#46 – The Matter With Morris

After what feels like years, I am finally coming to the end of my shelf of Bs. David Bergen’s The Matter with Morris was a particular stumbling block. Not that I have to “relate” to the characters in a book in order to enjoy reading a novel. But in this case, Morris, a middle-aged man suffering a through a life crisis after the death of his only son, Martin, was a character I felt was almost impenetrable to me as a reader. Maybe that’s too severe of a word, “impenetrable.” Maybe it was more that I really couldn’t find a way into him–I understood his suffering. I felt his pain, intensely. I can’t even imagine what it would be like for a pacifist to lose their child in the most tragic of ways (he was shot by friendly fire; a mistake by one of the men on his own patrol, so senseless). I can’t even imagine how that would rip a family apart, as it does Morris’s. Yet, it still took me probably close to eight different tries to finish reading this novel.

Let me digress for a moment: I think, personally, that David Bergen is among this country’s finest, finest writers. His novel, The Retreat, is one of the best books I read last year while on mat leave. He has a gentle, yet direct writing style that I admire. He has an ability to add emotional weight to characters and situations that manages to both move the story forward but also keep resonating with the reader–that’s an impressive skill. There were moments of exceptional writing in The Matter with Morris. But, still, that didn’t get me passed feeling Morris, as a character, fell kind of flat for me, and I think it’s because I just couldn’t relate to him. Yes, I understand the tragic, shocking reaction to his son’s death. Yes, I completely see the impetus for Bergen to want to write the emotional side of what’s been occupying the front pages of our newspapers for years. Yes, Morris was a rich, deeply troubled, quite fascinating character. Yet, I just didn’t get him. That is wholly a fault of mine and not a fault of the author’s–let’s be clear.

On the whole, I don’t know why I find emotional breakdown-type stories of the “midlife crisis” kind so, well, frustrating. There’s elements of cliche to what Morris goes through, he falls for a younger woman (who happens to be a sex worker); he wants to ‘exit’ from society by removing all of his life savings from the bank and loading them up in a safe; he’s alienated by his children for his boorish behaviour. Bergen’s writing elevates all of this to a level that would encumber lesser writers, and there were sections where the book had me in its clutches, but then Morris would do something so frustrating that I’d be lost again.

Regardless, I’m pleased that it’s up for the IMPAC this year. I think anything to get people reading ANY books by David Bergen is a good thing because, like I said above, he’s one of our greatest treasures.

Living With WG, Part 1584258


It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve written about living with the disease. As I saw the SFDD this morning, it might be good to work it out a little bit here. Having the RRBB did such a number on my body that I am barely recovered even now, 19 months later. I’m still actively fighting the flare that resulted from the later stages of pregnancy and it was the most severe one I have had since being diagnosed with the Wegener’s all those years ago. There’s never wholly good news from the doctor, and there’s never wholly bad news either. The good comes in the form of my lab work, which is really very stable. I’ve lost another 1/3 of my kidney function as a result of all of this, but that we’re on steady ground (and it’s not rising up up up), is a good thing. There’s protein being spilled, but it’s actually better now than it was three years ago, so that’s something, and there’s zero blood in my urine (gross, I know), which is another marker that there’s probably little to no disease in my actual organ. See, good news. The rest of my bloodwork is okay, I’m anemic, but that won’t improve because of my kidneys, but, on the whole, it’s a very stable picture. See, good news. Continue reading “Living With WG, Part 1584258”

Busted on the Bloor Line: One Half of a Whole

There are so many unexpected surprises of parenthood. One aspect that I never truly understood until the RRBB came, well, out of me, was how much he feels a part of me. I know there’s a very real line that separates him from me–and entire person, in fact, his entire person, but sometimes I can’t really see where I stop and he begins. There was a funny line in a Laura Lippman novel I recently read about a single mum worrying about scarring her child for life by him accidentally and then sometimes on purpose seeing her in the bathroom. Goodness, I thought when I read that, RRBB’s probably already mortified because he’s in the bathroom with us all the time. When at home and he’s awake, I never eat a meal without a baby on my lap. He’s starting holding our finger with his tiny hand as we walk around as a habit. And as much as he likes to assert his independence, it usually ends up with a crash, a bash and a fall, and he’s in my arms again.

