The intimate memoir - in memoriam -Simon Gray

I just finished the third tome in Simon Gray's Smoking Diaries journals, The Last Cigarette (2008) and am inspired to write my own stream of consciousness memoirs, full of wit, self-deprecation and unintended wisdom. Unfortunately for me, my powers of concentration are already severely hampered, most pressingly by a lack of adequate vocabulary to write an articulate sentence. It starts well. Another strike against my plans to reach memoir notoriety is that a friend is due to come by in twenty minutes or so to take me out for a drink in compensation for being unceremoniously ditched at the last minute by a man I wasn't that interested in in the first place. Regardless, the ego suffers and requires to be surrounded by attractive people in overpriced bars. So this Grayan attempt at self-biography is also a time killer so that I am not forced to look at myself yet again in the mirror and comment, inwardly, though sometimes outwardly- like a policeman on a loudspeaker to a deranged man barricaded in a house- on the state of my hair, on the speed at which my face is becoming 'mature', at the rate at which my body is losing muscle tone. But, perhaps here I rejoin Gray, who in writing about all of his faults and weaknesses avoided actually having to do anything about them. To write, to expose, to expostulate is also to distance from, to nudge and wink at oneself in the mirror of the page (never ever its glass friend that has so long been an enemy).

This is what Gray does, dance around the pain of a subject before attacking it side on or sometimes not at all. That is something I love in his writing, sometimes bringing up a subject that he mentions in passing, the pain of it, and then it is gone, not to be written about again. An executive decision has been made. So, no, you will not get the details of being dropped on a Friday night and then spending infinite amounts of time with a pink flat iron. Those details remain my own.

Simon Gray died not too long ago. If I wasn't so lazy, I would open another window and look it up on Wikipedia but I assume if you are interested, you can do it yourself. It was not too long ago. Having finished the last of his memoirs, I am saddened by his passing. Hence the title of this blog post (writing 'blog post' causes an inner shudder) of which I am not even sure of the appropriate formulation, in fact I know I have misspelled in memoriam because it keeps coming up with a red line underneath it yet the alternate options are not the word I am seeking (memorabilia, memorandum) and this is exactly what I love about Simon Gray, the digressions and the willingness to expose the delicate undergarments of personal frailty, our weaknesses yet also our essential humanity.

I will miss your fine wit, Mr. Gray.

Swim little fish, swim

I have taken up swimming. I watched a two minute video on YouTube on how to do the front crawl, dug out my bathing suit and went to the pool.

This was a big step for me. I have always been intimidated by the people who glide smoothly back and forth across the length of the pool, their eyes alien-like behind their goggles, their mouths contorted as they take in air, their arms sinewy and strong. Despite numerous attempts by friends, boyfriends and family members to teach me a proper stroke, I have always returned to my inefficient doggie-paddle slash frog swim. "Turn from the hips!" said a friend. "Elbows out first" said another. "Breath from the side" suggested an ex-boyfriend. It never worked because I was never sure.

But then I watched that video on YouTube and I thought, "really, how hard can it be?"

The first time I went, I swallowed a lot of water. I would stop mid lap, coughing and sputtering. The lifeguards kept a close eye on me and frequently asked if I was ok. The second time I went I bought goggles and choked less though my movements in the water felt awkward, stilted and ungainly. The third time I went, I didn't swallow any water and in the last ten minutes of my one hour swim, I felt, albeit briefly, a sense of symmetry in my movements. For the fourth swim I bought a proper swimsuit instead of my mom two piece for hanging out at the wading pool. I was able to do more laps, sometimes several in a row without stopping to catch my breath at the edge of the pool.

And I started to look around. Pool culture is very interesting and I bet each pool has it's own culture. I want to explore this. I feel a need to swim in different pools, in different neighborhoods and cities to see what their pool culture is.

At my pool, I share the lanes with North African men for the most part. It is interesting to watch how some swimmers are full of bluster and competitive edge while others splash along at a snail's pace. During women's swim, the pool fills with Muslim women transformed from their hijab-clad identities to Speedo wearing dolphins. It is a transition I secretly love to behold. Also during women's swim is an elderly Greek lady who wears a shower cap and complains loudly if anyone bumps into her. She grumbled when my hand touched her toe, saying, "oh, you're too fast". I was flattered.

