Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Canadian Author's Association - Vancouver Chapter


Another of those Canadian Authors Association meetings. This time Nancy Flight, Associate Publisher of Greystone Books was the speaker. She’s some sort of Madonna on the speaker circuit, vivacious blond, articulate, intelligent, and a standing room only following. I was lucky to get a piece of floor. The Alliance for the Arts Building was packed. Out on Howe street , scalpers were selling tickets for the alleyway. People in the hall were craning necks to catch a glimpse of an author. Anthony Dalton, the new CAA president, tantalized them by walking across the floor. He’s the very image of a Canadian author, tweedy with twinkling eyes. A Dalton specifically for sure, but very Pierre Berton , Robertson Davies, William Gibson, Steven Leacock mongrelise otherwise.
Bob Mackay read a gripping cavalry passage from his new WWI historical fiction. Benice Lever, editor in residence, offered to practice her gentle sadism, the zen of editing for a modest fee. Adventurous Mumford was there. Jean Kay, whose poetry was all over the newspapers , talked about moving the meeting to the YWCA. I can just see it, “floating room only” in the pool. This things getting popular.
Nancy said books sold in depressions. The D&M Publishing Corporation was expanding. They’d just bought New Society out of Gabriola Island and were looking to add another to the Douglas and McIntyre and Greystone names. All the writers were there tonight taking notes on how to become David Suzuki or write a proposal.
Nancy said Greystone often came up with in house ideas and sought writers. Their latest writer, Julie Angus, author of “Rowboat in a Hurricane” was the first woman to row mainland to mainland across the Atlantic through several hurricanes. Personally I’d have passed on that idea!
Looking about though all the writers were there tonight . Some very keen, asking questions others taking notes, all very attentive. Whose your audience, she asked? The few looking like they’d lived a dissipated writer’s life but now had to write obviously thought that a very novel idea. Doystoyevski was in the corner frowning about gambling debts while Hemingway had to pay for single malt whiskey somehow.
I was happy I’d bought Ben Nuttall-Smith’s book, The Chameleon Sings and had to think about this idea of a proposal. K.A Hume was the type to think her book through. She’s organized that way. But how was I going to come up with a table of contents when I was writing books on sexuality and alcoholism. Nancy Flight told us publishers also wanted us to know whether it was fiction or non fiction. Who knows with alcoholism and sexuality? It helps that I’m an authority and apparently publishers appreciate enthusiasm in writers. At least I had the right topics even if my thesis was a little steamy and foggy.
Nothing like hearing Ben and Bob had both completed writing books since I talked to them last month. Maniacs. Don’t they have any distractions in their lives. I’m tempted to send them over my books, tv , dvd and mp3 players,google, refridgerator, bed, couch, and friends to slow them down a bit. Inspirational is one thing. There’s a lot of inspiration at these Canadian Author’s Association meetings. But Ben and Bob are obviously fanatics. If they had my cat for a weekend they’d be lucky to write a haiku. But all power to them. I told Ben he deserved a vacation in Mexico. I’m back to working on a proposal.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Jan. 12, 2009 - Clive Cussler







