Having faith

Two boys lie in fetal positions on the concrete. The sun is fierce, forcing one of the boys to find shade between a garbage can and a wall. Both have toques on, perhaps because arctic summers can still be cold, or because it's their way of shutting the world out.

The Globe and Mail ran an article about the reactions that cropped up upon the release of a photo of two young boys sleeping outside the local grocery store in Iqaluit. "Outrage" seems to be the universal reaction. Some northerners are outraged that their communities have been depicted in such a negative light, outraged that the photo and the ensuing controversy highlight already ubiquitous and harmful stereotypes. Others are outraged that the government hasn't and isn't doing enough to address the social problems in the North.

The question seems to be whether such bleak depictions merely perpetuate historical prejudices and stereotypes of aboriginal peoples and communities, particularly northern ones, or whether these serve as wake up calls for everyone to take notice and do something. What that something is, no one seems to know.

Cathleen With, a dear writer friend of mine who taught up in Inuvik with me, has written a novel in which the narrator is a troubled northern youth. It is a story of one young girl's struggles, of her challenges and hopes, of her journey to find a self that she can accept and love. That her story is set in the north is not merely extraneous. Readers may ask why someone would choose to write about the north from such a bleak perspective; however, as a teacher who had taught for five years in Inuvik, I must say that even though not all of my students were troubled youth, I had encountered enough heartbreak in my interactions with my students, and theirs were the stories that kept me up at night, that tore me apart, that made me feel helpless. While I shed tears and tossed and turned in vain, Cathleen did something about it: She was compelled to write a fictional account of one girl's shattered life. In no way is young Trista representative of all northern youth, but it is someone's story, someone's truth. And, sadly, there are more someones than there ever should be in the North. (And yes, I realize that there are troubled urban youth living in southern cities as well, and that everything just seems magnified in the North because of its close-knit communities; however, to say that does nothing to assuage the problems.)

So, is the story sad? Definitely so. But is it "too sad to read"? Decidedly not. If reading the book makes you cry, then great. If it draws you into a world of harsh juxtaposition, where the beauty of land and culture clashes with despair and helplessness, then you've learned a bit of what it feels like to live in the north, to be confronted by such a mesh of emotions. Having Faith is a journey, and perhaps it's a start of that something. Faith is about believing in something that cannot be proven. The resilience of youth, of culture, and of traditions is absolutely worth having faith about.

* Visit Cathleen's website, read a review of her book, or buy Having Faith in the Polar Girls' Prison. Cathleen is donating part of the proceeds to the Inuvik Youth Centre.

Yoga, attempt #358

I blame the weather. Since my arrival back in Vancouver over two weeks ago, it had been nothing but sunny and brilliant until today. Actually, everybody I met today commented on how nice and welcoming the clouds were, how the cooler weather was more comfortable. Well, I disagree.

I was in a bit of a slump today. I tried getting rid of some of my books and DVD's, to simplify my life via minimizing my possessions. That was a complete failure. I had merely shifted items from one box to another, trying to categorize them into "things I definitely won't miss," "things I could probably toss but might later regret," and "things I can't live without." At the end, I decided that even the "things I definitely won't miss" held some sentimental value, and simply boxed them all up and left them in the basement yet again, till further notice. Or until my parents move and decide to unceremoniously dump my boxes, which might happen sooner than I'd like to think.

In the midst of my attempt to cull my possessions, I came across a couple of yoga books I had bought a few years ago and somehow never managed to read or follow. I took an introductory hatha yoga course about eight or nine years ago, and had always looked forward to my weekly class. However, in the last few years, every attempt to do yoga has met with excuses, better-things-to-do, sheer laziness, and general wilful forgetfulness.

This evening, I practised my ujjayi breathing, and indeed felt washed over by stillness and awareness. I have a yoga mat in storage at my friend's place in Edmonton, and intend to make good use of it when I head back that way. Perhaps this latest attempt at yoga will be exactly what I need to feel centered again.

One of those days

Today was just one of those days, when laziness settled over everyone like a fog, and the hours stretched out. It was one of those days when we all found ourselves glancing at the clock too often, counting the minutes until the school bell would ring to signal the end of the day. About half of the high school was missing, off to Valleyview for a track-meet. The half that remained either stayed in bed, knowing full-well the futility of trying to do schoolwork, or else showed up at school with droopy eyes, with heavy feet that dragged along the empty hallways.

I ended up sitting in my classes and chatting with the few students who had come. In between our disjointed conversations, I managed to read a novel from cover to cover. It had been recommended to me by my Grade 10 English student, a boy who did not like reading much. When I see him next week, after he's back from his track-meet, I'll discuss Tex with him, and tell him what my favourite parts of the book are. And, perhaps, I'll recommend a book for him to read.

I'll leave you with some photos of two weekends ago, of beautiful, glorious Jasper. As we drove down the Icefield Parkway, I could feel a sense of wonderment welling up from inside of me. I'd love to live with those snowy mountains surrounding me, enveloping me with their majestic peaks.

