The Clenched Mind

When I was a kid I tended to take things quite literally -- I guess most kids do.

My mother told me that a young girl we knew had broken her leg; my mind took off on a gruesome voyage to her hospital bed, where I was convinced her leg looked like a fat salami which had been sheared in half. I could count the speckles, globules of fat and spices in that salami, and for a very long time, I was afraid of cold cuts. Seriously.

Then, much later, I read in the bible that Moses had to hold his arms up whenever the Israelites, led by Joshua, clashed with another group in war. If he did this, Joshua's army would win, but if his arms faltered, if he tired, they'd lose.

Somehow, that particular image got stuck in my brain. Sometimes I am riding in the passenger seat of a car, and I find myself mentally attempting to brake just a second or two ahead of the driver. See, if I don't do this, we'll crash.

Whether voluntary, or not, I always feel that so long as I root for the underdog, pray for the unfortunate, stay tuned to disasters, it'll prove I care, that I am not selfishly absorbed in my own corner of the world. Maybe, because I am watching, praying and rooting for a better outcome, things won't be so bad.

I was tuned to the TV early in the morning EST when the tsunami struck Japan. Actually, it gathered momentum before striking, then came rolling in with an inexorable finality. I was sitting on the couch and I literally lifted both my legs and pushed my heels against a wall of air, pushing and pushing vainly again, desperate to stop its advance. And then the enormity of what I was witnessing and the incredulity of it brought my struggles to a halt. I just sat there, staring, captivated, infused with adrenaline that was both horrible and exciting.

These kinds of calamities seem to occur in slow motion. Almost as though seconds stretch themselves into hour-long minutes. It was the same thing when I saw the Twin Towers collapsing one floor onto the next.


At any rate, when I witness horrible events live, I become involved in the anxiety and human drama. I tell myself I can't look away, can't stop wondering and caring about pelicans mired in oil, people fleeing water and nuclear contamination.
If I tune these things out, this will mean I am heartless, selfish, cold.

But just how many ways can you spell guilt?


It's no damn good. Unless I am sending a hefty cheque to the International Red Cross or running a country, or working with Doctors without Borders, or volunteering to distribute food, or applying for my own personal seat on the UN Security Council, it's no damn good.


While on one hand, the world's great calamities provide fodder for the creative writer -- and don't kid yourself, they do -- they also suck you dry.


I've never been successful at compartmentalizing my life -- probably my biggest failing. Have a husband, have a lover, have a sick child, go to work anyhow, be like Rose Kennedy and smile when your kids get killed, never go to bed angry because arguments are one thing, and sleep is another...So not me.
More's the pity, I think.


And, so, we arrive at the state I refer to as the clenched mind. Now, the clenched mind is no good to anyone -- you may as well have a stroke and get it over with. You certainly can't write with a clenched mind because any and all creative ideas become petrified in stone, moribund, as cold and dead as Charlton Heston's hands.


Normally I am an anxious person. And, to varying degrees, I want to control events in my personal life. As an infant, I was a placid thing, but I think someone dropped me on my head and after that, all bets were off.
So when I find myself following the news of myriad disasters -- and in all fairness, I didn't pay one moment's notice to OJ Simpson and his trial -- I am talking major disasters here -- I do get embroiled. As a former news person, I understand it. As a novelist, I have to sidestep it. I have to avoid the clenched mind.


What this really means is nobody is going to kill me because I want to write a story. Nobody is going to put my heels to the fire because I need to turn my back on the world's disasters for a few hours every day. I have something vital to do. I have to write a book. And even though my own brethren died by the millions in gas chambers while others danced to the strains of Glenn Miller and his orchestra, it doesn't mean those happy people were guilty of murder. Okay, so maybe some were...

Still...it all boils down to useless guilt, a misguided sense of trying to fend off impending doom, and most abhorrent of all, the clenched mind.

