Back in the Saddle...Again

Okay, okay...
I have said it before and I will say it again: It has been a long time between things.  I could not access this particular blog o' mine for a while because Google wanted me to do things their way.  No thanks.  I have my own particular account and I am going to use it.  Besides, I now have a notebook and can set things down wherever I please. 
One drawback: exam time for my little monsters!  I have to finish two exams today and hand them in tomorrow for printing.  Not a problem - a little cutting-and-pasting work - but time-consuming.  Add to that the other written work that I kept promising myself to finish and you are reading the typed out thoughts of an overworked instructor/writer/dreamer.
But I am back!

What to do...

A long time between things,  I know.  I have a new schedule at a college where I am teaching English and they are really running me down and out.  Good thing is that I have been able to afford a laptop/notebook.  This means that I can finally finish a lot of projects that I have left in the raw in my notes.  One of them is a play...

Yeah, I know.  Who watches plays anymore unless they are on Broadway and have witches or wizards in them?  Well, I did when I was in school (lunch hour at McMaster University was a gift to anyone interested in the art - and a great place to finish your lunch!), and the habit bit hard.  I had one play performed and another on the line (was told it would be too costly to perform - at least I was ambitious).  And now there is this one. 

It is a very short piece called "Caught" and it deals with a power dynamic between a teaching assistant and a student.  A simple idea that I have not seen on stage before and it deserves some airing.  I am on my third draft and I will see if a local theatre is interested in putting it on. 

Stay tuned!

What I Did Do Before My Summer Migrated...

I have been looking back at the last few months and all of the things I have done in the heat and noise of Montréal and it has not been as depressing as I thought it would be (nostalgia is not always a good friend).
To wit:
*Met Gilles Peterson and danced in a club with a girl whose boyfriend threw daggers my way (hey, next time, try dancing when you are in a club with a well-known DJ playing a Cuban-music-themed night)
*Chased out of Osheaga (I tried to sneak in while Arcade Fire were finishing up their set - not smart)
*Bought Arcade Fire's The Suburbs (not bad at all; should have kept running past those security guards)
*Met a friend of a friend and I think that I like her (she is on another continent now and I will have to wait before I can really reach her; story of my sad life right there)
*Started teaching extra classes at a college (this matters: I will finally have some extra green around to buy a new laptop and not have to come to the library to type)
*Looked back at the last eight years and realized that I was not that happy (another moment that matters; epiphanies are rare in my life, so I grab them when I can)
*Decided to continue with both blogs (twinned mindsets in them - have to get both brain centres working)
And all this before Labour Day...  Amazing what comes out.

Summering Out...

It is almost over. 
I mean the summer and all that implies.  I live in Montréal and people know what it means when this season is over.  There will be darker and shorter days; there will be less skin exposed to the elements; there will be fewer festivals that everyone will want to take part in; and there will be cold.  Almost hard to believe today.  We are in the middle of what I think will be our last heat wave and I am typing this in shorts, sandals and a golf shirt at the library, surrounded by others just as dressed down as myself.  We are all waiting for it.

It is not all bad.  I have my teaching contracts up and running now.  I have also written the rough draft of a play that I am going to put into shape and try to put on.  There are other stories, poems and articles that I would also like to get done, preferably at home with a new laptop (looking forward to that first pay cheque from all this teaching).   There is a last street festival on what we call The Main, a film festival with free showings at an outdoor screen (saw "The Shining" on Friday, surrounded by les Montréalais), and I can still head out to open markets to buy vegetables and fruit for the week. 

But I know what's coming...

The List (Part Seven)

So that was just one example of my suggestions.  What it may reveal about my biases and beliefs, I have no interest in exploring.  But they do exist.  How could they not?  The thing about suggesting books is that it is not really like suggesting music, food, clothing or movies.  Those things do not involve investing a great deal of time in a narrative and then arriving at a conclusion about whether the time used was spent well.  This may be why newspapers are more confident suggesting the above than in suggesting literature.  And that is a valid fear.


Books speak to us beyond trends and fads that are assumed to be special, hip and everlasting.  No one wants to be clinging to something that will not matter the next day or year.  It is important to look for the work that will last beyond us.

Finally, do not ask me what you should be reading.  Ask yourself what you want to read and enjoy.  Such biases can only belong to you.

The List (Part Six)

And now, The Catcher in the Rye.  I wonder about this choice.  Too many of its readers have become, or already were, a little out-of-centre (eg. Mark David Chapman, Winona Ryder).  My nephew now has my copy, but only because of a visit by my family and a half-serious request for books to read (again, it never ends).  I kept in mind how long it has remained a go-to book for teenage angst; how certain writers praised it ("Best thing I read in ages" - Samuel Beckett); and how it spoke to me.  I had to include one example of teenage life that I recognized on this list and there has never been a better example than Salinger's work.

The List (Part Five)

Yes, Kitchen Confidential made the list.  Anthony Bourdain was the head chef of a French restaurant in New York City.  He now hosts a food show - No Reservations - where he travels from country to country, city to city, village to metropolis, sampling food, culture and life.  And he can still find time to write books about his life in the kitchens of the world and the occasional mystery/thriller.  I confess that I have not yet entertained myself with his fiction (cf. Bone in the Throat).  K.C. got to me first with its advice, wit and incredible story of dumb luck and hubris.  That friend who requested the list is also a talented cook.  He should be reading Mr Bourdain's gastronomical opus.

Vital News!

I am going to forget about "The List" for this one entry and put up a link on the latest from Lucasfilm: a lost bit of "Star Wars" material that you need to see.
Click here and scroll down!

The List (Part Four)

Siddhartha I chose because I enjoyed the way that Hesse presented the material of a life devoted to pleasure, pain and eventual growth.  As well, whomever I lent the book to has enjoyed it (a friend rewarded me with a kiss and very real tears after reading it).  That was a safe choice.

