"The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means."
- Oscar Wilde (The Importance of Being Earnest)
Oh, Oscar...
Monday, 19 September 2011
Sunday, 18 September 2011
The Body in Metamorphosis (3)
K: "I've literally got no ideas for this story. Okay, I have a few ideas, but seriously, they are LAME."
M: "You've had no ideas for a while now."
K: "I know."
M: "One of my friends has this reoccurring nightmare that he wakes up and he's middle aged, and he like, lives in the suburbs and has this lame house and these kids, and that is actually his worst fear in real life. Maybe your story is about someone who wakes up in the suburbs."
K: "The suburbs? Maybe..."
M: "Or maybe you should just think of your worst fear and write that."
K: (Pauses) "I'm not sure what my worst fear is."
M: "Then I guess you have some soul-searching to do, don't you?"
K&M: (Laughter)
K: (Brain surge!)
Thanks, Matt... Story now in progress...
M: "You've had no ideas for a while now."
K: "I know."
M: "One of my friends has this reoccurring nightmare that he wakes up and he's middle aged, and he like, lives in the suburbs and has this lame house and these kids, and that is actually his worst fear in real life. Maybe your story is about someone who wakes up in the suburbs."
K: "The suburbs? Maybe..."
M: "Or maybe you should just think of your worst fear and write that."
K: (Pauses) "I'm not sure what my worst fear is."
M: "Then I guess you have some soul-searching to do, don't you?"
K&M: (Laughter)
K: (Brain surge!)
Thanks, Matt... Story now in progress...
Thursday, 15 September 2011
Another Time, Another Space
So. Here's a photo. You can see, rather clearly, that it's a photo of a boat. And, let's be honest, it's a pretty great picture of a boat. The light is soft and even, the colour saturation is vivid, the image is well-framed and sharp, detailed. The water is still, but not too still; it has some texture to it. Actually, this entire image is full of textures, the worn finish on the wood, the blue paint chipping off the metal, the boat rails starting to rust.
I found it when I was transferring files from my old computer to my new one, a few weeks ago. I took this picture, at Cypress Hills, when I was still going to photography school. It seems like it's part of another life, now, but sometimes... I really wish I was back at that place. And yet, my memory of that time in my life is fuzzy. I was one of the dumber young people that I know, and I was heedless, of everything. A wrecking ball. But I do remember that it was early morning when I found this boat, it was August, and it was cold outside. An hour before I took this photo, the most beautiful mist hovered over the water. And it was peaceful. The spot on the dock where I sat to take this photo, on slide film no less, with no one else around, was so peaceful. And maybe because of my carelessness, my head was so clear. I felt solace - a feeling that I honestly think I've been trying to recapture ever since.
I admit it - sometimes I think about the past. Probably most people do this. I think I do it less than most, though. Or else, the people I know do it more than most. I'm not sure which. One of my oldest friends is obsessed with the past, and high school, and the people we knew then, and she is shocked by my indifference. Of that trip to Cypress Hills, and of my time at photo school as a whole, I remember very little. I do know that it was a time in my life when I wasn't writing. I spent hours in the darkness, under a safe light, in front of chemical trays where I watched images appear on blank paper like magic. I saw life through a lens. I learned that it's better to put the camera down, because you always miss what's happening just past the corners of the frame. I left school and remembered that there are other ways to record the world, and other ways to be in it. I think I understand similarities between photos and writing - they're both about capturing moments. But one forces you to observe a moment, while the other gives you the space to be in the moment and write it later, and okay, that's open to debate, but I also think that both are about spaces. People, and moments, and memories that take place inside of spaces. The thing is, once we look back on the creation of it, how accurately do we remember the creative space we were in? Does the artefact become the memory? Is it normal that beyond the creation of Blue Boat #5, I hardly have any memories of that trip to Cypress Hills? And that I remember very little about the moments that framed the creation of 20 other rolls worth of images that week? Sure, there are a few people that I used to care about, and I think about them from time to time, but mostly no. That part of my life is gone, and I don't carry that with me. Or at least, I don't think I do. I think there's actually very little that I carry with me.
