my tragic right hip

I had picked up Ami McKay’s The Birth House a while ago, read the prologue and decided that it might not be the book for me (I thought the prose might be just a tad overwrought). But after hearing such good things about the book from, well, just about everywhere, happily, I gave it another chance and ended up quite enjoying the novel.

The book tells the story of Dora Rare, the only woman born in generations of boys, who grows up in Scots Bay, Nova Scotia around the time of the First World War. Taken under the wing of Miss B., a local legendary healer, Dora becomes a midwife. Much of the conflict in the book revolves around the arrival of a Dr. Gilbert Thomas, an obstetrician determined to take the ‘pain’ out of birth at his new hospital, and an almost metaphorical battle of the sexes erupts as the women hold on to their own traditions.

It’s almost a folkart piece of fiction, with newspaper clippings, letters, journal entries and remedies intertwined with the story itself. McKay’s voice, as Joan Clark points out on the cover, is “fresh as a loaf of bread,” and I’d have to agree.

So it looks like I’m getting to finish a book every other day, slightly off my original goals, but I’m doing all right. My wish is to make it to 30 or so before I have to back to work on Monday!

I’m not sure if I’ve fully digested my thoughts about Brokeback Mountain. It’s hard to separate what I think from all of the hype surrounding the movie, especially the controversy it caused on Oscar night when it didn’t win the coveted Best Picture trophy. In all honesty, it’s a touching, luscious film, a true love story that compliments the gorgeous scenery and sparcity of dialogue. But Jewel aside, I might have to say that I liked Ride with the Devil better (please don’t throw anything at me), but I can’t really put my finger on why. Maybe it’s because I like Tobey’s brooding slightly better than Jake Gyllenhaal’s, but who knows. In the end, it’s kind of irrelevant anyway.

There was slight movie of the week feeling about the film, which I normally enjoy; it mainly came up in terms of how much the characters had to age, and it’s hard, when they’re all so young to begin with, that I didn’t find it believable (Anne Hathaway’s wigs, ouch). The performances were exceptional, and I remember reading an article way back in the day about Leaving Las Vegas, about how the Oscar should go to career-worthy performances, performances of a lifetime (the writer was talking about Elisabeth Shue), and I kind of think that refers to Heath Ledger in this film.

All in all, I loved Annie Proulx’s short story and I loved the aching feeling throughout the film of how love tortures as much as it fulfills. And I can’t help thinking that it’s a groundbreaking film simply in how it approaches the idea of a love story, honest and real, without making any judgments. I think that’s totally liberating, if that’s okay for me to say.

But was it better than Crash? Absolutely.

Oh, and Randy Quaid? With your, um, seven or eight lines of dialogue, and one or two scenes with a horse, shut the hell up.

So it seems that every time I see a doctor these days, it results in more tests and more appointments. It’s the health challenge that’s for sure. Yesterday, I saw the eye doctor, which completes my round of health-related visits for now, and knocks #16 off the list. I’ve still got to see the osteopath, but that’s only because he didn’t have any appointments for the time I had off.

Annnywaaay, apparently, the prednisone is causing me to have abnormal eye pressure. In short, it was normal the last time I saw the eye doctor and totally abnormal now, which means I’ve got to go get a visual field test done. Then, I need to see the eye doctor again in three months to be sure that once they’ve weaned me off the prednisone that my eye pressure returns to normal. Or else? Well, I could end up having some sort of permanent optic nerve damage. Fun wow!

I also got my prescription for health from the naturopath yesterday. It’s a lot of supplements for the next three months, which I hate because I’m sick, sick, sick to death of taking pills. I’ve also got an immune stabilizing tincture to take and a homeopathic remedy that I do once a week for six weeks. It’s pretty crazy, actually.

So I’m ready for work on Monday (really?), I’ll have new glasses (if I can get them tomorrow), a new haircut, some new clothes, lots of good remedies for rest and stuff, and a whole health plan to finally kick the ass of the disease instead of the other way around.

In the end, I’m thankful for the time off, so I guess it was good that my blood went missing, but I’m even happier that I’m feeling better because it simply couldn’t have gone on like that forever.

Truman Capote’s masterpiece has most certainly held the test of time. In stark contrast to the solipsism of the film, where Capote’s own obsession with the story of the Clutter murders in Kansas in the late 1950s almost drove him to utter madness (at least that was my impression), In Cold Blood remarkably and deftly tells the tale with an omniscient third person voice that remains almost authorless.

