April. Glad to see the back of it

And the rest is silence.

Day 45 of squawking seagulls.  If I’d wanted to experience the seaside, I would have taken a hike along the local pier. Nine relentless hours of gulls crying over food spoils; clearly Winter wasn’t keen enough to kill off their numbers.

The crocuses came and went without a full bloom however the bloody dandelions were out by week one. 

April was a bleak month as we saw 16 dead in Humboldt, Saskatchewan. And this was followed by an investigation that seemed to take an extraordinary amount of time to determine cause and effect. One of the more profound images was that of a billet family’s memorial of three simple candles; unfortunately, one death was misidentified. The crash made international front pages and generated a multi-event support campaign. Token gestures of financial support? No, just over 15 million at last count.  Freelancer, Nora Lareto, questioned whether this support only came because the dead were white, male hockey players.  Quite frankly, I think she has a point.  We’d never see this kind of monetary support for other groups. Canada believes it is operating in a realm different to that of the US but we should not be so smug. Remember, too, the Paris terrorist attacks, the attack on Belgium.  Where were these people when Africa was under siege? Nowhere. I was pleased to see a surge in organ donation registration.  I only signed my card this past Winter and of course now I, will all due smugness, go around lecturing people on why they should sign their cards.

Further to Loreto's comments was a statement from Macleans which clearly illustrated that people were tip-toeing around the subject of both the crash victims and Indigenous issues.

We’d like to clarify that, contrary to misinformation being spread on social media, Nora Loreto has never been an employee of Maclean’s. She is a freelance writer who published one article on our website a few months ago. We had nothing to do with her extraordinarily inappropriate tweet regarding the Humboldt tragedy. We will have nothing else to say on this matter at the current time because we do not wish to distract from the tributes and grief being expressed on behalf of the victims of the accident, nor do we wish to feed into the torrent of abuse that Ms. Loreto has been subjected to since publishing her tweet.

Followed by a call for freedom of speech.  Murky depths.

YOU AND ME BOTH, ROBIN.

Gale-force winds and the threat of 30mm of rain marked the first part of the month . It is Spring only on paper. Hunkering down with hot drinks and a movie was the order of the day.  Started with AbFab, Season 3—with Idris Elba, of all people.  Elba meant nothing to me back in 1995 but put him in contention as the next Bond and it’s ‘remember when?’ time. And Season 3 marked another chance for a Will Self reference.

Hibernation featured a long list of movies including Bridget Jones’s Baby where we ask ourselves, has she had work done? Yes and we’ve fortunately forgotten about it. Zellweger once stated she would never have work done but has every right to change her mind. Imagine achieving the kind of recognition where the likes of People magazine book an interview and all they want to do is talk about plastic surgery.  Couldn’t remember if this was the third installment as the last time I watched a Bridget Jones, I nodded off thanks to a full day in the sun.  I was in company at the time and remember it being a complete bore.  Time has been kinder and as far as sequels go, this one worked.   And the next day, the latest Walrus arrived—Childless by Choice.  Ha!

Also opted for Alien IV with Fassbender and I was pleasantly surprised.  Good creep-out and ‘Oh. My. God.’ factors.  Avoid the dvd commentary. Ridley Scott offers plot points and not much else.

One of the better movie podcasts is Someone Else’s Movies hosted by Norm Wilner.  This month, I revisited Truly, Madly, Deeply—which Wilner could not bring himself to watch after the death of Alan Rickman—and Terry Gilliam’s Brazil.  I sat through Brazil looking for the bellows.  Pro-tip, they’re found in Ida’s funeral scene. From the podcast I learned that Gilliam released a “happily ever after” edit whereby Sam and his girlfriend live in perfect bliss which sounds like an abomination.

BRAZIL

TRULY, MADLY, DEEPLY

Re: the rest is silence.  Stratford actor, Rodrigo Beilfus recently had a lightning-bolt moment over Hamlet when he realized that rest means death and not everything else.

That is terribly profound and reminded me of the ending in Truly, Madly, Deeply where Rickman’s character says, “I think so”, in response to the ghosts. It took years to figure out that he was talking about Nina moving on.

Finally,The Piano was unearthed which lead straight into An Angel At My Table. Jane Campion is a genius.  Much attention paid during the podcast that Campion is back on her game.  Was she ever really off it? Harvey Keitel didn’t seem as over the top which was probably a sign of my aging and not having seen the film for ages.

