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Showing posts from 2012

and then a giant box arrived

Oona recently received a christmas parcel from her grandma and auntie mary ann. Carnage ensued. The videos are here . Otherwise, have a good holidays.

sugar plum faeries

We went to the Nutcracker at the Grand last night. If you'd like to hear a lively and intelligent discussion of the Nutcracker (and Tchaikovsky), please visit the first link here . If you enjoy a somewhat less informed opinion, then keep reading. Of course this was C's idea. Of course I don't understand ballet, and why a certain subset of people would dedicate their entire lives to perfecting the ability to dance on their toes without showing the slightest amount of effort. Like synchronized swimmers in the air. And why are so many of them Russians? Strangeness. But we had good seats (what *should* have been the front row, only the Grand cheated and added three more rows) with room for my limbs to slacken and extend a bit (the only empty seats were right beside us, dead centre, which C told me had been bought first, as she'd been second in the online queue, and yet there they were, not there at all), and I could see all the dusty magic of the production, the inc

the year in review not really

What is there to say about 2012? I almost don't know. This might be a function of age – as you grow older, time seems to undergo a certain kind of flattening , with distinctions of recent history getting compressed, and losing all their colour-coding. Every so often C will ask me how long we've been together now, and instead of being offended (another product of age -- lack of outrage) I simply take it as the vanishing of her near history (or maybe she wishes it would vanish). As for myself, I can tell you a lot more about specific episodes (last month of university, first summer working at a mental hospital, the year I moved to Kingston, the months before and after Oona was born, etcetera, etcetera) than I can tell you about this last year. The only sense I do come away with is that I spent a great deal more time thinking about course correction, which is a technical way of describing the ability to turn with circumstances (or at least trying to ). When I was younger I used

yesterday it snowed

It snowed she said and then much talking about the snow on the way, we both agreed that it came from the sky, and from the clouds in particular, and then asking about the tracks on the road, and the footprints, new and nearly perfect as if in damp talc, and we guessed that these were from people, and even some little people, maybe on the way to school, maybe even her friends, in fact probably her friends, which caused a spontaneous round of Jingle Bell Rock, all in chorus, she said it was a Christmas song, and did I know what its name was? It's name was Jingle Bell Rock. Santa would come visit her because she was good, although the bunny rabbit that I pretended was trapped in mommy's purse that morning was bad, because he bit people, and rubbed his paws together in an evil way, so Santa should be careful. He will be careful, right dad? Of course I said. I want to be good she said, and I told her that was a grand idea.

daybreak, by brian ralph

I sent this to one of my nephews for xmas, in what now seems like a tradition of sending graphic novels with the hope of keeping reading alive. Of course, I also sent along a wrestling video, but you have to mix the medicine with the candy.  But this is hardly medicine. I came across it in a bookstore about a year ago, and then stood there until I'd read the whole thing (something I'm sure they just love , down at the ol' bookstore). It's a phenomenon between covers, a story told from a first-person perspective (you) about a zombie apocalypse (perhaps) in which we never really see the zombies (because if we did, you'd be dead) and our only friend is a like a tour guide where you're never really sure of what he's showing you. The artwork is arresting and dynamic but entirely restrained in its service to the story. For anyone between the ages of 8 and 80, I could not recommend this enough.

the next big thing meme

My friends Michelle and Ariel have both warned me that I'm about to be tagged with the Next Big Thing blog meme so here I am getting right out in front of it. Ha! Ten Interview Questions for the Next Big Thing: What is your working title of your book? It's called Dark All Day . Where did the idea come from for the book? It's a short story collection so the ideas are from all over. Who the hell knows? Most things come to me (at me?) as I walk to work -- then, like a crazy person, I go over to a post or a tree and write myself notes in one of the little books I carry. People stare as they drive by, what's that guy doing? And then sometimes things just come right to/at me. Like the note that literally blew up against my boot this morning. I've blurred out the names of the parties involved but, from what I can make out, someone *really* needs to stop making threatening remarks at work. Just before that I found a toonie, staring up at me like a mil

cigar-tin story #138

Cigar-tin story # 138 . Contains the story, "Cheer Up, Chickie". Also, painting birds relaxes me, which is important around Christmas.

