February is gone. The longest shortest month, especially this year. Rally for March — the strong verb month. The month that moves forward, takes charge. The month that starts in the dead of winter and forges to the start of spring. The cleaner what wipes up February’s sloppy romance, the heartache, the emotional frenzy of births and deaths, the bone-cracking cold and the still-late dawn. March is a month of madness — not lunacy, but anger. The month that fires us up for something better. Brighter. Lets us shake out the rage, the hurt, the sorrow. Burn away. Readying ourselves for April’s revival.
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Happy Groundhog Day. Happy Groundhog Day. Happy Groundhog Day.
I was just reading about the history of Groundhog Day because I have long been a fan of the husky little marmots. They’re not common where I grew up in the prairies. There, I was much more likely to see ye old woodchuck’s smaller and somehow more pesky cousin, the gopher. And I like them too. But they’re not quite cool enough to get their own day.
In the mid 2000s I was visiting my friend in Ottawa. It was late spring and as we walked near the National Gallery, mommy groundhogs and even cuter baby groundhogs dotted the lawn. My excitement at seeing them was definitely as high as my excitement at seeing Parliament for the first time. In fact, I held more reverence for the little furlings than I did (do) for any politician. I tried my damnedest to pet one, which my friend found hilarious. Predictably, most of them immediately scurried away in fear, while others first took a little run-step towards me with teeth bared. I got the warning, but I still think they’re adorable.
A couple years later when my husband and I moved to Ottawa, groundhog sightings were a regular thing, but the thrill didn’t wane. I was working a job I despised that required a 45 minute meandering bus ride through the city. The highlight for me was passing through the Carleton University campus, where it would seem groundhogs outnumbered students 2-1. I would count them, and if I spotted 10 or more I’d take it as a sign that my workday would be somehow bearable. I have no idea why I decided groundhogs would be my talisman of workplace fulfillment, but sometimes it seemed to work. Maybe if I carried around one of their little paws, like a lucky rabbit’s foot, I would’ve won the lottery by now. But I could never commit groundhog-icide.
My incomplete and non-extensive research into Groundhog Day has taught me that its history is tied both to German weather lore and the Celtic festival of Imbolc or St. Brigid’s Day. A-ha! Loving the groundhog and the day in his honour is born in my very own German-Irish blood. Actually, I suppose weather prognosticating really is in my blood to some degree because my Dad once dreamed of being a meteorologist and is probably the most enthusiastic weather watcher I know.
The Germans of Pennsylvania considered the tradition of groundhog weather prediction important enough to make it a regular thing starting in the mid 1800s. I guess we saw all the fun going on south of the border and decided to celebrate Groundhog Day with our own furry weather men. In Canada, the celebrity groundhogs are Wiarton Willie (Ontario) and his less-famous brethren Shubenacadie Sam (Nova Scotia), Brandon Bob (Manitoba) and Balzac Billy (from my neck of the woods in Alberta). They all live in protective custody, so to speak, and are reluctantly nudged from their winter slumber to pop up every February 2 and look for shadows. Whether they see them or not is fairly moot up in these parts, because we always have winter for 6 more weeks. Usually 10 more weeks.
Still, I love the tradition and nerdily check the news to see what the whistle pigs from coast-to-coast have to say each year. I do have affection for the most famous groundhog of them all, Punxsutawney Phil, but I feel allegiance to the underhogs of Canada. Plus, that Phil is a little big for his burrow anyway, since Bill Murray went and made that movie about him. Though it is pretty cool that a silly ’90s comedy gave us a whole new meaning for the term “Groundhog Day.”
So, Happy Groundhog Day to you, whether you’re in the grips of winter (and will be until April) or you’re basking in a long hot Australian summer (like my snow-allergic sister). And if you get caught in some do-over time loop, just say a prayer to the pagan goddess Brigid, or shut your eyes and count groundhogs the way you count sheep to go to sleep. I heard counting them brings good luck.
Hate to Love It
There are many things in life I love to hate. Freezing rain. Parrots. Bigots. Those who refuse to accept that climate change is an actual thing. Vladimir Putin. I try not to be too negative, but a little ire in life isn’t such a terrible thing. Worse, for me, is admitting the things that I hate to love. Shameful, silly, frivolous or purely escapist things that should cause me to retch. Instead, I harbour affection. I feel like admitting this is the first step to recovery. Or maybe something creative can come out of it — a poetic riff on the self-loathing I feel whenever I click through a slideshow of the best-dressed women at the Oscars, for example.
