It's getting to be finals season, and I find myself tiring of business casual. I wore corduroy pants to work today-- corduroy being a fabric near and dear to my heart-- and walking around the unusually quiet English department reminded me of a piece I wrote back at McGill on a similar topic.
Silliness aside, I'm thrilled because I just got an e-mail from The Western Humanities Review informing me that my short story "The Boarder" has been accepted for publication! Hooray!
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Thursday, November 01, 2007
autumn books
It took me most of the semester to read Halldor Laxness's Independent People and all its Icelandic digressions on sheep guts and merchant cooperatives; it took me four days to read Dreams and Stones by Magdalena Tulli. But then, they are very different works. Even more different is Mile End, by Lise Tremblay, which I reread while in the thick of Laxness's novel.
How to put them all together? They do share a thread.
Independent People is the grandest in scope, putting rural Iceland and the stubborn shepherd Bjartur in an epic frame, with violent ghosts haunting sheep, World War I a distant event in the periphery, and America a destination to which a young, ambitious son escapes (and, we are told, dies). It is through Bjartur's son and daughter that we see a yearning for cities (the mysterious glories of Reykjavik never revealed)-- a tugging away from the rustic life Bjartur clings to, though conditions for the sheep and shepherds are so grim (we read of constant summer rain, green snot, heaps of snow, ring worms, and tuburculosis) it can hardly be described as pastoral.
The other two works are slender and focus their energies on those urban tugging forces. At first I thought Dreams and Stones was a novel, but it is difficult to call it that. A treatise on cities and imagination? One hundred pages of generalizations, punctuated with wonderful specificity? A long prose poem, perhaps-- a poetic myth. Trees vs. machines. City vs. countercity (our conceptions of cities). Does she say that memory = water? Or that water = oblivion? Or was there a more complex equation? There was an archaeological bend to it: dreams as stones. Stones as building blocks. Buildings, stones, as representations of our elusive dreams. Something concrete to dig our fingernails in.
There is no specific character in Tulli's work. A city emerges. Then groups of people. Workers and builders are of different classes. Our imagined Paris, Belfast, Hong Kong, New York. The A of the Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe. The mythic quality of the book complements Laxness's epic; the subject matter works well with the next and last book.
Mile End is set in Montreal. The obese narrator buries her anger under her layers of "yellow fat," drinks Southern Comfort in large glasses, and hovers toward psychosis as a mediocre pianist at a ballet school. Paris and New York are mentioned as stand-ins for other forces, influences on the Quebecquois city. So cities here have characters too, but the narrative, the characters are specific again. The language is more simple than Tulli's and Laxness's works and the underlying anger of the book seems to compel a quick read like a gust of hot air, whereas Bill Johnston's translation of Tulli's book requires a careful chewing of sentences. Laxness's book, finally, is sprawling and wonderful, but may send one's imagination careening to other places in multiple digressions (not always a bad thing). Read slowly and enjoy.
How to put them all together? They do share a thread.
Independent People is the grandest in scope, putting rural Iceland and the stubborn shepherd Bjartur in an epic frame, with violent ghosts haunting sheep, World War I a distant event in the periphery, and America a destination to which a young, ambitious son escapes (and, we are told, dies). It is through Bjartur's son and daughter that we see a yearning for cities (the mysterious glories of Reykjavik never revealed)-- a tugging away from the rustic life Bjartur clings to, though conditions for the sheep and shepherds are so grim (we read of constant summer rain, green snot, heaps of snow, ring worms, and tuburculosis) it can hardly be described as pastoral.
The other two works are slender and focus their energies on those urban tugging forces. At first I thought Dreams and Stones was a novel, but it is difficult to call it that. A treatise on cities and imagination? One hundred pages of generalizations, punctuated with wonderful specificity? A long prose poem, perhaps-- a poetic myth. Trees vs. machines. City vs. countercity (our conceptions of cities). Does she say that memory = water? Or that water = oblivion? Or was there a more complex equation? There was an archaeological bend to it: dreams as stones. Stones as building blocks. Buildings, stones, as representations of our elusive dreams. Something concrete to dig our fingernails in.
There is no specific character in Tulli's work. A city emerges. Then groups of people. Workers and builders are of different classes. Our imagined Paris, Belfast, Hong Kong, New York. The A of the Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe. The mythic quality of the book complements Laxness's epic; the subject matter works well with the next and last book.
