Posted on December 17, 2009 by Megan
I find myself working on a highly disturbing poem these last two days. One granted by the muse to some degree (I haven’t had to fight for it), but it leaves me wondering why exactly this? I think it might be quite good, though I worry it’s melodramatic. The subject matter makes me ill. But I keep going back to it anyways. A scab I’m picking off the past. At least I’m not bleeding much over it, just a little scarred.
It makes me think of all the things I don’t write here. All the things we don’t share because they are too scary or preposterous or because I’m afraid of being accused of over-dramatizing my life. Or because I’m afraid of scaring the people who love me – or whatever the reason is.
But I might as well since I’m dwelling here a little bit right now – share the basis of the poem (since the poem itself is nowhere near sharing):
In 1981, at the age of eight years old, I met Clifford Olson on a lonely dirt road in the interior of BC. It was about four weeks before his arrest, during the month of July when he was roaming the province in a bit of a killing frenzy. But I was only eight and didn’t know the man who pulled up alongside me as I pedaled my bike down the road past my grandfather’s house. His car slowed and I stopped my bike. Up there people paused to talk to us on the road all the time. I was related to most of the people who lived in the community, but I didn’t recognize this one. I thought perhaps he was lost, anticipated he would ask me how to get back to the highway and I would tell him. I was alone on the road and he didn’t say anything to me as he started to open his door carefully as if he didn’t want to startle. And I knew then. I knew something wasn’t right. I can still feel it now when I remember looking at his face as he opened that door. It was all wrong. He was all wrong. But then his eyes were on me and somehow I couldn’t move. Literally. One leg on the ground, the other over the seat of my bike and I couldn’t make myself go even though I knew I should. It must have been less than a minute. Thirty seconds even – I can still play out the heat, the dust, his eyes, the brown sedan in my head as though it were hours.
And then my mother and brother came around the corner on their bikes. Just behind me. I had been racing ahead. Forgot about them until I heard them behind me, turned my head. And the man slammed his door and kicked dust up as he took off down the road, past my mother who rode up and asked. “Who was that?” And I felt ashamed that I had stopped for a stranger and told her I didn’t know and he hadn’t said anything but I was afraid and she could see that. Two days later she came to me with the Salmon Arm Observer, a police drawing of Olson on the 2nd page under the heading “Have you seen this man?” because he was in the area, had been seen nearby. Was it him? she asked. And it was. It was him. She wondered whether we should call the RCMP and I said no. Maybe it wasn’t him after all. Because I thought if we called the police I would get in trouble. That his presence on the road was somehow my fault. And I think my mother must have been spooked because she didn’t want to acknowledge it either. It was better to let the matter drop. It never came up again.
His last known victim was killed July 30th, 1981 and when he was arrested in August of 1981 he had two young women in the car with him. Saved. Like me. I often wonder about those women and whether they still carry the end of their life around with them. Are they disturbed by how close they got to someone so dangerous? Have they managed to forget it? Because I have to admit that I haven’t, and though mostly I don’t think about it – when I do, I’m terrified.
Because of that, because I was imprinted strongly by Olson’s case and the later news stories of the Green River killer who seemed to be right in my backyard – I have retained strong visual memories of these boogeymen and their victims who turned up in wooded ravines, at creeksides, on jogging paths. I come across a news story and I’m reminded of their school photographs, braces and feathered hair, and I’m standing on the side of the road all over again. Twenty seconds away from it. And the adult me is just fucking angry about that scared little girl. A momentary encounter and I’m still fucked up over it from time to time almost thirty years later.
I’m not here to cry about it though. It’s just what’s been in my creative consciousness these past few days and I wonder about my reluctance to write about it. Until now, my inability to write about it (I’ve tried). Because I’m somehow still ashamed or guilty that I didn’t run when I could, that my fear got in the way of reaction. Eight years old. I suppose that’s how it happens.
