Author: hamishmacdonald

The other night, I went to see Let’s Get Lost, a documentary about the life of jazz trumpeter Chet Baker. The friend I went with fell asleep at one point, and I didn’t blame him, because it was a meandering, undirected collection of archive clips about Baker in his young and handsome days then later in his drug-addled ruin, pieces of music set to unrelated film stock, and interviews with musicians who admired him and the many women he”¦ well, basically f*ed over.
Now that my novel is finished, I’m finding it fun to have all my creative energy free to do anything I want, instead of needing it all directed at the book. One of the things I wanted to do was try to sketch Baker ’cause it’s been a long time since I tried sketching, and by the end he was a haggard mess, which should make for a good life study. (That’s another thing: drugs are boring. Amazingly, Baker stayed talented and capable till the end both as a singer and a trumpet player, but when he spoke”¦ my God, the slow, lingering drawl of his junkie voice sounded like it would never find a thought.)
Two things struck me on thinking back about the movie. First, Baker definitely did have something that made him more compelling than other musicians, and it wasn’t technical ability. One of his women, a hard-edged, junk-shaky lounge performer, sang a number and was fine. In terms of vocal ability, she was probably equal to him. But”¦ she was just singing. I wasn’t a fan of Baker’s before this film, but when he sings, it’s like the smoky thought-stuff of a great poem or a dream you get lost in that you keep remembering for half the day. What is that difference?
The other thing that struck me was the bickering between these women over this wreck of a man, who obviously had an ability to mesmerise people, either with his talent or an affected vulnerability. And make no mistake, he was awful to them all, each in a uniquely abusive way. “But,” I thought, “Chet Baker didn’t have a problem. These women had a problem with Chet Baker. But Chet Baker had no problem with Chet Baker.” There’s a lesson in this for me somewhere.
I’m going to the reunion of my university theatre school this week. Chet Baker aged 57 was a frightening sight, and I couldn’t help wondering how I’ve weathered over these last twenty years. I’ve pulled out some pictures from back then and”¦ I think I’m better off now. At least a lot of my pictures from the Eighties have me in costume, sparing posterity from visions of my bad dress sense (which is no better now).
I dunno; I think being an adult suits me better. Not being a junky helps, too.

Phew! I just finished my fourth novel, Finitude. It’s”¦ hmm, I need to work on my elevator pitch. Okay, how about this?
It’s a lighthearted climate change action story about an insurance salesman at the end of the world.
Normally I get all weepy when I finish a book, but with this one I have to say I’m relieved. It’s such a huge freakin’ topic — juggling all the different ideas I had in my head about it and wrangling them into a story was a lot of work!
I’m off to Canada next week for a reunion of the university theatre department I graduated from. It’s well-timed, getting to have a vacation after sorting out my work-work stuff and finishing this book. So I’m taking a wee break before tackling the next issue, which is the question of what to do with this book. Do I go through the whole manuscript submission meat-grinder process again, or do I jump straight into publishing it through my own micropress?
I’m open to suggestions. Informed ones, that is: Don’t say “Have you tried [X]?” if X is a publishing house — like Edinburgh’s Canongate — who don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts. Now, if you have a cousin who’s an agent or a pal who’s an editor, let me buy you a beer.

