lot of junk, but I can still do better.
- To exhibit more patience.
- To make a new friend or two. Odd how difficult it is to make new friends as we get older, although that's also a reflection on me: it takes me some time to feel comfortable with a newcomer.
- To play more guitar. I need new strings.
- To take more photos. I'm going to carry my camera around more often.
- Less fretting, more fucking. (An old chestnut.)

More difficult goals:
- To travel more. This is not out of desire, but more out of finances. The big excursion plan for the year is Argentina. Stay tuned!
- To publish a creative work of writing. Or, at the very least, to begin sending out some of my work. Ah yes, to end up in a slush pile.
- Write some songs. I usually get embarrassed when I try to attach a melody and some lyrics to the chords I like to strum, but I need to get over it and just give it a go. (Hello GarageBand on the Mac!)

Longshot goals:
TBA.

Happy New Year to one and all! See you in 2009.

It was a very good year

(What fun to be able to be out and about with my MacBook! This is not my first laptop, but it's my first since wireless became the norm rather than the exception.)

You have to love the end of the year - it makes coming up with a blog post topic so much easier. Two topics, in fact: one to reflect on the year that was, a second to speculate on the year that will be. I'll focus this post on 2008, and save 2009 for tomorrow or Thurs. (I won't necessarily be reciting a list of resolutions, but more like "things I'd like to achieve and/or accomplish by year's end." Yes, there's a distinction.)

Without mincing words, 2008 was good to me. It was marked by two wonderful trips - Portugal in April, DC this past month - as well as a backwoods camping excursion in Sept. (Hooray for swimming naked!) More important, it marked the first full year of my relationship with the lovely A. There were some trying times, to be sure (I don't want to revisit that whole period, but I thought we were going to split soon after coming back from Europe), but we came out of the emotional difficulties stronger as a couple. I also moved this year, and am living in a part of town much more conducive to my personality. (I can't figure out why it took me so long to find this area; I should have moved out there years ago when my relationship with M. ended.) And though I've had some recent troubles at work, I'm still employed in a great job. (Many of my work-related issues revolve around feeling powerless, largely because I had so much power for the first part of the year when my supervisor was on sabbatical and I was, effectively, in charge. I'm sure to cover this ground in a future post. I'd also like to make more money, but that's a pretty familiar rant for most.) Perhaps most important of all, I'm healthy and feel good about my inner, emotional life.

Sure, there are some things I wish I could have accomplished. More personal writing, for one. My photography has also dropped off since the spring - it's only recently my flickr site has been (somewhat) revived from life support. I didn't see as many films in the theatre as I would have liked. (And the film fest was a total bust for me; I can't remember a year where I was so disappointed by the endless line-ups and sold-out shows.) I wish I could have kept up my fanatical summer of running through the fall and winter, and my bike-riding was too sporadic (owing to my crappy bike; I never did recover my beloved Marin, stolen last November), but those are really minor quibbles.

On the plus side, I read some great books (a lot of really fine non-fiction as well), enjoyed some good concerts, and discovered a whack of new music. (That was one of my "resolutions" for the year that I really did accomplish.) There were many wonderful evenings spent with friends at various bars/pubs/cafes. And while I didn't get as much personal writing as I had hoped, I did manage to make some extra cash with some freelance work (it tends to go to a good cause: an expensive dinner with the lovely A.) and took on some writing assignments at work. My intellectual health is fairly reasonable, although of course it could always be better.

It's good to feel so optimistic about my future - knowing, of course, that things can change in an instant. But let's give a positive shout-out to 2008!

Whee, this is fun

So here I am, typing away on my new Apple MacBook. It's a sweet little machine. Hey, maybe my enthusiasm for the new toy will get me writing more. Well, it's always a possibility... For now, I'll be happy when I complete the final transfer of my itunes library from my PC to this machine. We're only about a quarter of the way there so far - although thank god I finally figured out how to get the damn local area network working to do the transfer.

The holiday edition of PN

Well, I have returned. (BTW, has anybody else noticed that the incoming president of the United States begins many of his answers to questions with the word "well"? Take note.) It's been a wonderful week of Washington (there's that alliteration again) and family xmas cheer. And while I love my family, I have to admit that I'm sort-of glad that the familial obligations are over. Particularly since I now have a full week to enjoy the peace and solitude of leisure life.

What's on the agenda? Not really sure, actually, although I have a stack of movies on DVD awaiting, and various books scattered around the apartment. Shopping too, specifically for a new computer. My nearly six-year old Dell desktop is running veerrrryy slowly of late and periodically makes some strange noises. Time to move on and head back into the Apple world (after a several-years absence) with the purchase of a new 13-inch MacBook. (I also messed up when printing out itunes gift certificates for my nieces, so now I have $30 to spend. What hardship.) Basically I'm going to be in serious chill-out mode.

For those wondering about Washington, it was a great, fun-filled trip. We had to scramble to get out a day earlier than anticipated because of the storm that was about to hit the city, but it worked out perfectly. It was a hoot to wake up on Friday morning in the hotel's comfy king-size bed, the travelling portion complete, and able to begin our trip in earnest. The city totally rocked - I suppose not too surprising given my passionate interest in US history and politics. (It's something of a shock that I've never visited.) The "touristy" sites were grand, particularly the Lincoln Memorial (go at night, when it's really majestic and awe-inspiring), the Archives (natch), the Library of Congress and the Supreme Court. (About the only disappointment was the Capital Hill tour. What a dud.) We also loved wandering the various neighbourhoods, such as Adams Morgan (go in the evening when the nightlife is lively) and Dupont Circle, and spent Sunday afternoon at the Kennedy Center to watch and listen to a performance of Handel's Messiah. And of course we ate wonderfully well - that's always one of the highlights when the lovely A. and I travel. Much seafood was consumed. Photos of the trip to come soon on my flickr site, although I (perhaps suprisingly) didn't take too many. (That's also on "to do" list: to spend some serious time updating my flickr site, which is beginning to grow cobwebs from inactivity. I'm getting the itch to venture out with the trusty Canon to do some snapping.)

So it seems I'm in something of a short story mood of late. This is something I'm going to write about - and will include my own recent attempts at writing a couple of stories! It's been a while since I indulged in some fiction - I basically gave up writing "creatively" a few years back when I realized I didn't have as much talent as I'd like - but I'm feeling increasingly inspired. It's probably still crap, but hey, at least it's good for the soul.

Holy crappy weather, batman

So I'm on hold, waiting to talk to someone at Air Canada. My flight to DC tomorrow has been cancelled, so I'm trying to arrange alternate plans. What a pain. Cross your fingers that I can sort this out soonest - and hopefully get out tonight before the weather hits.

Update: Flight has been changed for tonight at 20:45. It's going to be tight for the lovely A., but she thinks it's still doable. Cross your fingers...

flirtations

It's days like today - slow, restless, ponderous, wistful - that I wish I had a good, old-fashioned e-mail flirtation going.

The local retailers

I haven't been buying too many books over the last year, largely because I'm such an ardent user of the library. This shouldn't come as much of a surprise - after all, I work in a library! It wouldn't make sense not to use its immense collection. I'm also a big fan of the Toronto Public Library, although lately I've been using it for CDs rather than books. (One frustrating aspect of the TPL is that it doesn't send out e-mail reminders when my material is due, which means I'm usually incurring overdue fines. Thankfully, they only charge $0.30/day - although when one has about 10 items charged out, it can add up quickly...)

I also made a decision when I moved this past fall that I would pare my library (such as it is) down, so I ended up culling about 10 bankers boxes worth of books (I donated them to one of the university fall book sales; I probably bought most of them from there anyway). I was quite pleased that, once I moved, I could fit the majority of my permanent collection (consisting primarily of my favourite writers such as Roth, Murakami, Murdoch, et al., along with "genres" such as books about Toronto, various short story collections and cherished books from my childhood or gifted to me by friends) in one Ikea bookshelf. (There were a few that I couldn't fit, mostly my books about music and about writers on writing, so I relegated them to the office.) I did leave room for some new purchases, but I didn't have immediate plans to go on a book spending spree. For one, I already had quite a backlog of books I was reading.

