Yes, I am a procrastinator!

Not that we need additional proof of how wonderful of a procrastinator I am, but the fact I haven't written on my blog in over a month is a clear indication of how lazy I can get with respect to my writing. It's probably why being a journalist for the first part of my career actually suited me: I needed that looming deadline to really buckle down and concentrate. I'm discovering this deadline need with respect to a newsletter I'm supposed to be putting together for a literary society. I had hoped to finish it up by the last week of June, but here we are, entering the first week of July, and it's still in an embryonic state. It's partly procrastination, but also fear: that perhaps I'm just not cut out to put this thing together, that I'm not really qualified. The job was thrust upon me by my current boss, and didn't feel I could really say no (particularly since it was presented under the guise as "resume building). Anyway I know I shouldn't fret much, especially since I get the impression that the membership of this society doesn't really read the newsletter anyway! Crank it out, and do better on the next one (in the fall) - that should be my immediate goal.

I'm also suffering under general restlessness of late. I'm struggling to concentrate on my reading. Should I chalk it up to the summer heat? Maybe what I need is something light and fun, perhaps a mystery. Yes! See, this is why I need to write more often (even if I don't have an audience): it does help to clarify my own  thinking.

Back home

I'm back from la belle province. The trip turned out mostly ok, particularly yesterday when I started to feel more comfortable with the society I'm a part of (I haven't been a member for too long, nor am I an academic like the majority of members). I've got a ways to go before feeling like I truly "belong" - but of course I need to remind myself that I rarely feel like I belong anywhere. I was also reflecting yesterday morning on the difference between people that are high achievers and are seemingly supremely confident in their abilities and intelligence (ie., pretty much almost everybody that presented a paper, including a 28 year-old librarian who does a similar job to mine but will far exceed my career achievements - she probably already has!) and middling achievers like myself. So much of it seems to come down to focus and discipline. I seem to have little of either: my mind is constantly wandering (I'm an inveterate day dreamer), and my work habits can best be described as "he gets work done in those ever-rare intervals when he's not procrastinating." I'm actually determined to work on these nasty habits, to improve my self-discipline, to add rigour to my work and thinking life. My big fear is that it's already too late: the proverbial dumb horse is already out of the barn.

Although, in a nice touch, I did have someone - a PhD candidate whose research area (around a private library and what it reveals about the collector) is totally fascinating - come up to me while I was in line waiting to grab a sandwich prior to the association's AGM yesterday afternoon. "I wanted to compliment you on your paper," she said. "You made some excellent observations." I thanked her, of course, but then added, "but I think you might be confusing me with someone else as I didn't deliver a paper." I guess all us men look alike. (Actually I did take it as a compliment because the guy she was confusing me with was quite good looking!)

A homecoming (of sorts)

So I'm in Montreal as I write this, here since Saturday late afternoon (after enduring a three-hour delay courtesy of Porter Airlines), and leaving tomorrow evening. I'm attending the Congress of the Humanities and Social Sciences (still remembered by many as the Learneds) at Concordia, primarily under the guise of some extra-curricular work I do for a humanities-based association (I edit its newsletter, and thus attend both the council meetings and events it sponsors). While I was somewhat looking forward to getting out of town for a few days, not to mention coming to Montreal (the city of my wonderful youth), my heart and mind isn't truly involved here. It's not that I'm having a bad time - a friend of mine delivering a paper is also here, so I've been hanging out with her, and some of the sessions I'm attending look interesting - but I'm not all that keen on venturing too far outside of Concordia's campus (ie., heading out to the east end to hang out along St. Denis, etc.). Which is odd, since I usually tend to take advantage of these increasingly fewer business-related ventures to engage in some fun and frolic activities and to help decompress. I think it's a lingering hangover from the malaise I've been feeling of late, that I'm not much motivated to do anything that gets me out of my comfort zone. I still feel like I'm in minor recovery mode, if that makes any sense.

These conferences, and the council meeting of this humanities association in particular, also tend to be tough for me, largely because they make me feel terribly inadequate. I tend to feel like I'm on such a steep learning curve with my supposed area of expertise, and forever fearful I'm going to be caught out as an intellectual fraud! So I'm always more on edge as I truly feel outside my comfort zone. (That's been the phrase of the week, actually, "comfort zone," beginning with a long conservation this past weekend with the lovely A.) But onward I go. And I have some "real" work to do, so I feel I can justify my non-presence at some of the less-than-interesting sessions scheduled.

A partial return

For those few of you that read this blog: no, I haven't died. (You probably figured that out, since the few that do visit here actually know me.) I haven't been much in the mood to write on this thing, however. I went through a fairly difficult melancholic stretch a few weeks back, which I still feel like I'm recovering from. Just your garden variety existential angst, nothing to be overly concerned about. I was in a bit of a reading slump too - still am, sort of, although I'm on the cusp of finishing Richard Ford's Independence Day, his 1995 follow-up to The Sportswriter, both of which are narrated by the protagonist Frank Bascombe. These novels, The Sportswriter in particular, have been eerily prescient in terms of shadowing my current mood and state of mind. At times, I feel a little like Frank: self reflective, mostly happy, but also seemingly in search of something - a connection, a sense of fulfillment, all the while knowing that it's not necessarily attainable. But yet we continue to search.

Short(ish) life (and other assorted thoughts)

Even though Yann Martel's new book, Beatrice and Virgil, is but a slim volume, and I'm about two-thirds of the way through it, I've decided to stop reading it. I read Martel's Life of Pi a few years back, and loved it. And while I do consider myself a patient reader, and willingly to give complex works the benefit of the doubt, this book is leaving me cold. There's still a lot to like about Martel's writing - he's a wonderful prose stylist, and he makes the craft of writing seem easy and effortless - but there's much to hate about Beatrice and Virgil. It's almost as if Martel set out to write something that would be contemptuous toward his readers. Or maybe fables about the Holocaust just don't turn my crank. In the end, life is too short to waste on something that's really doing nothing for me, even if I was almost finished. (I flipped through the final 40 or so pages and got the gist of it. That seems good enough.)

This is the second book in a row that has left me disappointed. Priorly, I read Ian MacEwen's latest, Solar, which was also a disappointment. (Actually that's not entirely true: Roberto Bolano's Monsieur Pain was sandwiched in between. It's tier B Bolano, but it's still great fun, and takes some joyously surreal turns for good measure.) Again, MacEwen is one of those writers who I admire (but don't necessarily "love"), and I'm also one of the few who thought his last work, On Chesil Beach, was a small masterpiece. But Solar was, overall, a fairly weak effort. The writing is, as always with MacEwen, sharp, but I found the story flabby and, at times, downright silly. Moreover, the main character felt a little too much like Philip Roth's Mickey Sabbath. In the hands of Roth, despicable characters are three dimensional and (almost) likeable; MacEwen, however, doesn't seem to have the immoral balls to pull it off.