White Teeth was not so safe.  Reviews praised the book so highly that there had to be a backlash.  An online article complained that Smith's book debut was "too confident".  This seems very odd as a complaint.  Did this critic want her to lack confidence in what she was writing?  Was she too young for such talent (the book was completed when she was 25)?  I discovered the book just after my 26th birthday and have since read it about half-a-dozen times.  At one point, I used to carry it around with me wherever I went so that I could dip into certain passages and get my fix.  If you do find a book like that, it is your responsibility - your happy duty - to pass it on to any interested party.  The copy I now have is the second one I have owned.  The first one is in a friend's collection.

The List (Part Three)

I once recommended the following books:
Siddhartha - Herman Hesse
White Teeth - Zadie Smith
Kitchen Confidential - Anthony Bourdain
The Catcher in the Rye - J.D. Salinger (R.I.P.)

The person who asked me for this short list was a roommate studying for a degree in Microelectronics (or Microeconomics - I have had his work explained to me only often enough to forget what it is actually about).  He was already a casual reader, so he did not need my help.  But I was intrigued.  He had never read any of the above books (not even Salinger's opus).  His background is Chinese, straight from his native land's verdant countryside, which explains why he would not be aware of the trials of Mr Caulfield.  But I wonder about this lack of knowledge.  I wonder how my choices impressed him.

The List (Part Two)

Now, a reader suggesting books to someone is one thing (not usually a dangerous thing).  A writer suggesting books is a very different creature, one that should be avoided or tranquilized as is necessary.  Writers hate other writers.  Unlike in sports or politics, there is no sort of polite respect or even love for the other team.  A list of literary rivals, tyrants and feuds will be briefly listed here:

Ben Jonson, England's first poet laureate, admired his drinking buddy Will.  He also claimed that Old Shakes had "little Latine and less Greeke" (i.e. he did not go to a proper university to truly learn the classics of these cultures).

Lord Byron dismissed John Keats as a mere Cockney poet.

Henry James hated Middlemarch.

H.L. Mencken had no time for Ernest Hemingway.

Vladimir Nabokov dismissed Zola, Balzac, Stendhal, Pasternak, Camus and Thomas Mann.

And V.S. Naipaul was disappointed with Graham Greene, Evelyn Waugh, William Golding...and Nabokov.

You see.  The festival of hate is eternal and ongoing.

The List (Part One)

There is one thing that I do not like to do as a teacher/writer/reader, and that is recommend books to read.  This usually happens at the end of one of my teaching contracts, or when a roommate finds that she has too much time available to do more than just watch TV.  They - students, staff, people stealing my food - know that I read.  They see the paperbacks that I flip through on breaks, on commutes; when I pretend to be listening to the same questions about a grammar point.  They think that I have taste because what I enjoy reading does not involve werewolves, teenage vampires, or wizards.  They want my advice.

So what should I give them?  I have made many mistakes, so I think that I am allowed to suggest certain ideas.  If your enquirer is a roommate, play things safe and keep that person happy with a paperback that they can keep in a pocket of their knapsack or handbag.  A friend once took one of my suggestions for reading and ended up lugging around a very heavy hardback copy of a book that had been available in paperback for over a year.  I did not tell him that he could have had a lighter copy.  I was too impressed with his devotion to the work.  A roommate will always be around and may not forgive you (see some of my other blogs on dealing with roommates).  A student may not forgive you, but the power is all on your side, so who cares (see my entry on being sick and dealing with students)?

The Silver Lining

I am still getting over that head cold, and there is still the possibility that I will spend another summer on my own (most friends are on vacation, planning a move, only visible over Facebook, or just gone).  The roommates still linger and I still do my best to avoid them, but I only have so much strength.  I have just finished the last session with my students at a college and now I have a large pile of papers to mark, with one absentee exam nowhere to be found (not even my fault this time).

But all is not bleak.  I woke up on the Friday and picked up the guitar.  It was just like reaching for a life preserver that I never knew I had.  I really don't know why I went back to it.  I was reading a large monograph on the Velvet Underground and thought back to when I was fanatical about their music (still a fan; just not fanatical).  I admired Lou Reed and company's attitude about music and what it can do for you.  And to be honest, the only time that I have felt up over the last week (year?) was when I had that guitar in my hands (I even wrote some lyrics for something called "A Ghost in the Record Store" - stay tuned).

And work: exam was easy enough to administer, even with the student who kept looking at other papers (he will be receiving a special mark on his paper).  There was also the class that I covered for a teacher on vacation.  Her notes were inaccurate and I had to be fast with my improvising.  At least the students were great (a sense of humour on both our parts really helped).  And then home, rest, more song lyrics and notes to do, and a plan for this blog.

So, not so bad...

A Difficult Time

I am now recovering from a bad head cold in one of the warmest heatwaves this city has ever seen.  Add to that the fact that I am marking exams, giving exams, and covering a class for a teacher on vacation and you can see where my head is at.  There will also be two more courses to teach in the coming months and I have to plan my lessons without regular texts.  A lot of fun...

And now, another lesson to teach...

A Poem about My Father ("What The Story Was")

Forgive me: it is a Monday; it is August; I am back at the office picking up material for a teacher who will not be here to teach on Friday and asked me to pick up the class for her.  I have been reading over her notes and I think I can follow what she wants me to do, but I still have questions.  My mind is not really on being that creative with this blog.  But I do have something brewing that I have put off for too long.

This may be the start of a whole series of poems about my father and his death.  I have a lot of rough work in a lot of different notebooks which I have filled up over the years and I think now is the right time to share them, starting with this sonnet.  I will try to publish them (I have self-published one collection of poetry), but I would like some feedback here.  Be honest and be fair...

What the Story Was







Maybe I was dreaming before the service, the earlier sitting


for a wake still in my mind. All of the guests (very Catholic)


would not weep from their seats. They were just “Amen”-ing


under their breaths, undulating with their fans, and sick


with the urge to leave the room, with a quick


gesture of hands on hearts, chests held tight.