This weekend at the death-trap otherwise known as the cottage, the RRBB fell off of a deck onto a lower deck. It was the most scared I have ever been in my life. I was a step away. Just far enough that I wasn’t there in time to catch him, and just close enough that I was horrified to watch it happen. It wasn’t the first accident he’s had–like I keep saying, he’s an intrepid little fellow–and I’m sure it won’t be the last. But to see your child topple off something at least twice his height, well, the response is immediate, aching, and utterly emotional. There’s no thought. You scream. You run. You pick him up. You access whether or not he’s injured (he was fine; amazingly). And then you realize how much instinct is involved in everyday life. And then, the guilt descends, almost immediately. I’ve been replaying the fall in my end on a ceaseless loop for the last few days. The RRBB is his usual go-go-go self, he seems no worse for wear, and was actually scaling a playground two days after the fall like it was no biggie, with me, panting along behind him in fear of him tumbling again.

Therein lies the difference between parent and child. Okay, the many differences–he feels safe and secure, all the time and is utterly shocked when something happens when he’s not. I am constantly terrified for his safety and even when you are vigilant, which we are, accidents still occur. But that deep, deep feeling of “OMG OMG OMG!” when he fell was beyond emotions for me. I was all reaction, no thought, there was not a calm bone in my body. I know it’s not an easy age, for him either, he wants to go, to move, to jump, and just assumes the world, and his parents, will be there to catch him. I suppose, in a terrifically metaphorical way, his fall is simply preparing both of us for what’s to come–that I won’t always be there for him, that he’s an utterly separate person from me, as hard as that is for me to admit, and that he’ll soon be big enough to toddle through the world without my hands in his. I just wish all of the growing didn’t have to be so very painful.

#44 – And When She Was Good

My admiration for Laura Lippman (the book cover isn’t final yet…) knows no bounds. I think she’s marvelously talented. She writes great commercial fiction with a woman’s edge  that contain undercurrents of social and political issues. In her forthcoming, And When She Was Good (out in August), Lippman’s protagonist Helen Lewis (aka Heloise) is a suburban madam looking for a way out all the while protecting the people closest to her–namely, her son. Helen’s story feels at once familiar, girl falls in love with the wrong guy at an impressionable age, she’s looking to escape an equally horrible home life (her father’s abusive), and without education, without choices, she ends up first as an exotic dancer and then as a prostitute. Working over the years to build a somewhat solid, relatively ‘safe’ business, Heloise (aka Helen) gets to a point where her past catches up with her and to ensure any sort of future, she needs to leave the working girl life behind.

Unlike traditional thriller/mysteries, Lippman’s stand-alones don’t usually include a central “whodunnit”-type plot. They’re often more character-based, like And When She Was Good, where Lippman moves seamlessly back and forth through the past and the present to create a sense of suspense and urgency in terms of how the story’s going to turn out. Her books are fast paced and her characters are well drawn. There’s little for me to look critically at–even if the set-ups a little cliched, it doesn’t matter, the story rips along and drags so you deeply in that it was impossible for me to put this book down. And when you’re squeezing reading into the corners of your life, that’s saying something. I’d rather stay awake to finish the book than get some much-needed rest.

And When She Was Good doesn’t come out until August, and it’s a perk that I had an early galley to read (another part of my work-life that I shouldn’t take for granted), so I don’t want to spoil any part of it. I’m just going to say this: that I was honestly surprised by the parallels within the narrative and the ending was not what I expected…

Also this week, I read a very mediocre novel by Dashiell Hammett called The Dain Curse (#45). Not much more to be said except in this case, I totally guessed the ending and it wasn’t nearly so slick and entertaining as The Thin Man, which I desperately enjoyed.