So as you can see, I'm in something of a reading slump. A bit of a mirror on my life, actually, since I feel like I'm in a personal slump as well. Nothing to be concerned about: just your regular garden variety melancholy that strikes me every few weeks or so. (I was also battling a nasty head cold for a week, which wasn't fun.) I'm struggling to write, which is frustrating. I get into these periodic, existential "what the hell are you doing with your life" moods, but then I find some degree of purpose and snap out of it. First world problems, of course. I'll get beyond this. And hopefully I'll soon be taken with a great novel.

Happy Earth Day

So if I'm writing on my unplugged laptop during Earth Hour, is that ok? Well I suppose it'll have to be since that's exactly what I'm doing. I figured I'd be skipping Earth Hour this year because I was going to be out in Mississauga with the parental unit. But I made good time on the way home, so I walked in the apartment door just around 8:20 - plenty of time to light a few candles and prepare myself for this hour where we pay tribute to our lovely planet Earth. (I know, it's easy to be cynical about the idea of turning off the lights for one hour out of the year, but I'll resist the temptation. For one, my footprint is pretty tiny for much of the year anyway as I'm not a huge energy consumer.)

My week of reading neglected New Yorker short stories has turned out quite well. (There were also a couple of non-fiction pieces that I had set aside, so it was good to complete those.) I was able to throw into the recycling bin about seven issues, not to mention enjoying some wonderful stories in the process. One, "Awake" (available free online, and not even from the New Yorker) by Tobias Wolff, was, amazingly, from an issue way back in 2008! I have no idea why I've held on to it for so long - not to mention how since I was living in a different apartment back then, meaning I must have moved the issue with me. What folly! There were two glorious pieces which I'm glad I hadn't discarded before getting around to reading them (and both, interestingly, appear to be novel excerpts): "The Gangsters" by Colson Whitehead (whose fantastic novel The Intuitionist was one of my favourites from a few years back), and Jennifer Egan's "Ask Me If I Care." Egan is not a writer I've read before, but based on the strength of this fantastic piece of writing, I'll be seeking out more of her work. And I most certainly will read both the Whitehead and Egan novels.

It actually was a good New Yorker week all around for me as I was lucky enough to deal with one of the editors of its book blog, Book Bench. Results of my help/work should appear sometime in the coming week. It was quite heady for me to deal with someone that carried the newyorker.com e-mail address, not to mention the anticipation of seeing my small contribution appear online. I've been a New Yorker magazine fanatic (and oft subscriber) for about 20 years, so it's always been a dream to have some contact or connection with it. (In my early 20s, it was my dream to one day work at the magazine.) I'm actually quite giddy about it! It allowed me to end the week - which was already a pretty darn good one, what with seeing both Norah Jones and Catherine MacLellan in concert, as well as catching up with an old high school friend - on a wonderfully high note. (And adding to the general excitement is that I'll be back to being a city cyclist, courtesy of my parents who have given me an old but rarely used bike that was taking space in their condo locker. It just needs a few modifications: new tires, fenders, a bike rack, and some front and rear lights. I should be up and running - and thus freed from the Toronto Transit Commission - by the end of the week. Happy days indeed are here again.)

This and that

(Of course I started writing this post yesterday morning, but only now - on Tues. - am I actually getting around to finishing it and posting...)

Not sure I mentioned this at the beginning of the year, but I've decided to keep a list (and, thus, a tally) of the books I'm reading this year. It's something I've never done - and, as a result, whenever I'm asked at the end of the year by various literate friends (it's a small list...) how many books I've read over the course of the year, I usually do a best guess-estimate. But I figure by compiling a list of completed books - I'm also maintaining a list of books I haven't managed to finish, as well as a film list - I'll be armed with meaningful, irrefutable stats!

I was steaming along quite nicely through the first two months of the year, completing about (I'm not at home as I write this, so I don't have access to the list) 11 books. (I think there were two books I started but never finished.) But I seemed to have slowed down considerably since the beginning of March. For example, just this past weekend, I turned the final page on Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, which took me a full two weeks to read. It's not even *that* long of a book, but I had quite a bit of social stuff over the past couple of weeks that took me away from my reading couch. And this week, I'm not going to start a book until toward the end of the week, which will slow down my progress. Good thing I'm not obsessed with the final tally.

But why no books this week? Well, I'm presenting myself with another reading goal: to (finally!) get through about eight or nine New Yorker short stories that have been piling up in the apartment. It's funny, when I first subscribed to the wonderful magazine as a teenager, I used to begin with the fiction. However, since I resubscribed about three years ago, I've mostly devoured the excellent journalism, and left the fiction until last. (Except those rare occasions when one of my fave authors, such as Bolano or Murakami, would have a story.) But since it usually takes me the full week to get through an issue, another would arrive in the post before I had a chance to read the fiction. (It might also reflect my current reading interests: I seem to be more partial to longer fiction than shorter.) As a result, I've been stockpiling issues with the intent of eventually reading the short stories. Since I've been in purge mode, the accumulated magazines are getting on my nerves! (I'm a good candidate for an e-reader, as long as the New Yorker offers an e-subscription - which I'm sure it will.) Thus, I feel it's finally time to reduce the pile. I'm aiming to read one story a day - so basically a week or so to be done with the pile - before I start a novel.

In the queue (courtesy of the TPL, where both are "in transit"): Bolano's Monsieur Pain and the new  Ian McEwan, Solar.

Rearranging

So I spent part of yesterday doing what I call the "big purge": essentially, attempting to clear out the clutter in my apartment. I'm actually not much of an accumulator - when I moved almost two years to this place, I was fairly merciless in chucking stuff out while packing. In an ideal world, I'd pare my life down to about six or seven boxes. I like the concept of minimalism, of only having the bare essentials on hand. (I'm also partly inspired by the performance artist's Marina Abramovic's living spaces, gloriously photographed recently by the NYTimes.) Yet, it ain't easy! I look around my home office and I still see stray pieces of paper, books, ticket stubs, business cards, vinyl LPs - what the heck is all this stuff doing in here?

I began the purge with my bookshelf. I'm a reader, but I'm not a collector of books. I once was, and had two full-to-bursting bookshelves to offer up as proof. But when I moved out of the living space I shared with my then-partner M., she said she wanted to keep the books that she had accumulated from her participation in a monthly book club, many of which I had bought and also read. She had an emotional attachment to the books, so I left a whack of them with her. My new apartment wasn't so accommodating with space, so that's when I first started to get rid of books. My philosophy was fairly simple: I would truck the books that I had still yet to read with me, as well as books that personally meant something. Still, even a few years later, the messiness of my one bookshelf was a constant annoyance. So I engaged in yet-another book sort and purge yesterday.

