2009, we hardly knew ya

Dec. 31, the end of the 2009. The end of the decade to boot. I wish I had the energy (and time) to do a proper rundown of the past 10 years - it would also require me to be in the proper reflective mood, which I'm not this morning - but suffice to say it's been a largely wonderful, eventful and important decade for me. It involved my first (and still to-date only) "shacking up" relationship, as well as an extremely difficult dissolution partway through the 2000s. I changed careers, which was of course a momentous (and successful) decision. I travelled to a few destinations: England, Ireland, Spain, Portugal, Japan, Argentina, not to mention visiting my favourite cities on a few occasions: London (England), NYC, Montreal. The love life was active after the break-up: I dated a number of different (and mostly terrific) women, had a one-night stand, and, as the decade draws to a close, found myself involved in what is probably the best romantic relationship of my life (with the lovely A.).

There have been some significant "downs," to be sure - the aforementioned break with M., which still haunts me from time to time (that's a whole other blog post), the constant mental battle I have of living a life that's "right and proper" (ie., kids, a mortgage, the white picket fence) versus one of my own making (and that tends to be disparaged, even by myself!) - but I feel mostly good and happy about where I am in my life. I really do feel I'm getting better as I get older.

This past year didn't involve any life-altering events. Well, unless you include a milestone birthday (ie., one that ends with the number zero), which I initially struggled with a few months before the actual b-day. In the end, it passed rather innocuously (and, thankfully, in NYC; it was a real treat to be eating a pie at John's Pizzeria in Greenwich Village on the afternoon of my birthday). But overall, the year was more marked by "steady as she goes." The highlights revolved, of course, around our various travels. Our two weeks in Argentina this fall, where we enjoyed much tasty food and wine and general fun and frivolity (particularly in Buenos Aires, which is now high up on my cities to revisit), were glorious. As well as a wonderful week at Sandbacks in the fall and a long weekend earlier in the year to do some serious snow shoeing. (That was a great discovery: how much I love to snow shoe! I'm actually looking forward to the first big snow dump of the winter to indulge.) It was also a generally good year for my body and health: no serious illnesses, thankfully, and I managed to keep up a fairly regular running schedule from early spring to early fall (after which it dropped off because of travel and time constraints, although I'm back up to running at least three times a week; that will go up in Jan. when I join the gym and can indoors). 2009 was also the year of the "big book" and of re-reading. Big books included Anna Karenina and Bolano's stupendous 2666, and re-reads included Roth's first Zuckerman books and Bolano's The Savage Detectives. I'm (hopefully) going to continue both trends in 2010. I have War and Peace awaiting, and I'd like to re-read some Haruki Murakami. My reading habits have improved considerably over the past year or so, for which I can thank my friend M. He's helped to rekindle my passion for reading, which had been somewhat dormant in the mid-2000s.

Not all is cookies and cream, of course. For one, there are still some lingering work issues involving my status (still on contract, still not making as much money as my colleagues, etc.), but I'm largely content with the job. Seemingly in comparison to many of my friends who can't stand their work: while out with D. last night for drinks, he said, "Aside from you, I don't know anybody that likes their job." And I'm disappointed in my lack of writing over the last year, whether it's here on this blog or in my journal or other endeavours. (I did manage to publish some of my work this year, however: some paid freelance pieces, as well as some work- and research-related articles, which are important to my career.) That's one of my "resolutions" (as much as I hate that word) for 2010: to better carve out time (which mostly means making better use of my time, which mostly means not procrastinating as much) and energy to write more. I'm setting a goal of getting a "creative" piece published in the next two years - wish me luck!

So I feel like the year is ending on a good and positive note, which I hope to carry through to 2010. Happy New Year to you all!

So this is Christmas

Indeed, only two days until Christmas. I've been off work since Friday, and while I love the two-week break afforded by the holidays, I'm not feeling particularly festive this year. Admittedly I haven't made much of an effort to decorate the apartment: I did dig out the xmas ornaments and requisite CDs (Charlie Brown Christmas, A Big Band Christmas, the great holiday album by Barenaked Ladies, etc.) and hung up the stockings (one for me, the other belonging to my cat), but I still haven't been infested with holiday cheer. (I also didn't end up doing much with the ornaments as I didn't end up buying a tree.) Perhaps I'll feel different in the next couple of days when things truly slow down and I get to spend some quality time with the lovely A. (Last year we spent the four days before the 25th in Washington, DC, which was great fun.) She's been super-busy with work - namely wrapping a job up and starting a new(ish) venture in the new year - so we haven't been able to indulge too much in each other's company. We did, however, see Handel's Messiah on Monday night, and we're off to The Nutcracker this afternoon, so it's not like we're not trying to get into the holiday spirit!

All that being said, it's a welcome relief to not have to drag my ass to work until the new year. It's been an arduous couple of months on the job - thankfully nothing unpleasant, just a heavy workload. It's one reason for the paucity of posts on here - I'm just too damn bagged when I get home to do anything other than make dinner and vegetate. (I've been watching a lot of the Toronto Raptors too, although that's been more aggravating than relaxing...) So I'm using this downtime to indulge in some serious ... well, downtime. I've already been reading like a fiend: began and finished the fascinating A Terrible Splendor, polished off Roth's middling and slight (but still readable) The Humbling in two sittings, as well as getting to some short stories from The New Yorker - including works from some "big name" authors such as DeLillo, McEwan and David Foster Wallace - that I had put aside when I had more leisure time to fully engage with the stories. And although The Humbling was a mild disappointment (not a huge one though I had low expectations going in), it has led me to pick Roth's Sabbath's Theater, which the recent novel has been compared to - and which many people feel is Roth's masterwork. So I'll be reading that over the next few days, after which I may finally begin my winter reading project: Tolstoy's War and Peace. Wish me luck.

Watch this space for a 2009 wrap-up, and some thoughts on the coming year.

writing and moods

So it's been a while since I posted. I haven't been overly busy - I had a couple of tight deadlines to meet at work, for sure, but since I hardly ever write when at work, I can't use that as an excuse - but I haven't had the requisite energy to put together a decent blog post during the evening hours. I also chalk it up to my mood: the frequency of my posts tends to go up when I'm in a more depressed state of mind, or at least when I'm going through some extreme emotions. My life right now, however, is rather dull. In a good way, thankfully. No high drama, no histrionics, but more tranquil satisfaction. It's a nice headspace that seems to suit me, at least for the time being.

It hasn't always been like that. In fact, I've just spent the better part of 45 minutes poking through my external hard drive and re-reading some blog writing from my past. (I was in search of my favourite post that I wanted to pass on to a friend of mine who never read the blog.) For those that don't know, I've had about four different blogs over the years, with my original 2005 Procrastination Nation blog standing as perhaps my finest of all. I certainly had more energy back then for writing, but that's directly related to my emotional state at the time: I was going through a serious break-up, and then re-entering the dating world. Is it any wonder I had a lot on my mind to share? (I was also probably more into sharing back then. I've become more gun shy about revealing too much of me on the web.)

In some ways I miss having that energy and will to write and share my life - I'm proud to say it was a popular site - although I don't necessarily miss the turmoil that accompanied it. I'm better off in 2009 than I was in 2005. I'm happier, and more importantly I'm more content. Still, it's nice to revisit some of those old posts. For those that are interested, this is the kind of stuff I was writing:

At work the other day, I was reminded of a scene from Carol Shields’ The Stone Diaries. I don’t actually remember much about the book – I think I enjoyed it, but it doesn’t resonate. (Her last novel, Unless, left a greater impact, probably because a big chunk of it took place in Toronto.) But what I do remember is the two pages or so where the narrator, Daisy, lists all the things that she’s never done in her life. (I don’t have the book in the house to list them all, but I do remember one of the things she listed was oral sex.) From what I recall, she doesn’t register judgement on those things she’s missed out on, but simply notes them impassionately.

I’m in the mood to undertake a similar exercise. I’ll make two lists: the things that I’ve done that might be somewhat out of the ordinary (or at least memorable for me), and those that I’ve not done or accomplished. In some cases, I’ll provide a small explanation.

Things that I’ve done:

Held an Oscar; won three tennis tournaments; given multiple orgasms (or so I was told…); broken both my wrists (the right one one year, the left one the next); torn my rotator cuff in a bike accident; won a broadcast award in university; published approximately 400 articles (many of questionable quality); flown over the date line; paid for porn in a Japanese hotel; cheated on a partner (only once, and to my shame); spent New Year’s Eve alone; spent my birthday alone (and worried that I’ll be doing that this year); “made out” with a girl when I was 8 years old; travelled to almost every major American city; flown first class; finished in the top ten in scoring one year in hockey (when I was 10; I finished eighth); assisted on a championship-winning goal; thrown up from too much booze on someone else’s carpet; shot, processed and developed my own black and white photos; been hit in the balls with a tennis ball while playing goal in a street hockey game; hit someone in the balls with a slap shot in a street hockey game; cried at the end of the film Fields of Dream (it’s the whole “father-son” thing); had three one-night stands.

Things I haven't done:

Gone bungee jumping or sky diving; had a threesome; read Moby Dick, War and Peace or Ulysses; gone skinny dipping; made a woman pregnant (at least as far as I know); had anal sex; travelled to India, New Zealand or Argentina (three places I’d like to visit); used any drug harder than hash; seen a dead person at an open-casket funeral.

--

Re-reading this, I wonder if this was a draft. After all, the list of things I haven't done seems awfully small! More important, I can actually cross three things off the list and add them to things I've accomplished (travelling to Argentina is one; I'll allow others to speculate on the other two). Also, maybe it's time to get back to that type of confessional writing. Of course it won't be that scandalous: after all, nobody's here reading!