And the mass became a mystery, a magic trick


of disappearing words (the priest spoke Latin), light


in multicolored ecstasy, and the red flight


of hibiscus (satin in my hands). I should have written


it all down from that very moment; the bitterness and bite


of knowing so little about where the body was burdened


with the quick neatness of a plaque, cement and lime.


There was more than this end of the rhyme.

The Naked City (from New York to Montréal)

Just found an article online (NY Times) about the growth of nudity in public in the Big Pomme.  There had been some talk about this over the last week with the rise in heat and humidity and most of the commentary has been tempered with compassion (less clothes = less discomfort).  But I wonder about the idea of nudity in the U.S.  And would such an idea even matter in my hometown?

Montréal just went through a very painful heatwave and we appear to be heading back to the same temperatures over the next week into the rest of August.  I saw people sleeping on their balconies behind bamboo screens while smothering themselves with ice packs (okay, that last act was my own, but it worked).  There has been no public nudity...yet.  I did not go to Osheaga this year (tried to sneak in last night during Arcade Fire's set - a very bad idea), so I cannot say that during rock concerts their body is still being flashed.  Divers/Cité is another issue (all male; not really worth my attention).  But the dresses are skimpy.  Age and body type do not seem to matter in la Belle Ville.  The tease is key.

So, New York, I salute you.  Just don't be so obvious about your willingness to go bare...

Salt: The Great Killer?

I found this cartoon in Saturday's Montréal Gazette and wondered.  There are now plans to regulate the amount of salt in our food as a means of stabilizing and improving our health (ha, ha).

This is complete and total BS with a capital stink.  The Japanese use more salt on a daily basis with their food as an accompaniment, and they do not have the problems with obesity and health that we face in the West.  Have we just forgotten about that other thing that actually makes us fat called...fat?

I already know more than I need to know about Omega-3, trans fats, multigrain food, brown sugar and the perils of carbohydrates than anyone needs to know.  At least let me enjoy the one spice Canadians actually use and know...

Creativity (What do you need to do what you do?)

I wrote about creativity in my last post, but I think that I may have pushed it a little too far.  I think that I need technology to do my job and that as long as I do not get distracted with it, I can do what I do.  I am at the library surrounded by people wasting their time with the free Internet access; but there are those who are new to the country who need to have a computer for contact with family and friends in different countries.
I do wish that I still had an up-and-running laptop, but I am glad to have a reason to get out of the house on my days-off and just type away with a audio clip playing in my head.

And what do you use to do what you do?

Creativity: Where does it come from?

A few days off from this site sometimes helps...  I just entered another short story contest and looked over some of the files that I have saved on different flash drives and computers over the last decade.  I am still amazed that I wrote so much just for myself while working and working on a master's degree in English literature.  But that is what I did. The files make it plain.  I just have to ask myself why I can do this kind of work when so many of my colleagues and friends feel pinched for time.

I think I got it.  A friend pointed out that there is an article on how they are now trying to grow creativity in our society.  There is serious concern that we as a culture are losing our ability to be creative.  I wonder about this.  I don't think that creativity can be taught.  It is innate, like having a certain taste for a kind of food or hobby.  If I am creative in any way, it is because I took the time to be on my own and contemplate what I was doing.  If you have looked at my profile, you will see that I am interested in just a few things: guitar-playing, music, film, running, etc.  But I devote most of my free time wholly to these things.  I don't like parties and nightclub; bars are a bore; and I can live the rest of my life not knowing who won which professional sports contest. 

I also have to add a note here about technology.  I have to use the computers at the library and college office where I work in order to post these messages.  My last laptop broke down and I am in no mood to put myself through the same nightmares I have relived again and again.  As you can guess, I have no iPhone, iPad, BlackBerry, Kindle or other portable device to really distract me (mp3s and flash disks do not count).
If I could, I would write this by hand (yeah, I still like letters).

So, that is where my creativity comes from: less toys and distractions, more privacy and silent work.  Where do you get yours?

My Saudi Life (Part Six: Final Thoughts)

At this point, there is the issue of shaving off the beard. That would probably help me to blend in with surroundings of a less Middle-Eastern nature. As for my other features, I’m not sure what I could do about them. There is only so much that can be done with plastic surgery and bleaching agents. Not that I am too concerned with how I’ll be perceived by certain small-minded people who need something to hate. My Middle-Easternness is nothing that I would really like to change. It could probably open up a whole new way of life for me. And I have at least one Algerian friend now who seems to have some insight on what it means to be from that region of the world.


Hopefully, I will have more insight into myself. It is always difficult when you discover what the world sees in you.

My Saudi Life (Part Five: Crossing Borders)

One other thing that I am concerned about now is the sort of problems I might face as a Saudi Arabian in the current political climate in North America. Does it make me some sort of liability to the airlines, who are already obsessed with intense security sweeps and anyone sporting a passport outside of this continent? Would it be fair to presume that carrying a copy of the Koran in my knapsack – as I did on my last international flight – may lead to suspicions about my intentions towards the place I have called home for over thirty years? I do wonder. They may have to make some space at Guantanamo Bay for a Canadian of Caribbean origin who looks Saudi Arabian yet feels like a hoser. Of course, my Caribbean background should make me feel quite comfortable in that hemisphere (viva Cuba!)

My Saudi Life (Part Four: Features and Focus)

But are we Saudi Arabian? Only in a few examples. We are easily ignored yet unmissable, following our own codes of (shaving) behaviour. If I think carefully about the incident with the clerk, I realize that he was not just fooled by the extra hair. My skin was also a feature that was tied in with his speculation. My other features are not a pretty sight and do not speak well of the male population in Saudi Arabia: bad skin, fat lips, bulbous nose. But there may be some sort of genetic link to a culture outside of the Dominican/Lesser Antillean domain of my parents. I do recall all of those photos taken of my grandmother where she appears as a rather pale(r) young lady in comparison to my father’s side of the family. And she did like to travel, once sending us a picture of herself in Holland sporting wooden shoes. Did she ever visit the Middle East? Perhaps not. I never did discover a picture of her in an unnamed swathe of desert.

