The Paper Man

Revisiting Disney

2009-09-01T06:55:00.001-07:00

Since her surgery, my daughter and I have taken to watching movies together in the evening. Many of those have been Disney films. The other night we watched Dumbo, a film I haven’t’ seen since I was probably seven years old. Dumbo himself never says a word, and towards the end of the film, a very trippy sequence follows Dumbo and his mouse friend drinking the left-overs from a clown drinking party. It’s after the pink elephants that Dumbo and the mouse wake up in a tree and figure out that Dumbo can fly.
What a strange film. Dumbo is 1941. It’s about mother love, fitting in, loneliness, and acceptance, all in the context of a 1940s circus. Disney was one weird fellow.

Getting There

2009-08-27T00:33:00.000-07:00

If I don’t have the chance to write something every day, I start getting anxious and weird. Looking after my daughter as she recovers from surgery means that I’m going up and down the stairs, in the kitchen making food, checking on Meredith, helping her to get in or out of the house, cleaning, and doing the endless tasks that make a house run.
Today, I fought with a computer that wouldn’t work, spent an hour and a half marking exams and going through bills with my eldest daughter, checking in with the utility companies about said bills, making dinner, and watching a movie with Meredith in the evening.
That wasn’t the whole day, but every available space was taken. I don’t think I took time to sit down at my desk once, save to pay the bills.
Am I complaining? Sort of. On the other hand, Meredith and I watched a movie every evening now for several evenings. We used to do this a lot more, but we haven’t for a long time. And now we are, which makes me glad
I have believed for a long time now that in every painful experience and in every tragedy something will emerge that is either helpful, healing, or just plain positive. This sounds trite, like a line out of a self-help book you might find in Chapters. But I don’t think so.
The line between misery and joy can be very fine. And I guess by those terms I mean the difference between feeling separate or isolated and the ability to recognize the potency of the world around you. Some call that God; some call it oneness. I usually call it presence, and I work to get there every day.

Back at Home

2009-08-19T19:08:00.000-07:00

Back at home after three days of hospitals. Having a daughter who needs a great deal of help doing the smallest thing reminds me of having small kids again. We got home today at about 5:00. Getting Meredith settled in the basement with pillows, blankets, a laptop and television took a while. She’s still quite uncomfortable, and she’s had about enough discomfort and pain for a while. It’s truely amazing how much one uses one’s abs, even for the smallest things. Deep breathing, for instance.
The house seems so quiet after being in the hospital. I can hear the dryer spinning and the television in the background, and that’s it. Sitting on the front step and having a smoke, I heard a lawn mower start up. Better a lawn mower than an intercom announcing Code Red.
Meredith’s recovery from this will progress fairly quickly, at least that’s what the doctor told me. I don’t know how quickly I would feel like recovering if I had a soft-ball sized cyst grumbling around in my guts for a few days. However, Meredith is a trooper; she’s just tired. And come to think of it, so am I.

In the Hospital

2009-08-19T10:22:00.000-07:00

I have spent the last couple of days in the hospital with my youngest daughter. Meredith was having terrible abdominal pain, and after about ten doctors, Meredith was finally transferred from the University Hospital to the Miseracordia. Late last night, she had a soft-ball sized cyst taken from her abdomen.
This last two days reminds me that I am always a parent, no matter how old my kids are. It tells me something about my own parents, and all of the time they have spent with me in and out of hospital. Sitting, listening, talking, waiting, comforting—all of these are the things we do in hospitals. It’s all about family and caring, kids and being a parent. It’s the hard work of living with and looking after other people. And I can see it all around me in a place like this. People looking after people, with all of their faults and flaws and intimate details on display to the world, with nothing but a curtain separating you from them.