Mile End is set in Montreal. The obese narrator buries her anger under her layers of "yellow fat," drinks Southern Comfort in large glasses, and hovers toward psychosis as a mediocre pianist at a ballet school. Paris and New York are mentioned as stand-ins for other forces, influences on the Quebecquois city. So cities here have characters too, but the narrative, the characters are specific again. The language is more simple than Tulli's and Laxness's works and the underlying anger of the book seems to compel a quick read like a gust of hot air, whereas Bill Johnston's translation of Tulli's book requires a careful chewing of sentences. Laxness's book, finally, is sprawling and wonderful, but may send one's imagination careening to other places in multiple digressions (not always a bad thing). Read slowly and enjoy.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
My Favorite New Toy 2
The other day I stumbled upon a new fun toy: World Cat. Whereas last year I was obsessed with Duotrope's Digest, my new favorite diversion is seeing how many libraries carry obscure and not-so-obscure publications. It even tells you how far away the libraries are from a chosen zip code. Someone in Brisbane could be reading the Mass Review or Gender in Archaeology right this second. Wow!
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Fantastic Women
Last week M. & I went to a Tin House reading at the PPOW gallery in Chelsea. The evening was themed around women and the fantastic, with readings by Lucy Corin, Kelly Link, Shelly Jackson, and Samantha Hunt. The art work in the gallery, by Julie Heffernan, was most stunning, with pale female figures (self-portraits) in enormous fruit-or-flower headdresses and elaborate skirts made of animal carcasses. (I found the dead octopus especially charming.)
Whoever planned the minutia of the event thought of everything: magenta lilies filled the room with an almost-too-sweet-but-just-right scent; mini cupcakes frosted in a range of creamy pastels and dotted with bright pink, blue, and yellow sugar globs filled our mouths with delicious devil's food. Heffernan's work is, naturally, on the cover of Tin House's Fantastic Women issue. More events like this should be had. More.
Whoever planned the minutia of the event thought of everything: magenta lilies filled the room with an almost-too-sweet-but-just-right scent; mini cupcakes frosted in a range of creamy pastels and dotted with bright pink, blue, and yellow sugar globs filled our mouths with delicious devil's food. Heffernan's work is, naturally, on the cover of Tin House's Fantastic Women issue. More events like this should be had. More.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
The Massachusetts Review
It's in my hands and it's lovely. The Fall 2007 issue of The Massachusetts Review arrived in the mail yesterday, with my story "Skitter" on pages 364-369. Sweet!
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
northbound escape
I'm skipping town for 2.5 weeks, escaping New York's hot damp stinky breath till just before Labor Day. It's exciting because I get to show M. around Montreal (where its in the blessed 70s) and then get down to work for two weeks at the Vermont Studio Center.
In other news, my story "Skitter" is said to be forthcoming this October in the Fall issue of The Massachusetts Review. Naturally, paranoia prevents me from being more sure about that, but when I'll have it my hands I'll be a very happy lady.
In other news, my story "Skitter" is said to be forthcoming this October in the Fall issue of The Massachusetts Review. Naturally, paranoia prevents me from being more sure about that, but when I'll have it my hands I'll be a very happy lady.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
F-train Scene
It smells like Port Authority when we get on the train at Jay Street-Borough Hall. We were waiting for 20 minutes after getting off the A to transfer to the F. A carefully-enunciated announcement warned we would have to get back on the A/C and switch trains at the dreaded Hoyt-Schemerhorn Station and an orange-vested MTA worker had been barking the same- "No F-train, no F-train- transfer to the G at Hoyt-Schmerhorn"- waving his arms and indicating we should move to the other side of the platform like a bunch of large-eyed, dumb cattle. No signs had been posted anywhere indicating the change of service (not that that's so unusual) and people huff and scuffle.
Then, like a ghost, the F-train slips into the station, and all who'd waited on the platform roll their eyes and shake their heads. We get on and I sniff the air suspiciously. A woman (seated) with shaggy red hair and dirt streaked all over her face chatters about Chinese takeout to someone I can't see. Had she been in a fire, I wonder? Why was her face covered in soot? M. and I find a seat nearby and I try not to stare. Just another New York night. But I can't help it. She must've had the longest day.
Her eyes are made up. Despite the heat, she is in a black fur-lined coat, black pants, and black boots. The coat is open and she is wearing nothing underneath, revealing pale cleavage and tummy rolls. She is talking to no one (this much is now obvious).
Another woman, perpendicular to us with brown curls piled atop her head and black square-rim glasses, pulls on a thin sweater and apologizes to the man beside her for poking him with her sharp elbow.
"Cold?" he asks with a warm smile.
"Freezing."
He says he is hot. She says she is envious. He touches the top of her arm, laughing lightly, saying he's always too hot. She smiles upon the contact and I wonder whether she hasn't flirted in years and whether she wants to sidle up to his overheatedness.