Meteorological discussion

Yesterday morning, an unseasonably rainy day in February:

Me: D-, look, it's raining!
D-: Yay. It's spring. It's spring!
Me: Well, it might not be spring yet. Winter might come back.
D-: Mummy, winter, spring, summer, fall.
Me: Well, yes but maybe winter isn't ready to go yet.
D- (starting to get irritated): Mummy, it's raining, it's spring.
Me: I'm just saying-
D-: Mummy, it's not winter, spring, winter! It's (starting to sing) winter, spring, summer, fall!
Me: Right.
D-: Yay. Spring. Spring. Spring.

Last night it snowed. Today it is minus nine. Never argue with a three and half year old about the weather.

In other news, I finished another painting and am feeling quite pleased with it.

Save some fur me

So.

I stayed up really late last night reading Bet Me (Jennifer Crusie, 2004) a romance novel that was chosen by my book club in honour of Valentine's day. I had been quite scandalized to be reading such a low-brow novel, and was quite furtive when ordering it from my local library (the librarian even seemed a little surprised when I came to pick it up, "celui-ci??" she asked holding up the blue hardcover with an image of plastic mule sandals and cherries. "Oui, oui, c'est pour moi," I answered hoping no one else noticed). All this to say that once I picked it up I could not put it down and that meant that my long list of Saturday errands had to be squeezed into a much smaller window of time.

It is always when I am in a hurry that everyone else around me s-l-o-w-s d-o-w-n-- . After trying on several pairs of black pants at Friperie Renaissance (yes, that counts as an important errand. My work colleagues are starting to rebel at seeing me in jeans day after day), I found a reasonable pair and with half an hour to spare, I went to stand in line. There was a sale on fur stoles that was inspiring the most frenzied excitement among my fellow shoppers. An elderly Asian gentleman encouraged me to get them while I could and at one checkout, a woman had a shopping cart full of black fur and was arguing with the teller. I imagine she was planning to make fur coats for all of her immediate family. I chose the other queue, where a new employee struggled with the cash register. He then started a long discussion with a buxom woman who was either returning a coat or wanting a discount. Next was an Indian woman who was buying two kids' books (what no fur stole?). Right, this should be quick, I thought, looking up at the clock. Then she paid with a fifty dollar bill and this started another long-ish moment with Newbie cashier finding his supervisor, his supervisor verifying the bill's authenticity, then Newbie slowly calculating the change for the purchase that could not have been more than 75 cents. I checked the other line. Fur Lady was leaning over the counter and pointing her finger. The man behind her in the queue was starting to sweat. I returned my attention to my queue, now two elderly ladies with small purchases (fur stoles, books, a picture frame). Right, moving right along. Newbie stapled the elderly ladies' receipts together and offered them a bag. I looked at the clock, time was slipping on and on. The woman in front of me, we'll call her Bleach-hair, moved up to the cashier (3 fur stoles, flimsy white skirt), then proceeded to pay for her purchase in nickels, pennies and quarters (the quarters were in a plastic bank roll which she struggled for what seemed like an eternity to open). I leaned on the counter, drummed my fingers, grinned madly to myself as I looked again at the clock. I was definitely late now. Then my turn. I thought, right, we'll show these people how to make a speedy purchase. But then I realized I had no cash and had to use my bank card which became inextricably stuck in my wallet. Much wallet wrestling ensued and the woman behind me (fur stoles, t-shirt) sighed.


That is what I get for reading romance novels!

Houllebecq sucks, or why horny white men should not travel

Being the frank francophile that I am I try to keep up with the major cultural movements in France. Living far away and being primarily self absorbed in my own life, only the biggest waves make a ripple in my attention and therefore I miss out on most cultural phenomena coming out of the hexagon. Michel Houllebecq, France's literary badboy did make it on to my radar a few years ago (the guy actually won the Prix Goncourt this year) so I decided to read a book, see a movie, and see what was what.

I read Platforme (2001), and saw Les elements particulaires.

The film was shit. The book even worse (more on that later).