Reading and bawling

Over spring break, my friend gave me Lawrence Hill's The Book of Negroes.  It's been a while since I've read something great, something brilliant. Most of the time, once I've found a great book, I'd inhale it in a couple of sittings. However, with this one, I'm savouring it slowly. It's the only way I can.

I've been reading the novel in thirty-page spurts. And, every time, I've found tears streaming down my face. I can't remember the last book I've read that made me cry so much. Perhaps I'm emotionally-frazzled, a bit stressed from the daily grind. But, this novel is absolutely brilliant. Go and get it now. Just be sure to keep a box of tissues by you as you progress through.

Fox Creek does not have an extensive collection in its municipal library, but I've decided that books are going to get me through the next two months....

(Un)inspired

Today, a parcel came in the mail -- my three new books. I had never ordered three new books by someone I had never heard of, never read before. Before a few days ago, that is. Instead of going to the store a few days ago, I had put in an order online. I had based my decision entirely on the online customer reviews, again something that I had never done before.

This morning, I heard the mailman trudge up the front walk, up the steps, and slip the mail through the mail-slot. The mail had been ragged and soaked from rain and melting snow these past few days, and it was no different today. As I stood there clutching the soppy envelopes and brochures behind the front door, I had an inkling that my parcel had arrived, that the mailman had wedged it between the screen-door and the front door. But I didn't check. Instead, I peeked out the window, followed the mailman with my eyes as he crossed the street.

When I finally went outside some hours later, to go out for lunch, I found the parcel with my three books. The novel has a green cover. I want to say lime green, but it isn't quite. It's more institution green, like the green you'd imagine hospital walls to be, at least in the movies. The poetry volume has a pink cover. That's straightforward enough, Peptobismol pink. The short story collection has a blue cover. It's a sky blue, but the pale version when the sun is high in the sky and you see the gold mixed in with the blue. Except that in the sky, the colour has depth, and on the cover of the book, there isn't any depth, just flat pale blue.

I wanted to bring my books to lunch, but I didn't. I didn't bring my cell phone either -- I forgot. It's just that kind of day. Before coming home, I stopped to buy a jug of milk, only to find, in my kitchen, that the jug had leaked. There was a trail of milk droplets from the car, up the front walkway, on the porch, in the living room, through the hall, all the way to the fridge. My cat was ecstatic. I stood there and contemplated what to do for the longest time. Finally, I took out the old milk jug from inside the fridge and dumped what was left in it into the sink. I'm sure I'm not the only one who hates drinking the last little bit of milk in a jug, and leaves it there for a week, before finally, nose scrunched and breath held, pouring it down the drain. Rinsed out the old milk jug and poured the new milk into it. Made mental note of the expiry date of the new milk in the old jug. Then decided it was best to write that on the old jug with a Sharpie.

Hunkered down to read the novel, the one with the green cover. I'm halfway done. It's a quick read, but I don't want it to end.

This post is inspired by the novel. I don't normally write posts that are so full of nothing. Or maybe I do. You tell me.

* The books that arrived today are all by Tao Lin: 1) Novel -- Eeeee Eee Eeee; 2) Poetry -- Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy; 3) Stories -- Bed

Holiday reading journey

I'm back from the most fantastic vacation in the Dominican Republic, with some genuine freezing to the core of my body in Edmonton before and after. I'll write about my time in the DR in another post and will put up some photos; however, I'd like to start the new year with a post on something I love, something that I've not written about for months and months because of my schoolwork. That something, of course, is fiction.

During my time on the beach, I had managed to read five books:

1) Raymond and Hannah, by Stephen Marche -- This book is a modern romance, a rendition of a long-distance relationship, something that I know a bit about. Hannah is a Jew from New York who embarks on a journey in hopes of finding herself by (re)connecting with Judaism. She meets Raymond, an agnostic intellect, a week before she flies off to Israel for nine months at a yeshiva. Given the current political climate in Gaza, this novel provided me a bit of perspective from the Israeli point of view regarding the Jewish diaspora and the search for a spiritual homeland. While I had always been sympathetic mostly with the Palestinian cause, I understand the deep desire to belong somewhere, to have roots. I could write on and on about my views of the conflict in Gaza, but the feeling that overwhelms me is that after six decades since the "founding" of Israel, time has erased what had initially seemed black and white. Must the roots of one people uproot those of another?

2) No One Belongs Here More Than You, by Miranda July -- A great short story collection by a brilliant writer/artist. If you've never seen her film, you should run out and get it. And check out her web project, "Learning To Love You More," by clicking on the link on the sidebar of this blog under "Worth Visiting." I can't say much about the book because my words are inadequate.