Basically, I'm holding on to a handful of books from authors who mean something to me: Philip Roth, Roberto Bolano, Haruki Murakami, Iris Murdoch, John Updike, J.D. Salinger, Mavis Gallant, Milan Kundera, Margaret Laurence (well, just one Laurence: The Diviners, a book I've bought several times for a number of different friends; even today I still have two copies), along with a few "one offs" like Anna Karenina and James Salter's A Sport and a Pastime (perhaps the sexiest book ever written). These are the authors and books that have inspired me and, dare I say (for fear of hyperbole), changed me. I'm also holding on some non-fiction, primarily journalism that originally inspired me many years ago to be a magazine writer: a couple of Gay Talese books, Ian Brown's fantastic Man Overboard, two Joan Didion collections, among a few others. I also have some books of poetry and books about writers and writing on a shelf above my desk, as well as some music books (biographies of jazz musicians primarily) in the office, but I'm not "counting" those right now since I'm toying with the idea of purging those as well. (But not yet - I'll admit to struggles with nostalgia...)

Interestingly, I still have one entire shelf of my main bookshelf to deal with: it's the reading queue. These are books I've accumulated over the last few years, largely from secondhand sales, that I've been meaning to read. (Some, like a couple of the mysteries, are earmarked for a camping trip I'm sure to do at some point this summer.) I'm hoping to get through them eventually, but even those might have to be dealt with in a purge moment if I don't get to them in the next year or. This is how that shelf looks:

But let's be serious: am I really going to be reading David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest?

the poet

Came across this decade-old quote from Alberto Manguel the other day while at work: "In our time, the role of the poet has declined from that of fearful soothsayer to that of eccentric provider for the remainder tables."I'd say it's even worse today - that one is lucky to find poetry books in the shops at all, let alone the remainder tables. So that will be my book-buying goal of the month: to purchase at least one book of poetry, preferably a Canadian poet.

Not much to report otherwise (hence the paucity of posts). About a third of the way through Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment (it's a classic!), a book I originally read when I was in high school. I long pointed to C&P as the first "serious" book I read on my volition - that I picked it up from the library simply because I wanted to read it, and not because it was part of my schoolwork. However, I'm not entirely sure I ever finished it. So technically this doesn't come under the banner of re-reading (a theme from last year, and one I hope to continue through 2010). It's been a fun ride so far. One forgets how much of a page turner the big Russians novels can be!

Wanted: One clever person

I know my readership isn't massive - not to mention I've asked this question to at least two people who I know read my blog (neither of whom could help me; not that they're aren't clever in their own right, of course) - but maybe a stray, smart reader can help me decipher this cartoon in the current issue of the New Yorker. I mean, sure, New Yorker cartoons aren't necessarily supposed to be bust-a-gut, laugh-out-loud hilarious, but at least they tend to be on the droll side. And, at the very least, comprehensible. But this one has me totally stumped. Can anybody help?

Reward to be considered. Not to mention my gratitude (which, if you think about it, is a reward in itself).

Katrina Onstad's How Happy to Be: A mini-review

There was an online review - and I apologize, I'm not much in the mood to seek it out (lazy city!) - that compared Katrina Onstad to Nick Hornby. How apt, then, that I read Hornby's Juliet, Naked just prior to reading Onstad's How Happy to Be. And it's true, there are comparisons to be made between the two. Both write in an easy, breezy and accessible (in a very good way) style. Both also write sharp, snappy dialogue, and there's an overall attentiveness and care to the craft of writing. In short, both are wonderful and natural writers. They are very easy to like.

Like most Hornby books I've read - with the exception of High Fidelity, which still remains a touchstone for me (although that might also be because I love the movie so much, although the circumstances of reading the book - on a long-haul Paris-to-Toronto flight - are also memorable) - Juliet, Naked was fun and entertaining, but largely forgettable. It had the requisite (stock?) Hornby characters, who function largely as caricatures. Moreover, I'm not sure he really "gets" women - his female characters seem to be one dimensional - but my more-astute female friends are more than welcome to disagree with me. It was good to spend 300 pages with Hornby, but I was also ready to move on when done.

I hadn't intended to dip into the Onstad this past week, but was instead prepared to read Wild Geese as my next Canada Reads Independently book. But it was a whim pick up last Friday, when I realized I had a long-ish commute ahead of me and no book in my bag for the trip. I read the first 20 to 30 pages on said commute, and thought, "Geez, there's no way I'm going to finish this." It didn't seem very serious or astute: did I really want to read a novel that centred around a boring national newspaper with a self-absorbed and unappealing narrator that covered the deadly dull topic of popular culture? It immediately reminded me of my attempt last year to read Russell Smith's How Insensitive - and a poor attempt it was, as I only made it through 40 pages. My head space just isn't into novels centred around un-selfaware, immature and shallow twentysomethings. I lived that life a decade ago, and it's not something I really wish to revisit.

Ah yes, but the narrator Maxime isn't in her 20s, but is in her early 30s - quelle difference! In truth, I decided to persevere because it was a Sunday morning where I was not in my own apartment and near my bookshelf, and thus had nothing else to read. I was trapped. And then, miraculously, about 60 or so pages in, I got hooked. The novel moved away from the world of pop culture - it started to mock it as well, which always helps - and the navel-gazing realm of the Toronto newspaper media (which I was once part of, albeit mostly peripherally) and began to develop more depth and complexity. If it wasn't for the gold medal hockey game that afternoon, I would have finished this book in one sitting (save for that original Friday commute).

As other reviewers have remarked, this is a coming-of-age story - and it's true, one can experience epiphanies in their 30s (I certainly did; I still experience them, in fact). This is a novel that perfectly captures the early (pre-twitter, pre-iPhone, pre-9/11) 21st century: the dot.com boom is about to go bust, and most of us (I include myself here) are avoiding commitment of any sort. Maxime is drifting through life: she hates her job, she's lost her long-term boyfriend, and she hasn't yet confronted her childhood "demons" (I put that in quotes because they aren't really demons, but issues). The novel becomes a story about self discovery and, ultimately, redemption.

This is not a perfect book by any stretch. (What book is?!) The narrative, particularly as it hits the halfway point, becomes overly conventional, and the ending is pat and predictable. There are scenes toward the end which shout "Here's the catharsis!" Still, I kept reading - and, really, I hate to nitpick on matters of plot and structure since I'm an amateur and hardly one to judge - and wanted to know how it would all unfold. I "got" Maxime, maybe because I could understand her dilemmas, her struggles. Ultimately, however, what makes it shine is Onstad's prose: she's a natural, seemingly effortless, writer. It's easy to forgive and forget certain plot contrivances when the writing is skillful and fun.

