Word by Word
September 2007
Friday, September 7, 2007
2:30 pm
Well, hello! And sorry! to friends/family who may have been looking in here for the last month and a bit, to find nothing new (how Canadian, to apologize, eh?). I didn't disappear, quite, but have just been so completely involved in a different aspect of my life, that writing of all sorts went into a complete hiatus, and writing about it publicly didn't seem appropriate anyway, still doesn't, though I do feel I need to say a few things. To welcome myself back, I guess.
I've been a 'single' person for a bit over 15 years. Single mother, though the term always strikes me as inaccurate, seeing as motherhood necessarily requires at least one child. But single in the sense that I have had no mate, and except for one blip that came to naught (and required a fair bit of self-delusion too) no dates either. That's a long time, long enough to have serious doubts about myself.
Since last October I have been truly single; just me and the last two cats from the hordes that used to occupy my house back in my single-parenting days. And without all the interference of mothering others, I finally admitted to myself that being alone is in fact lonely. But I also stopped viewing it as some kind of moral failing, that being alone is lonely; that I might have need of others myself. And, though it sounds contradictory to say so, living alone has been a true blessing, because after all the years of looking after others' needs, I've been gradually relearning myself, and getting back some sense of myself as an individual, not defined by the role of motherhood, or any other 'role'. Just me, Shirley. I still check over my shoulder, to see whether there's something I'm supposed to be taking care of, but the impulse is wearing off. Sometimes I even turn off my cell phone.
And as things will sometimes actually work out when you are ready for them to work out, almost two months ago I met someone. I still live alone, and don't see that changing for some time. But I have company frequently. I'm happy. I have hope.
Imagine!
And that's all I'm going to say about that. Here.
But the writing me is back; I didn't forget about it, just was otherwise engaged. Call it summertime holiday. But it's September now, and so I cut my nails yesterday (they catch on the wrong keys when they are too long) and today they've been busy at my keyboard. Because writing is part of me too, and a big part. So I don't think I'll leave you all (whoever you are, mystery readers) alone for so long again, without at least an explanation. But astonishing changes do take some time to sink in.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
8 am
Life is busy suddenly, do you suppose it's because it's September? My calendar is filling up with events and I've got work to do. No more summertime laziness. Just as the summer-like weather finally hits Vancouver. And I sure do like summertime laziness.
But I'm still getting outside, still slogging up Grouse Mountain on a regular basis, and have moved my best time up to a minute and a bit, to 01:01:41. You can bet I was pleased with myself the day I did that (last Saturday). I'm trying to get down to an hour. When I check online, I'm 37th out of 71 women in the 50-59 age range who are also obsessed enough to have bought the summit seeker pass, which gives you these ridiculously accurate times. Geez, there's some speedy women out there. The fastest does it in under 45 minutes. I don't aspire to that. Enough gasping and sweating is already going on.
It's going to be nose to the computer screen for me for the next little while though, as I've an issue of WordWorks to put out (for the Federation of BC Writers). But you can bet I'll be taking breaks to try and beat another 2 minutes off my time.
Went to the Art Gallery last night, to take in the Monet to Dali show, which ends this week. Faced with a huge long lineup, my friend and I bought a membership, and then waltzed in ahead of the line. So now I'm going to become a bit more cultured, as a VAG member. Worth it I think, because after I don't remember how long a time, I was overloaded with reading about artists and looking at paintings, as was my friend, and we realized we can just come back. Take it in smaller doses. And thus maybe let it all sink in. I'm a bit of a rube looking at art, but willing to improve on that, and if you've time, reading all the info adds to the experience. It certainly helps me when looking at these pieces, paintings mostly, to have the perspective, history etc. I like seeing the work up close. Van Gogh paintings, for instance, are almost three-dimensional, there are such thick gobs of paint on his canvases.