But this weekend, I finally caved and bought two new books. I actually wrote about these a while back, but I only just this Saturday got around to purchasing them: 2666 by Roberto Bolano (perhaps my current favourite author) and Rebecca Rosenblum's collection of short stories, Once. These were easy purchases to make. Since I discovered Bolano with last year's wonderful The Savage Detectives, I'm hoping to purchase all his books for my personal library. And of course it's always good to support young Canadian writers, hence the Rosenblum purchase. (I read the first story, ContEd, which was quite good - a harbinger of the rest of the stories, I hope.) Even better, I bought from my local book retailer, Another Story Books.

My dad was forever preaching to me on the merits of buying local, reasoning that if one didn't buy from the local retailer, they might not be there when you do need them. Since I've been living in the city from age 20, coupled with the fact that I've never owned a car, it's been fairly easy to stick to this dictate. I've evolved and refined the local rule as well: in short, if it's at all possible, I'll buy from the smaller, independent retailer. (I was telling the lovely A. this weekend that only once have I visited a Wal-Mart: about 8 years ago at Square One in Mississauga. I bought a roasting pan - which I no longer have as I lost it in my last break-up).

I worry, however, that this rule will be harder to maintain as the years pass and the small, local retailer struggles to compete against the behemoth chains. I've even noticed it in terms of my book buying (slight as it is these days). For years and years, my main retail stop for new books (I used to buy a lot of secondhand stuff as well) was the Annex's Book City. It was so easy to spend an hour browsing through the store. Its staff were also among the most intelligent readers in the city - largely because so many of them were also writers - and always ready with helpful recommendations. Buying from them was guilt free. (Of course it also helped that my closest friend worked there for many years, so I'd usually get the 40% staff discount. How I miss those days!)

I'm saddened to report that Book City is no longer as wonderful as it once was. Sure, its selection is still strong, but it's a lot less thorough. For example, the Annex shop no longer has a second floor (where they used to have a fantastic selection of music, film and travel books, among other subjects). I also couldn't find Once. My main beef, however, is that its staff is not nearly as good or as knowledgeable. I find many of them aloof and unfriendly, and often they aren't that familiar with the store's stock. But maybe this says more about me, that as I get older I'm becoming more of a curmudgeon with respect to service. Or maybe I just miss the discount...

The past couple of years, I've found myself shopping occasionally from the Chapters/Indigo chain. (For the Americans that visit this site, it's akin to Borders. For UK readers, Waterstones.) And also Amazon. In fact, as I chronicled a couple of weeks back, I was prepared to buy the two books I just purchased this weekend at Amazon. I would have saved some money: it would have cost around $35 instead of the $53 I paid at Another Story. (Of course I would have had to add something else to reach the magic $39 to enjoy free shipping.) But my friend M. sort-of made me feel guilty about buying from Amazon, so I held off.

I'm glad I did since it allowed me to discover the wonderful Another Story shop. They even have a loyalty program: if I spend $200, I get a $10 credit. Ok, it's not much, but it's something! (And as I pointed out to the woman punching in my purchase, I'm already a quarter of the way there.) There's also the great secondhand shop She Said Boom just up the road, if I'm in the mood for some used fare.

Pity the wonderful music shop Soundscapes can't open a second location in my neighbourhood. Then I'd really be set. Oh, and a local liquor store.

Watching: Word Play (fun film), Fallen Angels (disappointing, but I chalk that up to the crappy film-to-DVD transfer, which basically dulled the look of the highly stylized cinematography).
Reading: see above.
Listening to: Ornette Coleman's Sound Grammar, Margaret Atwood's Massey Lectures (on my iPod while running).

How to define "gossamer disaster"?

My job is great, but like any job there are some tasks that are dull and downright depressing. To wit, I've spent the past week or so archiving the manuscripts and related editorial material of a Canadian literary publication. I don't mind working through the files of an actual issue – and kudos to the production editors that box the stuff up since it always arrives in great and well-organized shape – but there's an unsavoury aspect to one part of the collection: the slush-pile of rejected manuscripts.

Firstly, let me give full props to any and all that volunteer for a literary publication, particularly the slush-pile readers. I can only imagine how mind-numbing the exercise must be, having to wade through the seemingly interminable pile of short stories, creative non-fiction and poetry. (It's hard enough sorting them all for the archives.) It's thankless, difficult work. I'm actually quite shocked at the sheer number of manuscripts the journal receives – or maybe not, since many people consider themselves "writers." Geez, even a hack like me has been known to refer to myself as a writer! Although now I consider myself a 'hobbyist' with respect to my writing (BTW, there was a great piece in the NYTimes last Sunday about authoring a book. You can read it here.) And while there are a number of talented writers sending their manuscripts, much of what the journal receives can be considered dross or turgid. (Better still, feel free to insert your our own adjective here: _______.)

Truthfully, when I first worked on this journal's archive a couple of years, I got a mild kick out of the rejections. Naturally, it was way too tempting to read bits and pieces from manuscripts that a reader declared was 'terrible' or 'dreadful.' More often than not, the reader's assessment was dead on.

I've since changed my tune, however, to the point where I wish the journal would shred the rejects rather than ship them here for posterity. It's not just the sheer overload of bad material that gets me down – for one, not all of it is dreadful (although some submissions really have me questioning the author's judgment in sending it out for review) – but it's the slush-pile readers comments and general attitude on the manuscripts that is also wearing on me.

The comments cover a wide range, from the simple, declarative 'no,' to something like this: 'These stories are Kafkaesque allegories (like The Hunger Artist) which should be great especially since ideas like free-market capitalism and spectacle are so ripe for allegory and ironic introspection. However in their brevity these stories fall flat.' Talk about a considered reading - although I have no idea what he means.

Some of the readers – one in particular, actually – can be particularly mean-spirited. A few examples that I've seen today:

'This could have been a great story but the author spoiled it with MFA wussiness.'
'No – hard to get past the first 3-4 pages for the error-ridden, rambling prose!'
'There are two stories here, neither of which are as profound as the author believes. NO'
'A few more writing classes would do him good.' (Incidentally, this is from the same person that complained about the MFA wussiness.)
'This is actually a biography – a boring, boring biography.'
'11465 words of awful.'
'A gossamer disaster.'
'Utter crap. Apparantely we’ve published her before, which does us no credit.'
'Well, at least it was short. NO.'
'I had high hopes for this going in, but it became flabby and unco-ordinated. It was a Britney Spears story.'
'So slight that you gotta squint to see something. NO.'
'She should have sent a different excerpt: an interesting one.'
'This reads like all the other stories scrawled by the untalented dregs of every community college writing class. Ultra-no.'

Not all of the comments are so nasty. In fact, some of the readers are sensitive and willing to give something a chance, even if an author's voice is not-yet well developed and the story/poetry needs some work. There are some readers that will almost never declare a firm "no" without at least a look-see from another reader. (It's been particularly difficult coming across negative comments of manuscripts from friends/acquaintances of mine.)

What I'm left thinking is how much of getting published is pure chance. Of course there needs to be some ability, but what happens when a reasonably good piece first lands in the hands of a nasty reader? Maybe s/he just isn't attuned to a particular story or style of writing. Or is having a particularly bad day?

I'm starting to think that if you don't have anything nice to say...


Listening to: the Metric’s Live it Out (pity I won’t get a chance to see them play tonight)
Reading: the Dec. 15 issue of the New Yorker; the Rough Guide to Washington, DC
Watching: Wong Kar Wai’s Fallen Angels, Wordplay (the doc about crosswords)

The Office (party)

We had our staff holiday party yesterday afternoon. It's not exactly a wild and crazy event. We close an hour early, set up shop on site, and allow the seasonal jocularity to take its course. It's pot luck (I, naturally, contributed some tasty red wine), Christmas tunes are played at an acceptable volume (one woman complains every year that the music is too loud), and there's plenty of cheese and crackers and other snick-snacks to help absorb the wine. In short, it's a civilized affair. The thing usually lasts for just over a couple hours - then it's a quick clean-up, and home by 7:00.

One reason for such a somnambulistic party is that, while we all get along quite well at work, I wouldn't necessarily consider any of us all that close. We're friendly, but not friends. I'd say there's really only one person on staff that I would consider a "friend" - I'll confide about my personal life, for example - but we rarely socialize outside of the confines of the building. I don't necessarily mind this set up - work is work after all, and my social life is a separate entity.

