Well-deserved

There are days when it's a treat to get out and see people. Happily, today was one of those, and not just because the sun was shining (though yes, that helps). 

My reason for getting out -- and even into the city -- was a celebration. 

Susan Musgrave was being presented with the George Woodcock Award for a lifetime achievement in the literary arts. The list of her publications was far too long for the presenters to read, though there was an amazing display of the library's copies of her books on a large table at the back of the room. 

Despite the weighty occasion, as always is the case, Musgrave managed to make the audience laugh. She remembered how the award was originally sponsored by the company then known as 'BC Gas' (now Fortis) and how she thought the idea of getting a lifetime award from that outfit didn't sound so great -- 'a lifetime gas award?'

It was great seeing so many friends I hadn't seen these last three long years -- all of us a little greyer, but happy to see each other. 

And I can't end this short post without acknowledging the other author honoured at this event, Alan Twigg. He was presented as this year's winner of the George Ryga Award for Social Awareness in Literature. The award recognizes all that Twigg has done to ensure that writings about the Holocaust are preserved. 

An amazing evening, one where I felt privileged to witness two presentation to two very deserving recipients. 

Art, art, art!

It's been a weekend (and month-end too) filled with art. Yesterday was an afternoon of experience at the Surrey Art Gallery -- from the current exhibit through a writing workshop to an opportunity to do some editing -- and yes, all at the same venue. 

The current show, the work of Victoria's Charles Campbell, is called "An Ocean to Livity." The exhibit is based in breath -- yep, the in-and-out of air that we spend our lives doing. It's complicated to explain, but the visuals were based on (I think) sonograms of breath. Wildly, they 'translated' into a variety of colours and patterns it would have been hard to just make up. 

And then, to the writing workshop which saw us responding to prompts from two wonderful poets, Kevin Spenst and Tolu Oloruntoba. Using their suggestions, we considered each of the lighted art works in the exhibit, and managed to find words spilling out of our brains. And then on to assembling a poem on the spot!

They also provided a series of 'editing' prompts, useful to anyone who thinks about trying to write. 

But the crowning touch was presentation of a how-to on making a mini-chapbook, a skill that Kevin has down to a fine art. Because I first learned how to make these little books from Kevin, I've always referred to them as Kev-bukis. 

But wait, there was yet another opportunity for editing -- this time a session on editing in Wikipedia. This was of special interest to me, not only because 'feminism' was in the workshop's title, but also because when I entered the room where the workshop was taking place, the first screen I saw contained an article about Torrie Groening. Not only did this pique my interest, as she's a Vancouver artist who's shown work in the Surrey Gallery, but I knew I'd be seeing her work on Sunday!

She and her partner Stephen run the Churchland Studio, a featured stop in this year's Capture Photography Festival -- and I'd already made plans to attend the exhibit there. 

Well worth the trek into the city, even with a few dribs of rain on the windscreen, as the photography collection there was simply amazing. And wouldn't you know, in amongst the many art treasures, what would I come across but an accordion book based on small cyanotypes. Wow. A little treasure. And a fitting close to comments on an art-filled weekend as well as the end of this year's National Poetry Month.  

Angels on my shoulder

Yesterday was one of the first times (in waaaay too long) that I've gone into Vancouver. Best of all, the occasion was for a workshop I was leading, in one of my favourite venues, the Carnegie Centre.

Name of the workshop was 'Voicing Resistance' and its point (beyond getting together with a terrific group of people, the FireWriters) was to get all of us thinking about ways to write meaningful work about troublesome issues. It was all about getting ready to join in on a public event on Saturday, May 7th -- one of the many parts in the upcoming DTES Writers Festival .

Before I left the house yesterday, I stopped by my little basket of 'angel cards' to see which special angels might help guide me through the session. When I looked these up to share what I mean by angel cards, I discovered an entire world of them, many of which were compared to Tarot or other cards for divination. Who knew? Not me. I hadn't known that there were books that could show you how to use them beyond the simple way I have always done: simply pulling three and keeping those three concepts in mind as small fortification for the day. 

No book of interpretations to guide me, but I was certainly pleased by the three angels I selected to 'accompany' me for the day. Happily, they all seemed to play a role in a delightful afternoon. 

N.B. For anyone living in or near Vancouver, the afternoon of May 7th (1 - 5 pm) has been called an 'Activism Afternoon' with workshops, slogan writing and an Open Mic reading (sign-up at the event) -- all taking place at Oppenheimer Park. 