Interesting too, that apparently the Impressionists (which is where the show starts) came along at the same time as a kind of democratization of art, where oil paints were now available in tubes, and canvases came ready stretched. What we're used to seeing in any art supply store, didn't exist. Revolutionary, really.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
5 pm
If you were to look at the way I fill my time lately, you wouldn't call me a writer. I have pulled out the journal a few times, and recorded some tidbits, but it's been pretty sparse. I can't even claim to be a reader. Books are collecting dust! Though I notice some new ones have crept in the door, so there's hope.
It's very peculiar, but I think the problem is happiness. I've never had a prolonged stretch of time where I could claim I was happy, since I've been writing seriously. (I was going to say I've never had a prolonged stretch of time where I was happy, period, but that's surely not true.) That old redundancy joke about depressed writer was/is true enough in my case. But I seem to have stumbled into a happy state, and find myself much less inclined to sit down with pen to page. Am I becoming Tolstoy's dullard? Nah. I'm just enjoying a break. I'll figure out how to do this even though I feel great. Don't worry. I think there's some good stories in me yet.
Oh, by the way (she said ingenuously), I broke the one hour mark on the Grind this week. Twice. On Monday I did it in 59:58. Today, just to confirm, I did it in 59 minutes. Whoo-hoo! Not a bit pleased with myself.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
1 pm
The Vancouver Film Fest is on, so we went to see Control last night, a film about "post-punk poet laureates Joy Division", a Manchester band after my time, but the actor/lead singer made me think of Jim Morrison. Massively depressed young man f***s up his life, behaves self-destructively, then kills himself, leaving family members and friends behind to pick up the pieces. A bit depressing, and we've maybe seen this story before (Morrison, Joplin, etc.), but the movie has some flashes of brilliance. Interestingly it's popped up on several critics lists as one to see (last screening in about an hour, so look for it somewhere else). I thought the guy playing Ian Curtis was great.
My humble opinion would see the movie shorter though; it needs editing badly, to do away with a lot of the repetition about how bleak things are. It's hard to cut beautiful scenes, kind of like chopping out lovely sentences, but if they impede the story, they oughta go. You have to trust your audience to get it the first time they are told. I do wonder whether a young person, less jaded than myself perhaps, might see it differently; maybe it's just that in a sense I've seen it before. Each generation has it's own stars to see fall, I guess. The movie reminds about the fairly dangerous gap between expectations and reality when fame hits, not that Ian Curtis, was a happy camper to start with, judging from the movie anyway.
The film is shot in black and white, and some of the scenes inside humdrum buildings and bleak flats are, well, pretty bleak, but every now and then the camera pulls back to show the background countryside. I found myself wondering why/how people keep creating such deadly dull lives in such beatuiful locations. Happens everywhere. Tenements in tropical paradise as well as beautiful rolling English countryside. Makes you wonder why people think living in the country is so awful, if the only choice is being stacked up in the air in a boring piece of concrete. Ah, the problem is within, you say. If the movie tells an accurate story, untreated depression, though complicated by epilepsy, was the problem that Ian Curtis was helpless to deal with. He was only 23 when he died. Sad.
~~
My mad rush up Grouse Mountain continues; once more under an hour this week. The weird thing is it doesn't feel like I'm faster, judging from the heart thumping and all. Is this fitness? Odd to come to it so late in life. Good though.
~~
Finished laying out another edition of WordWorks for the Fed of BC Writers yesterday, an absorbing and time-consuming task. Focuses my mind though, having deadlines and all. And I've been going to a Spanish class for the last couple of weeks. Can't say I've learned much Spanish, but at least getting some sense of how it sounds. I'm planning a trip to Mexico soon, and so thought it'd be useful to know how to say "por favor" and "gracias", and most important perhaps, "no comprende, repita, por favor". Counting is a challenge too. Always humbling to find myself in a situation where I'm just a wee bit stupid, and not understanding what is being said certainly makes me feel that way. But, uno, dos, tres, I'm on my way.
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