It wasn't always like that, however. At one time, back in the mid-1990s, much of my social life revolved around my work life. It was a different time, a different job. (In my case, a totally different career.) I happened to be in an environment where there was a lot of shared sensibilities: the majority of us were young, in our first "real" jobs, single and poor. The work - it was a publishing company that put out about six newspapers/magazines - was interesting, for the most part, but the pay was lousy. It pretty much bordered on slave wages. (The commute too was a killer.) Still, I earned enough to pay the rent on my tiny bachelor apartment in the Annex, and have enough disposable dosh to enjoy the pleasures of the city. (There was also one great perk to the gig: considerable business travel.)

For the 2+ years I worked there, it was (mostly) great fun. Friendships began and were cemented. I socialized often with my colleagues. I can count two of my closest friends - one of whom I knew before I worked there, but who I really got to know well, largely from our commute - from that workplace. I also found love there. The relationship only lasted for a year, but it turned my world upside down (both for for good and bad, although the passage of time has allowed for only the good to remain in memory). It was a heady time, and even though I don't reflect back much on the actual work, I have nothing but good memories about the environment itself. (There have been two or three "reunions" over the past year or so which I've attended, but I prefer to hang with those that I still consider friends.)

Do I ever yearn for that type of work environment? Not really, no. I'm glad I experienced it, but my outside life is so much richer and interesting that I don't need a work environment to fill in any holes and gaps. I like my job - but I also like when the workday is done and I can leave my job here, in the building.

The theme of community continues to be playing itself out in my head and on my blog.

Random musings

I've long been a fan of the two-beer buzz. Tonight, I've become a fan of the four-beer buzz... Ah yes, it's the holiday season. Was out with my friend M. tonight, chatting about books and miscellany. (He gave me a nice compliment, saying that I was one of the few friends he knew that was a ferocious fan of fiction. And maybe alliteration.)

I was telling him I picked up a Michael Ignatieff book from the library today, to better acquaint myself with the person that might well be our Prime Minister. (He can't be any worse than the awful Stephen Harper.) I have a mild soft spot for Igantieff, mainly because I saw him in line at the Indigo book store in Manulife Centre a couple of years ago after he lost the Liberal Party leadership. He was just standing there, in this huge holiday-season line, like everybody else - like a Canadian, in other words. (That was a strange day for me because, about an hour before that, I ran into a woman I had dated and then a woman I lusted after in high school. And then chatted with a woman I had a huge crush on, who has since become a friend. Yes, it was one of those days.) Rather than read one of his non-fiction works, I took out one of his novels: Scar Tissue, which was shortlisted for the Booker back in the early 90s. (How many politicians can claim that on their resume?) After all, there's more truth in fiction than non-fiction, no? What better way to get some insight into the guy's soul.

It's been added to the queue.

People in your neighbourhood

I was writing a post yesterday afternoon, but got sidetracked by a freelance piece due today (she was happy with the draft, so no rewrites were necessary; hooray!), and then a somewhat surprising visit from A. in the evening. (I knew she was coming over, but wasn't sure when. I thought it was going to be much later.) And tonight, the hours have flown by, largely with watching Chungking Express. (Why did I think I'd seen this film before? I hadn't - and I can't figure out why because it's astounding. If you've never seen it, check out the new Criterion release of this wonderous, beautiful film. For those romantics in the crowd, be prepared to smile at the end.) But I want to jot a few words down before carting my books and magazines to the bedroom to read for an hour.

I was out with T. (joined later by A.) on Friday night, and we got to discussing "community." Namely, how I don't feel like I'm part of a community here in the city. A few years ago, he moved from Toronto to a small(ish) city in the province. He's since become a part of the artistic community there. He says it's easier to find a sense of community when the pool of interesting and intelligent people is not a large one to drawn upon.

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed here in the city. I love Toronto, don't get me wrong. I like that I both live and work in wonderful parts of the city. Yet, at times I feel lost. I think I'd enjoy being part of a community outside of my circle of friends. It could be literary, it could be something else. It could even be a virtual community, something I've been a willing participant in the past with past blogs.

Anyway I'm going to explore this issue further. It's too late to give this learned discussion. Stay tuned.



Reading: "Waiting" by Amos Oz in this week's New Yorker; I'm also considering ditching House for Mr. Biswas (I'm about 200 pages in, but my head space isn't fully there to enjoy it); I also took out Malcolm Gladwell's latest, Outlier, from the library.
Listening to: Amy Millan's Honey from the Tombs, Belle and Sebastian's The Boy with the Arab Strap.
Watching: enjoyed Enchanted, loved Chunking Express, have the documentary Wordplay in the queue.

Trying times

Apologies (to the two or three of you that actually visit this blog) for being silent for a few days. It's been a particularly trying week at work - without getting into specifics, it basically revolves around issues of feeling under appreciated and being powerless (not to mention continuing fears about the economy and whether that's going to mean my contract won't be renewed) - and it's made me a mite dispirited. (For those that know me, it usually takes quite a bit to make me feel down and depressed. I seem to have largely conquered the crazy mood swings I used to suffer from.) I'm also falling behind on some of the extra-curricular stuff I've committed to (including a freelance magazine piece, which pays me some real money), so that's been preying on my mind.

Needless to say, three cheers for the upcoming weekend! Although part of is going to be spent working on various writing projects. I'm also planning on attending the Guernica Editions book launch on Sunday aft. at Bar Italia.

I'm also trying to figure out my relationship with this blog. I promised myself that I wouldn't be too upset if it didn't find a lot of readers since I was using it primarily as a writing-exercise tool. Still, it's not always easy to come to grips that one is mainly writing only to oneself! Yet I'm also not being overly proactive in terms of "marketing" the blog. I've told a couple of friends, but not many. I suppose what I really need to do is begin commenting on other's blogs, and perhaps they'll come visit me.

But it did get me thinking about the "types" of blogs that I enjoy reading. I've long been a fan of reading artists' blogs, particularly those that take the time and energy to craft thoughtful, intelligent posts. It's a great way for admirers to feel a little closer to the artist. For example, Pete Townshend used to have a kick-ass blog years ago. It was classic Townshend: intelligent, witty, confessional (maybe sometimes too confessional), and it provided a handy update on his musical projects. He'd even post the occasional video of him playing guitar, which was always a treat. I think he still posts a blog, but it's now under the auspices of the authorized The Who web site. The last time I checked, one to had to subscribe (and pony up some ducats) to access it, so I haven't read him in awhile. (I just went to check out his blog: it costs $50 to become a member! I love your music, Pete, but no thanks.)

The violinist Hilary Hahn has one of the best online journals of a musician. She's a good writer, which of course is a bonus, but the blog is a great window into the life of a working professional musician. She usually has some great travel stories - she used to post photos of the cities she's visiting, but she seems to have dropped that feature - and gives us insight into the pieces she's playing and/or preparing to play. I've read interviews with her on the importance of this type of outreach - she recognizes that the web is a good venue for her to promote both herself and classical music in general.

Another blog I've been reading of late is that of Toronto writer Rebecca Rosenblum. I stumbled upon it via work one day, and have since become a devoted reader. Again, it helps that she's a terrific, intelligent (and fun!) writer. It also reminds me a lot of Hilary Hahn's journal - providing a glimpse into the brain and life of an artist - but with a twist: namely that Rebecca (not that I'm on a first-name basis with her...) is an emerging talent, and that her first recently launched book is getting great buzz. It's been great fun reading her thoughts on her reviews, her readings, and her (sort of) celebrity, even the role of her blog. It's served a useful PR function too: I'm planning on buying the book. (I actually went to my local Book City the other day to pick it up but couldn't find it. Blah.)