I strung up a line this morning and hung my washing out in my rose-scented garden. Lately I’ve been keeping my window open, loving the feel of the breeze coming through the chipped old white pane. Last night I even slept with it open, and the cool night air was delicious.
It’s time for me to make my life a bit more wholesome. (Mom, stop reading.) It’s been rather unwholesome of late, mostly in reaction to things going badly in my personal life. There’s a point, though, where too much of that living mucks with my brain chemistry and skews my priorities.
So I’ve deleted my dating site memberships, and figure I’m taking a month off from ‘gay’, with a possible extension to the whole summer. Maybe it’s silly and idealistic, but the current state of things certainly hasn’t been bringing me joy. (Okay, brief bouts of joy, but nothing lasting.) I’m tired of being kicked in the nuts by people I’ve let into my heart, right when I’m having fun and not expecting it. And there’s so much else I could be doing with the time I spend reacting to this stuff, like making art, not treating my friends as also-rans, or being out in the world instead of trying to score attention from virtual people.
~
Meanwhile, I’m re-reading my novel Finitude and making small edits, because I only have one chapter left to write and want to make sure it’s in keeping with everything that’s gone before. It’s not for me to say, but, dammit, I like it. And every single day I see at least one thing mentioned in the news that I touch on in this story; it’s time for it to be out there.
~
Freud was once asked the secret to a happy life, to which he replied “Love and work.” Those are the two things I generally try not to talk about on here, but since I’ve already talked about one, I might as well get the other off my chest.
One of the things I was being hush-hush about was a copywriting gig I took on the side. That was published this past week. The end result looks amazing, and the client was over the moon about my work, which was a much-needed boost — finding out that others out there could respond with the same kind of enthusiasm about what I love to do as my existing client has in the past — because there’s always that one stray thought that maybe you just managed to fool them, but couldn’t fool someone else. I haven’t been writing for the main client for several months (I’ve been working on another project), and that was getting under my skin.
So I had a conversation with my editor about where my work with them is headed, because at the core I’m a creative person, and I need my work to be creative. It’s a conversation several people advised me not to have, since it could jeopardise my main source of income, but I had to have it. I’m not someone who can fake it in my relationships to any degree. Plus, these are amazing people for whom I have endless respect — based now on ten years’ worth of proof — so it seemed to me I was underestimating them by not trusting them to ‘get’ it. But they did, and now instead of dealing with this schism in my head about work, there’s a new possibility for bigger things. Phew!

Poor wee gastropods keep slithering across the path leading to my house, and it’s nearly impossible to distinguish them from shrivelled leaves until I feel that sickening crunch underfoot. I look, and there’s yet another creature with its brittle shell shattered and driven into its slimy flesh. I’m sorry.
Last night I went out on a household emergency, buying loo-roll since we were nearly out. The corner store didn’t have our flavour of Andrex, so I bought the one they had that was the closest approximation. It has puppies on it, and features this as its Unique Selling Proposition. I don’t know what product development person managed to push this product through, but contrary to whatever market research they did, I really, really don’t want to wipe my @rse with a puppy! And look how they show it, holding out a paw like it’s offering itself up as a sacrifice. “I know I’m cute and adorable, but I also realise that you have needs, great human master.”
Sick.
Now if it were a kitten, sure.
~
Most of my life right now is going on in my head (like Chapter 17 of Finitude, which is underway), so I haven’t anything to report.

Yeah, I know, it’s been forever.

Isn’t it funny how the stuff I shouldn’t write about here is exactly the kind of dirt that people want most? Still… no. There’s some of it I’d really like to crow about, but it would not be a good idea.

Meanwhile, I’m back into my novel and getting very close to finishing. I’ll be asking for input about that project soon.

And my brother has driven across Canada! So in lieu of actually presenting interesting content myself, I will direct those with reading needs over to his blog.