I'm not sure when I'm going to read Wild Geese. I read the first few pages and wondered if it's up my alley. I may read a couple of books in the interim. In the end, getting through four of the five Canada Reads Independently books feels somewhat like an accomplishment. I'll pat myself on the back.

Ray Smith's Century: A mini-review

The great thing about this Canada Reads Independently challenge (is that the right word?) is that it exposes me to books that I normally would never been have aware of. This is certainly true of Ray Smith's Century, originally published way back in 1986 by Stoddart, but republished by Biblioasis last year as part of its Renditions Reprint Series. (My apologies to Biblioasis as I ended up reading the Stoddart version, borrowed from the library. I couldn't find the reprint at my local bookstore.) Not only was I not aware of this book, I've never heard of the author Smith. (After reading Century, and trying to find out a bit more about the author - there isn't even a wikipedia entry on him - I have this picture in my head of Smith as this ultra-reclusive writer, a little bit of Salinger in him. Sorry, Ray, if I've got you pegged all wrong.) But I suppose that's the great thing about being an inveterate reader: there's always going to be a writer yet to be discovered.

Reading this on the heels of Bellow's Augie March, it was, at first, a mite jarring. Unlike Bellow, who delights in wonderfully long, lyrical and often ribald sentences, Smith's style is by comparison much more spare, direct. But upon completion of the opening story, "In the Night, Heinrich Himmler...," I was seriously hooked. For one, I've always been attracted to works where the unseen writer introduces himself - in Smith's case, subtly - and toys with the reader and the notion of artifice. He admits that the character of Jane Seymour might be nothing more than a figment of his imagination: "I have not managed to give Jane flesh, though I think the nape of her neck was not too badly done."

I won't bother to recount the entire "narrative" of this book - and narrative is purposely in quotes since this is not a conventional novel. In fact, is it even a novel? The first part of the book, Family, consists of four linked stories dealing with the Seymour family: the children Jane and Ian, the parents Bill and Gwen. (Is Seymour a nod to Salinger and his own linked stories of the Glass family?) Death permeates the stories: one suicide, one tragic, and the other by cancer. There's a wonderful complexity to these characters, particularly the parents in the last two stories: for one, despite a long shared life together, we discover that Bill really doesn't know his wife at all. This struck me as particularly perceptive: even though we often share our lives within various relationships, many of us often retain a "secret," hidden life that we don't share even with our closest loved ones. We're all mysterious cats.

The last story in this section, "Serenissima," revolving around the wife Gwen, was absolutely devastating for me. It was wonderfully measured, exquisitely executed and contained a shocking scene of humiliation. It's perhaps one of the best single stories I've read in a long time. (I finished the book a few days ago and waited to write this mini review, to see if that particular story would still resonate. It does.) The book is worth reading for this one story alone.

The second section of the book, The Continental, was more puzzling. Despite sharing certain themes, there doesn't seem to be any relation to the first part. Unless, of course, I totally missed something (which is always a possibility). It tells the story of American Kenniston Thorson, first in late 19th century Paris, then 30 years later on a train rumbling through Europe. Thorson is an odd character: his name is lost to history, yet he also seems to float among noteworthy events and be involved with many important historical figures. It's a perplexing story, but fascinating nonetheless. 

In the end, however, I didn't quite understand its inclusion as I couldn't intellectually - and emotionally - link this latter section with the first. (I plan on reading some reviews of the book to give me some additional perspective. Perhaps it's simply an unsophisticated reading on my part.) Still, because I found the first half of this book so strong and compelling, I didn't feel cheated that I was confused with this section. Morever, taken on its own, the Thorson tale is enjoyable.

Ultimately, the real strength of this work is Smith's assertive and limpid (a word he actually uses at least three times!) prose. There's a confidence in his style, a writer who's totally in command of the language. Quite a contrast from my reaction to the Ray Moody book - while Moody can certainly spin a good yarn, Smith's sentences shimmer. While I didn't plan on rating the Canada Reads books, I will admit that it's going to be tough to top my experience of reading this stunning book.

Family day fun

Happy Family Day! (As somebody at work said to me the other day, "Brought to you by sex." I think she read it on a greeting card.) Unfortunately, it seems most of my family is travelling - namely, the lovely A., who is in Cuba for the week - so I'm spending the day without family. I couldn't have swung the trip because of my lack of vacation time, although the excursion was never really on offer to me: it was a long-planned trip with a friend of hers. Besides, as she said to me, "I don't see you as an all-inclusive resort-type guy." She's probably right, although I'm sure I could be tempted by the sunshine, warmth and mojitos. So my Family Day will be spent mostly on the couch, surrounded by a book, long-put-off magazine articles, and perhaps a film or two on DVD. Accompanied, of course, by the only family member of mine seemingly not out of the country: my cat. I'll toast the day when the sun sets with a glass of Irish whiskey.

So it seems I'm struggling to post as often I'd like on this blog. And writing more in general. Without getting into too much detail - I promised this blog would not be a confessional about my personal life - it's been an emotional couple of weeks. It's sapped much of the energy I'd use for personal pursuits, like writing. Even reading has been difficult: my one-book-a-week pace was broken. But things have calmed, the sails are no longer flapping in the wind. I've found some emotional ballast. 

Much of this emotional turbulence can actually be summed up in a line from Saul Bellow's The Adventures of Augie March, which I just finished this morning. "An independent fate, and love too - what confusion!" 

My reading history with the great Bellow is spotty. I read my first Bellow, More Die of Heartbreak, when I was around 18 or 19. I can't remember what compelled me to pick that book up: my guess is that John Updike, who I was reading quite a bit of at the time, probably made a reference to Bellow in an interview, and figured I should read his work. I don't remember much about Heartbreak, except that I read it during my breaks on my summer job at a golf course and genuinely enjoyed it (although I probably didn't "get" it all). I then read Seize the Day, which was short, powerful and wonderful. After which, I remember telling a friend, "Bellow is my favourite writer!" Hyperbole, to be sure, considering I'd only read two of his books, and had yet to tackle the real masterworks. I ended up buying three more of his books - and don't ask my why this particular detail is remembered - at Village Book Store, the fantastic (but now long-departed) secondhand book store on Queen St. run by Marty Ahvenus: Henderson the Rain King, To Jerusalem and Back, and The Adventures of Augie March. 