Listening to: too many tunes to mention on my new 120GB iPod - nothing like a new toy to play with!
Watching: Hopefully two DVDs this weekend - Enchanted (the Disney film) and the new Criterion release of Wong Kar-wai's Chungking Express
Reading: continuing the V.S. Naipaul, but also the new issue of the New Yorker (which carries a profile of Naomi Klein, who I once chatted with very briefly before a Don Ross show in Toronto)

Technology wins, technology losses

I'm not a technology nut by any stretch. Yet, I do like the joys and benefits that certain technologies have brought to my life. For example, armed with a 14.4 modem and a Mac Classic back in 1993, I was an early Internet adopter. It was mostly for browsing on various bulletin boards and for sending both messages and software via a cool tool called zTerm - the web was in its infancy - although I also did a stint on AOL (until I realized how much it was costing me; I ended up taking a hammer to the 3.5" floppy disk that one required to access the system, lest I be tempted to jump back on). I was also one of the first among my friends to have an e-mail address. This facility (although I'm still something of an idiot when it comes actually fixing anybody's computer problems, although I'm usually the first at work to be queried about a glitch with someone's PC) and comfort with technology went a long way when I landed a full-time journalism gig: I was a staff writer (and eventually an editor) at one of the country's leading computer newspapers. (Thankfully I wasn't covering nuts-and-bolts techie stuff, but the business end of the IT world.)

My (marginal) tech savvy also means I'm the first phone call when my mother is experiencing problems with her iMac. Lately it feels I've been on speed dial with her: she's been issues with her e-mail and connecting to the Internet. I think my visit there yesterday should be the last necessary one for the foreseeable future as I installed their new wireless modem and set up their new iBook (which my parents won, if you can believe it; they always seem to be winning things).

The technology I really want to write about, however, is the iPod. I've always been a fan of portable music players. I was one of the first on my block to have a Sony Walkman. (For fear of dating myself, I remember the first time I ever tried a Walkman: at the CNE in the early 80s, just before they went mainstream.) I had my first Walkman in grade 9 (around 1983), and have rarely been without some portable music device since. I went through several Walkmans during high school and university years - I used it pretty much every day, and they'd eventually die - and then into my working life. I finally graduated to a portable CD player at the end of the 90s (a little late, actually). When I lost it on St. Patrick's Day in 2004, I replaced it with my first iPod.

The iPod changed the way I listened to music. I went from being an album snob - essentially listening to every song on an album, and in the order the artist meant you to listen - to embracing the shuffle. This was a big shift for me; after all, I was never one to create "mix" tapes, yet essentially this is what the shuffle function was doing. I came to enjoy it for the novelty alone: it was like listening to the radio, never knowing what song was coming next, yet it was only songs/artists that I liked. (I started to play a game as well, to see if the iPod could "guess" the mood I was in and choose the ideal track for that mood.) I still listen to complete albums/CDs on my kick-ass stereo system (I also still enjoy buying CDs, although it's something I'm doing less of), but the iPod - and shuffling the tunes on it - has become a wonderful complement to my music listening.

The iPod can also be credited for creating the podcast, which is another staple of my listening diet. I bought an iPod nano almost two years ago to exclusively accommodate my podcasts, which I listen to when running. In fact, running without a podcast in my ear (I tend toward the news and political programs) is almost drudgery - in many ways, podcasts can take a big chunk of credit for my good fitness. Yet, the nano (at least the generation I have) has been a terrible machine. I'm already on my third (I have Apple Care, thankfully), and my current one died this weekend. So I'll be back at the Mac store this week to get yet-another replacement.

And, sadly, my white 20GB iPod that I bought back in 2004 has finally played its last tune. It decided on Friday that it no longer wanted to fire up any music - all I got was a pathetic looking empty battery and a message saying I needed to recharge it (even though I had just recharged the night before). As luck (fate?) would have it, Apple was having a one-day sale, so I went to the Apple store after work and replaced my 20GB machine with the 120GB "classic" iPod. I'm loading it up as I write this - it's taken a few hours to transfer nearly 5000 songs. Because I'll have about 100GB more to play with, I'm going to be spending the next couple of weeks exploring new music by taking out a slew of CDs from the library and loading them on the new machine. Exciting musical days for me! )Naturally I take any and all music recommendations.) And because it plays video, I'll be exploring some video podcasts.

New horizons.

Listening to: Best of Bud Powell on Verve, Nick Drake's Bryter Layter, Kevin Drew's Spirit If...
Watching: Quantum of Solace (B-level Bond, but Dan Craig's remarkable remake of the Bond character, not to mention his chemistry with Judi Dench's M, made it fun), Douglas Sirk's Imitation of Life (hope to watch it tonight), the rain/snow outside my window
Reading: V.S. Naipaul's A House for Mr. Biswas (I keep hearing about this fabulous new biography on him, and figured now is a good a time as any to read him), Doris Kearns Goodwin's No Ordinary Time (bio on Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt)

Too old for the social scene?

Went to see Broken Social Scene last night at the Sound Academy (formerly the Docks; I'd like to know whose bright idea it was to build a venue that's not transit friendly - the taxi union, maybe, if there is indeed such a thing?). It was a great show by a very good band. I like their recordings, but seeing them live was a totally different and fantastic experience. These guys and gals are true musicians, and quirky songwriters. Not only that, I like the "collective" idea behind them: that the band is fluid and can cycle different musicians in and out yet keep the true BSS "spirit." (No Feist last night, unfortunately.) Or maybe that's what precisely gives them that spirit. I was telling a colleague this morning that what I like best about them is how they create a wonderful "wall of sound" (and not, not a Phil Sector one).

The one thing I didn't enjoy last night was the concert's venue and having to jostle with many younger, drunker people for space. (Those all-ages shows are the worst because they shoehorn those looking for a beer into one sliver of the room.) I was thinking how much more I would have enjoyed the show if it was at, say, Massey Hall, where I could sit and really groove to the tuneage. (That's a made up word, but a good one.) It makes me think I'm getting too old for those shows. But maybe it isn't an age thing at all since I don't think I've ever enjoyed standing to watch a concert! On the plus side, I enjoyed wandering the city streets afterward - I love the city at night. (I'm paying for it today though since I'm going on about 5 hours sleep.)

Crazy, frustrating (and largely unhappy) work week that I'm glad is coming to an end. Wish I could have blogged more about it (hopefully next week), but I just didn't have the time to put together any sensible, thoughtful words.

Crazy (crazy) on you

Funny how certain musicians remind me of Montreal.

While at work today, Heart's "Dreamboat Annie" popped into my ears via my trusty iPod. (Not sure how much longer it's going to be trusty - it's over 4 years old, and the battery only lasts for about 4 hours before it conks out for good.) Immediately, it conjured up memories of my wonderful West Island upbringing. I even remember the cover of that Heart double album my brother owned - in white, with a photo of the band looking rather menacing. Heart is not the only artist that can bring back the flood of memories. Let's not forgot Hall & Oates, particularly the song "Sara Smiles." I can still see myself sitting in the back seat of my mother's crappy Vega, with that playing through the even-more crappy speakers via AM radio. I think I'm holding a badminton racket.

Montreal, you were damn good to me.

Random jottings

The head space isn't there for a well-reasoned and full post, so just a few scattered thoughts on this lazy, hazy Sunday.

Before Night Falls: Why did I think this film was about a visual artist?! I suppose because the director, Julian Schnabel, is a well-regarded artist, not to mention his first film was the (mostly) wonderful Basquiat (an artist I like; one of my favourite prints is one I bought of his from the MOMA many years ago). Rather it centres around Reinaldo Arenas, the Cuban writer who eventually left Cuba because of continued persecution due to his openly gay lifestyle. Films about writers (particularly poets) are far too infrequent, in my opinion! Although I recognize how difficult it can be to manufacture drama out of something as mundane (and sometimes dreary) as writing. (Still, I think there's a great film to be made from Gwen MacEwen's life. Hell, I even have the ideal casting: Ellen Page.) It's got me jazzed about checking out some of Arenas' work. I'll add it to the reading queue.

Re-reading: What are others views on re-reading novels? It's not something I do often, my view being that there are too many books to read to pick up one I've already seen the last page of. Yet, I'll revisit other favoured artistic items: a film (I've lost count on how times I've seen Woody Allen's Manhattan, as well as the Before Sunrise/Sunset movies, although often they serve as "comfort" films), music (obviously), a painting. Why not, then, a book? I'll reread favourite passages, for sure, but, outside of books from my childhood, I can't ever remember reading a whole book that I've already been through once. I'm beginning to reconsider this stand, especially since I'm anxious to re-read Roberto Bolano's The Savage Detectives. I bought it in paperback this past summer (after I had read it last winter in hardcover, taken out from the library), and it's been staring at me for the past few days from the bookshelf. It strikes me that I'll find it even richer and more satisfying the second time around.