Revisiting, reevaluating

There are two themes to my reading this year. The first is that I've been reading a lot of "big" books. That was especially true early in 2009 when I read Roberto Bolano's 2666 and Tolstoy's (no first name necessary) Anna Karenina, pretty much back to back. I used to joke that I have the attention span of a gnat (without knowing, of course, if a gnat indeed has a limited attention span; but it sounded good), and that I was never much good at reading anything above, say, 300 pages. Although I've read large-ish tomes in the past - Norman Mailer's Executioner's Song comes to mind (all 1000 pages or so of it!), and as a teen I read Stephen King's massive It (it was a b-day gift from my parents, who figured because I enjoyed reading that I'd like the book that was #1 on the best-seller's list that year) - I tend toward more manageable works. You know, the ones around 200 to 250 pages.

I expanded my horizons this year though and pulled off the shelf some larger works. Bolano's 2666 was a no-brainer. Since devouring his Savage Detectives (yes, it's a long novel!) during the 2007 xmas season, I was hooked on the guy's work. I bought 2666 (at my local bookstore - remember to support your local book shop) about a week after it was released, with the intent of saving it for the 2008 xmas season when I had two full weeks off to devote to nothing more than reading and loafing (two of my fave activities). What a joy it was to spend time in Bolano's world for approximately 950 pages. (I can't fact check the exact page count; I've lent the book to a friend.) And reading Anna Karenina ... well, what could I possibly add to the far-more intelligent insights already out there on the novel? As I've said many times since: "That Anna Karenina, I think it's a classic."

Which brings me to the second theme of my reading year: re-reading. After I finished 2666, and after reading an article (sorry I can't link to it since I don't remember where I saw it) that suggested a clue to the 2666 title could be found toward the end of Savage Detectives, I decided to re-read Savage. Although I consider myself a somewhat-serious reader, I've never been one to re-read a work. My argument? There are far too many books to read once, so why bother picking up something I've already finished?

Upon reflection, and as I continue to read for the second time the wonderful first Zuckerman trilogy (+ the final Zuckerman book, Exit Ghost, which I'm about halfway through) by Philip Roth, I realize how shortsighted this "no re-read" strategy is. The Zuckerman books mean so much more to me now than they did on my first read over 10 years ago. For one, I'm in a better space to better understand the works - I have more life experience (I almost used the word "maturity," but fear it might be a misuse of that word...), for one, and I'm far-more self-reflective. The novels speak to me in ways they couldn't when I first read them while in my early 20s. The reading experience is totally different - it's more fulfilling in so many ways.

All hail to the re-read!

Thoughts on, among other things, poetry

From Nicholson Baker's The Anthologist:

Tim leaned forward. "I work away at this book, and I describe how the Queen oversaw this huge system of plunder and destruction that wrecked people's lives all over the globe, and I've raked together all this knowledge, and I enjoy doing it because I feel I'm getting at the truth-"

I nodded.

"But it means so much less to me," Tim went on, "than if I were sitting on a couch talking to a woman of grace and intelligence who was wearing an attractive sweater."

*****

This passage is a nice summation of my own thinking. That, on one hand, I love the idea of the life of the intellectual - pursuing knowledge for knowledge's sake, to mine books and other sources to reveal a new truth, some new understanding about the world, about ourselves, about me. Yet, all that pales in comparison to just hanging out with a wonderful woman on an autumn evening, an open bottle of wine at the ready, to share stories of our respective days, trade tales of our lives lived, revealing our secrets and passions. Can this same level of intimacy be found within the covers of a book?

That said, I finished the Baker novel a few days ago. Sure, it was somewhat slight - more a novella, and without much narrative thrust - but still great fun. I haven't read a Baker novel for many years - the last was most likely The Fermeta, at least ten years ago. (And who can forget his classic "phone sex" novel Vox, which I read at a necessary time in my life: when I was single and going through a dating drought.) I was reminded, reading The Anthologist, how funny he can be. Some of his throwaway lines had me laughing aloud with delight. Also, it's fairly difficult to dislike a book that is so passionate about poetry.

I have an interesting relationship with poetry. For years, I never really "got" it. It seemed impenetrable, or a form of language that was beyond my understanding, like hieroglyphics. (I certainly was quite lousy writing it as well!) Still, I've flirted with poetry at various times: I went through an ee cummings phase when I was in my last year of undergrad (I used a poem to help woo a woman, which was quite wonderful). And then I read some Rilke after reading the wonderful Letters to a Young Writer. Even music lyrics, which many say is our first exposure to poetry, didn't draw me in. I love listening to the rhythm of lyrics, but I never really read them. But it's only in the last few years, and largely through my work, that I've started to really make sense of poetry. My mind can now better decipher the language of poetry, that I'm more attuned to it. I now buy the occasional book of poetry (most recent purchase: Don McKay's Night Vision) and even dabble with it in my journal (although I'm still a terrible poet). Still, despite this newfound appreciation and understanding, it's doubtful you'll find me at a poetry reading anytime soon. I'm not sure I'm ready to take that leap.

In other news, I'm off to Montreal later this week, ostensibly for a meeting, but mostly to bum around for a few days. I was born in la belle province and lived there for many years. Even though it doesn't feel like I'm going "home" when I venture to Montreal - my life is decidedly in Toronto - it does feel like a return to my roots. (I still have a few friends there as well.) It's also been ages since I took the train, so that should be fun too (despite the inevitable delays).

the return

(Photo taken during a trip through the Andes.)

So I'm back - been home for a week, actually, but it's taken me much of that time to readjust back to a routine. Thankfully, the two-week vacation felt like a long two weeks, which I take as a sign that it was a restful respite. For those curious: yes, do put Argentina on your list of places to visit. (Do others create those lists? Argentina was long on mine. Other locales still on that list: Brazil, South Korea, New Zealand, Greece.) It's a wonderful country, one I'm sure I'll be revisiting in the next decade or so as there's just way too much to see in two weeks. I felt we barely scratched the surface, although that's largely because we decided we didn't want to be on the move too much. As a result, we stayed a full week in Buenos Aires (in a fantastic studio apartment to boot in a great neighbourhood), after which we made our made to the Mendoza region. Anyway I don't want this to be a travelogue - I've already bored enough people with tales of our trip.

Whenever I'm travelling, I always vow to change some of my habits and routines upon return. I try to set achievable goals, usually revolving around making better use of my free (ie., non-work) time. When I travel, I tend to take note of how others live. In Argentina (in fact, in most places I've visited outside of North America), there seems to be greater emphasis on socializing (or reading or whatever) over coffee at a cafe. I love cafe culture: the social part, sure, when I'm with a friend, but I also love to carve out time by myself, lingering over a coffee or beer with a book or a journal. It's something I tended to do much more when I was in my early 20s and living alone for the first time in the city. Sadly, it's also something I've got away from over the past few years. I can't even pinpoint a reason - maybe it's because there sometimes seems to be too much demand on my time that I seek out solitude within the confines of my apartment instead. (Not to mention that I've been running more after work rather than in the mornings, although with the time change this weekend it should be easier - and brighter! - to hit the streets and the park in the a.m.) I want to get back to that "me" from my early 20s. It shouldn't be too difficult: a quick walk to a local cafe or bar after work, with book and journal in my (new leather, bought in a Buenos Aires market!) bag is an easy task. I'll let you know how I progress.

Speaking of books, read the new Bolano, The Skating Rink, while in Argentina, which was short and wonderful. Also re-read Philip Roth's The Ghost Writer, part of my plan to re-read the first Zuckerman trilogy. (I ploughed through Zuckerman Unbound last week. I'm going to read couple of new books, Nicholson Baker's The Anthologist and Atwood's Year of the Flood, before I tackle The Anatomy Lesson.) I'm going to write about re-reading in another post since my experience with The Ghost Writer was quite different this time around than first reading it about 15 years ago. It's about being a new level of life and maturity to the work.

bon voyage!

I'll be in a couple of weeks!

Notions

Every so often, I get these notions. Once, many years ago when I worked at home as a freelance writer, I had this idea that I'd listen to my entire CD collection from A to Z (yes, at one time my CDs were in alphabetical order; they're still sort-of in that order, but not quite): so start with a CD I picked up in Prague at this jazz club (it was a collection of live songs played at the club), and end with John Zorn's incredible Spy vs. Spy. I don't remember how far I got - the optimist in me likes to think that I made it to at least Vic Chesnutt's About to Choke, but I fear I only made it as far as, say, The Beatles' White Album - but it was a futile attempt. Who knows, perhaps I might revive that challenge. (I can always attempt it on my iPod, although I tend toward the shuffle feature when listening to music on it.)

I have a new goal: to watch every film listed on Sight and Sound's top film list from 2002. Quixotic? Perhaps. I could make it easy on myself and confine myself to the Top Ten critics' and directors' lists, but that seems too easy. (I've also seen most of them - just missing Lawrence of Arabia from the directors' list, Sunrise and Battleship Potemkin from the critics' list.) To get me going, I figured I'd rewatch most of the top ten, so I took out the DVD of Citizen Kane from the library. It's been about a decade since I last saw the film, so it was great to revisit. (It also came with the DVD of The Battle Over Citizen Kane, which was interesting.)

So how am I going to attack the Sight and Sound list? Not quite sure yet, actually. I haven't had much success going from A to Z with music, so it's probably not the best approach. I think I'll just do it randomly: print the list out and cross out films when and after I seen them. I'll do it by whim. If all goes well, watch this space for updates.

TGIF

A rare Friday evening post! I'm actually waiting for the lovely A. to brighten my apartment - she's probably close by now, shifting her way through the rain on the QEW - and since I'm importing some CDs to iTunes (in a google chat conversation with M. this morning, I realized my iPod was missing some essential albums, including John Coltrane's Blue Train and Charlie Parker's wonderful Dial recordings) I figured I'd jot down a few thoughts.