My Saudi Life (Part Three: In The Frame)

It isn’t always a good idea to do a self-examination. What you may discover will stay with you forever, unless you happen to find that you are quite comfortable with your very specific quirks and habits. In Canada, we have made a national obsession out of the constant seeking of selfhood. This has become harder and harder as the years go by and the population changes, with less of an Anglophilic way of regarding the world and our relationship to that elephant in our bed due south.

After I left the clerk and the store with my cheap lunch, I looked carefully at the world of Avenue du Parc and Rue Milton and noted the number of goatees that were framing certain chins. The summer heat had not encouraged any of us to bare our faces with razor blades, setting our faces free. When I finally made it home, I watched “An Evening with Kevin Smith”, the stalwart director of such classics as “Chasing Amy”, “Clerks” and “Dogma”. He still had the goatee, which was not a shock – imagine Silent Bob without it – but I was impressed with the number of fans in the college audiences that fired questions at him who were also sporting the beards in brief. So many of us are out there we must be a special breed. And we are taking over.

My Saudi Life (Part Two: Hirsute Memories)

Ah yes, my goatee. Let me explain my old friend: It has been with me for more than a decade now and has no intention of going away or retreating from the camp it has established, despite the many permutations it has undergone over the years. It has often put me in harm’s way, particularly with my mother who was not pleased when I decided to adopt what may have seemed to her a rough Rastafarian look (halfway towards dreadlocks which never arrived).

Another problem arrived with girls - at least with those who wanted a goodnight’s kiss - who complained of scratches and scrubbed lips. In this latter case, I do admit that I shaved off a few of the excess strands that may have scraped against their dainty mouths, but (like most of the relationships) it did not last and since then I have ignored all requests to remove my moustache’s alter ego. It needed the accompaniment; my urge to grow it out came from a desire to be different, to stand out; I did not want to resemble any of the other guys who stopped with the initial soup-strainers above the lips. It did not seem to owe anything to the fashion of the times (this was pre-grunge; pre-Cobain). It was something uniquely my own, with the added bonus of having the ability to annoy the ones who wanted to be annoyed.

Life was and is good with it, yet that clerk’s comment had me thinking about what it may have meant to others who were silent on my hirsuteness. Were there questions about my nationality that were never aired, or at least made public? Did I really look Middle-Eastern in certain eyes?

My Saudi Life (Part One: Living Through my Goatee)

It was an innocent question. One day, just out and about on the town, I decided to buy something for lunch at one of Montréal’s trendy international food shoppes; one of those places where you can find gourmet potato chips, smoothies with every kind of herbal additive for every kind of weakness and at least four hundred types of rice, at least by my count. Not wanting anything too fancy, I asked for a vegetarian Jamaican patty, which is cheating (they should only be made with meat). And while waiting for the snack to be nuked, the man behind the counter decided to make some small talk, asking the following question:


“Are you from Saudi Arabia?”

At first, I thought that he had asked about my place of origin within Canada; my poor French giving away the whole show. I talked for a few moments about being an Ontario-born Golden Horseshoer, studying at McGill University for a Master’s degree in English Literature. When I had the much-warmer patty in a paper bag, he repeated his query:

“Are you from Saudi Arabia?”

I couldn’t pretend to not have heard him the second time (the microwave was still; the store almost barren), and I did not want to do so. I will admit that I felt quite flattered by his inaccurate guess, and wondered what would make him ask me such a question; me in particular, I mean. He was Algerian – I will not use his real name here – in his thirties, perhaps, so I gave him the benefit of my own doubts about his ability to spot a Saudi Arabian. There was also a temptation to go along with his first impressions of me, but that would have lead to more complications and explanations than I could keep pace with, especially if I wanted to be a regular customer for those patties. He learned that my family emigrated from the Caribbean before I was born, becoming Hamiltonians who now work in the nursing and steel industries. A visible gleam of embarrassment crossed his face during my story and he apologized. His confession - that my goatee had fooled him – intrigued me and made me wonder about my relationship with this hairy companion.

What is Inappropriate?

This has been a week to remember.

The heatwave is still killing us (humidity is something we never think about in Canada until it gets into our sleep), one of my schools asked me to handle two courses at the end of the summer (I need the money, so there goes my summer vacation), and the wall between me and the roommate is still up (thing is to not make eye contact - rather easy to do).  And there was a message from a friend's fiancé that I need to discuss.

I do not know this man.  I barely knew her before she linked up with me on Facebook (from my high school) but I like her.  Then she got engaged and everyone wished her well.  And then he reached me to ask, and I am quoting here:
Kendall,no ill will towards you but i need to ask you a question....Have you slept with xxxx and if so when was the last time?If you did your not the only one

Yep, he asked a stranger if he had done it with his lady-in-waiting.  And he gave me an out by saying that, if I had, I was not the only one.

All the people that I have discussed this with have said that I have done the right thing by telling her about this.  But this is also followed by a discussion about what is now appropriate for discussion.  Mainly, we agreed that technology has changed the game.  But that seems weak to me.  Is it enough to say that web site and email no longer allow us to make mistakes with our thoughts and feelings?  Aren't we still responsible for our own stupidity?

I wonder...

The Ending of Something; The Beginning of Something

I was going to put this under another "How Not to Kill..." section, but I think it stands out on its own.  That roommate I mentioned is in New York for the weekend, but I was not sure about this until one of my other roommates said that she wanted him to be gone for at least a week.  There was also the added problem of him taking me off his Facebook list (no problem there; I was going to do so anyway).

Was it a friendship?  Not really.  I know, by now, what a friendship involves.  It must involve sacrifice, some flexibility, understanding and sensitivity.  Our relationship failed on all four points.  He wanted others to sacrifice their time and patience for him; he was not flexible on how to deal with a guest he invited to a stranger's party; he never understood when he was taking things to far; and I guess all three complaints cover the issue of just how sensitive he could be.