Posted on December 16, 2009 by Megan
Just in case you are following along the house in Gibsons saga – subjects were removed last night by the original buyers six hours before the deadline and my duplex is now officially sold. Yes! Official transfer of possession happens February 28th, and before then I’ve got at least one dump run and one sallyann run to do, not to mention a tenant to evict (he knows it’s coming, there’s two and a half months notice going on), but once it’s over the headache of that house is too!
I’m in the middle of a book glut at the moment, having received several books on order at the library simultaneous to some other books on order from the internet plus receiving an early christmas present and secure in the knowledge that more books are on the way as christmas gifts. This means that I have about 25 books in the to-read stack at the moment, and every one of them is exciting to me.
A smattering of the books currently stacked around the bed “to read” (I’m at work and purely doing this from memory, I’m sure there are double this number of titles in the stacks):
Nothing too dense, nothing too heavy – a lovely and wide ranging list of things to choose from over the holidays depending on how much time I get to just lounge and read and be decadent (I’m hoping for a lot, though I know how I generally work and I’m too fretful to spend whole days in bed doing nothing, not to mention the fact I need to eke out some writing time to get to novel’s end as well). I’ve noticed my book compulsion has dialed up a notch again lately, and I’m wondering what it says about my overall need to escape from my working life mainly and just take a stroll through someone else’s imagination for awhile……
This is the time of year for book lists – an interesting one being the Guardian’s Best The decade’s best unread books, not to mention the Advent Book Blog which is all over the gifty recommendations in books. I don’t know if I could even put together a top ten for the decade at this point, I’ve had some many miraculous and inspiring tomes come into my hands over the past ten years….. but perhaps a top ten for the year is in order before we get into 2010.
Posted on December 15, 2009 by Megan
Things are good. Things are weird. Things are tiring. It’s just that time of year I suppose and I’m looking forward to this Friday when my holiday begins and I’m off work for sixteen days in a row. That’s some kind of record for me in the last few years – rarely do I take more than a week at a time off – which is how I ended up with five weeks of leave in my bank as we get close to the end of the year. Why not use it? Because right now I pretty much just want to lie down and sleep for days and days, so exhausted by the season even as I enjoy the parties and socializing.
I’ve just accepted another offer on my house as of last night, since it appears that the people who first offered are not going to come through (they have until midnight tonight to remove the subjects) due to some kind of financing problem. We’ll see of course, it could happen that all their paperwork gets taken care of this afternoon, but generally my experience has been that when people are last-minute it means they don’t have it together. In any case, another woman has put in an offer on the place and we have an agreed-upon price so if these folks don’t come through it’s onto the next one and hopefully that goes alright. I try not to get my hopes up but really the whole thing stresses me out because I want to be done with that property more than anything at the moment.
I’m at 58,000 words and the novel is working for me this week – as opposed to last week when I wanted to shred it up into little pieces and compost it in the backyard. I think I’ve got about 25,000 more words to finish, but I really don’t know at this point and I would just like to get the whole story down on paper before I start with the rewrite process which will bring more consistency to the whole thing. I have no idea right now whether I’m going to try to edit this to a publishable state or just treat it as “practice”. What I do know is that I’ve got a lot more confidence on output as a result, and I’m looking forward to some short story writing in the new year when I take a break from the novel in between versions.
And not that I’m thinking ahead or anything but I’ve decided that my birthday in February should be a salon-style affair loosely based on the 17th and 18th century French tradition of the literary salon. A performance affair in which people bring their own literary work or another contemporary piece to read or perform (as in a skit or a musical piece) for the rest of the participants. Back in university I had friends that held such events occasionally and have found myself thinking of doing this for awhile – so why not in February? More details on that as I figure them out because the hostess or salonierre sets ground rules for discussion and I have no idea what those would be.
Posted on December 14, 2009 by Megan
The Federal Government Department and the writer of this note shall remain nameless – but somewhere in Canada’s federal service this Christmas missive was penned and it’s too bizarre not to share:
December 25 is a national holiday in Canada and in many countries around the world. On that day, Christians commemorate the birth of Jesus of Nazareth, the first leader of the Catholic Church. Families decorate trees and put ornaments on their front door or yard and in their house. Christians and non-Christians gather around delicious holiday dishes and share gifts and cards.