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This morning my brother and his family got in their new van and drove away from my parents’ place, off to the Yukon. Ian applied for — and got — a social work position up there, inspired after attending a conference in Whitehorse (also in the Yukon).
It’s a big adventure for them, one they could never pass up, and so many things lined up to help them on their way that none of us doubts this is the right thing for them to do. I’ve been there myself, hearing the call to move somewhere else (I arrived in the UK seven years ago this month), yet it’s funny knowing that my bro will be so far away.
It’s strange for my parents, too, who’ve been used to having Ian’s family around on weekends a lot of the time (there’s so much more going on in Charlottetown than out in the country where they lived). And my nephew has been staying with them for the past two years, working, then studying photography in town.
It’s a big change for Ellen’s family, too: her parents are now living in a home, which is no doubt better for them, but the time finally came to sell the family farm. It had been handed down for generations, and for Ellen it was always “home”. When Ian and she decided to build a house, they built on the land next door. Ellen’s brother will be staying in their house, but the farm had to go.
It’s a silly comparison, but I can’t help thinking of the bit in Anne of Green Gables when Anne and Marilla are faced with the prospect of having to sell the farm. “But you can’t sell Green Gables!” Anne protests. Apparently you can.
It’s not good to resist the call to adventure, though. Hero stories from around the world, throughout time, all agree on this. (And in my eyes, with the social work my brother has done, much of it on behalf of disadvantaged families, I think of him as a hero.) I can’t wait to see the pictures and read the tales of my brother and his family settling in and working in a remote part of the country that so few Canadians ever visit. Ian has experience working with the First Nations community, and this new post will involve a lot more of that work.
In the summer, apparently Dawson is a major tourist destination. If Prince Edward Island has its Green Gables and Edinburgh has its castle, Dawson City has memories of the gold rush to bank on. Ellen and Andrew’s work will probably be related to that.
I see my parents no less now than I did when I lived in Toronto — maybe even more often. But I guess I’d always selfishly counted on my brother and my sister to be there for them. So this is a change, and like any change it’s a bit scary. But the fears are all imagined and the good things about our family are real. If experience shows us anything, it’s that things just work out for us.
So, Godspeed, bro!

I’ve posted my Prague vacation pictures here.

Holy long day! And not exactly my average day. I’ll keep it brief ’cause I’m shattered and it’s time for bed.

This morning: a tour down into Hallstatt’s salt mine.

This afternoon: a trip up into the alps around Hallstatt and into one of the ice-caves there.

Late this afternoon: a drive to Salzburg, dinner there, then the long drive back to the Czech Republic and Prague.

Phew. Home tomorrow. Damn, this has been fun.

I am being crushed — and happily so — by a duvet that must weigh as much as I do. I’ve left the patio door open so the fresh night air will come in and I can hear the waterfall.

Last night we left Prague for Cesky Krumlov, a little town comprised entirely of the sort of little alleyway streets that make me love Europe, all wound around a castle painted up like a children’s puppet show set-piece.

When we arrived, the disembodied GPS system lady-voice barked orders for this way and that. “In twelve metres, turn left, then right. Recalculating route. Do a U-turn when possible. Turn right, then turn right, then…” Then Gord noticed that the centre of town was pedestrian-only, so she shouldn’t have been telling us to drive on any of these tiny, dark, cobbled alleys. We shut her off.

We left the car and carried our bags (the wheels were just too loud on the cobbles), wandering until we found the staircase alley where our hotel was. Gord called the owner, who came over in houseclothes to open the souvenir shop (mostly marionettes), and gave us the keys to our rooms, which were up an ever-shrinking staircase and under the slope of the roof.

Settled in, we tried to find someplace that was still open for dinner, and wound up in the opposite of our hotel: a shrinking stone staircase that wound down and down to a rotisserie deep underground. Our dinner there was wonderful (a fish, served whole, was as close as I could get to vegetarian, but it was done perfectly, so I quickly got over being stared at). I also had a very good dark beer, so much softer and milder than the sharp lagers I’ve been having.

Today we poked about the town and guided ourselves around the castle, since all the morning’s tours were sold out.

(I can’t do justice in words to the colourful wee buildings huddled around Cesky Krumlov’s streets, nor to this town, but I’ve been taking pictures.)

We left in the afternoon and drove through to Austria. I loved seeing the shifts from the already-unfamiliar Czech barn buildings and vehicles, power-lines, houses, and steeples to their Austrian equivalents. Then Gord pointed out something on the horizon — like clouds, but below them. Mountains!

We drove on, eventually passing through those mountains in a long tube of a car-tunnel. After a few of those, we emerged here, to this town that clings to the mountain like a climbing plant, with buildings like leaves unfolding all the way down to the water.

I can’t help thinking of the young men in World War II, coming here from small towns and encountering these old European villages for the first time. I feel like them; I have never seen anything like this place, cradled in mountains dusted with snow like the icing sugar on my apple strudel after dinner.