3) The Flanders Panel, by Arturo Perez-Reverte -- I had received this book as a birthday gift years and years ago, when I was still in high school, and never got around to reading it for several reasons: 1) It's a mystery; 2) it's a mystery about chess; 3) it's a mystery about chess translated from the original Spanish. But I didn't get a chance to stock up on more books before my vacation, so I lugged this one along. I'm glad I did, although mysteries, including this one, always leave me dissatisfied at the end, with their neat, tie-it-all-up conclusions. I enjoyed the twists along the way though.

4) Consumption, by Kevin Patterson -- I had bought this book because it was about the Canadian Arctic, and had hesitated reading it for the same reason. I was worried that it would either be condescending or idealized. However, I ended up thoroughly admiring Patterson for what he had accomplished. He described the clash of cultures, the tug between looking forward and looking back, without resorting to blame or despair. For anyone who wants to get an understanding of the North, this is a good place to start. It was hard to wrap my head around the fact that the novel is not an epic tale spanning multiple time periods; rather, it shows the immense changes within one character's lifetime. The communities in the Arctic have probably undergone the most rapid change within just a generation or two when compared to any southern city.

5) The Birth House, by Ami McKay -- This is a gentle, humorous book, about one girl growing up in rural Nova Scotia, bound by her gender and time, but transcending both in her own small ways, breaking conventions, gathering traditional wisdom and finding personal strength.

Happy New Year to everyone! I'm not going to panic about what I'm going to do now that I have no more courses to take, and while I wait to hear about grad school, and wait to decide if that's indeed what I want to do. I'm not going to panic, yet....

Pain and beauty

Here I am, sitting at my cluttered desk, and my mind is all aflutter because I don't think I'm prepared for my big exam first thing in the morning. However, there's also a part of my brain that is completely peaceful, that knows and feels that everything will be fine. I'm not aiming high this time. I'm just aiming to finish and not feel crushed. I have another exam on Sunday morning, and then I'll have to pound out two major term papers before conquering the next slew of exams. I want to take a good friend to my favourite noodle-house before I take off to the Dominican Republic and slurp those thick, mouth-watering handmade noodles and eat the scrumptious dumplings. I've talked about this little hole-in-the-wall place forever. It'll be a pre-Christmas treat. (Get back to those flashcards, V! Stop drooling over the thought of noodles and dumplings!)

Today, I finally went and got a new library card. The car wouldn't start, although I had driven it to the supermarket just a few days ago. The city had sent one of those big street-sweeping trucks to our neighbourhood to clear the roads of the rotting leaves that had clumped and stuck along both sides. I knew that I had to move the car, so I thought maybe I should drive to the library instead of taking transit. It was embarrassing to sit there turning the key in the ignition while the little car coughed and whined, all the while with the street-sweeping truck waiting, making that whirring sound as though to hurry me along. But no, the car (lovingly named Bob by me just a couple of weeks ago) would not be hurried. Finally, I popped out and went back into the house, defeated. And the truck went on its merry way, zig-zagging around Bob. An hour later, I decided to give it another go, and Bob finally gave in to my persistence, and off we went to the library.

I was just so distracted though.... I did everything but study. I read the magazines, looked over the French books, flipped through recipes, and even started going through a self-help book on how to be more assertive.

My blog has descended into a tool for procrastinating rather than an outlet for discussing my opinions, thoughts, or feelings. I'm not going to blog again until I've finished two exams and at least one paper. That will mark the half-way point of what I need to get done.

* Oh, and in case you're wondering why the post is titled "Pain and beauty" -- I was reading Nick Bantock's Griffin and Sabine at the library this afternoon. It's something I had read before, but felt compelled to re-read. It's a line out of that book, and I had intended to write something profound about it, but somehow, it has turned into this. I'll try to articulate what my point was regarding that line in my next post, after that half-way point. Until then, happy holiday-planning, everyone!

Filling the void

Today, I ventured downtown to the central library to sit and study, and, more importantly, to be with people, albeit strangers. I went to the circulation desk to inquire about getting a library card again. As it turned out, I was no longer in the system because I had been away for so long. Sadly, without proof of my current address on me, I could not acquire a new library card right away. But it still felt comforting to walk along the aisles of books, to see what a happening place the library was. I could almost envision the gears turning within the minds of all the patrons who sat with their laptops plugged in at the desks, writing their papers. It was wonderful to feel as though I belonged.

After a couple of hours of reading over my Psychology notes, I grew restless and burst out into the late afternoon toward the busy shopping district. I stopped by Cafe Artigiano again and ordered myself a mocha and a turkey panino. Crammed into that cozy space, there was a table of Japanese students to my left, while the young couple to my right switched back and forth between French and English. I could have sat there forever, taking it all in, breathing in the aroma of the baked goods and the coffee, feeling myself being wrapped up by the city, by the simultaneous anonymity and warmth amongst strangers.

