Editing your book is normally very difficult for all kinds of reasons bust most of all because it isn't real and you created this thing out of nothing. It's said and often believed that the toil of the writer comes from the heart and soul and I've written those books too so I know how it feels when it's true. In those babies the writer's opinion is that just about everything is good and to take out anything would be a crime and so it hurts like a bastard when you know that you should. Sometimes it is quite literally 'where do I start'.
'Level Crossing' was not that type of effort. From beginning to end it was a fabrication of my imagination and I struggled intellectually with each word. Harsh; I was constipated and there was no laxative I could take therefore every line was produced with heavy grunting and red cheeks with my head ready to pop off or blow. When it was time to edit, gutting it was the easiest thing in the world because I hated it and what I had to go through to get it on paper. The problem was obvious to me as I went along. I was committed to writing this log if it was the last thing I did all the while feeling that was probably true and that after this there would never ever be another one. I joked to friends that this would be the unfinished manuscript that I would still be talking about ten years from now. I had to purge it before I could move on to anything else. Well I didn't have to and it didn't have to be like that but that's who I am and denying that now I might as well just swallow a gun barrel and end it because it was really over if I thought about it at all.
Friends who I hadn't seen or talked to for months would say 'how are you?' and I would hang my head and mournfully reply 'editing'. I was rebuilding the story I hated so every day was spent in anguish. No moment even for a second of a good day's work I would type and think until my body couldn't stand the position any longer then I would stand up and be done until the same time tomorrow. I put my life on hold for over a year when a year in the life isn't throwaway any more. I used those up already in the last decade in the name of fun only it wasn't all that much worth it but what can I do now but smile and regret it.
The only thing accurate about this work was the theme and I nailed it when I called it an 'existential angst' saga. It is so dark that if there was a market for it the Scandinavian block were the only countries that could possibly be interested. Iceland for sure would get it especially the part about death and dying. Symbolically there is even more merit since my alter ego for the past thirteen years is killed on the first page. I hated it so much this was the only story left to tell. With this much done I am standing at the door step of 1997 and now I am depressed because of what that means to me.
Absent from this story of mine is any trace of a love angle which underlines no muse in my life when I wrote it.. Also M.I.A. no music. There is none in the story and there wasn't even the hint of a few bars in my head. Surprising in that jazz was playing in the background 24/7 or at least during the parts when I was sitting down in front of a keyboard.
So to wrap this up just like the book, the process like the story is all true except that it's not.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Rabbits and Hats are a Trick
There I was thinking like I was bullet-proof once again when suddenly I wasn't and it was like I'd have to relive the last six years of my life to take a step forward.
When I sat down to write 'Four and a Half Hours' it was no big deal. I said I could and so I did. I wasn't concerned by how long it would take because I knew I was doing it just like one more thing in a crazy busy life. I was living on the coast and though there were problems I felt huge in the circles I was travelling in. A big circle of Western Canada, Seattle, Alaska, The Territories and the Yukon. My god I was a giant. The book was done and I still had everything else going on so I treated it like another notch in my belt not stopping to give it a second thought. It wasn't until my then life stopped dead in its tracks that I considered writing as possibly therapeutic and a good step in rehab. The problem was I couldn't write two words together that made any sense in my head. I consciously avoided any written-word like it was the plague and I metaphorically crawled into a cocoon.
I didn't try to write again until I returned to Ontario in 2009. I'd been back two months when I finally admitted to myself that I should send a letter to my girl friend back in Vancouver. She was the love of my life and leaving her and our possible future together had hurt like hell. I tried to explain.
The letter writing was rough and I joked with her that it would make more sense if I had used crayons instead of a pen as that was how inept I felt I sounded. Barely two pages, I wrote her every week. Pretty soon I was writing twenty page letters as bad as they were.
She had loved reading 'Four and a Half' the screenplay so I told her I'd try writing something like that for her. Two or three months later I sent her 'Long Hair & The Beach'. A month later 'Dancing Bears' was in the mail and two weeks after that 'Harem Scarem'. I was tearing it up. During the NPR interview I thought aloud if returning to a novel format wasn't something I should try even though I was still afraid and unsure of my capabilities now that I had been damaged.