cough cough cough

Cough cough cough, cough cough cough, cough cough cough, cough cough cough. One cubicle over. At least two weeks now. Cough cough cough, cough cough cough. Almost recorded it this morning, sitting there stunned at how long it went on, seven minutes and change. Cough cough cough, cough cough cough, cough cough cough, cough cough cough, cough cough cough, cough cough cough, cough cough cough, cough cough cough, cough cough cough, cough cough cough, cough cough cough, cough cough cough ... cough ... cough cough cough, cough cough cough, cough cough cough, cough cough cough. Cough. No illusions of safety behind my cubicle wall, especially when I noticed the room smelled different.

das tigerthier

felis tigris linn le tigre das tigerthier the tiger

science you forgot

My friend Jeannette has published a little illustrated science book , and it's full not just of science that I forgot, but stuff I never knew in the first place -- like the centre of every galaxy being a supermassive (yes, that's the term) black hole, ours being known as Sagittarius A. Or that the dark spots on the moon are called Maria. The cover is a nice heavy matte, the insides are super glossy (my term) and it's only five dollars. Stocking stuffer!

seen / scene

It's okay to be poor. I've been poor. I'll be poor again. It's okay to be stupid. I've certainly been stupid. And I still practice, whenever I have the chance. It's even okay to be obnoxious. In business, they call this Assertiveness Training ; put yourself out there, make moves, see what happens. But it is absolutely deadly to be poor, stupid and obnoxious all at once. And yet people still try it on. Like the masterminds who dumped mounds of garbage in our back alley, thinking they'd performed the perfect crime. Until the city came by for a look and found bills and receipts with a name and an address (of course, having solved the crime, and promised to prosecute, they still haven't cleaned it up -- at least three weeks running). Or the people around the corner from us, who placed a couch out on the sidewalk last month, and were ultimately defeated by the twin agencies of no one wanting to take away a dirty, ripped up piece of used furniture an

some mistakes were made but none were imagined

Can you imagine the future? I mean the real future, not the movie this weekend or what your plans are for Christmas or what kind of summer you'll have at the lake; those are just shiny things behind the glass counter. Price tags. I mean ten or twenty years. I mean middle age, old age. Death. I mean the world improved and dreams realized or darkening every day, roads in ruin. And then all places in between. Most can't do this. Or won't. It makes people anxious or angry. Or blank. We have never been busier. So surely all this work and attention and constant distraction must be pointed somewhere, must amount to something. Do we even know what we are doing, and why? Some people will say, O I just want to be secure and generally happy . Which is a bit like saying you just want it to be warm and sunny out, with no idea that the sun is made of flames.

ready player one

It's been at least three weeks since I finished this and I still don't know what to say about. I mean, I *did* finish it, and pretty quickly, so I must have enjoyed it on some level. I know I did. At the same time, the experience was rather empty. The conceit is good (future dystopia predicated on an escapist, virtual-reality culture), with an interesting twist (gaming -- and in particular one game -- is everything, and that one game is based on the 1980's), and the plot moves along very nicely, but the effect is flat. It's one of those books where everything is mentioned and a few things are explained but nothing is examined in any kind of meaningful way. Apparently it will soon be a movie.

embrace change

I never thought I'd hear you say that. Never in a million years. And yet it was predicted. Don't laugh. I'm serious. just the other day. When we went to lunch. It was in the fortune cookie. I said don't laugh. This is serious. This is about. you. And that's what I didn't realize at the time. The message said, Embrace change, don't battle it. I thought it was talking about me but it was really about you. About what you wanted to say. About how I should accept it. and accept you. I guess some fortunes have a face, and stare back at you. * * * * * In the shop .