At this point, I imagine I knew Augie March was one of the classics, so that was going to be the Bellow book I would next tackle. To that end, I brought it with me on a train ride to Montreal. (Again, not sure why I remember these details, but they are emblazoned.) Unfortunately, even though it has one of the great opening sentences in 20th-century literature ("I am an American, Chicago born - Chicago, that somber city - and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent"), I don't think I got much farther than 20 pages. The writing was too dense and impenetrable for my still-developing 19 year-old brain. I figured I would eventually try again, and carried that particular paperback copy with me as I moved apartments over the years, but I never did pick it up. I eventually ditched it during one of my periodic book purges, along with the other Bellow books in my collection. 

Fast forward 20 years, and now suddenly I "get" Bellow, especially now that I've read the three acknowledged classics in the last six months: Herzog, Humboldt's Gift and, finally, The Adventures of Augie March. In some ways, these three books blend together for me, largely because their narrators share many similarities: namely, a propensity for wild, wonderful and dazzling semantic pyrotechnics. I think it's safe to say that nobody writes sentences like Bellow: they often have flash to spare, yet they're also rooted in a sometimes-coarse street vernacular. He can also be hilariously funny and rowdy. It takes some time and patience - at least it did for me - to dial in to Bellow's style and sensibility, but once locked in you're hooked. 

Ultimately, however, what hooks me more than the language is the general tone and melancholy that seems to surround the characters in his books. Yes, many of the characters are painted broad and wide, even larger than life, but the narrators themselves seem to be weighed down by endless self reflection and, often, disappointment. They tend to one catharsis to another, and rarely learn from their mistakes. In fact, at least in Augie March's case, they will repeat these same mistakes. They're flawed, probably much like Bellow himself (the man did marry five times, after all), but admirable nonetheless. There's also a genuine optimism that abounds in his works, that despite all the struggles and conflicts, there's still a hopeful jauntiness. 

Without making too big a deal, and for fear of overstating matters, I see a lot of myself in these books. That I live, for the most part, a happy and content life, full of good humour and surrounded by interesting people. Yet, I can't help escape from a seemingly chronic state of melancholy, that there's something more out there, something that's missing. It doesn't weigh me down nor do I suffer from depression (I tend to refer to it as a harmless case of the "blues"), but it's a constant presence. It's there, although perhaps it's also something I welcome from time to time. It helps to ground me.

Ok, enough about me. I'll be back on the Canada Reads Independently wagon this week, hopefully reading two of them back to back (I took them from the library): Ray Smith's Century and Martha Ostenso's Wild Geese. Reviews to follow.

Ray Robertson's Moody Food: A quickie review

Last week wasn't a banner week for me in terms of reading and writing. The writing part is obvious: I haven't posted in a week. The reading part is less obvious, but suffice to say I struggled to find a book I could sink my teeth into. Maybe I needed a week to simply veg. It was a busy one at work - yes, let's use that as my excuse (lame as it may be). (I did, however, read Elizabeth Gilbert's Committed, the much-anticipated sequel to her mega-hit Eat, Pray, Love. Yes, Virginia, I'm probably not the intended audience for this book. But I was a fan of Gilbert's writing before she struck it rich, largely because of this piece she wrote for the NYTimes, which has everything a humour article should have (ie., yuks). And I read Eat, Pray, Love while I was in the midst of my own break-up, so it had definite resonance. Anyway I will eventually write more about this book and Gilbert, hopefully in my long-promised post about memoirs. Particularly since I'm halfway through another sort-of memoir: Michael Greenberg's Beg, Borrow or Steal - what's with these three word titles?! - which is such a great, fun read, particularly if you've ever tried to make it as a freelance writer.)

I've never been accused of being a decent reviewer. I love my books and films, without a doubt, but that doesn't necessarily translate into being thoughtful in words when I'm done. This truth is particularly evident when I read insightful and incisive reviews by others. (For example, Kerry Clare's more thorough review of Hair Hat put mine to shame!) But I'm ok with this because the reviews that I conjure in my head are enough for me. Something seems to get lost along the way when I try to convey the jumble in my head to the tips of my typing fingers. Put another way: "What we have here is a failure to communicate."

All that preamble aside, I do want to write a few words about Ray Robertson's Moody Food, the second book I've read for Canada Reads Independently. I had high hopes for this book based on the backcover blurb: "... is a critically acclaimed sex, drugs, rock'n'roll-suffused modern tragedy." Sign me up! There aren't enough rock-and-roll novels, after all (although my friend P. is trying to get one he wrote published). Not to mention I'm fascinated by the novel's setting: Toronto's Yorkville in the mid-1960s, when hippies and folk music ruled the neighbourhood. (I can barely stand to walk through Yorkville these days, except when I visit the Pilot on a Saturday afternoon for jazz.)

There is certainly much to enjoy in this novel. It has a fairly strong narrative thrust. The book is narrated by Bill Hansen, a charming and idealistic hippie who works at what sounds like the coolest bookstore in the world (located on Harbord St. no less). He's somewhat adrift until he meets Thomas Graham, who introduces the impressionable Hansen to roots-based music. Eventually the two, along with Hansen's girlfriend Christine, form a band called The Duckhead Secret Society (Hansen is the drummer, even though he's never played drums before), first playing locally before they're "discovered," after which they set out on tour through the U.S. on their way to L.A. to record an album. Hansen and Graham, however, eventually get hooked on cocaine, and the two veer toward self-destruction, all the way Graham is working on music that he hopes will transcend the time.

This book is a proverbial page-turner, to be sure, propelled forward by the narrative. The journey, beginning with the Toronto scenes and proceeding through various towns and dives through the U.S., is fun and engaging. This is a dialogue-heavy book, which makes it accessible and easily digestible. But for me, there was just something ... missing. There's not time spent on introspection or reflection: more like "this happened, and then this happened, and then this happened." I love plot, of course, but I like something more than just plot. My real beef however is with the writing itself, which I found fairly sloppy and clumsy in spots. (Was this deliberate, I wonder? Maybe someone can enlighten me.) It's been a long time since I read so many run-on and jumbled sentences. This book could have used a strong editorial hand.

But hey, what the hell do I know? I'd recommend this book since I found it a frolic, but it doesn't have near the same depth as Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat. (It's also one that will not take a permanent place on my book shelf. It's up for grabs, basically, for anybody that wants to borrow it - on "long term loan.")

I'm still not sure what Canada Reads Independently book I will next take up. I couldn't find either Ray Smith's Century or the Katrina Onstad in my local bookshop - and I couldn't remember the title of the fifth book nominated - so I'm sort-of in a holding pattern. This has been a fun exercise, and one I will continue. Despite my less-than insightful reviewing.