My thoughts, not surprisingly, revolve around my upcoming vacation and trip to Argentina. In exactly one week, we should be at the Miami airport, awaiting our overnight flight to Buenos Aires. (Amazingly, my close friend D. left today for South America, to Bolivia on a trek. And with Rio winning the 2016 Olympics - well, South America is obviously the place to be right now.) A friend said to me the other day, "You always seem to be going away," but I had to remind her that I actually haven't had an extended vacation (ie., anything over a four days) since I was in Portugal last Spring (and when I say "last Spring," I mean 2008.) And that was only for 10 days - this is the first time in many years I'm taking a full two weeks to travel.

A few people have asked, "Why Argentina?" My response: "Why not Argentina?!" I've long been enamoured of the idea of travelling to Buenos Aires, although I can't pinpoint why. It's not like I've read Borges, for example. Yet the city, and the country, has long had a hold on me. Maybe it stems from an article I wrote about 7 years ago on the film industry in Argentina, when one of the people I interviewed said to me, "Come to Argentina!" He said I could get a wonderful steak dinner, replete with a bottle of wine, for about $10. (That was around the time the Argentinian peso was devalued, so my guess dinner is going to be more expensive in 2009 - although I've been told it's still going to be fairly inexpensive. Argentina sounds like a very meat-intensive country.)

Let's face it: I need to get away. The lovely A. probably more so! She says it make take her a few days to decompress (she's had a stressful summer) which may mean a day or so by myself, haunting the various cafes. (We've rented an apartment for the first week, which should help with the decompression.) Not to mention checking out this book store. I'm also going to give this urban running tour a go, even though it seems terribly overpriced. (It's rated #1, however, on trip advisor's things to do in Buenos Aires.)

Those looking for postcards - and really, who doesn't want a postcard written while I'm sitting in some wonderful Buenos Aires cafe, sipping a coffee and/or beer - you know where to find my e-mail to send your address.

The lovely A. is now here, so I will sign off...

Books, books, books!

As some of you know, I'm into purging. It's (sort-of) part of my job, but I've tried to bring that same sense of culling to my own life. When I moved a year ago, I undertook a major downscaling of my possessions. Despite my best efforts, however, I still wasn't happy with the number of boxes I was carting to my new apartment - to the extent that I vow I will downsize even more the next time I change abodes. (In an ideal world, I'd be able to cart all my possessions in about six or seven boxes. That's of course fairly unrealistic, but a worthy goal nonetheless.)

One of the biggest areas of purging was my book collection. I'm a reader - I have an unabashed and passionate relationship with the written word. But I realized a couple of years ago that that doesn't necessarily translate into being a collector. Because of my work, book collectors are a species I'm all-too familiar with. And while I admire many of them, the simple truth is that I ain't one of them. I don't have the financial resources, the inclination or quite simply the space to be a serious collector. A few years ago, I was looking at my bookshelf and thought to myself, "Why the hell do I still have that copy of John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany when I have no intention of ever reading it again?" I seem to remember enjoying it, for sure, but not enough to re-read it. Yet my bookshelves were rife with similar books. They were relics of my reading history, trophies. But they didn't serve much purpose except to take up space.

Since then, I've been ruthless about getting rid of books. I still read, of course, probably more than I ever have. But I use the library for most of my books. And when I do buy books (usually secondhand), I tend to pass them on to friends when I finish. This is not to say I don't keep any books. There are some authors that are special to me (Roth, Murakami, Kundera, Lawrence) and that I suspect I will re-read at some point. And I've kept pretty much all the books that have been given to me over the years as gifts. Most important, I still maintain a shelf of books I've bought that I'm eventually going to read, the so-called reading queue.

For many years now, I've indulged in an orgy of book buying delight at the various University of Toronto fall book sales, most prominently the one at University College and Trinity. I've gotten much smarter, however, which each passing year (and some years I haven't gone at all) - namely, not buying books that I feel I should read (Moll Flanders tends to be the example I like to use) but books that I'm almost certain I will (eventually) read. It's resulted in a lot less books being bought by yours truly (with the added benefit of having less strain on my shoulder from lugging my purchases home).

I'm going to be away for both the UC and Trinity sales this year, so I made a special effort to make the book sale at Victoria College. In fact, I went twice: on Saturday, and yesterday (Monday) when books were going for half price. I did well this year, and bought a lot more books than I had intended. So in no apparent order - well I guess the order I stacked them next to me to note them - these books are being added to my reading queue shelf:

The Sportswriter by Richard Ford. He's an author I've never read but who's been on my radar for years, largely because writers I like respect his work.

The Middle Stories by Sheila Heti. It's a series of small and seemingly quirky stories; she herself, from what I understand - I don't know her personally, but we're probably not too far removed sixth-degree of separation wise - she's personally quirky. I don't think I need to read this from cover to cover, so I'll probably put it on my bedside table and pick up from time to time.

Zinger & Me by Jack MacLeod. A colleague of mine loves this book, and it's about the academic world and journalism, so figured I'd give it a shot; and it only cost me $1.

The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing. The favourite author of another colleague of mine. She lent me books of another series Lessing wrote (the name escapes me) but I just couldn't get into it. So I figured I'd try the Nobel Laureate's most renowned work.

Ceremony by Robert Parker. Bought for next year's camping trip; the book is small, portable and most likely fun to read.

Paris Notebooks by Mavis Gallant. I've been doing a lot of proseltizing of Gallant lately, telling people that they should be reading her wonderful short stories. This is her great work of non-fiction. It would be ideal for taking on a trip to Paris - maybe I should plan one of those...

Picked-Up Pieces by John Updike. As much as I love Updike's Rabbit series of books and his short stories, his essay writing (particularly about sports) and book reviews are fantastic. This collection gathers his mid-1960s to early 1970s non-fiction.

Anil's Ghost by Michael Ondaatje. Can one really go wrong spending a mere $2 on Ondaatje?

Night Field by Don McKay. Perhaps Canada's greatest living poet, this was a steal at $1.50. I met McKay a couple of years ago, just as he was planning his big move from BC to St. John's, Nfld. Talk about moving cross country!

Dangling Man, The Victim, Seize the Day by Saul Bellow. This is a Vantage Press hardcover that collects Bellow's earliest novels. I've read the novella Seize the Day, but not the other two works. One of the real attractions, however, is the groovy retro book jacket. It's going to look great on my book shelf!

A Love Supreme by Kent Nussey. An impulse buy since I've never heard of the book or the author. But he lives in Toronto, and the story is set in and around Little Italy. Also, the story seems to revolve around jazz, one of my loves, so it's worth taking a flyer on. (It was only $1, so hardly much of an investment.)

Hugging the Shore by John Updike. More essays and reviews, this time covering the mid-1970s to early 1980s.

I should add one more book to the list, bought outside the confines of the Vic College Book Sale: The Skating Rink - Robert Bolano. This is going to be the first book I read on my vacation (leaving next Friday!) to Buenos Aires. I know, Bolano is a Chilean and lived in Mexico City, but it's still sort-of South American. Yes? No? I don't care.

The quandry

So this is where I'm at tonight: procrastinating on a freelance assignment that was due today (I've already extended the deadline until tomorrow, and fear it'll extend through the weekend due to terrible apathy), and pondering some microwave popcorn. But, is it right to eat popcorn without also watching a film? (Popcorn doesn't seem appropriate snack food to accompany the evening news, for example.) And while I have two DVDs on my kitchen table, they're both French movies - and am I in the mood to read subtitles as 10:00 approaches?

Yes, this is my life. Keep your arms inside the ride at all times.

Autumn meanderings

Ah, there's a chill coming through my office window. Autumn is approaching, which is wonderful news. I was out of town last week - Sandbanks Provincial Park, to be specific, where the sunsets are out of this world (see photo) - with my lovely companion, who loves the sun as if its ... well, her son. Me, I tolerate the sun and heat, but I don't necessarily seek it out. It's ok when it finds me, but only on a temporary basis. Give me cooler, long-sleeve temperatures any day.

But the few days out of the city, away from the smog and the general stresses of work and life, were a wonderful tonic. I had hoped to get quite a bit of reading done, but only partially succeeded. I mostly read in snippets: a few Mavis Gallant stories, a wonderful Orhan Pamuk story in the New Yorker, as well as a few other magazine articles. I also needed something for the beach, so I brought up an Elmore Leonard novel, 52 Pick-Up. I can see why Leonard is a darling of other writers: his prose is snappy, his narrative sense keen, and his characters (usually) original. The novel ends rather abruptly - as well as mildly predictable - but it was still a fun read.

Now I'm on to Peggy Atwood's Oryx and Crake, in anticipation of her new novel Year of the Flood, where I'm high-up on the holds list at the Toronto Public Library. I'm 50 pages in, and struggling a mite. I'm not a big fan of science fiction, although Atwood calls her work "speculative fiction." But a close friend of mine swears that the book is wonderful, and that one needs to read it whole to fully "get" what she's doing, so I will persevere. Although I reminded said friend today over gchat that we don't seem to have a similar literary sensibility.

Oh, and good news for those interested: I found a secondhand copy of Bellow's Adventures of Augie March that I'd been seeking. I bought a companion for it at the same time: Philip Roth's Zuckerman Unbound. Yes, I have too much to read. And yet I still haven't decided what I should bring with me to Argentina. Borges seems a little too heavy for a trip. I'm of course open to suggestion.

The Periphery

Let's face facts. Or, in this case, the fact: I'm a periphery guy. I've never been in the middle of things, in the "thick of it." That's certainly true of my involvement in the CanLit world.

