Bookish Butch – Page 97

Curve ball, shmurveball

The weather is back to the way I like it,

cool and breezy.

Admit it’s been a while since I mentioned the weather.

This summer has been way up there,

on the learning curve of life.

Funny, you live forty-five years,

you think you know a thing or two.

Who you are,

what your reactions to things are.

You expected life to send you,

a fastball right down the middle and into your glove.

Instead,

you get a series of curve balls,

some of which hit you in the face.

You question yourself,

your motives,

your vision of life and love.

Your vision of yourself, which you thought was just fine,

is now clouded by a black eye.

Black eyes heal, you just look strange for a while.

Self-conscious and a little bit embarrassed.

But, with embarassement and pain,

comes some clarity,

hopefully.

This has been a year and especially a summer of epiphanies and scares.

The prospect for the fall and into next year,

is better.

I think.

I’m gonna reach for my dreams and get me some love.

I’ve always wanted to write a novel.

I’m working on it,

it’s hard,

I need that,

flex the muscles.

The women are on notice.

I’m back.

I hope.

Later girls

On my love of writing implements

I love pens.

Black felt tip or,

very smooth blue ball point medium,

only medium.

Notebooks.

I’m a freak for notebooks.

Small black Moleskins for quotes.

Medium black ruled journals for ideas and diary.

Old composition style, from the drugstore, for family history and lore.

My Grandpapa used to keep family info in an old blueline journal from 1964.

Mostly dates of birth, baptism, weddings and deaths.

When I was a child I used to plead for him to read L’Histoire de Famille, out of the book.

When he died I inherited it.

I have been making a new one for my Godson, Jerome.

I want him to know where he comes from.

Won’t be too many baptisms and weddings in there,

Québec is pretty much a post Catholic society.

I have these beautiful sky blue Gap notebooks, that I write poems in.

I used to use colourful Claire Fontaine notebooks.

Now, I find them too pretty.

I prefer the more staid Moleskin.

Above all else in writing implements,

I love the typewriter.

When I was growing up we had an old Underwood in the house.

I never knew why, nobody typed.

I spent hours pounding on the keys,

pretending to be a writer,

a reporter,

or a Clarence Darrow like, Legal Eagle.

Whole movies and books being imagined in my head.

I always wanted a Royal,

because that is what my man Hemingway used.

I have a picture in the bookstore,

of Ernest typing on his Royal,

he’s so cool.

My favorite bookmark is Snoopy typing,

“It was a dark and stormy night”

I always wanted to be a writer.

I like my laptop just fine, when I get my new Mac,

I may even grow to love it.

But, to me,

nothing says writer like pen, notebook and typewriter.

The astetics of the written word.

Later girls

Lucky

I’m feeling nostalgic

I was listening to some songs on You Tube.

Funny,

Ever listen to a song you haven’t heard for a long time and remember all the words?

I was listening to a Mike And The Mechanics song The Living Years.

I think all of us who have fathers who have passed can relate to that song.

I like, that the song, is not an attempt at a Hallmark moment.

It’s about the fact, that we all carry the hopes and fears of the previous generation

and that everybody blames everybody.

In spite of that,

we miss them and we love them.

The Living Years reminds me of Dad.

Besame Mucho and really sweet iced cake, of my grandfather.

The sweetest most sentimental man I have ever known.

He has been gone more than twenty years.

I think of him often.

My grandma has been gone for twelve,

she wasn’t always so easy.

But, when I need a moral compass I always turn to her memory.

She always had something good to say about people.

Even, when there wasn’t much, she would come with ,

“Well, they’re clean”

You gotta love that.

She had a tough time of it at the end,

I think she had regrets and she was lonely.

I hope she knew how important she was to me.

I told her,

but,

you know people don’t always listen.

You can’t live in the past and in the what if’s.

But, revisiting and staying in touch with who you are, is important.

Sometimes I forget who I am and I get lost in an emotional Maelstrom.