People who train themselves to parcel up their hours into units of thinking, working, and feeling are not evil and cold-hearted. They are wise. They know that disasters inevitably end and life goes on. Artists, in particular, need to be "selfish" because if they weren't, there would be nothing of comfort and grace left to enjoy once nature's wrath recedes.
I don't think it's any coincidence that in learning to train the mind that way, one also acquires the ability to focus completely. In my case, the act of putting aside exterior intrusions means I've given my mind permission to play. It means I can concentrate. It means I am able to create without guilt because I have unclenched my mind.

Susan Hayward said, "I'll cry tomorrow." Scarlett O'Hara said, "I'll think about that tomorrow." And I am saying, "let the games begin."

Looking on the Bright Side

In the writer's world, nothing goes to waste -- or, it shouldn't.

Even if minds change or projects get cancelled, there is still the work itself, and the way it makes us feel as we approach new ideas, and different ways to express ourselves. We learn from our writing experiences and I count all of them -- good and bad -- as a chance to view my work as the proverbial glass. It it half empty or half full? I always look carefully because I know there is something to take away from it, something I may well use later on. Inevitably, then, the glass is half full, waiting for me to sip. Oddly enough, the more I sip, the fuller the glass becomes.



One of my projects -- Lessons I Learned From My Mother, an anthology of essays, was to be co-written and co-produced...well, it's been cancelled.

If you were one of the many contributors who generously offered your time and essays, I thank you most sincerely, and wish you the best of luck with all your current projects.
And, please feel free to post your essay on this blog.


I thought I'd serve up one of mine because it touches on not only who I am as a writer but how this came to be.

“So shut your eyes while mother sings

   Of wonderful sights that be,

And you shall see the beautiful things

   As you rock in the misty sea”

                               -- Eugene Field, (Wynken, Blynken and Nod)

In The Beginning Was The Word….

         

          For me there was no sweeter gift, no greater warmth or comfort than the sound of my mother’s voice reading aloud to me. A thousand kisses paled beneath this joy because they quickly evaporated into memory. But her musical words and phrases remained firmly in my head where they reverberate to this day.

          Mummy began her nightly reading ritual when I was three years old. We had come into possession of the well-reputed children’s anthology, My Book House, edited by Olive Beaupré Miller. Ours was the twelve-volume ‘rainbow’ edition and one of the last in a series of reprints that included literary works later considered either obsolete or politically incorrect. In 1953, however, such restrictions did not exist and I was able to enjoy the beauty of stories like Little Black Sambo  who was dressed in his ‘fine suit of clothes and purple shoes with crimson soles and crimson linings.’

          Mummy would sit on a simple wooden chair and read to my sister and me for a long time as we were a most demanding audience who quickly developed an addiction to this entertainment as some do with alcohol. One story was far too many and a thousand not nearly enough.

           She began at the beginning, which is to say, with Mother Goose and Walter de la Mare, and quickly progressed to folk tales, and the works of Hans Christian Andersen, Charles Perrault and the Brothers Grimm. She read as a seasoned actor in impeccable voice with a flair for both drama and humour, and even supplied sound effects. Stories and rhymes paraded into my brain with simple images of a cat frightening a little mouse under a Queen’s chair, or with deeper, more foreboding pictures of Rapunzel’s mother craving a dish of rampion that grew in a forbidden garden surrounded by thorns and nettles.

          When she read, my little corner of the world – an upstairs bedroom with twin beds and pale green walls – shrank to the size of a mouse hole where nothing stirred; sheets never rustled in boredom. Two daughters held still, eyes fixed on the book on my mother’s lap. With bated breath we waited to learn if the lion was going to eat Androcles after he removed a thorn from its paw. Would Sleeping Beauty ever be rescued, was Snow White really dead, and would the goblins really get us if we didn’t watch out?  

          I treasured the stories – even the very sad ones. I also favoured stories that mentioned food and there were hundreds of those. Tom, the Piper’s son, must have been very hungry because he stole a pig and was beaten for it. Jack Spratt and his wife ate fat and lean; in later years I envied them because they had worked out a perfect marriage. Then there was the Queen of Hearts who saw her tarts ripped off by the Knave! It seemed people the world over were eating bread and honey, roasting meats on spits, selling pies, and pulling plums out of them. And how amazing that Carl Sandburg’s Rutabaga stories included a Village of Cream Puffs. Had I been a resident, I know I would have consumed the entire town.