Three stars will shine

I'm not pretending to know what happens to a person after they die, but it's hard not to think of the most recent of our losses as writers who deserve to each become a star in the heavens. 

The first of these, Brian Fawcett, died at the end of February. Considered by many as a Toronto writer, it always seemed his heart remained here in BC, specifically in Prince George where he was born and grew up. 

He said his goodbyes on Facebook, commenting in that wry way of his, that he knew the end was coming and that the words he'd posted would be his last on social media. I suppose it would have made him happy to know that he was right. 

Midway through March, it would be Ellen Jaffe who would 'leave this mortal coil.' Our paths first crossed in the early 1990s when we were co-judges for a poetry contest for the League of Canadian Poets. Soon after that, we found ourselves working as co-editors for another project for the League, and it wasn't long after that when we finally met up. Our friendship endured over the years; I ended up writing a blurb for one of her books of poetry. When one or the other of us travelled east or west, we'd invariably find the other and at least have a good long gab. 

She took the time to phone me ten days before she died. She wanted me to hear it from her that she was going into hospice. I knew she'd been doing cancer treatments for months and months, and that it had been a recent decision to stop taking them, as they were no longer offering effective treatment. So although I was sad, it wasn't a big surprise when only ten days later, she was gone. Her son was kind enough to phone me when her time came. 

But then yesterday, yet another death, and this one came with the blunt force of shock. I knew Steven some, and had once interviewed him for a literary magazine. But I knew him best by way of his writing. He was prolific, as the pile of books on his website will attest, and many of them earned him awards.

Because this is National Poetry Month, last week at our local Open Mic, participants all had to read a poem. It didn't have to be a poem they had written, they just had to give credit to whoever had done so. I read a poem, but not one of my own. Without knowing he was ill, I read a poem by Steven. It's piece that was included in the book of his that I'd read most recently, the one in the photo above, Reaching Mithymna. Oddly, it's the only poem included in the book, which is actually a memoir of his experience in 2015 when he was a volunteer in a refugee camp. If you scroll to the bottom of this obituary on CBC, you'll find the poem I read, "Christmas Work Detail, Samos." I'd chosen to read it because it seemed like the strongest poem I knew to deal with the daily crises facing refugees, so many of whom keep streaming out of Ukraine. It's a poem that's bound to stay with you, just as my memories of these three wonderful writers are bound to stay with me.  

Poetry all over the place

National Poetry Month -- is, as far as I'm concerned, one of the great reasons (besides the gradually improving weather) to be glad it's April. This year's theme, resilience, seems right for the year we've had (and seem to be continuing to have) under various stages of lockdown and social distancing. 

As a constant reader, I tend to poke around in genres. And it seems, even when I'm putting my focus on poetry, more than one genre insists on being present. The three books above serve to illustrate this. 

The one on the left, Scratching Initials, is a self-published homage to the author's sister. It's a blend of poems and black-and-white drawings, quite a lovely little book that contains a nice range of poetic forms -- prose poems, ghazals and haibun. 

The one on the right, burninghouse, is a taut collection by a writer whose work feels firmly grounded in Atlantic Canada. Feminism is the guiding principle in these poems -- a book worth taking the time to find -- or at least that's my opinion. 

The one in the middle, 100 Poems to Break Your Heart, does much more than the title suggests. Each of the 100 poems in this anthology is accompanied by a short essay that enriches anyone's reading of the poem. And it isn't so much that the author, noted poet Edward Hirsch, offers ongoing heartbreak; his words -- and the poems -- provide solace, something I suspect so many of us are now in need of. 

And if you're ready to celebrate National Poetry Month with poems of your own, here's a link to a list of inspirations that might get you started. Or, for more detailed instructions (note: they change, day to day) here's a blog for NaPoWriMo (which has added 'Glo' to its name, indicating it's now National Global Poetry Writing Month) with amazing suggestions -- including one, for a 'deck' of word cards which seems actually to have been part of the method Linda Pearce used in Scratching Initials. 

Once you've started writing poems, I hope you might work up enough courage to enter this year's 2-Day Poem Contest, an adventure that's always interesting (to put it mildly -- try it and you might see what I mean). Although the event takes place April 23rd to 25th, the deadline for registering is April 16 -- soon. 