Of course, Capote’s long-winded, aptly rich prose remains his own, but the idea of the “nonfiction novel” so cherished as a new format in the film, demands a point of view that approaches journalism, but it doesn’t necessarily step into Good Night, Good Luck territory (“we report the news, we don’t make the news”).

That’s the greatest achievement of the book I think, of how Capote manages to truly and precisely tell the story, make it his own, but be absolutely clear in his distanced point of view. The book would not have succeeded had Capote’s own neurosis, his obsession with Perry Smith, or his quest for greatness been anywhere near the story. And I guess that’s why the film marks such a diversion from the pure voice of the book.

I think that’s what amazed me most of all on my second reading of the book, how different the film presents Capote vs. how in control of the narrative he remains all through the book. I loved it the first time I read it almost ten years ago; I loved it again now.

I’ve fallen behind…I’m in the middle of In Cold Blood and it’s a dense book that’s taking me some time to read. I became kind of obsessed with re-reading the book after seeing Capote. But I should be done today. I’ve got lots of time on the streetcar this morning heading off to see the naturopath once more before I go back to work on Monday.

So I’ve seen a number of films over the past few days but I’ve sincerely limited my time in front of the television, which is good…

On Monday I watched Inside Man (#6). Spike Lee is one of my favourite filmmakers, Crooklyn one of my favourite films, so I’ll pretty much watch anything he makes with the exception of the abysmally reviewed She Hate Me. The trailer looked great but it sort of belies the film a bit; you get the impression that it’s all about action, when it’s more of a film noir take on the traditional heist movie. Denzel’s excellent, but there’s a silly subplot that involves his girlfriend/lover that didn’t need to be there that kind of weakens his character. My favourite though? Well, besides the always impeccable Clive Owen and Jodie Foster, Chiwetel Ejiofor, who he plays Denzel’s partner. As two hostage cops sent to deal with a bank robbery (run by Owen) that doesn’t end up being what it looks like, Ejiofor and Washington are old-school cops in an age of big money and even bigger regrets. The film was a bit too long but it was okay for a Monday afternoon.

On Tuesday, I watched two films (I know I’m sorry!) but I’d been so good up until then and I was so tired and not feeling well after seeing the super-fancy disease doctor that I baked out in front of the tube.

Happy Endings (#7) is an indie film with shockingly good performances by everyone in the extremely large cast. The multiple storylines in the film hold together well, and leave you with a good sense of wanting to know how they all come into one by the end. I really liked this movie a lot, and even came out of it with a bit of a crush on Tom Arnold. Honestly. I’m not kidding.

The Assassination of Richard Nixon (#8). I’d been wanting to see this film for a long time after reading EW’s excellent review. Based on the life of Sam Bicke, a somewhat unassuming fellow whose life falls apart inch by inch turning him into a man whose only goal seems to make a point. He can’t hold down a job, his marriage has fallen apart, and he can’t let anything go, and it’s this incessant longing for respect (for what really, because Sam doesn’t really do anything to deserve it) that pushes him toward a violent and upsetting act of terrorism. Sean Penn’s wonderful, as per usual, but he tended to drop a bit into I Am Sam territory with some of Bicke’s mannerisms.

But now I’ve got about a million shows on the Faux-vo to get caught up with so I might be movieless for a while!

No exact date, Queen’s University, 1991.

Sometimes I feel relieved. Free here from stress. Free from the burdens of my intrinsic life [what exactly does that mean?]. Emotions really take you for a ride [um, yeah, cliche much?]. Maybe it’s better not to get involved. “I laughed.” Everyone always says that when they are despondent. Plato hated the body for this very reason [good to know I’ve got such a solid handle on Plato, wha?]. It’s constantly betraying the soul. Laughs at our emotions because they always seem to get the best of us. They laugh, cry, scream, and hurt more than physical pain can ever imagine.

***

And thus ends Ragdoll’s slightly-post teenage take on the power of emotions within the body and its inevitably duality. Do you think I missed my calling as a philosopher? This stuff is cracking me up.

October 15, 1991.