'Magick' didn't take long for me maybe six weeks but I'll say two months with the editing. I hated what this said about us. I wasn't with her any more but as a long distance muse she was the best thing for me. I think she realized what was happening before I did because she said so. Our futures wouldn't be together with her there and me here. Moving for either of us wasn't an option. In grief I wrote 'Maacland' as a tribute to her and as reassurance for myself that I could write a novel again without her in my life. At the very end of of August 2010 I was done and I said to myself that I'd take a break for the film festival. I couldn't write two words together until January 2011 and at that it was like pulling my own teeth.
I sat down and wrote eight hours everyday with nothing coming together. Two or three times I thought I was on to something and squeaked out twenty thousand words. Once I even managed to get forty-thousand words down before I had to tear it up because I hated it so much. I needed a new approach is what I said to myself but the real problem was that there wasn't a shred of a story in my head. That's why no outline or story board; hard to write those things down when they don't exist.
With the letters and then the short cycle time of my three plays and two novels I had grown accustomed to seeing my work finished in very quick order. The gratification of seeing your words between covers is a drug and now with a long cycle time with nothing to show for it, I was jonesing for a fix and chasing my own dragons. When you sense 'block' you grow very afraid especially when block is something you've had bad, like I did for four years. You over-think everything and now what was on my mind was that I had never written anything without a muse in my life. I had no muse. I tried to write.
The drug angle of a fix for my joint seemed like the solution. I thought about it and that's when I decided to blog about the progress of writing my book thinking this would spur me on in spite of nothing there with the shame of admitting it publicly making nothing something. The blog is good for the instant buzz but as a writer it just leaves a big gaping hole where a story should have been. It's two different mindsets and the blog robs your words and ideas that you now can't put in your book because of copyright issues later on. A poor excuse for documenting the process, I had to stop.
I forced myself to sit down, writing about nothing, for day after day in eight hour stretches. When I figured I had written 100,000 words I wrapped it up thinking I find something I could use in the edit. I did. 100,000 words became a 20,000 word story which you might as well shove up your ass. I was back to where I had started.
Except in the nothingness there was something and then I started to write the book that I just finished.
When I sat down to write 'Four and a Half Hours' it was no big deal. I said I could and so I did. I wasn't concerned by how long it would take because I knew I was doing it just like one more thing in a crazy busy life. I was living on the coast and though there were problems I felt huge in the circles I was travelling in. A big circle of Western Canada, Seattle, Alaska, The Territories and the Yukon. My god I was a giant. The book was done and I still had everything else going on so I treated it like another notch in my belt not stopping to give it a second thought. It wasn't until my then life stopped dead in its tracks that I considered writing as possibly therapeutic and a good step in rehab. The problem was I couldn't write two words together that made any sense in my head. I consciously avoided any written-word like it was the plague and I metaphorically crawled into a cocoon.
I didn't try to write again until I returned to Ontario in 2009. I'd been back two months when I finally admitted to myself that I should send a letter to my girl friend back in Vancouver. She was the love of my life and leaving her and our possible future together had hurt like hell. I tried to explain.
The letter writing was rough and I joked with her that it would make more sense if I had used crayons instead of a pen as that was how inept I felt I sounded. Barely two pages, I wrote her every week. Pretty soon I was writing twenty page letters as bad as they were.
She had loved reading 'Four and a Half' the screenplay so I told her I'd try writing something like that for her. Two or three months later I sent her 'Long Hair & The Beach'. A month later 'Dancing Bears' was in the mail and two weeks after that 'Harem Scarem'. I was tearing it up. During the NPR interview I thought aloud if returning to a novel format wasn't something I should try even though I was still afraid and unsure of my capabilities now that I had been damaged.
'Magick' didn't take long for me maybe six weeks but I'll say two months with the editing. I hated what this said about us. I wasn't with her any more but as a long distance muse she was the best thing for me. I think she realized what was happening before I did because she said so. Our futures wouldn't be together with her there and me here. Moving for either of us wasn't an option. In grief I wrote 'Maacland' as a tribute to her and as reassurance for myself that I could write a novel again without her in my life. At the very end of of August 2010 I was done and I said to myself that I'd take a break for the film festival. I couldn't write two words together until January 2011 and at that it was like pulling my own teeth.
