Finis?

Done!

At last, Jake’s story is finished – with a teaspoon of Whiskey White to spare! I polished him up last Friday and am ready to set him aside in favour of whatever comes next. However …

A fellow named Julian Green said, “I write my books because I want to know what is in them.” I like that quote so much that it runs as my screen saver, as a reminder that I write for myself first and anyone else second. This is particularly true because few others actually read what I write, but I think Mr. Green’s point was as much about surprising the author as surprising the audience. Letting the characters tell the story can be eye-opening for me, too. Case in point: “Between the Storms.”

I had the opening, as inspired by Alex Colville’s painting. I knew one or two things about Jake when I started, and suspected that I knew something about the girl he pulled from the sea. What I didn’t expect was the solution to another creative conundrum I’d been pondering offstage.

A million years ago, I wrote 4 (okay, 4.5) volumes of an untitled series about mortals in the employ of a group of urban vampires. I had mapped the storyline to a climax, but the actual ending eluded me. It was still a good story. I revisit it now and then, fully intent on revising, reworking, updating and finishing it one day. I’m just unsure how to make it current without rewriting whole darned thing (one of the issues with present day fiction is that outdated references can create hiccups in the reader’s flow). Now, thanks to Jake, I may have my answer and my ending. It’ll be a lot of work, but it will be fun (and a lot of work). It will take time (and be a lot of work), but I want to do it (though it will be a lot of work) because it deserves to be finished and maybe, just maybe, it will be the thing that makes me famous.

Hawk Trumps Bear



2013 Stanley Cup Champion Chicago Blackhawks



I won’t say that I was totally engaged with the Stanley Cup playoffs this year, but as the rounds went deeper, I watched more of the games. It became a case of voting out the teams I cannot endure, so I was content with Chicago getting to the final for the west. In the east, however, my will was consistently foiled. Pittsburgh is my second string favourite after Philly, but when the Boston Bruins shut down Sid Crosby and the Penguins and advanced to the Cup final, I started to fret.

And foam.

And use poor language.

I loathe the Bruins. Can’t say why, I just do. I think they’re a bunch of goons, and being a Flyer fan of old means that I know goons when I see them. I like their goalie, though. He’s deadly cute, for one thing, and Finnish for another. I like Finnish goalies. They’re steady, efficient, and reliably cool under pressure.

The Blackhawks are young, slick and skilled. I’ve had their captain in the office hockey pool for three years in a row. Patrick Sharp and Michal Handzus are both ex-Flyers. The team bit Detroit in the collective butt in round two, coming back from being down 3 games to 1 and winning in seven. Phew. So I reckoned, if they ran circles around the Bruins and tired out the lumbering oafs, they had a good chance of winning the Cup.

And they did. They had to work for it (winning the Stanley Cup is easy, after all – you just have to win 16 games), but by the gods’ dainties, they did it. How they did it I really don’t know; they were stonewalled at almost every turn, but in the end, I think they did exhaust the oafs. They got hit, they got up. They got scored on, they scored back, even if the game meant going to overtime – and it did. Three agonizing times. They were even shut out in one game, thanks to the deadly cute Finnish goalie. Back and forth, up and down, amid stupid penalty calls and stupider non-calls, the Hawks refused to go away. And last night, just as we were resigning ourselves to a seventh game, Bryan Bickell popped one past Tuukka Rask (I told you he’s Finnish) with something like a minute and a half left in the third period. Now the game was tied and yet another overtime looked imminent. I was just thinking about making tea for the duration when Ter suddenly yelled, “He scored!”

Yup, seventeen seconds after Bickell’s goal, Dave Bolland got another past Rask and it was a done deal. No way could the Bruins come back within the remaining minute, not with their loutish lineup. Hats and horns! The Hawks won their second Cup in four years, and this time I enjoyed it (the first time they beat the Flyers and became anathema until this year).

Everyone is at different stages on the great cosmic journey and Love is the only rule. Kindness, acceptance, tolerance, fairness – they’re all principles in which I implicitly believe. Generally, I live by those principles. However, when it comes to hockey, I become a tiny, petty, egoically-identified cretin whose greater delight stems not from the Hawks winning the Stanley Cup, but from the Bruins not winning it. Yep, it’s small. I’ve pondered my shrivelling wickedness, and I’ve decided against apologizing for it. No one died, no homes were lost, everyone kept his job (unless you’re a coach), the world looked the same this morning as it did last night and, as my father always reminds me, it’s just a game.