I am the daughter and granddaughter of,

strong and weak,

men and women.

One thing about me,

I am loved, this much I know.

Oh, and

I’m clean.

Later girls

Les Amours Imaginaires

On the weekend I went to see a new movie,

Les Amours Imaginaires.

This movie,

is by La Belle Province’s latest homegrown genius,

Xavier Dolan.

He made a movie last year,

that had great critical international success,

J’ais Tué Ma Mere.

Les Amours Imaginaires, does not suffer from the sophomore jinx,

it is Sublime.

A must see.

It is all about how, sometimes,

we build up casual, flirtatious relationships,

into serious love affairs.

In our minds.

It is about unrequited love.

The worst kind of love,

the love that hurts the most,

the one sided type.

Sometimes it borders on the obsession.

I suppose most people have felt it.

I know I have, more than once.

Never been really lucky at love.

Never been that disastrous either.

Always a little too chicken to attempt getting hurt.

I have loved a few women in my life.

One was my ex,

a superbly intelligent generous woman,

who is still my best friend.

One ended badly,

unrequited.

And recently,

a situation I will,

probably be years trying to understand and come to terms with.

Love’s tough.

Love’s grand.

I don’t know.

The movie made me feel as though,

somehow I was part of a tribe.

The confused, the seekers, the romantics or perhaps,

just,

the messed up.

Later girls

Is the blog the modern day diary?

“If a man has no constant lover who shares his soul as well as his body, he must have a diary—a poor substitute, but better than nothing. That is all there is to it in my case” James Lees-Milne

I read this quote recently in a book review and thought to myself,

I have to read this guy’s diaries.

I love diaries and memoirs as well as, books of letters.

Their are full of unvarnished truth, contrary to autobiographies,

which tend to put the writer in the best light possible.

It got me thinking,

Is the blog the modern diary?

I have kept a journal over the years and have written the occasional love letter and poem.

But, I find the blog somehow, even more liberating.

I never really know who reads it and honestly,

I like the mystery and true confession part of it.

Of course,

I know some of the people who read it and comment

and I like that as well.

Who knows just thinking out loud.

later, girls

Small Island

I just finished Small Island by Andrea Levy.

This book was a delight to read.

From the start I had trouble putting it down.

This is the kind of book you finish and you say, “Already?”

The characters are so well drawn I could see them.

The dialogue so clear I could hear the beautiful, lilting Jamaican accent.

I learned a thing or two about the Jamaicans who served in the RAF during World War II,

and subsequently became British immigrants and ultimately, British citizens.

The Brits treated their Black airman better than the Americans,

still it was,

difficult.

Two of the main characters are very strong women.

Queenie, a butcher’s daughter who marries,

Bernard, a weak, little man who is not nearly enough man for her.

The other main female character is, Hortense,

a recent teacher’s college graduate from Jamaica.

Both are wonderfully brave and strong.

Hortense and Gilbert, her husband, have been raised in colonial Jamaica

to know everything about England. When they arrive,

they, the English, don’t even know where Jamaica is ,

most think it in,

Africa.

This resonates with me as a Canadian.

We long were a colony of Great Britain, who knew not much about us either.

Even today, we live in the shadow of the most dominant culture on the planet, the U.S.

How much do you think the average American knows about Canada?

I know it is less than the average Canadian knows about the U.S.

This book is smart, funny and also very touching.

There are no saints and no devils, only scared people who have been though Hell.

Some rise to the occasion better than others.

It also leaves you wondering,

which is the Small Island?

Really good read

well, later girls

The Narrow Corner

Short, therefore, is man’s life, and narrow is the corner of the earth wherein he dwells.

Well, I finished The Narrow Corner by Somerset Maugham.

It was good.

It takes place in the south sea islands and provides an astute analysis of human nature,

as always with Maugham.

How love can be treacherous and unrequited.

Not exactly light but, so well written.

His prose is always so clear.

With Maugham, you always get an entertaining story and always some unexpected.