I like lists. So here, in no relevant order, are five things I hate to love:
1) Maroon 5 songs: Let me be clear — I am not saying I love the band as an entity, but rather the music they make. I don’t really know anything about them other than the fact that frontman Adam Levine seems to be everywhere, and appears to take himself way too seriously. He’s sort of re-invented smarmy in a way that apparently appeals to the masses. He and his crew churn out tune after tune and I want to hate all their hits, but I don’t. “Moves Like Jagger” is one of my favourite songs from the last five years. I don’t think it’s deep, but damn if it doesn’t make me want to dance and sing. It makes me happy. I was hooked way back in 2002 when they came out with “Harder to Breathe”, and I STILL like that song. Then this new “Sugar” song comes out and the video! Well, it’s unbearable. But again, the song worms its way into my psyche and has a little party. How embarrassing.
2) The smell of gasoline: I know I am not unique in liking this nauseating scent. Lots of weirdos out there do. And I feel the need to clearly state that I don’t huff the stuff or anything. But that little whiff you get at the gas station? That’s a pleasant experience for me. Maybe I’m getting just enough benzene in that sniff to get a tiny buzz. Maybe it smells like happy childhood memories. I don’t know.
3) Cheezies: The colour alone should be repellent. Nothing in nature has ever been that vibrantly orange. Not even a majestic monarch butterfly. Or an actual orange. Reading the “nutritional” information on a package should be enough to put me off for life, but I’m more likely to rip open the bag and eat them by the salty, crunchy, fatty handful. Then have the perma-orange fingers as a guilty reminder.
4) Charlie Sheen: Why do I find this disgusting human somehow endearing? I cannot answer that question. It’s not his “bad boy” quality. The alcohol and drug fueled tirades are pretty sad, and the allegations of violence against women should land him squarely in the “Love to Hate” column. But despite all of this, I think he’s pretty human, funny at times, and enjoyably honest in his own messed up way. There’s something about Charlie that just makes me want to give him a second chance. Or twenty. I blame his short but sweet stint in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
5) When figure skaters fall at major competitions. Especially the Olympics: This is a hard one to admit, because it might be a big dirty window into my psyche. I actually smile a little when the shimmering skaters go up for a fantastic jump or spin and then come down with a boom. This is so horrible! I know it. With that fall often comes the collapse of years of training and talent, so I know the appropriate response is the collective “aww” of disappointment and sympathy you can hear in the crowd. But there’s just something so satisfyingly human about the seemingly infallible skater taking an ugly bite on the ice. I feel bad that I take some twisted pleasure in it. And I don’t like watching them after, all teary and torn up as they wait for the terrible scores. But the moment of the fall…it’s just fantastic. Note: I don’t care who the skater is or what country he or she represents. All epic skating fails are equal in their awesomeness.
My angry call to Santa
I am a liar. A big, fat, Santa’s jelly-belly sized liar. I try to be honest in most aspects of life, but when it comes to perpetuating the Santa myth in my house, I weave that lie good and strong. My husband goes along for the sleigh ride, but I’ve never heard him busting out the Santa tales the way I do. Or the Santa threats…but I’ll get to that in a minute.
Apparently there’s a new movement in parenting to be completely forthright, and tell kids from the start that Santa’s not real. In these households, even three-year-olds know. They’re too streetwise for this North Pole crap. Ain’t nobody got time for that silly stuff…and hey Mom and Dad, I know I’m only in pre-school, but why don’t you shoot me a smart phone in my stocking? I guess I get the idea of not lying to your kids, but in this instance, it makes me kinda sad too. Kids grow up WAY too fast nowadays. Can’t we do this one small thing to keep the fun and innocence in childhood?
For me, perpetuating the Santa myth wasn’t even a question. I loved believing in Santa when I was little. It made Christmas so much more exciting and magical. It added a sense of wonder and sparkle to the holidays, that no Christmas since my “discovery” has ever been able to match. I held on to that belief years longer than I truly believed, because I thought abandoning the Santa myth would ruin Christmas. When my older sister basically told me to cut the crap and that I was too old to believe in Santa anymore (which I was) it resulted in a tearful, melodramatic display complete with me shrieking “But I’m just a little girl!” This became a running family joke at my expense for years. I like to think they were laughing with me, not at me.