Sure, Dad.

The Importance of Tea (Part III)

“Neutralitea”

Waiting for writing to happen ...

You know how I drink tea that befits my characters? Well, if I don’t get Jake’s story finished before the Whiskey White runs out, I’m in trouble. I’ve got two teaspoons and two scenes left, and while it’s absurd to believe that tea affects whether or not a project gets done, I also subscribe to professional superstition. Everyone has them, so I’m not completely off the rails by admitting this. I am also confident that I will finish Jake’s story as his tea runs out. Don’t ask how I know; I just do.

So what do I do when I’m writing myself? I had some blog stuff to do this morning and I needed tea to accompany the task. I scoured my stores in search of something unassociated with anyone’s story and made a curious discovery. I have no tea that defines Ru. How hilarious is that? Everything I have is specific to either a character or a time of day – sweet creamy black, for instance, is designated for my afternoon break-from-the-computer, and chamomile is always drunk after dinner. But for my own writing, for personal non-fiction or journaling or blogging or whatever you call it, I got nuttin’.

 

I picked White Butterfly. It’s as neutral a tea as one can get, a blank page, if you will, so devoid of either colour or flavour that one may ask why it would be drunk at all. Good question. I bought it because it’s reminiscent of apricots, and when I say reminiscent, I mean that you have to conjure it in your head, otherwise you’re basically drinking hot water. It’s tea without a character. A tea waiting to happen. Kind of like an empty computer screen or a fresh page in my blog log. Who knows what magic may come of it?

If nothing else, it got its own post!

The Father of My Unborn Children



The face that started it all ...



It was the spring of 1985. Ter came home from the bookstore with a copy of Star Hits that she swore had leaped off the shelf at her. It wasn’t the magazine that had knocked her breathless. It was the photo on the cover.

I remember gaping, dumbfounded, while she stood quivering with artistic ecstasy at the prospect of painting that face, that face, that beautiful face. Finally, I found my voice.

“Isn’t that the guy from Duran Duran?”

Never mind that there were five guys in Duran Duran. Forevermore, John Taylor was “the guy” in our house and in our hearts. We scooped as much media we could: albums, posters, buttons, magazines, books of photos imported from Japan – you name it, we got it. We became fans of the band proper (especially Andy Taylor), but JT was the driving force. Ter painted four portraits of him over five years. And I wrote a thousand, two thousand, pages about characters who looked just like him. I’ve always modeled my heroes (and no few villains) after my idols, but JT spawned a litter, the most notable being my beloved Julian.

I’m fairly well convinced that without John, there would be no Jules.

My cast of available characters is no longer dominated by sultry six-footers with flowing dark hair and cheekbones to skate on, but the blueprint remains close to my heart for many reasons. Not only did he bring me joy with his music and inspiration with his very being, he brought me a poet. I “met” Nicole in the chat room at his now-defunct website in, I think, 1997. “Trust The Process” was a place to keep current with JT, but was also the forum where fans gathered to share, discuss and occasionally piss off others of our ilk. I ran with a pretty cool cyber-crowd for a while as a result. Though our lives eventually took varied paths in opposite directions, Nic has stayed with me and remains the best thing to have come from my time at TTP. I would not have her except for “the guy from Duran Duran”.

Ter and I threw birthday parties for him in the 80s. Thirty years later, the celebration is less extravagant. We’ll run a few videos and do some reminiscing. I’ll eat chocolate and blow a kiss at the portrait in my room. He’ll never know what he’s done for me, but that’s okay. I know, and that’s all that matters.

Happy birthday, JT.

Auto Biography (Part III)

"Size Matters"



Villain? Seriously??



Yaaaaaaa, look at me, I’m a badass little bugger, the quickest getaway in the West, no one can catch me, I go like hell, runrunrunrun, woooeee, that was close; almost clipped a Caddy but he never saw me, hee hee hee, I’m little but I’m smart, smarter than the big bad guys, I purr like a kitten and strike like a snake, now you see me, whoops where’d I go, I’m a dark streak with a red wake, vrooooooom, traffic light ahead, pedal harder bank robber, gotta make this light—BANG! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee ... I’m flyyyyyiiiiing!