Monday morning, you sure look wet

Just a quick note before I head off to work on this rainy Monday morning. It was a good weekend - a nice blend of activity (dinner out on Friday night, a matinee of Avatar on Saturday, which I'll write about in a future post) and low-key relaxation, which included finishing my second Canada Reads Independently book, Ray Robertson's Moody Food. I'm going to write more about this book in a post later this week - I want a day or two to properly digest it. The quickie review: good but not great. Perhaps my expectations for this book were too high, and it didn't deliver. Still a fun read though, and worthy of my time. I'm not sure what to read next. I'm going to take a break from the Canada Reads Independently books - mainly because I don't have any of them here in the apartment! - and instead tackle something unrelated. Once this post is done, I'm off to the reading queue in my bookshelf to pick something out. Maybe some Saul Bellow. Or perhaps Atwood's Year of the Flood.

I'd also like to point readers toward an interesting article about the memoir in last week's New Yorker. I want to write more about this - for one, Elizabeth Gilbert's follow-up to the immensely popular Eat, Pray and Love, Committed, is awaiting pick up at the Spadina TPL (closed on Mondays, unfortunately), and Gilbert is an author (and narcissist) I want to touch upon more on the topic of memoirs (since I'm also probably one of the few men that has actually read Eat, Pray and Love!) - as well as touch on my favourite type of fiction, what I call "confessional fiction."

All these promised blog posts - can I possibly deliver? Stay tuned.

R.I.P.

Wow, it's been a tough week in the CanLit community. First the death of the legendary P.K. Page, who lived a long and prosperous life. And today, the passing of Paul Quarrington. While I discovered P.K. Page much later in my own life - although I quickly recognized her incredible talent - Quarrington has long been a favourite writer. As I said to a colleague today, humour writing is often undervalued, yet Quarrington was a master of the form. My friend H. bought me King Leary way back in the early 1990s, and it's a safe bet that there will never be a better novel about hockey ever written. And I read Whale Music shortly thereafter, and devoured it. I never got the chance to meet the man, but I'll still miss him.

Not much else to report. Was out with one of my dearest friends this evening, someone I've known since high school. There aren't many of those still kicking around! But it was great fun. She admitted that she's not in a good place right now, but we still laughed like mad. "It's because I like you so much," she said about her cheerful disposition, which made me feel all a-flutter. Long-time friends truly are irreplaceable.

Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat: A quickie review

So I've been a good Canada Reads Independently boy: not only did I buy Ray Robertson's Moody Food from my local bookstore this weekend, I also sat and read (in almost one sitting - I was about 20 pages from the end when the lovely A. wanted to watch a movie: the surprisingly delightful Julie & Julia, but of course I'm a sucker for anything starring Meryl Streep and Amy Adams) Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat. As mentioned in a previous post, I cheated and ended up picking this book up from the library - going against my original plan of buying all the Canada Reads Independendly books - but I will poke around for it at my local secondhand shop. (I want to keep them in business too.)

What a wonderful work this is: whimsical, sad, profound, and it captures the not-so-ordinariness of many seemingly ordinary lives. The extraordinariness of ordinariness, in other words. It brings to mind (but just a mite) of Carol Shields: the characters themselves live, on the surface, these somewhat mundane lives, but there's such a richness behind the facade. Just one example: the character of Aunt Lucy, who we're introduced to in the first story, "Yellow Cherries." As narrated by young Francie, Lucy is largely faceless: she's efficient - taking care of Francie at night, making breakfast in the morning, pitting cherries - but she's also seemingly lacking personality. Yet, in "Comfort," which I think is the strongest story in the collection, when the same scenes play out from Lucy's narration/point of view, she reveals depth and sadness and regret. (The classic cliche, I suppose: still waters run deep.) Most of these characters are lonely, which probably explains why it spoke to me: my life is wonderful and full, but sometimes I tend to experience a profound sense of loneliness. It's always a nice confirmation knowing I'm not alone.

I was worried after reading the first couple of stories that the recurring character of the man with the hair hat would be overly "gimmicky" - especially after reading the jacket blurb: "Different to each of them, he makes perfect sense to them all. By turns a figure of forgiveness, of threat, even of love..."; ugh - it eventually played itself out and worked. (I wonder if the story "Chosen," in fact, should have been the final one in the book?)

What really stands out, however, is Snyder's prose. It's luminous and limpid. No trickery, no showing off, but clean, crystalline. Which has got me asking: Carrie, when are you going to publish your novel, as promised in the author blurb?! Well, it only said you were working on it. I guess with four kids, maybe finishing a novel isn't your top priority.

I doubt I'm going to "rank" the Canada Reads Independently books, but if I did, this would be an early favourite. (Note: I'm about 100 pages into Ray Robertson's Moody Food - so far it's good, but not great. The novel is, surprisingly, a mite sloppily written. But the story itself is engaging, so onward we go.)

In other news, I note the death of Robert B. Parker, he of Spenserfame. I was introduced to Parker's writing by my friend H., who during our last year of undergrad went through a detective and mystery writing phase. Many felt Parker was an heir to the writings of the acknowledged masters of the genre, Hammett and Chandler. The early Spenser books are wonderful: expert narrative, tautly written, and also fun as hell. While the later books are still good, something of the magic is missing. But it's a small quibble. Interestingly, Parker also wrote one of my favourite romantic novels of all time: Love and Glory. It's tough to find (outside of Amazon, of course), but well worth it grabbing if you see it secondhand. In his honour, I'm going to read this coming weekend a Spenser book that I bought at the Vic College sale in the fall: Ceremony. It's supposed to be one of the best.

the adaptation

So after my rave of the Denis Johnson book Jesus' Son (I haven't returned the book yet to the library, but instead continue to steal away a few moments here and there to re-read various passages; I don't want it to leave the apartment just yet), I naturally wanted to see the film. While obviously it isn't as near the genius of the book, it's pretty damn good! The director, Alison Maclean (a Canadian!) has created something not only faithful to the source material - not always an easy feat (cue up the pretty dreadful Witches of Eastwick as Exhibit A) - particularly with respect to the book's episodic nature, it even managed to bring something fresh: she truly captured F.H.'s inherent innocence and goofiness. Of course I was disappointed that my favourite story, The Other Man, didn't make the cinematic cut, and the film drifts a mite about halfway through, but these seem like minor quibbles. Oh, and an additional treat: to have Denis Johnson himself in the film! And not just some throwaway cameo, but playing Terrance Weber, the guy with the knife in his eye! Sweet.

In other news, it's felt like a long week, largely because I had a deadline for a freelance piece due today. Naturally I should have written the damn thing during the holidays - especially with the main interview fresh in my head (I don't tape record my interviews, but rely on my notes and memory) - but, as usual, I left it to the 11th hour. I'd like to understand why I still procrastinate on the majority of my journalism work. Or on most of my writing assignments (even my journal, and this blog). Maybe I like the deadline pressures. I probably should have gone into writing for radio, with its daily deadlines.