I've just finished yet another Clive Cussler novel. What Tom Clansey is to war, Clive is to the sea. His Dirk Pitt adventure series are a startling mix of discovery channel information reminiscent of the research that James Michener and later Michael Creighton were famous for. coupled with plots and villains as imaginative as Ian Flemming 007 series. Dirk Pitt the underwater researcher is also Schwartzenager and Bruce Lee all wrapped into the American boy next door who always finds lovely intelligent ladies to rescue or fall in love with. The side kick character Giordino is more 'real' and not ironically European in style. Coupled with these two is a whole National Underwater and Marine Agency (NUMA) research team that plays various secondary leads in each of the series. Admiral Standecker is the wise leader who parents this madcap crew interfacing routinely with Navy and president in one global crisis after another. I always swear I'll not not go on another seven seas romp with Clive Cussler until his next novel surfaces. They're terribly distracting and extremely hard to put down!
Shockwave published in 1996 is the one I just finished. I'll think it's the best until the next. Normally I'm reading them at sea or on planes but this one helped me through a Greyhound bus ride in a blizzard.
Arctic Drift is his 2008 offering. Reading them I'm reminded of those first adventure novels we kids read with flashlights in tents, parents shouting, "you'd better be sleeping in that tent". We'd shout back 'we are' with eyes racing dying batteries just as the hero..... And that's the feeling I get reading a Clive Cussler. Boyish excitement and freedom but of course far more complex plots and adult romance.
Clive Cussler was an Eagle Scout, an Air Force Sergeant in the Korean War and later a marine archeologist exploring ship wrecks that sometimes appear in his books. One imagines his fond characters are based on himself and the friends that surround him all made just that much larger than life as to satisfy Mark Twains dictum that the facts shouldn't get too much in the way of a good story. There's always an appealling bit of the sea yarn and camp fire tale.
Having sailed Pacific coasts and islands, made ocean crossings and scuba dived wrecks myself, I probably appreciate more the truths in Cussler's descriptions of sea and ships. But he's sold close to a hundred million books so his appeal is far beyond the common mariner. And something about his bright and competent female characters has made him more appealing to women than so many of the other male dominated adventure series. Now I really must go to sleep even if I don't have to worry about flashlight batteries or parents calling.
They that go down to the sea in ships; and occupy their business in great waters. Bible
No man will be a sailor who has contrivance enough to get himself into a jail, for being in a ship is being in a jail, with the chance of being drowned....A man in a jail has more room, better food, and commonly better company. Samuel Johnson 1709-1784
The sea hates a coward. Eugene O'Neil 1888-1953
The sea has such extraordinary moods that sometimes you feel this is the only sort of life -- and 10 minutes later you're praying for death. Prince Phillip 1921 -

Jan. 12, 2009 - Clive Cussler

I;ve just finished yet another Clive Cussler novel. What Tom Clansey is to war, Clive is to the sea.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

After Church


He was a handsome older man standing in the shadows by the tree at the intersection. I could have walked on when the light turned green but stopped already said hello in that friendly way that invites conversation. He said hello in return turning towards me and looking me over. I guess I passed muster because he began to talk, saying something about the weather. A mild night it was with the snow melting and no rain.

One thought he might not have spoken much for a time. We talked about the weather and football for a while and then he spoke of his children. The light had turned green a couple of times already. I'm of an age when men who used to talk of lovers more often talk of their children. Often I don't know if it's their children they're talking about or their grand children. He was friendly and sensible and I was glad I'd said hello. Glad I'd not thought he was a mugger. Everyone looks the type if you watch enough tv.

In the end I took him for a pilot or a farmer but neither of us talked about work. It becomes less important with time.

I'd just come from church and I'm sure that Apostle Elizabeth would have wanted me to talk about Jesus but it didn't seem opportune. Not that I don't like talking about Jesus. But this man was talking about his children and how they'd liked to garden and the snow and rain would be good for gardens.

His ride came. Saying good bye, he got in the back of a suburu with young people in the front.

The light turned green and I went this time. I walked on to where I'd parked my truck. It was a kind of a peaceful and pleasant walk. Another time I wouldn't have stopped. Certainly not after work. Church does that to me. Makes me slow down. Taking time for a stranger. Behaving like I was back living in the country where people just naturally talked to each other.

I'll bet it's easier for a woman like Apostle Elizabeth to talk to a stranger about Jesus. I don't think Apostle Elizabeth knows what its like if a man starts talking to another man in the city about Jesus. Maybe he'd think I was a mugger or something. Certainly wouldn't talk to me about gardens and children. I would have talked to him about my truck if his ride hadn't come. I've been getting really good mileage on my truck since I took it in for a tune up.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Censorship


A psychiatrist showed one Rorsharck ink blot card to a patient after another only to have the patient answer to everyone, that what he saw was dirty, filthy, disgusting, sex. The psychiatrist concluding the test informed the patient that he appeared to have sex on the mind. The patient answered rather irritably, "You're the one showing me the dirty pictures."