Ciao, Cesare

Well, last night was the last episode ever of The Borgias, and I must admit, it went out on a high note that had nothing to do with the despairing wail I let rip when it was over. It was all about Cesare – he was in practically every scene and when he wasn’t physically present, he was the topic of discussion. Yow, he was something terrible and beautiful to behold. Francois Arnaud played him to the hilt, even overshadowing Jeremy Irons and that’s no mean feat. The pair of them together was such fun to watch and I loved what was done with the Pope, but truly, I was there for Cesare.

I was probably there for him in a past life as well, goshdarnit.

Each of my favourite characters made an appearance, so I wasn’t cheated. I adored Julian Bleach as Machiavelli. He stole every scene he was in with dry wit and what I believe Nicole would call “a po face”. His final line was particularly hilarious if only because of the way he delivered it. Augh! So much brilliance from so many actors I can’t begin to name them all. It’s just so sad that the story ends here, because while the finale certainly tied up loose ends, it also left the door wide open for a fourth season.

I sat in my chair when it was done and thought, Crap. I wish I could write like that. Never mind that I can write like that; the perception is different when the product is yours. I’ve written one or two fellas as ruthless and sexy as Cesare Borgia but, boy, what Neil Jordan did with him is truly enviable from an author’s perspective.

I’m glad they scrapped plans for a two-hour movie. Cramming a bunch of stuff into a different format would be as disrespectful as it would be futile for all concerned. If it had to end, it ended perfectly last night.

The Gorgeous Struggle

Getting there ...

Jake’s story is almost finished. I wrote two thirds of it during my week off last month. Progress since then has been steady, but – to my mind – interminably slow. And, as is usual when fitting my writing into my life instead of the other way around, I’ve found myself struggling to get it done. The latest scene, for instance, has been written three times. The characters have reached a critical point in their relationship, so I want to get it right.

Yesterday, I revamped a few things while the scene played out in my mental cinema. Jake is sure about his feelings. Kim, not so much. Women are complicated. Jake knows that, but he’s willing to wade through the crap to have her. Only the crap is deeper than it looks. I sorta kinda knew that, given my familiarity with her background, but she wasn’t explaining it well enough to convince him. It was better to have her show him, live in his living room, just how torn she is. Enter the other man. Once he showed up, the complications became more apparent, but I was still stymied on how to describe Jake’s perception of Kim’s dilemma. So I followed sage creative advice and took a break.

Alan Parsons has been my musical wallpaper for this story, but while making lunch I threw the Gatsby soundtrack onto the stereo and promptly remembered why I bought the darned thing. It’s awesome! I was cheerfully chopping veggies and singing along with Fergie and Jack White and Lana del Rey—and then Goyte came on. The song is called “Hearts a Mess” and it’s stunning. Weird, but stunning (hear here). I actually stopped to listen when it came on. And something so profound happened that I pulled the disc off the junky little kitchen stereo and ran it down to the big cahuna in the living room. I cranked up the volume, stood between the speakers, closed my eyes, and got it.

Ah! That golden moment when all comes clear! It happens to creative people more often than we think, but it never gets old. The puzzle piece that finally drops into place, the plug that finally fits the socket – I live for those moments, and yesterday’s was momentous. Ironically, it always happens when I’m not looking. I have battled for days with this scene and the minute my back is turned, the answer arrives in a flaming chariot. It’s proof to me that intellect consistently gets in the way of my imagination. One day I’ll learn to act quickly when a plotline gets hopelessly knotted. I’ll leave it in a pile on the bedroom floor and go distract my mind with something trivial. Then my spirit will be free to unravel the mess unhampered by a well-meaning mental analyst.

As for finishing Jake’s story … I’m on it!

 

Boardom

When I moved into my office a few years ago, I was confronted with a blank bulletin board. I never used it for work stuff, except my calendar and the FMR print schedule in the lower left corner. The rest of it I plastered with pictures of polar bears and penguins, drawings done by my niece and nephew, greeting cards, and poetry that had nothing to do with my job and everything to do with my life.