But lately I've been wondering... Everything that we've lived... Does it make us better as writers? Do we need to hold on to the past, use that kind of thing as fuel? There's a song by Tegan and Sara, called You Wouldn't Like Me, which begins with this: "There's a war inside of me; do I cause new heartbreak to write a new broken song? Do I push it down, or let it run me right into the ground?" The idea here, of course, being that in giving ourselves over to pain, we become better able to write pain. Lately I'm struggling with this idea of lost moments, of memories that seem to have abandoned me, of the accuracy of the memories that I think I do have. Should I be grasping on to things? On to everything? Should I be recording every moment? Is that any way to be in the world? Should I do the Tegan and Sara thing, and method write?
Are these questions just too big?
I found it when I was transferring files from my old computer to my new one, a few weeks ago. I took this picture, at Cypress Hills, when I was still going to photography school. It seems like it's part of another life, now, but sometimes... I really wish I was back at that place. And yet, my memory of that time in my life is fuzzy. I was one of the dumber young people that I know, and I was heedless, of everything. A wrecking ball. But I do remember that it was early morning when I found this boat, it was August, and it was cold outside. An hour before I took this photo, the most beautiful mist hovered over the water. And it was peaceful. The spot on the dock where I sat to take this photo, on slide film no less, with no one else around, was so peaceful. And maybe because of my carelessness, my head was so clear. I felt solace - a feeling that I honestly think I've been trying to recapture ever since.
I admit it - sometimes I think about the past. Probably most people do this. I think I do it less than most, though. Or else, the people I know do it more than most. I'm not sure which. One of my oldest friends is obsessed with the past, and high school, and the people we knew then, and she is shocked by my indifference. Of that trip to Cypress Hills, and of my time at photo school as a whole, I remember very little. I do know that it was a time in my life when I wasn't writing. I spent hours in the darkness, under a safe light, in front of chemical trays where I watched images appear on blank paper like magic. I saw life through a lens. I learned that it's better to put the camera down, because you always miss what's happening just past the corners of the frame. I left school and remembered that there are other ways to record the world, and other ways to be in it. I think I understand similarities between photos and writing - they're both about capturing moments. But one forces you to observe a moment, while the other gives you the space to be in the moment and write it later, and okay, that's open to debate, but I also think that both are about spaces. People, and moments, and memories that take place inside of spaces. The thing is, once we look back on the creation of it, how accurately do we remember the creative space we were in? Does the artefact become the memory? Is it normal that beyond the creation of Blue Boat #5, I hardly have any memories of that trip to Cypress Hills? And that I remember very little about the moments that framed the creation of 20 other rolls worth of images that week? Sure, there are a few people that I used to care about, and I think about them from time to time, but mostly no. That part of my life is gone, and I don't carry that with me. Or at least, I don't think I do. I think there's actually very little that I carry with me.
But lately I've been wondering... Everything that we've lived... Does it make us better as writers? Do we need to hold on to the past, use that kind of thing as fuel? There's a song by Tegan and Sara, called You Wouldn't Like Me, which begins with this: "There's a war inside of me; do I cause new heartbreak to write a new broken song? Do I push it down, or let it run me right into the ground?" The idea here, of course, being that in giving ourselves over to pain, we become better able to write pain. Lately I'm struggling with this idea of lost moments, of memories that seem to have abandoned me, of the accuracy of the memories that I think I do have. Should I be grasping on to things? On to everything? Should I be recording every moment? Is that any way to be in the world? Should I do the Tegan and Sara thing, and method write?
Are these questions just too big?
Wednesday, 14 September 2011
The Body in Metamorphosis (2)
The days are getting shorter now, but my days just seem to be getting longer and by 9:30 at night it feels so late...
When I'm stressed out, I like to ride bikes. I rode my bike all over town today trying to clear my head so that I can write like Kafka, but it was distraction after distraction. I took breaks and tried to do other things, like mark assignments and wade through 74 pages of primary source material about Hitler, and still... I have no ideas. Well, my mind is swimming with the atrocities committed by the Third Reich, but there's no fucking way I'm going there...
Expletive, expletive.