Distraction by Doing

2009-08-08T19:12:00.000-07:00

August is the worst time of the year for me in terms of depression. So what I need is distraction.
I am up early, so early I don’t hear birds yet. I make coffee, read, sit outside and smoke. I decide to go to the market, and by 8:30 I am out the door.
I walk to the mall and get a bus down to Whyte Avenue. Not many people out yet. Still early.
I get off the bus and try to head down what I think is 81 ave. It’s a fence. It’s major sidewalk construction. I walk on the road.
But I figure out I’m not actually on 81 ave. I’m on 80th ave. I figure this out by not knowing where the hell I am. Finally, Whyte Avenue. Stop at the cash machine and then off to the market. Still fairly quiet. I am thinking about something when I take out part of a café fence and knock over a chair. I’m really not paying attention.
Across the street from the market now. A street person hollers good morning at me.
“Hey blind man! How are you? Can I give you a hug?”
Oh god.
Then the hug. I make sure to extend my right hand so as not to burn him with my cigarette.
“God loves you, you know.”
“Yes, I’m just heading for the market.” He walks me across the street.
I make my first stop for potatoes and carrots. I meet Don Perkins, who is always good for a chat.
“But where’s your helper today?”
My attention is now on the attractive woman who knows me from many Saturdays of buying potatoes and carrots.
“She’s sleeping in, and then taking her cousin to the folk fest.”
Vegetables in my backpack and off I go. I miscalculate where I am and end up in the wrong isle. I have to backtrack in order to get to mama’s Bakery.
“Hi Bill, what can I get for you?”
This is Tracey. She is the ever cheerful young woman at Mama’s Bakery. I just recently learned by meeting her at the Winspeare Centre that she works there as an usher, or whatever you call those ticket-taking people.
Bread, cookies, hamburger buns. Then off to the greenhouse for more vegetables.
Weighed down with produce I make my way home. I walk several blocks up to get the bus. Too much to carry to walk from the mall. I get a bus.
…
Kids and up and moving when I get home. There’s a message from my friend Sam. He’s in town. I call him, and we agree to meet at the University just after 1:00. Kids leave. I mark. I leave.
Wouldn’t you know it? I missed the dam bus. I walk to South Campus to catch the train. They’ve ripped up the sidewalk here almost all the way down what my kids call the speed bump road to the entrance of the farm.
I make the train, and in five minutes I am at the University. I meet Sam, and we have lunch, or at least I do, at the Earl’s. Sam has beer.
He tells me about his trip to the coast, seeing his grandson, about moving back to Edmonton in the fall. We get around to health related things. Sam had a bad year last year. He had a serious heart thing and nearly died. He just had a birthday last week. I think he’s seventy-five. Wouldn’t you know it, this guy’s blood pressure is better than mine.
Train back to South Campus, and then a bus down to Sun Terra, where I quickly stop before catching a different bus home.
I’m here ten minutes before eldest daughter calls and wants me to pick up cousin and take her to grandma’s. I can feel my brain starting to slosh around inside my skull.
I call a cab, but not until after I email the two essays I marked earlier in the day. When did I do that? You ask.
In a cab for Whyte Avenue. Wasn’t I just here?
I pick up the cousin—my niece—and we head for grandma’s—my mom’s. Lauren liked the folk fest. She is fifteen and full of drama. She complains about wearing her skinny jeans to the folk fest. She says it was hot.
We get to mom’s. Look at that, more sidewalk construction. What is this? A disease?
Mom is getting dinner ready. I go outside to look at the gate my brother has built. Looks like a darn good gate.
We have dinner, and then they drive me to Stadium Station. We hear the warning bell, just as we come to the door. Don and I run for the stairs. I am just in time to grab the doors of the train before they close. I yell thanks to Don, and I am on the train.
In less than fifteen minutes, I am back on the south side. I get off at South Campus and feel much more at home. I have time to get the bus, but I decide to walk back through the farm. It’s cooler now—after 7:00. I like the walk. There is all this space and a cooling evening breeze.
I wouldn’t want to do this every day, but it’s one way to stop the cycle of depression from taking hold. I think I will be able to sleep tonight.

Thinking About My House

2009-07-31T10:54:00.000-07:00

It’s the very last day of July, and I’m sitting in my study while the carpet cleaning guys are upstairs doing their thing. I’ve gone to four conferences this year, and I’m about done with traveling for a while—at least I think so.
My attention is now on the house. Carpet cleaners today, and I have a list of people to phone about putting in new back steps and possibly new windows and doors. Maintaining a house is expensive, and I just put down a chunk of money to have my daughter’s car repaired. Daughter number two decided she wanted to drive her sister’s car. Foot on the gas instead of the brake while backing up. She backed right into a tractor-trailer. No damage to the trailer, of course.
So as the year is about to shift, I get to think about how I will spend money on the house. Will it be replacing the furnace? Or will I let it go for one more winter? Will it be windows and a door? Or will it be painting inside?
Whatever I do, I’ll be more in debt next spring than I am right now. Not that I’m really complaining. It’s what one buys when one buys a house, and this place has been a real home for my kids and me for ten years. So bless the house.

Sitting at the Airport

2009-07-20T13:38:00.000-07:00

I’ve made it as far as the airport. My presentation—or panel, rather—went well this morning. People seemed interested and happy with what we did, which had to do with racism and prejudice in the Harry Potter series. On the other hand, the people at this conference were so ready to engage, they would have just simply directed the discussion if they weren’t happy with the way it was going.
Now I’m on my way, or at least I’m in the airport, which counts for something because I don’t have to think about security again. I had an escort—in this case, a person who leads you—bring me down through security. She offered to bring me to this quiet room where I could sit with my coffee and muffin while I wait. It turns out that this room is the U.M. room—unaccompanied minors. I’ve noticed some other adults in here, but I think the airport thinks that anyone who needs extra assistance should go with the kids.
And I’m not being ungrateful. I couldn’t make these trips without the help of people like this in the airport. And hey, there are cartoons and video games in here.
My plane departs in an hour and a half. I’m passing the time by responding to student email and writing this blog. Now that I’ve left the conference, I can say that it was a good experience, in spite of the weirdness. I did learn a lot, and it wasn’t just all fans. Some of them might be a little crazy, but they really care about these books, and they want to talk about them. They want to dress up and have fun too, but you have to respect these people for their passion and their interest.
Should I try a Star Trek con next? That might be weirder than I want. I do love the movies and the various TV series, but two or three days with Star Trek fans might just do me in.
I do want to come back to San Francisco. My kids would like it here, and I didn’t really do much outside the convention. Not that there was much time. But I like the city. Not only that, every time I travel to the states, I like it more. I used to think of the U.S. as those overbearing people from the south. It’s better to come face to face with those people about whom you have preconceptions. So that’s it. I’ll feel relieved once I’m home.

