An audio feast

Listen to More About Henry by composer/ audio-artist Adam Goddard. The first time I heard it was on CBC's Ideas a while back and it stuck with me as a dream does. My memory was refreshed on a recent drive back from visiting at camp when it re-aired. The Henry of the title is Adam's grandfather who recalls the early days of farming and the hardships of life on the prairies in the early 20th century. Adam turns his grandad's memories into a many-layered, multi-faceted, and loving piece of contemporary music. Best of all it's eminently listenable and at times catchy too. This might sound odd but it most reminds me of The Who's epic rock-opera Tommy.

I've been thinking about...

escapist books. At least, there used to be something, a genre, that we used to call 'escapist'. These days most of what we see on the bestseller lists seems to be 'escapist' which makes the term redundant. I don't mean only in the SF/ fantasy sense. But historical fiction too. Any book designed to carry the reader away to another place, another timezone, an alternate reality. What I'm attempting to bring to light is the dearth of fiction written these days set in the here and now, or at least, the recent past, say the last twenty years. Blame Harry Potter. Blame The DaVinci Code too. It appears that this is what readers want. Books that will take them to other time periods, alternate worlds, or fantastical scenarios of various kinds. It is not, incidentally, what I want, which appears to make me 'old fashioned'. These thoughts dovetail interestingly with a CBC radio piece I heard today on the meaning of GPS, Global Positioning Systems. They have become so ubiquitous, on cellphones and as a standard feature in cars, that articles have started appearing attempting to parse out what it all means. One writer suggested that she had to compete with the GPS for her boyfriend's attention in the car. She called the GPS, 'the other woman'. Dump the shmuck immediately, I say. But I was also thinking that it meant something worthy of further scrutiny. Perhaps it signals that we are becoming less attuned to our immediate surroundings, shunning positioning ourselves in the here and now, locating ourselves by what we experience and notice in the real world, in favour of a kind of virtual existence, being a dot on an electronic map. If technology is to be completely trusted - and increasingly it appears to be the only trustworthy mode of existence - as we are wont to do in this technological age, what happens when a conflict arises with physical experience? It's probably an urban legend, but I've heard of a GPS commanding a driver to turn right on a bridge. He did as he was commanded with tragic results. And even if that's only an urban legend, it bespeaks a paranoia and concern. All to say - connecting books and GPS - we seem to be losing our sense of being in the here and now, noticing landmarks, trusting our senses, and caring about our surroundings. If books are any indication, we don't seem to want to be where we are at the moment, rather, we don't care to know, to seek meaning, to glean understanding from our circumstances, our ordinary daily struggles etc. We'd rather be fantasizing about vampires and demons and magic and farfetched conspiracies. Who can blame people for craving escape in a world that teeters on the edge of political and economic bankruptcy? On the other hand, isn't that what literature's all about? To make sense of a world on the edge? Maybe we need those stories more than ever?!

The summer of Jacko

My say on MJ. I'll start by stating the obvious, he was an exceedingly talented boy, and a very screwed-up man. He could sing and he could dance. There were better singers and better dancers, but perhaps not anyone who combined them quite as well as he did. By many accounts, he was a pedophile, addicted to painkillers and plastic surgery and was 500 million dollars in debt. I shudder to think that he was anyone's hero or role-model. He was emblematic of all the excesses of our society; a creature who mirrored the very worst in us, our vanity, our greed, our acquisitiveness, our self-medicating indulgence, our narcissism, our immaturity, even as he sang about love and racial tolerance. In the end, he became our monster, and like all monsters that are really reflections of our worst tendencies, we secretly want to destroy them even as we embrace them. I am saddened. Not for his loss but for the future of his progeny, and for what awaits his three kids too.

Torat Imeinu

My creative, wonderful, egalitarian Reconstructionist shul has done it again, an inspired, history-making initiative called: Torat Imeinu, Our mother's Torah. It has commissioned a Torah written by a soferet, a female scribe, the first in Canada. It's an amazing project in celebration of the synagogue's Jubilee 1960-2010, the third Sefer Torah scribed by Jen Taylor Friedman (the other two are in the US). You can follow Jen's progress and fascinating insights on the process on her blog. And of course, we are inviting everyone's support - you don't have to be a shul member to participate. It's a unique, moving, meaningful and permanent way to honour grandmothers, mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts and entire families. You can sponsor a letter, a name, a favourite verse etc. and it will be acknowledged with a certificate. Be a part of something really special!

Little Bee by Chris Cleave

I'm feeling a bit more hopeful today, largely because I've just finished Chris Cleave's latest novel Little Bee. This tale of two opposites, an African girl and a British preppy (do they use that term anymore?) who save each other's life has restorative power, and what more can you ask from a work of literature? It is a story about the unlikely places we find refuge and the true meaning of freedom. Cleave is equally skilled at capturing moments of horror (and there are a few devastating scenes) and sheer beauty. Highly recommended.

Damn it...

Maybe I'm in a perpetual state of self-delusion, but in spite of all the evidence I still want to believe that the good guys win in the end. It keeps me going. That's what makes this sad news sting so much. Paul Quarrington is, by all accounts one of the good ones in a game that tends to feature players who are small-minded, petty, jealous egomaniacs, and I'm not just saying so because he blurbed my debut novel and didn't know me from Adam. Generous with his time and energy, humourous, a mentor to the youngsters, and an all around kind fellow, that's the word on the street. My prayers (and those of so many) are with him and his physicians.

Just because...

I have a special affinity for working joes (janes) who somehow find the spare (ha!) time to write novels. Anne Giardini takes the cake (and it's not even a family-owned business!)

I'm a fan of David McGimpsey. Anyone who can make poetry out of Gillgan's Island and Hawaii Five-O is okay with me. I always said his cherubic punim belonged in the Canlit pantheon.