At this point I think that I'm over-thinking things. The Body in Metamorphosis. Physical transformations. Temporary or permanent? Realist or with some element of the fantastic? Is it a condition that suddenly appears, or one that has always been there and suddenly disappears? Do I want it to be full of brilliant irony, or serious in a life-altering, bold, charismatic way? What the hell do I want to say here?
Oh, god. Do I have anything to say?
Lately I've been watching Californication, on Netflix. Does anyone watch this show? Major spoilers ahead. David Duchovny plays this writer called Hank Moody, whose amazing and ground-breaking last novel was written seven years ago and is subsequently turned into a terrible, Hollywood blockbuster film, and as the first season of the show begins, Hank just can't write. He's got nothing, no ideas, and he's on this ridiculous path of self-destruction to boot, and then his father dies and he sits down and starts to write again. And it's good, what he writes is good. And then the only copy of his manuscript is stolen by the 16-year-old daughter of the man who is about to marry the love of Hank's life, and she passes the novel off as her own and gets it published.
This is my nightmare. I'm going to struggle and toil over this 5-page short story for English 485A-whatever-other-letter-it-is and it's going to turn out to be the most important five pages of fiction since forever or at least since Great Expectations, and then it's going to be stolen by a no-talent hack with a drinking problem and my life is going to continue to be shit, because I'll have to do the assignment all over again.
(What is the reception history of Great Expectations? Was it important at the time? Should I have chosen a different example?)
To be continued...
When I'm stressed out, I like to ride bikes. I rode my bike all over town today trying to clear my head so that I can write like Kafka, but it was distraction after distraction. I took breaks and tried to do other things, like mark assignments and wade through 74 pages of primary source material about Hitler, and still... I have no ideas. Well, my mind is swimming with the atrocities committed by the Third Reich, but there's no fucking way I'm going there...
Expletive, expletive.
At this point I think that I'm over-thinking things. The Body in Metamorphosis. Physical transformations. Temporary or permanent? Realist or with some element of the fantastic? Is it a condition that suddenly appears, or one that has always been there and suddenly disappears? Do I want it to be full of brilliant irony, or serious in a life-altering, bold, charismatic way? What the hell do I want to say here?
Oh, god. Do I have anything to say?
Lately I've been watching Californication, on Netflix. Does anyone watch this show? Major spoilers ahead. David Duchovny plays this writer called Hank Moody, whose amazing and ground-breaking last novel was written seven years ago and is subsequently turned into a terrible, Hollywood blockbuster film, and as the first season of the show begins, Hank just can't write. He's got nothing, no ideas, and he's on this ridiculous path of self-destruction to boot, and then his father dies and he sits down and starts to write again. And it's good, what he writes is good. And then the only copy of his manuscript is stolen by the 16-year-old daughter of the man who is about to marry the love of Hank's life, and she passes the novel off as her own and gets it published.
This is my nightmare. I'm going to struggle and toil over this 5-page short story for English 485A-whatever-other-letter-it-is and it's going to turn out to be the most important five pages of fiction since forever or at least since Great Expectations, and then it's going to be stolen by a no-talent hack with a drinking problem and my life is going to continue to be shit, because I'll have to do the assignment all over again.
(What is the reception history of Great Expectations? Was it important at the time? Should I have chosen a different example?)
To be continued...
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
The Body in Metamorphosis (1)
Dear Assignment #1,
You are kicking my ass. Please stop it. Immediately.
Sincerely,
Student 12
You are kicking my ass. Please stop it. Immediately.
Sincerely,
Student 12
Monday, 12 September 2011
The Spaces Between (me and coffee)
There are several things in life that I love. Most people can say that. My things are simple: cookies, a good cup of coffee, a walk on a nice day, a beautiful piece of art, sitting with someone that I feel absolutely comfortable with, a good book. I also love my neighbourhood, the immediate spaces around me, the things I see when I look out my window. Those who are familiar with my poetry know that I often write about feeling displaced and isolated, and to be honest, in a bigger picture kind of way, that's true about me. But the places I haunt these days are different than the places that haunt me, and even though I know, somehow, that this city is not the place for me, in this neighbourhood I have found a space where I can breathe, move, think, feel like myself. There's a sense of immediacy. And perhaps most importantly, this 'hood has all the small stuff that I don't think I could do without, and it's all really nearby.
