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Showing posts from October, 2010

monsters, imagined

To the amazement of many, I've been reading a lot lately. C always has great sport with this, mocking the "three words -- oh, is your brain tired now?" little bits I read each night. But it adds up. Here's two recently finished books most fitting for a Halloween weekend. The Killer Inside Me , by Jim Thompson: Gosh, Lou Ford is a nice guy. Corny, sure, but this is Texas, after all, and a deputy sheriff should always have some pearls of wisdom handy. What he shouldn't have is a taste for beating prostitutes to death, or shooting people in the mouth. Or framing people for murder, and then murdering them in turn. Ah, but that's all down to "the sickness", isn't it? Or maybe he's just a hellishly intelligent monster. Who cares? It's a classic read. The Talented Mr. Ripley , by Patricia Highsmith: If you like your narrators to smile like you, and talk like you, and do a crackerjack job of forging your signature, then you'll probably like T

little birds

Challenging days for chickie lately: a bit of a perfect storm of cold, teething and shots. Kept her home yesterday because the daycare caught her out with a wee fever; the trouble was, she'd just been at the doctor's getting checked out (she's fine, just this meaningless cough that hangs around forever), and then getting some shots. Of course the daycare gives you this form so you can go back to the doctor and get a signature under the suggestion that it's all down to the shots -- which would only take half a day's worth running around. Better just to keep her at home, and keep it low key. The drool from the teething is rather ridiculous anyway; yesterday saw two baths and at least four soaking shirts, these slick little pools scattered at random around the house, like it's been raining inside. * * * * * Found this at my desk this morning. It's from the printer we deal with. I had three reactions: a) My coworker is *not* doing all the work. In fact, I&#

codes

integrabile_reale ; black and red India ink on paper (page from an old math text book). * * * * * Walking home from the studio Sunday afternoon when I noticed a pair of sneakers hanging from one of the power lines which crosses our street. Is this code for something? According to the internet , this is called shoe tossing (or "shoefiti"), and it might mark the location as a place where you can score drugs. It might also mark the end of the school year, or an upcoming marriage. It might be a more elegant form of bullying. It might also mean nothing. Yes, I am officially not with it, now that I have to look up this sort of thing. On the internet. And I meant to tell C about when I came in the door but of course she immediately started complaining about the furniture or the blinds or our rotation around the sun or something and my mind was laser zapped. But I did remember a few days later. "Hey, did you see those shoes hanging on the power line over the street?" I

the things they carried

Wherein we're all walking variations of the same path, although some more stylishly than others. * * * * * Downtown the other night, and it was richly littered with homeless people. Unexpected -- it had getting colder all day, and filled with more dust, and every so many blocks I found myself trying to turn my head away from some kind of industrial stink, something like diesel only I imagined it in thick red and leaking, the air you could feel getting colder and drier, and I imagined, too, that even the homeless would be seeking shelter. But there they were, manning all their stations, and two of their number were especially interesting. The first guy I'd seen before. In fact, the first time I saw him, he didn't seem homeless at all. Quite a good looking guy, actually. Youngish. But that first time he'd been smoking a little too determinedly, and then there was the muttering, and the pacing in little circles. This night he had an eyepatch in fluorescent silver. He&

post with the most

O Marilyn: some like it hot, I guess. A nice review of Punishing Ugly Children by Lauren Kirshner (author of Where We Have to Go ) in the newest issue of Quill & Quire. A quote: Berger's writing can be sharp and funny, especially when describing the discomfort of forced social relations. Though the collection has moments of over-writing that obscure more than they reveal, these serve only to remind the reader where Berger's finest storytelling lies -- in his depictions of people doing the best they can under strange circumstances, often to surprising and compelling ends. * * * * * A rejection slip from The Paris Review. But somehow it doesn't feel bad, somehow it feels like a *classy* rejection slip. Anyway, I should know better than to send them stories about alternate worlds. Those classy bastards. * * * * * Now who *doesn't* like mail from Singapore? I asked C why our stamps can't be this interesting, and she said something about how these countries

a little less conversation, a little more action

Oona and I went to the park the other day, while C was taking a nap (read: sleeping one off). Oona is a fierce libertarian; if there's anything she's about, it's absolute free will. So I let her run rampant. She tottered around, abusing handfuls of leaves and talking gibberish to ghosts. * * * * * The pants were bought by C's mom for Catherine's daughter Evangeline, so they have some sentimental value. I like them because of how forgiving they are; I mean, you could hide a sheep in there. When do I get to wear pants like that? O that's right: when I'm old.