A Girl In Publishing: The Things We Take For Granted

Yesterday, a dear friend dropped by because she was in the area, and upon entering my “cube,” said, “It must be so nice to come into work and see a bookshelf full of books everyday.” And to be perfectly honest, I actually rarely even look at my bookshelf–two of the shelves have shoes on them, another is full of gadgets and cords and other ereading paraphernalia, and I’ve pared my work books down to the bare essentials (really just signed copies from visiting authors). I think, for the first time in my life, I have gotten to a place where books are no longer a romantic part of my life–I appreciate them, I feel they are inherently important, but as objects, well, they’ve utterly lost their hold on me. Continue reading “A Girl In Publishing: The Things We Take For Granted”

Busted on the Bloor Line: Holiday.

We spent the first summer weekend as a family up at the cottage, and the weather was glorious. Seems very strange to me not to be batting away blackflies and freezing at night in May–the blazing hot sun felt odd, out-of-place, but it wasn’t entirely unwelcome. In preparation for a piece of writing that I’ve been working on, I’ve been thinking a lot about the befores and afters of my life. The cottage, like any piece of property that’s been in the family for generations, is full of ‘befores,’ missing furniture, old china, odd artwork, photographs–not so much ghosts haunting but tangible, telling  bits and pieces of the story of our lives up there. And while it might be falling down around us, the cabin we stay in is over sixty years old, it’s still full to the brim of what family and a good childhood and all kinds of other sentimental stuff.

But it’s also a bloody danger zone for a 19-month-old baby. An old sewing machine that doubles as a TV stand is full of needles, string and a 19th century power cord, frayed and just the right strangling size. The cupboards don’t close all the way and are baby-proofless, which means he was in and out of them ALL weekend. I have never worked so hard as I did this long weekend with that baby. Running here, running there, toddling after him, keeping him safe, trying to keep him cool, entertaining him, distracting him, and then finally just giving into his urge to open and close a particular metal cabinet about a thousand times (each time taking out a different spice jar; closing the cabinet; opening the cabinet, taking out another spice jar; closing the cabinet; opening the cabinet–see the pattern, I just about lost my mind). He’s no obsessed with the water, the boat, and chases after them both with the determination as you can see in the above picture.

Before I had the RRBB, I fantasized about what life would be like up at the cottage for my own children. Happy, adventurous, enjoyable, safe–a place to grow not just your body but your interests, your sense of self, important lessons. But, as with anything in life, my memories are mixed up with how I like to spend my time at the cottage. Sitting. Reading. Writing. Playing cards. Watching movies. All things I was so beyond exhausted to do this weekend. In panic mode is not the way I want to spent my parenting years. Trapped by anxiety of his almost-death moments chased by the utter boredom of running around after a little being you can’t remotely converse with at 630AM isn’t ideal–I can romanticize it. I can happily exist in it afterwards. I can laugh, make jokes, and giggle–but when I’m knee-deep in chasing, cajoling, and calming down a baby whose more raw energy source than human, it makes it so hard to relax.

I’m sure I’ll get there.

I’m sure I’ll find a way to be more of myself up north.

I’m sure he’ll be less and less enthralled by all of the bits and pieces he shouldn’t be getting into.

But for now, I am more tired than ever after a weekend up north. How did that happen? What about my Canadian cliche? I want a dock, a beer, the Tragically Hip, and a good book.

#43 – The Burning by Jane Casey

The space in my reading life that I used to, and still sometimes do, fill up with chicklit, you know, those super-tired, really-late-at-night-can’t-sleep moments, has been infiltrated with a longing for gruesome, intriguing mystery novels. So, when I skipped ahead to my stack of Cs, I pulled The Burning by Jane Casey off the shelf. Powered by an ambitious young DC name Maeve Kerrigan, the central crime revolves around a serial murderer who stuns his victims and then sets them on fire. Gruesome, check. And when a fifth body shows up, that of a beautiful, but troubled (isn’t that always the way), ex-PR girl, Maeve’s convinced that it’s a copycat killer, and she’s assigned the case.