I sat down and wrote eight hours everyday with nothing coming together. Two or three times I thought I was on to something and squeaked out twenty thousand words. Once I even managed to get forty-thousand words down before I had to tear it up because I hated it so much. I needed a new approach is what I said to myself but the real problem was that there wasn't a shred of a story in my head. That's why no outline or story board; hard to write those things down when they don't exist.
With the letters and then the short cycle time of my three plays and two novels I had grown accustomed to seeing my work finished in very quick order. The gratification of seeing your words between covers is a drug and now with a long cycle time with nothing to show for it, I was jonesing for a fix and chasing my own dragons. When you sense 'block' you grow very afraid especially when block is something you've had bad, like I did for four years. You over-think everything and now what was on my mind was that I had never written anything without a muse in my life. I had no muse. I tried to write.
The drug angle of a fix for my joint seemed like the solution. I thought about it and that's when I decided to blog about the progress of writing my book thinking this would spur me on in spite of nothing there with the shame of admitting it publicly making nothing something. The blog is good for the instant buzz but as a writer it just leaves a big gaping hole where a story should have been. It's two different mindsets and the blog robs your words and ideas that you now can't put in your book because of copyright issues later on. A poor excuse for documenting the process, I had to stop.
I forced myself to sit down, writing about nothing, for day after day in eight hour stretches. When I figured I had written 100,000 words I wrapped it up thinking I find something I could use in the edit. I did. 100,000 words became a 20,000 word story which you might as well shove up your ass. I was back to where I had started.
Except in the nothingness there was something and then I started to write the book that I just finished.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
'Level Crossing' Complete
well sort of, now travelling the circuit of good friends who are my critics for this thing. As I posted on my website, it is being decided if the warts are tumours needing to removed before it can go to press. My early feedback is that the first third is okay/good. That's about when I stopped having fun writing the book so who knows how much will be diagnosed as the existential angst that the story is about and how much is just too much to handle and enjoy. In the meantime I wait and get distance which I need because I don't yet know which is more difficult to wrap my head around: that it is finally done or that I killed off my central character. Jacob West has been my alter ego in every story I've written so this is a very big deal for me and something I do need to think about.
The story was originally motivated by my contempt for Auster's 'New York Trilogy'. I felt it could have been done much better and especially in my view since so many celebrities still claim this is what they are reading. I suspected it was a carefully conceived response to suggest that the celebrity was smart or thoughtful and in this case that the book must be quite good. It was painfully not, to my way of thinking. However having now undertaken my own version, some of Auster does make sense; like how hard it is to sustain this type of story over more than 90 pages. Ergo his trilogy and on the flip-side, what a good boy I am for taking it to novel lengths (though to be fair I had to resort to employing devices). If Wiki wasn't dark today I'd look up Auster's age when he wrote his story and maybe that's the secret for his fame, having done it when he was young but then that still doesn't explain the other thing, so it doesn't really matter.
The nuts and bolts of 'Level Crossing' is the question of identity and communication. I attack the subject from the standpoint of anonymity and misunderstanding. The subtext is a political statement about Chinese consumption and our willingness to sell out. Religion like so many of my other stories is relegated to scorn for the context we have created for faith in our lives. Absent a love story which to me is also telling.
The process from start to finish spanned the better part of fourteen months. I didn't have a plan in any form. There was no plot, theme, point to be made and no story board or template when I sat down at the keyboard. There was just the need, disguised as confidence, to write because something else in my life had gone wrong.The book would be my proof that it wasn't another mistake I had made; only more bad luck and at a shitty time in my life when time wasn't any longer a concept to be debated but something real that slips away.
This is the first post of me then, with no voice now because my talking head is buried, trying to explain what happened and what it means.
The story was originally motivated by my contempt for Auster's 'New York Trilogy'. I felt it could have been done much better and especially in my view since so many celebrities still claim this is what they are reading. I suspected it was a carefully conceived response to suggest that the celebrity was smart or thoughtful and in this case that the book must be quite good. It was painfully not, to my way of thinking. However having now undertaken my own version, some of Auster does make sense; like how hard it is to sustain this type of story over more than 90 pages. Ergo his trilogy and on the flip-side, what a good boy I am for taking it to novel lengths (though to be fair I had to resort to employing devices). If Wiki wasn't dark today I'd look up Auster's age when he wrote his story and maybe that's the secret for his fame, having done it when he was young but then that still doesn't explain the other thing, so it doesn't really matter.