This evening I was hanging out on the wonderful bp nichol laneway, attending Coach House Press' Wayzgoose Party. It was a fun affair: I went with three wonderful friends, spoke for a bit with one of my closest friends, had a couple of beers and a sausage, and then ran into my poet/soon-to-be novelist friend on the way to the subway (she was on her way to the Coach House), who I reminisced with about the same CH party two years when we stayed until midnight. (I should admit to being too shy to say hi to a couple of people I sort-of know, but don't really know. Damn this innate shyness.) The highlight of the evening was the great Michael Ondaatje introducing himself to my friend D., when Alana Wilcox, managing editor at Coach House, told people to introduce themselves to the person next to them and say what their connection was to Coach House. I think D. loved his brush with CanLit royalty, although he admitted he wished he could have something something profound.

While my connection to Coach House is a lot more solid than D.'s - I was actually given a printed invite by legendary Coach House founder Stan Bevington, and I've also been asked to write a small story about Stan being awarded the Order of Canada - I still feel like something of an outsider. Much of it has to do my personality: I'm not terribly outgoing (one day I'll write about my childhood when I was a total chatterbox, and the event that turned me inward), and thus have trouble working a room. And when I get in a crowd of more than two people, I become too self-concious of what I'm saying, and end up not saying much of all. I also wonder about my level of "cool" - or in this case, my lack thereof.

Yet sometimes I ponder my CanLit role, and think: sure, I'm on the periphery, but it's an important role nonetheless. And maybe it's not so bad to walk anonymously, unassumedly (is that a word?), around that crowd. Be content.

Maybe not the "mighty," but they've definitely fallen

On my walk home from the subway after work, I took note of the marquee at Hugh's Room: Hothouse Flowers. My first thought: Geez, I haven't heard of those guys in a long time. My second: No wonder, if they're playing a small-ish venue like Hugh's Room. (In fairness to them: better at Hugh's Room than a Holiday Inn in Sarnia.) I mention this because it relates to yesterday's post about the big rock concert experience - since I saw Hothouse Flowers at such a show! It must have been ... hmm, mid-1990s maybe, at Molson Park in Barrie for one of those Another Roadside Attraction concerts that the Tragically Hip promoted and headlined. My friend (and ex-girlfriend) T. bought tickets and asked if I'd go. Strange, since: a) we were no longer dating, and b) she knew I didn't much like the Hip. Not to mention what a bloody drag it would be to get to Barrie on the bus.

But I went, endured tremendous heat and sun, and a lot of rabid (and drunk) Hip fans. The highlight was Daniel Lanois playing a typically wonderful (and low key) set that didn't seem to fit in with the the rest of concert. The other bands that I remember: Pursuit of Happiness (yet-another connection to yesterday's post: PoH's frontman Moe Berg was at the Gabriel SkyDome show - with seats behind me, I might add...), Hothouse Flowers, Midnight Oil, and I think Crash Vegas. It was probably at that show that I thought I might be outgrowing the big concert experience.

Or maybe it was because I just don't like Hip.

Bits and Bobs

Just settling in for a couple of hours to write a freelance piece - my main source of income is no longer journalism, but I like to keep up my writing "chops," not to mention make a bit of extra money on the side (which is going into my Argentina travel fund) - but thought I'd warm up the hands and the brain with a quick post. Nothing in particular I want to rant on, just a general clearing of the mind. (Sadly, it takes me much longer than in the past to write these freelance stories. I just don't do enough of them to keep me nimble. But I do my best, at a slower pace, and my editor is usually pleased with the result.)

(For those curious, I'm still making my way through Humboldt's Gift, and it's still great fun. Should be finished by mid-week. And then ... well, haven't yet decided. I'd like to continue the Bellow canon and read The Adventures of Augie March, considering by many to be Bellow's true masterpiece. I've become terribly picky about the editions of the books I read: I tend toward trade paperbacks, one that isn't heavily thumbed. There's a Penguin re-issue of Augie March with an introduction by Christopher Hitchens I'm in search of. I suppose I can just order it from Amazon.)

I've been listening and re-listening (re-listening again; in fact, I'm going to listen to it while I'm writing this paragraph) to Peter Gabriel's incredible tune San Jacinto, specifically the live version from his wonderful Plays Live! CD. It's been a long-time favourite, a song I usually re-discover about once a year and play continuously for a few days. (It was actually one of the first ringtones I used when I bought my first cell phone about a year ago, but then realized it wasn't loud enough and kept missing calls.) While I truly dig the original track from Gabriel's eponymous fourth album (sometimes dubbed Security), I absolutely love this particular live version, recorded during Gabriel's 1982 tour. Many have cited this tour, in support of the fourth album, as his very best. I was a mite too young to catch it, but I did see him on the next tour: in 1986 when he came through Toronto to support the album So.

I've been thinking of this concert, and concerts in general, after I read this New Yorker magazine article (my apologies that only the abstract is available online; here's a link to an interview with the author that gives the basics of his article) about the current state of the big-ticket concert industry. It prompted a discussion on Slate's Culture Gabfest the following week (you have to scroll down to the Aug. 12 edition) where the cultural "experts" (for what they're worth) were basically derisive of the big concert experience. One of them couldn't remember a single big concert they had enjoyed.

Now I'm not going to defend Ticketmaster, Live Nation or the big rock show experience. After all, I rarely go to big, popular concerts anymore. Expense is one reason, lack of interest in most major rock bands that can fill a stadium is another. Still, if I had plenty of disposable income, I wouldn't think twice about dropping some big bucks to see certain bands: U2 for sure (I spoke to a friend of mine at a patio party last night that went to see them in Dublin, which is something she's always wanted to do), possibly others like Pearl Jam... hmm, I'm struggling to think of currently active bands that I like and still do arena/stadium shows. In fact, I have dropped major ducats to see a rock concert: The Police a couple of years ago (which was a great show), and The Who back in 2002 (this was the infamous tour where the bassist John Entwistle died in Las Vegas a day before the tour began, after which they recruited the bassist Pino Paladino to fill in). There shouldn't be much of a surprise for these two shows: both are two of my favourite bands. And while I'd seen The Who back in 1988, it wasn't really The Who. (Pete Townshend played acoustic guitar for most of the concert, and they had added horns and a back-up singers. It wasn't terrible - for one, they played quite a few songs from Townshend's solo albums, which I was very much into back then - but it was hardly close to a typical Who experience.) And the Police ... well, I love them, and had long wanted to see them perform live.

Yet for years and years, particularly when I was a teen and even into my early 20s, I loved the big rock concert experience, and have fond memories of some memorable shows. My first: Rush at Maple Leaf Gardens - sort-of a rite of passage for boys of a certain age and musical bent. I went with my friend Dave (RIP), and I remember the rush of us getting off at College subway, these two 13-year olds from the suburbs, alone in the city for the first time. (Talk about trusting parents!) Our seats were pretty lousy, but we didn't care. It was loud and somewhat intimidating, but we had a total blast. There were other wonderful arena/stadium shows in the next decade: Sting, Pink Floyd, Roger Waters, Genesis, U2 (Joshua Tree tour). (Some memorable Massey Hall shows too, including Tears for Fears in support of Songs from the Big Chair, when through connections via my mother I ended up with sixth row seats.)

Which, of course, brings me back to Peter Gabriel. I've seen him a number of times in concert, including twice on that So tour: a winter show in 1986, followed by a summer visit at the CNE. I actually don't remember much of the latter, but the former, at Maple Leaf Gardens, where my friend D. and I had floor seats (a total fluke: I skipped a class and used the school pay phone to call Ticketmaster), was by far the more memorable. The lights turn off (always one of the great events at a big concert), a song from his Birdy soundtrack is blasting from the PA, it starts to fade, replaced by the familiar, wonderful strains of San Jacinto. He comes out, wearing nearly all white, and proceeds to dazzle with his voice and minimalist stage settings and movements, utilizing a small crane holding three lights that stalk him (almost like a beast), that he stares into, eventually both playing and "lifting" the lights with his hands. Amazing to think, even after 20 years, it's stuck with me. (I found a YouTube clip of a similar performance from Philadelphia.) A few years later, I saw Gabriel at the SkyDome during his Secret World tour. And while not nearly as memorable as the Gardens show, it did contain the unbelievable opening, using some original Robert LePage theatre direction, of Come Talk to Me. (Here's a YouTube clip, containing a very young Paula Cole. The performance I saw had the equally wonderful Joy Askew singing the female bits.)

My point? Not sure I really have one. Except nice memories.

the heat, the books

Ah, so this is what we've been missing all summer: hot, sticky, uncomfortable evenings because of the humidity. Let's just say, that crazy rain aside, I can live without this summer weather. Give me cool, fresh summer nights anytime. Humidity blows.

Since I couldn't sleep this morning, I thought I'd cobble together a quick post. I've been going through a variety of moods of late. Some of it is because of job-related stress and continued frustrations in my workplace. I've also been dwelling (too much, I think, and probably irrationally) on aging, feeling life is starting to proverbially "pass me by." It's always dangerous and foolish to compare one's life to others, but sometimes I can't help observe the activities of the friends and acquaintances around me and wonder if they're doing it "right." They're buying houses, getting married, having children. There's a sense of progress there, while it seems my life has been somewhat stagnant.

Anyway I don't mean this to be a lament. But I figure it was on my mind this morning (and of late), so I thought I would share it. (For those of you that might be worried, don't! As per usual, this will pass.)

In other news... I've decided, after reading 123 pages of TC Boyle's The Women, that I'm going to return it to the library without reading the last 200 pages. It's not that I wasn't enjoying the book per se - Boyle is a great craftsman, and the narrative is engaging - but I realized when I was about 100 pages in that I didn't really care all that much about these characters. Nor did the book seem to have any relevancy and insight to the particular moods and thoughts I'm currently experiencing. It made me realize how important that type of relevancy and immediacy is to me when I read. I don't read to escape; I read to understand, to involve, to make some sense out of my own life. That doesn't mean I require a narrative that's comparable to my life and circumstances, but I need something I can relate to. Perhaps offering some wisdom into solitude, or relationships, friendships, family. The Boyle just didn't have that going for me (as entertaining as the story was), so I'm giving up on it. Life is too short to spend with a book that just isn't working for me.