Interspersed with Maeve’s narrative, is Louise’s–she’s one of the dead girl, Rebecca’s, best friends (also called “Bex.”). The two together form a better picture of the victim, and you immediately get the sense that Louise is a highly unreliable narrator, which was intriguing for me. However (SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER), if you subscribe to the Law & Order guest star gimme school of thought, you’ll soon become convinced, as I did, that Louise isn’t all she appears to be…

Casey’s writing style really pulses the action forward, and I appreciated that–the book suffers a little from the more-is-more school of genre writing. Our heroine’s fighting crime, involved in a bad relationship, fighting with her mother, and so on. And Casey could have streamlined a lot more in terms of the descriptive writing, it got a bit much at points (we didn’t need to know the ins and outs of a character’s work life that we meet once and who has absolutely no relevance to the plot, you know?). And if you’re going to write from a third character’s perspective, don’t wait until the middle of the book to do so–I would have enjoyed his (Maeve’s partner’s) POV throughout the book. But, overall, I enjoyed the novel, especially the end bits. The violence was it entirely Mo Hayder-level believable? Not really, but Casey absolutely has promise.

Wednesday. That’s All.

I always think of that Alanis song, the one about it raining on your wedding day and that being all ironic, even though it’s not ironic at all, when I forget an umbrella and it starts to pour. Yesterday, I cracked myself in the face with the car door after getting home with the RRBB, which has left me with an incredibly sore chin, and I honestly think my co-workers are afraid I might be on the cusp of giving them the plague, I’ve got such a horrible cough.

But, I’m not feeling diseasy. There’s a win!

There’s a red-tailed hawk that flies outside my window at work and, this morning at about 8.20, before the weather turned, before it got all cloudy and gray, it was out hunting pigeons. Swoop swoop, and it’s so cliched, but it’s effortless and floats on the air. Often, I sit just watching it, swoop swoop, and once it flew so close to my window that I saw the yellow of its eyes. I have no idea if it’s the same hawk almost two years later, but this one is just as beautiful. Sure, they’re horribly nicknamed, common “chicken hawks,” but I don’t care–I am excited to see them. They constantly remind me that there is a world well outside of my own where pigeons are eaten and hawks perch on very tall buildings.

I can’t even remember where I read this recently. Might have been a magazine. Might have been online. And it said that people who get out and into nature are happier and more well-adjusted than their city counterparts. Of this, I wholeheartedly disagree–yes, it’s nice to get out of the city, and I’m looking forward to it this long weekend, but it’s also nice to be in your city. Sidewalks aren’t as delicious as sun decks, that’s perhaps true, but just recognizing there is an outside when you spend much of your day rushing from one task to another and trying to cram all of life into the short, twenty-minute bursts of free time really makes you appreciate the blessed flight of that hawk.

I’m rambling today. Like I do.There’s little to add when you’re not being particularly funny. Or witty. Or insightful. Tomorrow’s another blog post. And Thursday. Thursdays are always better than Wednesdays.

 

But I have decided that I need a holiday. I need a bit of a break. I am this-close to losing my grasp on just about everything. Having a common cold throws me completely out of whack and I’m back this-close

Busted on the Bloor Line: Cough, Cough, Sniff, Sniff

Of course, of course, of course! the minute I go banging on about feeling better I am felled by a ridiculous disgusting cold that has me hacking, spewing and sneezing. Someone walked by me at work today, where I had no business being, just as I sneeze-hacked and remarked that I sounded like a goose. He was not incorrect. Still, I made it through the day. I made it home from work. I lay down for a bit before we made dinner, and if I’m still feeling this awful, I’m actually going to call in sick. What a concept.

We made some vegan chocolate chip muffins the other weekend. The RRBB seemed to enjoy them. His emotions vacillate so easily these days — one minute he’s blessed out on vegan-choc-apple sauced goodness. The next he’s face down on the floor shrieking because, woe to be me, I have taken away something, closed a drawer, locked a cupboard, who knows. The other day he cried the entire way home in the car, then shrieked for another hour after we got home. I almost didn’t survive that day. We had dinner guests and a pile of people coming to the house and it was a day where there was no breathing, only moving, forward, forward, forward until I collapsed in a puddle on top of my bed.