          My mother’s tastes in literature were as broad and eclectic as Ms. Miller’s; happily she read almost every selection from the anthology. There were great American and international writers, assorted fables from the near and far east, Indian folklore, biblical verses, Greek myths – a feast of  magical adventures and whimsical ditties.

          Progress on the books was steady, and as Mummy made her way through Book Four, both my sister and I were right there with her, our comprehension sharp, our eagerness the very catalyst she required. After all, she gave a grand performance every night, and even provided matinées. As her repertoire increased so did the demand for repeat performances. Wynken, Blynken and Nod, The Nutcracker and Sugardolly, The Owl and the Pussycat and The Selfish Giant were as popular in our bedroom as butterscotch lollipops. (We tended to avoid Chicken Little. Chicken Little was as unwelcome as licorice.)

          After a year of this listening, I had absorbed and retained a wealth of knowledge that would stand me in good stead when it came to studying the literary arts. But what mattered then were the stories and books alive with various drawings and pictures.

          And then, something changed.

          It was by now, a summer filled with sunny days and my sister, being two years older than I, had permission to stay outdoors longer while I was still sent early packing to the land of Nod. Mummy, however, continued her reading – and she decided to do something radical. She picked up James M. Barrie’s novel, Peter Pan, and announced her intention to take me to Neverland.

          “But, Mummy, there are no pictures,” I complained.

          “You won’t need any, I promise. Just lie back and listen like you always do.”

          And so the journey began. At first I balked when she read about hidden kisses lurking on the side of Mrs. Darling’s mouth. I began to squirm at references to stocks and shares and Mr. Darling’s concerns about the cost of having children. And then suddenly, Peter Pan’s shadow made its entrance and soon after my mother read the word “perambulator” and I shot straight up.

          “What’s a perambulator?”

          “A very fancy baby carriage.”

          “What is Kensington Garden like?”

          “It has a large fountain and green leafy trees in summer just like now and the flowers are white and purple and pink. There even is a statue of Peter Pan in the garden.”

          “Can I see it?”

          “Yes. When you go to London, you’ll see it.”

          The reading continued. I squeezed my eyes shut and smelled lilacs; I heard Mummy reading that the Lost Boys fell out of their perambulators. I heard Wendy ask if there were girls in Neverland, and Peter said: “Oh, no; girls, you know, are much too clever to fall out of their prams.”

          I was captivated by a boy who could teach you to fly, a naughty, jealous faerie named Tinker Bell, and the entire notion that anyone could follow Peter to Neverland.

          The secret to getting there lay in the book. But my mother closed it for the evening and promised to continue the next night.

          She kissed me goodnight and encouraged me to lie back once more, gaze out the window beside my bed and see if I could find the evening star. As dusk was scarcely upon us, I did as she suggested and watched the light fade gradually until I saw a twinkling in the sky.

          I fell asleep on a cloud of lilac and honeysuckle and the sweet damp odour of grass filtering into the bedroom.

I had entered a new realm – that of a real imagination which was as much in me as it was in Mummy and James Barrie. Surely there was a Peter Pan. After all, his statue was in a London park.

          If only I could read the book myself! If only! I could go away with Peter and Wendy and Michael and John and…and…oh, if only!

          My mother could not have known she had just sown the writing seeds of my future. Nor could she have realized how far reaching they’d be. Perhaps she had an inkling that I would come to regard reading as breathing itself, and a haven for the mind when one’s own reality is dreadful.

          I, of course, had no idea that the reason for all this literary entertainment was because she was living one of the darkest chapters in her life and escaping it by leaping into books.

          How ironic that what was brightest in my childhood – her gift of magic and the power of an imagination – came from such misery.