THE PIANO
         

                                     

It was a truncated GritLit festival, this year—thanks to Mother N and a two-day ice storm.  GritLit 2018 was mired in controversy as it had originally scheduled a panel entitled, “Is CanLit a Raging Dumpster Fire?”, which was essentially the white, privileged person’s take on “Can Lit is a Raging Dumpster Fire” by Alicia Elliott; the piece based in part on the Steven Galloway controversy at UBC where –if I can encapsulate the fiasco—white, privileged writers came to Galloway’s defense—even in light of sexual harassment and assault allegations. Thus leading to a series of articles from Jonathan Kay, Christie Blatchford, and Elliot on cultural appropriation, white priviledge, rape culture, and so on. A sample of the articles from Elliot, Kay, and others, below.

DUMPSTER FIRE

IS THERE ROOM IN DIVERSITY FOR WHITE PEOPLE?

JONATHAN KAY ON CULTURAL APPROPRATION

WRITERS UNION--STATEMENT--Winning the Appropriation Prize

QUILLETTE--HOUNDING OF ANGIE ABDOU

It is indeed a murky pit.

The GritLit faux pas arose when two white authors were invited to discuss whether the Dumpster Fire was actually a thing—a most egregious error—in the words of artistic director, Jennifer Gilles, who appeared nervous--and I would say intimidated--by this formidable panel of Jael Richardson—artistic director of The FOLD—the Festival of Literary Diversity, Carrianne Leung—author and former Writer’s Union of Canada member, and Alicia Elliot herself—who looked like a 15 year old that had been dragged, kicking and screaming, to the event by an overzealous parent; who afterwards said she had not wanted to participate and would not participate in a panel of this kind for some time.  She blamed her depression and I would argue that if one is depressed, one should not be on a literary panel attempting to explain white privilege to a room full of white people.

Scan of my previous book purchased show 100% white authors; 2018 selection shows 43% white.

I headed out to catch Tanya Talaga speak about her book, Seven Fallen Feathers, which won the RBC Taylor Prize for Non-Fiction and tells the stories of seven indigenous high schoolers who died from misadventure.  Apart from supporting the book, fifty-percent of the session’s proceeds were going to charitable causes.  Talaga has donated a portion of her prize money--$1000 to each of the seven families for giving her their story and $4000 to Dennis Franklin Cromarty High School in Thunder Bay which goes to support students coming in from remote regions of Ontario—because the only high school is in Thunder Bay—and to help them survive the transition to high school in what seems to be yet another racist community.  I missed Thunder Bay—twice—on my cross-country run and caught only a gas station and Wendy’s heading West and the downtown-by-twilight on my return trip. The evening was an opportunity to learn more about the Treaty nations of northern Ontario and hear some perspectives of the lives of those living in remote regions. Looking forward to the read.

Questions were taken; the usual suspect was there—who comes to support only indigenous writers—even the pre-festival events—and he asked how it was possible to raise over 10 million dollars for the Humboldt bus-crash victims yet we still don’t have drinking water in Treaty territories.  The same gentleman appeared at the next CanLit event—the Dumpster panel—and asked the same question of the guests who refused to answer him.  In fact, the audience had been instructed to only ask questions.  Comments were not welcome and when one white woman did speak up to say she was seeing change and “Wasn’t this panel going to be called something else?” she was crucified on the spot.  However, Kerri Sakamoto (fellow presenter) had a few things to say—that were not in the form of a question—and the panel did not interject to ask, “What is your question?” as they had done previously and as I was tempted to do.

I never saw the lighter side of GritLit as an ice storm brewed late Saturday afternoon and by dinner hour the car was encased in ice. Andrea Bain was presenting Single Girl Problems, arguing being single is not something women have to defend.  At least we seem to be moving past 1958. I was hoping the book was going to be a comic take on a serious subject with plenty of clinical, evidence-based backup.  It is not. Turns out Bain is a day-time talk show host and seeing that she was on the same panel as Judy Rebick, I had an entirely other idea about Bain.

And I missed Jamie Tennant interviewing Ron Sexsmith and Tom Wilson.  I was relieved that Tennant was conducting the interview as he has the maturity and humour to do it justice.  Grit Lit is led by volunteers and previous hosts have been far too quiet and lacking in confidence to conduct a panel. All very nice people but when authors are doing international book promotion, I think they’d like to feel justified in taking time out to drive into Hamilton—and that there’s more than a tote-bag and a mug waiting for them at the other end. See Elyse Friedman and Heather O’Neil and that unfortunate, sparsely attended evening.

Not thrilled with Hamilton Plaza--the new permanent festival site. Compared with the Art Gallery of Hamilton, it is a sterile, beige, cubicle-like environment.