I'm also planning on participating in Canada Reads 2010: Independently. (I will most likely be a silent observer...) My reasoning is twofold. I figure it's a good opportunity to read some CanLit that I missed (and that are not necessarily on the "grid') but it also gives me a chance to buy these books at my local book retailer(s) (to support them and the publishers/authors of the books). Of course I've already cheated: I saw Carrie Snyder's Hair Hat at the Spadina branch of the TPL, so I grabbed it. (Sorry Carrie!) So, that'll be the first one up for me.

Short and precise

Reading Rose-coloured's recent thoughts on the film Up in the Air, where she eventually brings Denis Johnson's collection of stories from the book Jesus' Son into the conversation, brought to mind the mid-1990s. Why? Simple: Jesus' Son was once a proud tenant of my bookshelf. It was the original paperback, with the wonderful black cover. Yet, despite its occupancy, I never read the book. More scarily, I can't exactly remember why I didn't read it, and how it came to disappear from my shelf. To the best of my recollection, I think I lent it to a work colleague, who never ended up returning it. I can't say that I blame him: now that I've finally read the book, I too probably would have made off with it.

Jesus' Son has long been a book that has been in my consciousness - it just hasn't been in my actual brain. I had, naturally, heard the great things said about it - phrases like "a modern masterpiece" tend to get thrown away in discussion of the book - but I usually look toward my well-read friends as guides. My friend H. claimed that it was one of the five best books he had ever read. Another friend also said it was unforgettable, to the extent he read it twice in two days to help him not forget it. It's one of those titles that, over the past couple of years, I look for when I'm browsing secondhand book stores. I never could find it, however, which perhaps also attests to its legacy: once in a reader's possession, it remains a treasured companion. I ended up taking my copy out of the TPL, and, after spending Friday and Saturday reading it (I could have probably read it in one sitting, but I wanted to spread it out over a couple of days, to better fully take in the stories), I'm even more determined to find my own copy. Yes, this book is pretty much perfect.

"Spare" tends to be the word ascribed to Johnson's prose, but I think I prefer the word economical. His phrasing is precise and often lyrical, but there's also a wonderful rawness, a hardness, about it. For example, I love this sentence from the story "The Other Man":

"I'm sure we were all feeling blessed on this ferryboat among the humps of very green - in the sunlight almost coolly burning, like phosphorus - islands, and the water of inlets winking in the sincere light of day, under a sky as blue and brainless as the love of God, despite the smell, the slight, dreamy suffocation, of some kind of petroleum-based compound used to seal the deck's seams."

Powerhouse! He's also fair and generous with his characters: yes, many of them live on the fringes, but there's a genuine caring and honesty about them all. These are stories that will inhabit me for a while.

I should probably break up these male authors I've been reading of late with some female writers. (I've also started reading the Tim Winton book The Turning, but I'm not planning on reading it through straight; the stories are overlapping, but I don't get a sense there's a narrative arc that requires me to read it like a novel.) There's a few in my reading queue: Atwood's Year of the Flood, Doris Lessing's The Golden Notebook, Jane Austen's Emma. I'll make my decision this evening.

What's not to like about the library?

A quick shout out to Martha Baillie and her wonderful book, The Incident Report, which I finished this evening. (I should also probably apologize to her: I should have read this book in one sitting, considering its diminutive size, but it took me three days to read because of other commitments. It hasn't been a great stretch of personal reading since I went back to work this week. But I'm slowly getting back up to speed.) Perhaps the best praise I can provide this work is that I want to meet Miriam Gordon, the seemingly whimsical employee of the Toronto Public Library who "narrates" the book. I use quotation marks since there's no real narrative, but a wonderful series of vignettes - some running several pages (but rarely more than two), others a few sentences, most a few paragraphs - that eventually cohere into a story. The technique is ideal - it captures the often disparate nature, sometimes chaotic and confusing world, of the public service librarian. Yet, there's enough there to give shape to the characters: the various patrons (including the "regulars"), her co-worker Nila, her lover Janko. It's also made me think about making a trip to to Allan Gardens - but not until the spring when I can cycle there (although it's probably quite lovely in the winter).

And hey, what's not to like about a book that makes heroes out of librarians and library workers? (This copy of the book belongs to the TPL's Malvern branch. Might as well give a shout out to it.)

Let's face facts: I like whimsey.

Roth and his prose

No real reason to post this except that I copied it down the other day. But I find it quite apt to my own life and experiences. It's from Philip Roth's Sabbath Theater:

"The goofiness you must get yourself into to get where you have to go, the extent of the mistakes you are required to make! If they told you beforehand about all the mistakes, you'd say no, I can't do it, you'll have to get somebody else, I'm too smart to make all those mistakes. And they would tell you, we have faith, don't worry, and you would say no, no way, you need a much bigger schmuck than me, but they repeat they have faith that you are the one, that you will evolve into a colossal schmuck more conscientiously than you can possibly begin to imagine, you will mistakes on a scale you can't even dream of now - because there is no other way to reach the end."

Jumbling thoughts

Much on my mind tonight, and no way do I have the mental stamina to make proper sense of it all to make me sound even semi-coherent. So just a few random, disjointed thoughts:

- Even I'm impressed with my preparedness for tomorrow. I'm determined to get into a weekday routine that involves a morning run on the track, so that involves some strategic planning. Namely, ensuring my lunch is packed and ready to go, but tomorrow it means bringing provisions for the week: seven-grain bread and almond butter to make myself a quickie breakfast at work in the kitchen (I found out today the toaster is broken, sadly), orange juice (in a water bottle), and some toothpaste and a toothbrush (which I can leave at the gym as I rented a locker for the four-month duration of my membership; I'm also bringing some shirts and shorts to store in my locker). If all goes well, I should be out the door by 7:00 a.m. and on the track by around 7:20.

- Though no longer much of a hockey fan, I have the World Junior Hockey Championship on the tube, but really only keeping one eye on it. I'm mostly catching up on some magazine and Sunday NYTimes reading, including this interesting piece on sex and major male American authors. I'm going to write more on this topic at a future date, particularly since Philip Roth, one of the main "protagonists" of this piece, has been much on my mind of late - including his sex scenes. (Hockey update: it's in sudden-death overtime. Fun game. Ah, game over: the Americans have beaten the mighty Canadians. So on goes the music - Schubert, I think, on this cold winter night.)

- While reading the obituaries in today's Globe and Mail, I came up with the germ of an idea for a narrative that has me excited. Stay tuned! I need to remind myself: 300 to 400 words a day...