I know why people say that it is family first, everyone else second.  I envy the people who somehow balance the two.  I am not sure if I can do that.  I go out with a few people, but no one is ever too close.  It is hard for me to do things with others if I feel that I am being nudged - pushed? - into doing something that I just rebel against emotionally.  Yes, I am a loner; I have to be.  I would not have passed my course, written the work I have written, travelled the way I have, if I had been too close to anyone.  A terrible thing to say, but the truth is sometimes unforgiving.

So, I guess I do need to start something else.  A move would be nice; more money would be nicer.  There are no new messages from any of the places that I have contacted, but I cannot give up on the chance of getting my life on a different track. 

Time to move...

The Dog-Shit Days of Summer

If I were in a better mood, I would never have bothered with this entry today.  It's my day off, but I am busier than ever with planning school work for my students, cleaning up the house, exercising, avoiding certain roommates (see last entry), finding a place that has an A/C and few(er) flies than my own place, and watching the World Cup wind down. The thing that keeps me going is the prospect that the current heatwave is going to turn into something that is a little easier to handle, that certain roommates will move out soon, and the work that I have been doing will pay off.

Ahh, summer...  This may be the worst time of the year for someone like me.  I am forced to relax, take it easy, nap and do less to save myself the embarrassment of collapsing in public with heatstroke.  Not something that I am really capable of; I was raised by workaholics and the genes stuck.  Only good thing is not having my own computer at home.  Being here or at the school office typing stuff out works for me (commuting and writing my thoughts out).  Being at home in the furnace that is my room does not (I have sweated off at least a pound a night this week - at least I don't have to jog too often).

Okay, now I'm feeling drowsy.  Should stop here.

How (Not) to Kill a Roommate (Part Three)

A long gap between things for many reasons...

I got invited by a roommate to a BBQ.  No problem there, although I really did not know any of the people there and was the only person who spoke English.  All of that I could have handled.  What I cannot deal with is being bullied by someone who invites you to a party and then expects you to not notice that he did so because he had a few shots and, hey, his annoying girlfriend was there (a thief as well; read one of my earlier columns about how to handle such a person). 

Man, how do I get into these situations?  Ahh, yes.  I'm too nice to new people.  If I had just stayed at home that night (or gone out with a real friend), I would not being having awkward moments in the kitchen and hallway.  Only good thing is that I really do not feel the urge to sit down and clear the air.  There was also a BBQ at our place and I just went to bed after a long day of work.  That probably did it for me.

Now, I usually try to say something funny or give smart-ass advice on what to do in these situations.  This time, I feel that I should just state the facts and let the world of the web decide on the matter. 

Any comments on this would be appreciated...

Goodfellas on the Gaza Strip (Part Five)

There may still be a problem here. Hate runs deep and economics can only do so much to change how people feel about their neighbour. The only real means of alleviating such tension is through the establishment of a multi-denominational committee that would listen to the complaints on all sides. The Mafia would bring in the concerns of Christians (specifically Catholics) while respecting both Jewish and Islamic concerns. Remember: business is business, and money has no political, religious or social allegiances. People want to have a steady flow of cash available and are willing to overlook hatreds to keep it going. And anyone who thinks that such a thing could never happen does not understand the respect you command when you are willing to look beyond religion, put food on many tables, develop safe neighbourhoods, and relate to the world as a business environment that needs to be preserved and protected. Loyalties to the economic system would precede any other oaths.


I used the word “respect” again. I think that the problems I have explored here are solvable if we are all willing to try a new solution. Remember what a wise man once said: “Blood is a big expense.” Let the people who understand this try and work things out. And let us offer the Middle East an offer it can’t refuse.

Goodfellas on the Gaza Strip (Part Four)

Of course, I understand that many citizens and governments would feel very uncomfortable giving that much power to a criminal organisation. My plan may even allow members of the Mob to sit on the UN (who can say that they would not be elected to local governments?). People respect strong leaders. The Middle East is no exception. The fear of crime becoming the main source of commerce after exploiting the oil resources would eventually lose out to the positive changes seen in their environment. Parents would eventually encourage their children to work for the heads of specific families instead of becoming martyrs for a cause with no root source besides an overwhelming hatred of the US and Israel.

Goodfellas on the Gaza Strip (Part Three)

A note on those punishments: mobsters punish those who disobey the rules in their own families, or those who attempt to testify against them. I believe that the situation in the Middle East would lend itself too very well to the elimination of snitches. They have already lived through a climate of fear for longer than most of the other regions. Changing the source of fear from a suicide bomber to a criminal organisation would not be such a big step. All that would be necessary, as the head of a family unhappy with someone’s attitude or actions, is the sending of a message to the right person. The right symbol would convey the right message (cf. “Godfather” and the infamous horse scene).


Now, we also have to consider the reasons why the Mafia would want to live in an area which has been a war zone for such a long time. What would motivate this organisation to become involved with the Middle East? Well, in a word, money. Let us never forget the importance of the profit motive in human affairs. There are very few people who still believe that the US invaded Iraq to simply “liberate” its people and fight terrorism, although the current administration is still perpetrating this idea. Iraq is just a stepping stone for any one nation interested in the reserves of oil available to the lucky invader. Not since the halcyon days of OPEC has any one association been able to exploit the price of “black gold” for their own ends. Just imagine how the Mafia would handle matters. Yes, they would begin by gouging the West, but I believe that the Mafia would eventually realise that they needed customers to buy their product. Prices would have to be stabilised in order to allow the families involved to maintain their business interests. Fluctuations at the gas pump would soon be a distant nightmare.

Goodfellas on the Gaza Strip (Part Two)

I said earlier that respect is a problem and it must be faced head-on by all concerned if there is going to be any sort of change that brings lasting peace. Any president of the United Nations General Assembly is looked upon as some sort of animated lawn jockey by certain elements in that cabal, and all of the parties involved in the conflicts feel as though they can act with impunity. What is needed is an organisation that will not only establish the peace but also mete out punishments to those who do not feel the need to obey the rules; a group that would allow people to feel safe in their own neighbourhoods.