The Grey Cup: I'm not a fan of North American football. (I love, however, the sport that everybody else outside of this continent calls football. The "footie.") Earlier this year, I vowed to a friend that I would not watch one down of the NFL this season (including the Super Bowl). So far so good. That said, I am going to sit myself in front of the set this afternoon and watch the Grey Cup. (For those few American readers, it's the championship of the Canadian Football League. The match-up is Montreal vs. Calgary.) I'm sure my attention will waver, so I'll have some reading material to keep me occupied during the lulls. I suppose I'm still a sucker for the Grey Cup, largely because I remember it being such a big deal when I was a youngster and teenager. (I even went to a Grey Cup, way back in 1981. I don't remember much except that Edmonton won and it was very cold. And that I wore a big galoot-ish hat...) When I was in high school, I'd go to my friend J.'s house where we'd eat greasy food, and go out during halftime to play touch football on the road. Simpler days.

Listening to: Best of Horace Silver, Kevin Drew's "Spirit If" (in anticipation of seeing Broken Social Scene this coming Thurs.)
Reading: Nov. 24 issue of The New Yorker
Watching: the usual Sunday-morning political shows, the Raptors get embarrassed by the Celtics

Opportunity, and hopefully not death, knocks

Death and dying have been much on my mind. Don't worry, I'm not depressed - although the dwindling economy, and (the hopefully irrational) fear of losing my job because of it, is getting me a mite down - but only that there's been quite a bit of death around me, both real and imagined.

Last weekend, my uncle's wife (I never referred to her as my aunt – it was his second wife, and she had an abrasiveness that really turned me off) died. It was somewhat expected, yet sad: she's basically been drinking herself to death over the last year. She's always been a heavy drinker, but at some point she decided that her only friend was the bottle. I feel for my uncle - a wonderfully outgoing, unpretentious man - but in some ways I'm sure it's a relief. It must be a painful to watch a loved one basically kill oneself.

This week, my close friend R.'s cousin died. She was young (early 20s), and from the sounds of it her death was totally unexpected. A young person dying always seems more tragic: it's the snuffing out of potential. It's after those deaths that we try to remind ourselves to live every day to its fullest, since we never know when we too are going to be struck down. Although our day-to-day realities and challenges (whether financial, emotional or otherwise) seem to prevent us from taking this advice to heart and actually living every day like it's our last.

Lastly, on Wednesday, my aunt (my mother's sister) died. She was diagnosed with cancer late last year, and though she seemed to be putting up a good fight earlier in the year and through the summer (when my mother went over to England to visit), her health slipped precipitously over the last couple of months, to the point where I think she was willing herself to die. The death has hit my mother quite hard - it was her closest relative outside of my dad and my brothers (she only has a brother left, and I don't think she's particularly close to him) - but she also sounded philosophical about it. She told me she reminded her sister when she visited in the summer that, at age 75, she had had a wonderful life (including a doting and loving husband, two wonderful daughters, super grandchildren) with few regrets. I have some fond memories of my aunt, particularly in how she encouraged me a few years back to go back to school and pursue a graduate degree. She spent much of her life as a teacher, and was forever preaching the merits of a good education. When I think about it, outside of my immediate family, she was probably my closest relative. I will miss her.

Will all these deaths - and let's hope it stops at three for the time being - perhaps Andrew Pyper's The Killing Circle was not the ideal book to be reading... So yes, I did end up persevering and finished it. Frankly, I was just curious to see how the thing would play out - which I guess means it was successful in drawing me in. But the subject matter (serial killings within a writer's group) really did leave me cold. (I feel somewhat misled about this book. I thought it was going to revolve around writing and the Toronto literary scene. I guess I didn't listen as closely as I should have to the Pyper interview on CBC that got me interested in the first place.) And maybe reading some of David Foster Wallace's non-fiction so soon after his suicide is another reminder of living vs. death.

So why am I writing about this? Truthfully, I started this post with the intention of hitting some upbeat and optimistic tones!

Actually, the one thing that death does clarify is the importance of the here and now. This came up with R. when we were e-mailing about her cousin's death. As per our usual exchanges - we keep up a daily conversation pretty much exclusively through e-mail (to the point where I probably know her better than people I actually speak to!) - we used the discussion about the sad death as a launch into other topics. She mentioned her husband, who is not happy in his work and would like to try his hand at something else. Unfortunately, she wrote, "it's just not feasible right now."

So if not now - particularly when a young person's death is so fresh in the mind and serves as a reminder of how fragile and sometimes short life can be - when is the right time? I then told her about the article I just finished reading: David Remnick's excellent piece about Obama in the New Yorker. Naturally he touches upon race, and how many people felt that Obama's candidacy, not to mention him actually winning, was a longshot given his race, that the U.S. wasn't yet ready to elect an African-American as president. Remnick interviews one of the leaders of the 1965 march from Selma to Montgomery, who compared those who discouraged Obama from running for the highest office to the white ministers who told Martin Luther King a half century ago that the time was not ripe for civil dissent. "Martin said the people who were saying 'later' were really saying 'never.' The time to do right is always right now."

Perhaps that's something we need to remind ourselves more often. The time to do right is always right now.

Listening to: Oscar Peterson's Best of the Verve Songbooks
Watching: rented Lars and the Real Girl and Before Night Falls
Reading: not sure what novel to pick up next... I think a "classic" is in order. Stay tuned.

Tired city

Had started to write a post about snow, family, friends, death, opportunities, scotch, Thelonious Monk, ex-girlfriends, ex-lovers, futons, clean dishes, toothpaste, mirrors, turntables, 8km runs, and, ultimately, the meaning of life. But too fatigued to finish the thing.

"And you're an author, you say?"

This evening, if things work to plan (and if I feel properly inspired), I'm planning on attending a book launch. Two, in fact. The first, being held at 5:00 at one of the colleges here on campus, is out of sheer curiousity: I’ve seen the thing (it's a memoir) in various manuscript states, so it'll interesting to see it in between real book covers. (I never thought it would find a home with a "real" publisher, frankly. But of course happy it has.) I've never met the author either, although feel I know him all too well... The second is a launch party for the fall/winter titles of one of the more interesting small presses in the country, BookThug. I promised the publisher last week that I'd buy a book!

I'm not usually one for launches – not because I don't like to read (heaven forbid!) or enjoy the readings (although my attention span isn’t what it used to be), but it's because I struggle to find someone to drag with me to these events. If I’m lucky, I can find a familiar face among the crowds, but often I end up on my lonesome. And since I’m not the most outgoing of people (I'm not one to "work the room"), I usually just stand there, libation in hand, looking like a socially awkward dofus.

But I've been thinking lately how important it is for me to get out to more literary events. For one, I find they help provide inspiration for my own writing (meagre as that may be). Perhaps more importantly though, it could be useful and helpful for my work (ie., my full-time paying gig). I need to be in contact with more writers, particularly younger writers, to develop professional relationships which prove beneficial to both my workplace and to the writers themselves (think tax benefits!). I have a small stable of writers that I’m touch with, but they are primarily close friends who just happen to be writers. I need to cast the net out wider, and figure these launches and readings are the ideal means.

So at your next literary event, if you see a guy standing alone at the bar, nursing a drink, it might be me. Come over and say "hi."

Listening: Red House Painters’ Retrospective, Beastie Boys’ "Funky Boss" (… "get off my back")
Watching: HBO mini-series John Adams (partly in prep for a planned jaunt with the lovely A. to Washington, DC over the xmas break)
Reading: A poem (in translation) by Heinrich Heine:

You are just like a flower
So sweet and fair and pure,
A melancholy power
Lies in your sight's allure.

I feel that I should lay
My hands upon your hair,
And pray, God keep you always
So pure and sweet and fair.

Throwing in the towel

When is it acceptable to give up on a book? 50 pages in? 60? 75? Or should one feel obliged to stick out what one was started until the bitter end?

