New Title

Just so no one thinks I'm suffering from a similar blog title commitment anxiety to that displayed in my previous blog, I'd like to clarify that this new title, Loft-y Thoughts, reflects my new writing environment.  Today I was the recipient of a fabulous early Christmas present from my dear husband:  a desk of my very own!  Of course I had one as a student, but sold it when I moved to Kingston under the false presumption I would no longer have a use for it.  Instead, I found that when obligated to do mind-numbingly boring work all day long, all I ever feel like doing on evenings and weekends is school-like work (i.e. reading and writing, here and elsewhere).  These activities (particularly writing) are much more enjoyable when one has a desk, for as convenient as my laptop is, I'm generally not all that motivated to write when sitting on the couch in front of the TV.

Anyway, back to the title.  Our bedroom is best described as a loft.  It's basically a big room with a sloping ceiling that overlooks the living room downstairs.  When I came home from work today (a full 5 1/2 hours early!  Hooray!) Steve had positioned the desk next to the railing so I can have a view of the living room, big window, and skylight when writing.  Plus, it's an absolutely gorgeous desk: solid wood with a dark finish...a little small but hey, items purchased from Craig's List are rarely perfect.  And I'd rather have a used smallish desk of good quality than a brand new cheapy one for the same price. Oh what a wonderful, thoughtful husband I have.  (And now he cannot possibly be angry at me for going overboard on his gifts, as I'm pretty sure this puts him over the limit on mine!!!)

Merry Christmas everyone!

What Makes For a Wonderful Life?

I was inspired to watch It's A Wonderful Life for about the hundredth time after reading this article by Wendell Jamieson in the NYT.  Jamieson argues that "It's a Wonderful Life is a terrifying, asphyxiating story about growing up and relinquishing your dreams, of seeing your father driven to the grave before his time, of living among bitter, small-minded people.  It's a story of being trapped, of compromising, of watching others move ahead and away, of becoming so filled with rage that you verbally abuse your children, their teacher, and your oppressively perfect wife.  It is also a nightmare account of endless home renovation".

Furthermore, Jamieson argues that Pottersville, the town Bedford Falls would have become of there had never been a George Bailey, "looks much more fun than stultifying Bedford Falls - the women are hot, the music swings, and the fun times go on all night.  If anything, Pottersville captures just the type of excitement George has long been seeking".  Even financially, Bedford Falls/Pottersville would be doing much better in 2008 if George had not helped bring manufacturing to the town (i.e. because the economy of Pottersville is driven by brothels, bars, and other service industry-oriented businesses).

Despite the fact that Jamieson admits to being teared up by the movie's final scene (come ON, who isn't?) this has got to be one of the most cynical articles I've ever read.  "Is this what adulthood promised?",  he asked his fifteen-year-old self upon first seeing the movie.  Considering Jamieson was a teenager in the eighties, I'd estimate he's in his mid-40's today.  I'm 25, and have already realized that adulthood is often about giving up your hopes and dreams in order to support those you love.  But the whole POINT of the movie is that love and friendship are better than all the money, education, and travel one could achieve in a lifetime.   Life is about compromise, and if you can't accept that and make the most of it anyway, you're never going to be happy.  Cheesy?  Yes, of course it is.  But maybe we see it as such because we're socialized to believe real enjoyment of life can only be had when we relinquish all responsibility and follow all of our craziest dreams.  I'm guessing the majority of us (myself included) glamorize this hypothetical alternate life because we have chosen to allow ourselves to enter relationships - not only with a significant other but also with friends and family - in which we are forced to compromise.  But I'd bet you my next paycheck if we actually lived in this alternate reality for a day or two we'd miss the comfort provided by love and friendship.

I'll admit Pottersville looks like a blast.  And yes, you're supposed to feel bad that George has to give up on his dreams.  But who knows?  With all that money he gets at the end of the movie, maybe he and Mary were able to go on a much-delayed honeymoon after all.  

Review: Rachel Getting Married

I've wanted to see Rachel Getting Married since it came out in the summer (or was it early fall...?...hmm).  Unfortunately, I live in Kingston - the land of non-blockbuster movie scarcity.  I'm serious.  I never noticed it growing up, but an appalling percentage of movies that come out in larger cities like Toronto and Ottawa make it to our (insert angry-sarcasticy tone here) quaint little backwater.  Luckily, there are theatres like the artsy ghetto-chic one in Yorkville that screen movies long after they've left regular theatres.  It's like they're consciously catering to poor saps like me who have to wait for a trip to Toronto in order to see the movies we're interested in.  My mom was good enough to go see it with me (second time for her) during our shopping trip in TO this weekend.