Ladies and gentlemen, we need the Mafia in the Middle East. It is well-known that neighbourhoods occupied by members of this institution are some of the safest places to live. They do not bring their problems home, so to speak. Any kind of dispute between one family and another clan is handled one-on-one, not with a barrage of missiles on an unsuspected community.

Family would be the most important factor in maintaining any form of rule. Anyone familiar with the plot of any of The Godfather films or almost any episode of  The Sopranos understands that without family ties there can be no stability, no order. Henchmen swear an oath of allegiance to the head of a family; they then agree to certain rules and responsibilities once they accept the duties necessary in becoming a part of that family (even without the bonds of blood). And those responsibilities would not include self-immolation, decapitation (at least on video), and the destruction of private homes.

Goodfellas on the Gaza Strip

I wrote this for someone who ran a journal and he said that he was offended by it.  Of course, I kept it and considered when I could finally give it a forum.  With recent changes in the Middle East, it just seems right to be satirical:

Over the last few weeks, I have heard less and less about the naval blockade and how the world is finally willing to criticize Israel for its behaviour. It seems as though we have heard all of this before. Israel and Egypt managed to find a peaceful solution to their conflicts and they are an exception which proves a particular rule: you have to want peace in order to get it. They discovered that they could live with the other’s existence without it ruining their sense of self. The Palestinians and Israelis have had their treaties, but they have rarely been worth the paper they were scratched upon, and the recent decisions made by both governments will not help matters. There needs to be another solution that generates the desire for peace.


The key problem here is a lack of respect for the opinion of the world community. The United Nations has never been able to guarantee that innocent civilians will stop being bombed, killed and kidnapped by terrorist groups and occupying armies. Even the leaders of the aforementioned countries and political entities have found their authority questioned and denied by radical elements within. Ariel Sharon and Yasser Arafat both knew that their authority only reached as far as a code that could not affect the grudges held by their people. They could not hope to control the actions of certain soldiers or jihadists. The future of the present leaders of the more volatile areas of the Middle East promises more of the same instability.

Sounds bleak, doesn’t it? I must admit that there have been many times when I have just changed the channel when a newscaster makes any mention of Lebanon, Iraq, Israel, Hamas, Al-Qaida, jihad, and so forth. And I know that I am not alone. It is too tempting to change the record when it keeps playing the same tune. But all is not lost.

A Writing Life (Part 21)

There is one final problem that is clear by now: you have never heard of me. I have had only a few things published (nothing that would give me any sort of fame worth the time needed to write about how I created different types of poems, stories, articles, essays, reports, plays and so on). Also, I have only skimmed the surface, as they say. Very little of what I have written here hints at any of the incidents in my life that were not directly related to writing and literature. There were many moments that led me to choose pen and paper as my method of communicating my feelings and responses. This work would be open to anyone willing to read my thoughts and ideas. Some of those moments are painful; others still make me laugh when I recall them. I do have many stories to tell and I see what I have written here as a sort of leap of faith; a promise to do something worthy of this very slight examination. If more of my work is allowed the exposure that I hope it receives and deserves, this effort will not seem so unnecessary and redundant. My wish remains to have this accepted after my other work has had some success. This is simply a step to something bigger than my own personal best.

It seems right that the last entry of this piece is coming out on Bloomsday.  Fellow Ulysseans, Re-Joyce!

A Writing Life (Part 20)

I am almost at the end of the notebook I used to write this (forty pages on the recto). I know that I will make a lot of corrections and changes that will completely obscure some of the ideas here and lead to certain tangents that I never considered (the best writing is always rewriting). One of my plans is to (perhaps) break this up into several brief sections that I can then post on my blog as a series of thoughts on the life of a writer. I cannot imagine any publisher taking a real interest in putting this together in a book.

A Writing Life (Part 19)

There is an envelope next to me with a letter I plan on mailing tomorrow. It is addressed to my mother. It has been a long time since I’ve written to her. Usually, I have a weekly phone call from home and she now has an email address. In our last conversation, she admitted that she had not used the computer in a very long time (my stepfather, now retired, also uses the computer quite rarely). I won’t admit it, but I like the fact that they are not in front of a computer screen when they try to reach me. Also, I like to write as often as I can: letters, journal entries, ideas for stories, poems, plays and screenplays. This is why I have not yet shaken the habit of passing by dollar stores and stationery shops and picking up the occasional notebook or writing pad for the price of a cup of coffee. Many writers will admit that having a pen and a pad in their bag, purse, backpack or pocket means that there is also a good chance that they will use it. To return to how I opened this paragraph, I have to mention advice that my mother gave me about writing (something that suits a temperament and personality that has to have an endless number of notebooks in use and lying about with half-finished work): When you cannot sleep, write. This does work for me, and it is the best advice I have ever received because it is best suited not only to my routine, but also to my temperment. Put the page in front of me, and something will end up on it.

A Writing Life (Part 18)

It should be clear by now that I am no longer in the same café where I began writing this out. I am at home on a weeknight with another work day ahead of me and the week-end not too far ahead. I am in our shared kitchen at a table that my roommate will use for a dinner party she has been planning for the last week (the theme will be Mexico). She is preparing tamales, lime soup, drinks and other food. The two fridges are filled with dishes that are either cooked or need to be cooked on the day of the party. I am looking at bottles of salsa, a shaker of chipotle chili powder, a sombrero (ostentatiously made; obviously not for a night out with friends), a colourful pile of fabric, swizzle sticks with plastic fruit attached, avocadoes, pineapples and plastic plates, bowls and spoons. I am also playing a selection of music that she may like for the get-together. I know that I have to go to bed soon, but I want to hear this music. I have not played most of these CDs in a long time and it makes me recall moments from my life as a teacher in another country.