The nuts and bolts of 'Level Crossing' is the question of identity and communication. I attack the subject from the standpoint of anonymity and misunderstanding. The subtext is a political statement about Chinese consumption and our willingness to sell out. Religion like so many of my other stories is relegated to scorn for the context we have created for faith in our lives. Absent a love story which to me is also telling.
The process from start to finish spanned the better part of fourteen months. I didn't have a plan in any form. There was no plot, theme, point to be made and no story board or template when I sat down at the keyboard. There was just the need, disguised as confidence, to write because something else in my life had gone wrong.The book would be my proof that it wasn't another mistake I had made; only more bad luck and at a shitty time in my life when time wasn't any longer a concept to be debated but something real that slips away.
This is the first post of me then, with no voice now because my talking head is buried, trying to explain what happened and what it means.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The Best Ticket in the City
That’s how I generally describe all ‘Live! To Air’ events at the Long & McQuade Performance Hall. Insiders will know I am talking about the studio space at JazzFm; 91.1 on the dial and dotFM on the net like Jazz: Jazz.Fm
June 14: who would know, as I made my way into Toronto, that tonight would be special. The traffic crawled along the side street between Pardee and Lamport Stadium notable only in that this is not normal. Am I too early? The streetscape otherwise deserted except, in Liberty Village, that is part of the charm for me. A neighbourhood yearning for identity not realizing it is steeped in it and just waiting for the rest of the world to discover how great this space really is. The radio station (JazzFM) could not have been put into a more perfect building-Walter Venafro and I are square on that: the building has great bones and the acoustics, well you just have to be there. The sun might also have something to do with this and the skylight that tonight was as much a player as the band.
Ross Porter was hosting and it could have been anyone but Ross- he- well it could not have been scripted better. Inexplicably Toronto Hydro and ‘power’ was a problem and ‘Live’ tonight could not be ‘to air’. Seating for forty there was a contest and squeezing and holding our breath, sixty or so settled in for Jill Barber and the boys giving us ‘a show and thanks for coming, what a drag, let’s have fun’. My guess is an hour and a half later every one of us knew that we had been part of something special and it would never ever be this way again.
Friday, May 27, 2011
But I was looking forward to summer
I've finished the first draft of 'Level Crossing'. I took a break, if you can call it that, for one day before I began the editing process. In the past this would be a dust up for grammar, structure and form. My primary review would be to double check myself to make sure that I had said what I more or less had intended. Satisfied, it would be put between covers and sent to my publisher. If there was a rationalization there were two. I would follow Duke Ellington's creed: when it is done, it is done; just let it go. The other, that I am in a zone and get back to work before I lose it.
Before this story even began I had decided that this time I would work the project to a polished product before the publisher sent back his notes. In fact it had occurred to me that I might not even shop this one. Just write it because I could and perhaps for my own satisfaction. That I had struggled to come up with a consistent thread or idea bothered me and it took the better part of five months for anything to take shape in my head. Finally though I found something and tried to follow it to it's logical conclusion.
I hated my structure. First person narrative is so arrogant and I suppose this discomfort came from the knowledge that I am not that writer. That may suggest 'Yet' or even 'Never'. It is a terrible weight to carry around your neck when you are trying to be a well of creative thought. For this reason alone I suspected the editing would be difficult and I would second guess myself at every opportunity.
That much is true. My critique so far has been in two stages. First pass I separated all of the dialogue just keeping the paragraph before and immediately after the quotation marks. Smart I thought, it will give me context. My intent, to see if the dialogue was strong enough to carry the story. Second pass was to isolate just the narrative; how strong was my prose. Brutal assessment tactics and when I shared this strategy with a couple of the writer's groups I belong to they thought I was brave and terribly clever. Within a couple of days I had trimmed thirty thousand words off the manuscript.