Kym (Anne Hatheway) plays a recovering drug addict who returns home for her sister Rachel's wedding.  This movie does an amazing job of conveying the awkward phoniness of large family gatherings by evoking those petty alliances, unspoken grudges, and glaringly obvious disapprovals that are inevitable when people who have nothing in common pretend to be long lost friends for a substantial stretch of time. Competition for for attention and pity is hot, and most family members seem to bring out the absolute worst in one another. But what happens when these politics are further complicated by blame for the death of a young son/brother being batted around and the mother of the bride is so unapologetically disinterested in her children?  Can the wedding go off without a major battle scene?  I know I'm weird, but I find this kind of tension extremely suspenseful.  The movie is shot in the fashion of a home video, which takes some getting useful but is actually very effective - I felt like I was actually watching someone's amateur home video.  Yet the camera work is actually deceptively intricate - shots of characters, particularly in the wedding scene at the end, are perfectly timed so as to build suspense.

I'd have to say the best thing about Rachel Getting Married, however, is the acting.  Anne Hatheway's performance is certainly oscar-worthy, and I'd be very surprised if I see a better one this year.  I didn't recognize any of the other actors, but they are all fantastic.  This is the kind of movie that could have been ruined by less than perfect acting, and I'm in love with the idea that they all pulled it off!

Review: Lotus-Heart-Blossoms

When Steve and I lived downtown on Queen street, an adorable little restaurant called Lotus-Heart-Blossoms appeared kitty corner to our place that we kept on meaning to try but for some reason never did.  I can't honestly say one of the main reasons we never made it had nothing to do with the fact that it's vegetarian and not licensed.  Truth be told I love the idea of vegetarianism and/or non-alcoholism, but when it comes down to it I want some meat and a glass of wine with my meal thank you very much.

As logic would have it, our first visit to Lotus-Heart-Blossoms occurred on Thursday night (8 months after we moved out of our old neighbourhood and into the boonies, so to speak, a 20 minute drive from the restaurant).  It is impossible to review this restaurant without commenting on the decor.  They are two dining rooms, each with cheerful yellow walls and clean, shiny hard wood.  The walls are adorned with quirky yet fitting paintings by local artists and clear, beautiful photos of mountains, hikers, and children in what I think must be India and/or Thailand.  It's obvious the restaurant used to be a house, but they still managed to create a clean, open concept by use of clean design and appropriate colours.  Being inside makes you feel excited about the fact that you're about to be good to your body by putting into it only the best natural ingredients.  

I ordered the ricotta and spinach crepes topped with swiss and nutmeg, and when our adorable sari-sporting waitress brought brought the meal out it was so beautifully presented it seemed a shame to dig in.  Of course I did, though, and I'm happy to say I was not in any way disappointed.  I hadn't had crepes since Paris two years ago, and had completely forgotten how much I like them.  They were warm, soft, and full of flavourful, and the swiss nutmeg sauce was a perfect complement.  Even the side salad was amazing - it had this wonderful soy-sesame sort of dressing that made it light and fresh (as opposed to the heavy, limp lettuce topped with cheese and croutons you get at so many places).  To drink I ordered coconut water, a delectable liquid that claims to contain "the highest known sources of electrolytes" in addition to "purifying the blood and reducing stress".  It was pleasantly sweet, low in calories, and despite not having any alcohol really did seem to make me less stressful.  Steve had the chili with corn bread, which he enjoyed very much.  Usually I don't particularly like chili (there's some spice in it I find off-putting), but from what I could tell from my sampling, this chili did not contain that particular spice and was hence very tasty.  

Overall dining at L-H-B was an extremely positive experience.  It appealed to the hippy dippy side of me, which I think is quite a bit more prominent than I sometimes like to admit.  If I could eat vegetarian food that great every day, I honestly don't think I'd have much of a problem giving up meat.  And the best thing?  They even have takeout!!!

Why I Love Half Nelson

I really, really wanted to see the movie Australia tonight, and write a review of it here afterward.  Unfortunately, due to forces beyond my control, I did not get to see it (would you believe the last showing of the night was at 8:15pm???  That must be one loooooong movie).  Instead, I find myself sitting at home drinking a glass of wine and watching Half Nelson, a film that, in my opinion, has got to be the most underrated movie ever.  Seriously, no one ever talks about it, but it is quite possibly my third favourite movie ever (after The Godfather, Almost Famous, and maybe when I'm in certain moods The Wizard of Oz and/or The Squid and the Whale - another really underrated movie).

When I first saw Half Nelson I really didn't know what to make of it.  I knew that I liked it, but it's such an odd premise - a teacher who's addicted to crack?  The movie doesn't really have a plot per say...it just sort if...is.  Dan Dunne, Ryan Gosling's character, is a drug addict middle school history teacher in a very low-income neighbourhood.  All his students are poor and Black and/or Latino, yet are in much better shape than he.  The movie is about Mr Dunne's friendship with Dre, a thirteen year old student to whom he attempts to be a mentor of sorts.  Yet Dre is also friendly with the neighbourhood drug dealer, who does not offer her drugs but a job delivering them to his clients (including Mr Dunne).  As a white male teacher from a middle class background, Mr Dunne is superficially "the man", representative of the authoritative forces that oppress minorities.  Yet ironically it is he who suffers from what poverty breeds.