The ice-storm raged and we were left with a nightmare cleanup just in time for the morning commute.  Ploughs and graders—absent during the peak of the storm—appeared in tandem to fill driveways with two feet of wet, dense slush which froze solid in moments. I left mine so my neighbour wouldn’t be tempted to leave.  I don’t think anyone was psychologically prepared to once more don winter gear and drag ice picks and shovels to the curb.

Various people lamented the lack of spring-like weather but this is precisely what spring weather is: four seasons in one day.

To soothe the soul, I perused THE FRENCH LIFE, a French cooling blog who posted a photo of the most bizarre-looking Madelaines I’ve ever seen. Also recommending SO GOOD MAGAZINE for fabulous French pastry images.

Cheers to all independent bookshops. April 28 marked independent bookstore day and a reminder to think outside the Indigo box. Sadly, Nicholas Hoare and Bryan Prince bookshops are no longer with us.

Overdue for a return visit to both Parry Sound and Orillia.

Presently reading, Curry, by Nathan Rubnum.  

Marketing:  biggest god of all.

Spring Tide brought to Hamilton the one and only, Dougie Ford. Ford insists on channeling his late brother, Rob. Ford bowed out of various early debates and guest spots, insisting that Ford Nation loves him (and his brother) and that he has “nothing to worry about”. One less candidate to have to consider, but the frightening thing is, it could happen. Municipally, candidates are announcing their intention to run and I have only one thing to say:  term limits.

Coal Mine theatre concluded its fourth season with Category E, the blackest of comedies.  Coal Mine is once again proving it can do no wrong.  The play is at once deeply disturbing and funny with a fabulous cast that includes Robert Persichini who has a lovely speaking voice and strikes just the right tone when delivering his lines--whether in moments of joy or rage. I’m told I missed a hell of a Christmas concert with the note for note performance of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. And for the first time, I ventured to the back of the theatre to use the one wc.  I was pleasantly surprised.

Note to all patrons:  please reconsider that hair bun. Ask yourself if piling hair on top of your head—thus making  you a foot taller—is really appropriate in a theatre setting. Consider those around you, please. I think my seat could have been classified obstructed seating. 

Critical these days is where to get coffee now that we are supposed to be boycotting both Horton’s and Starbucks.  Reasons can be found here STARBUCKS BOYCOTT and here FAIR WAGES + TIM HORTONS.

Two minutes! That’s the amount of time the two gentlemen were in Starbuck’s before the clerk called the cops. I opted for Balzac’s and people-watched for half an hour.  It is challenging getting a table in Balzac’s as there is usually one person to a table feverishly keying a laptop, nursing that one cup of coffee, cell phone firmly grasped in the other hand.

Carnage again with ten pedestrians mowed down in Toronto while out for a stroll on a brilliant afternoon.  This time the coroner took their time identifying everyone so as not to repeat the Humboldt mis-identification. People were only too relieved to find out that the murderer was a white, Christian male.  Various right-wing media outlets dispatched their reporters to add fuel to the fire by speculating on political and religious views. Katie Hopkins—dubbed by the UK as the ‘biggest bitch in Britain’--and now with Rebel Media—could be found on the streets spewing racist venom. Go away, please.

Admin Day passed unobserved. I take two approaches. 

One:

Two:

One colleague sent around a cheery, albeit late 'Celebrate!' at 16:30 but otherwise it was heads down.  Same reaction on Women's Day--zero response from any female. Well that's that.

April concluded with some good news:  Polish women made progress marching again for their human rights. And when the Polish RALLY, they rally. And FORCILLO was heading back to jail. Next time look to the bus driver, who calmly got everyone off the bus, calmly spoke with Yatim, and then got himself off the bus. Next time, try de-escalation tactics.

The madness of The Madness of George III.

A rose of a performance hidden by the vines.

Sunday marked my second visit to Shaw Fest 2017, this time to see the much-anticipated Madness of King George III by Alan Bennett. This is the first season under the artistic direction of Tim Carroll who is on some kind of mission to completely erase any trace of former director, Jackie Maxwell.

We are going through a period of overindulgence.  It starts innocently enough by staging a 19th century costume drama in the present day. I'm good with that. However, let us not discuss the modern staging of Macbeth--Africa at Stratford Festival. We then bring characters on stage to interact with the audience while they take their seats followed by audience participation and before you know it, the house lights are up for 2:45 hours and you're paying more attention to the on-stage audience than to the actors.