state-of-the-art destructive capabilities

If by any chance you ever need your psyche crushed -- and by crushed I mean absolutely destroyed, faster and more completely than Custer riding down to greet the Sioux nation -- then just avail yourself of the services of any three year-old. Honestly. Soviet neurosurgeons would blush. Our own master of disaster has achieved something I like to call Full Ego Boundary Pounding: everything hurts, everything is a problem and everything can be subverted. Daddy, what is this? That's squash. I don't like squash. What's this? That's chicken. I don't like chicken. I want my mittens on the inside. I want my mittens on the outside. I don't want those shoes. I don't want that scarf. This scarf hurts me. My face is cold. I don't want to wear a hat. My head is cold. I'm tired. I don't want to go to school. I'm not tired. I don't want to have a nap. I don't have any pee in my body. I still have pee in my body. What are you talking abou

black friday

Timur was also a fun guy. * * * * * Poor Oona -- had to carry her home from the daycare yesterday, so limp she was with her little fever. Some Tylenol and water, then straight to bed. I've probably got the same thing, though of course it tends to manifest differently in my old carcass; let's just say that what you hear in the distance may not, in fact, be gunfire. * * * * * On a related note, I've been reading The Great Big Book of Horrible Things . How could I resist a title like that? All the classics are here, of course, from Genghis Khan to the Second World War, but who knew that the War of the Triple Alliance (Paraguay versus everyone) killed half a million people? Or the same for the Third Mithridatic War? Bloody Pontus. Hell, exactly how many people know that the Sino-Dzungar War ever happened? Or the Bahmani-Vijayanagara war? Still, the big lesson remains that most bad things (at least in terms of body count) happen in China.

let it shine

It's American Thanksgiving today. Crazy historical kids. And one hell of an experiment that they've been running down there, since the Plymouth landing. I listen to a lot of BBC podcasts, and it's fun/disturbing to hear the way commentators across the way divide on the subject of the USA, describing it as the best and the brightest, still the City Upon a Hill of world nations, but also something fallen and corrupted, a malevolent force in domestic policy and international relations. And I wonder how much good it does the rest of us, in the non-American, non-historical domain, to be give them so much attention, as if the news came down to what's-happening-in-America and now-the-boring-stuff. American culture/news now being nearly celebrity/culture/news. And how much good does this massive scrutiny/awareness do the United States itself, when it further feeds that somewhat problematic idea of American exceptionalism? Surely it must be tough to be the blonde, blue-eyed qu

dark all day

A couple of things I wanted to talk about today, but since there's no damn time (again with the complaining) I'll post about Dark All Day , the title of a story I published awhile ago in Branch Magazine , and also the title of my second book of short stories, which recently won a manuscript contest. I can't do better than the official statement, so here it is: Darryl Joel Berger’s Dark All Day wins the 2012 Fjords Review No-Fee Annual Contest. Picked by John Gosslee, Dark All Day will hit the bookshelves in September 2013. The illustration above is an example of the interior artwork -- every story has a picture. All forty one of them. Because I like to make my life difficult. Also difficult is talking about your own writing. So I'll quote from Fjords again, this time from their newsletter: FJORDS NO-FEE ANNUAL CONTEST WINNER We received many excellent entries and our favorites are noted on our shortlist. First Place Darryl Joel Berger's Dark All Da

toodio

Having a *lot* of Oona-Daddy time lately, with C hitting the bars and such, and one thing we did lately was walk to get take-out and then have a picnic in the studio. Afterwards she read a book about traitors and turncoats. Who wouldn't want to read about the life and times of Alcibiades? Fun!

dust bowl

Last night -- watched a Ken Burns documentary about the dust bowl. God that Peter Coyote gets a lot of voice-over work. A second career, with that open but serious timbre of his. All I can remember from his acting life is this forgettable movie called Heartbreakers -- which had something to do with art and threesomes. I wonder why I remember it. The documentary about the dust bowl was sort of awful. Not in the way it was done, not the film, but a lot of the content. Wholesale rural poverty has a kind of God-stricken quality to it. Like a nuclear poverty bomb, unleashing infernos of dirt. One scene described a jack-rabbit slaughter (the jack-rabbits were overrunning the place, apparently), all these men and kids making a party of it, clubbing away with wheel spokes, throwing the rabbits in quivering piles.