It sounds a little cheesy, I know, but you really should watch it.  Ryan Gosling is truly an amazing actor - maybe even the best of our generation.  And I L-O-V-E the Broken Social Scene soundtrack.  You Forget it In People is one of my favourite albums of all time.  Every time I watch Half Nelson I like it more.  It's so subtle and elusive.  In novels, these qualities can sometimes get on my nerves, but never in well done movies.  Sometimes the general feeling a film produces is worth so much more than an engaging plot. 

Review: Prep

I read the novel Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld in about three days.  Back in the good ol' days when I was a student that would have been nothing, but anymore I'm so short on time I'm lucky to have an hour a day to read (which usually occurs between 11 and 12 o'clock at night while simultaneously tuning into The Daily Show and Colbert Report).  From the many unread books on my shelf, I chose Prep because I wanted more of the can't-put-it-down-ness of American Wife, and am happy to say I was not at all disappointed.

Prep is about the high school years of one Lee Fiora, who leaves her family in Indiana at age fourteen to attend boarding school in Massachusetts.  Lee, now in her mid-twenties, tells her story in a first person narrative.  Because of the time that has elapsed between the story's present and the era it tells of, she is able to observe her high school years semi-objectively, without forgetting what it felt like to be in the throes of the (seemingly) heart-wrenching debacles of the teenage years.  As a result, I found myself reliving many of my own awkward, hormone-raging, cat-fighty, pseudo-disastrous high school experiences.  Remember what it was like to have girl crushes, glow with pride at being the teacher's pet, and be used by teenage boys?  In many ways, youth is not entirely unlike adulthood, but of course we all pretend it is so we can feel good about the fact that we've matured.  Prep, however, is far from being a teen soap opera.  Sittenfeld has a gift for expressing certain ideas and feelings with uncanny accuracy.  Take, for instance, this passage, in which Lee describes her routine at the airport while waiting for her flight home:

"What I usually did was get an ice cream and eat it standing in front of a magazine rack, reading, and then, just before my plane boarded, I'd buy one magazine - an especially fat issue, which I'd purposely not have read in the store.  There's be other Ault kids in the terminal, of course, an if we passed, we acknowledge one another, usually without speaking, but I didn't hang out with them.  As a freshman, I'd been too intimidated....a bunch of students always sat in the back of the restaurant...smoking and talking noisily....and now that I was older, I was still intimidated...but I also wasn't particularly interested; I liked eating ice cream and reading magazines by myself.

But I had gotten no farther than the entrance to the ice cream shop when I felt a tap on my shoulder.  I turned.

"When's your flight?"  It was Horton Kinnelly.  "You should come back with us"....

"That's okay", I said before remembering myself - Horton looked at me, but we both pretended I hadn't tried to decline the invitation - and adding, "okay sure"."

What follows is a description of the scene in the restaurant, which Lee finds somewhat awkward, but clearly only as a result of her self-conscious nature.  I can TOTALLY relate to this situation.  Even as an adult, that kind of thing happens to me all the time.  In another passage, which I seem to be having difficulty locating for a quote, Lee talks about how once she has had a positive encounter what a person, it's best to make sure maximum amount of time possible passes before she has to see that person again.  That way the good relationship can be preserved for as long as possible, as she will not be able to say something stupid and eff it up.  I know EXACTLY how this feels but have never consciously acknowledged it before, even to myself.  Like Alice Munro, Curtis Sittenfeld often seems to know readers better than they know themselves (that is if my experiences reading their books are at all common).

The other important aspect of Prep is the fact that Lee is a scholarship student at a prestigious boarding school, meaning she is one of the few middle class students amongst the children of the very wealthy.  Because of her background, Lee often feels shoved to the periphery of the student body, a feeling that the adult Lee implies was largely unfounded in her narration.  The theme of self-inflicted and/or imaginary exclusion is thus central to the story, which comes together extremely well.

Review: Starbucks Holiday Goodies

Lately I've been in need of some serious cheering up, and for the longest time nothing seemed to be working.  Not comforting words from people I love, not yoga or other forms of exercise, not drinking an entire bottle of wine while watching screwball comedies, not terrifically addictive novels or aesthetically profound short stories, not taking Stella for long walks while listening to great music on my iPod.