As dusk fell, I walked out again, joining the throng that hurried either toward home after the workday, or toward the stores for holiday shopping. The bookstore beckoned, and I could not resist. I came away with three beautiful hardcover volumes, and suddenly felt richer, fuller, more complete. It's been a while since I've read a novel. I used to devour fiction, so insatiable was my hunger. But since starting life as a student again, I've been inundated with scholarly articles and textbooks, which, as fascinating as they have been, could never fill the void and satisfy the yearning of that other part of my mind, the part that ached to be swept away, to be challenged, to be taken both deeper within myself and toward the outer reaches of experience.

Sadly, the books will have to sit and wait to be read. I can't touch them for another two weeks, not until I have my two major papers written and my four final exams done. I'll bring them along for my Christmas vacation, for the two weeks when I'll be lounging on the beach with three dear friends in the Dominican Republic.

But, right now, it's back to the books... the textbooks, that is....

A few favourites

I saw a meme of favourite authors on someone's blog, and contemplated coming up with my own list.  However, I soon realized that I really didn't have enough favourite authors to compile a list that would span the alphabet.  Most of the time, I would find a book that I'd love, and would search out another book by the same author, only to be disappointed.  So, I tweaked the meme a bit, and listed favourite book titles instead.  Here they are -- some are old childhood favourites, and some are recent discoveries.  You'll notice that I couldn't think of anything beginning with the letters q, u, v, y, and z.  Please leave your suggestions for those letters if you have any!

A – Anne of Green Gables (L.M. Montgomery), Autobiography of My Mother (Jamaica Kincaid), Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (Lewis Carroll), All that Matters (Wayson Choy)
B – A Bird in the House (Margaret Laurence), Brideshead Revisited (Evelyn Waugh)
C – A Complicated Kindness (Miriam Toews), Crime and Punishment (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
D – Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim (David Sedaris), Duino Elegies (Rainer Maria Rilke)
E – Ellen Foster (Kaye Gibbons)
F – The Flame Trees of Thika (Elspeth Huxley), Falling Angels (Barbara Gowdy)
G – Great Expectations (Charles Dickens)
H – The Hours (Michael Cunningham), Howards End (E.M. Forster)
I – If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller (Italo Calvino)
J – Jane Eyre (Charlotte Bronte)
K – The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)
L – Little Women (Louisa May Alcott), The Lesser Blessed (Richard Van Camp)
M – Master and Margarita (Mikhail Bulgakov), Madame Bovary (Gustave Flaubert)
N – Not Wanted on the Voyage (Timothy Findley), Nervous Conditions (Tsitsi Dangarembga)
O – Oscar and Lucinda (Peter Carey)
P – Peter Pan and Wendy (J.M. Barrie), A Passage to India (E.M. Forster)
R – Rosencrantz and Gildenstern are Dead (Tom Stoppard)
S – Snow (Orhan Pamuk), Specimen Days (Michael Cunningham), The Stone Angel (Margaret Laurence), Shantaram (Gregory David Roberts)
T – Tess of the D’Urbervilles (Thomas Hardy), The Third Policeman (Flann O'Brien)
W – Written on the Body (Jeanette Winterson), Winnie the Pooh (A.A. Milne)
X – Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (Jonathan Safran Foer)

I was going to include only novels, but just couldn't resist my favourite volume of poetry (Rilke) and my favourite play (Stoppard).  I also know that I had to cheat with my selection beginning with the letter x.  At the very least, this has been a good exercise in focusing on something other than the on-going conflict with myself over whether or not to leave Inuvik.

Time-travelling

The above photograph is a tribute to one of my favourite quirky books: Flann O'Brien's The Third Policeman.  In it, a character theorizes that that since light takes time to travel, we are really seeing a slightly younger version of ourselves reflected back to us when we look into a mirror.  And so, if we angle parallel mirrors just right, we can reflect that reflection back and forth, each reflection displaying a younger version.... Hence, eventually, if we look hard enough, we can "reflect" ourselves back to our childhoods.

A photograph of my blog captures the state of the blog at a given time.  By publishing that photo, I'm documenting my blog in some point of time in the past.  And, by extension, a photo of my blog that has a photo of my blog that has a photo of my blog... means I am travelling back in time.  (And people say time travel is impossible! Ha! That'll show them!)

Religious questioning

In Schleswig-Holstein, a pub has established itself as a church in order to avoid anti-smoking laws that have come into effect in Germany. Apparently, the realm of the church is still a sacred place where the laws of the state do not apply. (Note the word “sacred.”) People can frequent the “Christian and Jewish Church of the Mousetrap,” as the pub is so gaudily renamed, to smoke while enjoying an ice-cold beer on tap. Surely this is blasphemous and offensive even to those who are not professedly religious.

What would Frithjof Schuon, arguably the foremost advocate of Perennialism, say about this? Perennialism is a philosophy that embraces all religions in the belief that they are all vehicles to one universal religious truth. I had thought it was a belief that I could possibly adopt as my own. It sounds progressive, right? Hold your horses – Perennialism simultaneously rejects all modernity, including egalitarianism, rationalism, and humanism. It pushes for “symbolic truth” that can be found in all religions and cites the importance of traditional dogma because it is the only way we mere humans could understand the mystery of God.