[Queen’s University, Kingston]

I am drowning in a sea of baseball caps and buttheads. There is no escape. I’m being engulfed and swallowed in the swarming mass. People here are identical messes reaching blindly for the same goal of acceptance. Lost in the comatose world of the university. Mr. Bones [note: I have no idea who I’m referring to here, I can only assume it’s my high school boyfriend, Mike] is my escape. No one is changing at least the rabbit isn’t alone [what freaking rabbit?]. Our friend has just juxtaposed from one stifling situation to another. I am an amicable distaste for them. I am not one of them. Nor will I ever be so. Destitute. Life is desiring more, much more than here will ever be able to give me.

I think I must look lonely because people are always giving me that pitying look. You poor tired soul. The others look at me as a big loser. Stinking, smelling, foul mouthed f*cking loser. Through this I can accept myself. Take advantage of the institution. Don’t let it drown me, but float through. Numb, futile and unacceptable. What is acceptance? Talking to buttheads about a great f*ck or a memorable night of boozing. Not my scene. I need to take pride in my solitude. STOP RUNNING [yes, I actually wrote this in all caps]. Learn, expand and engulf. Not let it engulf me. I will be the winner. And I will be accepted. I can feel it’s already begun. What they don’t know is I’ll reject them flat on their f*cking privileged asses.

***

Good lord. Do you think I took myself a little too seriously in my first months of university. And perhaps I was maybe reading a bit too much Henry Miller. HA!

I might need to think up a new title…

Annnywaaay. The anemia has cleared up, which means they’ve sort of found my blood (yay!). I’m also cleared to go back to work on Monday (which is good because I’m getting a bit bored of being by myself so much). However, the disease situation remains the same. The fatigue, the achy joints, the kidney involvement, the sinus infection, it’s all unchanged. In fact, it’s pretty much the same as I was feeling six, eight months ago. The only difference being they’re still not sure how to treat me. So, we go around the bend again, more tests, and I see him in a month. That’s when I guess they’ll decide which super-fancy drug to put me on to battle the Wegener’s.

Until then, I’ve got to go for a bone density test and an MRI because my other hip, not the tragic one, has been hurting and they’re worried about avascular necrosis. Now wouldn’t that be a fun complication? My body just seems to be rejecting the drugs at every single turn.

Oh, and he’s given me three weeks worth of antibiotics to take, which should be fun…but maybe, at least maybe, it’ll clear up my stupid sinus headaches. It’s a never-ending cycle it seems. The more confused they are about me, the more confused I am about knowing what’s going on…

David Liss is hardly a household name, but I think maybe he should be. I’ve read three of his books now, and I’ve sincerely enjoyed each one. The first, The Coffee Trader, I found fascinating because of all the historical information, but it was also about the early days of the stock market, which isn’t as boring as it might sound. The next, A Conspiracy of Paper, was also good, but not as engaging as The Coffee Trader. Liss’s latest book The Ethical Assassin, isn’t an historical novel per se (it’s set in Florida in the early 1980s, which is not contemporary but not the 17th century either), but it’s a great read regardless.

The Ethical Assassin tells the story of Lem Altick, a teenaged door-to-door encyclopedia salesman, who happens to be at the wrong place at the wrong time while trying to raise enough money to go to Columbia. Lem gets mixed up in the middle of a drug operation, witnesses two people being murdered by the so-called ethical assassin, and winds up on a rollicking adventure that inevitably leads to more crime, redemption and a new girlfriend. I guess you can call it a coming of age tale, a sort of buldingsroman wrapped up in a noir-ish crime novel. But it’s also funny and suspenseful (Liss does that whole end the chapter on a ‘dum-dum-dum’ note that Dan Brown should patent), and really well written.

While the book is mainly about Lem and his dealings with this ethical assassin, Liss manages to incorporate a number of interesting themes in the novel. Crooked cops, backwater crime and the typical bullies aside, the reasons behind the crime behind the crime (the murders) are all tied in some way to animal rights, and Liss is very adept at weaving the socio-political philosophy into the story in an interesting and not remotely pedantic way. All in all I really enjoyed this book, as I have been with many of the more serious (read, non-chicklit) books I’ve been plugging through.

I’m back on the Book A Day track now. And seeing as I’m spending the better part of the next three days at various different doctors’s appointments (super-fancy disease doctor, family doctor, eye doctor, naturopath), hopefully I’ll be able to get a lot of reading done.