My Last Day at the Conference

2009-07-20T08:35:00.000-07:00

It’s Monday morning, my last day at the Harry Potter conference. My presentation is this morning, which means I sit the panel and then gather up my stuff and head to the airport.
Yesterday was a full day. Panels were good, and I was able to gather a good deal of material for teaching the books in the fall. Mothers and monsters, the Black sisters, and Rowling’s splintered readership were three of the most interesting. I also went to a panel devoted to the Percy character, and the funny thing was that Chris Rankin who plays the Percy character in the movies was also there. When I went outside for a smoke after one of the sessions, he came up the steps on his way back from taking a ride on the cable car. I didn’t approach him; I’m not that much of a fan, but I wouldn’t have been able to anyway. He was surrounded by women.
I skipped the last session and went for a ride on the cable car myself. The car was packed, and it was quite the thing going up and down the hills in this city. I wandered down Fisherman’s Warf for about half an hour—live music everywhere and hundreds and hundreds of people.
I got a fellow from a bar to help me get a cab, and I asked the driver to take me over the Golden Gate Bridge. So I had a talking tour of part of San Francisco, and he described the bridge and told me about Alcatraz. On our way back over the bridge, we passed through the Presidia, which at one time was an army base. My cab driver said that in the Star Trek world, this would be the location of Star Fleet Academy. So that was cool.
I went down to the Prison Break Ball for about half an hour, just long enough to find my way to the dance floor and back out. There must have been 500 people down there. Just nuts.
So now I’m ready to present, and then I can make my way home. I will be glad to be there too. This whole Harry Potter world of fandom is quite something, but three days of it is quite enough.

Second Day at the Conference

2009-07-19T08:05:00.000-07:00

It’s early Sunday morning. I had my first full day of the conference yesterday. It was quite something. Without a doubt, the strangest part of this conference is people. They’re all very interesting, but they are Harry Potter fans. Harry Potter fandom is not quite like Twilight fandom, but it’s close. The lobby of the hotel is on the second floor of the hotel, and there is an exit with stairs where people conjugate to smoke. I have heard a number of women out there say who in the Harry Potter world for whom they would leave their partners. And these women are serious too. They are not teen-agers either. Interestingly, I haven`t heard a man say any like this, but there are not that many men here.
The first session I attended I thought was on queering the Harry Potter books. It turned out to be three slash fic writers who talked about what they do. One presenter said that she was part of a triad. If I understood her, she thinks of herself as bisexual, but she is definitely what she calls a pervert and interested in kink. Definitely a different kind of spin on the Harry Potter world. Lots of talk about the Harry Potter characters pairing off in unusual ways: Harry and Draco, Snape and Harry, Snape and Draco.
From there things settled down quite a bit, although there were other sessions on fandom, one in particular called The Dark Side of Fandom. Avoided that one.
I sat in on one session about the pacing of the seventh book. Many people have very strong opinions on this book, apart from everything else. Some fans are personally offended by what Rowling did in that book, especially with the camping scenes.
I escaped to my hotel room for a while in the evening and then went back downstairs. Met more interesting people. I met Kitty from Virginia, who works for the government to promote anti-terrorism. A very attractive woman with lots to say, and not just about Harry Potter. She was probably the drunkest person at the table, and she seemed very concerned with helping me out. I wonder if she’ll remember that she talked to me today.
It’s funny, but I feel more at home here than any other American city I’ve ever visited. Maybe it’s the west coast thing. I’m hoping to get out of the hotel this afternoon, perhaps down to Fisherman’s Warf. My presentation is tomorrow morning, so I will need to spend time on that tonight. These panels are much more a discussion than people reading papers, so I don’t need to prepare in the same way. Off I go.