The choice of how to celebrate is yours, and no doubt there'll be more poetry-themed posts during this glorious month that celebrates this dear-to-my-heart art form. 

Not just another day

 Not that any day doesn't have its distinguishing traits, this one marks the anniversary of my mother's death. Eleven years. A stretch of time it's hard for me to pin down in my mind. So long ago, it's hard to remember. So recent-feeling, it's hard to believe that it's more than a decade.

One thing she'd like (I think) is that I placed her photo in the golden star dish. The photo is one from before I was born and, while I don't think it really looks like her, I know it is one she was most proud of.

The bowl is a hand-me-down from her, so she'd probably be glad to know that I am using it. Even more so, I'm sure she'd like the 'star' association, as I'm quite sure her life's dream (if she hadn't had me and my sisters) would have been to be a film star. She'd even chosen a name for herself, one that sounded 'better' than her own.

This morning I heard an interview with Margaret Atwood, who's celebrating her 80th birthday today. I think my mother would have enjoyed listening to that too, especially with the many stories Atwood told about her childhood and reading and then deciding to become a writer. Yet another dream of my mother's, one she didn't manage to accomplish.

Still, she did more than I in so many respects -- for one thing, in bearing daughters, a couple of whom in turn gave her grandchildren.

Tonight when I go to my choir practice, I will do my best to sing as beautifully as she did, and I'll try to remember that I'm doing it for her.

Celebrating the bright lights of poetry

This year's National Poetry Month is already more than half over, and oh, we better not be counting how many new poems have been churned out.

Some people observe this celebration by writing a poem every day. Though I'm not one of them, I've heard quite a few friends say they've signed on to NaPoWriMo, with the plan to write a poem every day for the whole month of April. You might want to follow that link in the sentence above, as it's a site that offers prompts, examples and lots of encouragement -- every day, all month long.

Like I said, I'm not that dedicated, especially as for me, poems mostly 'arrive' as words in the night, and then take more drafts than I might even want to admit.

There is, however, one organized poem-writing contest I always take part in -- the 2-Day Poetry Contest sponsored by CV2 Magazine. You get ten words on Friday night and have to use all of them in a poem by the always-too-soon deadline on Sunday night. And there's always at least one word in the list that's so obscure, pretty much no one has ever heard of it. This year's stumper was (for me, at least) roric. Somehow, I don't think it's going to catch on in any big way.

There's still time to find some way to celebrate this special month -- if you don't want to write a poem, you might at least read some poetry. Plenty of it is available online, with many sites offering suggestions, including the fun-sounding Poem in Your Pocket project.

Neon-bright and maybe even flashy, poetry really isn't the daunting subject your crabbiest English teacher managed to scare you with. Poke around and you might surprise yourself. Who knows, you might even write a poem.

Finders keepers

I'm pretty sure it was Stephen King who impressed me with his recommendation to read Dickens. He may have even said he often re-reads particular books by Dickens, including the tome of tomes, Bleak House. It isn't one I've ever tried.

Great Expectations was a novel we were expected to read in high school. Memorable in its own ways (at least parts of it linger in memory), it wasn't enough to push me into wanting to read the rest of the Dickens library.

But today (not rainy, hurrah!) might mean that I have to screw up my courage (and clear my calendar?) to take a run at this 1,000+ pages classic. As I entered a building where I had an appointment, there it was, standing near these mossy bricks, extending an invitation to me. For someone who's a believer in 'signs' it's hard to ignore this new addition to my bookshelves (especially where it takes up what seems like more than its fair share).

I'm not ready to start it yet, though I am sure over the course of the year, it will beckon me. When (if?) I manage it, I'll let you know.

Gosh though, if only the title wasn't so grimly discouraging.

On achieving equality

There's a chilling line in a Kurt Vonnegut story about a future I don't believe any of us want to see come true. "The year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal."

It's from a story called 'Harrison Bergeron' in Welcome to the Monkey House. While the idea of equality is a noble one, the way it's achieved in Vonnegut's vision is anything but noble. To achieve 'equality' among everyone, anyone with a beautiful face must wear a hideous mask; anyone with above-average intelligence must wear earphones that continuously blast cacophonous sounds to prevent them from thinking clearly. It's a society with a level playing field, but it's one where the bar has been lowered to the bottom rung.

On the weekend, I attended the On Words Conference of The Writers Union of Canada, a group to which I belong. The overriding theme of the weekend was the issue of equity.