In edit this is not necessarily tragic. There is a strong belief amongst writers that from the reduction would come other threads that needed to be developed and the word count would return. Akin to trimming a tree so it can grow back. Unfortunately while reviewing the dialogue and then the narrative and then back to the dialogue, I find I don't like it. Worse, it might be horrible. I recognize I am in a vulnerable stage and I should not make a brash move. Editing is like that.
So I am idling trying to decide or forget just long enough so that I can find an informed objectivity.. While I am questioning almost all aspects of the story I am finding strength on a few fronts. My principal ideas are valid, fresh and accurate. I accomplished what I set out to do. My observations are deep and insightful bordering on revealing. It is ahead of the curve. What remains is the notion that I just don't like the story and that doesn't mean it isn't true or important.
When I look for validation and confirmation of my ideas I turn to traditional media outlets, analyze society trends as I see them and the spooky truth, I watch for symbols in my every day life. I know/follow/listen to probably a thousand other writers all in more or less in the same boat. Recently published or trying to and in the middle of marketing and branding themselves and/or their books. These people are playwrights and novelists and come from all walks of life and the four corners of the globe. And I nailed it.
Genres, degree of fame, measures of success and where this industry is going. Now all I have to do is remember that while I am rewriting the whole damn thing.
Before this story even began I had decided that this time I would work the project to a polished product before the publisher sent back his notes. In fact it had occurred to me that I might not even shop this one. Just write it because I could and perhaps for my own satisfaction. That I had struggled to come up with a consistent thread or idea bothered me and it took the better part of five months for anything to take shape in my head. Finally though I found something and tried to follow it to it's logical conclusion.
I hated my structure. First person narrative is so arrogant and I suppose this discomfort came from the knowledge that I am not that writer. That may suggest 'Yet' or even 'Never'. It is a terrible weight to carry around your neck when you are trying to be a well of creative thought. For this reason alone I suspected the editing would be difficult and I would second guess myself at every opportunity.
That much is true. My critique so far has been in two stages. First pass I separated all of the dialogue just keeping the paragraph before and immediately after the quotation marks. Smart I thought, it will give me context. My intent, to see if the dialogue was strong enough to carry the story. Second pass was to isolate just the narrative; how strong was my prose. Brutal assessment tactics and when I shared this strategy with a couple of the writer's groups I belong to they thought I was brave and terribly clever. Within a couple of days I had trimmed thirty thousand words off the manuscript.
In edit this is not necessarily tragic. There is a strong belief amongst writers that from the reduction would come other threads that needed to be developed and the word count would return. Akin to trimming a tree so it can grow back. Unfortunately while reviewing the dialogue and then the narrative and then back to the dialogue, I find I don't like it. Worse, it might be horrible. I recognize I am in a vulnerable stage and I should not make a brash move. Editing is like that.
So I am idling trying to decide or forget just long enough so that I can find an informed objectivity.. While I am questioning almost all aspects of the story I am finding strength on a few fronts. My principal ideas are valid, fresh and accurate. I accomplished what I set out to do. My observations are deep and insightful bordering on revealing. It is ahead of the curve. What remains is the notion that I just don't like the story and that doesn't mean it isn't true or important.
When I look for validation and confirmation of my ideas I turn to traditional media outlets, analyze society trends as I see them and the spooky truth, I watch for symbols in my every day life. I know/follow/listen to probably a thousand other writers all in more or less in the same boat. Recently published or trying to and in the middle of marketing and branding themselves and/or their books. These people are playwrights and novelists and come from all walks of life and the four corners of the globe. And I nailed it.
Genres, degree of fame, measures of success and where this industry is going. Now all I have to do is remember that while I am rewriting the whole damn thing.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Jelly Roll Morton
This afternoon the manuscript progressed to a possible ending which I have chosen to ignore. The thought is that there may be a dozen or so pages left lingering in the back of my brain unsure how to come out. So I will let it breathe for a little while and see if I am dreaming or not. The book is a surprise to me considering it took so long to find rhythm and a sense of self. I wandered everywhere mostly leaving no stone unturned. When you dig that deep you always feel that you have exposed yourself beyond a reasonable comfort level and what remains is weak and vulnerable.
