Monday, February 16, 2004 , 10:39 PM
I worked today in the public library on George IV Bridge. I finished my work-day with a call from my editor, who did her best to scrounge together some things for me to work on while in the middle of a tight deadline herself. I went for a falafel for supper. That wasn’t filling enough, so I went to Bene’s for chips (with salt’n’sauce, of course). At first I didn’t see the owner, but then he emerged from the back room, cute and impossible as ever. This is the shop where my father and I got a battered and deep-fried Mars bar last summer.
I went to a student pub at The Pleasance, where I washed the grease from my mouth with an Irn-Bru (which I can only take once every few months). I answered some e-mails and waited for the doors to open for a reading event. I’m on an e-mail list for a local press because of my defunct reading series, and I figure rather than whinge about not being part of local culture, I’ve got to show up for every one of these things I hear about.
The book is an anthology of stories about love and boundaries, or something, from Luath Press. The readers were surprisingly adept, and the stories long but somehow engaging right to the end. The “big name” of the evening had — surprisingly? not surprisingly? — the most predicatable twist to her short story. I sat there by myself, drinking a pint of Tennents (formaldehyde, yes, but Scottish formaledhyde!) because they didn’t have an eighty shilling. A couple sat down beside me, and to my pleasure, introduced themselves. She was Aimee Chalmers, who had a story in the anthology, but because of the age we live in, everything was conducted over e-mail, so the publisher and everyone else there neglected to acknowledge her in any way because they had no idea who she was. She and her husband had driven over from Fife, and we had a great talk in-between the story readings. Her father, she shared at one point, spoke only Scots, and she was forbidden to speak it in school, so she eventually stopped speaking directly with him. I found that fascinating and sad. Now, of course, she’s learned to write in Scots, and is one of the few perpetuating this thing which I barely understand. (It’s more than a dialect of English, yet not a discrete language, so it’s…?)
I walked home from the event, having had a pint I bought, the pint Mr Chalmers bought me, and another which I ordered a bit too close to the end of the readings. I walked home, steady of body, but with a brain like a flock of sparrows, stepping over the cobble-stones, the light rain turning my glasses into a yellow kaleidoscope under the sodium lamps. I took a shortcut up Jacob’s Ladder, a forgotten old windy staircase between two levels of the city which should feel dangerous, but with its overhanging trees and old brick walls felt, like so many things do to me again lately, so distinctlyEuropean. What a vague word — but such a true word. I’m not of this place, yet it feeds my soul — the art and the architecture and the culture of it all, wrestling to reconcile its past with a living present. Maybe I have a falsely romanticised notion of it. But then, what’s false about romance? If one feels a way about a thing, doesn’t that make it true?
P.S. Had a lovely time this past weekend, completely unlike the previous. It’s beautifully documented already by Anita and Liz.
Friday, February 13, 2004 , 11:01 AM
This morning I got an Anti-Valentine’s card from a friend, one of the cute, not snarky ones on Meish.org. I don’t have any negative feelings about Valentine’s as a single person. It’s pretty easy, actually. Easier than the whole restaurant/date thing. Last year I went for dinner at an Italian restaurant with the guy I was seeing, and the staff were — well, not openly hostile, but not particularly nice to us as a male couple.
I remember in grade school giving Valentines to everyone in my class. Being the budding cartoonist I was, I drew pictures of everyone, which was quite a hit (I discovered I could be cool through my talents only moments before moving away). The real fun is that everyone gave cards to everyone — which meant I got to give cards to the boys, too. I liked that. I wonder where Rodney Heeney is now.
Last night, I had a “magic soiree” with poets Elspeth and Wendy, and Elspeth’s partner Ian. Dinner started with a nice salad by Wendy with great little phyllo camabert/crandberry twists, and a matching paper bonbon with a different “magic moment” inside for each of us to go and do sometime, all written out in a spiral. Supper was veggie haggis, introduced with a poem by Elspeth just for the occasion, a la Burns. I so appreciated these people putting their creative spark into my evening! How amazing to actively use one’s gifts for one’s friends. Ian is a quiet, gentle soul who doesn’t say a lot, but always wears a smile like he knows a secret. He’d just set up himself and Elspeth with Pocket PCs, so we geeked out a bit over that shared interest. Then we talked for what felt like half an hour, but somehow sped us to midnight, covering everything from St Mungo’s bones to whirling dervishes.