          My father was a handsome itinerate salesman, gone for weeks on end without a word. We were living in a remote corner of the country, far from family and home in Montreal. There was not enough money for food or coal in the furnace. Our future in doubt, Mummy was frightened and lonely. She never hinted at it.

          I missed Daddy, too, but this fell away completely when Mummy sat on a chair and opened a book.

          “Tonight,” she announced, “we’re going to meet Tiger Lily who lives in a lagoon.”

          “What’s a lagoon?”

          I rolled the delicious word over my tongue in the dark.

          She was right. I didn’t need to see pictures, I could imagine them without any more help. And very soon, I would read for myself and write my own words, too. I would never feel alone as long as a book stood nearby. And I would never feel as alive as I do right now when writing.

Japan One Week Later

Nightmares once suppressed

Cherry blossoms desolate

Weeps again Japan.

Wooden doll paint chipped

Buddha peeks through snowy death

Seismic psyches split.

Hunger gathers pain

Beneath the stoic rain of

Gamma rays streaking.

Hope and hopeless meet

The will in surrendering

To life's ash and sweet.

Death By Chocolate -- A Saint Valentine's Day Massacre

Today is a lovers' paradise -- an excuse to "come out" and openly declare your passion -- nay, lust! -- for chocolate.

Your current secret paramour...Milk chocolate? Dutch chocolate? Swiss chocolate? Dark chocolate? No matter. And never mind the purists who point out that milk chocolate isn't really chocolate. (Just talk to the folks in Britain about their Cadbury bars versus the hitherto but now settled conflict with the EU's definition.) The point is, if you love chocolate, I hope you have indulged.

My favourite treats come from Leonidas -- a Belgian company that flies their wares into Montreal and other cities every week. The cards inside Leonidas boxes suggest you eat your goodies within 7 days -- there's real buttercream in many of their fabled centres. My personal passport to heaven is buttercream in dark chocolate. But, I certainly would not sneer at anything of the praline variety, either.

Okay, to be completely honest, I'll eat most of the chocolates out there -- just so long as they're fresh.

In keeping with this devilishly wonderful concept, the management at the venerable apartment house where I live, dropped off small wrapped cellophane bags, festooned in ribbons and hearts, filled with sweets. They enclosed a tiny pink card thanking us all for supporting their various efforts to keep century-old pipes from bursting etc.

A lovely gesture.

Happy Valentine's Day.

 

Flashpoint to Freedom?

 Oh, but what a time it is! I have been glued to events in the Middle East, watching and waiting with the rest of the world.

Brave people fighting for the end of a dictatorship, wanting to taste the waters of a new Nile. How and when it will come about -- if it truly can come about -- is written on the wind, and no one really knows which way that wind will blow.

I was thinking about a children's story I wrote several years ago, and am posting it now.

I hope some editor or agent out there reads it and likes it. (It's actually drawn from a proposed series of stories -- one animal, one child, one historical event in each, throughout history.)

In any case, when Aten's Goat made the rounds in New York in the 1990s, it garnered positive comments despite the rejection letters, and that was encouraging. But, writers can't eat encouragement any more than starving people can subsist solely on dreams of freedom; writers need contracts and books!

One thing strikes me as I revisit my story -- Hosni Mubarak needs to save face, retain dignity, leave office without shame, or so the culture strongly insists. I get that. I also get that it's very hard for despots to let go after thirty years of rule.

But, I also know that killing and torturing one's own people in order to control them is antithetical to my particular Pharaoh. When a famine comes to his ancient Egypt, he worries about his people because he is their royal god -- and he worries that his forefathers, not his people, are laughing at him.

Quite wisely, the Pharaoh in my story points out that if the people die, he will have no one left to rule.

Maybe he doesn't really care about "the people" but he is, at least, shrewd enough to see the obvious.

My question now is -- just how wise is modern-day Hosni Mubarak?

Here's my picture book text -- I hope you enjoy it.