Arrived

2009-07-17T19:33:00.001-07:00

I have arrived in San Francisco. The flight here was as uneventful as anyone would want, and I got to the hotel without any difficulties.
The first person I met was Mike, the guy who stands outside the hotel waiting to help people like me who aren’t entirely sure of what they are doing. Mike showed me to a place where I could smoke, and then told me how to find my way down to Fisherman’s Warf.
This place is so different from the east coast. My trip to Charlotte, North Carolina, showed me something of how Americans treat guests. And it wasn’t just the conference people in Charlotte—everyone was attentive and considerate. Perhaps that had to do with the class of hotel I was staying at. Who knows.
It’s different here—like Vancouver intensified. The people so far are friendly and helpful, but I just know I’m in the midst of a different culture. How bloody subjective is that?
Mike told me that he’s already seen people dressed in Harry Potter costumes. And quite frankly, I can’t think of a better place for a weird conference than a quirky city.
...
I went outside for a smoke and met a death-eater, Snape, and some other costumed Harry Potter fan. It’s definitely weird. These people are hard core. There is nothing in these people about kid’s books. These people are maximum fans.
When I’m standing outside a hotel in San Francisco, and I’m listening to two mature women talking about simultaneously doing Snape and Alan Rickman, I know I’m in the hard core Harry Potter world. This might be almost too weird for me.

From the Calgary Airport

2009-07-17T12:08:00.001-07:00

I’m sitting in the Calgary airport, waiting for my connecting flight to San Francisco. So far uneventful.
My daughters brought me to the airport, and I was moved through the line-ups very efficiently. The airplane coming down was a Dash aircraft, which means a big airplane, rather than a jet. I think I like these things better than I like jets. You actually feel like you’re flying, and it isnt’ as loud as some of the smaller airplanes.
Once in Calgary, I had a very helpful young woman bring me through customs and security. She’s a farm girl, from just outside the city. She said she likes being ground crew rather than flight crew because there’s no getting away once you’re on board.
She was very helpful, although I do find it funny when women who are younger than me call me hon or darling.
Chris is the helpful guy at the gate. He came a took my boarding pass. Should I be worried? I don’t really think so. However, I’ve done such trips often enough to know to stay alert until I am in the hotel room. What fun. ... Chris just announced that all large carry-ons need to be gate checked. Oh joy.

Off to San Francisco

2009-07-16T23:04:00.000-07:00

I’m off to San Francisco in the morning. This time it’s a Harry Potter conference—a combination fan convention and academic conference. I haven’t been very enthused about going to this conference. The summer has stretched itself out, and I’ve mostly been reading and writing and trying not to think about teaching in the fall.
This Harry Potter Symposium is an important one in some ways. I’m teaching a senior level course in J. K. Rowling in the fall, so I do need to experience something of the conference world. Who knows what it will be like. I do know this. I sent an email to the conference organizers to ask a question a few days ago. The person who responded was very helpful, and she had “Minister of Magic” as her signature line. Bring it on.

The End of High School

2009-06-27T07:30:00.000-07:00

My youngest daughter finished high school yesterday. She wrote her social diploma exam in the morning, and then she was finished. The diploma exams are the provincial exams that grade twelves have to write, and that the Alberta government uses to pad high school achievement scores.
I was out all day, so I didn’t see Meredith until late afternoon. She came home and baked cookies, and then she settled down to watch movies. I asked her part way through the evening if she wanted to go out. She said she was fine to stay home, to watch a movie, and check out the latest Daily Show on the comedy network.
I remember finishing high school and having the distinct sense of what a let-down it was. Perhaps I put too much into the idea of finishing; I don’t know. But I felt cut adrift in a way that I didn’t really like and understood less.
Finishing high school is something of a cultural marker, awfully close to being something like a rite of initiation or passage into a new phase of life. I don’t know that many people think of it that way, but they should. The emphasis is on the next thing that you’re going to do next, what post-secondary institution you will attend, or what kind of job you will get. It takes the focus off the actual completion of a major stage of life for most North Americans, which, I think, is entirely symptomatic of a culture that never manages to see where it is, only where it’s going.
For my daughter, who is just now only thinking about the fact that she’s done, and that she finally has the chance to watch some movies after several weeks of preparation and studying, it’s not such a big deal. But whatever she does, and where ever she goes, I’m proud of her. Hurrah Meredith; you are now a high school survivor.

Back at Home

2009-06-14T21:41:00.000-07:00

Back at home. And I’m glad to be here. I did not manage to write anything yesterday; I was mostly just too tired.
The keynote address on Saturday morning was called the Francelia Butler Lecture, this year delivered by Daniel Shealy of North Carolina University. He spoke about the Alcott sisters, their journals, letters, and how their lives took shape. He spoke very poignantly about how the sisters responded to the deaths of their father and their mother, and how Louisa May took on more and more responsibility with respect to her sisters and their respective children.
I took in two more sessions in the afternoon, the last being a session on Phillip Pullman’s Dark Materials. After my second session on Pullman, I knew I needed to read the books again.
At this point I went back to the hotel and read for a couple of hours. I ventured once again downstairs for a snack to hold me over while I waited for dinner. The hotel was packed, and the little restaurant where I’ve been spending some time was more crowded than I’d yet seen it. One of the fellows at the front counter of the hotel told me that people were in town for a number of concerts, the only one of which I remember was Phantom of the Opera.
And then it was dinner and the awards banquet for the conference. These people know how to keep business short. A dance followed. It was a local group who played songs from the 60s and 70s—lots of Beatles, The Who, and even some stones. Remember the gender imbalance? With not enough men to go around, the floor was crowded with dancing women. I circled the floor and basically waited for someone to reach out and pull me in. It worked pretty well.
Then it was time to come home, and that’s what I did for seven or so hours, starting at 7:00, Charlotte time. I was lead, scanned, driven on an airport taxi, told to wait, told to follow this or that person, from the charlotte airport, back to O’Hare, and then home to Edmonton.
I love the customs guys in Edmonton. You’re not really home until those customs guys have their chance to ask you some questions so that you can once again be a Canadian.
“Didn’t you spend any money while you were away?” asks the customs guy, perhaps a little bemusedly.
I told him no, that it was a conference. I think he thought I should have brought home some souvenirs. He waved me on; I past one more check point—another customs guy who just confirmed my stamp--and then, mercifully, I was home. I was met by my two daughters who were very happy to see me. You can’t ask for more than that.