Gord is in great spirits, asking questions and joking in German with the hotel’s owner and staff in their lederhosen. He’s clearly enjoying sharing this part of his heritage with us, but through him and his fluency we’re also getting to experience the Austrian character, which seems to be very hospitable, with a constant kind of teasing-joking going on.

Gord’s already asleep in the next bed (Goderre has been banished to other rooms because of my reports of his snoring on our London trip a few years ago). I guess I should turn in. Tomorrow we’re to be up early to see a glacier, then perhaps see the salt mines here, which date back around 3,000 years.

Last night’s sushi dinner took place in a restaurant spread across a number of interconnected vaults — reminiscent of Edinburgh’s vaulted nightclubs and pubs, except that this was more plastery, less cobbly. The chef was from The Four Seasons, Michelin-accredited. And handsome; there are lots of beautiful people here, though they also smoke like demons.

So the food was excellent, and I finally learned what the pickled ginger is for: cleaning your palate between different bites of sushi. I love wasabi, too; I like to use just enough so I almost cry. But we didn’t really keep up with the sushi after the first round; we were availing ourselves of the free white wine.

Gord, Robert, and I were joined by Gord’s friend Jan, then later met his work colleague Paul and his wife Marketa. (Jan and Marketa are both Czech, so it was nice to have their perspective on things throughout the evening.) I also got to speak to a woman from the Canadian embassy who was charming and quick. Something about her, something I couldn’t name, was distinctly Canadian, like she was someone I would have gone to school with. I liked that.

The evening wound down, but I wasn’t finished. My chorus mates have given me a taste for celebrating late into the night, and even though Gord had a call in the morning to try to convince all of IBM Europe to let him take over their commercial services (or something like that), I managed to get everyone to keep going. So we took a streetcar together across town and found another bar, where I got us a round of Becherovka, had an absinthe (with no water — ouch, my throat!), then continued on with the pivo (beer).

I’ve been enjoying Gord and Robert’s company immensely; as I said before, they’re good guys, and it turns out they’re great people to travel and visit with, too. Last night, though, I had the added fun of hanging out with and really liking people I just met. There’s nothing like spontaneous fun with strangers who suddenly feel like best friends.

This morning I woke up wondering who’d poisoned me (turns out it was me), and slept in as late as I could justify to myself. In the course of conversation last night, Robert found ouf the Marketa is a masseuse, so he decided to go for a massage today and offered to treat me to one, too. So we went for a bite to eat (pizza in the park, where a public address system announced that they were going to be testing the emergency siren — all of which felt very “Attention citizens!” to me, but of course I’m looking for signs of communism-remnants), then Marketa came to fetch us and we went to her studio.

Oh man. She was wonderful, very strong yet graceful in her movements, and I left her table standing taller and feeling like I’d been untied. (I’ve been carrying my overstuffed messenger bag everywhere lately, which pulls my back this way and that.) It was a perfect holiday thing to do, and, again, I’m feeling like someone who’s stumbled into living an awfully privileged life.

Gord’s just coming home from work now, picking up a car along the way so we can drive off to a place called Cesky Krumlov, which is apparently a UNESCO world heritage site. Jan talked excitedly last night about having recently won the use of an Alfa Romeo for a weekend, so after taking lessons to brush up on his driving skills, he sped off there by himself as a treat.

From there, we may head on to Austria. Great, just when I finally earned to say “please” and “thank you” in Czech! (Unlike other languages I’ve been exposed to, there’s just nothing to hang these words onto in my mind, because there’s no Latin root to look at and the sounds are unfamiliar.)

I’m nibbling on some coconut fudge Robert brought from Trinidad. It was funny talking to the woman from the embassy last night: “So you’re all Canadians?” Well, Gord’s from Canada and lives in Prague. Robert’s from Canada but now lives in Trinidad (he’s been going back and forth since 1973), and I’m from Canada but I live in Scotland and just got my UK citizenship. It’s not that we don’t like Canada, there’s just so much else out here!