Then I walked into Starbucks.  Yes I know, I'm a superficial slave to consumer culture, but no business can so successfully rush the Christmas season like Starbucks.  It's true that I don't particularly like Christmas.  I've found in recent years Christmas day itself is anti-climatic beyond words.  I keep expecting it to be this wonderful, magical occasion.  I imagine it as it was when I was a kid, and would wake up at four in the morning intoxicated with excitement and anticipation about whether Santa had been there yet.  (I was never one of those kids who would make my parents get up at five am...I always waited until at least seven, perhaps unconsciously developing my preference for the moment before any big event to the event itself).  Back in the good old days, a thin layer of snow always lay on the ground for the holiday season, and everything tasted like chocolaty mint and smelled like clementines and blue spruce.  In the past, December nights were never pitch black, but a welcoming navy blue glow, and my favourite Christmas movies were always on TV whenever I switched it on.  Christmases of the past were times when everyone in my extended family liked me (and one another).  For some reason, I remember big family dinners as these joyous occasions full of laughter and free of awkwardness.  Now...not.

Thus I find that the magic of the Christmas season seems to wear off when it gets very close to the actual day.  The time I like best is just before just before...late November and early December, when I can still believe that the upcoming Christmas season will turn the world into the idealized dreamland I remember.  No place captures this feeling like Starbucks.  Last year I discovered these delightful holiday sandwiches, which consist of turkey, cranberries, and stuffing nestled between two slices of heavily buttered whole grain bread.  I had my first of the season yesterday and found it to be just as tasty as I remembered.  The quality of these sandwiches seems to be slightly superior to that of their regular sandwiches, which more often than not feature slightly stale and/or soggy bread (yes, I'm a picky bread person).  Not to mention the fact that putting stuffing in a sandwich could be conceived of as daring and experimental...bread inside bread...come on!!  But the fact that the idea actually works is proof of its brilliance.

So positive was my experience with the sandwich that I returned to Starbucks today to try their Peppermint Twist Mocha - at least I think that's what it's called.  Personally I'm not really sure how this is different from the regular peppermint mocha, so forgive me if I don't remember the correct name of the beverage (in fact, the difference was enthusiastically explained to me by my ever helpful barrista, but I can't seem to recall what it was...something to do with the whip cream, I think).  Anyway, it doesn't really matter because it tasted wonderful and Christmas-y, as did the Gingersnap latte enjoyed by my husband (again I'm not really sure how this differs from the Gingerbread latte of last year).  Anyway, I do recommend you make a trip to Starbucks before it gets too close to the real Christmas season.

Review: Gods Behaving Badly

Gods Behaving Badly by Marie Phillips is an bizarrely effective story in which the ancient Greek Gods of Olympus reside in modern day London.  As no one believes in them anymore, they have lost much of their power.  However, the gods continue to control the workings of the world from causing the sun to go up and down (Apollo) to making people fall in love (Eros) to keeping them from having endless sex in all imaginable places (Artemis).  Phillips undoubtedly has a flare for the creative.  Some highlights:  Aphrodite's job is to perform phone sex, Apollo is featured on a cheesy psychic TV show, and Eros is a devout Christian.  

The problem with this book is that it would be impossible to understand without a knowledge of Greek mythology.  I had to stretch my memory (with the help of Wikipedia) all the way back to Mrs. Bell's grade six class in order to get most of the references.  What can I say?  I liked this book, but I'm not really sure why (otherwise this post would probably be longer...).  It went really fast.  The story is good, but I'll probably forget it before too long.  It's the concept itself that drives the book.

Happy Election Day

Is it wrong that I care significantly more about the American election than I did about my own country's several weeks ago?  Possibly, but I think most people can understand.  In honour of the election, I'd like to share with you a Frank Rich piece from the New York Times.  It reminded me of how much I enjoy the movie Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, and how badly I want Obama to win.  Not that I needed to be reminded of the latter.  Please God let him win. 

Review: American Wife

The novel American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld tells the life story of Alice Blackwell, a fictional character whose life closely resembles that of first lady Laura Bush.  Ever since I heard that Laura was a teacher and a librarian (not to mention a democrat) prior to marrying W, I've been intrigued and eager to learn more about her.  Lacking the patience for traditional biographies, I was thrilled when this book came out because it provides real-ish information disguised as a fictional story.  Sittenfeld is an excellent writer and story-teller, and American Wife is one of the most addictive non-chicklit books I've read in a long time - so much so that all I could think about as I went about my daily routine was how I would much rather be at home reading than at work, yoga, walking the dog, etc.  

The novel is divided into four sections, titled for the addresses Alice lives at in the corresponding eras of her life.  Incidentally, I think the first two parts were my favourites. They depict Alice's life as a youth and young woman (before the Charlie, the W character, comes into the picture).  Alice is an intensely likable character, and easy for bookish girls like me to relate to.  She and Charlie are well suited for each other in the sense that they are complementary, but as the book goes on it becomes clear that the reader is intended to see Alice as the better half of the marriage.  For much of the second half, the novel maintains a "what was she thinking" sort of tone, and the last section (1600 Pennsylvania Avenue) reads like one long apology on the behalf of Laura for the mistakes of the Bush administration - oops, I mean Alice on behalf of the Blackwell administration.  Despite being a little too preachy in this respect, this stance is necessary in a way in order for the novel to tie up certain loose ends from earlier in the story.