Friday's Blog Delayed

2009-06-14T21:07:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in a sports bar in charlotte, North Carolina. The final game of the Stanley Cup playoffs is on in the background, and people are coming and going, laughing and talking. I hear the waitress, whose name is Shannon, jsay to someone that they mostly get guests from the hotel—not many transients, she says.
This is the second day of my conference, and it’s pretty overwhelming. I take notes during the sessions, but I know I won’t be able to entirely take this in until I get home. I went to a session on the series Twilight this afternoon. It’s quite amazing how emotional people get over these books. I’ve only read the first one, but many people in the session seem to have read the whole series. Is Bella a feminist? How have the fans responded to the last book? Why do people read this series? The session tried to answer some of these questions.
After the last session, the volunteer—David, who was assigned to give me a hand—and I came back to the hotel to grab something from Starbucks. We met a group of women from the conference. Now, since the conference is mostly made up of women, that wasn’t such a surprise. They all had a good deal to say. Other people’s attitude towards kid’s books, what they did or taught—things like that. I felt that the occasional comment from me was quite enough to let them know that I was paying attention. An impressive group of people.
David and I went back to Imaginon, which is a beautiful facility in Charlotte, for the last session of the day. This was Dianne Johnson, a South Carolina African/American writer of poetry and children’s books. She was amazing to hear, and she had a collection of dolls in the facility that her father, who was in the military, broght her from his various postings around the world. She wrote a picture book in which she talks about her father and the personalities she gave the dolls. Very moving.
I went back to the hotel, hoping to go for a swim in the pool that is at the end of my hallway. It was full of jocks, so I scrapped that idea. I’ll go in the morning; I don’t think jocks get out of bed before 7:00.
The funny thing was that I got a phonecall from Shannon in the sports bar. Apparently, David, the earnest volunteer, (Pitsburg just scored) stopped in for a burger at champions before he dropped me off at the hotel. He signed as though he was staying at the hotel. Shannon, who saw David with me earlier that day, and who couldn’t read the last name, called me. I guess I’m paying for David’s burger. But that’s all right; he’s been very helpful the past two days.
One more day of conferencing. It will be interesting, but I will be glad to get home. It’s a little strange to think that many of the people who teach children’s literature in North America are here at this conference. It’s a thing.

At the Hotel

2009-06-10T18:35:00.000-07:00

I arrived at the hotel around 5:00, charlotte time. My first gulp of charlotte’s air was a bit of a surprise. I walked out of the airport to get a cab, and was hit in the face by ninety humid degrees. I think I involuntarily gasped. This air is pretty thick for my northern blood.

I get a cab to the hotel with a driver who is of a comforting cab-driver stock. These guys really are a breed, where ever you go. I arrive at the hotel, and I am called “sir” more times in the twenty minutes or so it takes me to check in and familiarize myself with the lobby than I remember in the past year.
“Your name is James?”
“Yes Sir.”
“I’m Bill, James.”
“Yes Sir.”
And they really do say it with a capital letter.

Once I’m in my room, I head back downstairs to register for the conference--this is The Children’s Literature Association Conference—and then I go to one of the restaurants in this crazily fancy hotel for something to eat. It’s a sports bar, and there are two guys, being guys in a sports bar. I order an interesting barbecued pork sandwich on the advice of the young and engaging waitress, who apparently is from Detroit, and then I’m finally able to talk to my kids and know that everything is fine at home.

I spent the evening working on my presentation for tomorrow. I’m going to be talking about survival narratives, and I am rather intimidated by all of the people at this conference. Oh well. It’s now time to slow down and go to bed soon. At least I know that there is a Starbucks in the hotel, which is where I’ll be at 7:00 tomorrow morning.