Carmen Rodriguez offered a metaphor of explanation, one that made it clearer than any I'd heard before. She told us to picture three people standing behind a fence, outside a soccer match.. One of the persons is quite tall, one is of medium height and one is very short. The tall one can see a bit of the game, the mid-sized one can reach for the occasional glimpse, but the short one is out of luck. In other words, they're not being given equal opportunity to see the game.

Then someone comes over to the fence with three little stools for them to stand on. Now, the tall one has a good view; the medium person gets a better look than before, but the short one still can't see over the fence. Resolution for the problem? For the tall person, the short stool provides a solution, allowing them to see the game. For the middle-sized person, a stool that's a bit bigger will make all the difference. As for the short person, they will need a very tall stool to look over the fence comfortably to participate in watching the game. Equity. Aha! A chance for all to be equal.

At our family supper on Sunday night, I told Carmen's story and reactions around the table were mixed. One son thought each person should get the same advantage -- that they should all get a tall stool right at the start. Even though the tall person didn't need a tall vantage point, this way would be 'fair' to all with no one person needing more 'propping up' than the other. Interesting.

And then came the suggestion to simply take down the fence.

I'm still not sure how best to handle the question: How do we provide equality to everyone? About the best metaphor I can offer for now is the image of the curving fence above. Maybe each of us needs to find our own place along it.

The joys of being a generalist

I've never been very good at restricting myself to any single discipline. Maybe that word 'discipline' still carries too many negative connotations. Or maybe I simply prefer to live a free-range sort of life.

One way this open-ended set of interests pays off is that it's nearly impossible to be bored. And since I've come home from my retreat, with all the levels of catch-up that;s entailed, the days certainly been filled in an almost wild range of ways.

Thursday night was another in our local literary series, Readings by the Salish Sea, with the distinguished guest Anosh Irani reading from his latest novel, The Parcel.

The book is no easy read. Not because the writing is difficult to understand. If anything, the scenes he creates are all too clear. But the unpleasantness of 'breaking in' a young girl to a life of prostitution is distasteful, to be sure. Still, it's writing that's brave and, despite the topic, beautiful.

In addition to reading, he was generous in answering questions from the audience.

If you're wondering why there are paintings behind him, it's because the event was held in a gallery, one currently featuring the work of Vojislav Morosan, an artist who meticulously documented so many local scenes. Considering how fast so many of these vistas are changing (thank you, high-rise developers), it's a good thing we have these paintings as reminders.

As for the rest of the weekend, it's been another fit-for-a-generalist mix, one that included a visit to the megalithic Cineplex in Langley. Despite the fact that I'm a Harry Potter fan -- I own (and have read) all of the books and have seen all the films, more than once -- the newest offering from J.K. Rowling was a letdown. Even Eddie Redmayne seemed flat in his role as the admittedly somewhat-wimpy character he played. From minute to minute, I wasn't sure whether he was going to transform into the Danish Girl or maybe Stephen Hawking.

I'll admit that part of last night's entertainment, Bad Grandpa, was quite a few notches lower, though I'll also admit that I laughed so  hard I cried.

When a show comes on with this many warnings, you know there's bound to be more than a few politically-incorrect elements.

As for today, I'm doing yet another two very different things.

First, I'm heading to a pottery show, where I'm hoping I might find a special something as a Christmas gift. After that I'm joining (at half-time) a group of friends who still celebrate the Grey Cup.

And if all of this doesn't qualify me as a generalist, I don't know what might.

This unwillingness to declare a pigeon-holed category of interest once cost me a pretty decent book reviewing gig. But do I have regrets over that? Not a chance, especially as once that editor changed, I was back on the roster.

Even my degree attests to who I am: Bachelor of General Studies. For now at least, curiosity remains my guiding star.

Springtime in November

I know. I should know better than to make any such cheery proclamations. It’s just that when the weather is perfect (perfect enough to spend the morning in my deck chair, reading and sipping at coffee), it’s something to celebrate.

I’m also celebrating my annual writing retreat. It’s a time I anticipate with pleasure, not only for the uninterrupted writing time, but for the evenings of camaraderie among close friends.

This year’s setting is new to us, in a pastoral setting on North Pender Island. The sheep are far enough away that I don’t ever hear them. As for the chickens (and crows), they’re another matter. But being natural sounds, they’re never a disturbance.