Next?

I think Small Island by Andrea Levy.

I want something big and meaty.

Also I would like to be transported to another land and another time.

I don’t know much about Jamaica, hopefully this novel will help me learn a little.

Also it takes place in London post World War II one of my favourite periods.

As always I will let you know.

Not much else on the horizon.

Have a good one

Later girls

New blog look and goodbye to good friends

I changed the look of my blog. I’m still working out the kinks, I’m computer challenged.

Just said goodbye to two good friends who are driving down the 401 (moving to Toronto)

I wish them much luck and happiness in their new city.

I’ll miss them but, hey now I have an excuse to go to Toronto.

Godspeed girls.

The love of reading

Well you’re not gonna believe this but,

it’s actually cool.

I didn’t want to disappoint my loyal readers by not starting with the weather.

Canuck oblige 🙂

So, I was reading A guy’s moleskin notebook (links mattsviews),

which I discovered thanks to The Lesbrary (also in links),

and he participates in these, I guess you would call them blog prompters.

Musings on Mondays and booking through Thursday, stuff like that.

I don’t really want to tie myself down to formulas,

“I gotta be free, I gotta be me”

But,

I like the idea of an occasional jump start.

So, this week the topic is what book started you on your love of reading.

Obviously, I am paraphrasing.

It got me thinking,

what book do I recall reading as a child, awoke the reader in me?

The truth?

I’m not sure.

I do however ,

remember my mother bringing home a new copy of

The Diary Of Anne Frank.

It changed me.

I don’t recall how old I was, still a child, that I know.

I couldn’t believe how cruel people could be.

I believe, that book unleashed a thirst,

that to this day has not been quenched.

When I was twelve, thirteen I started reading biographies, mostly of famous women.

Eleanor Roosevelt, Marie Curie, Margaret Mead but also,

movie stars like Katharine Hepburn and Shelley Winters.

I hardly read biographies any more,

I prefer memoirs, parts of a person’s life from their own very subjective point of view.

Not so interested in the minute details of their childhood.

I like fiction the best.

I have traveled all over the world and through history as well, via fiction.

I’m grateful to my mother for being a reader and for telling me early on,

“When you read you are never bored”

Ain’t it the truth.

Well girls off to read.

Later

Of longing for cool weather, hockey and vacation

The heat is making me crazy.

Aside from a few days of cool and clement weather,

it has been sticky and humid since June,

and if it hasn’t, it sure feels that way!

Not only is it hot but, it’s so bloody noisy.

I live in the city, inner city,

where people have postage stamp size yards and yet,

they seem to spend every morning from April to October mowing them.

What’s up with that?

Way back when we didn’t have air conditioning,

my ex and I would rent movies that took place in winter,

Russian front type of stuff.

This year I thought maybe if I read about hockey it might cool me down,

so far,

not working.

I’m reading a biography of Patrick Roy,

who in my humble opinion is the greatest goaltender ever to play the game.

Of course, you could argue for the great Tretiak or Ken Dryden

but, I’m sticking with Roy, a never say die, kinda of competitor.

I’m sorry,

I’m pretty sure most of you couldn’t care less about hockey.

I can’t help talking about it once in a while, it’s in my DNA.

Many people in Montreal refer to our love of hockey and allegiance to our team ,

the Canadiens,

as a religion.

Since I don’t believe in organised religion, or rather,

I believe that religion is responsible for so much evil in the world,

I prefer to think of hockey as being part of my genetic makeup.

I’m reading The Narrow Corner, should finish it by the weekend.

I like it very much.

I’ve been thinking of taking a few days off,

in late September maybe go to Toronto.

I’ m embarrassed to say I have never been to Toronto.

I’d really like to go to New York but, I don’t have a passeport and you need one now.

Toronto has that newish art museum,

that I would really like to see and of course, bookstores.

I’m going to try to convince a friend to go with me,

and if I can’t,

I’ll go solo.

Later girls