Last year, I covered the board with brown paper, pinned up a few favourite pieces, and left the rest blank for scribbling. By the end of December, it was covered with handwritten quotes and lines of lyrics in bright Sharpie colours. It was such a hit that I did it again this year. In January, I rolled up the 2012 model and started a new one for 2013 themed, “Yes, but is it Art?”

The perennial buttons and the Banff bear are in place; everything else is new. I sprinkled the stars on the day I learned that Laura was ill. Quotes from Eckhart Tolle, Albert Einstein, David Usher, Kurt Vonnegut and Nick Rhodes are posted alongside poems from Leonard Cohen and my buddy Nicole. Pictures of Bernini’s “David” and Julian’s Jaguar share space with Darth Vader and the full moon – and there’s still half a year to go. It’s fun to make, fun to read, and people think it’s a great idea.

It’s colourful, creative, comedic – and a little cracked.

It’s me.

Save "The Borgias"!

It’s one of the best shows in television – and they’re cancelling it! The season finale of The Borgias this Sunday is now the series finale, thanks to the powers that be over at Showtime. The show pulls a “steady but unspectacular” audience each week, and I guess that the production costs are proving too high for the network to justify continuing the story.

So why did they start it in the first place???? Historical pieces are notoriously expensive, and credit must be given to this one because it’s as glorious to look at as the plot is to follow. The production team put their hearts into making it as lush as a Renaissance painting; alas, as with most worthwhile endeavours, too few have seen it. What I don’t understand is why a premium cable network can’t afford to keep it rolling, as they don’t depend on commercial advertisers to provide funding. The Tudors ran for four seasons and it wasn’t nearly as good as The Borgias. And don’t get me started on Vikings being renewed for a second season. I’d happily sacrifice Ragnar Lothbrok for another year of Cesare Borgia.

Cesare, however, is not the only character who plumbs the depth of human complexity in this show. I can’t think of anyone to whom I am indifferent. Each character is so well written and so expertly acted that I can only say I have a number of favourites. There is no scene where I am not completely engaged. And I have said at the end of more than one episode that I wish I had written it. It’s gorgeous, gut-wrenching stuff, set out in such detail that 16^th century Italy is brought very much to brutal, beautiful life.

Petitions to save the series have popped up online. I’ve signed one (and you can sign it here—please!), but I doubt that minds will be changed. The almighty dollar rules so despotically that the Borgia Pope himself would probably can the project. Who cares about the ardent few over the apathetic many? It’s the viewers they don’t have that has killed this series and I for one am royally pissed about it.

Rats.

The best I can do is salute the extraordinary work produced by the cast and crew over the past three years. The Borgias was one of the few television series worthy of my time and attention. It was brilliant and inspiring. If you missed seeing it, you missed a treasure.

Silence, Please!

 

Around here, the wind sounds like the surf and the surf sounds like a heartbeat. Sometimes the receding ocean pulls on the pebbles and the beach sounds like a bag of marbles, which comes full circle in how the wind sounds when it blows through the trees.

I thought it was the pebbles that woke me this morning. When I stepped onto the front porch, however, I discovered it was actually the wind rustling the leaves. Sometimes the little chirpy birds wake me up, sometimes the morning sun angling through my bedroom window will do it. Or the crows next door will engage in a cawing match, or the gulls will go off at six a.m. And I thought I heard a raccoon close by because I heard an ungodly vocal emanating from somewhere. I sat on the porch and listened to the constant chirping-rustling-crying-scrabbling and felt like all was silent. Then a car drove by.

Humans are the noisiest, most intrusive, disruptive critters on the planet. Our noise is noise. No rhythm, no lullaby, no softness – every sound I heard this morning was muted and I can’t figure out why. Nature is vibrantly alive, but there’s a music in its breathing that our man-made racket cannot follow.

It’s like the difference between mind and spirit. My mind is constantly chattering. It loops TV show themes and calls me an idiot. It foils my imagination with work stuff. It minds the time and interrupts my dreaming. It makes so much darned noise that sometimes I feel like throwing myself from the highest turret to get away from it. My spirit, on the other hand, seems barely audible. It’s always there, but I can’t always hear it. Spirit comes from the same source as the birds and the wind and the sea. It’s part of the natural cycle that we, as humans, have drowned out with the cacophony of invention. Spirit doesn’t have a volume control. It’s always set to “quiet.” True creativity is born from spirit. Listen and let it roll unhindered, and you’ll be rewarded with a story, song or poem. If you try to mind-manipulate it, all you’ll get is noise.