don't ever tell her

don't ever tell her what i said mixed media on masonite board (original ink drawing with acrylic and collage elements) 5 x 7 inches in the shop * * * * * Currently killing myself trying to get things done. Can anyone really talk about this now, when everyone makes the same claim, of being crazy busy, all the time? I try to stop myself from saying it. Even so, this week is truer than others, not only because of deadlines, but because some things will just not go away unless I deal with them, and I'm weary from being stalked.

who, boo, miss talseth

Anyone who draws bears is okay in my book. Miss Talseth , from way up there, in her rimy Norway corner, draws that and a lot more . There's a radiant wintriness in her work; you can't help but be cheered. Plus she has very good taste in transparent window calendars.

are you a ghost?

Of all the discussions that Oona and I have had on our walks home from "school" (daycare), probably the most animated revolve around the physical properties of ghosts. In her mind, a ghost is almost completely defined by the absence of arms and legs. So when I suggest that her cousins are ghosts, or her mommy is a ghost, or perhaps even she is a ghost, she will instantly refute this by pointing out the presence of appendages. No , she'll say, No, I'm not a ghost. I have arms. Look, daddy. LOOK. I HAVE ARMS. I HAVE ARMS AND LEGS!  At which point I remind her that it is not polite to yell in the street. And then we turn the conversation to whether or not ghosts can eat. They *do* have mouths , I point out, and watch her brain explode.

it will all work out i'm sure

Well, apparently the right guy won the American presidential election last night, mostly because everyone was more scared of the other guy (who wanted to represent everything, or at least anything that people would vote for), and were alternately suspicious or horrified of the party he represented. So chalk one up for democracy, I guess. Still, the whole thing had a Y2K stink about it, all this drama that just evaporated around midnight. * * * * * Now the real trouble begins. When exactly did the one indispensable nation turn into such a basket case? It's like Publishers Clearing House meets Kids Day in Russia down there, all oversized novelty cheques and people taking pictures of their food. * * * * * Actually, there was guy on the radio this morning going after the foodies and the inane kind of consumer elitism they represent. Sometimes I think I'm the only one having these kind of piss-on-the-parade thoughts, but then hey, along comes this British

who, boo, elizabeth

The drawings of Elizabeth Blue are always a little too dark, a little unsettled, a little askew. Her characters seem hopeless and complacent at the same time, slightly bent by a kind of gothic emptiness. All of which makes me a fan.

how poor are you ... really?

Downtown was *thick* with rough people, insane people and people emanating cautionary smells yesterday. Halloween excitement, I guess. It got me thinking about poor people, and specifically about how one measures their own poverty. * * * * * Sure, everyone *claims* to be poor, pretty much all the time. They say things like We need to cut back. We have no money left this month. There's no way we can afford a vacation this year. There's no way we can afford a vacation anywhere nice this year. O my God, all my clothes are rags. O my God, all my shoes are disgusting. O my God, I can't wear these shoes on vacation. This place is a crack house. This place is a crack house unless we get a new couch and love seat. and so on. But how do you know if you really *are* poor? * * * * * HOW TO KNOW IF YOU'RE POOR You ride everywhere on your bike but you hate bike riding and you don't give a shit about the environment. Also, the bike was give

can your song be heard?

can your song be heard? ; inks on paper * * * * * Halloween was the cat's ass when I was a kid. Of course this was small-town Saskatchewan in the late 70's and early 80's, a time when kids could still run wild, and the nearest police station was some twenty miles away. The trick-or-treating years were good -- the costume mattered but didn't matter, warmth trumped style, there was no sense of competition about it (where the fuck were you going to get a fancy costume, anyway? in the city? yeah right), because all the kids were so completely focused on going to *every* house (well, you skipped the widower drunks, and most of the old folks' home) in town, and getting as much candy as they could carry -- but the older kids had more fun, buying eggs by the flat, and carrying whole sackfuls of water balloons, and toilet paper, and bars of soap in their pockets, and having a kind of running battle with any other teenagers they saw, and even a few parents,

jeannette / boo

My friend Jeannette has, like most superheroes who flee to Japan, some highly specialized skills (illustration, fine art, sarcasm) that leave her completely vulnerable to even the weakest economic winds that currently ravage America (everyone loves creative talent -- until they have to pay for it). And yet she persists, and breathes, and draws, and breathes again, and even wants to come home. So why not encourage her otiose (new thesaurus!), tilting-at-windmills talents and hire her to draw you something. TODAY .