"Good night," she says, getting off at Bergen Street. The man smiles to himself and gets off at the next stop.
The redhead in the fur coat remains on the train, ordering tuna salad from the banana at her ear. Then she puts the banana down and picks up a teddy bear in her lap (had this been her conversation partner all along?), and gives it tender kisses on the snout.
Then, like a ghost, the F-train slips into the station, and all who'd waited on the platform roll their eyes and shake their heads. We get on and I sniff the air suspiciously. A woman (seated) with shaggy red hair and dirt streaked all over her face chatters about Chinese takeout to someone I can't see. Had she been in a fire, I wonder? Why was her face covered in soot? M. and I find a seat nearby and I try not to stare. Just another New York night. But I can't help it. She must've had the longest day.
Her eyes are made up. Despite the heat, she is in a black fur-lined coat, black pants, and black boots. The coat is open and she is wearing nothing underneath, revealing pale cleavage and tummy rolls. She is talking to no one (this much is now obvious).
Another woman, perpendicular to us with brown curls piled atop her head and black square-rim glasses, pulls on a thin sweater and apologizes to the man beside her for poking him with her sharp elbow.
"Cold?" he asks with a warm smile.
"Freezing."
He says he is hot. She says she is envious. He touches the top of her arm, laughing lightly, saying he's always too hot. She smiles upon the contact and I wonder whether she hasn't flirted in years and whether she wants to sidle up to his overheatedness.
"Good night," she says, getting off at Bergen Street. The man smiles to himself and gets off at the next stop.
The redhead in the fur coat remains on the train, ordering tuna salad from the banana at her ear. Then she puts the banana down and picks up a teddy bear in her lap (had this been her conversation partner all along?), and gives it tender kisses on the snout.
Friday, July 27, 2007
changes
M, a.k.a. my betrothed, has a new blog called Zoned-In. It's all about hot topics in urban planning (adaptive re-use, congestion pricing, and the like) and makes for good, hearty reading (not that I'm biased).
In other (saddish) news, I've resigned from my post at 55 Words. It was a fabulous year; I'd missed being on the editing side of things since working on Scrivener at McGill and working with Rosemary on this project was a great way to jump back into the publishing fray. Seeing what people could do (and attempted to do) with such a restriction in form was a treat. Alas, I decided it was time for the guest stories to be received by a fresh set of eyes (not mention I've become greedy with my free time as I focus more on the novel). I'm looking forward to seeing how 55 Words evolves. I think every writer, particularly long-winded writers, should try their hand at the 55-word story.
In other (saddish) news, I've resigned from my post at 55 Words. It was a fabulous year; I'd missed being on the editing side of things since working on Scrivener at McGill and working with Rosemary on this project was a great way to jump back into the publishing fray. Seeing what people could do (and attempted to do) with such a restriction in form was a treat. Alas, I decided it was time for the guest stories to be received by a fresh set of eyes (not mention I've become greedy with my free time as I focus more on the novel). I'm looking forward to seeing how 55 Words evolves. I think every writer, particularly long-winded writers, should try their hand at the 55-word story.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
A Splash of Color
Yesterday, at the last moment, we decided to run out and catch the fireworks. We'd procrastinated because of the rain, then made a mad dash for the car, careening through the damp streets of Brooklyn till we hit the inevitable congestion on the BQE. Of course, little amateur shows abounded, afar in Red Hook and the like, which provided entertainment along the way. On the radio, Susan Cheever talked of the electricity that crackled between Margaret Fuller and Nathaniel Hawthorne and Thoreau (coincidence?). We parked in Williamsburg, beneath many a gawking loft party, and shuffled in the drizzle to Kent Avenue, along the water. The big show had already begun, rumbling and growling over the water, red lights reflecting off Manhattan windows, smoke curling in the sky. A little boy cried for ice cream and a larger girl played with a whoopie cushion. There were, as M. puts it, the three H's of the neighborhood: the Hipsters, the Hasids, and the Hispanics, some entranced and many playing, ignoring the smiley face explosions, the green cubes, saving their awe for bigger, sparklier numbers...
Oh, I've added a bit of color to my website, via some photos I've taken over the last couple of years. I plan on changing up the photos every now and again. Let me know what you think.
Oh, I've added a bit of color to my website, via some photos I've taken over the last couple of years. I plan on changing up the photos every now and again. Let me know what you think.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Misc Updates
I've finally put up two papers from my days at Teachers College, both from a course I took in Interactional Sociolinguistics this past fall.
I'm also in the process of reconsidering the design of my website. I'm actually considering adding some color (gasp!), though something stubborn inside me wants me to stay true to the simple black and white. Any comments and suggestions on that one much appreciated.