I was thinking about that this morning on the streetcar ride into work. (Note to self: perhaps the College streetcar isn't the ideal transit route to work after all. The first couple of times was great: it wasn't crowded, and the thing streamed quickly through the city. The last two times were hell-ish, and one time I missed my stop because I couldn't get to the doors in time.) I've started to read Andrew Pyper's The Killing Circle, and while I'm sort-of enjoying it - it's easily digestible, for one, and fiction set in Toronto will always hold some interest (see post below) - yet it doesn't feel like a book I'm in the mood to fully enjoy. Truthfully, I'm rarely in the mood for narratives that deal with killings and dark, shadowy characters with names like "Sandman." I'm through about 80 pages. I think I'll give it another 20 or so, and if it's still not turning my crank I'm going to toss it aside. I have plenty of other fiction in the queue. (I think Antal Szerb's Oliver VII might be up next while I await on an Amazon order of the new Bolano. For those of who I haven't bored yet with the recommendation, please go out and read Bolano's The Savage Detectives.) It's nothing against the book per se, but more about my current state of mind.

I'm having similar troubles with the non-fiction I have on the go: Susan Neiman's Moral Clarity. I heard Neiman on NPR's On Point and thought I'd give the book a whirl. But, again, my head space isn't quite there. Since it strikes me as a book that I don't need to read from cover to cover, I'm picking my spots. Which is maybe why David Foster Wallace's Consider the Lobster and Hendrik Hertzberg's Politics: Observations and Arguments, two other books I have on the go, have been more easily digestible. They allow me to read bits and pieces (particularly the latter, which I've been reading in bed) without having to put too much commitment to a narrative.

Still, I'm at loose ends, trying to find an interesting non-fiction work to sink my teeth into. Any and all suggestions are welcome. (Although since I only have about two readers, I won't be expecting the recommendations to be flowing in!)

Listening to: Brad Melhdau's Live in Tokyo
Watching: myself lose games in both Scrabble and chess on facebook
Reading: A quote from a broadsheet: "Give me twenty-six soldiers of lead & I will conquer the world" - Benjamin Franklin; yesterday's NYTimes

what's a beautiful girl?

Last night I watched the film Beautiful Girls. I've been hearing about this movie for years, courtesy of my friend D. He loves it - it may even be his favourite of all time (no Citizen Kane for him, obviously) - but it's not a film that ever registered in my consciousness. In fact, I'm not sure I'd ever heard of it until he started to rattle on about it. But in my defense (or maybe his), it was released in 1996, which was not a fruitful film-viewing period for me (for reasons that I'm sure I'll blog about one day). Because D. periodically quotes from it, and because I like and respect the guy, I felt a certain sense of responsibility to finally see the damn movie. (In the same way my friend P. in Singapore got me jazzed to see one of his favourite films of all time, Apartment Zero. Say this about my friends: they're out-of-the-box when it comes to faves...)

Beautiful Girls was ... ok. It's your fairly typical mid-1990s independent film - think decent script, quirky casting, small epiphanies. I'll grant it one victory: it's better than any Ed Burns film I've seen. (He represents the worst of 1990s independent film, at least for me.) But it got me thinking as to why D. enjoys the film so much. If one will allow me to play dime-store psychologist for a brief moment, it's because D. is lonely and unhappy. More to the point, he's forever attracting himself to women that are, for lack of a better term, unattainable. (I use this word with hesitation - my explanation would involve a whole new post.) As long as I've known him, he follows a familiar pattern: he attracts himself to women that are outgoing, somewhat "arty," outwardly confident, but also aloof. When I query him about his attractions, it's usually the same response: he insists he likes women that possess qualities he feels he doesn't have.

There's a monologue from the film that basically encapsulates everything D. sees in these "beautiful girls": (This is not from memory, but cut and paste from imdb.)

"A beautiful girl can make you dizzy, like you've been drinking Jack and Coke all morning. She can make you feel high full of the single greatest commodity known to man - promise. Promise of a better day. Promise of a greater hope. Promise of a new tomorrow. This particular aura can be found in the gait of a beautiful girl. In her smile, in her soul, the way she makes every rotten little thing about life seem like it's going to be okay."

It should be noted that that bit of dialogue is spoken by the biggest loser in the film.

I feel for D. because he's a good guy with bad taste in women. Ok, "bad" is not the right word. How about "misguided"? I think part of his attraction pattern has to do with fear: he becomes slightly (I put this modifier in here to not make him seem like a total leech) obsessed with women that he knows are not going to reciprocate his feelings, thus saving him from having to potentially engage in a real relationship with a perfectly wonderful and "normal" (again, not a great word) woman. Or, attracting himself to these "unattainables" is a defense mechanism - it basically allows him to never have to confront real rejection.

As Lucy from Peanuts would say, "Five cents please." (I've decided to give a 50% discount on the dime-store psychology.)


Listening to: Keith Jarrett's Standards Live
Watching: Beautiful Girls (see above), Raptors Game in an Hour
Reading: The Killing Circle

work and apathy

It can be a struggle for me at work. Not because I don't like my job - this is career #2 for me, and it's working out much better than misguided career #1 (although I don't regret the years I spent toiling away in that profession - well, not really) - but because of prevailing negative and cynical attitudes held by a majority of my co-workers. I like them all, that's not the problem: in fact, I think it's the best office environment I've ever worked in. (And maybe one reason is because we don't consider ourselves an office in the traditional sense.) But there seems to be a lamentable amount of apathy and stagnation in my workplace, and at times I find it frustrating.

Those who know me know I'm not exactly the "rah rah" type when it comes to ... well, pretty much anything (particularly since my beloved Expos uprooted and moved to Washington, thus depriving me forever of a World Series championship for my native city, Montreal). Not to mention I often display a fierce and muscular sarcasm, bordering on the (yes, I'll admit it) cynical. (I prefer the less-offensive sounding word "realist" - in fact, one of the stock phrases I've used to describe myself in the past is "optimistic cynic.") Still, sometimes I'm in conflict: there's a side of me that wants to be excited about things that others find easily dismissible, such as my work and pride in (for lack of a better expression, although it probably sounds lame city - see, I'm already sounding conflicted) "professional development." Maybe it's because I finally found something that I truly enjoy and feel is important.

To wit, I've started to volunteer for some extra-curricular duties outside of my normal work. The projects largely involve writing, which is, of course, something I enjoy, so in that regard does not seem overly onerous. A couple of the projects in particular should be great fun since I'll be digging into manuscripts and archives. I feel I need the intellectual stimulation and challenge these projects will require. My regular work is mentally taxing, to be sure, but sometimes I wish it is was even more mentally exhausting.

Perhaps not too surprising, some of my colleagues couldn't believe I was taking on these extra duties. I suppose it's easier for them to be complacent in their work - they've been in their jobs far longer than me (one day I'll have to write another post on how frustrating it is to be in an environment where people have essentially worked for their entire working life), their jobs are secure (I'm still only on contract, after all), and probably feel they have nothing to prove. Because of this negative attitude, it's hard for me to get totally jazzed about some of the extra work I've signed up for. It would be nice to have a little more support from my direct and closest colleagues. I need to do something I've often struggled with: find some self motivation.

Still, maybe you should send me a shout out of "good luck."

Listening to: Kaki King's Everybody Loves You
Watching: The Agenda (panel discussion about Toronto architecture, focusing primarily on the Gehry addition of the AGO; I think I'll take a weekday afternoon off soon to take a look for myself)
Reading: the Nov. 17 New Yorker (great post-election wrap-up), about to break the spine of Andrew Pyper's The Killing Circle, and about to buy Roberto Bolano's latest 2666 from Amazon

Consider my reading

Feeling at loose ends tonight.

I (finally!) finished The Robber Bride (and I promise that's the last time I'll write that title again – it was a good book, for sure, but I'm unsure how long it'll stay with me), and not really in the mood to start any new fiction for a day or two. Unfortunately I'm in a bit of non-fiction reading slump. (For those that don't know my reading habits, I try to have both a fiction and non-fiction book on the go at the same time. I'm a bit of a multi-task reader, although I think it has more to do with my increasingly limited attention span. When I bore of one, I can move to the other...) Well, less a slump than a quandary. For a while – some might say too long of a period – I was reading books on the miserable, horrible, disgusting, pitiful, embarrassing, stupid, silly, spiteful (there's too many possible adjectives to use) Bush Administration. Some might call it an obsession. I read two of the biggies back to back: Jane Mayer's superb The Dark Side and Ron Suskind's The Way of the World. And on my bedside table are two more: Angler (about the evil Dick Cheney) and Philip Shenon's book about the 9/11 Commission.