There are several indicators that despite the sunny hours, it isn’t really spring, just some lucky autumn breaks before colder weather arrives. One of those indicators is this year’s bounteous supply of apples. We’ve been invited to help ourselves to them, so the forager in me has taken advantage of that. I’ve harvested two different varieties – and they’re waiting in bags for when I depart.

When I leave here I know that I’ll be leaving with more than apples. As I always do at the end of a retreat, I’ll come away refreshed and renewed – and I hope ready to face the many changes we are all bound to experience over the coming months.

I plan to do my best to keep some of these sunny images in mind, trusting that they will carry me through whatever dark times may be ahead.

As for now, I’m glad that I’ve come back indoors, as I can hear the start of yet another round of the inevitable November rains. 

Inspiring

That's the best word I can offer for the workshop I attended on the weekend. Presented at Art in the Country by the well-known illustrator, Michael Kluckner, it opened my eyes to a realm of possibilities I hadn't considered before.

Subject of his presentation was graphic novels. I've read a few -- even did a review of a recent one based on the journals of Susanna Moodie. And I've just finished reading Michael's a very real story, Toshiko, based on the internment of Japanese-Canadians in World War Two. As for considering creating a graphic novel myself, I'll admit the idea had never crossed my mind.

For one thing, I am not very skilled at drawing or sketching. But Kluckner made the impossible seem almost possible.

My plans for this coming season include roughing out some ideas in a sketchbook of my own. I am sure my efforts won't touch the beauty of Michael's work (evidenced by the travel sketches he shared), And though I'm not going anywhere near watercolours, I'm still going to get myself a nice soft pencil and give this genre a try.

Time to celebrate!

Today is the first day of National Poetry Month. And as far as I'm concerned, that's reason to celebrate. It isn't all that often that people sit up and pay attention to poetry, so having it get its very own month seems special.

There's plenty going on in our area, with a few highlights posted in the events on the right. If you check the League of Canadian Poets' website, you'll find lists of events taking place all across the country. Since nearly all of them are free, who knows, you might find it worthwhile to stop in at one or two in your area.

It's also National Poetry Month for our neighbours to the South. Lots going on there too, as click on their posting reveals -- plenty of links to books, poems, and readings.

Poetry contests abound -- the 2-Day Poem Contest, which is for everyone -- to the Double Exposure Poetry Challenge for poets who live in and around Surrey and White Rock. The reason for this local focus isn't about being exclusive. It's just that poems need to be inspired by a photograph in the current exhibit at the nearby Turnbull Gallery.

And if you'd like to join in the celebration without having to go anywhere at all, click here to find yourself at a site where you'll find new poems every day of the month.

Clouded vision...

As part of our local gallery's 40th anniversary celebrations, a two-day celebration of the written word was held.

Saturday night's reading featured 15 writers and a spoken word sound-artist -- all of whom had plenty to say about living and working and writing in Surrey. Held in the charged atmosphere of a North Surrey pizza place, the event went well past the magic witching hour of midnight.

Sunday's event was more sedate, with M.G. Vassanji as the distinguished keynote speaker. Two panels followed, with various presenters speaking, including this blogger.

In my role as a panelist, I'd been asked to speak about the history of creative writing in Surrey, so that's exactly what I did -- at least to the best of my ability in 12 minutes.

During the brief Q&A that followed, questions seemed to indicate that there were two very different groups in the room -- or at least that's how it felt.

I'm still feeling somewhat unsettled by the experience, but have already begun writing an essay about it, though it's pretty slow-going, as I feel that I am groping my way along, not really able to see what's ahead. Kind of like the way the world looks through that icy windscreen in the image above.

At least the weather bureau is promising that tomorrow will see a change in temperatures, that we won't be stuck with all that scrape, scrape, scraping. Some warming up, even if it means rain, sounds fine with me. And maybe -- just maybe -- tomorrow will also bring a bit of clarity on some tricky issues that are lingering in my mind.

On retreat, an annual affair

One of my favourite weeks of the year is the one I get to spend on retreat with my writing group. We've been doing this every September for more years than I'm sure of -- at least five.

This year saw us in a different setting (we usually go to Nanaimo, on Vancouver Island), as one of our brainy members found us a house to rent in Whistler. I'll admit that I felt some trepidation, as I've never felt quite 'upscale' enough to be part of what I'd imagined as the Whistler scene.

The house we were in was comfortably nestled into a hillside of trees, so I felt at home right away.