Finally, I've got quite a backlog of arty tidbits to report on, hopefully by the end of the week.
I'm also in the process of reconsidering the design of my website. I'm actually considering adding some color (gasp!), though something stubborn inside me wants me to stay true to the simple black and white. Any comments and suggestions on that one much appreciated.
Finally, I've got quite a backlog of arty tidbits to report on, hopefully by the end of the week.
Friday, June 15, 2007
La Gloire de mon père, par Marcel Pagnol
This is the story of a precocious French youngster at the turn of the 20th century. He teaches himself how to read and his mother fears his head will explode. Subsuqently, his family goes to the countryside for the summer (bien sur) and the central story builds around his school-teacher-father and boasting-uncle's big hunt in the mountains--and whether our little protagonist can join in on the bloody glory. I'm generally a fan of stories involving precocious children; the humor and charm of this short novel (see especially the section on nose picking), combined with the bucolic setting (the mountains! the herbs! the birds! the goats!), makes this a lovely (albeit mildly sentimental) choice for summer reading.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Summer Treats2
I will be spending some time this August at the Vermont Studio Center. I was thrilled to be accepted and am very much looking forward to having time to write away from daily distractions and among so much creative energy.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Summer Treats
Spring is in full force, in case you haven't noticed. All my windows are open. I can hear children screaming. Salsa blares; the rattles and chirps of birds make their way in too. My apartment smells like fresh laundry and various barbequed meats from yards down below. One of my students gave me a Japanese name. She translated the two syllables of my name, An-ka, into "Fragrance of Apricots." M. has informed me that cellphone radiation has killed 70% of the world's honeybees. Tomorrow I go to the Cherry Blossom Festival.
With that I bring you my ever-ambitious summer reading list! As I'll have a bit of extra time on my hands in July, I hope to actually write about some these books at that time. Also notice I will update the book lists in the sidebar to reflect what I've *actually* read recently (some of those books I finished long ago) and will perhaps finish some of the books that I've been chipping away at a glacial pace (is that a cliche now?).
Onward. The list over which I salivate:
My Name is Red, by Orhan Pamuk
Nana, par Emile Zola
Germinal, par Emile Zola
The Sound and the Fury, by William Falkner
The Decameron, by Boccaccio
Pierre et Jean, par Guy de Maupassant
Summer, by Edith Wharton
Gravity's Rainbow, by Thomas Pynchon
Du cote de chez Swann, par Marcel Proust
The Golden Bowl, by Henry James
The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love, by Oscar Hijuelos
I went on a shopping spree at Housing Works last month or so, and bought much of the above for $1 or 50 cents. Ah, I love that place.
With that I bring you my ever-ambitious summer reading list! As I'll have a bit of extra time on my hands in July, I hope to actually write about some these books at that time. Also notice I will update the book lists in the sidebar to reflect what I've *actually* read recently (some of those books I finished long ago) and will perhaps finish some of the books that I've been chipping away at a glacial pace (is that a cliche now?).
Onward. The list over which I salivate:
My Name is Red, by Orhan Pamuk
Nana, par Emile Zola
Germinal, par Emile Zola
The Sound and the Fury, by William Falkner
The Decameron, by Boccaccio
Pierre et Jean, par Guy de Maupassant
Summer, by Edith Wharton
Gravity's Rainbow, by Thomas Pynchon
Du cote de chez Swann, par Marcel Proust
The Golden Bowl, by Henry James
The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love, by Oscar Hijuelos
I went on a shopping spree at Housing Works last month or so, and bought much of the above for $1 or 50 cents. Ah, I love that place.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Dream+
The concert was on a plane, for about 60 people. We were to take off from Central Park.
"Lagavulin?" The waitress nodded. I sat back in a red velvet chair. The pale man with a maroon-lipped grimace started up his accordian. He sang in a shrill falsetto, then a gravelly voice, absurdly low.
The plane took off; we flew over tree tops. Then, below us, the confetti of exploding buildings. The man sang higher, lower, louder over the noise below us. When all the buildings were gone, the man stopped singing and we had lost our voices. All we could do was whisper.
(When I was little, I used to have many bizarre nightmares. These seem to have dropped off as I became an adult--perhaps due to a drop in sensitivity. So I when I dream something like this, I have to take note. Usually I hold onto these scraps and see if the dream logic spins into a story. But since I can't or won't make use of exploding buildings, however gruesome some of the my stories have been, I've decided to post this here.)
"Lagavulin?" The waitress nodded. I sat back in a red velvet chair. The pale man with a maroon-lipped grimace started up his accordian. He sang in a shrill falsetto, then a gravelly voice, absurdly low.