ATEN’S GOAT         

          Long ago in Egypt when the Nile River sparkled and the Sphinx still had a nose, a man named Halem lived with his grandson, Aten, in a fine house near the Pharaoh’s palace.

          Halem was the Royal Soothsayer to the mighty Pharaoh. Whenever the Pharaoh was worried, it was Halem’s job to look for signs of good or evil in the heavens and in all of nature and explain what they meant.

          When the Pharaoh wondered if the water of the Nile was too low, Halem would read the stars and answer, “The Nile will rise again in one day and one night.”

          Sometimes the Pharaoh cried, “The Nile floods the land too quickly! Will it drown us?”

          Halem examined earthworms. If they were swollen, he'd reply, “Great Pharaoh, the Nile's water will return to normal in two days. It will not drown us.”

          There were moonlit nights when the Pharaoh couldn’t sleep. He would send for Halem.

          “Tell me!” the Pharaoh commanded. “Will Egypt’s enemies defeat us?”

          And Halem would sacrifice a ram or goat and study its intestines for important clues.

          “You must not fight for three days,” Halem would answer. “Avoid them tomorrow.”

          Halem’s advice calmed the Pharaoh. He would return to his stone bed and soft cushions and dream of his ancestors sleeping with eyes open, still and quiet within their tombs.    

          Sometimes Halem made a mistake, but the Pharaoh did not punish him because his mistakes numbered less than five in a whole year.

          One year, the Pharaoh was so pleased with Halem that he gave him a gift of fifteen hundred goats and sheep.

          “You honor me, Great Pharaoh,” Halem bowed low. “And honor is reward enough. In turn, I shall give the herds to the Royal Palace and your family.”

          The Pharaoh was indeed impressed. “Thank you, Halem. But I insist you take at least one of the flock as a symbol of my gratitude.”

          Halem chose a small goat with black ears to bring home to his grandson, Aten. The little she-goat would make a perfect friend.

          Aten was delighted. Every day, he sat beneath the laurel trees, in the shade of ripe figs. He drew pictures while his little goat, Set-Set, nibbled the grass and shook her long white coat in the sunshine.

          One morning, after Set-Set had eaten a golden orange, she began to sing. “I am a little goat of Egypt,” she sang. “Aten's goat. His only goat.” And then she jumped and tossed her head.

          “You can sing!” Aten exclaimed. “You are a magic goat!”

          Set-Set bleated, “Maa! Maa!” And tossed her head once more.

After a lunch of olives, cheese and pomegranates, the pair waited patiently for Halem’s return from the Pharaoh’s palace.

          Aten loved afternoons with his grandfather! They sat together in the sun-lit garden and drew pictures while Set-Set nibbled the grass nearby.

          One day, as Halem lifted Aten onto his lap, he smiled so deeply that Aten was able to count all the lines in Halem’s cheeks. Then he counted the brown freckles on Halem’s hands.

          “Why do you have so many lines and freckles?” Aten asked.

          “The lines come to everyone who seeks wisdom,” Halem explained. “Each freckle represents one wise thought.”

          “But you have many more lines than freckles,” Aten said.

          “Yes,” laughed Halem. “The search for wisdom never ends. You may have to look in a thousand places before you discover one single wise thought.”

          “Are you wise because you read the stars and sacrifice goats and rams, Grandfather?”

          “I am wise because the Pharaoh thinks I am,” Halem laughed.

          “Will you ever sacrifice Set-Set, Grandfather?”

          “Set-Set is your friend, Aten. Set-Set is not meant for sacrifice,” And then Aten and Halem went for a walk under the laurel trees and in the shade of ripe figs.

          Set-Set ran beside them, chasing the wandering bees and shaking her coat in the sunshine.

          When Aten and Set-Set had lived through eight plantings of wheat and barley, a famine came to Egypt. At first no one really knew it was there except for Halem. Sitting on a stone bench one morning, he looked into the sky and saw tiny red particles hovering in the sun’s rays. Yet no wind stirred the earth.

          Halem went at once to the Pharaoh’s palace.