Yesterday, I read Hail Mary Corner, Brian Payton’s semi-autobiographical novel about a young boy being schooled in a seminary. The boy’s questioning and doubts eventually lead him to reject the church, yet he grows not farther, but closer to Truth. He finds a personal peace in believing that everything has turned out according to some greater plan. That may not be Truth to you, but in my admittedly little and sheltered world, the belief that things have turned out as they should is always truer than despair.

Here is the painted sky I witnessed on my way home for lunch today. There is something spiritual, if not religious, about watching the sky and its changes. I can believe that there is some greater being, some grander plan under and beyond these tints of pinks and oranges. I can, for a moment, stop questioning, and just breathe.

I believe in snow

What makes writers from countries that are/were on the cusp of revolution more able to create works infinitely richer than those from the privileged West? Orhan Pamuk’s Snow is a perfect example of a political novel that is half analytical and half farcical. It asks all the unanswerable questions: How does a country and people move forward when torn between Islam and Kemalism? How do people find unity when pushed and pulled in all different directions? How does one stay true to him/herself? How do we figure out if our motives are truly our own, that our hearts are guiding us where we need to go?

I have a love-hate relationship with books in translation. On the one hand, I find that books such as Pamuk’s have so much more to “say” than most books I’ve read in my numerous English literature courses. On the other hand, I cannot help but sense that I will never truly understand what the writer is getting at, that his voice will never speak to me from my own depths, that his points of reference will forever be alien from my own experiences. Nevertheless, the struggles in Pamuk’s work seem more pressing, the outcomes never wholly satisfactory, the issues still unresolved. Pamuk’s sentiments are a mix of patriotism and disillusionment. He is someone who loves his native Turkey, but who can simultaneously see the “ugliness” of Turkey’s history – how the clash of cultures and regimes have historically led to turmoil, fractiousness, displacement, and identity crises. Brave enough to criticize the state for the Armenian genocide, Pamuk was condemned by the state, but pressures from the West led his charges to be dropped. Pamuk is the sort of writer unique to this day: He shows that patriotism and disillusionment are not necessarily mutually-exclusive. He can love a country that has attempted to curb his creativity and stifle his opinions.

Mark Doty, one of a myriad of translators of Rilke (one of my absolute favourites!), states in his introduction to Duino Elegies that “many competing versions made the poem seem less a monumental, unapproachable thing than something made entirely of language, subject to reinvention and the ongoing work of interpretation.” And so I’ve approached novels in translation in a similar manner, as pure works of language from which I may reinvent a personal meaning. Yes, Pamuk’s Snow is a look at real and dark places, times, and issues, but I’ve taken from the work an exploration of my own belief system, my own questioning of how to live by my beliefs, with dignity and without compromise. I may not be a Muslim woman having to choose between honouring my religion and getting an education, where the very act of deciding to wear a head-scarf or bare one’s head can be read as both honour and rebellion; however, I can look within myself and see how small, seemingly insignificant acts are signs of my own spirituality. I may not belief in God in the conventional sense, but I believe in goodness, in the harmony of nature.  The protagonist in Snow is the poet Ka, who, as he struggles with his own belief system, comes to see that perhaps it’s enough to believe in snow. (That’s my own interpretation of what he realizes.) I, too, believe in snow, in the greater power that has created snow, in the way snow quiets my spirit and enlivens my soul at the same time. In the midst of falling snow, I see beauty and peace. Isn’t that enough?

Amidst the sadness

Yesterday, through an early morning phone call, I received news of yet another death, marking the fourth since the end of summer. Yet, amidst the sadness, there is sunshine still. The past two days have been absolutely gorgeous. The sunlight streams through my living room windows in torrents, dispelling the uneasy feeling I’ve had for weeks now. Perhaps I have grown numb, but I’d like to think that I’ve come alive again after the vertiginous yet somnolent feelings arising from sorrows of months past.

I’m reading more again. Currently, I’m finishing off Ian McEwan’s On Chesil Beach. It’s a quiet story, composed mostly of inner dialogue, the sort of book that I’d love to write. Not much happens in the book, but it speaks to my own inner fear and acknowledgement of the imperfection of communication. Can a person truly bare himself or herself open to another? Where do the words come from? Where do they go once we send them out into the cosmos?

A good friend will be leaving to go on an adventure at the end of the week. I already miss her, although she has not yet left. I’m trying to focus on the excitement of what’s to come for her; however, there’s a heavy sigh that weighs me down in my heart.

Changes are happening all too quickly. I’m not ready. But, I know that – as the light pours in still and illuminates the walls – I’ll be all right.

Being my own honesty

A conversation between a blind old man who is full of light and stories and a young girl who is a story in progress:

You must never doubt the one you love.
But they might not be telling you the truth.
Never mind that. You tell them the truth.
What do you mean?
You can't be another person's honesty, child, but you can be your own.
So what should I say?
When?
When I love someone?
You should say it.