Today I’m hoping to get a lot closer to finishing the story I started back in May (or was it April?) It took a strange turn and I ran out of vacation time in which to complete it. The process has reverted to cold starts each Sunday, though I’ve been writing it in my head all week. Truly, I have no idea how it will go today, but I’m hopeful. All I have to do is cut out the noise.

Wish me luck.

Auto Biography (Part II)

“Julian’s New Jaguar (Not)”

      I saw a TV ad for the new F-type Jaguar on TV and immediately called Julian. Half-expecting him to say he’s already ordered one, instead I was met by disgruntled silence.

      “What?” I asked.

      “Aside from the fact that my XK coupe is barely a year old,” he replied in his British chocolate accent, “the F-type is a convertible.”

      “So?”

      “Convertibles are too open, too exposed.”

      “So?”

      He sighed. I wasn’t being deliberately obtuse; I genuinely missed his point. I mean, he drives at night and birds only fly in the daytime. Why else would he be so averse to a ragtop Jag?

      It took a while, but he finally confessed that he’d been thrown from a pony trap as a child and has preferred enclosed carriages ever since. We’re talking 370-plus years here, but I guess some traumas stay around forever. The funny thing is that I’ve never known this about him. He doesn’t talk about his childhood, so it’s a surprise to be reminded that he had one. So no matter how well you think you know a character, they can still pull a fast one on you.

      Faster still, I realized after our conversation that he had looked into the F-type before I could tell him about it. Maybe that’s why I love him best of all. He’s as car crazy as I am!

Grave Expectations

I live a few blocks from Victoria’s oldest cemetery, and while it’s generally taken as a shortcut home from the store, the other day it was part of a spontaneous shot at flânerie. I hiked along the waterfront and up to the main road, but the traffic noise was bothersome so I took a hard left into the historic graveyard and promptly came toe-to-toe with a stone plot bearing my family name.

I know that my immediate kin is not the lone offshoot from the clan MacGregor tree; we’re more of a twig from the larger branch called “Greig”, so it got me wondering who the plot’s occupants were and how/if they may have been connected to my father’s father’s father. The graves are overgrown and unmarked within the stone boundary. They could be empty for all I know. If so, they’re definitely not being held in reserve for any of my folk. Mum and Dad have other plans.

On a winding path between the stones, I met one of the cemetery caretakers. He was pushing his wheelbarrow toward me and I prepped my passing nod-and-smile, but he spoke to me as he approached.

“Are you looking for someone?”

“No,” I replied, “but someone found me. I just saw my family name on a plot back there.”

He asked what it is, and nodded when I told him. “We have a few of them around here.”

“I know a few myself,” I said, “but they’re still moving.”

He produced a brochure from his back pocket and showed me the map. The Greigs aren’t listed among the high points, but I can call the City Archives or the Old Cemeteries Society to ask for specific locations. Then he pointed out a spot on the path and said, “You’re about here. If you want to see the important ones, they’re up along this route.” He meant Emily Carr and Sir James Douglas, among other notable Victorians who had the cash to buy waterfront real estate for their final resting place.

I thanked him for the brochure and proceeded with my flânerie. Some years ago, I had seen another Greig family plot in the cemetery but couldn’t recall exactly where, so I kept an eye out as I walked. I passed tablets and obelisks and memorial markers, some articulately detailed and others worn blank by time and salt wind. There were family plots and single headstones. English, Scottish, German, Chinese, Japanese, Dutch, Italian – families from all over the world were represented. None of the names meant anything to me … but then I recalled what the caretaker had said. If you want to see the important ones …

A few of the graves were adorned with fresh flowers, evidence that someone remembers and still misses the departed. The important ones.

The Ross Bay Cemetery may harbour a few famous Canadians and members of Victoria’s founding families, but it also holds the bones of ordinary people, of mothers and husbands and soldier-sons and infant daughters whose names aren’t in the history books. It occurred to me that every single person buried in every single cemetery in the whole wide world meant something to someone somewhere at some time, and that makes each of them—each of us—important.