whinging wednesday

the young saints dream in colour ; soap print with acrylic varnish on Rives BFK paper. the young saints dream in colour (2) ; soap print with acrylic varnish on Rives BFK paper. Two prints for artstream's upcoming print show (IPS3). Soap prints are an extremely fussy type of monoprint; the upside is that the learning curve is nearly a flat line (important for me, most days), you don't need much in the way of materials and the effort cleans up rather nicely (it is soap, after all). * * * * * A bit bleary coming into work today. Warm morning, sifting dark. Cars went by like shapes made of sound, like shadows growling by. I felt like I was following a tunnel. Could be a long day. Most days my legs are so tired that I could just find a nice spot and sit down and stay there, start throwing bread crumbs to the birds. Today my elbow is killing me ... I must of have banged it on the night table in my sleep (either that or C is up to her predawn 'jokes' with the pliers agai

fun with C

A surprisingly popular Prime Minister. Astonishing, in fact. * * * * * Last night I made string pie. It's a delicious dish -- deep and flavourful and layered with heat, perfect for a fall evening -- but it's not one that can be eaten quickly, and so it invites conversation. Conversation with C. Did you see that poll about which prime ministers were most popular? I asked. No , replied C, looking around for a cat. Was it on Facebook? As a matter of fact it was. Guess which prime minister is considered most popular? C shrugged. There were no cats around. I don't know. Laurier? I almost choked. LAURIER!!?? If you asked ten people on the street who Laurier was, five would think he was a hockey player and four would think he discovered Hudson Bay. C was thinking about how much alcohol might still be in the house. Okay , she said, Kim Campbell? KIM CAMPBELL??!! Are you serious!!?? She was prime minister for about five minutes and she wasn't even elected! Yeah , C said, wo

Oona Berger: scam artist

Oona's artwork from daycare. I think this one's called Death of the Three Little Pigs . Or Death of the Three Filthy Little Pigs . Or Death of the Three Filthy Little Communist Pigs . Or something. It's either that or Pretty Red Flowers I Love You ... I can never remember these kind of things. Anyway: great reds, kid. This one's a bit more in the abstract-expressionist school. It's about a bullfight or a traffic accident or the end of the Japanese empire. Or something. Who the hell knows what these kids get up to at daycare? Bloody communists. Also: I have some doubts about the signature.

if the future is confusion, then i'm already there

I need things explained to me. Thank you. * * * * * Because my eyes can be packed with sand sometimes -- which has the effect of making me a bit thick -- and because I'll never be a hipster (what is kale, anyway?), I was a bit lost as to the point of the Douglas Coupland article in The Globe and Mail this weekend ( A radical pessimist's guide to the next 10 years ). I *think* it was supposed to be funny. Or mildly funny. Was it supposed to be funny? I honestly don't know. Could someone tell me, please? I'm serious. The accompanying artwork was an awful start: it was like a sample collage from Photoshop 2.0. And then the text was all over the place. Some points were strong and self-explanatory ("You may well burn out out on the effort of being an individual" -- yep, already there ), some were reasonable and expected ("People will stop caring how they appear to others" -- *well* ahead of the curve on that one ) and some were humorous in a corduroy

Frankie says Relax, it's not the *real* eighties.