The above is from Jeanette Winterson's Lighthousekeeping, one of the most eloquent books to cross my reading path this year. This has led me to think that perhaps I have not been my own honesty. I suffer from what I call the “Hamlet syndrome”: thinking too much, and acting too little. This stagnation is akin to self-betrayal when we do not do everything in our power to achieve what we desire most. My most fatal character flaw is doubt. My self-doubt has led me to doubt others' love and sincerity. I'm always more than a bit surprised when any compliment comes my way. The next time, instead of responding with my usual “You're too kind,” I'll simply say, “Thank you.” What right have I to doubt my abilities when others see them too? What right have I to doubt others' sincerity when they have the courage to transform thought into voice? Now, I need to take that same leap and tell those I love just how much they mean to me. I think they know who they are already, but, I need to tell them, for my sake.

Voices and shadows

My friend's newly-published book arrived in the mail today. I'm so proud of her. I had read all of the stories in the collection when they were in manuscript form, and had been amazed by the voices that spoke to me, that stuck to me. And now, it's even more incredible to see all those characters leap out from a published volume, available from Chapters and Amazon with the click of a button. I love the materiality of the volume. I love its simple whiteness, the fresh smell of the pages. This book is special to me; I know the painstaking hours, days, months, years put into it. I remember my friend talking over the ideas, relaying to me what her characters were telling her, how they had come to life both because and in spite of her. I'll be reading the stories over again. This time, the characters will speak to me differently: They are no longer shadows, but are flesh and blood. But I feel as though I know the shadows intimately. I'm a bit scared to begin this second reading.

I should be starting my own book, letting those voices take shape into shadows, and eventually step out into the light. Early this morning, I started reading Return to the Drum, a memoir written by a school-teacher who lived in Deline (then Fort Franklin) in the 1960's. Maybe one day, I'll write a memoir of my time in Inuvik. Living here, more than any other place, I feel as though I'm on the threshold of some great change, of a society propelled forward rapidly. Then again, I don't think I could ever write a memoir. I could never bear turning myself into a character. There is something too final about the published page. I want my voice to be more fluid than what autobiography offers. I'm comfortable only when my voice flows through a multitude of fictions, whirling around an amorphous truth. It's the feeling, and not a statement or declaration of truth that I seek.

But, all that said, I have to start. I'm thinking of picking out the names of my characters this week. I've always been drawn to the name “Sarah.” There's a sweetness and a vulnerability there. But I'll make my Sarah strong. She shall make herself strong. 

On a Mobius strip induced high

I've been on a high these couple of days. Yesterday, we went out for a barbecue after work, at a little picnic area by Boot Lake. I'm hoping that this fall weather will stretch for a at least another week, so that we could squeeze in a couple more barbecues.

This afternoon, I walked around on the ski-trails with a friend. Although I've lived in Inuvik for over three years, this was my first time on the trails. I truly felt exhilarated, surrounded by the majesty of the birch trees, looking at the world through the shroud of branches and yellow leaves. There were cranberries along the trail, and we couldn't resist stooping down to try a handful or two.

Even with the broken key, the new piano has provided me much enjoyment these few days. I've been tinkering at it, honing those favourites of mine: Debussy's “Arabesque” brought alive the soft pinks of the sky before sunset. I could almost smell the gentleness of a breeze, embracing those last notes of summer.

(Why do I seem to be on such an emotional roller-coaster?)

I've been reading Kenn Harper's Give Me My Father's Body, an account of the life of Minik, an Inuk boy who had been brought to New York by Robert Peary, an arctic explorer set out to reach the North Pole. He was one of six “Polar Eskimos” aboard Peary's ship, which was ironically named “Hope.” The whole group became a live exhibit on display at the Museum of Natural History. Shortly, four of the Inuit died of tuberculosis, one left to go back to Greenland, and eight-year-old Minik was left all alone in a foreign land. Because I'm up here, Minik's story has added meaning to me. Although over a century has passed since the boy had been taken from his home, I have somewhat of an understanding of lives lived out in the harsh arctic environment. Intriguingly, I discovered that Alfred Kroeber, one of the scientists who took an interest in Minik, was Ursula LeGuin's father. I had read LeGuin's Left Hand of Darkness years ago. How my world, the places I've been, the people I've met, the little bits of knowledge that have accumulated, are all interwoven into each other, twisted into a Mobius strip where all time and space run continuously, simultaneously.

In search of wholeness once again

After writing the last post, I thought that there was something oddly familiar about it. I dug into the archives of my blog, and, lo-and-behold, there was a blog from June entitled “Happiness is....” It's a bit worrisome when I rehash post titles. After all, the possibilities should have been infinite. Maybe it has finally happened: I've become an empty shell with not a new thought in my head anymore.