          “A famine begins, Great Pharaoh,” Halem said. “Fill all the wheat granaries. Fill the water urns, too. For the famine comes.”

          And so the famine crept along the green valleys of the Nile and all the waters evaporated. Every green plant turned brown. The figs and dates shrivelled up. Frogs and turtles hid under bleached pebbles in empty ponds and eventually died. All the birds flew away. And the rams and goats were eaten so quickly that soon none remained, except for Set-Set.

          “We must hide Set-Set,” Halem told Aten. “Take her down into the wine cave and guard her.”

          Aten found a cool corner in the cave near the house. He sat with Set-Set on a soft pallet. Thin and hungry like Aten, Set-Set sang anyway. “I am a little goat of Egypt. Aten’s goat. His only goat.”

          Hunger made the children’s eyes grow large. So the Pharaoh opened the wheat granaries and the people of Egypt ate. Water in huge urns splashed into everyone’s cups until the last drop was  gone.

          The Pharaoh summoned Halem to the Palace. “How much longer will the famine last?” he asked.

          “I will count the number of teeth in the old men’s smiles,” Halem said.

          “Will you not examine the insides of a ram?” asked the Pharaoh.

          “There are no rams left, Great One. I will count the teeth, instead.”      

          When Halem had finished counting, he told the Pharaoh, “The famine will last another year. The old men’s smiles will fade.”

          So the Pharaoh ordered the caravans to bring water and food from the city of Byblos where there was no famine.

          “How long will it take before the caravans return?” asked the Pharaoh.

          Halem looked at the sky. Red dust marked the moon’s face like pox.

          “I cannot be certain, Mighty Pharaoh. There are sandstorms in the desert now. They will cut men’s eyes and blind the camels.”

          The Pharaoh grew angry. “You cannot be certain? That is a poor answer! Why do you not examine the intestines of a goat?”

          “The goats are gone,” Halem said.

          “And your grandson’s goat?” the Pharaoh demanded. “Has it died, too?”

          “She is too sick to be of any use, Great One. She is almost dried up,” Halem answered.

          “If the people die,” the Pharaoh shouted, “I will have no one to rule!”

          When the Pharaoh returned to his stone bed and soft cushions, he dreamt of his ancestors sleeping with eyes open, laughing at him.

          That night Aten found Halem looking at the stars.

          “What do the stars say?” asked Aten.

          “They say the Pharaoh comes to our house. He comes for Set-Set.”

          “But he can’t!” Aten wept.

          “If we try to stop him, we will surely die,” Halem answered.

          Halem was right. The Pharaoh arrived with trumpeters and guards. His face was dark.

          “I must take this last goat of Egypt,” the Pharaoh explained. “If I sacrifice her to the gods, surely they will pity us and end this famine.”

          The guards carried Set-Set from the cave. She was so weak that when she cried, “Maa! Maa!” only Aten’s heart could hear her.

          The next morning the people of Egypt gathered to witness Set-Set’s sacrifice at the Temple. The old men came, leaning on sticks. Hungry babies drooped in their mothers’ arms, and all eyes of Egypt looked for a sign of  hope.

          Aten stood in front of the crowd, shivering because he was frightened.

          “Since this goat belongs to the Royal Soothsayer’s house, he shall conduct the sacrifice,” the Pharaoh commanded.

          And so with a trembling hand, Halem lifted his knife up towards the sun, ready to strike Set-Set. All eyes watched Halem’s arm.

          Suddenly Aten shouted, “No, no! Stop!” And he ran so quickly no one could catch him.

          He raced up the stairs to the altar and threw himself across Set-Set. Halem’s blade stopped but a hair’s breadth from Aten’s neck.

          “Please, don’t kill my goat!” Aten begged the Pharaoh. “Sacrifice me instead.  The gods might like that even more!”

          The crowd rumbled. Aten was offending the Pharaoh!

          The Pharaoh was greatly surprised. “You would exchange your life for a small goat?”