And the small changes are working. At least, I think they are. Each week, I add something new, something teeny tiny, hardly noticeable to anyone other than myself, and it’s helping me come to terms with, well, all of the changes. My attitude is better. I’m not so run-down, so short-tempered, but I still have a long way to go. I haven’t managed to rescue myself entirely from the emotional hurricane of the last eighteen-months. It’s amazing to me how little time I have to actually sit and think — something I took completely for granted before I had the RRBB. Entire afternoons spent in a glorious state of an internet coma, doing “research,” keeping up-to-date with friends, and strangers, and bloggers, and books, and more books. Now, I’m caught thinking in the in-betweens, on the way to work, stolen moments here and there, raw impressions, never full, never tender, crammed all together in an endless loop until my days get ever-busier that anything that resembles a thought gets crashed around and out of my head.

Yesterday, while my RRHB was up at the cottage, thankfully, doing all of the chores so we can be ready for the long weekend, the RRBB opened up one of the cupboards and pulled out his animal crackers. He looked straight at me and said, “Mama, ya?” A question! A full and complete thought where he reasoned he wanted an animal cracker and knew enough to ask. The answer was, unfortunately no, he had already had some at lunch, but at least someone that I love and adore has the presence of mind to actually finish a thought, and that is worth revelling in.

#40 – My Life in France

Before I read My Life in France, I knew who Julia Child was, but I had never seen her on television — my impression of her was formed by Julie Powell’s admiration of her in Julie & Julia, and Meryl Streep’s performance in the film of the same name. But this book, oh I how fell for this book — my darling Vicious Circle cohorts were far more rigorous in their thoughts; I, however, got swept away. The love affair that I have with Paris, from the three times I’ve been there, isn’t anything new to the people who know me. And I really admired Julia and Paul’s attitude about their foreign service — they tucked right in and immersed themselves in the local food, culture, and got right down to the business of enjoying their lives.

That’s not to say that they didn’t have bumps along the way, but her narrative voice, as interpreted by her nephew, Alex Prud’homme, remain so clear and level-headed, that it’s unnerving. The impression you are left with is that Julia Child suffers no fools, and nor does she give up once she’s left onto a path with a cleaver in one hand and an asbestos baking tile in the other.

For all of us still longing to find our calling, or rather, to fully embrace our calling, her book is a love letter to choosing your pursuits wisely. She’s obviously very happy and very content with her choices — even if the book doesn’t even touch the surface of her life before she married Paul. That they loved one another, there remains little doubt, but the decline of his health was discussed so briefly and so, well, simplistically, I had to wonder if there was an essence of the 1950s stalwart, “Keep Calm & Carry On” attitude wherein she would never betray her real, real feelings.

Book club was at my house, and one of my fellow Vicious Circlers came bearing a gift of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I’ve spent the last few nights just flipping through it, wondering at the sheer magnitude of the project, marvelling at what the three co-authors undertook. I am trying to find the courage to try a few of the recipes this summer — but they all seem so, well, hard. Especially when I’m so pressed for time these days. Yet, I greatly admire the text as a living, breathing document, a testament to how important it is to have a record of how the world once was, and like, The Joy of Cooking, it’s as much a reference book as it is a cookery book. Child makes that point herself in My Year in France, discussing how she wanted to preserve the ways of classic French cuisine before they disappeared. I had never thought of it that way before — that it’s a form of history that truly deserves to be recorded for posterity, for generations, for women like me who can’t live in Paris but who remembers each and every amazing meal she had there all of the times she visited.

It was a marvellous life. I am utterly envious.

Other reading updates: George Orwell’s magnificent Coming Up for Air (poor Hilda! What’s she on about?), which is #41. And I have abandoned many of my Bs: The Children’s Book, Cloudsplitter, and Djuna Barnes’s Nightwood. I will circle back but I was hopelessly stuck and I just needed something simple. I also finished Samantha Bee’s memoir (#42), which I’d consider Tina Fey-light, but it did make me laugh quite a bit, simply because, my goodness, her upbringing was unconventional and full of hilarious anecdotes.