Song of the Motorcycle

Last night my husband was rousted from the local aquatic centre. I blame his new motorcycle.

He'd just finished his swim and, while he drank his herbal tea in the empty cafeteria, he spoke on his cell phone to his fishing buddy. (Please forgive my use of the word "buddy". It's how fisher people actually talk.) During the conversation, which was about fishing, he used a couple of "swears."

He was suddenly interrupted by a voice behind him that said, "I heard that!"

James assumed it was a fellow fisherman expressing enthusiasm about the fishing secrets he'd overheard. (Fishers are quite big on eavesdropping, so it was a natural assumption.) But no! It was an angry security guard who'd overheard J's vocabularic indiscretion.

The enraged little man stood over James while he finished his call and began to yell at him (I love this part) about how there were children and families in the vicinity, even though there weren't. James apologized but the tin pot aquatic centre dictator was not appeased. He berated my poor husband all the way out of the facility.

When James got home he was annoyed and confused until I, observant person that I am, pointed out to him that he was wearing his new MOTORCYCLE gear. He had on a little toque, Jesse James style, with goggles over it, a helmet and a Mad Max-type motorcycle jacket. OF COURSE the security guy was going to react when faced with a genuine motorcyclist in a family-oriented swimming facility! Wearing your not-really-leathers to an aquatic centre patrolled by thwarted cop wanna-bes is like putting a red flag covered in alfalfa in front of a bull. What James experienced is just a small taste of what other motorcyle aficionados experience every day. Especially those in criminal gangs! The harassment: it never ends when you use fuel efficient transportation!

Anyway, James is writing a letter to the management, probably on stationery that lists all his credentials (i.e. Dear manager of aquatic centre, in my capacity as a person who has a degree in environmental science and an accounting designation by an accredited university, to name just two recent post secondary accomplishments, I would like to express my concern... )

I'm trying not to add insult to injury by pointing out that this experience is just one more reason that it's better to drive a scooter or other similarly slow transportation rather than a motorcycle. NO ONE gets mad at scooter drivers if they use a swear or two in public. Especially if they dress like they're in Quadrophenia, because mods are way too cute to roust. (Unless, of course, they are teenagers. Then life is just one big roust by power mad people in positions of minor authority no matter what you drive.)

Which reminds me. Every day I read a little meditation from one of several books I have for the purpose. They are supposed to ground me and make me more spiritual. So far, it doesn't seem to be working, but it's only been about four years and one has to give these things time. The reading today is one of my favourites. It's from a book by Anthony De Mello called Song of the Bird. The reading has the same name and it goes as follows:

The disciples were full of questions
about God.

Said the master, "God is the Unknown
and the Unknowable. Every statement
about him, every answer to your questions,
is a distortion of the truth."

The disciples were bewildered. "Then
why do you speak about him at all?"

"Why does the bird sing?" said the
master.


The book goes on to explain:

The words of the scholar are to be understood. The words
of the master are not to be understood. They are to be
listened to as one listens to the wind in the trees and the
sound of the river and the song of the bird. They will
awaken something within the heart that is beyond all
knowledge.

All I want to know is, where does the avian flu fit into all this? Also, when James asks how I know it was the motorcycle outfit more than the swears that got him into trouble, it's kind of a song of the bird-type thing. I just know.

Copyright: Deep Thoughts by Susan Juby

Context

I thought that I should put the "lovey bunny" quote in context. Malika was talking about how surprised she was by some of the dark turns her novel-in-progress was taking. "But I'm just a lovey bunny epiphany poet!" she said, with wonder in her voice. It wasn't like she walked up to me and said, "Hello. I'm a lovey bunny epiphany poet. And you are?" Just so that's clear.

I really probably shouldn't blog about the people I meet. But anything's better than blogging about myself.

In that spirit, rumour has it that Dan Ackroyd is currently staying in this hotel. According to my sources, he arrived yesterday in a fleet of limousines and when he got out was immediately surrounded by a team of burly, black-suited body guards who looked ready to take out anyone who posed a threat. Perhaps permanently.

This is Dan Ackroyd we're talking about here. Not the leader of the Chechens. What the hell?

In my days here at the Calgary Writer's festival, not one writer has had an entourage outside of their significant other, or, in a few cases, a publicist. Not Giller winners, not Booker winners. Jane Urquhart, one of the finest novelists working today, shook my hand and didn't wear a glove or have an assistant apply antibacterial handi-wipes immediately afterward.

Perhaps some of the biggest writers in the world, J.K. Stephen, etc., might arrive by limousine, but only for special occasions and certainly not TWENTY YEARS after their career has peaked. (That's right: I think Ghostbusters was Ackroyd's finest achievement.

Which is maybe why I prefer writers.