But even that harsh dose of reality was worth it for all the years of fun. All those fanciful thoughts about what he would put in my stocking. Would he remember that Cabbage Patch Doll I was dying to have, or surprise me with some fantastically perfect gift I didn’t even know I wanted? What would he say in his note? (My dad, a storyteller by nature, wrote epic letters from Santa that somehow thrilled us kids and entertained the adults too). Santa was omniscient, benevolent, comforting and jolly, and he had those amazing flying reindeer to boot. Sacrilege here, I know, but Santa was a god.
With the red-suit in charge, Christmas rocked. So when my kids got old enough to participate in the excitement, I was more than willing to build-up the big guy in their minds. “We have no fireplace, how will Santa get in?” my older daughter wonders. “Well, he can come in doors and windows too.” (Santa is a master B & E artist, after all). “How does Santa know what I want, Mom?”. “Well, he’s always listening, and watching, and we can write him a letter too — just to be sure.” And my favourite question, a statement actually, came this year from her five-year-old mouth: “Mom, there are two great mysteries in the world. One, what exactly made the dinosaurs go extinct, and two, how do Santa’s reindeer fly?”. The juxtaposition of legitimate scientific query and childish wonder had me laughing inside for days. And of course I had answers, even if they were crap: “Um, might’ve been a meteorite or volcano or something for the dinosaurs, but as for the reindeer, they fly with magic dust .” Naturally.
I like to think that I’ve painted Santa in a positive, sparkly light. Yes, they know about the naughty or nice stuff, but I’ve also mentioned that Santa’s pretty forgiving and if you’re mostly a good kid, he’ll drop by. He’s all about generosity, love and joy, after all. Until…until earlier this week when I was feeling particularly crushed by the stress of a billion “to-dos” of the season, suffering from sleep-shortage, and just not in a good place to deal with crap from my kids. This is precisely the time when my three-year-old decides to use her mighty will to refuse to get ready for bed. There are adamant shouts of “No!”, followed by hysterical screaming and flailing, then the super-effective “I will go completely limp” strategy when I try to physically compel her to move. “You are acting very, very naughty right now and Santa will NOT be bringing you any presents!” I bellow. Idle threat, apparently. “I don’t want any presents!” she proclaims with pouty lip. “I’m calling him right now. I’m telling him you don’t want or deserve any presents!” And as I walk to the phone I am already thinking how completely stupid this is. I’ve never won an argument with a toddler yet. But I’m just as stubborn as my kids — they got it from somewhere — and so the script proceeds. I dial five random numbers until the Telus lady starts beaking in my ear about how my call cannot be completed as dialed. I put the phone to my three-year-old’s ear long enough so she can hear there’s a voice, and then tell her it’s Santa’s elf line and I have to leave a message. This is the point where my five year old, whose been silently observing the whole time, starts to freak. “No Mom! Don’t leave a message! She’ll be good! I’ll help her get ready for bed!” I leave the faux message anyway and older sister starts to cry. Three-year-old is completely unfazed. “Why are you crying?” I ask my older daughter. “I didn’t tell him not to bring you any presents.”
“I know Mom, but she gets good toys too, and we can share, so if Santa doesn’t come for her, I only get to play with half as much stuff!” I admire her logic and reasoning, but am also sad she’s apparently got a huge case of the greedy guts…already.
Once three-year-old has calmed down, and come to her own decision that she in fact will get into her pjs and brush her teeth, older daughter implores me to call the elf-line again. So I do. “Hi Santa, it’s Kim. Please ignore my earlier message and keep both my girls on the nice list.” Five-year-old is visibly relieved. Three-year-old still doesn’t care. I, on the other hand, think WTF did I just do? These silly threats and my big show did nothing except taint all the wonder of Santa I’ve been so keen to build. Is this what my daughters will remember about Christmas –anger, punishment and Santa withholding — more than the ideas of generosity and kindness? Plus, I am a bit disappointed that they didn’t even call me on the fact that I don’t make the naughty or nice list — Santa does.
I silently resolve to cut the seasonal Santa threats and try better parenting strategies to get them to behave, for the sake of behaving instead of for the promise of material goods. I will still build the benevolent Santa myth though. There will be cookies eaten, and personal notes with Santa’s signature catchphrase (“Ho ho ho and away I go!”). We’ll watch the Christmas Eve Santa tracker on TV to see how close he is before bedtime, and if it’s not too cold, there might be “reindeer tracks” in the snow to discover Christmas morning.
I’m gonna keep spewing the lie, in the hopes that it’s even half as much fun for them as it was, and is, for me. And as for the fall out when some non-believing kid spills the beans at school? Well, I’ll cross that bridge when it comes. And hope my kids see my good intent in being a big, fat liar.