This past week I was working with Jazz FM as they prepare for what will be their formal 'Spring Campaign' to raise operating capital for another season. I was talking music and programming with a listener who at one point asked me if I was still in the industry. I confessed I was a writer. The listener invoked an old Hemingway quote about the writing profession being the loneliest in the world. "Yes" I agreed "but those moments in your head when you hit that one long note make it all worthwhile." He liked that and so did I, having no idea where it came from just that it was true. That's where 'Jelly Roll' stepped in. We started talking about Fats Waller and Morton and what jazz is and what it is not. I overheard someone complaining that Diana Krall was not Jazz and someone else that the morning show was not up to snuff.
I looked over to Joanne Clark who was sitting beside me. We had just finished discussing jazz as a maturation of listening skills. She still listens to Psychedelic Sundays occasionally when she is feeling wistful. Which of course got me to thinking about Christie Wills and The Beaumont Studio back in Vancouver. One thing leads to another so Jude Kusnierz was not far behind. It is hard to imagine that I was ever part of that scene and now it seems equally impossible that I was not there sooner.
The net, net in this line of reasoning is that we are where we should be, it is only that our ETA has changed.
This past week I was working with Jazz FM as they prepare for what will be their formal 'Spring Campaign' to raise operating capital for another season. I was talking music and programming with a listener who at one point asked me if I was still in the industry. I confessed I was a writer. The listener invoked an old Hemingway quote about the writing profession being the loneliest in the world. "Yes" I agreed "but those moments in your head when you hit that one long note make it all worthwhile." He liked that and so did I, having no idea where it came from just that it was true. That's where 'Jelly Roll' stepped in. We started talking about Fats Waller and Morton and what jazz is and what it is not. I overheard someone complaining that Diana Krall was not Jazz and someone else that the morning show was not up to snuff.
I looked over to Joanne Clark who was sitting beside me. We had just finished discussing jazz as a maturation of listening skills. She still listens to Psychedelic Sundays occasionally when she is feeling wistful. Which of course got me to thinking about Christie Wills and The Beaumont Studio back in Vancouver. One thing leads to another so Jude Kusnierz was not far behind. It is hard to imagine that I was ever part of that scene and now it seems equally impossible that I was not there sooner.
The net, net in this line of reasoning is that we are where we should be, it is only that our ETA has changed.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Eugene O'Neill where are you?
My plan was to write all day but I am in 'waiting' mode and there is only so much darkness I have allowed for in this book. More than a page and half and this will be not what I wanted. And I don't want that. Ross Porter is on in the background. He is wrapping up his Saturday morning show and playing some great stuff. Jeff Beck right now and the music is a perfect fit with my mood. Virginia Woolf, Tennessee Williams and even Shakespeare's 'Lady Macbeth' managed to find their way into my words. 'Solutions' are not just for stories and dark, dark, dark is where I was at. The book called for it and I cannot get ahead of myself in the narrative arc. Like I said, waiting. The timing and events are out of my hands and that is the danger when trying to inject a bit of truth by the way of reality and present-tense. I feel like a sadist or vulture.
The music this second sounds like a set-up for this afternoon's Spanish romp and I usually will take advantage of the extended cable package here and tune in to channel 746 for commercial-free Jazz Masters before that happens. Although without the Spanish program I would never have come up with 'La Paloma' in the Dee trilogy ( I cheat. I can't remember if it was 'Dancing Bears' or 'Harem Scarem'. ( I cheat yet again having to look up the name of the latter.) That is the beauty of having a trilogy to fall back on; sweeping generalizations unless you feel obligated like I do now to reveal the lies.) 'La Paloma' or 'The Dove' I had described as the most popular piece of music in the world with a 140 year history. The meaning is reserved for my fiction, buy the series. Oh that's right, it's not published yet. In that case send me a note, I'll send it to you; I am in the mood for requests. (Music must change right now). 746 is now playing.
I am hot or cold and have been cycling back and forth for two days at least, which is it's own madness. I was thinking about Ann earlier this morning. It's gone now but I thought I would mention it. Hi Ann. I just drank what was left of my Red Bull.
Killing time is a sport in North America. In the Middle East it means something else.