Thanks, Wordfest. I had a wonderful time. Special thanks to the festival organizers and volunteers, to Brenda for a lovely lunch, Sandy for a lovely dinner, and esp. T.O. for taking me on a tour of Spruce Meadows and some of Calgary's most interesting neighborhoods.

Now where the hell are my body guards! I want to make my exit in a way people will remember! What's this? I'll be heading back to the airport in a TERCEL? But I haven't finished eating my M&Ms (minus the red ones, which I had to pick out myself). Why will no one allow me to be a pain in the ass in the manner to which I'd like to become accustomed!

Another Day, Another Reading

This morning I'm off to Lord Beaverbrook High School. As luck would have it, after the reading yesterday, a student from Lord Beaverbrook gave us a demo of the school song. I believe it goes something like this:

Beaver, beaver, beaver
Brook, brook, brook.

Apparently the chant used to include a noise similar to what a beaver might make. Sort of a churring, whirring prairie dog-type sound. The student said everyone was grateful that Beaverbrook had gone to something a bit more specific.

I'm thinking of starting and finishing my talk with the chant. In fact, I'm not sure what exactly I'm going to do with my 40 minutes, so maybe I could get everyone to chant along with me. For oh, say, 25 or 30 minutes. We could do it like a meditation thing or a form of hypnosis that would convince all present that they'd had a great talk about literature. Or, you know, not.

What I've realized so far on this trip (and all literary festivals should involve a life lesson) is that instead of watching television and reading detective novels, I need to spend more time reading and perhaps writing poetry. All the most interesting people I've met here at Wordfest have been poets.

Case in point: Malinka Booker. She's a poet and performance artist from London, by way of Guyana, and is utterly charming and delightful. I have never before seen multiple piercings look cute. (I know, they probably aren't supposed to look cute, but on her they do.) During our conversation she referred to herself as "just a lovey bunny epiphany poet." Isn't that the greatest thing ever? Leaving aside the fact that I haven't the foggiest what an epiphany poet is, I was immediately smitten. No novelist I've met would ever dream of calling themselves a "lovey bunny", and with good reason. Malinka is working on a novel, and I hope the process doesn't fill her with novelistic self-loathing. I'm speaking now as a deeply ambivalent bunny YA novelist. I can't wait to see her performance tonight.

Okay, off I go.

Beaver, beaver, beaver.
Brook, brook, brook!

P.S. I wonder if, when the television show comes out, I can just play episodes on the AV system? Man, that would be the greatest!

Poets and other Poor Bastards

So the people at my table last night were grad student poets. And a couple of critical theory students. OH. MY. GOD. The poor bastards. Hoping for an intellectually stimulating conversation about the literary arts, they found themselves sitting with... me. A person who has always had a similar relationship to poetry as I have to math, which can be summed up as "huh?"

Thank god the other guest author at our table was Melanie Little, whose short story collection Confidence, won raves in 2003. The other bonus is that the table was donated by a generous benefactor, otherwise I'd have felt even guiltier.

As it was, I considered doing a little freeform dancing to entertain my side of the table, because I had nothing to contribute to a discussion about "canoe poetry". I still have no idea what that is. I presume it's poetry about canoes, but didn't want to ask in case it's some well-known literary term I somehow missed in my undergraduate studies.

The grad students were all very gracious about the fact that, as authors go, I'm sure I was not exactly on their top ten or even top 500 list. And it was lovely to see their faces light up when someone brought Dionne Brand to the table and introduced her. She's one of Canada's finest poets and novelists. A couple of the grad students had written papers about her and I think that made it all worthwhile. That and the free meal.

Dionne and the grad students had a rousing discussion about Pablo Neruda's use of clinking noises and the relative merits of Salman Rushdie. I smiled and nodded and thought about ways to bring up my favourite poem: Mary had a Little Lamb. I was hoping we could have a discussion of agricultural imagery in the pre-school canon, but in the end I didn't get an opening.

I was also ready to recite the only other poem I know. A haiku by Basho (?) that goes:
Climb Mount Fuji snail,
But slowly,
Slowly.

Only I think I have the words wrong on that one, so it's a good thing I didn't get to mention it either.

Other highlights were meeting Will Ferguson, who has my vote for funniest writer in Canada, Tim Wynne-Jones, who is the Grandmaster Flash of YA in Canada, Arthur Slade, who writes fantastic novels and comics and Joseph Boyden who wrote one of my favourite books of 2005, Three Day Road, and Nelofer Pazira, a journalist, actor and author who is one of the best-looking human beings I've ever seen. I may not be much for poetry, but I know from good looks!

Until later.

Festival Log

I've just arrived in Calgary for Wordfest and am pleased to report that the hotel is very nice. It's so nice that I've put my clothes away in the bureau provided in the hopes that they'll soak up some class while they are in there. The toiletries are eminently steal-able. The hotel hasn't gone overboard like the Fort Garry in Winnipeg and provided L'Occitane, but the house brand looks very smart and smells good.