Fears
Lately I’ve been feeling the pull of dark things. Not in reality, but dark fiction. ‘Tis the season of horror, and I have been reading a lot, writing a little myself and thinking about what exactly it is that makes for good horror or thriller fiction. Of course, to be effective, horror writing has to conjure and communicate a sense of fear. I presume that when most writers go for the scary, they start with things that are personally terrifying. A bit of a twist on the old adage “write what you know” — write what you know scares the crap out of you. So I decided to do a little brainstorming about my own fears (the logical and probably universal, to some of the weirder ones that might make people say “Wha?! That scares you?”). I’ve posted 10 below, in no particular order. I am sure there are others I am not ready to face yet.
1) Drowning, asphyxiation, choking, being buried alive and any other horrifying scenario where I cannot breathe.
2) Car accidents (I saw the after effects of a deadly one on the highway last year and now the image is embedded in my brain).
3) Blindness, especially the sudden and unexpected kind. Where you just wake up one morning but everything is and always will be black.
4) Parrots (and other talking birds…actually any talking animal. Monkeys and apes that do sign language are fine.)
5) Lice, ticks, tapeworms and any other human parasite.
6) Any friend or family member getting lost or suddenly going missing.
7) Me, getting lost in the woods. Alone. I could cope if there was someone else there to help fight off the wolves, or cougars,or sasquatches or whatever. Especially if I could run faster than that companion.
8) Terminal disease or debilitating illness (I am a hypochondriac. Knowing that I am doesn’t stop me from having the thoughts).
9) Making other people sick — either by carrying some germ, or unintentionally poisoning them with some bacteria or allergen in my cooking.
10) Zombies. I am well aware this is a completely irrational and stupid fear, because I don’t actually believe zombies could ever exist. But I’ve watched too many episodes of Walking Dead, and now I’ve actually convinced myself I could encounter a snarling walker when I go to take out the garbage. And I will have, stupidly, left my katana in the house.
What scares you? Be warned though, if you tell me, there’s a good chance I might work it into a story.
Girl Songs
The new, self-titled Ryan Adams album came out this week. I got a chance to hear the song “Kim”, that I hoped would be good. I like it. It’s probably silly to be excited about a song with my name. I mean, it’s obviously NOT about me. But I think it’s cool to have my name included in the long list of songs with lady-names in the title. I don’t think my name in a title will ever be as catchy as Toto’s “Rosanna” or as recognizable as Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May”. Hopefully it’s not as annoying as Sarah McLachlan’s “Adia” (Sorry Sarah. I think you’re cool…just hate that song). It got me thinking about how many girl-inspired songs I love. I brainstormed some and the list was bigger than I expected…and included songs from way before my time, up to ones just recorded in the last year or two. I narrowed it down to 15. Here they are, and the reasons why I think they’re pretty neat.
15) “Rosealia,” Better Than Ezra (1995): I had a huge thing for Better Than Ezra during my first few years of university. I especially liked this song, which was fun to sing along to. It’s not particularly deep, but it brings back good memories for me. And I think the name Rosealia is just so pretty.
14) “I Wish I Knew Natalie Portman,” k-os (2009): My favourite thing about this song is that it pretty much has nothing to do with Natalie Portman, and k-os apparently just came up with that title on the spot. It’s a great song, by a fantastic Canadian rapper and I dig the sampling of the Phantom Planet song “California.” Better to associate that tune with this song than with the old TV show “The O.C.” Plus, doesn’t EVERYONE wish they knew Natalie Portman? (A complete aside: this song title also brings to mind the hilariously titled “I’ve Got A Crush On Wendy Mesley” by Canadian indie band Showbusiness Giants…but I don’t actually like the sound of that song very much, which is why it isn’t officially on my list).
13) “Angie,” The Rolling Stones (1973): This is one of my favourite Stones song. I am not always a fan of the acoustic ballads, but this one is heartfelt. I used to think it was such a nice love song for someone either Mick or Keith really dug, but I’ve since read that it’s actually about Keith’s love-hate relationship with heroin. I’m sad that rock stars struggle with addiction, but damn if it doesn’t make for some good music.
12) “Natalie,” Bruno Mars (2012): When Bruno’s not making sweet love songs declaring his devotion, admiration and lustiness for the ladies in his life, he apparently likes to sing about killing them. Normally not something I would be down with, but I don’t actually think this is a misogynistic song. Guy’s got a right to be mad at a lady who steals his money and bolts, no? It’s a funky little story of a song, complete with handclaps and background “oooos”.