In describing the new season's philosophy, Carroll uses the analogy of a garden, giving full license to directors to express this philosophy and continue throughout the season to revisit the play and see how things evolve (grow). As one reviewer noted, very few of us are likely to see a play twice in one season.  And isn't the purpose of previews to iron out the kinks? Isn't that why we have preview pricing?

Sadly, this production has evolved into a panto. Panto is at best ludicrous comedy, frivolous farce, and ramshackle antics.  All descriptions found in the following reviews.

Nestruck at The Globe and Mail

Smith at The Hamilton Spectator

Over-staging detracts from the fine performances given Sunday night in particular McCamus' king. McCamus is good as is Mezon and McManus--three of my favourites. What were they thinking when Mr. Kevin Bennett laid out his ideas for the show?

Alan Bennett's words require minimal staging. A reading of George III was performed at Stratford years ago.  No costumes, no lights, no bloated production.

I do welcome cast and creative introducing the shows this season.  For most of us, the people in black are a mystery; it's nice to see fresh faces and get their perspective.  And it's a good idea to go beyond the playbill although Shaw Fest does produce a comprehensive playbill. How cosy do we want to get, though?

I do not pay for the privilege of seeing actors (and I hear Withnail here) reduced to prancing around the stage having to endure three costume changes in under a minute. I kept coming back to the movie where George's decline was allowed to unfold with grace.

I should be fully engrossed in the performance in front of me. Keeping the house lights on all night merely encourages people to read programs and examine their feet throughout the evening. Just like the people on either side of me. It really messes with the peripherals.

Good rule of thumb: don’t take off your shoes and play with your feet, good people.

More on the rules to come.

Let's see what Shaw Fest does with An Octoroon.  Until September.

**Coming up--The Stratford Cure**

Middlemarch, again.

After a less than auspicious start to January 1--dry toast, water, and a nap--the new year finally got going around 15:00 with a gin and tonic and the ubiquitous shrimp ring. Ah, the perennial appeal of soggy shrimp and having to wrestle the meat out from its tail. Commitments were made to cut down not only on shrimp, but pastry and potatoes.  Wine is not on the cut list.  Hauled out a copy of Bridget Jones' Diary and relived Xmas all over. The Full Monty breakfast will have to wait.

January 2 was overcast and we braced for the Tuesday reality check.  This time it was the ubiquitous pan of French toast.  Portion sizes discussed again.  I read Thuet--foie gras, truffles, and sea urchin.  Hauled out a copy of Belly of an Architect--a man obsessed with his digestive tract. Look what happened to him.

Like New Year, the workweek started on a low note--rain, thick fog, grunts of good morning.  There should be a code of conduct for first day--nay, week--back.  Civility in all its forms. I don't expect a "happy new year" but let's start with good morning. It would help if we all drank coffee.  Day two of The Purge.  Where is my copy of Apartment Therapy?

Kippered salmon is a fine way to start a Wednesday.  Enjoying the fact that everywhere but Hamilton was experiencing (-28C). Vancouver chastised for having another kind of meltdown.  Near riots in the street because Winter arrived unannounced.  Excitement in the office space as the radiators were left on overnight and the building was warm for a change.

A relapse was inevitable what with early starts and a bloody freezing Wednesday night. Frustrated that we haven't seen a shift from 7:52 to 7:51 sunrise.  The sun appeared in brief and then darkness descended.  Chicken soup, day four.  Mood further lowered by finding Trump splashed across the centre pages of the Globe and Mail, again.

Sun by week's end--portending a good weekend--and more cold temps.  For the first time in five weeks, there was nothing but housekeeping to do.  Shopped for a winter dress and found exactly what I wanted.  However, it was Ivanka and had to leave it on the rack on principle. Other shoppers pointed to the Ivanka wares in jest; nobody was buying. Hauled out a copy of When Harry Met Sally which I hadn't seen in at least ten years. Was in Grade 12 when this was last in theatres. Much ado about Ms. Fisher.

Sunny today and a motivator to exercise and tackle the housekeeping.  However there is no shame in taking a leisurely Sunday. My Catholic neighbours chastise me for performing any labour on his day. There is no tree to take down this year.  Last year's tree wasn't taken down until mid-March. I'm okay with this.  We shall borrow, once again, from the Orthodox and officially celebrate the New Year with them.  It's not New Year's without a Full Monty.