I've survived the first week of classes, and am getting accustomed to the routine again. This week has been breathtakingly gorgeous, and the trees are golden, as though they hold all the pleasures of the world. As mentioned in a previous post, I've started writing and reading more again. Both processes seem to plant new seeds of creativity and knowledge in me, and I'm glad to have picked them up.

Just finished Camilla Gibb's Sweetness in the Belly. The events described – Ethiopia in the 1970's and London in the 1980's and 1990's – tore away at the innocence I had believed in when I was growing up as a child. Yes, I remember seeing the ravages of famine on the people of Ethiopia on the news when I was a little girl, but somehow, the world still seemed a better place then. I was nine or ten when Iraq invaded Kuwait, the Berlin Wall fell, a European Union planned, and the Soviet Union collapsed. I had lived through such upheaval in the world, but had been largely ignorant and oblivious. These events seem like someone else's history, yet they're of my world, my time. Knowledge indeed alters innocence; even the images of my carefree childhood seem somehow tainted now. It is as though I have burst the bubble that has protected those perfect memories all these years, and now, the child of those memories has awakened from a dream to be confronted by an onslaught of the terrors of the world. And the child doesn't know what to do but sit down on the shattered ground and cry. The world seems to be in upheaval yet again, and there is a deep, sad silence within me that rings louder than any other thoughts.

But, I've just had a lovely birthday celebration. These jolts of joy do temporarily enclose me in a bubble once again, and the dream-child resurfaces, and the world seems whole once more.

A careless reader now?

I've just spent some time revisiting the bookshelves down in the den at my parents'. We are a household chocked full of books and papers. There are old, musty volumes that fill the upstairs office. The newer books, including many of mine, line the shelves in the den, filling up two entire walls. How I wish I could truck all those volumes up to Inuvik with me. When I was at university, mid-August was the time to make that excited trek to the bookstore and pick up textbooks for the upcoming semester. I loved carrying all of my books home and finding space on the shelves for them, often putting them two-deep in order to find room for all of them.

I miss reading literature with the intention of picking it apart. I miss jotting down notes in the margins, sticking pages with little post-its, and dog-earing particularly memorable passages. My professors had told me that they could tell that I truly loved the texts that I wrote about. Through the years, several had tried to persuade me to continue into graduate school to do some research in cultural studies. I have just pulled out some of my academic papers, and I fear that I can no longer write that way any more. The lingo of academia no longer pour from my tongue naturally. I can't remember the last time I talked to someone about the commodification of women within a “marketplace” system as illustrated in mid-nineteenth century literature (one of the arguments of my papers on Jane Eyre and working-class women's poetry of the same era). So many of my papers focussed on the (re)construction of femininity and women's space, showing the influence of my Women's Studies training on all of my literary criticism. I no longer read that way any more. I now devour my books as voraciously as before, but without dissecting the text, without fleshing out all of the characters' subconscious selves, without examining the forces of society on their individualism. Have I become a careless reader?

Maybe I should keep a reading log, as I did when I read for school (even when it wasn't required by my professors). Maybe I should write about what I read, in more thoughtful ways than my general feelings about the books. Maybe I'll use this blog as a forum.... (All these “maybes” will probably go the way of my resolution to hone my French.)

A Brief Break on Blogs and Books

I'm taking a brief break from writing about my road-trip. I'll be back with new posts to wrap things up soon; I think giving the trip time to digest might provide me with some much-needed perspective. I need to chew the emotions over before fully swallowing the trip's impact on me.

I'm vivacemusica, and I'm a blog-addict. I define that not as someone who obsessively posts entries, but someone who is addicted to a strange psychic voyeurism by tracking certain strangers' blogs. There is a blog of an aspiring writer in New York that I'm drawn to because the blogger is so much like I am. She is how I imagine myself to be if I were living in New York and pursuing my dream of being a writer. Then, there is a literature professor in England, whose blog provides much intellectual stimulation about – what else – literature, my premiere passion.

I stumbled upon a meme on books on one of the blogs, and it provided much food for thought that I thought I would take a stab at it:

• One book that changed your life: The blanket response is that all books have that potential to change my life if I'd only let them. Or that no book could really change my life, but could only confirm what I already know. (I'm only looking at fiction here, in that I constantly find myself reflected in the characters about whom I read.) I had convinced myself long time ago that I should have neither a favourite author nor a favourite book; that way, I would give each new reading experience a fair chance instead of always comparing it to some pinnacle that might be unrealistic and illusory. So, instead of picking one book that changed my life, I can think of a couple: The first is probably Little Women, my first favourite book (before I had done away with favourites). I suppose that, like a lot of little girls who fell in love with the book, I had wanted to be like Jo, and it was the start of my dream to be a writer. I have three editions of the novel, and would pore over the pages, even going the length of memorizing “In the Garret,” a poem that Jo had written. To this day, I can still recite the six stanzas word for word. The latest book to “change my life” is Selvadurai's Funny Boy. It's a simple story about growing up, about ideals clashing with cultures. I had read it during a time when I really needed the wisdom it provided.