tons and tons

i bet that would sell tons 8.5 x 11 acrylic inks on paper

please label boxes

I found this note on the sidewalk a few months ago, stuffed into a back pocket of my bag, forgot it there, then rediscovered it recently. Basically, the note writer is asking Mireille to do ... EVERYTHING. * * * * * Yesterday, as I made dinner in the real kitchen and Oona made her version of dinner in her 'kitchen', she asked me for a knife. Uh, no, I said, picturing how boring the hospital would be. You don't get a knife. Ever. Use your foam one. It's in your kitchen somewhere, you just have to look for it. Is this a knife? Oona asked. Uh ... no , I said. That's a spoon. Is this a knife? Oona asked. Uh ... no , I said. That's a phone.

blind

Cigar-tin story #137. In the shop . * * * * * Story on the radio this morning, some book about how Tim Horton's has seized and exploited a privileged parcel of cultural territory on the Canadian middle-class landscape, which is pretty extraordinary for a coffee franchise. (I do apologize for not knowing the name of the book, but I didn't write it down at the time, and there's no way to look it up on the CBC website. Of course.) Very recently I promised myself that I wouldn't go into Tim Horton's anymore. The reasons were multiple and obvious: • the ones downtown are usually crowded with the kind of people who yell at their kids not to hit each other with bottles • the ones downtown are usually dirty • the ones in the suburbs are swarming with cars, seemingly crazed, as if the drive-thru led into Willy Wonka's chocolate factory • and then the military shows up, not caring if they stand there forever, ordering entire meals in vast trays • w

who boo -- Tiny Anteater Dancer

Tiny Anteater Dancer ; acrylic on paper, 11 x 14 inches. * * * * * The artist Sheri Larsen can be such a surprise; just when you think you have a grasp of her work, this very grounded series of nudes and still lifes, in an Expressionist style, she'll come up with something like this. Strange, sinister, compelling -- what exactly is the nature of this creature, and its hood? The title alone is a poetry prompt. Have a boo at her shop . Not only is it full of art, but Sheri also crafts lovely warm things for winter.

the who boo -- susan

In support of her new print at The Working Proof (15% of the proceeds of which goes to Médecins Sans Frontières), my friend Susan recently gave an interview where she talks -- intelligently, which is no easy feat, believe me -- about her work and, in particular, the inspiration for this piece. Go have a boo .

just you wait

just you wait , inks on paper, 4 x 7 inches. For Ariel .

and put away your sleepy logic

Are Sundays the gloomiest of days? Everything seems descended, and down, and sunken away. Sunday mornings, in particular, always have that pall, that end-of-story feeling. Grim and talking to yourself to get up first thing, in the darkness and rain, to walk somewhere and climb some stairs and go around turning on lights. As if that could change anything. But this is the time you have, and at least with the quiet you can hear yourself talk about everything you have to do. Melancholia is one of the Four Temperaments , apparently. But I think the Greeks were overreaching here, and some days just press themselves, insisting on quiet and a kind of grave incubation, where there's really nothing wrong, not really.

in canada, we're only thankful after the giving

Oona's handiwork. It's called my thanksgiving weekend, filled as it was with turkey, cranberries and cold sunshine, while all the time those certain specific (very specific) fires continued to rage, unabated, deep inside, and in their way sustained me , which is a fine title, I guess, although I'm not crazy about the precious e.e. cummings no-capitalization bit. I mean, enough already. * * * * * Anyway: some photographs from our Thanksgiving Monday, when we went on two giant walks, one around our neighbourhood and one around Jones Falls Dam , neither of which produced the desired effect of napping. Walking backwards. Swinging stones. I'll have to dock you for this. The long and winding road. Bridges, but not Jeff Bridges. Getting high. Locked up. Love canal. Dam. Olde-timey pipe laying. You're only caught if you're guilty.