The trail system was terrific, the village barely a kilometre from 'our' house. I even managed to get relaxed enough (thanks maybe to a fabulous massage I had at one of the local businesses) to enjoy poking my nose into some of the village shops.

And those trails led plenty of other places besides the village. The 'bouquet' above, placed on the 'vase' of a large rock outside our front door was comprised of bits of wildflowers, rose hips and pine cones gathered during foresty walks.

I'm pretty sure all of us accomplished the writing we'd aimed to get done. And best of all, I think we all came away refreshed and looking forward to a 'new year' of writing.

When the clouds made their way down the mountain on Saturday, each of us made our way down the Sea to Sky Highway, homeward, our heads filled with mountain air and memories, just about in time for the autumn Equinox.

Thoughts on a long weekend

The scents in the air have changed. Thankfully, there's no longer any hint of the smokiness we had during the worst of the forest fires. But it's more than just the clearing of the atmosphere now that we've finally had some rain.

It's a new scent, one that's sweet, something like apples slowly baking in the oven. But it's not a scent from the kitchen that I'm meaning -- it's a scent that fills the outdoors.

Yesterday we took a long walk through Campbell River Valley Park in Langley. Many branches and big limbs were still down from last weekend's storm, but staff had done an amazing job of clearing the trails.

Today saw our 'outside time' here at the house. Picking the ripened quince, pruning some of the bushes and trees, taking down the tent and packing it away for next year.

But just as during yesterday's stroll, being outdoors today has again been a time for thinking.

Probably more so than in January, this always seems like a time for beginnings, and is likely the reason Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, has always made such good sense to me. This year that isn't observed until next weekend, but where I had challah bread last weekend, I'm feeling a kind of symmetry, and thinking this weekend -- sandwiched between those two -- is 'my' new year.

There've been other years when this has been the weekend for writing (or trying to write) a Three-Day Novel, though that hasn't been on this year's agenda.

This year's thoughts are quieter and much less frantic. Listening to the birds, noticing the angle of the changing sunlight and, oh yes, just breathing in those sweet autumny smells.

MagPo Road Trip

Because April is National Poetry Month, I'm going to do my best to feature some poems on the blog. For a start, this one, "Highway Love," grew out of an afternoon stop while we were on our Spring Break Road Trip along the Pacific coast.

Before we left, I'd bought myself a new set of Magnetic Poetry, this time with words about the famous Route 66. Even though I knew we weren't planning to get that far south, it seemed to be a good batch of words to try out on a road trip.

When I opened the kit and saw all those still-in-blocks words, I also discovered that I had a problem. I couldn't find a stretch of metal big enough to accommodate all of my potentially poetic words. The only spot inside that was magnet-friendly metal was an eensy niche on the side of the stove hood fan. Nearly every other surface in the RV was wood or some facsimile.

Even the metal sides of the vehicle must be mainly aluminum, as nothing wanted to stick.

But at last, I was saved by the shining expanse of the front bumper. I spread out the set of words across the entire front width of the truck and, using my little metal clipboard as a notepad, started to work.

The poem I came up with will probably ride around with us for the next while or so, or at least until I can come up with something better.  

One of the challenges you might want to take up this month is NaPoWriMo. As the abbreviated words suggest, the site is dedicated to April also being National Poetry Writing Month. Daily prompts will help nudge you toward the goal of a poem every day. What's to lose? Nothing but your writer's block.

Poems on the clock

You'd never know it, if you were judging by this blog of late, but I'm a person who's good at working to deadlines. I'll admit, there've been a few distractions recently.

Still, this past week saw me involved in two events that made me responsible to a deadline. The first was an event at Vancouver's Jewish Community Centre. I'd been invited to read poems as part of an art show. The trick was, I had to write new poems, ones that were based on the paintings in the show. In other words, I had to write to a deadline. Somehow, I came up with seven short pieces, none of which will likely stand the test of time. Still, I did what I needed to.

The other poem 'on the clock' was creating an entry for the weekend's 48-Hour Poetry Contest. This event, sponsored by CV2 Magazine, has been a part of my April weekends since 2002.

For that one, I was in Australia, travelling through the Blue Mountains, reliant on finding a cybercafe so I could participate in the contest. This was early days for public access Internet, at least that's how it felt in any small town in Oz. The one I found was in the back room of a Thai restaurant, so I had to abide by their hours -- all the while doing my best to pay attention to what time (and day!) it might be, back in Winnipeg, headquarters of the contest.