Since DFO is a learning organization that values the perspectives and contributions of all employees from diverse backgrounds, managers will be able to consider requests for accommodation from employees, in accordance with the departmental Accommodation Policy and Guide.
I encourage all employees to take this opportunity and learn about Christians and their contributions to the Canadian society.
For more information on Christianity, please consult the National Defence Religions in Canada publication.
I wish all who participate a very Merry Christmas.
Because, you know, Christmas really is a time to learn about Christians – marginal as they are in Canadian society – shouldn’t you care about their holiday?
Posted on December 9, 2009 by Megan
It really has been ages since I’ve done a book review on here so I’m back with more two sentence reviews for my fall reads. Thank goodness for WeBook which helps me at least keep track of what I’ve read or I’d have completely forgotten some of these!
<a href="The Man Game | Lee Henderson
Set during the days when Vancouver was still known as Hastings Mill Henderson conjures up an alternate history that centers around a logger’s sport called “the man game” which is performed in the nude and involves a series of complicated dance-like moves. His characters are colourful, though the Chinook jargon employed seems a bit off to me, not to mention their general English (cremains? I don’t think that word was invented in 1896). Overall I enjoyed this but I thought it could have used a much better edit (a frequent complaint I have about new Canadian literature) – there is an attempt to tie in a modern story that doesn’t really go anywhere, and many of the conversations in the historic plot-line don’t seem to advance anything much. I did want to like this a great deal but in the end I found it only somewhat amusing and the anachronisms distracting from the main story line.
The Glass Room | Simon Mawer
I’m trying to find a way to call this book lovely, tragic and simple without sounding mawkish or silly and it’s proving difficult. Set against the backdrop of Czechoslovakia’s 1920s heyday slipping into decline during fascist and then communist takeover – Mawer tells the story of Viktor and Liesel Landauer, a Jew and gentile of prominence who build a modern architectural masterpiece of a home and then are exiled from it at the height of WW2. About love, betrayal, art, pride and the circumstances that bring people full circle – this is a historical novel that hits the mark all around. (Shortlisted for the 2009 Booker)
Thin is the New Happy | Valerie Frankel
A quick little self-help read about one woman’s search to get off the diet-anxiety train and learn how to enjoy life again. Not much new here, take it out of the library if you want to read it.
Last Night in Twisted River | John Irving
I really love John Irving but sometimes I feel like he goes for quantity rather than quality in his storytelling – and this book is in danger of being accused of that. A novel about life on the run for a man and his son (who accidentally kills his father’s lover at the age of eleven), Last Night in Twisted River has many great elements including sharp characters and an interesting plot trajectory – but at the same time it’s as though Irving wants to throw in everything including the kitchen sink and the book meanders quite a bit more than need be. Only a true Irving fan would read this all the way through, it’s not one I’d recommend (check out Until I Find You if you want a recent Irving novel that manages to meander and still come back to itself by the end).
Muybridge’s Horse | Rob Winger
This was one of the books Brian and I read aloud over the summer and absolutely loved it – a book length poem about Eadweard Muybridge, a groundbreaking photographer who proved in 1878 through with 50 precisely-timed still cameras that a horse’s four feet all come off the ground during mid-stride (his work was a precursor to the development of moving pictures. This book-length poem, or really a novel told in verse charts the life of Muybridge and his work – vividly and in language appropriate to the task of taking up the life of the enigmatic and impassioned man. If you like this sort of thing I would highly recommend.
Reading Like a Writer: A guide for people who love books and those who want to write them | Francine Prose
A worthwhile guide to close-reading and recognizing the strengths and weaknesses in the prose we read and write. I took this out of the library but now have it on my list of books to own – a handy reference of things to think about and watch out for in the quest to create great literature.