Like Oliver Stone in his new movie W, Sittenfeld seems grudgingly forced to portray the president as a misguided but ultimately good hearted fool, who tragically gets into politics for all the wrong reasons and is subsequently blinded to reality by his own pampered life and happy-go-lucky attitude.  There's so much personal hate out there for Bush that it's sometimes good to be reminded he is for the most part a figurehead (the real villains are people like Karl Rove and Dick Cheney).

Mostly, I have to wonder what the real Laura Bush thinks of this book.  It's hard to believe she hasn't read it, given what a reader she is.  Overall, I think she would quite like it.

Review: A Secret Life of Bees

My parents are by far two of the busiest people I know, and although they live next door to me I don't see them nearly as much as you might think.  They are constantly either traveling for work or caring for their aged parents, and are in general the sort of people who seem unsettled when not engaged in some sort of useful or (at the very least) helpful activity.  

Therefore when my mom and I went to see the movie The Secret Life of Bees together this past Wednesday, it officially qualified as a rare and wonderful event.  Although she is an accountant by day, I choose to believe my mom is really a closeted lover of literature.  As a rule she appreciates stories that are engrossing and original, but not too "out there" or depressing.  

A Secret Life of Bees turned out to be exactly what we were looking for - sentimental but not TOO maudlin.  Set in the racially-charged South in the 1960's, the story tells of a young girl named Lily who runs away from her abusive father with the family's African American maid Rosaline.  They seek refuge in the home of three honey-making sisters August, June, and May, where they learn about love and what it means to have a family.  My favourite thing about is movie its aesthetic beauty; yellows, purples, and greens fill the screen, and sitting in the theatre I could practically feel the heat of  the South and taste the sweetness of honey.  The film also features excellent performances from all the actresses (Queen Latifa, Dakota Fanning, Jennifer Hudson, Alicia Keyes, and Sophie Okenedo), making it extremely enjoyable to watch.  

Overall, A Secret Life of Bees reminded me of the sort of movie I'd have gone to see five years ago, before my frequent theatre-going companion became a 25 year old man who thinks anything in which the main character is a woman is automatically romantic and trivial.  (Of course he denies this, but everyone knows it's true).  I would certainly recommend it to anyone who loves a good story (and good acting, cinematography, etc) but is not put off by things that obviously try to hook you with sugary sentiment.

Is there anything better than good food?

My favorite "Kingston restaurant" isn't actually in Kingston, but a 45 minute drive away in the delightful little town of Picton.  Finally recovering from a week-long illness never fails to fill me with an elated, seize-the-day sort of relief, inspiring me to try and experience as much aesthetic pleasure as possible in a limited amount of time.  So even though the choice to go to Harvest for dinner last night was probably a bad one due to lack of funds, at the time it seemed like the best idea I'd ever conceived.  Ever the willing partner in crime, Steve happily agreed and off we went.

Oh it was wonderful.  After a minor glitch caused by our forgetting that the Glenora ferry runs every half hour at this time of the year (as opposed to every 15 minutes in the summer) and being half an hour late for our reservations as a result, the evening was absolutely perfect.  I love how every time I go to Harvest the menu has changed.  There's always the staple beef, chicken, fish, and pasta dishes, but they're altered to reflect what foods are in season.  Whenever possible, the restaurant tries to serve local food from Prince Edward County, a concept I absolutely adore.  Even the wine we had, Trumpour's Mill Pinot Noir, is from the area, and as far as I can tell it's just as good as any from France or California (although according to some people I have no palate for wine).  

To start we shared an appetizer consisting of goat cheese, beats,  and mixed greens.  I never liked beats growing up, but am amazed by how their taste is so dramatically improved when accompanied by goat cheese.  I like to pretend this isn't because the taste of the cheese so overwhelms that of the beats you forget what they are, but to be perfectly honest that probably does have something to do with it.  For the main course I went out on another limb and ordered duck..... medium rare!!!  I recently came to the conclusion that it makes no sense whatsoever to frequently eat cookie dough and eggs over easy, yet recoil in horror at the thought of undercooked poultry ("we don't want to invite Sam 'n Ella to the party....").  I was not surprised to find duck is greatly improved when not burned to a crisp.  Like steak, it is much more flavorful and easier to chew.  The duck came with a scrumptious rice and dried fruit medley that added a pleasing citrusy twist.  The best part of the meal, however, had to be the slice of pumpkin cheesecake Steve and I shared for dessert. It differed in texture from most cheesecakes, and reminded me more of pumpkin pie or creme brule with a hint of cream cheese.  The cake was drenched in a maple syrup sauce and little maple biscuits instead of crust.  I never wanted it to end.  Oh, and Harvest is one of the only restaurants in the Kingston area that makes real cappacinos.  I always forget about that until I order one and am pleasantly surprised when the waiter brings out espresso and foam (i.e. instead of espresso, a mug full of steamed milk, and a thin layer of foam on top).  