Then today, I read an interesting article on tattoo culture by Mark Greif (wait, the connection is coming), got curious about him (some literary guy out of NYC) and looked up some other things that he had written. I read a review he wrote in 2003 of Houllebecq's Platforme and it re-awakened all of my dormant ire and irritation. My feminist growl and literary snobbism were ready for a fight.

I had pretty much forgotten the plot line of Platforme and could only remember my feeling of revulsion and disgust when I finished it. Luckily for me, Greif does a quick summary of the book, to remind me what I hated about it. It goes something like this: whiny French guy, isolated from any meaningful relationship goes to Thailand to fuck Thai girls, does some of that, meets a wonderful French woman, who is perfect in every way (basically, is completely forgiving of his narcissist, self absorbed, bullshit and still puts out all the time to mutual orgasmic joy), moves back to France, and said girlfriend sets up a sex-tourism industry which helps gross, middle aged white folks go to the third world so that they can screw third world whores. Then a bomb goes off, the girlfriend dies and the French guy goes back to being a whiny asshole (which, consequently, he never stopped being). The end.

The feelings I have about this book resemble the vitriol I felt upon reading Un dimanche a la piscine a Kigali (Gil Courtemanche, 2000) quite a few years ago. I was so incensed upon finishing it that if it had belonged to me I would have ripped it in half. It is almost against my nature to do violence upon books but it was such crap that I could barely control myself. The plot there, if I remember correctly, was: white male protagonist in Kigali during the genocide, wanting to fuck some young, idealized stereotype of the "African woman" (is it possible that her name was Innocente? or wait, Gentille!), fucks her, she gets killed (we get a long description of her rape and her deciding to embrace it and enjoy it) and then some other people get killed. The end.

After reading it, I read a glowing review by Giles Foden, of whom I had previously thought good things. I haven't read another book of his since.

Can we not move past the image of woman, and the 'exotic' woman, more specifically, as a piece of ass? My feminist heart grows weary at the way the over-sexualization of women is so taken for granted, is so unblinkingly presumed that it doesn't even make the review pages.

I am tired just thinking of how to articulate my argument, how to couch it in words that don't raise the hackles of anti-feminist middle roaders. What is so plain to me, so obvious to the women around me, doesn't cause a ripple or a pause, not a parentheses, nor a hand scratching across an unshaven chin. It is an uphill battle. One that makes me, when the anger has run out, terribly sad.

Holiday musings

Christmas is often an odd time of year for me. I tend to be consumed by envy with the idea that everyone else but me is having a perfect Norman Rockwell Christmas. I bemoan my small, irreligious but lovely family.

My family is not your typical, greeting card family. It doesn't help that the left half is Jewish, the right half completely non-conformist, and the middle easily distracted by foam swords. It is also a family that is scattered like dandelion seeds, distant like planets. We orbit towards and away from each other. Sometimes a planet has many moons and sometimes we don't see Pluto for years, but the arc of our lives always casts a glimmer throughout the familial galaxy, even if we don't sit down for turkey dinners (many a vegetarian) and bottles of wine (recovering alcoholics and teetotalers), even if we see each other only every couple of years.

Often when I go out on Christmas, I do so with a sense of furtiveness, a mild sense of shame. I fear that everyone can see that I am not rooted in a firm family hold, held by a tether to the emblazoned fir tree. Today, like most years, I walked the icy streets but today felt different. I saw sleepy parents with bright eyed children, lone men carrying skates and paper bags, Indian, Turkish and Pakistani couples out to enjoy the distant sun. I saw a young mother and her gap-toothed teenage daughter, sharing a joke at a bus stop. I saw bus drivers tired and bus drivers cheery. And it all made me feel like I was part of the big bustle of humanity, in all of its complexity, in all its variety.

I have made peace with the shape of my family, with the planets, the stars and the comets, the seeds and the roots. I hope you do, too.

Happy holidays.

Keeping up with the Joneses

Neighbourly news:

Neighbours A and B have gone to do the Haj in Saudi Arabia.
Neighbour C has gone to Pakistan to support his son, accused of murder.
And I am pretty sure Neighbour D is a drug dealer (you should see the strung-out types that I find jonesing in the lobby for a fix).
Neighbour E has finally gotten his schizophrenia under control.

Seen like that, it almost seems threatening. Funny thing is, it totally isn't.

Life in Parc-Ex.