A Writing Life (Part 17)

I am still trying to find a way to write about this part of our lives, and many others, without embarrassing them or myself. My first effort should remain unread. It was a short story about a boy playing rounders and being hit by a ball thrown by the girl he likes (you could be tagged out this way in our version of the game). I also put these moments into poetry. This work also remains unseen and hopefully lost. Perhaps it is true that the best way to write about anything is with a sense of distance from the event. There should be a space between experience and how that moment is recollected on a page. This is how the best literature is created. This is how art exists.

A Writing Life (Part 16)

I once wrote, as a university student, a story about one of our trips to a public park. Every summer, we would go to the same place as a large group for recreation and relaxation. It was a conservation area just over thirty minutes from my hometown. Coolers and barbecue grills would come out, as would collapsible chairs and tables for games of dominoes. The sound of those tiles clicking together as they are shuffled, or being slammed on a cardboard-topped table nearly broken with blows, is one of my vivid aural memories. The children had to amuse themselves; not a difficult thing to do with the trees, the man-made swimming areas, outhouses, canoes and the wider river, balls and games of distraction. I often climbed trees, played soccer or went down to look at the river. What I enjoyed most was to walk alone on one of the many trails on the other side of that river and end up on the far side of that park (I still wonder how I was able to get away like that without telling my mother). Later, back at the tables and benches, there was music, laughter and boasts. We would eat and then arrange things for a game of rounders. I remember making the small indent in the ground that would count for the home base (your heel had to be in it as you tried to swing at a pitch). Adults and children played this together (this was rare in the teamed domino games) and I am glad that I saw these adults at play as a child (another important memory). And then, without noticing the new darkness, we packed our things and found the exit home.

A Writing Life (Part 15)

In all of this, there was my family. My mother was, of course, very proud of me. The experiment with me had worked while failing for so many of my other relatives and members of my community. She came to the high school and university graduation ceremonies with some other people in my extended family and took many photographs. My older brother, after spending years working in another city and parts of the northern wilderness, was also proud. He also came to the ceremonies. But there was still a problem: I had not yet written about them or my community. A play I wrote and had performed at the student art gallery was politely applauded by my mother, soon-to-be-sister-in-law and nephew, but it was clear to me that my experiment had left them unmoved. Any of the writing I did back then was a means of putting me at a distance from my family (again, it took me some time to realize this). It is terrible to learn such a thing, but it also makes you aware of what a family is willing to sacrifice for their children. They accepted my not writing about them. And I have never forgotten this when I write. And this is what makes things so difficult for me when I try to describe my very real and very vivid family. Things get lost, reshaped, re-cut and recorded in a way that feels false.

A Writing Life (Part 14)

There was another odd effect with all of this reading. We had learned to create the structure of an essay in elementary school. A folder divided into different pockets for each stage of writing was given to each of us at the beginning of one class, and then we began to write. What I noticed was how difficult it was for me to put my own ideas down on paper. I could argue about how I felt about what we had read, but I could not put those arguments on paper with the same clarity. I already mentioned how schools fail to teach good writing, a much more serious problem now than before, especially at the university and college level. I remember how surprised I was the first time I saw a writing clinic at university (even the term “writing clinic” sounded strange to me). I should not have been that surprised. My classmates (not always English majors) often admitted that writing essays was the one thing they could not stand. I received a lot of interest from people who had difficulties with their papers. Money was offered for writing out papers and it was tempting. I do not think I could have handled the sour feeling I would have if I had written for the grades of someone else. Also, I did not trust myself to give them a high enough mark. My own essays, after encounters with difficult teaching assistants, improved and carried me through the semesters. It was like exercising a different muscle with those essays. To not write my own work would have seemed a private form of laziness. And that was how I thought of the people who wanted me to create their arguments for their essays.

A Writing Life (Part 13)

I realize now that I do not want to give a complete list of writers. There were the usual distractions (comic books, cartoon adaptations of folk tales and novel, nursery rhymes, etc.), young adult and adult junk (Stephen King, Sue Townsend), magazines and journals (from Highlights – a youth-centered magazine – to Rolling Stone, The New Yorker), and the important names of literature. “Julius Caesar” was the first work of Shakespeare I read. In class, we had to remember speeches and soliloquies from the play and what seems odd about that experience is that I received an excellent mark for a reading I did not remember giving. That was in my first year of high school. There were also poems that dealt with romance, death and loss. This led to my first attempts at the form and an intense interest was born that has lasted to this day. In between all this school-based reading, I continued to go to the library, discovered secondhand bookstores, and yet managed to enter a science program without any real love for the work or the course involved.

A Writing Life (Part 12)

School reading is never like private reading. I liked the books that we read in class, mainly readers and a few specific novels and plays, but I knew that this material was part of a system meant to test us. This was unfair, but I would not have known this at the time. I simply kept what I read in private away from the school reading. Again, my imaginative life was divided between worlds. We had readers that were colour-coded, and I remember now that the colours would indicate how advanced you were in the program (your grade level did not count). That was the first time I felt separate in a classroom. Long before the advanced classes in math began, I was ahead of the curve, so to speak: I won spelling contests, wrote things that teachers thought should be shared with their classes (this did not help me with my popularity), and I made people laugh. This was also another key moment. I will never forget one fearsome-looking teacher reading one of my poems out loud to a fellow staff member and then laughing with delight and praise at what I was able to do on that piece on paper. Imagine how it feels for a child (a shy and lonely child) to see an adult who is not part of one’s family laughing with joy at something you created. It was as significant as the woman in that writing club, years later, handing me that notepad so that I could save my ideas.