Truth be told, if I could live anywhere in the world I think it would be Prince Edward County, even if it would mean a 45-minute commute to Kingston.  Maybe I'm biased, but I think it's the most beautiful countryside I've ever seen.  I feel a bit guilty about last night, but overall I'd say it was totally worth a week of eating nothing but cereal, Kraft Dinner and chicken fingers :).

How Yoga Works

This Thanksgiving was an unfortunate one for yours truly.  It's Monday night and for the second day in a row I'm unable to leave the couch due to illness.  Perhaps the only good thing about being sick over a long weekend is the ability to waste the day away reading and watching comfort movies free from guilt.  As a result, I was able to finish How Yoga Works by Geshe Michael Roach and Christie McNally.  It was chosen as October's book in my yoga book club, and I really had no idea what to expect.

How Yoga Works explains just that:  the ways in which one can use yoga to not only better oneself but also to promote good in the world at large (but of course everything is really one, so in doing one you also do the other, etc).  The book explains how yoga works within the context of a charming little story about a young Tibetan girl named Friday who is wrongfully imprisoned in India for carrying with her the Yoga Sutra (a book that is deemed far too old and important looking for such a young girl to lawfully be in possession of).  In order to prove that the book is really hers, Friday must teach the prison's captain yoga.  This eventually leads to the practice being spread throughout the community, and consequently to an enhanced quality of life for the townspeople.  

The story itself drags a little in parts, but overall I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.  The whole concept of Buddhism/Eastern philosophy in general is quite new to me, but the more I learn about it the more I like it.  Much of it seems like hidden common sense - ideas we all know instinctively but need to be told outright before we can realize how brilliant they are.  At one point, for instance, Friday uses a bamboo pen to demonstrate how, although the Captain understands it as a tool for writing, a cow understands it as something good to eat.  Therefore it is neither a pen nor food in and of itself; any meaning it holds is relative to the individuals who are perceiving it.  This concept leads to a detailed explanation of the powers of the mind and relativism.  I will not attempt to explain it all here, but the philosophy lays out a truly beautiful way of understanding the world which could undoubtedly lead to healing on all levels.

 

Closely related to the principles discussed in How Yoga Works is the idea of holistic health.  This concept is also quite new to me, yet it makes perfect sense when I think about it.  For instance, there's no question that the reason I've been so irritable lately is that I have a cold.  Any physical discomfort, from being overly full and bloated to having a headache affects my mood in a very negative manner, just as feeling healthy improves it.  Conversely, mental turmoil causes afflictions such as insomnia and headaches, and the whole thing turns into a vicious cycle.  Therefore you can't possibly maintain a healthy body without also having a healthy mind and vice versa.  And even if this isn't scientifically proven, if you think it's true then it is true because everything we perceive is determined by our minds.  It's all so simple...I can't believe I didn't think of it like that before!!!

On Elitism and Obama

elite /I'li:t, ei-/ ~ 1 (prec. by the) the best or choice part of a larger body or group.  2  a class or group of persons possessing wealth, power, prestige, etc. (the ruling elite) adj of belonging to an elite.

That's how the Oxford Canadian Dictionary defines "elite", a word that has become synonymous with "a quality you would never, ever want in an American president".  For the record, politics are not my thing.  I have neither the time nor the inclination to argue about them, or to push my loosely-informed opinions on people I don't know very well. Words, however, are my thing.  I am fascinated by how easily they can be twisted, re-defined, and used out of context so frequently that their meanings literally shift while the vast majority go oblivious to the seismic transmutations that are occurring at the epi-centre of American culture. In France, they have the Academie Francaise, a pre-eminent learned body that acts as the authority on matters pertaining to the usages, vocabulary, and grammar of the French language.  In English, there is no equivalent; nor, in my opinion, should there necessarily be one.  The Academie's presence demonstrates the extent to which the French people view language as an integral part of their culture.  It is something that is self-consciously contemplated not only in France but also here in Canada, where the French Canadian population makes a concerted effort to pass legislation in order to preserve their language, and, by association, their culture.

I don't know this for a fact, but it's hard to imagine a word being thrown around as readily in a culture that honours the sanctity of language as "elite" and "elitism" are in American politics. From following the current American election, I have come to the conclusion that being an elitist can now mean any or all of the following:

 - Anyone who has achieved the "American Dream" by pursuing educational endeavours and being successful as a result.   Or for that matter, who admits they enjoy learning in any capacity, and/or makes no attempt to disguise their intelligence.

 - Anyone who lives in a major urban centre, or along one of the two major seaboards.

 - Anyone who pronounces the "g" at the end of words like "being".

- Anyone who drinks lattes, or enjoys a sprig of arugula in their mid-day salad

- Anyone who does not boisterously express their love of America by doing things like loudly chanting U-S-A and wearing flag pins.