I’d made it down to Newhaven early, so I walked down to the waterfront, out along a stone pier that had a 90-degree jut at the end with a lighthouse on it. I sat on a big iron lump (presumably for tying large boats to) and ate the smoked salmon I’d guiltily bought along with dessert for the evening. It melted as I chewed it, smoky and fishy. I indulged in pescetarian delight (since this was a decidedly non-vegetarian moment), and swore I could feel the vitality of the fish in me, this all-muscle creature, wee streamlined suit of armour made flesh. I looked out at the Firth of Forth, barely able to make out the rocky form of Inchkeith between me and Fife. A plane flew past, low, and I found myself imagining that it was a Spitfire, and that the low grey clouds were illuminated with bomb-blasts.
And now it’s Friday again already.
, 12:51 AM
I’m sitting on the second floor of a bus, riding to my dinner with the poets.
I bought The List this afternoon, as one of my tasks from my Monday meeting with Patrick was to look into rental prices in Glasgow. Because the universe works this way, the issue was all about comparing which is better, Edinburgh or Glasgow. I felt excited reading it: I love both cities for different reasons — and that’s more or less what the contributors had to say.
All I know is that I’m a bi-polar freak, because I’m giddy with excitement this evening at getting to be in this country.
It doesn’t hurt that my week has been full of good company and fun correspondence. I also wrote something for work this afternoon, some snappy copy to go on a postcard, and they loved it. Sometimes it all just works.
Thursday, February 12, 2004 , 12:51 PM
When I was little, my mother would ask me the following day about something that upset me, and I’d say, “Oh, that was yesterday.”
Some things never change.
I blogged here about my rotten weekend, so of course I’m having a fine week. I was through with Edinburgh by Sunday, so of course last night I was in love with the ragged cliffs of Arthur’s Seat and this morning with the decorated tops of the stony gingerbread tenementson Easter Road, as I walked quickly from home to the library, because I had to — HAD to — get out of the house.
My mum pointed out that I might have just been suffering the “February Blahs”. I hate that idea, that somehow I might be duped by some vague condition of light and mood into despairing over my life’s plans.
Like I said, this week has been completely different. I had a brilliant Monday night session with Patrick, a night for planning out what we’re up to for the week (which has proved to be a rewarding thing to do, as things get done, I feel more focused, and I have someone to crow about my achievements with).
Last night, I met with my friend Doug, who works witth the courts here in Edinburgh. He gave me tons of information and ideas for the remaining chapters of my book, so I don’t make any mistakes about the machinations of the Scottish legal system, and also so the progression of things just makes sense. Not only that, he’s a brilliantly funny storyteller himself. You’d never think of a courtroom as funny… Until you talked to him. Nonetheless, I’ve no doubt he’s also very good at what he does. Best of all is learning how no-nonsense the Scottish court system is; things that are obviously a waste of time and money are simply thrown out in a way that’s not provided for in the English legal system, nor the Canadian system, I’m sure.
Tonight I’m off to have supper with my poet-friendElspeth, her partner Ian, and another poet I met through her named Wendy.
Then tomorrow is the pub-gang, and I’ve filled my Saturday with things to do.
So what was I on about? I’m not sure, and I still feel like I’ve got bruised ribs because of it. Should I move? Is there a better environment for me? I’m not deciding anything until June. In the meantime, I’m going to do what the poet Rilke suggests, and “live in the questions”.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004 , 10:00 PM
Well that’s fun: I got an e-mail just now from someone who’d downloaded my second book from this site. I’m not sure what he does, but he had some very specific mathematical knowledge about why some technical things in the book were incorrect. Like I care. (Just kidding.) No, it was very gratifying to know someone was getting something from the story this long after I’d published it.
I had a crap weekend, feeling quite washed out to sea here in this city all by myself. Happily, a good friendacted as the Coast Guard last night and came out to fetch me from the proverbial water. I always feel like I should be able to save myself, but there are times when you’re — to stick with the analogy — sucking in water and you think you’re breathing, and it takes someone else to… Okay, I’m abandoning the metaphor now. There was no rescue breathing involved.
I am thinking, though, that Edinburgh might be a beautiful place that just isn’t home. I’m not leaving Scotland. That would leave a big hole in my life, and I’d keep looking back here because I hadn’t finished whatever it is I came here to do. But I’m thinking that Glasgow might be a better place for building a life. The book I’m writing is so tied in with this place that I’ve got to be here until it’s finished. When that’s done, though, I think it’ll be time to move.