I think, however, I'm (finally!) fatigued with U.S politics. I've been so caught up in this past election – and I've been following Obama (with joy and amazement) since 2004 after he gave that scintillating speech at the Democratic National Convention – that, now that it's over, a letdown seems inevitable. Maybe even necessary. The lead-up to this year's election involved my continued frustrations at the last eight years of the Bush rule, and the petty, corrupt politics it represented. With a new administration coming in, maybe it's time to put aside the Bush books and look toward the future – something more hopeful, optimistic. More to the point, do I really need to be continually reminded of how sickening the last 8 years have been? In the end, I'm spent.

Listening to: the soundtrack from Once, Charlie Haden's Rambling Boy.
Watching: the Toronto Raptors (another loss)
Reading: David Foster Wallace's Consider the Lobster, the Nov. 17 issue of the New Yorker.
(I'm thinking of making this a new feature of the blog – a quick survey of my music, reading and tv/movies habits.)

my city and its fiction

Every now and then, I get a jones on to read fiction set in my city of residence, Toronto. The positive corollary of this, of course, is that I'm reading more Canadian authors. (The negative corollary of this, of course, is that I'm getting away from a reading "plan" I had formulated months ago, which was to split my fiction choices between current, contemporary fiction and the "classics." There's been far more of the former, and a disgraceful lack of the latter. Maybe, instead, I'll make it a new year's resolution.) I seem to be in one of those moods right now, one that began with the current Atwood on my plate, The Robber Bride. (No, I did not finish it last night, but promise I'll turn the last page on it at some point today. I have a longish streetcar ride ahead of me in about an hour, so I'm penciling completion on that journey.) The novel's been fun to read, although I'm going to have to ask some of my female friends whether characters like Zenia (soulless, manipulative, cruel) really exist. I thought it was only men that acted so nastily... Thumbs up to Peggy for creating such a wonderfully vile character!

Part of the fun was recognizing various Toronto settings. The University of Toronto, of course, played a prominent role, as did the Toronto Islands. (Was Charis based on my favourite Canadian poet and Atwood's friend, Gwen MacEwen? There were some parallels.) As did a restaurant she called the Toxique, which sounded suspiciously like Peter Pan on Queen. A high-end Mediterranean restaurant she placed on Queen East could well have been Joso's, the fantastic seafood place on Davenport. I find it's easier for me to visualize the settings in a novel when there's some familiarity with the actual buildings and venues, although perhaps that says more about me and my feeble imagination...

Next in the queue (mainly because it's a library book and will have to be returned in a couple of weeks) is another Toronto-centric novel: Andrew Pyper's latest, The Killing Circle. And I'm planning on buying Rebecca Rosenblum's new book of short stories, Once. I'm guessing, since she lives in Toronto, she sets at least a few stories in the city. (Of course that's a total guess.) Hell, maybe I'll even read a Russell Smith novel next... Or write my own Toronto tale.

Possibilities.

well, so much for that early night and reading in bed

A wonderful discovery tonight: I have full access to the digital archives of the New Yorker magazine! Of course I probably already have it through work, but there's something special about being able to access it through my own means. Unfortunately it has its flaws, namely that printing off articles is pointless (there's no way to alter the image on the screen to get a full and readable page). But hey, why carp? (Why salmon? Why tuna?) But what it means is that I've been playing around with the damn thing, typing in authors I'm interested in (Murakami, Roth, etc.) and checking out their stories as they originally appeared in the magazine. (It's almost as interesting to look at the layout of the magazine back in the 1950s, not to mention the ads.) So my grand plan to get to bed early tonight to (*finally*) finish Atwood's The Robber Bride hasn't been realized.

But tomorrow's lunch needs to be made (I'm hoping to get up early for a run), so I'm signing off. Until tomorrow.

Another appearance

If a man types a few words and sentences onto a web site – what the tech savvy call a "blog" - will anybody read? Or even care?

So I can't promise the inspiration and energy to write has completely come back, but it's bubbling close to the surface. The nerve endings are tingling, the fingers are itchy. The brain is feeling engaged and a light switch has been flicked in the brain. It's all good!

Why do I seemingly fall in and then out of love with writing? Why can't I continually be compelled to tap out these meagre words every day, rather than once every few days (or, in my case, every few months)? Is the requisite energy playing a game of mental hide and seek? Does it require I count to ten?

Anyway I'm hoping this is the rebirth. Stay tuned. I have much of my mind.

Good fortune!

So today got off to a good and unexpected start: I won tickets on a radio show! Even better, it's actually something I'm interested in (the men's tennis final here in Toronto on Sunday), and it allowed me to utilize some of the arcane tennis trivia knowledge I've stored since I was a teenager (I knew it would come in handy one day...). I was probably more excited than I should have been, but it's a big moment for me. For one, I've never actually won anything in my life. More important, I actually had to earn it by answering the trivia question. A nice start to the work week.

As a result of my good fortune, I decided to head down to the police station holding those stolen bikes they recovered from a downtown store. (For those of you who missed it, the police busted up a long-renowned bicycle theft scam run out of a "shop" in the city.) As many of you know, my bike got ripped off late last year from my front porch. (So much for the supposedly impenetrable German lock I bought.) At the time, I filed a police report, even though I had lost the serial number (it was on the sales slip, which I had misplaced). It was a crazy scene: they had about 30 to 40 bikes on display, but the rest were stacked up in three separate warehouse-style rooms. Basically if one didn't have a serial number, you were basically screwed in terms of finding your stolen wheels. One of the police women mentioned that this set-up was only temporary, that they were planning on moving the bikes into another location where they could all be spread out and organized by make. At this point, I'm not all that hopeful, but I retain some faith.

The good news is that, when I got home, I suddenly remembered where I had put my sales slip and the serial number. So at least now I can give that to the police - that might help in identifying my bike, if it was one of the found ones.

Needless to say, if I manage to recover my beloved bike, I'll be buying a lottery ticket. Things come in threes, don't they?

Self education

I've been pondering the word autodidacticism. (Yes, sometimes I do think about seven-syllable words.) Why? Primarily it stems from how I view my intelligence (or, more appropriately, lack thereof) among my work colleagues. Sure, I have some smarts: I can point to good grades in high school (not that that is necessarily a qualifier), I have two university degrees, I can string a few sentences together in a paragraph. Often, however, while in the work room, surrounded by people who whip off historical references, or read latin, or will easily knock off the NYTimes crossword during a morning coffee break, I'll begin to feel out of my element, that I don't belong. I worry I'm going to be sussed out, that they're going to discover I'm really nothing more than a fraud. In short, they'll finally figure that I'm a complete dunce. (Unfortunately, the topics where I can show some mental dexterity - 1970s American films, jazz, tennis, where to find the best secondhand CD stores in NYC - rarely, if ever, come up.)

To that end, I feel I'm always in learning mode, that much of my life is spent self educating myself. It's not a chore, nor is it a competition: I like to learn (I almost wrote "I love to laugh," which is something of an inside joke...), and almost nothing gives me more pleasure than having hours of leisure time at my disposal to indulge in a book. Or, in my case, several books.

It's taken me a while to figure out my natural reading habit, but I think I finally have it down. In short, I need to have a few books (and usually a magazine; these days that's the latest issue of the New Yorker) on the go at once. Let's face it, my attention span is nothing to brag about. I'm a bit of a "flitter" (if that's even a word). I used to feel bad about this, that it was something to be ashamed of. Sure, every now and then I get so ridiculously involved in a book that it becomes something of a preoccupation, the proverbial "page turner" that keeps me awake at night. It's rare, however, so what usually happens is that I crack open a book (these days primarily from the library; I've stopped buying books, for the most part) while I have a couple already on the proverbial bedside table (or, much to the dismay of my back and shoulder, in my bag).

Let's take stock of my current reading projects as an example.