I ran out of coffee beans today, so I headed out for a walk, as per this blogging assignment, and took some pictures along the way to the coffee shop. All were taken with my phone, so please forgive the fact that some of them aren't so awesome...
This is what I see when I step out my front door: the Cathedral on 13th Avenue. It's not a bad thing to see, visually. Lots of people go there, not me, but lots of other people. I've noticed it's a happening place on Friday nights, but I really have no idea why. I've only ever been inside once, for a funeral, and most of the time I don't think about it being a church at all. Only on Sunday mornings, when the bells ring.
Also across the street from my front door: the 13th Avenue Coffee House.
Mondays are always a sad day, because the coffee house is closed. Interestingly, you can always determine immediately when someone isn't from the neighbourhood, because they try to go to the coffee house on a Monday. This is one of my favourite places to eat; I've spent many a warm afternoon sitting on this patio. And actually, it's an especially good place to do editing. Why would I sit inside my flat when I can sit outside here? It's across the street! I am sad that I have to walk past, but it's okay. Today is okay walking weather. I carry on.
There's a mural painted on the side of Buy the Book, a used bookshop closer to Albert Street, and there are several more of them as you walk down 13th Ave. I love walking around and seeing art in random places.
Lots of churches along this walk. Always trying to save me...
Once I get downtown I get my coffee from the Atlantis and exit, though normally this is a place where I can sit and write for a while. I often come here to write papers, actually, when I find that I am too distracted by other things at home and am getting nothing done. I used to work here and know that the coffee is top-notch, and I also know which times of day to avoid this place. I get a funny feeling sometimes from the downtown vibe. People in suits everywhere, everyone's in a hurry, everyone's curt and strangely self-important... But it's interesting to accidentally overhear snippets of conversation. And there's something appealing about all the windows. Even if you're sitting by yourself there, you don't feel closed off from the world.
I feel a compulsion lately to check out the progress on the 12th Avenue construction. To be honest, I've been annoyed by this construction for at least a year now - it's making the downtown ugly, and navigation to and from the O'Hanlon's has been a nightmare. This city's plans are interfering with my beer drinking! But seriously, it looks like some decent progress is being made finally, and parts of it appear to actually be finished:
It's hard to see from this picture, but it looks like there's some art-type stuff going on along the North sidewalk. More art! Industrial-looking, downtown art, which coincides nicely with my favourite elephant outside the Central Library on the 12th Ave side:
This elephant has been there as long as I can remember, and I spent so much time at this library when I was a kid. Sometimes I hop onto my nostalgia train and I have to go say hello to him. It takes me right back to the days when I read Nancy Drew.
Hey, and speaking of weird, industrial-looking stuff, has anyone noticed the bizarre half-people sculptures outside City Hall? Check these out:
I think they're finished but they're not.
On my way home I stop in at Buy the Book, the used bookshop I mentioned earlier. I'm feeling a little annoyed at this point because it's windy today, and I am getting tired of fighting with my cardigan. I never button up my cardigans. I could, but that's not really how I roll. Also, my hair is long right now, and it's been blowing in my face for the last half hour. But I love used bookshops, the smell, and the feel of an old book in your hands compared to the feel of a new one. There's really no comparison. Paper is different now, books are made cheaply, all that kind of thing. In this space, I smell that old book smell, and everything is better again.
I can and have spent hours in here looking around at everything, crouched down on the ground to see all the volumes on the very bottom shelves, stretching and straining to see everything up high. The owner of this shop knows exactly what he has in stock at all times, which is amazing to me, and has climbed a ladder to retrieve something from a box for me on more than one occasion. Good people. Today it's warm in the shop, and now I feel relief when I get outside into the breezy afternoon.
I re-emerge onto the idyllic, tree-lined street where I live...
... and go past the neighbour's shoes.
This is my favourite chair, btw.
I will drink coffee now. The end.