On Route

2009-06-10T10:25:00.000-07:00

I am on my way to charlotte, North Carolina for a conference. The first leg of my trip is over. I’m now sitting in the Chicago airport, which is large and busy. Fortunately, I didn’t have to get shuttled to a different terminal.
The flight was fine, but I didn’t eat before I left the house this morning at 5:30. Two sleepy daughters took me out to the airport. Now as I sit here, I have to figure out who to talk to about finding something to eat. As a blind traveller, I find that people are amazingly helpful and considerate. What’s required of me is a good deal of patience.
Here’s what I mean. A flight attendant led me off the plane, where I was told at the desk that someone would help me to my connecting flight. So far so good. I then sit and patiently wait for someone to come and get me, meanwhile wondering at what point I should try to find someone to remind them that I need to get another plane.
As it was, the Captain of the flight I had from Edmonton brought me down to the next gate. I told him him that he was one of the few people on this side of the border who has a clue where Edmonton is. He laughed. He said he liked Edmonton. He liked the space and the smell of fresh air.
And now I wait. At least I didn’t have to go through security again. Maybe I’ll change my mind about the foodl.

My Daughter's Graduation

2009-05-22T19:27:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in the Jubalee Audatorium for my youngest daughter’s graduation. We have had the address from the school trustee and the message from the principal, and now we are going through the names. We are currently in the Cs
My daughter is in the band, so she will receive her scroll at the end of the evening. I remember my own graduation, which was held at the school, rather than at one of the city’s oldest auditoriums. What I mostly remember from my own graduation is wondering if I would fall down the stairs after I received my scroll.
A 2009 banner and Remember the Dream, this year's graduation theme, is spread over the back of the stage, and the graduans come out from either side to receive their scrolls. We’ve already had one speech with a journey motif, of which I am acutely aware because of the first English essay my daughter had to write in grade twelve.
She had to write an analysis of Dr. Seus’s The Places You’ll Go, originally written as a commencement address. She didn’t do very well, which led to several months of her disliking her English teacher. It took them until January to start getting along. Ironically, or maybe not so ironically, that same English teacher is reading off the names right now—A to F.
I am, of course, proud of my daughter’s hard work that got her to graduation. She mostly found school easy, so someone like her English teacher helped her to understand that she had some limits, or at least that she could try harder. She doesn’t really feel this is a big deal, and when she left the house for the auditorium, she said that she wasn’t nervous and just frazelled because she didn’t have anything to wear.
I didn’t think much of my high school graduation either, and I didn’t even go to my BA grad or my MA grad. I did go to my PhD grad, but only because I put everyone through hell getting it.
If nothing else, this evening will help to mark off this time in her mind. She will probably remember being bored, and it will matter to her in ways that she hasn’t yet anticipated. Whatever it means to her later in life, I know that as I sit here listening to the endless nmames, I am happy to sit here and know that my kid is growing up and moving more fully into her own life.
...
We just heard Meredith’s name in recognition for honours (8:06 PM).

More on the New Star Trek Film

2009-05-17T11:54:00.000-07:00

The new Star Trek film is probably on its way to becoming the biggest money-maker of summer 09. Of course it’s only the middle of May, and the newest Harry Potter film is yet to come. However, I’ve been surprised at how many under twenties have seen and liked this film.
There’s certainly enough to satisfy old Star Trek fans, and more than enough to satisfy any summer movie-goer. From the sequence explaining how Kirk defeats the Kobayashi Maru test to Leonard Nimoy’s Mr. Spok, this new film makes full use of Gene Roddenberry’s Star Trek universe. With a space battle and tragic separation, a car chase, and a bar fight all in the first ten minutes of the film, how can this film disappoint?
But I hate sounding like a movie reviewer, so I’ll stop. I did like the film, although I want to see it again in order to fully appreciate what the creators were trying to achieve. In the mean time, I will say this. If this is the new Star Trek, then it has left behind it’s original creator, Gene Roddenberry. Is that such a bad thing? I don’t think so. At the same time I won’t stop watching reruns, especially when I have student essays to mark.

New Star Trek Film

2009-05-08T12:05:00.000-07:00

Today marks the release of the new Star Trek movie. I’m glad there is a new film, but the more I hear about the movie and the people who made it, the more mixed my anticipation becomes. Being a Star Trek fan, someone who did actually watch the show on television as a kid, means that I have a particular kind of attachment to the whole Star trek universe. I remember the show as a kid, but I would have never called myself a fan until my interest revived after seeing The Wrath of Kahn in theatres. To some, I’m sure, this makes me something of a late-comer to the show. However, I have watched the original show repeatedly, become a fan of generations, DS9, and Voyager, and watched most of Enterprise.
What strikes me about the new film is that it makes an effort to appeal to a new and a younger audience. As both my children have pointed out, the fact that the new show features young, good-looking actors, with action packed scenes and spectacular special effects says quite clearly that the show has a new generation of Star Trek fans in mind. And this is also pretty clear if you watch interviews or read what the people involved in making the film have to say. The fact that the principle actors and director have publicly said they were not fans of the original show says something in itself.
I’m not about to rush out to line up for the first showing, but I have made plans with my one and only Star Trek buddy to go an see a matinee early next week. Perhaps this too makes me less of a fan than I think. But whatever the degree of fandom for those who take it in, I think this new film will help to revive some interest in the Star Trek universe that spans forty years worth of television and movies.