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Sunday, February 08, 2004 , 5:00 PM
My heart is a moth
cupped in my hands.
It’s minus-twenty out
and I’m not sure what to do.
, 12:23 AM
I had nothing to do today. I need some key pieces of information for my book before I can start writing the next chapter, so that pre-empted what I wanted and had planned to do today. So I did some shopping, then took myself out for a pub supper, answering some long-neglected e-mails in the process. I went to the cinema, but I was too early for the show, so I sat and answered another e-mail in the internet cafe there, which is also the ticket-sales area for an indoor ride with hydraulic seats and a big projection screen. While I was typing, the young man behind the counter asked me what I was using (referring to my handheld). I told him, finished what I was doing, then went over and talked to him for about half an hour. He was friendly, easy to talk to, and very soon it was time for my movie. Instead of sitting there in silence, I swung out, reaching for a social vine that wasn’t comfortably within reach, and discovered again how easy it is to talk to strangers. I have no idea what his intentions were, and we parted without any exchange of contact details, but it was a nice connection for what it was.
I will make a game of this, to do five risky things each week that will improve and expand my life here.
The film I saw was a Bertolucci movie called The Dreamers. I expected something raw and European, and that’s what I got. Kind of. The story centred around a young American student in Paris (bien sur), who meets a pair of twins, a brother and a sister. Of course, it being Paris in the Sixties and this being a European film, they all are soon in love with each other, smoking, sharing a bath, and showing their actual human genitals. Yes. When America is doing Saint Vitus’ dance over Janet Jackson showing her breast, treating the incident as if she’d sprayed sarin gas on the crowd, I watched a movie in which you saw penises, breasts, and even labia — a filmic first for me.
But did the two boys kiss? They all said many times how much they loved each other, including the boys. Twice we saw an Iago-esque leg-thrown-over-a-leg. But did they ever share a passionate kiss?
No.
I’m offended by the filmmaker’s cowardice. Just when I was considering that my next book might contain a relationship between a man and a woman, I’m reminded that I must not oppress myself in an attempt to be more palatable, more saleable. If who I am is unpalatable, so be it. If Bertolucci thinks the kind of love I feel is too frightening to show, then it shall be my job to be frightening. What kind of artist am I if I subjugate myself and my experiences? Can I be funny, can I be inclusive, and still achieve the task at hand? Sure. But to cut myself out of the piece of paper that is my life is a crime against my soul.
Thursday, February 05, 2004 , 1:05 AM
I’ve been stupidly happy all day for no particular reason. This afternoon I worked from the library, which was much better for my concentration. I got a call at one point from my editor and had to bundle all my things up (don’t worry; it was on ‘silent’) and rush out and downstairs so I could talk to her and take notes.
Turns out she loved the last piece I wrote. Apparently I succeeded in making a complex business topic emotionally leading and simple to understand. She’s written a lot on this topic herself, she said, and she still found herself saying “Oh, I hadn’t thought about that.” That was quite a triumph, particularly after I’d just named for myself this week that the times I get stuck with work and take five hours to write a three-paragraph blurb are always about not feeling confident enough, like I don’t have the authority to be discussing the things I’m writing about. I can recognise when this is happening, because the work starts to get jargony. I’ve found a great mnemonic for getting back on track, an old advertising acronym: AIDA — Attention, Interest, Desire, Action. If I can’t create each of these things with a piece, I haven’t really figured out what I’m saying.
While waiting to meet my friend Chris to go see a movie, I sat in a coffee shop (yeah, *that* one, but it was open and I could make a minimal purchase, as I just managed to squeak through to my next personal pay, even with buying clothes last weekend). They were playing really great old music, some of which I knew from shows I’d been in. I decided to do a little more work, so I unfolded my keyboard and was sitting there, trying not to sing along, happy as a clam to be a writer in a cafe.
We went to see Big Fish. The reviews I’d read tempered my expectations, which was good. I wanted to see a great magical realist film, something on the scale of Amelie, but this wasn’t it. The problem was that there was too much gloss, and not enough humanity, not until the last ten minutes — which, admittedly, had me choked up. But that’s not enough. And I think that was just me bringing in my feelings for my father — they lucked out and tapped into something of my own there. This is the trick with magical realism: the magic’s got to be anchored in something real we care about. You can’t slip that in at the end.