Dirt Music | Tim Winton
I wouldn’t have minded this book – the writing isn’t bad and the setting is quite vivid (roughneck fishing town in Australia) – and it was shortlisted for the Booker and all… but I absolutely detested the main character, a woman “trapped” in a relationship with a man she isn’t interested in. I just couldn’t help but see the entire story through his perspective, a man with a past he’s trying to overcome, meets a woman he thinks would be a good stepmom to his kids after his own wife dies of cancer and in exchange she becomes a total alcoholic and cheats on him, makes unfair accusations and ultimately engages him in a whole lot of drama he doesn’t need. Yuck. Apparently this is coming out as a film in 2010. (Shortlisted for the Booker in 2001)
Cheri and the Last of Cheri | Colette
Oldies but goodies – two novellas document the story of Cheri, a coddled boy raised by French courtesans, his ultimate marriage and later downfall as a boy who never quite becomes a man. Classics of literature for good reason, and a snapshot of Parisian society at the end of the Edwardian era which provides just enough intrigue and gossip without losing the modern reader in historical allusion.
<a href="The Collected Works of Billy the Kid | Michael Ondaatje
A GG winner in it’s day (1978), I’ve seen this book referred to as the best of 20th century Canadian poetry and I’ve got to agree. Brian brought this home one day and over a two-week period I read it aloud to him – gutwrenchingly violent in language at times, other moments catching love and camaraderie – I was stunned by Ondaatje’s ability to narrate a life so faithfully in verse. If you only read one book of Canadian poetry ever – this should be it.
<a href="A Good Man Is Hard to Find: And Other Stories“>A Good Man is Hard to Find and Other Stories | Flannery O’Connor
Although Flannery O’Connor didn’t live very long (she died at 39), her short stories are some of the most masterfully crafted of the twentieth century. Set in the US South during the twenties to fifties, O’Connor’s tales revolve around the moral frailties and failures of her human subjects – seen through the eyes of an onlooker though without the judgement one might expect. Race, religion and rural hardship are central themes – the struggle to get along, to get one over on each other, told in the language of her time and place.
Drown & The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao | Junot Diaz
I’m lumping these together for the sake of brevity and also just to say that Junot Diaz is one of the most talented writers out of the US these days. Originally from the Dominican Republic, Diaz explores race, immigration, impoverished childhoods, domestic abuse and the brutal history of the DR in his imaginative, wistful and almost-funny stories. I can’t recommend another writer more than Diaz – The Brief and Wondrous Life a tragic and eye-opening novel, and Drown an impeccable collection of short stories. Read him!
The Seance – John Harwood
I love a good gothic ghost story and this book hits that mark with all the right elements: an orphaned teenager who believes she is a foundling, an inheritance of a crumbling home, paranormal investigators seeking to debunk Victorian spiritualism and a thwarted romance or two along the way. Spooky and yet not prone to fantasy – this is a good read.
The Little Stranger – Sarah Waters
But for gothic ghost story this year’s winner truly is The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters which documents the decline of British manor society post-World War Two through the travails of one family beset upon by a poltergeist in their crumbling home. Described in the Guardian as “a perverse hymn to decay, to the corrosive power of class resentment as well as the damage wrought by war” – it’s a compelling read and I highly recommend it. (Shortlisted for the 2009 Booker)
Special Topics in Calamity Physics | Marisha Pressl
Okay, total escapism. I kept seeing this hard cover on remaindered piles and so I finally picked it up for $5 and really enjoyed it even though it was a tad trite and the ending might not be considered all that believable. Lots of historic, literary and political references here for the geeks – but an equal dose of teenage frippery and intrigue to balance it out. A fun read if not a realistic one.
Dark Places | Gillian Flynn
The ending made me hate this novel. I plodded through this murder-mystery of sorts (a woman’s family is murdered when she is a young girl – ostensibly by her brother) – not at all my type of book, hoping for an ending that redeemed it. Instead what I got was an ultraviolent and implausible scene involving one too many people for my liking. Not worth reading if you don’t like this sort of thing to begin with.