A Conference Experience

2009-05-05T08:44:00.000-07:00

The Get Publishing conference held at MacEwan’s Health Robins Centre was an interesting event. I only went for the one day—Saturday. I don’t do so well at writer’s conferences: I feel overwhelmed and inadequate. In this case, the event raised a couple of questions for me. At what point can you call yourself a writer? And how do you manage to bridge the seemingly insurmountable gap between manuscript and published book?
To call yourself a writer, you have to write. But there seems something more here. Being a writer also implies that someone is recognizing you in some way for your efforts—publishing what you write, although not always paying you for it. The issue of money introduces another question. Where is the line between an amateur and professional writer? Are those writers who make a living from their writing the only ones who can claim the professional status? I worked on and off a few years ago for Reg Silvester, a local writer and editor who started the Edmonton Bullet, a very interesting arts newspaper. This question used to drive him crazy.
If you follow these steps, then you can’t call yourself a writer until somebody somewhere publishes what you write and then pays you for it. Not terribly encouraging.
In one of those brief encounters that is so characteristic of a conference, a young woman said to me that everyone tells her if she wants to be a writer then to start acting like one. I think she meant learning the discipline of writing, but I’m not entirely sure.
In terms of fiction, I have published one short story in Western People, which was once an insert in The Western Producer. I was also paid $150 for the story. Does this make me a writer? I’m not really sure.
My other question about how to get published got something of an answer in the first session I attended on writing query letters. Three people who are in the business of publishing—an acquiring editor, a literary agent, and a magazine editor—had some helpful things to say. They all said to write cover letters. Don’t spell the name of the editor incorrectly. Make sure your manuscript is clean. All very common sense suggestions.
All three of these people also insisted that there is no magic formula, no magic bullet, no magic something or other for getting yourself published. I think I understand. However, it’s a little like walking smilingly up to the axe-man and holding out your hand so he can cut it off.
My moment of truth, so to speak, came when I attended the Writer’s Pitch Camp—fifteen minutes with an editor to try and sell your stuff. This was exciting. I thought about it hard ahead of time, and I thought that taking in a short sample of my writing would give me the chance to get some feedback, something that I hardly ever get save from friends and my children, who are invariably supportive.
I mostly submit short stories to contests, which means that I don’t even hear a thing unless my story is short listed. But the only people who get feedback in contests are the people who win. I thought it would be helpful to get some feedback from an actual editor.
As soon as I handed him the two and one third pages, he told me that he reads very slowly and what if he read over the sample and sent me some feedback by email? I said I could wait.
The short sample had a raving old man in it who was shouting to the main character about the end of the world. In preparing the sample, I felt rather pleased with myself for including so many allusions to Revelation. He said it looked like it had something to do with Christianity.
We went on like that for a while until I told him the story had part of a city being destroyed by a storm and a group of people having to leave to find a new home. He rallied at that point. “This isn’t a story,” he said. “It’s a novel.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that. We talked more generally for a while, during which he told me that Dan Brown’s da Vinci Code was the worst book he had ever read, and then I thanked him profusely and left.
So that was my day, or part of it. Do I call myself a writer? Do I feel as though I have some ideas about how to approach a publisher? The answers I got were I don’t know and maybe, which isn’t so bad for mustering the courage to go to the conference in the first place.
Here’s a post script. I don’t really agree about the Dan Brown book. The writing was a little flat, and I thought the relationship between what’s-his-name and what’s-her-name to be a little contrived, but I still enjoyed it. At least nobody can really argue with Dan Brown if he calls himself a writer.

A Poem

2009-04-28T09:47:00.000-07:00

It is those things I cling to
like a drowning rat
That make me so unhappy.
If I could just let myself drowned,
Lose that part of me that insists
On happiness,
Then I might be free.

But I continue to cling
To the flotsome
Of my own ego,
The laughable fragments
Of a divided self
That will never keep me afloat;
Sundry pieces—
Red, blue, green, and white--
From too many boxes of leggo
That will never fit together.

It is only my fear
That keeps me struggling,
Fear of that world--
That immersion--
Beneath the surface
Where I will have to discover
Something new.

End of Term

2009-04-24T10:25:00.000-07:00

April 24, Morning

Spring means many things, but one thing it means for certain is the end of classes for college and university. I have been for so long in the rhythm of the academic year that I don’t think I could imagine any other life. I write this as my students from my short story class write their final exam. Two hours are gone in the exam, and people are handing in their papers and checking grades on the spread sheet I leave on the desk at the front of the classroom.

When spring comes, classes end and students write final exams; I mark essays and exams until I begin to believe I’ve never done anything else, and then it all stops with one great, grinding crunch. This is all a part of the rhythm of the year.