11) “Edie (Ciao Baby),” The Cult (1989): This song is here because it rocks. It was one of my favourite “hard” songs when I was young, and I still like it. Ian Astbury is a great singer. It’s an art inspiring art song. A tribute to actress and model Edie Sedgwick who became famous for her work in Andy Warhol’s short films.
10) “Suzie Q,” Creedence Clearwater Revival (1968): This is actually a cover of a song by Dale Hawkins, but it took John Fogerty’s gritty growl to make it big. Their version is a sprawling jam that goes on for eight-plus minutes. It was shortened for radio play, understandably. To me it’s the kind of song that demonstrates how great simplicity can be. The vocals and lyrics are sparse but powerful. The guitar just shines on top of the uncomplicated percussion.
9) “Cecilia,” Simon & Garfunkel (1970): I had a best of Simon & Garfunkel tape (yes, tape) when I was a kid. I played it repeatedly on my treasured Sony ghetto blaster. This song was my favourite. It just makes me feel like dancing. Lyrically, it’s not-so-happy, lamenting the easy way a love moves on, but it sounds upbeat. I sing it to my daughters at bedtime. Or at least I did, until my older one asked about the meaning of the line “When I come back to bed someone’s taken my place.” I didn’t really have an appropriate answer, and it’s now been removed from bedtime melody rotation.
8) “Darling Nikki,” Prince (1983): So I have to give props to Prince for this raw little song about the title sex-fiend, but I actually prefer the 2003 cover version by Foo Fighters. Prince’s version is more smooth and seductive (or maybe sleazy), but the Foo’s is rocky and fun. Either way, Nikki is a bad-ass, liberated chick.
7)”Meg White,” Ray LaMontagne (2008): This is a song I like more for the lyrics than the sound. It’s a tribute to the drummer of The White Stripes, and I am partial to it because I, too, champion Meg and defend the fact that she did more than play second drumstick to frontman and musical wonderboy Jack White. When I first heard it, I assumed LaMontagne knew her, but I’ve since read that he never met her before recording this. He was just a big fan. Kind of stalker-ish and cool at the same time. I love the simple, banging drums in this song, and think they’re reminiscent of her own style in the White Stripes.
6) “Jolene,” The White Stripes (2000): Of course this is a classic by living legend Dolly Parton, but I had never heard it until I heard the White Stripes’ version. It’s a bit strange for Jack to beg the beautiful seductress, Jolene, not to steal his “man.” But even still, with his weirdly awesome voice and the pared down vibe of many White Stripes song, it just so earnest.
5) “Ruby,” The Kaiser Chiefs (2007): This is a catchy, sing-able song from The Brit rockers, and that is the main reason I like it. It’s fun. They’ve said it’s not about anyone in particular, but “if you know someone called Ruby, it’s about them.” The only Ruby I know is my friend’s very sweet and beautiful dog, so I guess I can think about her, and her waggy little nub of a tail, when I sing this song.
4) “Rhiannon,” Fleetwood Mac (1975): Back in July I wrote a whole big post about this song, because I lurve it. Not much more to be said, except I had to think long and hard about where to place it on this list. It’s near and dear to my heart. But so are a few others, as it turns out.
3) “Layla,” Derek and the Dominoes (1970): Everyone knows the guitar riff to this song, and everyone attributes it to Eric Clapton. He’s a rock legend of course, but not solely responsible for this song. It was a co-write between him and Jim Gordon, and the original recording showcases the musical talents of the whole band, including Duane Allman. It wasn’t particularly well-received on first release, and had its biggest day decades later when Clapton recorded a slowed down acoustic version for his Unplugged album. I like both, but the original goes from that fantastic blues-rock vibe, and Clapton screaming his love for Layla, to the pretty, quiet piano interlude. It’s rich and layered. It’s supposedly written about Clapton’s love for George Harrison’s wife, Pattie Boyd. Juicy.
2) “Mustang Sally,” Wilson Pickett (1966): I am sure I heard this song when I was little. I wasn’t born in the ’60s, but it was part of my Dad’s musical youth, and he liked to educate me about the oldies but goodies. I can pinpoint the time I fell in love with the song though: when I watched the 1991 movie The Commitments. I was obsessed with that movie. And I played the soundtrack into destruction. I love how the band covers it, but I’ve come to appreciate the less flashy, slightly slower Pickett version more. I believe it more when he shrieks “whoa!” and “Oh Lawd!” It’s not even the original, as it happens. Pickett re-recorded it after The Rascals, and the original recording by R & B performer Mack Rice. It was originally called “Mustang Mama” until Aretha Franklin suggested “Mustang Sally.” If I could sing without embarrassing myself, I would totally cover this song. Or at least bring it out at some drunken karaoke extravaganza.