I ran out of coffee beans today, so I headed out for a walk, as per this blogging assignment, and took some pictures along the way to the coffee shop. All were taken with my phone, so please forgive the fact that some of them aren't so awesome...
This is what I see when I step out my front door: the Cathedral on 13th Avenue. It's not a bad thing to see, visually. Lots of people go there, not me, but lots of other people. I've noticed it's a happening place on Friday nights, but I really have no idea why. I've only ever been inside once, for a funeral, and most of the time I don't think about it being a church at all. Only on Sunday mornings, when the bells ring.
Also across the street from my front door: the 13th Avenue Coffee House.
Mondays are always a sad day, because the coffee house is closed. Interestingly, you can always determine immediately when someone isn't from the neighbourhood, because they try to go to the coffee house on a Monday. This is one of my favourite places to eat; I've spent many a warm afternoon sitting on this patio. And actually, it's an especially good place to do editing. Why would I sit inside my flat when I can sit outside here? It's across the street! I am sad that I have to walk past, but it's okay. Today is okay walking weather. I carry on.
There's a mural painted on the side of Buy the Book, a used bookshop closer to Albert Street, and there are several more of them as you walk down 13th Ave. I love walking around and seeing art in random places.
Lots of churches along this walk. Always trying to save me...
Once I get downtown I get my coffee from the Atlantis and exit, though normally this is a place where I can sit and write for a while. I often come here to write papers, actually, when I find that I am too distracted by other things at home and am getting nothing done. I used to work here and know that the coffee is top-notch, and I also know which times of day to avoid this place. I get a funny feeling sometimes from the downtown vibe. People in suits everywhere, everyone's in a hurry, everyone's curt and strangely self-important... But it's interesting to accidentally overhear snippets of conversation. And there's something appealing about all the windows. Even if you're sitting by yourself there, you don't feel closed off from the world.
I feel a compulsion lately to check out the progress on the 12th Avenue construction. To be honest, I've been annoyed by this construction for at least a year now - it's making the downtown ugly, and navigation to and from the O'Hanlon's has been a nightmare. This city's plans are interfering with my beer drinking! But seriously, it looks like some decent progress is being made finally, and parts of it appear to actually be finished:
It's hard to see from this picture, but it looks like there's some art-type stuff going on along the North sidewalk. More art! Industrial-looking, downtown art, which coincides nicely with my favourite elephant outside the Central Library on the 12th Ave side:
This elephant has been there as long as I can remember, and I spent so much time at this library when I was a kid. Sometimes I hop onto my nostalgia train and I have to go say hello to him. It takes me right back to the days when I read Nancy Drew.
Hey, and speaking of weird, industrial-looking stuff, has anyone noticed the bizarre half-people sculptures outside City Hall? Check these out:
I think they're finished but they're not.
On my way home I stop in at Buy the Book, the used bookshop I mentioned earlier. I'm feeling a little annoyed at this point because it's windy today, and I am getting tired of fighting with my cardigan. I never button up my cardigans. I could, but that's not really how I roll. Also, my hair is long right now, and it's been blowing in my face for the last half hour. But I love used bookshops, the smell, and the feel of an old book in your hands compared to the feel of a new one. There's really no comparison. Paper is different now, books are made cheaply, all that kind of thing. In this space, I smell that old book smell, and everything is better again.
I can and have spent hours in here looking around at everything, crouched down on the ground to see all the volumes on the very bottom shelves, stretching and straining to see everything up high. The owner of this shop knows exactly what he has in stock at all times, which is amazing to me, and has climbed a ladder to retrieve something from a box for me on more than one occasion. Good people. Today it's warm in the shop, and now I feel relief when I get outside into the breezy afternoon.
I re-emerge onto the idyllic, tree-lined street where I live...
... and go past the neighbour's shoes.
This is my favourite chair, btw.
I will drink coffee now. The end.
Friday, 9 September 2011
Wild Horses
I realise that this blog is meant to be about writing and stuff, and my first post was supposed to be about my spaces where I create, but I literally could not resist this image. Plus, you know, caffeine fuels all of my endeavors.
Why has this never happened to me, and where can I get this coffee?
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