my tragic right hip

Heh.

I picked up Emma Donoghue‘s Life Mask on a whim one day before seeing a movie a few months back. I had read Slammerkin after reading about how much everyone on Chicklit loved it, and remembered how much I enjoyed it. (I had read it deep into the night, and there’s a wickedly fun twist in the middle that made me gasp out loud, and I was by myself because the RRBF was on tour). But not knowing anything about this latest novel, I bought it on a whim.

Much to my surprise, it’s a completely different novel about the British artistocracy during the period of 1787-1797. In particular, it’s about three members of ‘the World’, the Beau Monde, whose lives are tied together by friendship, scandal and society.

The novel follows the lives of Eliza Farren, an actress who eventually marries the Earl of Derby after a courtship that lasts almost two decades (see, he’s waiting for his unfaithful wife to die, how cruel society was then, how cruel!), the aforementioned Earl of Derby and Anne Damer, a sculptor who dogged the gossip of being a Sapphist for much of her adult life. The human story is set against the backdrop of the political unrest of the time, the French Revolution, and the changes to both society and the social order.

It’s a complex book that manages the history, story and politics extremely well, creating this fictional world out of real events and real people. And I really liked how it was set too within the world of the theatre, creating yet another layer of to the metaphorical idea of this ‘Beau Monde’ all of these characters exist within.

Way back in university, I had taken a class in Restoration literature, and I remember the teacher outlining a basic day for members of the upper classes: they would sleep to well into the afternoon, get up, eat a sticky bun, get dressed, pay their calls and then go to the theatre. I love the intimate details of Donoghue’s book, how it brings to life that very scenario, but also casts it into a fresh understanding in terms of our own obsession with celebrity in this day and age. Add to it the civil unrest of the time, the political potboilers between the Torys and the Whigs, and it makes for a fascinating read. It’s a bit hard to keep all the Ladys and Lords straight, but I still get a thrill from it all, considering it’s one of my favourite periods of British history to read about.

What’s next? I’ve got a number of things on my to read list to try to get to before the end of the year—I hope to make it to 75, but with only four weeks left to do it in, and with re-writes and final drafts on my next two abridgements to get through, it’s not looking likely. It looks like Stephen King will win again, damn him!

So my RRBF was singing an old Pogues song this morning, “Dirty Old Town,” and asked if I had the record around, which I don’t. But I remembered the song from a tape an old high school boyfriend made for me years and years ago, after he had written out the words to “Bottle of Smoke” on a jean jacket, after we had broken up, gotten back together, broken up and gotten back together again. Another song on that tape, “A Rainy Night in Soho,” was one of my all-time favourites the year between high school and university, when I was sick with the Wegener’s for the very first time.

“You’re the measure of my dreams,” Shane sings, “The measure of my dreams.”

And I’m glad I still know the words, and thank you iTunes for having the very song I want to listen to at the very moment I’m feeling sentimental for old boyfriends and days when I still cared about what was written on the back of my jean jacket.

The RRBF had a good show last night in Guelph, and his Now magazine cover is on newsstands today. Also, what might just be the sweetest thing he’s ever said is now here on TorontoLife.com.

The lion inside me
roars mute, quiet to
the outside world

A victim of my
misplaced sun sign,
born perhaps a month too late

A victim of my
constant craving for
warmer weather

Summer in the city
feels foreign
hot pavement aches underfoot

I long to be
beside the lake,
feet dangling

Sweat melting all
signs of sunscreen,
hearing your car

Drive up the road
butterflies everywhere
including my stomach

It’s been a long year
long road, from
childhood to now

Where I still fit
on your lap
in your heart

At least for now
until we leave
summer vacation

Spent, like the last
few dollars
in my wallet.

We don’t fit
in places with
hot pavement

I roar up north
rip my clothes off
during a thunderstorm

Let loose that lion
that privilege of my birth
for you to hear the roar

My friend Kate just started a really cool blog. She’s brave enough to put her poetry right out there for comments, throwing it to the virtual wind and seeing what it catches. So I’m going to copycat her and post a new poem up here on Wednesdays. Considering I’ve only written about a dozen poems, I can’t do it every day. So here you go (see next post), please keep in mind that this poem was just rejected by Contemporary Verse 2. Bastards!

Ah, what fun the mail brings! In this cyber-centric world, I’m always impressed when I get exciting mail. Two things came this week: 1) the new issue of Taddle Creek, the one with my poem in it; and 2) my advance copies of Frankenstein and Robinson Crusoe, which look amazing. They go on sale March 28, so mark your calendars now—just kidding. Kind of. They’d be perfect Easter presents, come on! Support the arts! Support the artist!

There comes a point in any sick girl’s day where she’s entirely sick (ha ha) of a) taking medicine and b) having tests. This point comes very soon after a burly woman of Eastern European descent pokes, pulls and prods her, leaving bruises all over her chest, during an echo cardiogram (which is an ultrasound people, an ultrasound—there’s no need for bruises, no need!).

Entirely tired of bringing along a book to read in waiting rooms while waiting for a doctor. Entirely tired of seeing a puffy, pimply face. Entirely tired of being so bloody tired. Entirely tired of watching daytime television, even for a moment (with the exception of Ellen dancing, that’s always fun).

Ah, but the end is in sight. The great prednisone countdown of 2005 has begun. As of tomorrow I’ve only got two weeks left on the evil drug. Whee-hoo! Now that deserves a bit of ass shaking and some high kicks!

Sooo, I’m so out of it that I’ve been reading way, way too much celebrity gossip. How do I know this? I just had a short conversation with an old friend via IM and this is what I said:

Ahren says:
which med is causing all the grief…the 3 weeker or the 6 monther?

ragdoll says:
the three weeker

ragdoll says:
it’s the tara reid to the paris hilton

Yes, the prednisone is the bad fake-breasted, falling down drunk, low-rent version of the meds I’m taking right now. I am going straight to hell.

Now that I’ve added a cold to the ever-growing list of ailments, I’m starting to get seriously peeved at the number of things I’m missing being stuck in the prison of ill-health otherwise known as my house.

1. The Lowest of the Low Goodbye Shows at the Horseshoe. I spent so much of my youth seeing this band, and one of the first post-high school rock shows I went to with my then friend, now RRBF, was the Low. So many memories. So crappy that I was stuck at home blowing my nose into kleenex.

2. Going to the movies. I want to see Harry Potter, Walk the Line, Rent and so many more—but I can’t. Because I can’t leave the house. Because I’m sick. AGAIN.

3. Holiday shopping. ‘Tis the season and we’ve got a new niece who needs Christmas presents. Grrr.

4. Dinners with friends, old-fashioned drink-ups, catching up over a pint, basically being social beyond email and instant messenger. I’m sick, tired and lonely.

5. Looking good while leaving the house for trips other than to the doctor. Which I haven’t done all week really. Oh, and the RRBF keeps laughing at me and saying things like, “It’s okay honey, I know what you’re supposed to look like.”