The plane took off; we flew over tree tops. Then, below us, the confetti of exploding buildings. The man sang higher, lower, louder over the noise below us. When all the buildings were gone, the man stopped singing and we had lost our voices. All we could do was whisper.
(When I was little, I used to have many bizarre nightmares. These seem to have dropped off as I became an adult--perhaps due to a drop in sensitivity. So I when I dream something like this, I have to take note. Usually I hold onto these scraps and see if the dream logic spins into a story. But since I can't or won't make use of exploding buildings, however gruesome some of the my stories have been, I've decided to post this here.)
Friday, April 13, 2007
Readers' Choice 3
Our third Readers' Choice contest is happening right now over at 55 Words. The stories are fabulous, so go take a look and send in your picks! Then, get inspired and send in your stories.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
silly random memory
When I was in third or fourth grade, I started a writers' club and invited a bunch of my friends to join. We had our first meeting at my house and I was all in a kerfuffle about who would come and what kind of story they would bring. The first guest to arrive showed me her story about a beautiful black horse. At first I was impressed. Then it dawned on me that she had simply copied Black Beauty.
"You can't do that!" I scolded. Plagiarism wasn't in my vocabulary yet, but I was indignantly aware of the concept. Later, my mother scolded me. "Let her write what she wants," she said. "What do you care?"
A few more members arrived and I was giddy with power, having appointed myself president.
"Can't we say we're writing but just play?" asked one of the arrivals. I was furious but held my tongue. I gave in to the small troupe and we played with My Little Ponies and Barbie Dolls while I grumbled to myself and lamented the first and last meeting of my writers' club.
"You can't do that!" I scolded. Plagiarism wasn't in my vocabulary yet, but I was indignantly aware of the concept. Later, my mother scolded me. "Let her write what she wants," she said. "What do you care?"
A few more members arrived and I was giddy with power, having appointed myself president.
"Can't we say we're writing but just play?" asked one of the arrivals. I was furious but held my tongue. I gave in to the small troupe and we played with My Little Ponies and Barbie Dolls while I grumbled to myself and lamented the first and last meeting of my writers' club.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Nips & Bites
It's been a busy winter and I am slowly emerging from hibernation. I passed my Master's essay (yay!). While it is probably not worthy of an academic journal, I am proud of it nevertheless and will probably add it and maybe one other paper to the essays section of my website as a .pdf file. Its title is "Argument as a Relative Threat to Face" and it opens with a scene of monkeys nipping at each other as Gregory Bateson wonders: how do they know which is a friendly nip and which is a hostile bite? The monkeys know and usually (usually) so do we. But that depends on culture too.
Friday, March 23, 2007
changes & updates
A long while back, my friend Roohi asked me what the url for this blog was. When I told her, she said she thought it was a pretty clever play on words--"ancals--like annals, like the annals of anca"--and I smiled and nodded and pretended it was entirely intentional. I've decided to make "ancals" the official title. Thanks, Roohi!
Speaking of the unintentional, this month at 55 Words we've unintentionally put together an issue of animal-themed stories. In January we had a cluster of food-related stories, and in December we had some stories about sight and blindness. It's been interesting seeing these stories come together in clumps for no apparent reason.
Speaking of the unintentional, this month at 55 Words we've unintentionally put together an issue of animal-themed stories. In January we had a cluster of food-related stories, and in December we had some stories about sight and blindness. It's been interesting seeing these stories come together in clumps for no apparent reason.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
A Hint of Spring, A Touch of Phlegm
Well, it was my birthday today, and the weather was just as I like it: snow on the ground, spring in the air. Too bad I've got the last bits of bronchitis rattling around in me. Ah well.
Sunday night I read "A Meal" and "Lemon Tree Palace" at the Cornelia Street Cafe. As we were competing with Oscar night, and as one of the other readers was home with the plague, it was an intimate gathering, and very pleasant too. Chris Brandt read a series of poems on Thomas Jefferson, and another on Odysseus, and all were excellent. "Stars bouncing on waves" was a phrase from one of the latter that stayed with me.
After the reading, a few of us ate at the restaurant upstairs (delicious) and watched the snow come down on pretty Cornelia Street. A delightful night, with the only disconcerting bits in the fiction performed.
Sunday night I read "A Meal" and "Lemon Tree Palace" at the Cornelia Street Cafe. As we were competing with Oscar night, and as one of the other readers was home with the plague, it was an intimate gathering, and very pleasant too. Chris Brandt read a series of poems on Thomas Jefferson, and another on Odysseus, and all were excellent. "Stars bouncing on waves" was a phrase from one of the latter that stayed with me.