• One book that you've read more than once: One book!? How about if I list some of the books of which I have multiple copies, all of which I've read multiple times: Little Women (of course!), Peter Pan and Wendy, Alice in Wonderland, Anne of Green Gables, Crime and Punishment. And, here are a couple that I have only one copy of, but which I've read quite a few times: Oscar and Lucinda, Brideshead Revisited.

• One book you'd want on a desert island: This is a hard one. And I suppose it wouldn't be fair to go reeling off a list for this one. Let's see now.... probably a massive book of poetry, one that encompasses my favourites (yes, I have favourite poets): Plath, Roethke, Rilke, Cummings, Eliot.

• One book that made you laugh: This one is easy – Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. To this day, I don't think I've read a book through which I laughed so heartily.

• One book that made you cry: I think the first book to make me cry was Jean Little's Mama's Going to Buy You a Mockingbird, about a couple of children dealing with the death of their father. It was the first book to have moved me so utterly, the first to have made me realize the power of words. The last book to make me cry is Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, by Jonathan Safran Foer. It's the book that made me see how heartbreaking innocence is, in this world that seems to do everything to taint that innocence.

• One book that you wish had been written: Perhaps the most interesting question of the bunch. There are many equally true and valid responses to this one. One is the book that is in my heart, the one that I wish I had written. I've been mulling over a concept in my mind for a long time now. I have the two principal characters growing in my mind, sometimes speaking to me in my sleep, or at the oddest times, but I'm afraid they're only at the fetal stage, and I'm afraid that they'll grow up to be my clones and have no voices of their own.

• One book that you wish had never been written: The easiest question to answer, because it's an emphatic none. All books are signs of creativity, effort, and life. Even those that preach concepts with which I disagree are written by people who deserve to be listened to, considered, and perhaps argued with.

• One book that you're currently reading: I'm currently reading a couple of books, since I always have a few on the go. Unfortunately, I've left them all in Inuvik, so I won't count them. I'll make a trip to the library tomorrow.

• One book that you've been meaning to read: Although I studied English Literature at university, I have yet to read many of the classics; however, I admit that I have little desire to pick most of them up, just to say that I've read them and to give some semblance of credibility to my literature degree. Here are some of the books on my current “to be read” list: Cunningham's Specimen Days, Eugenides's Middlesex and The Virgin Suicides, Ali's Brick Lane. I have quite a few more on my list, but again, that list is tucked away somewhere in my house in Inuvik, and my brain has switched off from having the past month off.

Memes are one of my favourite parts of blogging. They link others' consciousness with mine, and although we're all distinct, we kind of meld together into one cyber-being through thought-sharing.

My Brain is in Hibernation

Read this post only if you're uber-ultra-bored. Otherwise, skip on and find some more interesting previous posts, those written before my intellect had shut off completely for the summer.

You'd think that someone who has no commitments and lives in a sleepy little town such as Inuvik would be on top of her household chores, like laundry, for instance. But no.... I still have an embarrassing heap of grungy clothes piled in a corner in the floor of my closet. Add to that the pile that I had thrown in the washer. (Why bother to put clothes in and then NOT run the machine? Beats me....)

Small endeavors in which I take disproportionate (and irrational) pride:

• Moving past the afore-mentioned rut on page 231 of The Line of Beauty. I'm now in the page 255 rut. For someone who regularly devours books at one sitting, perhaps I should take this as a sign. To move onto another book, or to forge ahead? I just hate giving up on a book, and a Booker Prize winner no less. What is it about me that refuses to be captivated? What am I not getting? Why am I not moved? Why am I not tuning in to Hollinghurst's wavelength? Has my brain shut down; have I been in the sun too long and killed the cells required for higher thinking?

• OK, so the last one is not quite something to be proud of, but here's one: I dug out a brand-spanking new shirt that I purchased in Edmonton in March, and I cut the sleeves off of them. I'm wearing it now, and had briefly tied my hair up with one of the sleeves. The clothes in my dresser have been calling me in my sleep, and I seem to have been possessed by their spirits, enough to make me destroy perfectly good items and relish in the act. Yesterday, I opened a dresser drawer that had not been opened for months (I normally keep my rotation of five outfits in the closet, within easy reach). I pulled out a brand-new pair of khakis that I had no recollection of ever buying. Intrigued and more than a bit confused, I pulled the pants on, to find that they didn't fit. I guess I'll have to send it the way of those ski pants that reached up to my chest and the sweater that suffocated and strangled every muscle on the top half of my body. And yet, I still, quite obviously, continue to buy things without trying them on first. Moreover, I still keep them in my dresser rather than returning them to the store.

All right, what's to be proud of there? Blind faith.... It's priceless. And, I have a new hair band. (I have two!) If only I liked to put my hair up.... (I had told you to skip on, but you didn't listen, so it serves you right that you received absolutely no intellectual stimulation out of this.)