1) “Jane Says,” Jane’s Addiction (1988): This song was an easy number one “girl-name” song for me. Jane’s Addiction reminds me of my youth, so it’s got that nostalgic factor. Musically, it’s quite unlike many punk/rock/alternative (whatever you want to label it) songs of that era. It has a distinctive steel drum beat in the background. It has a repetitive chord structure. It has lead singer Perry Farrell’s completely bonko vocals — screechy and bizarre, yet somehow so great. It feels like the band members are all just sitting around a fire or something, someone starts up on the steel drum, joins in with a guitar, and then the sing-along starts. But what makes this song so amazing for me is the story. The character “Jane” is a real friend and former roommate of Perry Farrell. She’s the namesake for the band, too. And her drug addiction, and attempts to kick it, are what this song is about. From a writing perspective, the lyrics tell such a great narrative. You get a complete sense of character in just a few lines. It’s like a short, short story set to music. Every time I heard the song when I was young, before I knew it was about a real person, I always wondered what happened to Jane. The real-life Jane kicked the drugs, and her relationship with the dealer, Sergio. Apparently this Jane partly inspired the “Jane” character on Breaking Bad too, which is cool.
Anyone on board with my choices? Have I overlooked some obvious and iconic song? Do you have songs with your name in the title? My picks are totally personal and subjective (as any preference in art really is). But I LOVE debating rock ‘n roll!! So feel free to disagree.
Beyoncé and the F-Word
I suppose I’m going to be the bizillionth person to add my two cents to the discussion of Beyoncé’s brightly-lit feminist declaration at this year’s MTV Video Music Awards. But the fact that so many people are talking about it, griping about it, debating about it, loving her or hating on her for making the big ol’ f-word a part of her performance is —in my books —an excellent thing.
A short re-cap: Beyoncé does a sixteen-plus minute performance sampler of all the songs from her recent self-titled album before she accepts the Michael Jackson Video Vanguard Award from her husband, Jay Z. Strutting, gyrating, singing, and smiling while at the same time seeming to own the world, she and an entourage of male and female dancers give the crowd a show. In truth, it wasn’t that dynamic, but it did seem sincere. About mid-way through, before her song “Flawless”, there’s a sampling of lines from Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Her definition of feminist, a person who believes in the social, political and economic equality of the sexes, is heard and the word FEMINIST lights up the stage, with Bey’s curvy silhouette in front. Then it’s over, and on to more hot dancing, flashing lights and by the end, a heartfelt acceptance from a singer who was clearly honoured to be there.
I must first admit that I didn’t watch this until after I heard about the brouhaha. I don’t generally dig the VMAs because the music isn’t really my style, and I feel too old to know or care about most of the celebrities on parade. Not to mention that it’s usually a pretty sexist soirée (and it seems that can actually be said about much of the show this year — even with the big f-word closing it out). I’m not a particular fan of Beyoncé’s music either, but she did earn my respect when she publicly breastfed her baby while out for lunch with her hubby in NYC. A bold move for a celeb, really. She’s labelled herself a feminist several times in interviews, so making it a part of her show isn’t a revelation, but it is intrepid nonetheless.
Why? The f-word is still, to many people — to many women — a bad word. It’s loaded. It’s confusing. It’s got baggage. Most reasonable people would never argue with Adichie’s definition of feminism, but like most “isms” the practice in the real world is rarely simple or clear cut. Like most potentially controversial issues, (though I could write a 2000 word sidebar on why feminism shouldn’t really be controversial at all), celebrities don’t often declare a side. It’s bad for business. Labels pigeon-hole you, and make it easier for haters to hate on you, point out any perceived hypocrisy on your part, and leave you open to even more scrutiny. Lately there’s been lots of probing of young female celebrities, with microphones jammed in their faces, about whether or not they call themselves feminists. Some are wishy-washy, or say no, but then when they go on to explain, it’s clear that they’re either misinformed about what it is to be a feminist. Or they’re meeting all the criteria (whatever that may be) but just don’t jive with the label. I get it. I wish more of them wouldn’t hedge, but I get it. So for Beyoncé to shout it out in such a public forum is actually pretty cool.