- Microsoft strikes again! I was quite excited to give the Toronto Public Library's Online Downloads a try. After all, if I'm going to be keeping to a strict running schedule, I'll need plenty to listen to on my iPod Nano. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about listening to a book online, but I figure it's worth a shot. Unfortunately, after downloading the necessary software and "borrowing" a couple of books (Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Shore and Richard Russo's A Bridge of Sighs) and getting frustrated about why it wasn't working, I discovered that the format (WMA) is not Mac compatible. So now I'm in search of audiobooks in mp3 format that I can actually listen to on my ipod. Very frustrating. (There's certainly a lot of Arthur Conan Doyle available. Can anybody offer up a recommendation? I've never read any Sherlock Holmes, yet it sounds like it could be ideal running accompaniment.)

"You should read this author. You'll like him"

About a year and a half ago, my friend R. brought over a book as an apartment-warming gift: Tim Winton's The Turning. He had told me about this book a few years back and how much he loved it. Naturally, he figured I'd adore it too. I had heard a lot about Winton but had never read him, and appreciated R.'s gesture in buying me one of his favourite books. I had a couple of other books on the go at the time, so I didn't end up picking it up for about a month.

Now I had half-a-feeling that the Winton book would be tough for me. For one, according to the back-cover blurb, the stories were "set in small-town Western Australia." That was an immediate red flag: while I do try my best to read things outside of my comfort zone, I'll admit that I've always struggled with stories based solely in rural settings. It's a bias, for sure, but a bias nonetheless that is difficult for me to overcome. (I guess that's the inherent nature of a bias...) Moreover, it's a book of short stories, albeit "overlapping," which is also not my default reading pleasure. I much prefer the full-length novel - something I can truly sink my teeth into. Still, this was a gift, and my friend R. is a learned and curious reader, so I was willing to unshackle my natural inclinations to ignore this type of work and give it a shot. More important, interesting and well-wrought characters and stories should be interesting and well-wrought regardless of the setting, yes?

Well, I only made it to page 19 (the book mark is still there), so not even two complete stories. I figured my mood at the time wasn't right for this book, so I put it down, determined to give it another go later in the year. However a whole slew of other books got in the way, so the Winton was left to gather dust on my "to read" shelf. R. asked me a couple of months after giving me the book whether I had read it and enjoyed it, and felt the need to come clean and said that I tried it but just "couldn't get a handle on it." I then admitted my struggles with books set outside urban areas (I think I might have used the phrase "in the bush"), but that I would eventually read it.

Anyway I was out at R.'s last night - we brought over a wonderful late harvest Riesling along with some cheese, pears and apples - and we got to talking about the Philip Roth book, Sabbath's Theater, I had just finished about 30 minutes before arriving at his place. I was waxing (probably not very eloquently though) on how wonderful the book was - Tier A Roth, which in my eyes is Tier A literature. To my surprise, R. admitted that he didn't much like Roth! "So now we're even!" I said, recounting my struggles with the Winton. When we thought about it some more, it made some sense that we didn't like each other's favourite authors: despite our friendship and apparent similarities, we don't have shared sensibilities when it comes to literature.

But we did end up striking a deal: that I would give a more earnest attempt at the Winton if he would give Roth a fighting chance. I'm picking one of the easy Roth books for him: The Ghost Writer. It's the one I tend to recommend for those who have never read Roth since it's fairly short, tightly written, and doesn't meander off into crazy flights of prose and narrative as other Roth novels are wont to do. (Of course that's one of the things I love about his work, but recognize it's not something others tend to enjoy.) It's a pure pleasure from beginning to end, at least for me. (My friend H. told me he reads this book every second year, and he's not the biggest Roth fan.)

So it's onwards to Tim Winton's The Turning! Once I start and finish Martha Baillie's The Incident Report first, of course. It's due next week at the library.

Hello 2010!

So a new year has begun. Farewell 2009! You were good to me, and I hope the good continues into 2010. The year ended nicely (and predictably): eating a well-prepared medium-rare steak (it was a nice night to BBQ), quaffing a $50 bottle of a California Zinfandel, enjoying a post-dinner glass of single malt scotch while watching Fellini's wonderful 8 1/2 (ok, maybe that last part wasn't as predictable). We missed the official ringing in of the new year, however, as the lovely A. was intent on watching the end of Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough" on MuchMoreMusic's Retro Dance Party. No biggie: we still opened up a bottle of (faux) champers and toasted a new calendar for the wall.

We also created a list of resolutions, although I prefer the term "goals I hope to achieve." Basically, there were three, all revolving, unsurprisingly, around the theme of self improvement (which tends to be my theme every year; who knows if I'm actually getting closer to a personal nirvana!). I'm doing these from memory (since I left the sheet at A.'s house):

1. To make better use of my spare time. I tried to qualify this by adding items like using my free and available time to write more often (and look, a blog post so early in the new year, so I'm trying!), not rushing home straight from work but to take a few more seconds out of my day to sit at a cafe to read, or to browse the city streets, to see a film, etc. (That's actually another one of my unstated goals: to see more films this year, including catching up some long-neglected classics.) I hope this goal will lead to another one: making better use of this wonderful city I live in and its cultural amenities.

2. To play more guitar and learn how to use the program GarageBand. I've left my acoustic guitar on its stand unattended for far too long. One reason is that I desperately need to buy new strings! I'm going to buy some today and get cracking on this goal. I'm not a great player, by any stretch, but I do enjoy fooling around with chords, and conjuring melodies and lyrics.

3. To be more honest and open, both with myself and my friends. This is a tough one to properly explain, but it essentially means being more self-reflective, to really examine the things that make me tick, including what makes me happy (and sad). I might use this blog for some of that self reflection, so stay tuned! But I want to use it primarily to help fuel some of my creative writing. The second part, to be more honest and open with friends, will be put up to the test tomorrow when I go out with a friend who I've been resisting seeing - I want to explain why I haven't been making of an effort to stay in touch (it's a long story, but it involves her cutting out early the last time I saw her to see a guy who I think has been using her; I want to have the kind of friendship with her that allows me to be honest and direct with her).

Actually, that third resolution was also tested yesterday morning and early afternoon when the lovely A. and I had a chat about her difficult year and my lack of understanding of how tough it really was. It revealed some painful truths: in a nutshell (again, the story is way too long to recite here, not to mention I feel I need more time to process it and ruminate on it), that I have a tendency to be too selfish, that I'm not as giving as I should be. It was a tough, sad, but necessary eyeopener. Which basically adds one more goal to the mix: to discover selflessness, even to see if I have the means within me.

I'm looking forward to an emotional and exciting 2010!