Instead I picked up another Saul Bellow: Humboldt's Gift. I was hooked from the first few paragraphs! It's not nearly as complex as Herzog, but it contains all the elements I love about Bellow, namely the richness and wonder of both his language and the characters. It's going to be an engaging read. And the thing that resonates (which is why it has relevancy for me) is the theme of literature (and its so-called purity) vs. crass commercialism. More on this in another post, after I finish the book.

Is it a fact of life that CBC's Metro Morning has to play the same crappy music almost daily?

15 Toronto Books in 15 Minutes

In the spirit of participation, but mostly because my postings on here have been both sporadic and anemic, I'm taking up the 15 Toronto Books in 15 Minutes meme, which I first read about on Rose-coloured; her list is here (make sure you read the comments because there are some excellent suggestions for further reading), and which she read about on Kate's Book Blog, with her list here. My first thought to this was, There's no way I'm going to be able to come up with 15 books that are set in Toronto, never mind 15 books that I like. Yet, within about five minutes I was able to rattle off about 10. (My rules weren't too strict: if I thought some of it was set in Toronto, it could be listed.) In the end I was able to conjure around 20 titles, which I've whittled down to these 15 (in no particular order):

Cat's Eye/The Robber Bride/Alias Grace – Margaret Atwood
I'm lumping these three together under the banner of "Atwood Corporation." (I suppose one could also include The Blind Assassin, but I'm not a big fan of that work.) Interestingly, perhaps, Cat's Eye was the first book I remember reading that used Toronto extensively as a backdrop, just as the city itself was entering my consciousness. I was still a teenager at the time and living in the suburbs, but would go downtown often to shop at Sam The Record Man (R.I.P.). About two years later, I became a full-flown Toronto resident when I started my undergrad studies. If memory serves, the main character in Cat's Eye worked for a time at Swiss Chalet, most likely the one that used to be across the street from the Royal Conservatory (which was, I believe, the first one in the city; I heard Robertson Davies used to eat there). It's since been demolished to make room for a condominium. Blah. Of these three books, Alias Grace, with its mid-1800s Toronto setting, is the one I enjoyed the most (although Robber Bride comes a close second).

Unless – Carol Shields
My personal favourite of Shields' work. The Toronto scenes involving her daughter take place in the neighbourhood I was living at the time (Bathurst/Bloor), making things that much more immediate.

The Rebel Angels – Robertson Davies
While the university setting is fictional, it's supposedly based on the University of Toronto's Trinity College (with a further nod to Massey College, where Davies was the Master for many years). This book is great fun, and contains the best character Davies created, Parlabane.

King Leary – Paul Quarrington
I read this and Quarrington's other great comic novel, Whale Music, back to back. I was playing a lot of shinny hockey on a makeshift, primitive rink on Brunswick Ave. when I read this, which added to the fun of reading a book about the sport.

The Romantic – Barbara Gowdy
Truthfully, I don't remember much about this novel, except how much I enjoyed it when I read it. I was also single at the time and most likely believed in an idealistic, romantic love, so I was probably an easy target for this kind of book. Oddly, and this is something I should correct, it's the only Gowdy book I've read.

The City Man – Howard Akler
Yes, the author is one of my oldest, closest and dearest friends. (I think he might have bought me King Leary, actually. And the rink on Brunswick where we played hockey was across the street from his dive-y basement apartment.) Yes, the author was passing me bourbons bought for him at the launch of this book (he had an open tab for his own bourbon). Despite all that, this book is flat-out wonderful. Beautiful, spare, hard-boiled language, and a fun story to boot. Who knew there was so much to know about pick pocketing?

Fugitive Pieces – Anne Michaels
After struggling through the first 50 or so pages with Michaels' poetic prose, it finally "clicked." And even though about half (I think) of the book takes place in Toronto, the scenes in Greece are the most beautiful and memorable.

Typing in 26 Keys – Matt Cohen
I read two memoirs back to back dealing with similar time frames: George (formally Doug) Fetherling's Travels By Night: A Memoir of the Sixties, and Cohen's book, and much preferred Cohen's. (And any book that pisses off Robert Fulford must be doing something right.) It made me wish I was around in the late 1960s and hanging out with the Rochdale College crowd. (It also made me wonder: when is Dennis Lee, who is perhaps the most influential person from that whole period, going to pen a memoir?) Even though I enjoyed this book, I've still yet to finish one of Cohen's novels. And I probably never will.

Shadowmaker: The Life of Gwendolyn MacEwen – Rosemary Sullivan
I really should put a Gwen MacEwen poetry collection here instead of this fantastic biography, but MacEwen's work doesn't necessarily seem rooted in Toronto. It doesn't need Toronto, in other words – MacEwen's poetry lives and breathes in some other mystical, magical place. Yet Sullivan's book truly evokes the city, particularly the 1960s when the Bohemian Embassy played such an important role in the development of this city's literary culture. A fascinating study of a poet whose stature will only continue to grow with each passing year. (MacEwen died in her apartment on Robert St., the same street I lived on for about four years.)

In the Skin of a Lion – Michael Ondaatje
Not much to say except that it's perhaps the greatest of all Toronto books, particularly Ondaatje's wondrous descriptions of the construction of the Bloor St. viaduct and the Harris Filtration Plant. A book that's essential to understanding the immigrant experience of early Toronto.

Consolation – Michael Redhill
Enjoyable for a glimpse into early Toronto, as well as early photographic techniques! Redhill nicely weaves the two separate narratives into a cohesive whole. (Yikes, does that sentence sound pretentious?)

1978 – Daniel Jones
I got interested in this novel because of some correspondence I came across in my work from Jones (who was known primarily by that one-name moniker). He's one of the most interesting figures in the Toronto small press literary scene, and his poetry readings, from my understanding, would sometimes feature his penis. He struggled with depression and committed suicide in 1994. This novel captures the punk-fueled Toronto scene in the late 1970s. It's lively, energetic and chaotic, much like the years it depicts. You can read an excerpt here.

Save Me, Joe Louis – MT Kelly
I put this on the list because Kelly captures the tawdry, somewhat depressing world of boxing so evocatively. Also, the author gave me an autographed copy of a book about cats and a nice bottle of red wine about two years ago. I'm easily bought.

Raymond and Hannah – Stephen Marche
A wonderful and unconventional love story. Not to mention it explores the modern romance, where e-mail can play a significant role in the wooing process. Parts of this book are set in my workplace as well, which breeds familiarity. Other parts are set in Israel, which is not as familiar.

Once – Rebecca Rosenblum
No, I'm not including this because her blog gave me the idea for this post... But because it's the most recent book set in the city that I enjoyed. Perhaps oddly, given how I consider myself an urban dweller, my favourite scenes in the stories tend to take place in the outer reaches of the city, such as the buses that reach out to the more distant Toronto and the extended city's strip malls. (That being said, I found myself on the 123 Shorncliffe route last night at 10:00, which was a somewhat surreal experience.) Besides, she gives good blog.

Please note: no Russell Smith.

randomness

A few things rattling in my brain this evening:

- I forgot how different camping is in the US versus Canada. I spent many summers in my youth in a Coleman trailer in the wonderful United States of America - living in Montreal, the folks confined our travels to the eastern seaboard, primarily Maine (which I'd love to visit again) - but have camped almost exclusively in the last 10 years (when I rediscovered the great outdoors) in Ontario. I had an extra-long long weekend this past weekend camping in upstate NY, at Letchworth State Park. It was a spontaneous trip planned on the fly, and was largely quite wonderful. It helps that I have a thing for running water and water falls. Yet, spoiling the experience was some terribly unruly campers from NY who were intent on speaking very loudly at midnight ("quiet time" was supposedly 10 pm), hitting the car with a soccer ball, and walking through our site to visit the loo. I don't remember experiencing the same type of camper in Ontario's Provincial Parks. More important, was I loud and obnoxious when we camped in the Adirondacks when I was a kid?

- It's fun to read a Spenser novel by Robert Parker after so many years. Ideal campsite reading. (For those curious, it was Looking for Rachel Wallace. I have the 1980 Dell paperback if someone wishes to borrow it. A fun read.) I brought Jane Austen's Emma as well, but didn't get around to breaking the spine. (Well, I broke the spine when I was supposed to read it in my Introduction to the Novel class during my first-year undergrad, but never got past page 30 or so. I'm determined to finish all the books in my various syllabuses from years past.) I think it might be next in the queue, particularly since I don't have any books waiting for me at the TPL. I also bought Leonard Michaels' The Collected Stories, which I'll dip into over the next few weeks.

- Hiking really is a great stress reliever for me. File that under "note to self."

- Hooray for Argentina! I booked an Oct. flight to Buenos Aires on Thurs. Nice to have some travel to look forward to.

- You have to love the post-camping shower.

what's happening at the 'nation?

So it seems I've made another one of my periodic disappearances from the blogging world. Not sure why I can't see to sit down for more than 10 minutes to craft a post. For example, I started writing a review of Saul Bellow's Herzog, got about three paragraphs in, had to stop (because I was writing at work and began to feel guilty about blogging rather than, you know, working), and then just haven't had the motivation to return to it. I've been rather busy socially, which is a good excuse not to be spending time in front of the computer when I'm away from work. And on those days when I don't have after-work or evening plans, I find I just don't have the mental stamina to sit down and craft something interesting. I've been working on some writing projects during the day at my job, and it appears I only have a limited amount of writing in me on a given day. Which is somewhat sad since at one time, back when I was a full-time freelance writer, I really used to be able to crank it out.