After the reading, a few of us ate at the restaurant upstairs (delicious) and watched the snow come down on pretty Cornelia Street. A delightful night, with the only disconcerting bits in the fiction performed.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Telephone Bar
Last night I read "Go East" at the Library Lounge, a lovely performance space at Telephone Bar. It's an intimate room for about 30-40 people, lined with antique mirrors and candles, and there's a fireplace on the stage with more candles. My legs were trembling pretty hard (no one claimed to notice), and luckily, I didn't shake my way into the fireplace and die a firey death. I'd agonized all week over where to add he-said's and she-said's to make the dialogue more comprehensible to the ear (thanks to a seminar I'm taking on teaching listening!). In all, the reading was a fun time.
My next reading is coming up pretty soon! Very much looking forward to that too.
My next reading is coming up pretty soon! Very much looking forward to that too.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Upcoming Readings
Mark your calendars! I've got two readings coming up this month.
Monday, February 12, 8 pm- Telephone Bar- No Cover
149 2nd Ave (between 9th & 10th St.)
Sunday, Feburary 25, 6 pm- Cornelia Street Cafe- $6 (includes one drink)
29 Cornelia Street
Fun!
Monday, February 12, 8 pm- Telephone Bar- No Cover
149 2nd Ave (between 9th & 10th St.)
Sunday, Feburary 25, 6 pm- Cornelia Street Cafe- $6 (includes one drink)
29 Cornelia Street
Fun!
Monday, January 29, 2007
Tock Tick
My friend Tim's musical Tock Tick is opening at the Prospect Theater on February 5. The enticing blurb promises dragons, seagulls, and interstellar gondoliers, among other things. I am very much looking forward to this show.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Vancouver
M & I went to Seattle and Vancouver earlier this month. Here's a bit about Vancouver.
Vancouver is awash with construction cranes and gleaming green glass set before a ring of snowy mountains. The city is preparing for the 2010 Olympics, and it seems a city of pretty surfaces and fashionable people.
Our first day we wandered to touristy Gas Town (the closest approximation to an "old town" and hardly a central part of the city or dense mess of winding streets), and from there right into skid row. At the "steam clock", the major Gas Town landmark, a glassy-eyed man offered us a silver chain in exchange for food. As we moved along, there was a conflux of bearded hobos, gaunt prostitutes, men sleeping in the street; needle exchange and detox centers, shelters for women, and shelters for children . Payle$$ Meats sat beside Mission Possible. Balconies on a halfway house advertised nouns of encouragement: hope, faith, strength, courage.
This concentration of the needy struck us as odd, perhaps because the needy of New York are more diffuse and spread out, and perhaps more hidden. Here they seem to converge in one area, in stark contrast to the high-end gloss of the rest of downtown-- the joggers in Stanley Park, the highrises along Coal Harbour and in the West End, the yuppies of Yale Town. The rawness of skid row, I'm told, is older than the prospering sheen of the rest of the city. The institutions (the shelters, soup lines, etc.) are also relatively new.
We walked a good deal that first day, happy to end our wandering with martinis atop the Empire Landmark Hotel, slowly rotating over twinkling Vancouver. We admitted relief at not having been approached all afternoon. Later M. pondered the differences between the homeless in NYC subways and the homeless in Vancouver and other cities, hypothesizing that the relationship the homeless have with the subways here are unique and not present in other mass transit systems. We didn't take the Sky Train (though really it's more of a commuter rail) so we couldn't test the hypothesis.
The next day we were sore and achy and relied on the car. Abundant Granville Market (lunch: bratwurst and designer soda), foggy snow-crusted Kitsilano Beach (just lovely), and the UBC campus, separated from the city by a small forest. UBC was a bit of a disappointment; I enjoyed the small Belkin art gallery, warm and abuzz over a show opening, but we found the design of the campus odd-- parallel malls and apparently no welcoming central area. In the dark of the Thunderbird Arena, M. gave me my first driving lesson; I meant to go in circles and instead drove figure eights.
We finished our trip Saturday morning, with dim sum at Pink Pearl, touted as best dim sum in Vancouver. We were gluttonous fiends, feasting on all manner of shrimp, pork, taro, bean curd, and red bean paste-filled dumplings, in all manner of sticky and glutinous or crunchy wrappings. Two pots of tea and two bursting bellies later, were back on the road to Seattle, one last chance to gasp at cool snow-covered conifers, gauzy lakes, and violent mountain peaks.