Is this was nostalgia feels like? Like a deadened version of heartburn? At the grocery store closest to the university, standing in lines crooked with hot-faced kids, I see the eighties have returned. Or almost. Yes, I see the clothes. I see the baseball tees, the sack dresses. The headbands. The overalls with the cuffs rolled up. And yes, I recognize the Thompson Twins on the sound system. I remember the female part of that group, how she'd hide herself under enormous hats or searing haircuts, and then layers and layers of clothes. She didn't want to be an object, she said. I see all these kids who look like something that I'm meant to recognize, but they don't really look like any version of myself from twenty years ago. Instead they look a lot better than that. Their choices are so much more calculated. Mine were blind and off-the-rack. During the real eighties, we all just wore the same thing, because that seemed to be all there was. Anyone who didn't had to go

weekend grandeur

les grandeurs ; india ink on paper (page from an old math text book). Miss Kensey Crane, everyone. * * * * * Here in Canada, it's Thanksgiving weekend. More importantly, it's a *long* weekend. We'll probably go up to Ottawa for an afternoon, to see the vikings (read: my nieces), and use the rest of it just to catch up with life. Maybe a bird will be eaten, maybe not. Does it matter?

Do you dance gracefully?

Last night: C gone to Toastmasters, flush with her 'Competent Communicator' badge (really, these people are worse than the Masons), me not finding the remote ... fucking *anywhere*, then irritated by the tv not having actual physical buttons on it for changing the viewing mode, so no Virtua Fighter then, no Pai Chan and her dancing helicopter kicks for me, and the cats crying at the front door not nearly amusing enough (something wrong with me, lately), and not yet wanting to do the recycling, or to haul garbage bags up the alley, in the rain, and putting off my weekly shave, I found myself sorting through and cleaning up the magnetic, schizophrenic mess of photos and artwork that slides around our refrigerator door. This is something that C would not be caught dead doing; for her, the past is some banana republic they've changed the name of a dozen times, and their money was always bullshit anyway. So it's up to me to pick out the best pictures of the nieces and nephew

so many fires to choose from

Wherein the ephemera bits get dealt with. * * * * * O Ladies Night Here's our friend Jill and C, on their way out the door to see Joyce Carol Oates at the writer's festival. Both of them three sheets to the wind: C well into the precious red nectar ("I like to kick back," she says), Jill in the blank middle of a three-day rum-and-diet-coke rampage. "Diet 'cause I like to look like a lady," she says. And then: "I'm so stoked about seeing Hall & Oates again!" Tin Man Following this little man over the causeway yesterday, when suddenly these crushed cans come spilling out of his pocket. Four or five of them at least. And I'd seen this little man before, around the downtown, and once or twice on the campus where I work, and he never seems to belong anywhere. He gathered up his cans in a hurry, like a man picking up change. Hats *Someone* does not like hats. Hats have a habit of not staying on her head, of being donated to sidewalks.

Who has a birthday?

*Someone* has a birthday today. Someone turns one. That's pretty old, Chickie, but no worries at all: you'll always be delicious. * * * * * She's had a rather nasty cold lately, which isn't so hot for pictures, so I'll share these instead; they're from maybe a week ago, enjoying some of daddy's yummy tuna casserole. * * * * * It's also my mom's birthday today, too. Happy Birthday, mom!

let's turn the furnace on

There's a kind of hollow defiance about the day after you're sick -- things aren't quite right yet but you're determined, very determined to put in the appearance, or at least you tell yourself so, that and other things like, Yes, goddamn, back on schedule, the schedule will do you good, , knowing all the while that coaching yourself is just a little bit *crazy*, it's the kind of motivational bullshit you roll your eyes at when other people do it, but then again it's Day Three and if you don't get out of the house today then you might go the route of the *real* kind of crazy. And that's no good. Day One happened to be Friday, staying home with Chicken, her and her cold and its mucous weeping from her eyes and nose. But it was okay. We played it low-key, stayed indoors, Chicken sleeping or within the soft confines of her pillow prison, me cleaning the house, then making supper. But later I was tired: the kind of tired that sends you to bed at 8:30. C went