The odd thing about the toilet was the womens’ was out of order and it was necessary to use the mens except the door opened in with no lock and the cubicle had no lock and unless you had a leg as long as Pippi Longstocking it’s fairly clear what would happen. The unfortunate thing over the WC was there was so much graffiti to be read and so the women must wonder whether it was scrawled by men and women who had one leg extended and one arm above their head to do the sketching.
Nabbed a book yesterday as a pressie for someone entitled Left Wing Intellectuals Between the Wars. It was the between that landed my fingertips on it. So many books before the war, and after the war, never seen anything between.
Watched a bit of Port of Shadows last night, great moment where the soldier hitches a lift in the camion and shortly, the driver has barely said a word when the soldier informs him he talks too much! Then later the soldier has a drunk latch onto him on the street a few cuts later and the drunk hides him from the passing army officers.
Today outside the 7-11 a man handed a guy who was down on his luck a massive lump of steak inside a sealed bag. The recipient held the door open and we talked briefly about the meat. Have you somewhere to cook it? I asked him. It’s already cooked he said triumphant indicating the man who gave it to him. I turned and the fella was smiling broadly. He’d a box on the roof of his car and I realized he probably just collected the box of cooked meats from the post office, split it open and doled it out to the fella stood at the door. Who knows maybe the fella’s father or mother is a farmer and sending him a good quarter of a cow for his xmas? In anycase it’s lovely to be trapped inbetween such a gesture and to share the remarking and the smiles as we all marvelled on the bag of meat and it’s arrival.
Earlier in the day I was down on E Hastings Street, meeting one of my favourite people in the world at a Rubby caff. On the walk back within one block I must have had 4 spontaneous conversations with people passing or remarking. Spontaneous conversation is not my most common experience in this city. Sometimes it is the people who have the least, who are the more generous with words and thoughts.
Oh dearie
How distinctly un Marcel like. It’s criminal to have knitting disasters when one is knitting in response to recessionary xmas. I can honestly say I am not sure what happened and how those peculiar humps appeared on the Dr Who tie. An immense tragedy especially given the man its intended for does not wear ties, and will likely be unpersuaded further if presented with this creation.
You have been warned!
True scale of the entire tragedy below
Review The Mitochondrial Curiosities of Marcels 1-19
Here’s a link to review I wrote in today’s Vancouver Sun about Jocelyn Brown’s YA novel
Every now and then, a novel that is as solid as steel lands in readers’ hands. A novel needs the right proportion of its own hardening agents to deliver on the page. The Mitochondrial Curiosities of Marcels 1-19 is such a book.
If you are a teacher, a crafter, or have a teen reader highly recommend this YA book. Splendid stuff.
We were listening to The Rest is Noise Alex Ross’ audiobook (and book) about music in the twentieth century last night, as myself and the Puffin engaged in our epic knitting response to recessionary Xmas. We began at CD 18. Previously we have listened to some of the early parts but in order to persuade the Puffin of its merits I had suggested it may mention the 80’s band Europe, knowing full well it was unlikely to, but the promise of it would be enough, since Puffin is muy interested in classical music once someone is blathering about it.
CD 18 (the chapter title escapes me) covers the period pretty much up to the present day with some hint of the seventies. It mentioned eight of the most well known contemporary composers by name and pointed out six of them are women. Small voice from sofa rose in astonishment. It’s something I’d never thought of, Puffin said. There are no women composers (by which he means Bach, Vivaldi, Mozart because that’s his current conception of composers. So I had to explain that there were women composers but at the time they weren’t acknowledged or may have written under male names and he should research it. But that the matter struck him in reverse when the narrative was explaining the present was worth noting.
I am particularly impressed by his generation: their questioning, their awareness of the political climate, has to come from the increased interactions with technology something that’s often damned and derided. Yet I see a sophisticated understanding of the world emerging, a questioning that previous generations would have been limited by virtue of the limited dissemination of information. I also can see an impressive bunch of citizen journalists and activists emerging!
word tree
I received a most marvellous creation from the not so small Puffin yesterday. He disappeared behind the couch, claiming he was going to wrap something for me, with a bunch of paper and the repeated clicking of a stapler provided an interesting rhythm. There was so much clicking I began to wonder if he could possible be wrapping. The insistent don’t look, don’t look … I continued to knit the uneven stripy burgundy and green Dr Who style tie (recession xmas in these parts) and he kept insisting are you looking?
Eventually after much anxious demanding for a cardboard box containing a years worth of tax receipts “I need THAT box!”
the creation emerged draped by a tea towel
It was a stunner. A bunch of cone like paper creations, different heights inside a box wrapped in two snowflakes. It’s called a word tree he explained pointing out the recycled paper (printed up discarded novel) he’d endlessly stapled into cones was full of words. The hugging of the two paper snowflakes also delicately created between the stapling around the box was also touching and thoughful.
I expired with joy. Some moments are mighty. (Especially on a day filled with dementing moments) A word tree, what a great concept.
bouncin’ left
The banjaxed left arm has bounced me into new territory: even more respect for left handed people, since anyone doing anything with the left arm raises me up, and armless gymnastics.
Just as the arm settles and I think yaboodle it’s back, the smallest amount of weight and it issues a whole new protest.
Hier soir at my gymnastics session I had to convene with the somersault obsessed males (mainly snowboarders I think and martial arts) on the epic trampoline. Stuck between two of them banging on about positive thinking (guck) I let out my stream of pessimism between bouncing up to front somersault off the end into a crash mat. The lads were tremendous assuring me between every bounce that i was wrong so much so I had to invoke Barbara Ehrenrich (of Nickel and Dimed).
Next bouncer took his place central tramp station and emitted a spout that it’s the easiest thing in the world for an author to write a “gimmicky” book (not a direct quote, but something of that sentiment). I protested Barbara as far from what he suggested as he was from upright as he turned a sideways peculiar move.
And when I followed and took my turn in a moment of severe injustice, my brain derailed between a pike jump and a front somersault and I landed flat on me head…. to a chorus of that’s what you get for ….
I went on … I went on to set up for backward somersaults rolling off a vault, with no burble to accompany it, the move closer to preparing to go into out of space. My move.
in the trenches, down the mine, labouring
Working hard to prevent traditional structure from overthrowing the episodic patchwork in my current work in progress.
The constant threat of invasion is clear.
Requires a certain amount of inoculation, insulation, the way any small emerging nation would have to plant their hedgerows against the wind.