I love the spring, but it can be the most difficult time of year for me, even harder than winter sometimes. It’s the shift out of the academic year into something new. My brain is not one that makes the shift very easily or very well. I have experience the month of May, from beginning to end, as one long spell of low grade depression. I know the depression has its roots in other things, but this, as I have come to realize, is a flash point for me during the year.

One of the things I have come to rely on at these various flash points during the year is remaining as present as possible. Doing this, remaining present in mind and body, is much more difficult than I ever thought. Ask any Budhist and you will probably get a similar comment. Remaining present, then, becomes an exercise, a discipline of mind and body. I go for a walk in the evening, and work to focus on what I hear—bird song, traffic sound—what I feel with my feet—sliding gravel or the edge of winter grass. It is possible to walk right through a lovely spring evening and never know what I’ve just experienced. It is the details of the present that help to keep the brain processing information.

But of course it’s not just about the brain. It’s about the body and the spirit; it’s about learning the discipline of the present as a means of understanding it, of appreciating it, of experiencing it.

Easter Weekend

2009-04-11T21:06:00.000-07:00

Saturday evening. It's smack in the middle between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. I wonder a lot about what Easter means to people. For some, like my neighbour late last night, it means partying. For some, it’s shopping, like me this morning at the farmer’s market, buying pies for Easter dinner at my mother’s, in an overheated building that is too used to winter temperatures. For others, it’s a day off, dinner with friends or family; and for some, it’s church and the resurrection. Whatever it means, people are aware that Easter marks the end of winter and the change to spring. Sometimes Easter comes early, but this year it coincides with spring. Oh blessed spring. It comes fast here. Just a week ago, I was sliding on ice—falling once—but wondering what the hell the world looked liked without winter. In just two days, the snow disappeared from my back lawn, and there it is—grass.

I am walking in the evening. People are out, walking in pairs or groups, sometimes with dogs. The evening seems to hang overhead, imparting to me a presence that I have to usually work hard to achieve every day. I’m in the middle of the city, but the University farm stretches away to my left for the space of several city blocks. I can hear robins, the sound of a crow, a magpie, and other birds I can’t identify. I have heard a few geese but not many yet. I wonder where they are. I walk and walk, and the misery I feel begins to slough away in the rhythm of breath and step that pulls me into the present, where I can find some peace—for a while.

Spring

2009-04-11T15:44:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, April 7

Yesterday, I am hacking at the two inches worth of winter ice that still covers the main sidewalk in front of my house. I’ve been doing this for a couple of days. With the temperature finally in the double digits, the ice is finally, reluctantly letting go. I hack away with an ice chopper my brother gave me around Christmas. I exercise regularly, but this exercise is nearly killing me. My wind would be much better if I didn’t smoke.
The sidewalk in front of my house is finally clear, and I start moving toward my neighbour’s. But I’m defeated here. The ice is so densely packed that I can only nibble away at the edges of the pack, chipping off slivers I kick onto the road.
Most people around here are more diligent about keeping their sidewalks clear. I’m grateful for this because it means that most of my regular walking routes are now clear of ice and snow. Now of course it’s water, great pools of ankle deep water I have to watch for. These pools of water collect everywhere there isn’t a drain, and if I’m not paying attention, I fill my shoes with the icy stuff.
This morning as I stand at the bus stop, I hear evidence that the winter is over, at least for now. I hear a robin singing his territorial song. Snow still all over the place and this crazy bird is already looking for a girlfriend. The crows have been back for a couple of weeks now, and they are the real heralds of spring around here. But the crows arrive at the end of winter, while the robins are those birds that tell me winter is done.
Some people say that talking about the weather is the most awkward of conversation starters. Perhaps. But living this far north—and there is plenty of north beyond us—talking about the weather is a serious subject. When you get less than twelve hours of daylight for six months of the year, when you have to listen to the weather report to know if your car will start, if the buses are on time, and to know if the wind is bad enough to freeze your face in less than thirty seconds, then paying attention to weather is something you do everyday.
And it isn’t just about the cold. I am talking to my neighbour across the fence, and she says that this part of the world and Britain are the two places you are most likely to get multiple sclerosis. It’s apparently a vitamin D thing. And there’s more. People get depressed; people get anxious; people sometimes freeze to death on the street. Cars won’t start; cars break down. Buses stall, and planes get grounded. I was on the train one morning a couple of years ago, and the operator had to get out of the train, climb down onto the track, and manually crank the switch so the train would go in the right bloody direction. That particular morning it was -37C, but the wind chill factor took it down to about -50C.
No one really complains, but everyone puts up with these and a multitude of other aggravations and inconveniences all winter. And then … it’s spring. The snow just seems to vanish. It’s a time of year when nothing has started to grow yet, save those perennials protected by a wall or garden fence. The sand, gravel, and left over winter trash that no one has bothered to pick up yet makes this short space of the year possiblly one of the ugliest. But it is spring. Things will start to grow, and the streets and sidewalks will get clean. People will stop feeling depressed and anxious, and once more, everyone will forget that winter ever existed—until the first of the spring snow storms hits.