I survived then, and I survived this weekend too. Always a bit frantic, but always plenty of fun.

More remembering

While last week was the official day for it, Remembrance Day, today is also (for me at least) a day of remembering.

It was five years ago today that my mother died.

Visitors to this blog will have seen the little angel in the photo before. Still, it's one of those small gifts from my mother that will always remind me of her.

The flowery cup in the photo is another gift from her. I can remember times when I'd go shopping with her, so she could buy me a present for my birthday or other occasion.

She'd generally want me to like something more 'girly' or decorative -- jewellery or a fancy, fitted sweater. It took many years, but eventually I was able to convince her of my tastes. If it's clothing, I prefer something second-hand and baggy. Jewellery; not even the second-hand store usually turns up much for me.

It took years, but we finally struck agreement on a gift I would both enjoy and use: something for my seemingly-endless cups of coffee. Still, what kind of cup might that be? Ah, our quiet disagreements dribbled on...

She'd want to buy me a dainty little cup, often one with a saucer. To me, saucers are best used as small serving plates, not as something extra to cart around (or to wash) as accompaniment to a cup.

So the hardest part was convincing her that I was a 'mug' person. But I persisted long enough that she finally agreed.

Compromising on the degree of 'cutesy' or 'pretty' aspects were yet another hurdle. The cup (er, mug) in the photo serves as an example of one of our best compromises. Bright and pretty, not too 'pinky' or delicate in its design -- an item that I still enjoy using.

Something she and I more easily agreed on was good literature. One of the writers whose work both of us admired was Doris Lessing, the Nobel-winning author who died yesterday. If you click on the link at her name, you'll get one of the best overviews of Lessing I've been able to find on the web. I really like and am a firm believer in the quote posted at the header of the article. My 'best reads' are often books I've found by a method I call my 'radar' and no, I'm not afraid to not finish a book that keeps losing me.

Choosing the article I linked onto does, I admit, reveal some bias on my part, as I'm a longtime fan of science fiction, a genre Lessing sometimes called 'space fiction'.

One of the aspects of Lessing's work that isn't always referred to (though it is mentioned in the piece I've linked to) is her belief that many of the ailments referred to in contemporary society as mental illnesses are really just a kind of clear-eyed sanity that comes with seeing how crazy the reality of our world is. I've actually had more than one therapist agree with this observation.

For years, I was criticized for self-prescribing when I experienced depression, a condition my mother experienced as well. Happily, I see now that I wasn't so far off the beam and that my self-treatment (sleep) did not justify the derision I took for 'taking to my bed' again. Especially in wintry times (and here in Northern climes, where our days are now getting so short), maybe a kind of hibernation is just plain good for us.

And with that, I'll say Sweet Dreams. Maybe my mother will visit tonight.

Nothing to curse about

Not long ago a friend wrote to share a small rant of his own. Since it doesn't take much to put me into rant mode, here I go, taking up his cause and blathering as usual.

A friend of his had expressed concern to her child's teacher over the fact that the students weren't learning the art of cursive writing, or as we probably refer to it most of the time, handwriting. The simple act of connected writing is apparently a dying art, no longer even part of the curriculum in most jurisdictions.

And no, the term cursive has nothing to do with cursing (even though my frequently flying-away cursor often sets me off on a string of curse words). Origin of the word relates to 'running' -- the letters all running together in a connected line.

It's become a skill parents have to teach kids on their own -- a situation some parents might say also applies to arithmetic, spelling and grammar. Naturally, the Internet offers everything from animated teachers and practice sheets to patterned images you can follow to learn cursive handwriting, but as with anything, it takes time to learn.

Sadly, if you look at my page of notes in the photo, you'll see that somewhere along the way I seem to have lost the art of connecting my letters -- that my notes have devolved into the more common print scrawl we mostly seem to encounter these days.

About the only people I know who have retained their lovely handwriting are friends who are hovering near eighty. Both of them were elementary school teachers, who no doubt offered examples of evenly spaced loops according to the MacLean Method (or, for those in the U.S., Palmer Method) for their students to copy.  

Yet my pal and I aren't the only ones who wonder about this disappearing skill. Still, in the great end, at the rate we're going, will it matter? After all, how long can it be until all of our 'word' processing/writing and reading are done via voice-activated commands?