 - Anyone who is "out of touch" with the "Average American" - something that in turn seems to be defined as one who goes bowling, shops at Walmart for their guns, and does not value education.

Is Barack Obama an "elitist" by its official definition?  Of course he is.  As a senator and presidential candidate he certainly belongs to the ruling class, possessing vast quantities of wealth, power, and prestige (hmmm...sounds a lot like another presidential candidate we've heard so much about).  Perhaps the republicans should pay closer attention to the first part of elite's definition before so readily labeling Obama: "the best or choice part of a larger body or group".  But why should they when they seem to have been so successful in re-defining the word?

For his part, Obama does his best to prove that he is not elite by its evolved definition, thereby upholding the new understanding of the word, and conceding that it is negative despite all appearances to the contrary.  By participating in things like bowling, altering his speech so as to play down the pronunciation of g's and t's, and wordlessly conceding that wearing a flag pin is perhaps the best indication of one's love for America, he consistently finds himself playing defense, and thus round-aboutly admitting that everything associated with intellectual culture is essentially "elite" and inherently negative.  

I'm no political scientist, but I often wonder what would happen if Obama straight out admitted that his education and intelligence are good things.  George Bush came from a wealthy, traditionally elite background, yet does not act elite by its new definition.  Can anyone really say Bush was in touch with the average Joe sixpack in any respects other than those that are entirely superficial?  Look at the mess the country is in after eight years of his policies.  Obama is almost the exact opposite:  he came from very humble beginnings, yet is now considered to be among the elite by all known definitions.  Why wouldn't you want someone who has a proven record of intelligence ruling your country?  If one person enjoys Bud Light and another Pinot Grigio, does that necessarily mean they are entirely unable to relate to one another on any level?  These are the kinds of things Obama could point out.  Instead of trying to prove that he's not elite by appealing to his background, perhaps he would do better to point out the positive aspects of who he is now, and why the combination of his newly acquired elitism and working class beginnings could perhaps yield the perfect sort of leader.

It's probably too late for him to do so this at this point, less than a month before the big election.  Education, arugula, and proper pronunciation of words already have too bad of a wrap to be re-defined so quickly, even in the ever-malleable English language.  Yet I continue to be amazed by the superficiality of it all.

Unless

A couple weeks ago I finally got around to reading Unless by Carol Shields.  It had been on my list of things to read since it came out in 2002.  Alas because it was never required reading for any of my courses, and because over summer breaks (when not reading ahead for the coming year) I was usually in need of brain candy in the form of fun chicklit or fashion mags, it sat untouched on my bookshelf for half a decade.

I should point out that Carol Shields is one of my favourite authors. I fell in love the day I opened The Stone Diaries and found a family photo album in the midst of the novel.  It seemed so wonderfully bold to take pictures of real people and pass them off as fictional characters from the book.  Actors play fictional roles all the time in plays and films, but to take a photo of someone from many years ago and pass it off as a newborn character is another thing entirely.  Those pictures epitomize what is so appealing about Shields' writing.  Most of the characters in her books remind me of people I know:  they aren't trying to do anything sensational or groundbreaking, nor are they looking to turn their day-to-day lives into a fairy tale or grand aesthetic experience; they are simply living their lives and experiencing what they can while they can.  Yet the right words in the right order can turn an ordinary existence into an extraordinary work of art, and that is truly a beautiful phenomenon. 

Unless comes off as a deeply personal novel, and I get the impression Shields was in a lot of pain when writing it.  Its aura is so profoundly impactful I found myself constantly depressed while reading it (but in a good way!!!).  It is a novel about a woman writing about a woman writing about women who write (or something like that...Shields has fun with this sort of layering at various points in the novel).  The protagonist, Reta Winters, is a writer and mother whose comfortable life is turned upside down when her eldest daughter mysteriously leaves home to live in the streets of downtown Toronto.  Reta is left to contemplate the status of women in the 21st century as she tries to understand her now mute daughter's motivations.  In many ways we appear to have achieved equality, but what about cultural institutions like the literary canon that virtually ignore women?  Reta is a translator, as well as a writer of "light fiction" and those cheerful little greeting card-esq books you find in Hallmark.  Fittingly, she believes women and their accomplishments are often viewed as miniatures of men and what they have achieved.  She writes letters to those whom she sees as perpetrating this belief, none of which she sends, and all of which become increasingly imaginary (by the end, it is clear she is merely constructing the letters in her mind).  

I'm going to do the unthinkable and presume Shields shared at least some of the anger experienced by Reta in the novel.  Her fiction is known for its accessibility, and perhaps she thought of herself as being perceived as a "lesser writer of light fiction".  If so, this is a shame because to me (and to a lot of other people) she is one of the greats.  Reta Winters gives up on the fight to give women a voice she never begins in the first place.  Yet Shields, in writing Unless and her other novels, ostensively fights back with all her might.  She writes internationally celebrated novels that have unquestionable literary merit.  With all her play on the theme of women writing about women...etc..., it's hard to believe she was unaware of this when writing the novel.  Time will tell whether she was ultimately successful, and perhaps Unless is more than anything an expression of Shields' own doubts regarding the test of time (personal and/or for women in general).  There's no doubt women still have a long way to go, but I'm inclined to be optimistic:  if we've come this far over the past 50 years, imagine what we can do with another 50.  And give me Carol Shields over James Joyce any day.