Despite numerous comparisons to New York (Kitsilano=Park Slope; Mount Pleasant=Ditmas Park), the ecology and the landscape is wholly unique, and gives the place air of something fresh and vibrant. I can't imagine becoming complacent about those surroundings, but I suppose anything is possible.
Vancouver is awash with construction cranes and gleaming green glass set before a ring of snowy mountains. The city is preparing for the 2010 Olympics, and it seems a city of pretty surfaces and fashionable people.
Our first day we wandered to touristy Gas Town (the closest approximation to an "old town" and hardly a central part of the city or dense mess of winding streets), and from there right into skid row. At the "steam clock", the major Gas Town landmark, a glassy-eyed man offered us a silver chain in exchange for food. As we moved along, there was a conflux of bearded hobos, gaunt prostitutes, men sleeping in the street; needle exchange and detox centers, shelters for women, and shelters for children . Payle$$ Meats sat beside Mission Possible. Balconies on a halfway house advertised nouns of encouragement: hope, faith, strength, courage.
This concentration of the needy struck us as odd, perhaps because the needy of New York are more diffuse and spread out, and perhaps more hidden. Here they seem to converge in one area, in stark contrast to the high-end gloss of the rest of downtown-- the joggers in Stanley Park, the highrises along Coal Harbour and in the West End, the yuppies of Yale Town. The rawness of skid row, I'm told, is older than the prospering sheen of the rest of the city. The institutions (the shelters, soup lines, etc.) are also relatively new.
We walked a good deal that first day, happy to end our wandering with martinis atop the Empire Landmark Hotel, slowly rotating over twinkling Vancouver. We admitted relief at not having been approached all afternoon. Later M. pondered the differences between the homeless in NYC subways and the homeless in Vancouver and other cities, hypothesizing that the relationship the homeless have with the subways here are unique and not present in other mass transit systems. We didn't take the Sky Train (though really it's more of a commuter rail) so we couldn't test the hypothesis.
The next day we were sore and achy and relied on the car. Abundant Granville Market (lunch: bratwurst and designer soda), foggy snow-crusted Kitsilano Beach (just lovely), and the UBC campus, separated from the city by a small forest. UBC was a bit of a disappointment; I enjoyed the small Belkin art gallery, warm and abuzz over a show opening, but we found the design of the campus odd-- parallel malls and apparently no welcoming central area. In the dark of the Thunderbird Arena, M. gave me my first driving lesson; I meant to go in circles and instead drove figure eights.
We finished our trip Saturday morning, with dim sum at Pink Pearl, touted as best dim sum in Vancouver. We were gluttonous fiends, feasting on all manner of shrimp, pork, taro, bean curd, and red bean paste-filled dumplings, in all manner of sticky and glutinous or crunchy wrappings. Two pots of tea and two bursting bellies later, were back on the road to Seattle, one last chance to gasp at cool snow-covered conifers, gauzy lakes, and violent mountain peaks.
Despite numerous comparisons to New York (Kitsilano=Park Slope; Mount Pleasant=Ditmas Park), the ecology and the landscape is wholly unique, and gives the place air of something fresh and vibrant. I can't imagine becoming complacent about those surroundings, but I suppose anything is possible.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Narcissus and Goldmund
A Reading Experience
I picked it off my parents' bookshelf. It was yellow and brittle, and the cover, designed by Milton Glaser, showed the blue profile of a shrewd-looking man, with red light falling on his nose and chin and where the whites of his eyes should have been. Someone had written "Ghost Motorcycle" on the title page, sideways.
I didn't know anything about the book-- the story, the setting, when Hesse had written it. Mostly I was intrigued by "ghost motorcycle" and what compelled some long ago reader to write those words on the inside of this book that now sat on my parents' shelf. It surely wasn't my mother or father--not their handwritings, not their idiosyncrasies.
I had only read one other book by Hesse, Siddhartha, but it didn't leave much of an impression on me. I was a distracted high school senior at the time, ready to leave the country. And the cover of this book gave away nothing-- the back copy was just piles of praise for Hesse. So I just dug in, as it should be.
I began reading Narcissus and Goldmund and was immediately engrossed by the medieval world and the innocent, young Goldmund. I enjoyed watching his internal evolution, though I found his teacher/friend Narcissus irritating (not that there is anything wrong with an unlikable character). Hesse writes philosophical novels and I bristled against his pitting art against philosophy, feeling against thought (can't art be logical? asked M when I told him about the book). The epiphanies at the end seemed to me forced, didactic, more rhetoric than human experience. But not entirely groundless, of course. Just needlessly simplified to make a point (methinks). I won't say whether art or philosophy wins, in case you plan on reading the book, but I don't think that would ruin the experience either way.