I was recently reflecting on my most fruitful blogging days: about two or three years ago when I was going through some tremendous emotional upheaval, and when the blog served as part-therapist, part-catharsis. It was a lifeline, a way to assemble the crazed jumble of thoughts and emotions I was experiencing. I had a lot more readers back then as well - they helped provide some necessary support and feedback. My life is much more settled these days, so my blog writing suffers as a result. And while I wouldn't want to go back and relive those turbulent days, a part of me misses experiencing those emotions, when things were so raw and uncertain and provided grist and fuel for my addled brain. When writing didn't seem frivilous, but a necessity.

It's a trade off. And sometimes (perhaps naively and stupidly) I miss those moments.

BTW, that Bellow review? I'll get to it, eventually. The mini, mini review: it was good.

Mini-review: Lauren Kirshner's Where We Have to Go

After taking a few days off from novel reading upon finishing Anna Karenina - I'm usually anxious to pick up the next book in my reading queue after turning the last page on a book, but I wanted to digest AK, and not muddy my thinking with a new work - I took the library-loaned hardcover of T.C. Boyle's The Women from my bedside table, laid on my bed, and turned to the first page. I had read a review of it a few months back, and it sounded like an ideal read (largely because I'm fascinated about the life and work of Frank Lloyd Wright). I'd also read a couple of Boyle's short stories in the New Yorker, and figured I should give one of his novels a shot. Unfortunately, I was barely able to get through the first few pages. I chalked this up to simply not being in the mood for it - it's nobody's fault, sometimes that happens with me with books. (Not to compare Boyle to a legend, but it's my usual routine with Hemingway. My readings of Hemingway are "do overs," after I've barely managed to make it through the first 20 or so pages on my first attempt.) So I'm not-yet giving up The Women; in fact, I may give it another shot this week.

I then tried Arthur Phillips' new novel, The Song is You. Again, this is another book I'd heard much about, and again the subject matter seemed to be in my wheelhouse: any book that relies so heavily on music, one of my great loves, to help propel the plot must be interest. Not to mention that Phillips is a much-lauded stylist. The opening of the novel, about the protagonist's father attending a Billie Holiday concert just before being shipped out to the Pacific theatre in the second world war, is a wonderful little introduction. Yet, it's been downhill from there. I've managed to make it to page 87, but I've since put it down. Not only is the story a disappointment - it reads too much like a middle-aged man's fantasy, of being a muse to a young, beautiful and up-and-coming Irish singer/songwriter - but Phillips' writing style does nothing for me. (I was warned early on when he twice refers to the arm of a turntable as a "tone arm." Ugh.)

Giving up on one book is acceptable; two in a row, and I'm ready to dial 911.

Mid-week, Toronto writer Lauren Kirshner's first novel Where We Have to Go was waiting for me at the Lillian H. Smith branch of the TPL. I didn't know much about Kirshner or the book, except that she was a graduate of the MA Program in Creative Writing at the University of Toronto, and I have a very minor association with the program (as well as Kirshner's mentor from the program, Margaret Atwood.) But I enjoy reading books set in my city, Toronto, so I figured I'd give it a shot.

It's been a joy to spend a few days with the narrator, Lucy Bloom, and a good way to cleanse my system after two disappointing efforts at reading a new novel. Kirshner's voice is wonderfully assured, and her Lucy leaps off the page from our first introduction to her at age 11. She goes through some typical (but not trite) growing pains, including an eating disorder, that revolve around acceptance and the eventual discovery of self (aided by her high school friend Erin). It brought me back to my own adolescence - while I didn't suffer from an eating disorder, I did struggle with issues dealing with popularity (or lack thereof) and finding my place and "voice." (It wasn't easy at a school that reeked of old money, that had fraternities and sororities, and where one's popularity was often defined by how well you played football.) The big difference in Lucy's life is, while she's having to cope with these adolescent issues, she's also dealing with a family that seems to be falling apart. I was especially captured by her father's story: a one-time photographer who was now working as a travel agent in a dreadful office in a nondescript strip plaza. It got me thinking of that thin wedge between success and failure, and how high aspirations can give way quickly to crushing disappointment. The theme that kept replaying in my head was hope and promise vs. defeat and dead-ends. Even though Lucy suffers through a tough adolescence, there's still so much hope and promise in her future. It's never stated in the novel, but I imagine her biggest fear is ending up like her parents. The novel's conclusion, however, doesn't suggest that: as a reader, I felt Lucy was going to make it.

The novel is not perfect. (What novel is?) There were some over-wrought metaphors and some details that left me wanting (how was it, for example, that Erin was living alone in the city when she was around 15?). But these are minor quibbles. One major quibble: McClelland & Stewart needs to employ some better proofreaders. I caught at least three glaring errors, including this groaner on page 318: "But Mom never sped. You know, she would press the break when she went through the intersection, even when the light was green." Also, what's with not having numbers on the verso pages?

Highly recommended.

So in case you're curious, I'm going to make book reviewing a regular feature of this blog. For the two or three of you that actually read it... Next in the queue: Saul Bellow's Herzog.

Something to add to the "what an idiot I am" scrapbook: I thought I was taking out a Sigur Ros CD from the TPL. (I thought to myself, "Hmm, I've never seen this CD of theirs.") But I misread the cover: instead, it was a recording from the band Sugar Ray! Whoops. I'll give it a listen though, out of sheer curiousity.

The big book

It wasn't a deliberate strategy, but it appears 2009 is becoming the year of the "big book." I've tackled a number of hefty tomes so far, most recently turning the last page (over 800 of them!) on Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. This is the second time I've tackled the classic novel. A few years back, I read about ten pages of the Penguin version, but my heart just wasn't in it. But I bought the new translation (the husband and wife team of Pevear and Volokhonsky, who seem to be tackling the major Russian works; I had intended to buy their Crime and Punishment at the Strand in NYC, but ended up leaving the store without it, although I did walk out with their translation of War and Peace), and I was hooked from the start. A proverbial page turner! The true definition of a classic! A timeless masterpiece! Well, you get the picture. This reading comes on the heels of other lengthy novels, primarily Roberto Bolano's wonderful works 2666 and The Savage Detectives (which was a re-read). I'm coming to the conclusion that I'm a novel reader, not a short story reader.

This actually is difficult for me to admit, that I love the long novel over the short story. For years, I thought I was a true short story aficionado. The evidence, while not overwhelming, was there. I had a subscription to the New Yorker when I was 17, largely because I loved the idea of having a new short story to read every week since, at the time, I fashioned myself to be an aspiring writer. And how does one "break in" to the business? By writing short stories, I reasoned. Yet, I barely remember any short stories from those early reads, although I can rattle off a good number of excellent non-fiction pieces. And even today, while still a faithful New Yorker reader (there was a several-years gap when I barely glanced at the magazine on the newsstand), the short story tends to be the last thing I read. (Unless, of course, they publish a new Haruki Murakami or Roberto Bolano story. I'm not sure David Sedaris counts, but of course I faithfully read him too. And Woody Allen, although his "casuals" are becoming increasingly lame.) I'm not outright dissing the short form - after all, I love John Cheever and Mavis Gallant and Alice Munro short stories, and there was a recent John Updike piece that blew me away; and Salinger's Nine Stories is still such an important book in my reading history - but I think I prefer the sprawling, sometimes messy, aspect of a novel over the "perfection" of the shorter work. Maybe because my own life is so messy!

That being said, I'm currently reading The Song is You by Arthur Philips.

(This post was going to be about my own attempts at writing short stories, but it morphed into something else. Which is a good clue as to why I never become much of a writer...)

The number game

So, I've gone and done the big milestone b-day. It was rather effortless, actually. I was in one of my preferred spots, and indulging in a preferred activity, when the clock struck midnight: at a jazz club in NYC, holding a glass of red wine with one hand and the hand of a beloved with the other. In the end, I'm ok with the aging process. I like to think I'm getting better as I get older. I'm in a good head space, I have money in the bank, I have a job that I enjoy (and, perhaps more significantly, is important), I have a (small) group of wonderful friends. I have my foibles and faults, to be sure, but they seem to be manageable.

And let's face it, it's true what they say: age really is nothing but a state of mind, especially when one has health on their side.

a return

Despite my inactivity - a combination of factors, but mostly just plain ol' apathy/laziness and lack of motivation - I am still here. Sort of. Barely. Just about. Well, you get the picture. It's not that this hasn't been a particularly interesting time for me either. I'm bursting with mental acuity and philosophical musings, but they've largely been confined to the swirl in my head. (I've engaged in some writing, but nothing I feel is appropriate for public consumption. Although, let's be serious here, it's not like I had much of a public to begin with! And those that were with me a couple of months must surely have left the building.) Which is not good - I forget that it's healthy for me to get these thoughts down, to make sense of them. It doesn't necessarily make me more happy, but more content.

Some of the swirls include:

- a milestone birthday (fast approaching)
- better looks (largely the result of straightened teeth!)
- the next half of my life (at least I hope it's only half over)
- crushes and infatuations (both real and imagined/virtual)
- a genetic disposition toward melancholy

All of which to be examined, in due course. Right now, there's Anna Karenina to continue. Only about 400 pages to go...

To Spain and beyond

I still think of travelling with you to Spain.
Since we've seen the Moors,
we should next travel to Madrid.
Yet because of our estrangement
you'll never know of this desire.

For the love of reading

"Oh, how different my life would have been had I not grown up in the same house with my grandmother, how much narrower and blander! She was the reason I was a reader, and being a reader was what had made me most myself; it had given me the gifts of curiosity and sympathy, an awareness of the world as an odd and vibrant and contradictory place, and it had made me unafraid of its oddness and vibrancy and contradictions."
- American Wife, Curtis Sittenfeld (p. 321)

I'm beginning to re-emerge from my silence. Stay tuned!

tendencies

I have a tendency toward (false? misdirected?) nostalgia
which often leads to melancholy
Thankfully the low-grade kind.