Mmmm-hmmm...That IS Some Tasty Batter

Tonight I baked a ginger cake with hard sauce.  Several weeks ago I volunteered to make dessert for Thanksgiving dinner, so tonight's venture served as a trial run.  I figured if I didn't volunteer far enough in advance I'd never end up making anything, and was probably right.  I was close to chickening out a couple days ago, but decided to persevere and be productive for once in my life.  As usual, I think I ingested more calories while in the process of making the cake than when I actually had a piece after dinner.  I swear it's like a compulsion, in league with not being able to stop buying books and movies whenever I go shopping.  What can I say...things just taste better in batter form.  Nevertheless the cake still tasted good when it emerged from the oven.  All in all I think it was a successful trial run.

Speaking of compulsive purchases, I invested in two new movies last night (well, I'd seen them before, but never owned them):  About Schmidt and Forgetting Sarah Marshall.  I went to the mall to get my phone fixed (for the third time in three months...honestly, why don't they just give me a new phone???).  Upon arriving at the mall I realized I had forgotten the phone, but was too lazy to drive all the way back home to get it then all the way back to the mall.  So I went shopping instead. Steve and I  thoroughly enjoyed both films this evening.  Thank god for people like Jack and Judd Apatow. 

Quote of the evening:

"When life gives you lemons, fuck the lemons and bail."

Sugar Sugar

I came to my desk this evening to write a review Carol Shield's book Unless.  Alas, the song "Candy Girl" by the Archies came on the radio and temporarily sidetracked my thoughts.  It's always amazed me how certain songs can bring back not only memories of a certain time, but also the exact way you were feeling at that point in your life.  "Candy Girl", for instance, reminds me of driving in the car with my dad when I was about nine years old.  I had recently discovered his impressive collection of Archie comics.  They had been accumulating for over thirty years, only to land in the crawl space of my parents' house.  (Note: never put books of any sort in crawl spaces - it causes moisture to seep into the pages, leaving them damp and musty-smelling.  As a result the comics had to be thrown out several years ago.  Poor Archie).  As you might imagine, this enormous pile of Archies was a gold mine to a nine year old girl, and it wasn't long before I was entirely immersed in the world of high school love triangles, milkshakes, and chocklit shop philosophies of life.

So imagine the thrill when "Candy Girl" came onto the radio (sixteen years ago, not today) and my Dad announced that the band singing the song was the Archies.

You mean the real Archies?  From the comics?"

"Yup."

I was at once baffled, weirded out, and excited beyond words.  "But they're make believe characters, from the comics.  Or are the comics about the band?"

I'm sure he proceeded to explain the truth of what we were listening to, but I seem to have blocked that part from my memory.  What I do remember is being awe-struck by the Betty and Veronica lines (Betty and Veronica are singing!!!).  It was like discovering Santa Clause is actually real.  

Ahhh, for two minutes I actually felt young again.

The Reality Is...

I used to blog about my real life.  Then I realized I don't really have one - a real life, that is.  This led to a fatal lack of issues and events to write about, and the consequent abolition of my blog.  I suppose I could come home after work and blog about how much I hate getting up in the morning.  No matter how many times I hit the snooze, it never gets easier.  All it means is that I have to drag my grumbling, protesting self out of bed 20 minutes later than I would have to if my sleep-impaired hand were not compulsively drawn toward that devilish little button.  But then I would get into how this is like a metaphor for my life (i.e. the reason I still don't have a job in which I use my education in any capacity and/or that gives me any sort of benefits let alone joy is because I'm hitting the snooze button of life, not wanting to discover my true potential because I'd rather go my whole life believing I would have been capable of achieving my dreams "if I had only tried" than try and realize I'm actually an incompetent fool...etc).  Dwelling on things like that gives everyone (not to mention me) the false impression that I am in a perpetual state of melancholy.  This is very unfortunate, and I want to do all I can to discourage such opinions.

The reality is there is no reality.  I find I am better able to get through my days if I focus on imaginary things - or at least things that are so far removed from my life they seem imaginary.  Therefore this will be a blog about the topics that really do occupy my mind on a daily basis - films, books, baking, music, sports, politics, etc.  Those who know me know my dream job is to write a column for for a magazine or newspaper.  So I figure if no one is willing to give me that kind job in the real world, I'll give one to myself.  Perhaps I'll add the odd little reflection on my so-called "real life" if I find it to be sufficiently relevant or cheerful.  But for now this is what works for me.  So here goes.