          Aten nodded slowly. He stroked Set-Set’s head. “She’s my friend.”

          Just then, Set-Set sang out. “I am a little goat of Egypt. Aten’s goat. His only goat.”

          Halem dropped his knife in astonishment. The Pharaoh sat down hard on his golden chair and stared at Set-Set. No one spoke!

          Finally, the Pharaoh declared, “As I spare the boy and save his goat, so shall the gods spare Egypt.”

          Suddenly, the sound of trumpets filled the air. Temple messengers hurried toward the Pharaoh.

          “Great One,” they announced, “the caravans are only a few hours away. They are carrying bread, cheese, olives, figs and heavy water skins. There will be food and drink for everyone tonight!”

          The crowd remained quiet, unable to believe such good news. Then Set-Set cried, “Maa-maa!”

          Aten laughed. The Pharaoh looked pleased.

          And the old men smiled though they had no teeth.

All Rights Reserved Carol Krenz 2011

The Eye of the Storm

Groundhog Day, and if any groundhog knows what's good for him, he'll be staying put in his den and keeping his nose warm.

It's early -- maybe 5 am EST and as I sit in my city in the north, feeling the stirrings of a snowstorm readying to shriek into town, I count my blessings because Montreal has been mostly spared a harsh winter.

Meanwhile, the United States is in the throes of blizzard conditions; Chicago is being walloped (I hope Rahm Emanuel is safe and warm in the bosom of his, er, family. Go, Rahm, go!!) 

The massive winter storm, stretching nearly the length and breadth of the US is moving upward and eastward.

Meanwhile, Yasi, the category 5 cyclone, is making landfall in Queensland Australia.

A day when Mother Nature declares her intention to howl. Is she, I wonder, calling us to rethink what's happening to the melting Arctic ice? That's what meterologists are saying. I believe them.

As a reminiscence of calmer, brighter days, when the heartbeat was palpable beneath the vest, quietly marking delight in the universe, and love for the divine possibilities of urban life, I offer a poem -- a favourite of mine -- written way back in 1802. Before the official start of the Industrial Revolution. Before man overran the planet in population explosions.

Despite the challenges of modern life, I continue to draw hope and inspiration by looking backward to something recognizable even today. There will always be pots of flowers propped on street corners, evening terraces humming in fragrant conversation and breezes, balconies overlooking sleepy rivers -- so long as we tend to them.

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge  September 3, 1802

by William Wordsworth

Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning; silent , bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky,

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did the sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Baron Julian Fellowes? For shame, for shame!!

My dear Baron,

It is with the utmost dismay I write you this day. I was always amused by you -- after all, you have written exceedingly well when you've put your mind to it.

I must say, I thoroughly enjoyed the rancor and jaundiced view of the relationships of your "upstairs downstairs" people in Gosford Park for Robert Altman.

Whereas Upstairs Downstairs for PBS wears a rosy glow and a rather benign face, your Gosford makes mincemeat of the former's staff and aristocracy. In your capable hands, the curtain of the genteel is stripped away to reveal tawdry behaviour below stairs and wicked fangs above stairs.

In truth, the reality of the Bellamys at Eaton Square flirts with a wonderful naïveté and tremendous heart even when it metes out harsh events and painful extremes. As such, it sits at the pinnacle of excellence for Masterpiece Theatre; its indelible characters, however altruistic at times, remain long after we've viewed Gosford Park, or The Young Victoria for that matter.

But, despite longevity problems, and apart from discussions of self-delusional egos, your work has always beckoned me with a sense of discovery. I do so like new takes on old ideas.

Tonight, however, I retract my high-minded view of your talent. Tonight, alas, you fell off that pedestal of writerly worthiness and had best consider a tour of your country estates and a quiet life of sheep herding and drinking port. For you are guilty, dear Baron, of literary theft and for this sin, there can be no forgiveness.

I have been following PBS' latest Masterpiece Classic, your creation, Downton Abbey. It's a respite to my day, a lovely touch of British soap, best taken with a sponge cake and plenty of treacle.