Happy Earth Day

Spent the hour between 8:30 and 9:30 in thought, with a journal by my side, writing three poems, various ramblings, and a postcard. And watched the cat nearly set her fur on fire with the candle. (What's that smell? Ah yes, singed cat fur.)

A rethink

Once again - and I know this is tiresome for the two or so people that actually visit here - I'm rethinking my relationship to this blog. Not only do I not have many readers (and I have to remind myself that's not necessarily the reason I started this in the first place; it was to serve as a writing exercise, a place where I can gather the jumble of thoughts continually revolving in my brain and attempt to make some sense of them, to give them some coherency; yet, it would be nice to add a few more eyeballs), but I re-read some of these posts and think, "ugh." As I was telling my friend M. today (via e-mail), I think I've become intellectually lazy over the last couple of months. Yes, I'm reading wonderful, thought-provoking books (finished my re-read of Bolano's The Savage Detectives last week; not surprisingly, it was a richer experience, although the ending is still puzzling; on to Anna Karenina!), and my work is still (at times) challenging and intellectually stimulating, but I'm getting complacent outside of it. (Maybe it's stumbling upon this site that is providing the proverbial food for thought. After all, if I'm going to do this, I might as well do it right. She has.)

Thus, a temporary pause while I figure out what the heck it is I'm trying to accomplish here.

In the meantime, a couple of links to read. One on the Kindle, a device I'd love to get my hands on (despite the fact I'm an unabashed fan and supporter of the printed book; but hey, I'm open to conversion), and an older article on the future of the book (via an interview with Umberto Eco, sent to me by M.)

Security

Strange day today. A big chunk of it was doing what I would call grunt work: essentially mindless work that a chimp could do (except it required some knowledge of Spanish; reading Bolano in English translation hasn't helped much). But toward the end of it, despite some uneasy feelings leftover from yesterday when a colleague said "pink slips" (that was not related to job losses), I was told that, despite the continuing economic woes, my job is guaranteed for at least another two years. Two-year tenure - woo hoo! Of course I'm still up for another job, and will continue to follow through on that. (If nothing else, it's always good experience to go through the job interview process.) And who knows, I may still be tempted to leave. But it's nice to have some sense of security. Plans can be made.

Is it fair to be happy?


You and I have memories
Longer than the road that stretches out ahead

Listening to: Let it Be (Naked) - The Beatles

Melancholy

"The Man who is alone and waits is seen in every cafe in Buenos Aires - a symbol of the city's essential melancholia." - Alberto Manguel

Essential melancholia - perfect.

Just five more things

Why do we like lists so much? Is it because most of us like some semblance of order? A way to make sense of our crazed world? Hmm, even though that's hardly philosophical, it seems too much for my tiny brain to ponder this evening. (My head is full of archival theories - like, how does an organization handle electronic records? If only I knew.)

I took a couple of days to ponder the last five albums that changed my life - even though, as I explained below, not all of these were life altering. Some are just kick-ass.

21. Greatest Hits – James Taylor. I used this album to comfort me back in the early 1990s when I struggled to find work. Even when I was feeling down and low (or should I “down and blue,” as James sang in “Something in the Way She Moves”), this CD would always lift my spirits a mite, and made me realize that better days lay ahead. And they did.

22. A Charlie Brown Christmas – Vince Guaraldi Trio. The best holiday recording of all time. I can listen to this in July and it makes me yearn for the holiday season. Has it changed my life? Of course not, but it always brings a smile to my face and warmth in my heart. That should be enough to merit inclusion on this list.

23. Songs for Swinging Lovers – Frank Sinatra. This recording is important for two reasons: it was the first album my parents owned (they bought it for their Blackpool honeymoon 50 years ago) and it was the album that introduced to me Sinatra, who is my favourite singer of all time. Beginning with “You Made Me Feel So Young” and ending with “How About You” (a song that was sort-of a theme song for me and my second serious girlfriend), it's the quintessential romantic Sinatra album. (I knew a relationship was doomed many years ago when the woman I was seeing told me, “I don't like his voice.” Not exactly shared sensibilities.)

24. Check Your Head – The Beastie Boys. P. Introduced me to this fantastic CD while I was visiting him in Japan back in 2001. Not only is it a great album (“Funky boss, funky boss, funky boss, get off my back”), but it will forever remind me of those weeks I spent in the land of the rising sun (that's Japan, right?). (I should also give a shout-out to The Best of Sade, another great CD which accompanied me on many a train ride in Japan.)

25. Let it Die – Feist. While compiling this list, it made me realize how few recent releases were included. I sort-of lost interest in new music a few years ago, largely because I thought the music scene wasn't talking to me anymore. Not that I was unaware of some interesting bands, but I wasn't proactive enough to seek them out. But this remarkable album by Feist, which blew me away on first listen, really got me galvanized to explore some new bands, particularly those coming out of Canada. Now I'm forever seeking out new music (via the Toronto Public Library – it's a fantastic resource for Canadian bands). Thank you, Leslie.

Honourable mentions:

Body and Soul - Joe Jackson (actually, I'm shocked there's no JJ on the list since he's still one of my favourite artists; he'd be in the top five of my all-time favourite musicians, to be sure)
Everybody Digs Bill Evans - Bill Evans
Grace – Jeff Buckley
Fumbling Toward Ecstasy – Sarah McLachlan
The Complete Blue Note Recordings (Vols 1 & 2) – Thelonious Monk. (Because a day without Monk, is like a day without sunshine.)
Selling England by the Pound - Genesis
Charlie Parker's Complete Dial Recordings
Pretty much anything by my one of my favourite composers, Antonio Carlos Jobim

Ah, lists. Tailor-made blog posts. I'm sure there's another one in me, and soon. Mind is obviously pre-occupied right now with other matters.

More 25 things

Awoke this morning with my voice a nice cross between Lauren Bacall and Barry White (everybody is like me and wakes up singing, yes?). Still not 100 per cent, but feeling better tonight (despite the rainy weather outside my window and "losing" an hour because of daylight savings time). It's been something of a lost weekend while I tend to this cold/flu - and my throat is still raw - but it's good and healthy to have the occasional low-key, nesting weekend. I'll be back to the grind tomorrow.

I've been working on my list of the 25 albums that changed my life which my friend P. tagged me on facebook. I've cheated a bit and created a list of what I consider the most significant albums from my life. Some did change my life, others didn't. But they all conjure up a time and place.

I'm still 5 short (and they are more or less in chronological order), largely because I fear I'm missing several important ones - I need a night to sleep on it. But here are the first 20:

1. The Roaring Silence – Manfred Mann. The first album I ever purchased with my own money. My dad picked it up for me from the downtown Montreal Sam the Record Man on St. Catherine's (long since gone). I wanted it because I loved the song “Blinded by the Light.” Naturally, I had no idea at the time it was a Springteen composition. I still have the album (it has a great cover).

2. The Beatles greatest hits (the two volumes with the red and blue bordered covers). I listened to these two albums non-stop when I was around 8 or 9. I particularly loved the son “Lady Madonna,” and would play “air piano” to it. And “Paperback Writer.”

3. YMCA – The Village People. Conjures up memories of both early mornings in the living room in our house in Dollard des Ormeaux, where I'd listen to the VP on headphones, but also roller skating at Caeser's Palace in Pointe Claire. Carefree days indeed when one had to summon up the requisite courage to ask a girl to skate the last song with you...

4. Scoop – Pete Townshend. The Who's Townshend started the Scoop series back in the early 1980s. Basically it was a project that collected his demos for The Who, as well as assorted oddities. I bought this as a cassette on a grade 8 school trip to Quebec City – at the same everybody else was buying the Kinks live tape (there was a cult around the song “Lola,” started by one of the “cool” popular kids at school – and listened to it over and over again on the long overnight bus ride back to Toronto. Started my own obsession with Townshend, particularly with some of his more obscure and creative endeavours. He's since released two more Scoop recordings. (My favourite Townshend album: Empty Glass.)

5. Tommy – The Who. I tend to do things in reverse, so after discovering Townshend, I began my exploration of The Who. This was the first recording I bought of theirs I bought, which is why it's so special. Began my life-long love of the band. (My favourite album(s): Who's Next and The Who by Numbers.)

6. Synchronicity – The Police. Only on this list because I adored this recording when it first came out. And still do. Finally got to see The Police a couple of years ago.

7. Grace Under Pressure – Rush. If I had to pick a favourite Rush album, it would obviously be Moving Pictures. But GUP means more to me, if only because it was the album I listened to over and over before going to my very first rock concert: Rush at Maple Leaf Gardens, touring in support of GUP. The opening act: Red Rider (before they were Tom Cochran and Red Rider). My seat mate: DG (RIP).

8. Greatest Hits – Simon and Garfunkel. Some of these songs helped me survive the darkest days of high school: “America,” “I Am a Rock,” “Kathy's Song.”

9. A&M Classics – Cat Stevens. A collection of Cat Stevens' greatest hits. On the list less for the music (although there are still songs on this I listen to frequently: “The Wind,” “On the Road to Find Out,” “Oh Very Young”) than for the memories it conjures of the summer of 1988 with my first “serious” girlfriend, S. I don't think there was a night when we fell asleep before 3:00 in the morning. (We also listened often to Bruce Cockburn's greatest hits that summer.)

10, Astral Weeks – Van Morrison. Like many, I discovered Van the Man through the album Moondance. (My dad, for one, loved the song “Into the Mystic.” I'm more partial to “Caravan.”) Astral Weeks was a whim buy at Sam the Record Man after class. I probably should have known more about this recording – particularly since I was in the throes of discovering jazz (and the album has heavy jazz influences) – but I was largely ignorant of this masterwork.