In British Columbia they are electing a new premier today. That is to say a new liberal leader. The liberals are the sitting government. Campbell has resigned and has to be replaced. A general election may or not follow. The only opposition really is the NDP and they are a mess themselves. Their leader was also overthrown. I don't think they have selected a new leader yet. Only in B.C. can a liberal mean a conservative. The conservatives do not even exist. Think about that.
When I was living on the coast the first time, I was moved to consider my own political beliefs while the NDP were governing. (Before I forget, thank you Glen Clark; without you there would have been no 'Heart Failure' and as a consequence 'Slingshot' would not have happened either.) B.C. is too far away for Quebec to matter and my idea was to run as the 'Separatist' candidate with the platform to give Quebec what it wanted. If I had been a bit more serious and given the idea more thought and energy, I am sure I could have been elected in Vancouver's 'Quadra' riding to sit, more or less, as an Independent in the B.C. legislature. I was popular enough to reasonably think I could have pulled it off. Hi Sharon.
In a few hours the patio will be busy (jammed) at Rossini's. Saturdays are the Jazz Jam at 4PM and the place is packed. Drinks and sex for all ages. I think the one-night stand was invented there ( I almost wrote 'here' :-). It doesn't take much to climb back into that space suit.) Back to my story; casual sex and we all loved Rossini's for it. The joint would rock. Musicians, artists and regulars gather at the back door smoking pot. The party breaks up at around 8 or 9 and the next crowd starts rolling in about 10. Regularly I would close the place at 2 in the morning and a few of us would hang out after the doors were closed until 3 when we would go back to Harald's and Peter's place and drink on their deck overlooking the city and False Creek and English Bay until 4:30. I was married, no surprise, not anymore.
Their deck was priceless. The flat was a shit hole but the view was stunning and the deck was big. During the summer fireworks season there would be at least 50 of us each night. Drunk or stoned and ready to explode just like the night sky. Those nights also went well into the morning. Then we would brunch on Yew Street, happy to be alive and able to call this home. Vancouver is one of those cities where living there doesn't make sense if you do not live by the ocean. The beaches are a must-have and you hardly ever forgot how lucky you were. In truth without a view Vancouver and life do not add up and the internal conflict is something you try your best to ignore. During the winter months, when it is almost always raining, it is hard to hide it.
Amongst the many things I miss are stories like this one. Spring is easier to identify in Toronto than Vancouver. Anytime after January can be pretty great there. Usually the temperatures have climbed above the 10 degree mark and the flowers are blooming. Everything is so green because of the rain and there are many many shades of green. I remember walking home from the bus stop after work one night and having been raining for some days, the sun came out for a couple of hours late in the day. Say 4:30 to 6:30. I stopped to pick up a coffee on Davie Street to take home and coming back out onto the street I noticed people were smiling. There was no mistake, we were all happy for the same reason. My spirit soared and that it would be gone again shortly and most probably for a few days, didn't matter. The sun was shining right now and it was glorious. I miss that. It is in that way that as a population, we were all more sensitive to nature. We were constantly aware of it. The mountains also helped shape our respect. We thought about things like the size of our carbon footprint. Trees were important. God at all his best is non-religious and God was everywhere. Also why there are many spiritualists out there. Sex just made sense. Love was sharing.
Yeah that's a tough scorecard in Toronto. Ottawa in many ways is similar but it is so cold in the winter and only the summers are worse; the humidity would embarrass Toronto. In Ottawa's favour the people are intrinsically nicer and so many of the women are French. They spend their income on fashion and they are beautiful. Stunning really. That's one of the trades.
Suddenly I am better. Bored still but better. It must be my medication. Ah yes. I was thinking about Eugene O'Neill. That explains it.
The music this second sounds like a set-up for this afternoon's Spanish romp and I usually will take advantage of the extended cable package here and tune in to channel 746 for commercial-free Jazz Masters before that happens. Although without the Spanish program I would never have come up with 'La Paloma' in the Dee trilogy ( I cheat. I can't remember if it was 'Dancing Bears' or 'Harem Scarem'. ( I cheat yet again having to look up the name of the latter.) That is the beauty of having a trilogy to fall back on; sweeping generalizations unless you feel obligated like I do now to reveal the lies.) 'La Paloma' or 'The Dove' I had described as the most popular piece of music in the world with a 140 year history. The meaning is reserved for my fiction, buy the series. Oh that's right, it's not published yet. In that case send me a note, I'll send it to you; I am in the mood for requests. (Music must change right now). 746 is now playing.