Endings. I’m very conscious of endings these days, as the end of my book is looming on the horizon. So many stories are wrecked by a bad ending, so I’m trying to really dig deep into the earth and find out exactly how this story wants to finish properly. What’s great, though, is that I’m really getting immersed in the world of it. I’m thinking about it all the time, dreaming it — in fact, tonight walking home from the movie, I felt like I was in my book, with the big, silly stone dollhouse of a castle above Princes Street, and the tenement canyon of my block with the moon big and full and storybook bright in the sky.
This year feels different. Things are magical, and somehow I feel less complicated. Is that possible? I thought we grew in complexity and weariness, yet here I seem to have left some of mine behind and reverted to a simpler me. As I walked through this city on my way to the library today, the people were each like lit-up bulbs. I loved them all and wanted to hear what they had to say.
I was also dressed like the famous version of myself on his way to an interview show. That was fun. New underwear even — but I don’t think that wholly accounts for what a great day it was.
Sunday, February 01, 2004 , 10:27 PM
Another week has flown past. Friday I got together with my pubbing friends, and we went for supper, for drinks, then to The Improverts, the improvisational theatre show we’ve been going to the past few weeks. Of course, the first week was the best, but there’s always something inspiring about seeing people being spontaneously, originally funny, rather than executing studio-vetted-and-tampered-with comedy over a laugh-track.
I stayed out at Patrick and Anita‘s Friday night, then Patrick and I went shopping on Saturday afternoon. Contrary to the stereotype to which I supposedly belong, I hate shopping. I finally capitulated because the other day I pulled on a pair of underwear and they tore. The last time I’d done any major shopping was with my Toronto gang on a trip down to New York. After that trip, I’d reached a happy point where every day could be Favourite Underwear Day. But that was about five years ago. At plane crash sites they often refer to “metal fatigue”; I guess I’ve discovered the point of cotton fatigue.
So I bought a couple of packs of boxers. Yeah, so they’re that kind, not the sort that are individually boxed and cost fifteen quid each. I also bought three shirts that actually made Patrick say words to the effect of “Oh, you’re not!” It occurred to me, though, that I’m an artist, a culture-worker. We have an image to maintain. I don’t work in an office, so I don’t have to dress like an office-person.
Patrick was all pleased and “butcher than thou” after he bought a power drill while I was buying candles to make my flat smell nicer.
We shoved everything into the boot of his car and continued through to Glasgow, where we checked ourselves into a hostel. It wasn’t exactly a fancy place, but it was dirt cheap, and we just wanted someplace to flop at the end of the night.
From there we went to meet Jamie and my friendGraham, whom the others hadn’t met yet. We went for drinks to The Polo Lounge, which is a nice club that looks like an old-fashioned gentlemen’s club. That’s the main floor, full of tables with curly-legged chairs, a few chaise-longes, chandeliers, and old paintings on the wall. Downstairs are two dance floors, one of which plays generic crap music, and the other of which — the bigger one — plays some decent dance music that always gets me moving.
Graham had to attend to some family stuff, so he left fairly early. Soon enough, the night wound down for the rest of us. Patrick wanted to stay, so I went to a chippy with Jamie, who commanded me to order chips, cheese, and coleslaw. I thought it sounded vile, but he was right. It was bang-on late night food. I’m not sure how well-advised it was to put all of that on top of a evening’s worth of bourbon, but it was pretty tasty.
I said my goodnight to Jamie, and we agreed that we all have to get together more often. Then I walked back toward the hostel. The streetlights illuminated the snow that fell between the decorous buildings of Glasgow, turning my walk into a ticker-tape parade. The snow was wet and soon soaked my hair, but the night was mild and I felt happy. For all my talk of being disconnected from Scottish culture, I have developed some really fine friendships here.
This morning, Patrick and I awoke to the sound of two Swedish girls in the shower stall beside our room, talking away to each other. To some, that would be a pornoriffic dream. To us, it was even more of a nuisance than the sound of peeing and flushing we’d heard from the exposed pipes in our ceiling. We got up, got cleaned up and packed our things, then went for breakfast. We stopped in for a quick hello to Graham, then Patrick kindly drove me back to Edinburgh. This evening needed to be quiet time.
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p>I didn’t write a thing this weekend, for which I’m mentally giving myself a kicking, but I did do some living. It’s a fine balance, this art and life thing. I’m aware, though, that as Charlie Parker said, “If you don’t live it, it won’t come out your horn.”