Ah, the naysayers cry, how can she call herself a feminist and then dance around all seductively with no pants on? What is this “modern feminism” that has women talking about equality and then prancing around like a stripper? Isn’t this the woman who recorded a song encouraging all the single ladies to get hitched? Isn’t she adding to the objectification of women by reinforcing how important it is to be “beautiful” and “sexy” ? Does she actually “act” like a feminist? They’re reasonable questions. It’s grey territory for sure, with even self-labeling feminists disagreeing on whether strutting your stuff is female empowerment in action or further adding to the objectification. But bringing the conversation back to her backside, as though her body should speak louder than her opinions, is a classic way to shut that feminist voice down. How can you call yourself a feminist when you look so sexy? It’s ridiculous. There is nothing in that definition above that specifies that a woman’s beauty and sex appeal disqualifies her from having a voice.
And as for whether or not she “acts” like a feminist in her daily life, in her family, or out in the world at large? It’s hard for anyone to truly say what happens in her personal life or in her own mind. But again, in the context of this performance and that blazing f-word in capital letters, it doesn’t matter. At least not to me. What does matter is that legions of young women — and men — who idolize, emulate, lust after or respect Beyoncé have been given permission to think about, talk about and hopefully embrace a definition of a word that is so much scarier than it needs to be. There was something more to take away from those 16 minutes, than singing, dancing and a blowing mane of beautiful hair. It gave cool cred to a word that is so not-cool with many people. It opened up a conversation. One that we still really need to be having.
Often imitated, probably duplicated
Writing is often confession, and today I feel like disclosing one of my biggest fears: plagiarism. Not the worry that I will be plagiarized, but the panic that I will commit it. Inadvertently. I don’t want someone stealing my stuff, of course. That would suck. But worse, for me is that I would end up snatching someone else’s work.
The root I guess, comes from the fact that I feel people should be honoured for their originality. Growing up, I loathed being copied. I know the old line about it being the sincerest form of flattery and all that jazz, but it truly irked me. I was even averse to compliments sometimes, like “I love that sweater. Where did you get it?” because I worried that meant the flatterer would rush out and buy one too. I should stress that I wasn’t then, and still am not, a trendsetter in anything. But I have always been protective in some ways of my own ideas, thoughts, likes, and dislikes. As I got older, I became much more comfortable with spreading my opinions around (as anyone who knows me will attest, probably with a loud “Uh-huh” and eye roll). I am happy when people share my ideas or thoughts enough that we can find common ground. But there is a difference between having things in common and copying. It’s weak to bite someone’s style. It shows a lack of character. But it can be inspiring when two people have independently come to some conclusion or way of seeing the world, and can relate to one another.
But what about those times when something might seep into your subconscious, and end up oozing back out again, with the attached notion that it originated with you? Some of the best, or most famous, examples of this are in popular music. There was much hubbub last year when Marvin Gaye’s family launched a suit against Robin Thicke for perceived similarities between Gaye’s “Got To Give It Up” and Thicke’s “Blurred Lines.” And a few years before that Coldplay took flack from Joe Satriani’s crew for the similarities between his “If I Could Fly” and Coldplay’s hit “Viva La Vida.” I recently read that Radiohead actually gave a writing credit to Albert Hammond, due to a legal wrangle about the chord progression in Hammond’s 1972 song “The Air That I Breathe” and Radiohead’s “Creep”. Do I think that some of these songs do sound strikingly similar? Yes indeed. Do I think that any of these artists consciously heard a particular guitar riff, or melody and thought “Woot! This rocks. I’m stealing it”? No. I don’t. And what I’ve always wondered is how did the accusations make people like Chris Martin or Thom Yorke feel? If it were me I would feel like crap. Even if it was purely accidental, and I stood by my own “creation”, there would be the nagging feeling that something you thought you created was really just a copy. Even if Plato’s right, and most things are just a copy of a copy, it’s still harsh when your own art is called out for it.
I think most times the art that we’re drawn to is the art that we wish we could make ourselves. It’s a chicken and egg thing where we are both inspired by people, and tend to do the same, and are drawn to those who are the same as us. Certainly my favourite poets and fiction writers are people who I wish, hope, I can write like — in some very distant year or in some other reality. I respect them for their ideas, images, ability with words. I aspire to be. I probably model the same. But are there times when I actually do the same? When a phrase or image is repeated, almost verbatim, and I don’t even realize? It’s a scary thought for me. Will I have some “A-ha!” moment where I think something really works, precisely because it has worked in someone else’s writing? I hope there is some mechanism in my brain that says “Hey, this is good. But tweak for originality, please.” Or as they say on all the singing reality shows, “Really make it your own.”