At time of writing, CBC Sunday was in New Year mode:  mindfulness, no information snacks, and book clubs via the telephone. Positivity in an age of Trump. Middlemarch came up.  Like most of us, I was introduced to Middlemarch via PBS.  Reading the novel was a whole other story. What a labour! And why do we feel we have to read the classics? What of all the other books on the shelves? I agree with the head of libraries for Thunder Bay, John Pateman--let the public decide what stays on the shelves.  Although the snob in me says we should aim higher than Dan Brown. I've read Rebecca Mead's take on Middlemarch and feel it's time to revisit Eliot.  With David MacFarlane always in mind--do one thing at a time(did he ever stick to his plan?)this daunting task may yet be achieved. There are only so many to-be-read-piles one can have laying about the house. Purge the shelves of unread books! Just don't call it a resolution or else it probably won't get done.

Tour of the Neighbourhood-Jamesville, Hamilton

 

After an exhausting week,  I slept through Art Crawl so made up for it by taking in a mini crawl of my own the next day.  The weather breaks and pansies appear.  Nice to see flower boxes appearing along the street.

 

 

 

First stop was McCartney and Son where they have added a line of organic ice cream to the menu.  Went with ginger and chai. Delicious.  Took refuge in the park which afforded a fine view of men in kilts; a wedding was in full swing and the bagpipes provided a pleasant soundtrack. Not a fan of the pipes?

 

 

 

 

My quest for seven inch cake tins took me to Chris' Store Fixtures.  Browsers paradise.

 

 

 

 

Christ Church Anglican where the Toronto Mendelssohn Choir were in town.  Lovely voices.

 

 



 

Very Anne Tyler...

Old painted signage.

 

 

The Futbale Club

 

 

Then on to Charred for Matzah Ball soup. Very fragrant, nicely seasoned.



 

 

And no meal would be complete without a Paleta.  This time it's chocolate almond. 

 

 

More street art...

 

 

 

 

 

 

James St.

The Federal Building

Federal Building-detail

The Hydro Building

Hydro Building II

 

James Street-a little TLC required.

If we could do something about the fire escape...

 

 

To the core where the soundtrack changed to the clarinet.  Still battling this eyesore...

 

 

 

The Bell Building

Whitehearn

 

Back to the Prairie. Saskatoon Bound. Day 8

Destination:  Saskatoon
Book:  Last Picture Show-Larry McMurty (as yet unread)
Film:  The Reflecting Skin
Daily km:  611
Caffeine & sugar units:  7
Soundtrack:  ABBA, Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan, Pink Floyd

The government of Alberta thanks you for your stay with two levies including a four percent Alberta Tourism fee.  Thank-you very much.  I will not miss rolling into a vast chasm every night and my comment card reflected my distress over the mattresses.  It is difficult to do a province justice in four days.  As stated earlier, this was merely a reconnaissance trip and I was looking forward to the quiet again.  Vacations shouldn’t be dominated by traffic (nor by rain). 

Steady drizzle along the route.

Drumheller-Dinosaur Country.  Unfortunately not enough time to visit the Tyrell museum.  Up at the lookout, the major attraction was a little burrowing prairie dog.  Everyone had cameras at the ready as they thought it was a chipmunk. 

Poked about on various abandoned farms.

Cereal.  An old train stop; now museum.  The railway tracks have long disappeared and the motels are closing one by one.  Would like to see a walking trail established along the old tracks (and revitalization of the Mom & Pop motel).

Up Highway #16 through Kindersley which I only know about because of a Foodie Pen Pal exchange.  I was on the lookout for the truffle shop, but, it was too late in the day. Kindersley is thriving hotel-wise.  It must serve as a way station for travellers-one chain hotel after another.

Lots of abandoned farmyards; enjoyed the car which put me in mind of The Reflecting Skin. Vampires on the prairie or a car load of thugs with a taste for murder? Remember it primarily for the brilliant sunshine, wheat fields and the quiet.

As you travel along, the road takes on a yellow brick road quality-narrow and winding and in the distance what appears to be the Land of Oz.  Turns out to be grain elevators; the grain trucks off loading late into the evening.

Gassed up in Rosetown; the last refuge before you hit the home stretch to Saskatoon. At the next pump, a young man tried to get the engine turned over.  Suddenly we were back in Anarene of Last Picture Show fame; here the theatre had long since closed and there was nothing but a gas stop for miles. The truck looked like it might even have been Sonny’s vehicle.

Rolled into Saskatoon at 9PM.  No wrong turns; hotel just a few minutes off the highway. At last, a king sized bed.  I turned to the comfort of tinned soup and a little cable tv(not to mention a few leftover Lindt truffles).

 

Until next time.  Exploring Saskatoon.