11. 'Round About Midnight – Miles Davis. The very first jazz recording I bought on CD, when I was about 17. I knew about jazz since my dad was a fan, and I began my own exploration via the library (where my friend P. and I would go every week to take out music cassettes), but this was the first jazz album I owned. Naturally I enjoy Davis' Kind of Blue more, but one never forgets their first...

12. The Koln Concert – Keith Jarrett. I bought this album and KJ's Standards Live during a lazy afternoon at a fantastic secondhand store (long since out of business) on Dundas, east of Church. I didn't know much about Jarrett, except by reputation. (And, strangely, he's mentioned in the linear notes on one of Townshend's Scoop albums.) What revelation this album was! I only found out later that the success of this album basically funded ECM Records for about 25 years. It started me on my continuing journey through Jarrett's incredible music. The Standards album is great too (I've only since purchased the CD version).

13. Powaqqatis – Philip Glass. Probably the strangest one on this list. For one, many consider this soundtrack (and the film) far inferior to the first one in the series, Koyaanisqatsi. But I still love the hypnotic repetitiveness of the score. This album would often keep me company during my first and second year of undergrad, especially when I was wandering through the city streets before and after class.

14. The Ninth Symphony – L.V. Beethoven. Can't remember precisely which “album” I first discovered this monumental piece (although I first heard snippets of it in Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange), but this was the first piece of classical music that I absolutely fell in love with, when I was about 21. Naturally there's also an association with a woman: the wonderful red-headed PMC. I wrote her a love letter while listening to the wonderful fourth movement, which still moves me (especially the quieter passages near the beginning).

15. Hot Rocks – The Rolling Stones. I'm not a huge Stones fan (although “Gimme Shelter” is one of the all-time great rock songs), but this makes the list because of a wild, fun weekend (full of quickie one-off romances) with five of my then-closest friends to celebrate the end of our undergrad years. We danced endlessly to this album, while drinking terrible white wine (Black Tower from Germany). The weekend also spawned the classic line while dancing: “Come on, take off your pants!”

16. Gordon – Barenaked Ladies. Still fresh today, but back then it was a recording I listened to often when travelling to the Beach to my very first job out of undergrad (at a small publishing house). It was such a novelty to be out of school and making money (it still is, actually), and this album will forever remind me of those heady days.

17. Madman Across the Water – Elton John. Recorded in 1970 when Elton was great (and svelte). I think I listened to this CD every day for six months when I first moved into my very first bachelor apartment on Walmer Rd. It conjures independence, and discovering how I was going to lead the life of an adult.

18. The Beatles (The White Album) – The Beatles. The only band that gets two entries. Along with the above Madman, I listened to this almost everyday for many months, usually when I was making dinner and drinking a beer. I'm still hoping to name a daughter Prudence.

19. Us – Peter Gabriel. The most underrated of PG's recordings. It's also his most personal and emotional album (coming on the heels of the breakdown of his first marriage). Like many on this list, however, it also comes with a vivid personal memory: a five-week sojourn in England. I put this on, and I can't help but reminisce about walking the streets of London in a November light rain. Ah, the light. (Two other recordings which also remind me of that time in England, largely because I bought both of them secondhand in London: Sarah McLachlan's Solace and I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got by Sinead O'Connor.)

20. The United Artists Collection - Gordon Lightfoot. There was a very cold winter when H. and I drank cognac and I listened to this collection almost every night on the headphones. Just listening to the first strains (the acoustic and Lightfoot coming in with "Going to buy me a long white robe, yes lord to help me home." It brings me home too, to my early 20s which, upon reflection, were glorious years (albeit with not very much money!).

More to come...

Happiness is...

... listening to the new Neko Case

... Saturday mornings with the windows open

... luxuriating in Bolano's literary genius

... finding a triple-letter square for my J (the word: "jeer")

... two cups of hot tea (that helps to soothe a still-tender throat)

... catching up on some long-neglected e-mail

... new acoustic guitar strings

... four chatty kids under the age 8 telling me about sleeping near the dinosaurs at the ROM

... listening to the new Neko Case (did I mention that already?)

... a pile of magazines set aside for recycling (signifying a successful day off work, catching up on my periodical reading)

... a clean kitchen

... discovering a jazz musician named Rudresh Mahanthappa

... mechanical pencils with freshly loaded lead

... a thriving plant near the window where I like to write

... knowing I have one more sleep where I don't have to get up for work.

Some things (including the 25 variety)

I'm on the couch this morning, taking a seldom-used sick day to tend to a low-grade cold/flu thing I've been battling for the last couple of days. It's basically a bothersome throat, an annoying cough, and feeling tired and achy. I was in bed last night by 9:30, but woke up this morning still feeling like crap, so I figured my body could use the rest from work. Funny though, I always feel guilty about phoning in sick to work. I blame my father, who I never remember taking a day off work because of illness. Of course it eventually caught up with him: he had to take eight weeks to mend a quadruple bypass in the early 1990s. (Even then, he was afraid to tell his employers that he needed the whole summer off work! I think he viewed being sick as a kind of weakness that could and should be avoided. Probably less-so today, thankfully.)

It's a lovely warm day today, so it's nice to open the windows and allow some fresh air into the apartment. Ah, spring, you will be upon us shortly!

So I've been getting the various "25 things" memes that have infected facebook over the last couple of months. I haven't bothered to answer them via facebook, largely because I consider myself a somewhat private person (this blog notwithstanding... although this is still sort-of a secret blog in that many of my friends are unaware of its existence) and don't want some of my facebook "friends" (ie. acquaintances) knowing more about me than the bare superficialities of what I choose to report on FB. I also don't want my mother (who is an avid Facebooker, largely for the Scrabble app) knowing my business - I love her dearly, don't get me wrong, but I've never been one to share my innermost thoughts with her. I wonder if this reflects poorly on me? But I sort-of like these self-indulgent exercises - in fact, it'll be my first random thing about me! So here we go...

1. Despite evidence to the contrary, I tend to enjoy these self-indulgent, narcissistic exercises - sometimes I even learn a thing or three about myself.
2. I often wish I was about 2 or 3 inches taller (although, oddly, I don't really consider myself short).
3. I wish I could sustain a weight that's about 10 pounds less than my current weight (I tend to carry more in the winter because I don't run near as much).
4. Despite evidence to the contrary, I don't dwell on my physical attributes.
5. I was an early and avid blogger - my first blog was called "Letters to Harry" way back in 1999 - and my "classic" blog from 2004, which documented a break-up and my forays back into the dating world, had a very devoted and loyal readership.
6. My current blog is not very well read (because even the people that know about it don't visit it often - or maybe it's just not very good).
7. I consider myself a crush-aholic.
8. Although I haven't lived there for many, many years (but grew up there), I still consider myself a Montrealer at heart.
9. Toronto feels like home.
10. While I treasure my CD collection, I've pretty much made the transition to buying my music digitally.
11. I once did a list like this when I was doing the online dating thing.
12. While I consider myself an excellent ice skater, I always seem to be slipping and falling on icy sidewalks.
13. I have fond memories of every woman I've been in a relationship with, even with the ones that ended badly.
14. Regrets, I have but many.
15. Every time I go see a live event (concert, theatre, the opera), I almost-always say to myself, "Why don't I go see more live events?"
16. Money, and the lack thereof, is a constant source of concern (even though I'm not living near the poverty line, which I have to remind myself).
17. If someone said to me "Name your ideal occupation," I'd answer, "Staff writer at the New Yorker magazine."
18. I long obsessed about my imperfect teeth (which is why I'm wearing braces - thankfully near the finish line!)
19. I rarely have problems falling asleep at night (sleeping through the whole night is another matter).
20. I sometimes shake my head in amazement at the quality of people who consider me a friend (I don't think I have many friends, but the ones I have are wonderful and special).
21. I've only ever really been in love twice.
22. I'd go out to more social events, particularly on my own, if I wasn't so shy.
23. I hate street festivals.
24. Although my friend H. insists there's no such thing, I like closure.
25. When I discover a new song that I like, I can listen to it over and over and again.

Hmm, pretty bland list. Oh well. To come: 25 Albums that changed my life!

General thoughts on reading

My apologies to my reader(s?) for not updating the blog in a while. It's been a bit of a crazy couple of weeks, largely with writing a cover letter (yes, it takes me that long, particularly since I used the intelligence of many different people to help me craft something appropriate and that will stand out amongst many, many letters) and updating my CV (an exercise I haven't done for three years) for a new job. Cross your fingers and wish me well.

In my spare time, I turned the last page on Robert Bolano's 2666. There's always a sense of accomplishment, finishing a neary 900-page tome. It's quite a wonderful work - in fact, upon completion, I was tempted to pick up the first book (I bought the three-volume paperback, figuring it would be easier on my back when carrying it in my bag) and start it all over again. It will be a book I'll reread, I'm sure of it. In fact, it did inspire me to pick up Bolano's The Savage Detectives, which I read during my 2006 xmas holidays. I'm actually not one to revisit a book when I'm done, my reasoning being that there are so many other great books to gorge on, why waste my time reading something I've finished? Yet, I'm still attuned to the Bolano sensibility right now, I don't feel ready to leave him yet. And while I can pick up one I haven't yet read (Amulet is an obvious choice), there was something drawing me back to The Savage Detectives. Maybe it was my friend M., who recently finished it and was effusive in his praise. Also, now that I'm in tune with Bolano, it would allow me to pick up some things I missed on the first go-around with the novel, when I was totally new to the author. Anyway I'm 100 pages in and very happy I picked it out of the book shelf.

I wish I had the energy to write about why I prefer the novel to short stories, but I'm feeling a mite wiped from the day's activities. Watch this space (hopefully tomorrow) for a post about shorter works, John Cheever, and more on Bolano. I really just wanted to get something on here, for fear that my reader(s?) will no longer visit here.