Or, do I just accept the wisdom of Plato? Art will always be a mere imitation of the objects and events of ordinary life, effectively a copy of a copy of an ideal form. Maybe I should just try to write my best, try to invent, rather than steal. Get inspired, and try to inspire. But drop the worry and remain cognizant of what’s uttered in the lyrics of one of my favourite Nine Inch Nails songs, “Copy of A”: I am just a copy of a copy of a copy/ Everything I say has come before.
Yearning
I was thinking today, and certainly not for the first time, about why I sometimes feel so compelled to write. It always comes out sounding cheesy or exaggerated, but the truth is recently I have been moved to write because I have to. There is no other way to explain it. I have something in me that I want to express. But then the question becomes, why? What do I hope my words, thoughts, images will do or be once they’re out there?
Coincidentally, I started reading Edmonton poet Alice Major’s stunning book of essays, Intersecting Sets: A Poet Looks at Science. One of her passages in an essay titled “That Frost Feeling” discusses that intangible feeling of wanting to create art, and wanting to consume it. The why of writing, visual art, dance and music. Major calls that “particular tickle in the human brain”, the one that makes us want to create art, and want to experience it, a kind of “yearning.” She says “we want to evoke it in others, to make it resonate in someone else’s mind.”
The idea resonated with me. But sometimes there is so much more than an idea to be conveyed. It’s the very feeling you want to share. An essence of an experience, imagined or real. What you yearn for and what you want others to yearn for too.
The word yearning on its own is an ugly word. Said out loud, it just doesn’t sound that pleasant. It doesn’t roll nicely off of or around your tongue. It’s only in the meaning — the recollection of how it feels to yearn — that it really starts to flourish. Yearning, to me, is a wondrous blend of love and heartbreak. The desire for something, and the ache, the wrench of the heart, because our needs are not met. Now. As we want them to be.
To yearn is more than to need. It’s more than a wish or a hope, or even a desire. To yearn is a kind of beautiful hurt. That razor thin line between pleasure and pain. The edge just before rapturous delight. To yearn is to feel a kind of ecstasy. Words are for me, both in creation and consumption, an amazing route to bliss. If I am inspired, I want to inspire. If I am moved, I want to move. It’s contagious. Or at least I hope it can be. It’s not an intellectual pursuit. It’s a soul pursuit. Perhaps there is no need to question what my soul just knows.
earworm: “Firecracker,” Ryan Adams (2001)
Ryan Adams has a new album coming out and this makes me happy. I listened to the first single, “Gimme Something Good” and liked it. I appreciate that it sounds a little different than previous singles, and has a decidedly early ’80s rock vibe, like Foreigner or the Eagles or something. I saw a song list for the album and noted that Track 2 is titled “Kim”. I certainly hope I like that one. My anticipation of new Ryan Adams made me itch for old Ryan Adams and took me on a little stroll down musical memory lane. I stopped repeatedly at “Firecracker” which always makes me want to dance. I find it to be one of his most uplifting songs. Especially from a guy who makes a ton of heart-wrenching, honest, kick-you-in-the-gut music and lyrics. It is amazing to me that this song is from 2001. I didn’t think it was that old. I chalk this up to a few things: 1) I don’t think I was actually listening to Ryan Adams then. Probably not until a few years after, perhaps when the Rock N Roll album came out. 2) Many of songs have this kind of timeless quality so that when you listen it’s not immediately reminiscent of any period in music. 3) Since I passed 35, everything seems like it just happened last week and I cannot believe how quickly time is actually passing. Today, it is specifically the awesome harmonica in this song that’s on replay in my brain. But I love singing the lyrics too, which I think stand alone as poetic. They just get even better with his twangy voice. I like the opening lines the best, with all the alliteration: “Black bird slow and softly breaks a glass of wine/ Broken bluesy whisper sing to me tonight/Well everybody wants to go forever/I just want to burn up hard and bright/I just wanna be your firecracker/Maybe be your baby tonight.” Sweet. Coincidentally, I just started reading a book called “Brain on Fire” which is a memoir about a New York Post reporter’s battle to diagnose and overcome a brain inflammation that caused her to become psychotic and almost killed her. It’s a compelling read, and the author — Susannah Cahalan — repeatedly mentions Ryan Adams and his music, as something she loved before her illness and found comforting during her recovery. Thankfully, I have no such brain inflammation, but his songs do have the ability to burn bright in my mind.
makes/me/so/digress 