Don’t think for a second that you have to be famous to be important. All you have to do is be loved.

Sting, Stang, Stung



Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Two days later, I still wake up looping “If Ever I Lose my Faith in You” – the first song Sting played live at the Save On Memorial Arena last Friday night. At last, for the first time in his life and in mine, the deity himself stopped in my hometown on his latest tour. And all I can say in one syllable is … Wow.

An 8 p.m. start, no opening act, no flashy lights, no rinky-dink set, no video screens and no more than six people on the stage. He wasn’t kidding when he named the tour “Back to Bass”. That’s what we got. A stripped down, professionally executed set spanning over 25 years of a career that defies labeling. He’s written so many brilliant songs that he couldn’t possibly have played everyone’s favourite, so he dug into the archive and produced a half-Police, half-solo show that was all Sting no matter how crunchy, twangy, jazzy or rock n’ reggae the piece. He’s a musician first, a songwriter second, and a singer third. The order may change on a given day, but it’s a holy trinity of talent no matter how it’s numbered.

That said, I admit to being a bit confused until I figured out that what he was playing was absolutely relevant to the name of the tour. My first thought was, “Man, that’s loud.” Which actually means “that’s loud for Sting”, though in truth it wasn’t. He was an angry young man when he started with the Police and has since mellowed considerably, so methinks I was fooled into expecting a reprise of his later offerings when in fact what I got was, well, loud. His sound crew remains the best in my experience, though – after I accepted what I was being served, my ears ceased to bleed. This was a rock concert, pure and simple. And it was fun!

More recent fans might have been disappointed. I was a Police fan from “Message in a Bottle”, so I knew every single song he played. He didn’t spend a lot of time chatting, but he told a story about attending his first NHL game a few weeks back. He named the New York Rangers and the Boston Bruins, then scolded the audience: “What are you booing them for? Most of them are Canadian, for ***’s sake!” Which got a laugh, but really, not popular teams in Canuck country. Anyway, he used it as a segue into “Demolition Man”, and that’s when I realized where we were headed. A diehard fan has favourites beyond the radio hits, so I had to acquiesce for the most part. “Every Breath You Take” is a great song, but I tune it out when I hear it, and I’m unsure that he’s as in love with it as he may have been a million performances ago. He played it anyway, with a few other must-haves, but sprinkled throughout were gems from gentler times. “Fields of Gold” and “Shape of My Heart” stand out, and I’ll never tire of “Englishman in New York”. “Message in a Bottle” was done so mind-bendingly well that I can’t remember a better version of it over the half a dozen times I’ve seen him. “Wrapped Around Your Finger” was played to this really cool light effect where a dozen white spotlights drew lazy circles over the crowd; we were all hypnotized by the time the song ended. And he ended the show gently, of course, with “Fragile”. *sigh*

Each of his players were highlighted at various times – the most excellent Dominic Miller on guitar, David Sancious on keyboards, Vinnie Colaiuta on drums, Peter Tickell on violin/mandolin and Jo Lawry on backing vocals. Each a superlative performer in his/her own right, perfectly blended to support the master. I adore Dominic Miller; it’s as much fun watching him play as it is to watch Sting. I forget that he can play killer rock riffs as well as classical melodies, he’s a tall skinny guy with loads of charisma and an elegant manner of playing that marks him as a natural musician.

I could rave on about every little thing (he does is magic, ha ha), but overall, I had blissfully sublime moments when I closed my eyes and let the joy pound with the bassline. I sang, I laughed, I stomped and clapped and cheered and dreamed and even wept a little … “King of Pain” is a weird one for me. I care for it as much as “Every Breath …”, but every time I hear it live, I start tearing up about halfway through. It’s the line about the black winged gull with the broken back that gets me; I have to quit singing along at that point else I’ll start bawling. I wonder what past life is tweaked by that image? Maybe I was the gull?

When my Cohen-worshipper at work asks me tomorrow how the Sting gig went, I’ll have to confess that Leonard’s show in March was probably the more religious experience of the two … this time. Sting is definitely a god – Ter reiterated his status after the show – but last Friday, he was less a deity than he was a rock star.

Not bad for an old guy.