A Writing Life (Part 11)

Writing at the university level was different. After my first failed year of computer science studies, I switched majors and schools. This let me discover another world of ambitions and ideas. A friend confessed that what he loved most about being at university was the close company of people who shared the same interests. I understood this. The people I met were English majors who looked at the study of literature as something valid; something that was worth the time and money spent at school. This was where I began to do public speaking events with my own work and with poetry that I wrote or found in anthologies (I always chose work that was either not popular or well-known). I mentioned the other work I wrote or improvised and I still look back on this time in my life as an incredibly fruitful time. Not all of my work was of the best quality (and many of my fellow students were also writing and performing the most predictable material), but I finally felt that the life of a writer was not shameful. I was continuing a long tradition of pen, paper and imagination.
*
I should talk about other inspirations, namely the books that I read or were exposed to by other readers. It is impossible to remember the first ones who read to you, or their stories, but I know that it was my mother. There were stories from the Bible and picture books that I recall from sitting on her lap and listening. In school, I read many of the same stories and others that interested me. There was also Mrs. Miller, the elementary school librarian, a tall and thin woman with a short haircut who spoke in soft tones, even when she was chastising us. I will never forget those close gatherings in the library, sitting with my classmates as she shared another storybook with us.

A Writing Life (Part 10)

And becoming a writer? It was not even a real option. The few people I mentioned it to, usually other students, laughed and wondered how I could be so naïve. At the time, I had only written the poem I mentioned and attempted a few other stories (most of them remain either incomplete or, mercifully, lost and forgotten). I was also told that the only thing I could do with an English degree was teach in grade school. This was a great incentive for avoiding any thought of teachers’ college. As well, the English teachers that I did have provided me with another reason not to write: frustration. One teacher told us, without any sort of set up, that he had written a novel and had not been able to publish it. He also told us about the time he worked on a ship during a severe storm and how another crew member begged him to kill him. He also walked with a limp, which made us all wonder about other parts of his past he had not shared in class. Apart from this man, there was the teacher who told us that a novel with coarse language in it could not be literature (goodbye James Joyce, J.D. Salinger, and so forth), and another teacher who thought that most “female writing in Canada” (his words) was the product of mental disturbance. It was not a healthy environment for any student with a growing love of literature.


The reason why the idea of a writing life lingered in my mind was because of a kind woman in my high school who decided to organize its first writing club. Her name now escapes me (I do not have any of my high school yearbooks with me as I write), but I remember her as a heavy woman in glasses who always smiled. The rest of the group were students I had never met, except for one friend who came and told stories about being in the cadets and having to hike with a full kit for hours in the wilderness. Soon, this group dwindled down to just me and this woman. She was the one who got me into the habit of carrying around a pen and paper to save whatever thoughts came to me (she gave each of us a cheap spiral notepad at our first meeting). Because I was the only one left, I became the president of the club. I did not always have stories written down, but the meetings gave me an opportunity to share what had happened in my life with a stranger (this is what the best writing should do). This club lasted for the length of my final year at school and I won an award for leadership because of it. I do not know if the club continued after I graduated.

A Writing Life (Part 9)

I mentioned a doubt about schools and writing and I want to return to this. My idea of the life of a scientist was encouraged by the media, especially science-fiction and straight science programs. I don’t know how else to explain my interest in becoming a scientist. The schools encouraged us to do anything but settle on a career in the arts. In fact, it was actively discouraged. I remember the day in our high school chemistry class when a man from a local university came to speak to us about different careers. He warned those of us in the arts (no specific names were on a list) to “wise up.” We would not find any work or a decent job of any kind. In a large lecture hall at university during my freshman year, another speaker quizzed us about our career choices. He asked for a show of hands for each major mentioned (business, psychology, biology, etc.). I was in computer science at the time and raised my hand when he ended his list at my major. By a quick glance around the room (in a hall that could seat at least 500 people), I noticed that there were only three or four other hands up. By a quick glance at the speaker, I could see that he felt ill. He said that “this situation has to change.” He was worried; not just for us but for the future of the nation. There was much in the news about the possible gap in science we faced if enrolment in these programs did not increase (the reports were specifically about engineering), and how we would be left behind the rest of the world. Fear was a great motivator.

A Writing Life (Part 8)

My writing proceeded with speed. I wrote and read poetry and other material at public-speaking events and open-mic nights in cafés and bars. It was always fun to do this, especially without a plan as to what I was about to say. After one of these improvised performances, I was stopped on the university campus the next day by a group of students who wanted to thank me for the show. Another friend, who was helping me edit a campus journal, decided to read one of my poems when I could not attend a reading. I am still touched by this act. I could not imagine having the nerve necessary to read the work of a friend. And I regret that I never got the chance to return the favor.
There were many poems written, performed and put into campus journals. I also wrote occasional articles for the campus newspaper, became Social Co-Ordinator of the Humanities in my senior year, read and studied the masters of English literature and finally felt comfortable with my education. I even wrote two plays and managed to have one of them performed on campus in the student art museum. I had finally found what I was supposed to be doing with myself.
*

A Writing Life (Part 7)

I mentioned that my interest in science was partly inspired by my perception of what it meant to be a scientist. The other influence did come from school. From the moment we were about to graduate from the elementary level, we were put into different streams of academic ability (the levels were called Basic, General and Advanced). I somehow made it into the Advanced stream. I really do not know why. My grades in the courses unrelated to science (History, French, Art, and especially English) were quite good. It was mathematics and science that tripped me up. And yet, I was put into that advanced group before entering high school. We had different math books, different assignments, even different equipment (it was the first time I needed a programmable calculator). It added to the sea of confusion I found myself in, and no one could tell that I was drowning.

High school added confusion to confusion. I could not focus on the homework in my science classes and the math seemed to be written in a foreign language (in its own way this is true). But I persevered, even going so far as to cheat on an aptitude test (the test was given during a chemistry class; a nice touch, I thought). Up to my first year at university, I had it in mind that I was supposed to be in science (it became computer science). And then I simply had enough. I left the major I found myself with and took a different route at another school. This is why I now have a master’s degree from one of the oldest universities in the country and no regrets about the decision to change my field of study. This is why I would encourage anyone who asks to study what they love, not the material thought to lead to some sort of job in a murky future.