I am afraid to write of love in this society. I long to be a poet in a country free from the petty censorship of the perverted social bullies that lie to hold humanity in a petrie dish that they can keep locked away for their own masturbatory fantasies. There is no creativity at the end of a gun. The Song of Songs would be pissed on today by the eyes of censors and shat on by their twisted words. There is no love in this institutional world, just political correctness and whoring. Reduced to dollars and cents their marriages are just institutionalized prostitution. There is no romance. The sacred has gone out of the sterile room of their souless arrogance. They are above the law and are the lowest of law. They sell permits to peep holes claiming to be pure when purity is not a word in the vocabulary of their degenerate filth. Heartless they dribble, drool, and stink with the contagion of their own contempt. They are superior in their arrid loveless intellects dulled by power and misuse. They brand us all with numbers refusing to look at the code they carved on their own foreheads. The unhealed scabs of their own unconscious are projected willy nilly upon the innoscent. They claim to protect the children while children run from their two faced death grimace smiles. No child wants to be held hostage to a nightmare. They spend more money on bombs, abortion and euthansia than schools and hospitals. Their idea of a cuddly toy is an abacus. I am afraid to write of love in this society. Love can get one jailed or asylumed or shot for disobeying the law. Thou shalt not love. Love is not politically correct! There is no tiny slot for it in the compartmentalized brain of the beaurocrat and the beaurocrat kills anything that might bother their brain, a heartless plugged up urinal disconnected from the oceans of love and humanity. I am afraid to write of love in this society. It would be misconstrued as propanda, politically incorrect and I would be shot.


That said. I will write you and you alone a love poem, if only you keep it as a secret hidden in your heart. You must promise to whisper your response. And I will reply with a wink knowing that as yet the spy satellites aren't calibrated for a wink. And don't tell the children because they may be questioned one day. It is hard enough for them knowing that their parents and their parents parents are afraid. They're already too afraid to even know why they're afraid. Best to leave them that way until the loneliness makes them question why only television people are free.

Wink.


Man was born free, and everywhere he is in chains. Jean-Jacques Rousseau 1712-78

What is freedom of expression? Without the freedom to offend, it ceases to exist. Salmon Rushdie 1947 -

If I can't love Hitler, I can't love at all. Rev. A. J. Muste 1885-1967

And love's the noblest frailty of the mind. John Dryden 1631-1700

Dirty Pictures

A psychiatrist showed one Rorsharck ink blot card to a patient after another. The patient answered that each one was some form of bizarre sex. The psychaitrist said, "you seem to have sex on your mind." "You're the one showing me the dirty pictures,"answered the patient.

Friday, January 9, 2009

City of Men


I just watched "City of Men", the 2008 Brazillian movie, directed by Paulo Morelli, starring Douglas Silva as Acerola and Darlan Cunha as Larinjinha filmed on location in Dead End Hill of Rio de Janeiro. I'd been moved by the 2003 City of God movie about modern Rio de Janeiro. Channel surfing I got caught by producer Merielles follow up.

Two young fatherless friends, one turning 18 while the other hardly older and a father of the toddler, "Clayton" struggle with their own fatherless identities. Clayton is clearly as little impressed by his father's struggle with whether to be a father as the mother who must leave to earn a living. This deep and touching friendship with all the forced ethical development plays out against the background of shallow gangster war, crime and poverty. Having no intention but to watch a minute before going early to bed tired from a long days work, I watched the movie to the end inspired by the characters, the generational and family stories weaving in this exciting tale of urban survival.

My dad is 90. He told me on the phone how much he enjoyed feeding carrots to elk through the car window at a game park my brother took him to last week. Listening to the sadness and longing of these Brazilian boys I appreciated again having my Dad. He was always working and my brother and I were often his assistants whether it was fixing trucks and cars or building boats. He was a doer if ever there was a doer. A self sufficient man, a leader who at times had a hundred or more men working for him. Ex air force we felt the effects of the military training in the home but God the weekends could be wonderful. Toboganning, skating, playing catch. Following him everywhere in the woods. My brother, older got in behind him and if Iwas day dreaming the dog would get ahead of me. The rifle ranges, boy scouts, canoeing and duck blinds. Always the pick up truck and projects upon projects. Mom was ubiquitous and somehow always there. Camping and road trips were family favourites. It only got better when grandad was there, with grandma, the uncles and aunts and all the cousins. Then it was a whole lot of Dad's family and big tables of food and laughter. I liked my father's family. The ranchers and cowboys and loggers. There's a whole lot of good memories and pride of name that goes with knowing my Dad.

It's good when a movie speaks to the depth of the unseen. My dad was like clean air and safe water. It's easy to forget that's not the world all grow up in. Thanks to the men making this movie we can hope for Clayton as he toddles in uncertainty between these two fatherless sons.
It is a wise father that knows his own son. William Shakespeare 1564 -1616
Don't go into Mr. McGregor's garden: your father had an accident there, he was put into a pie by Mrs. McGregor. Beatrix Potter 1866 - 1943