I've got two main books on the go, both non-fiction: Conversations with Woody Allen by Eric Lax (pretty much self explanatory), and The Rest is Noise by the New Yorker music critic Alex Ross (which examines 20th-century "classical" music, although it's really more of a look at various historical periods of the 20th century as seen through the filter of modern music and composers such as Stravinsky, Berg, Copland, etc.; it's a fantastic piece of work). Both are long-held interests of mine, although I'm much-better versed in one subject (Allen) than the other. I've also dabbled a little in a book about the Lincoln-Douglas debates, which I took out of the library after Obama was the presumptive Democratic nominee and McCain started floating the idea of doing Town Hall debates through the summer. Obama instead suggested they should do a reprise of the Lincoln-Douglas debates from the 1850s, so naturally I wanted to find out more about them. (Lincoln displayed his oratory gifts and essentially made his name during these debates, which were widely covered by the press, even though they were competing for the state legislature. Lincoln also lost the election.) I finished last week's New Yorker last night in bed, so I'm waiting for delivery of the next issue (hopefully tomorrow so I'll have it for the weekend). And I read the cover story about Rush Limbaugh from Sunday's NYTimes Magazine.

Not to worry, I'm also working through some fiction. My friend R. bought me a collection of Tim Winton short stories, so I've read the first two of those. I was in a bit of a fiction slump (I tried and failed to get into Cormac McCarthy's The Road; I think it might be a better winter read), so I found something easily digestible at the library: The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Joy Fowler. I'm pleasantly surprised to discover it isn't trash or overly chick-lit-ish, although I'm only about 60 pages in. I have Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto on the (ha ha) kitchen table and in the queue. I also want to re-read Robert Bolano's wonderful The Savage Detectives, which recently came out in paperback, this summer.

So where does autodidacticism fit in to this discussion? Well, I can't help but use my reading material as launching pads to learn even more. For example, because of the Woody Allen book, I've reserved a few of his films from the library to re-examine in light of some of his views. I've been taking out CDs of some music that I'm reading about in the Ross book (primarily Berg and Schoenberg since I'm pretty weak on 12-tone music). I've also been trying to discover some new music, out of sheer boredom with the current tuneage on my ipod. (Recommendations are heartily welcome. I've been listening to some Sleater-Kinney, New Pornographers, Great Lake Swimmers, Iron and Wine, so anything in that general vein.) I also realize I need to read (and re-read) more Jane Austen. (And I haven't even mentioned some of the movies and DVDs I'm watching: the second season of the Sopranos, the 20th anniversary edition of Heathers, Flags of Our Fathers... it just never seems to end. Thankfully.)

Years ago I remember reading that one can take one book and, simply following the references it mentions within it, create an entire syllabus for one's own self education (since each subsequent new book or film or piece of art will come with its own references). It's something I so totally get and will continue to pursue while I'm lucky enough to be sentient.

Living conditions

The big news of the week (aside from that absolutely brilliant Wimbledon final today; but I worry my readers aren't rabid tennis fans like myself, so I'll resist the temptation to wax eloquent on the sublime performances of Federer and the newly crowned Wimbledon champ Nadal - not to mention that my lovely girlfriend has a crush on Nadal...) is that I'm being evicted from my apartment. Eviction sounds harsh, as if I've been operating a grow-op or prostitution ring, but what it basically means is that I have to move. My landlord wrote me a note that she's moving her mother into the apartment, so therefore I have to move. Is it true that she needs the place for her mother? Who the hell knows - but she has all the official forms to enact it, so I'm outta here.

I'll admit, it was a shock, even though I had been thinking about moving for a while. I wanted to do it on my terms, however, and not somebody else's. Although her letter gave me until Sept. 1 to haul my ass out of here, she did add that if I needed 90 days to settle myself, that would be ok too. (We're still in a minor dispute about first and last month's rent, but that's an argument I must win since I did pay a deposit when I first moved here three years ago.) So at least I will be here over the summer, albeit much of it might be spent figuring out the logistics of the move. (I'm planning on doing a big purge - stay tuned, as I will write about turning myself in a true minimalist.) What happens after that, you ask? Good question.

The way I see it, I'm encountering three options:

1. Find another affordable apartment to rent.
2. Buy a place of my own (most likely a townhouse or condo).
3. Move in with my partner.

Let's tackle all three.

1. Finding another affordable apartment to rent. On the surface, seems to make the most sense. After all, what are my motivations to own property? It's not like I have heirs (yet) to pass on a legacy. Moreover, is "equity" important to me? It's not like I'm going to be retiring (most likely ever), so I don't need property as a nest-egg. Basically my RSPs are my financial backbone. Why not continue to rent and have others deal with homeowner issues like property taxes, hydro costs and repairs? We're also supposed to be in a renter's market, so finding a relatively cheap apartment in a good part of the city shouldn't be a chore. Negatives: the great unknown of a building and/or landlord; should a near-40-year old still be renting and not owning?; what are the chances I'll find a sweet deal that I have here in this apt.?

2. Buy a place of my own. Also makes sense. I'm pushing the proverbial 4-0. I'm tired of being beholden to a landlord (particularly a lazy one that doesn't do a damn thing to improve my living conditions). If I want to paint or make changes to the place, I just do them, without thought. I'm ultimately responsible for my living space, and any money I put into the place is an investment. My monthly payments go toward "owning," not leasing. And interest rates are ridiculously low right now. Ownership - I even like the way the word sounds. Negatives: most likely having to ask the parents for a loan to help with the down payment; only places I'll be able to afford are a condo or townhouse, and I hate the idea of paying maintenance fee; what happens if my job situation changes and I'm out on the street looking for work?

3. Move in with my partner. Makes sense. We get along famously, and living together would be a natural extension of our relationship. It's something we've been discussing for a while, largely because it's a bitch when we don't spend every evening together. We're ridiculously compatible, and groove to each other's company. Emotionally, we'd both thrive. Not to mention the plus of shared expenses. Negatives: much farther distance-wise from my work (requiring a long bike commute, and/or taking the transit); moving into "her space" rather than a new, neutral space; concerns about the cat.

Basically the decision has been made. Can you guess?

The 'Nation returns!

So let's see if I can calculate this... My guess is that it's been about a year since I maintained a blog. Hell, it might even be longer than that. I became sort-of bored with the whole blog thing. For those keeping score, I've started (and ended) about five separate blogs in the last few years. They served different purposes, functioned on various levels: the first was something of a lark (it was a continuing series of fake correspondence that I dubbed "Letter to Harry" that was linked from a "vanity" site I started for my freelance business), but then I began to fully embrace the whole idea of blog writing. I figured it was a good outlet for my writing, a means to maintain my creative writing chops. Then real life interfered, and I began a blog that chronicled the difficult and emotional break-up of my long-term relationship. Then I just ... well, dropped off the blog radar, for a number of reasons. For one, I felt totally bereft of ideas. In fact, I sort-of stopped writing altogether. It wasn't writer's block, more like writer's apathy. Work was also taxing my mental and intellectual energies, to the extent where I didn't feel I had much to offer when the work day is done.

And then I found an even-better reason to stop blogging: I fell in love. As I was telling my friend the other day, contentment doesn't seem to be conducive to creative endeavours, at least for me. Happiness doesn't fuel my creativity in the same way depression and melancholy does! Not that I'm complaining: given the choice, I'd rather live a happy and contented life than one full of melodrama and sadness, even if it's at the expense of producing wonderful, meaningful prose. (Let's face facts: I'm simply not talented enough to be a great artist, so I'd rather be a happy person than a tortured soul. I might feel different if I knew I had great work within me.)

Still, I figured I'd get back to blogging at some point. (There's actually still two other blogs attached to this account that you can view from my profile.) Now that half the year is over, the time seems right. I have no idea what shape or form this will take. I can't promise that it'll be as emotional and soul searching (some might say overbearing) as the original Procrastination Nation - those 40,000-plus words were a pure, cathartic pleasure to write - but I'll do my best to make it somewhat interesting. I may write about books I'm reading, films I'm viewing, general observations about life. Hell, it might be boring and not have a reader outside of myself, but that's ok. In the end, I'm probably doing this more for myself.

And happy Canada Day! (I had actually intended to have my first post about my sometimes-ambivalent feelings about being a Canadian, about my desire to experience living outside of this country, and how much I hate fireworks, but I'll save it. I do need some material over the next few months, after all...)