I would do a bit of writing and take a bath while waiting for my clothes to absorb the ambiance of the room, but I have to get ready to go for dinner. Apparently I will be one of the guests at a fundraising dinner in an hour or so. I will be seated with six Wordfest patrons. Now, I'm not saying that they aren't going to get their money's worth, but I will note that I'm not always the most stimulating conversationalist. James is accustomed to me, and Frank and Tango rarely complain due to their tenuous grasp of English, but all of my men do occasionally, through looks and gestures, let me know that I can be a little... removed. Not with it. Spaced out.

James deals with it by sighing and saying things like "Hello! Hello! Remember me? We are married. We are sometimes supposed to exchange words that aren't typed." Then he jumps up and down and sometimes dances, which I always enjoy. That's my cue to put down my book and smile.

Frank head-butts me in the thigh until I babytalk to him while hand-feeding him biscuits. Fortunately, I don't have to stop reading to do this. Tango also head-butts me to get my attention, but when he does it I tend to go flying across the barn and frequently end up more spaced out and silent than before. Dazed, you might even say.

Tango's new to our family and has a lot to learn about getting me to focus. As James and Frank would tell him, a combination of howling and dancing is much more effective than violence. God, I hope none of the Wordfest guests tonight get violent when they realize what a conversational dud I am. Maybe I could convince one or more of them to dance for me...

What I do have to offer tonight's dinner guests is the ability to eat large quantities of food very, very quickly. I hope it's Chinese food. Then I'll really give them something to remember!

I'm looking forward to reading tomorrow with Sheree Fitch, who is a much loved Canadian children's writer who has a new YA out called The Gravesavers. It's very exciting and stars a girl named Cinnamon and a very tragic piece of Canadian maritime history.

Until later.

Inside the Box

Unlike Apprentice contestants, Alice is quite happy inside the box.

Boxed sets now available in Canada and online. (Boots sold separately.)

Love and other cheese

Sometimes people say, "Hey, Susan. Why did you marry James? I mean, besides his chiseled jaw, hair that falls just so, raw athleticism, stylish witticisms, massive brain, kindness to small animals and his uncanny ability to sooth inconsolable children?"

And I reply: "Because sometimes he makes me sandwiches made of toasted ciabata bread, roasted red and orange peppers and brie."

Then they say, "Oooooh. I get it."

Consumer Slave [Hearts] Three Songs

I am one of those people who resists technology out of pure pretentiousness. I didn't get a cell phone for years because I didn't want to be "one of those people who has a cell phone." It was an attitude best expressed in Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections. Now that I have a cell phone, I enjoy the convenience, although not the bills.

The IPOD I just purchased is different. I've had it for two days and it has improved my self-esteem immeasurably. (The cell phone wasn't able to do that, because I sometimes have to use it in the car -- bad, I know -- and there's no way to have a high self regard when driving an '87 Honda with only three functioning doors and a layer of dog and horse hair an inch thick throughout even if one is holding a cell phone that doubles as a camera and a guided missile system. It simply can't be done.)

When I wear the IPOD, however, and I'm out of range of my car, I like to think I have the look of someone who might drive a new car. Something sporty and/or fuel efficient. With my IPOD on, I look like someone who might drive a scooter or better: someone who might not even own a car but instead rides everywhere on a very expensive bicycle. A cool person, in other words.

The little blue wafer has caused me to start thinking about music again in a way that I haven't for years. For instance, yesterday I decided that of the 105 songs I've loaded on it so far, my three favorites are Radiohead's I Might Be Wrong, P.J. Harvey's Dress, Liz Phair's Divorce Song.

I Might Be Wrong is similar to the IPOD in that listening to it makes me feel cooler than I really am. Also, when I'm walking the dog, as I was yesterday, it makes me walk all funny. With heavy heels and a lurch. I know that doesn't sound particularly attractive, but for some reason it feels really good. Also, the song gives me the urge to wear a Matrix-style long overcoat. As luck would have it, I just got one. Thank goodness! I now think of the coat as my listening to Radiohead outfit. Which would probably horrify Radiohead.

Dress is the song that inspired the white dress scenes in Alice MacLeod, Realist at Last. It also rocks in a way that is completely smart and modern, which kind of describes P.J. Harvey herself. I once gave a music criticism workshop to some teens and, when I played this song for some of the attendees, one churlish young woman said it sounded like P.J. Harvey should have been "killed at birth". Given the charmless, Top-40-loving personality of the speaker, I was confirmed in my love of the song.

Divorce Song is the best break-up song in the world. And, as we all know, break-up songs are themselves the best songs in popular music. The most therapeutic. Used to be that Love Hurts by Nazareth was my favourite break-up song, but time passes, people grow.

Okay. Back to loading songs onto my new best friend...