I am hot or cold and have been cycling back and forth for two days at least, which is it's own madness. I was thinking about Ann earlier this morning. It's gone now but I thought I would mention it. Hi Ann. I just drank what was left of my Red Bull.
Killing time is a sport in North America. In the Middle East it means something else.
In British Columbia they are electing a new premier today. That is to say a new liberal leader. The liberals are the sitting government. Campbell has resigned and has to be replaced. A general election may or not follow. The only opposition really is the NDP and they are a mess themselves. Their leader was also overthrown. I don't think they have selected a new leader yet. Only in B.C. can a liberal mean a conservative. The conservatives do not even exist. Think about that.
When I was living on the coast the first time, I was moved to consider my own political beliefs while the NDP were governing. (Before I forget, thank you Glen Clark; without you there would have been no 'Heart Failure' and as a consequence 'Slingshot' would not have happened either.) B.C. is too far away for Quebec to matter and my idea was to run as the 'Separatist' candidate with the platform to give Quebec what it wanted. If I had been a bit more serious and given the idea more thought and energy, I am sure I could have been elected in Vancouver's 'Quadra' riding to sit, more or less, as an Independent in the B.C. legislature. I was popular enough to reasonably think I could have pulled it off. Hi Sharon.
In a few hours the patio will be busy (jammed) at Rossini's. Saturdays are the Jazz Jam at 4PM and the place is packed. Drinks and sex for all ages. I think the one-night stand was invented there ( I almost wrote 'here' :-). It doesn't take much to climb back into that space suit.) Back to my story; casual sex and we all loved Rossini's for it. The joint would rock. Musicians, artists and regulars gather at the back door smoking pot. The party breaks up at around 8 or 9 and the next crowd starts rolling in about 10. Regularly I would close the place at 2 in the morning and a few of us would hang out after the doors were closed until 3 when we would go back to Harald's and Peter's place and drink on their deck overlooking the city and False Creek and English Bay until 4:30. I was married, no surprise, not anymore.
Their deck was priceless. The flat was a shit hole but the view was stunning and the deck was big. During the summer fireworks season there would be at least 50 of us each night. Drunk or stoned and ready to explode just like the night sky. Those nights also went well into the morning. Then we would brunch on Yew Street, happy to be alive and able to call this home. Vancouver is one of those cities where living there doesn't make sense if you do not live by the ocean. The beaches are a must-have and you hardly ever forgot how lucky you were. In truth without a view Vancouver and life do not add up and the internal conflict is something you try your best to ignore. During the winter months, when it is almost always raining, it is hard to hide it.
Amongst the many things I miss are stories like this one. Spring is easier to identify in Toronto than Vancouver. Anytime after January can be pretty great there. Usually the temperatures have climbed above the 10 degree mark and the flowers are blooming. Everything is so green because of the rain and there are many many shades of green. I remember walking home from the bus stop after work one night and having been raining for some days, the sun came out for a couple of hours late in the day. Say 4:30 to 6:30. I stopped to pick up a coffee on Davie Street to take home and coming back out onto the street I noticed people were smiling. There was no mistake, we were all happy for the same reason. My spirit soared and that it would be gone again shortly and most probably for a few days, didn't matter. The sun was shining right now and it was glorious. I miss that. It is in that way that as a population, we were all more sensitive to nature. We were constantly aware of it. The mountains also helped shape our respect. We thought about things like the size of our carbon footprint. Trees were important. God at all his best is non-religious and God was everywhere. Also why there are many spiritualists out there. Sex just made sense. Love was sharing.
Yeah that's a tough scorecard in Toronto. Ottawa in many ways is similar but it is so cold in the winter and only the summers are worse; the humidity would embarrass Toronto. In Ottawa's favour the people are intrinsically nicer and so many of the women are French. They spend their income on fashion and they are beautiful. Stunning really. That's one of the trades.
Suddenly I am better. Bored still but better. It must be my medication. Ah yes. I was thinking about Eugene O'Neill. That explains it.
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