When I was in an early part of the novel, I asked my mother whether she had read it and she said once, in Romanian. A powerful book, she said, but she wouldn't read it again. At the time I hadn't reached the powerful parts (they are there)-- lust, love, and most important, the relationship we have with death and the creation of art. I would echo my mother's estimation. The book is most definitely worth a read, and not just for the sex and death, though they are the main players and the plague is one of the most haunting characters. But it is not going on my list of books to reread. I never found out what "ghost motorcycle" had to do with anything in the book (maybe nothing, maybe some odd mechanism for remembering a grocery list). Perhaps it was some connection only that reader and his or her experience could make with the book. That connection, that meeting of ideas between reader and writer, should be a relatively unique one. Perhaps that is what ultimately irritates me about didactic fiction, that I feel I'm being told what to think, what conclusions to make, rather than leading me to further thinking and my own conclusions. Ah well.
I picked it off my parents' bookshelf. It was yellow and brittle, and the cover, designed by Milton Glaser, showed the blue profile of a shrewd-looking man, with red light falling on his nose and chin and where the whites of his eyes should have been. Someone had written "Ghost Motorcycle" on the title page, sideways.
I didn't know anything about the book-- the story, the setting, when Hesse had written it. Mostly I was intrigued by "ghost motorcycle" and what compelled some long ago reader to write those words on the inside of this book that now sat on my parents' shelf. It surely wasn't my mother or father--not their handwritings, not their idiosyncrasies.
I had only read one other book by Hesse, Siddhartha, but it didn't leave much of an impression on me. I was a distracted high school senior at the time, ready to leave the country. And the cover of this book gave away nothing-- the back copy was just piles of praise for Hesse. So I just dug in, as it should be.
I began reading Narcissus and Goldmund and was immediately engrossed by the medieval world and the innocent, young Goldmund. I enjoyed watching his internal evolution, though I found his teacher/friend Narcissus irritating (not that there is anything wrong with an unlikable character). Hesse writes philosophical novels and I bristled against his pitting art against philosophy, feeling against thought (can't art be logical? asked M when I told him about the book). The epiphanies at the end seemed to me forced, didactic, more rhetoric than human experience. But not entirely groundless, of course. Just needlessly simplified to make a point (methinks). I won't say whether art or philosophy wins, in case you plan on reading the book, but I don't think that would ruin the experience either way.
When I was in an early part of the novel, I asked my mother whether she had read it and she said once, in Romanian. A powerful book, she said, but she wouldn't read it again. At the time I hadn't reached the powerful parts (they are there)-- lust, love, and most important, the relationship we have with death and the creation of art. I would echo my mother's estimation. The book is most definitely worth a read, and not just for the sex and death, though they are the main players and the plague is one of the most haunting characters. But it is not going on my list of books to reread. I never found out what "ghost motorcycle" had to do with anything in the book (maybe nothing, maybe some odd mechanism for remembering a grocery list). Perhaps it was some connection only that reader and his or her experience could make with the book. That connection, that meeting of ideas between reader and writer, should be a relatively unique one. Perhaps that is what ultimately irritates me about didactic fiction, that I feel I'm being told what to think, what conclusions to make, rather than leading me to further thinking and my own conclusions. Ah well.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Focus
Whew! Things are getting pretty busy around here. I'm finishing my master's thesis. Vaguely and very broadly, it's related to politeness, but that's all I should say at this juncture. I'm applying for writers' residencies for the summer, and the deadlines are soon after the thesis deadline, so that should be interesting. As a result, I may not be able to post as frequently as before (which I know is not so often, but I prefer a little restraint anyhow).
M. & I are off to Seattle and Vancouver next week, for a much-needed change of scenery. Hope to give an update on that when I get back, as well as jot down some thoughts on Hesse's Narcissus and Goldmund, which I finished last week. I may go through fiction withdrawal next semester, as I'm moving into my last leg of grad school. But hopefully I'll continue to make room for everything!
Oh, oh, last update! I've got another reading bubbling up. Will post the details later this month. It's at a place that recently featured ukuleles, raunchy Flemish poetry, and Ovid on a Celtic harp. Wee!
M. & I are off to Seattle and Vancouver next week, for a much-needed change of scenery. Hope to give an update on that when I get back, as well as jot down some thoughts on Hesse's Narcissus and Goldmund, which I finished last week. I may go through fiction withdrawal next semester, as I'm moving into my last leg of grad school. But hopefully I'll continue to make room for everything!
Oh, oh, last update! I've got another reading bubbling up. Will post the details later this month. It's at a place that recently featured ukuleles, raunchy Flemish poetry, and Ovid on a Celtic harp. Wee!
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