Granted it isn't stellar, but in the wasteland of television, it is, to be fair, a few grades above Hoarders, Jersey Shore and American Idol.

Unfortunately, tonight's episode dealt with Dowager Countess Violet Grantham's 'crise de coeur' when it was suggested to her that perhaps she ought to let a certain Mr. Molseley win top prize at the flower show for his beautiful roses. After all, dear Violet...you do know that the judges are never impartial when it comes to awarding you that very same prize each and every season?

And so, in a lovely touch of plot padding, we, the audience, were treated to the softer side of the crusty old bag -- for, yes, in keeping with this week's theme -- change -- she finally did something brave and wonderful. She was handed the judge's decision on a piece of paper proclaiming her inevitable victory, whereupon she neatly ignored it and announced Mr. Moseley as the winner.

A big hooray from young viewers (whom I do not think watch PBS at all) and a royal raspberry from all of us who have not only seen Mrs. Miniver at least a dozen times, but well remember it.


In Mrs. Miniver, it is Lady Beldon (Dame May Whitty) who is asked by Mrs. Miniver (Greer Garson) to set aside her selfish grasp on annual rose awards and let the best rose win -- that, being the beautiful hybrid, named after Mrs. Miniver, bred by one very humble stationmaster, Mr.Ballard -- with the same result. Crusty biddy shows softer side.


Baron Fellowes, I must send you a cleaning bill, for my Spode teacup and saucer fell to the Chinese rug and despite immediate ministrations, it remains stained. As does your good reputation.


I hate the presumption that I am brain dead. Did you honestly think you could get away with this?

I loathe the idea of plagiarism, and certainly what you did was as close to it as you'll ever get.

If it's come to the point when you are now casting about, despite any assistance from Shelagh Stephenson, for fresh ideas, you have only to call on me and I shall at least keep you on the straight and narrow.


Now do be a good chap and lose the haughty assumption that only a select few are as widely read, and widely in tune with retro cinema as you.
I say this because after much thought and head scratching, I cannot come up with any other reasonable explanation as to why you tried to get away with this.
Nor will I accept that you did so unaware, that you suffered brain fog, that the dog wrote it, or the cat.


In fact, the only thing I will accept is an apology.

DRUG WITHDRAWAL -- When The Writing Stops

I've been away tending to sick eyes -- infections and cuts and all kinds of "gah!" conditions that forced me to wear a weak, old prescription pair of glasses.
Reading and writing scooted away -- indeed, light hitting my eyes was for a time, unbearable.

I am about to try my new contacts this weekend and see how it goes. In the meantime, I have been well aware of the sensation that leaves me drained, itchy, skittish, irritable and depressed -- writing withdrawal.

I have no idea how other people react to weeks without creating words, but I can tell you in my case, it's all tied to the condition of the psyche. For me, the three demons -- fear, dread, and anxiety --  find a good nesting place in the void, slowly and determinedly eating away at any resolve, direction, self-confidence I have. They bore holes into my creative thought processes.

Writing is a drug -- my drug of choice. And while writing may seem similar to bike riding, with the old adage about how you never really forget how to do it, I find it painful on the re-entry.

Things pop into my head like:

What was I thinking when I said I could write?
Will I ever find my way back to the land of Oz?
If I look at some of my manuscript lying fallow, will I read with horror and discover I never had any talent at all? 
I better not look at my work...

The more I think about these self-destructive thought processes, the worse it gets. I wonder...do other writers feel this way? And, my hunch is yes...yes, they do.


The thing is this -- the entire act of writing is a very solitary affair involving a mind and a blank screen or sheet of paper. And the very act of putting words on that blank universe is a task undertaken by the writer willfully.
Now, what kind of crazy person would even put him or herself in such a position to begin with?


Well, that's just it -- you do have to be some kind of particularly crazy sort of person, if you want to write.
And, you have to understand at the get-go that other normals in the corporate, 9-5 world, may look squinty-eyed at you and pity you, and decide you are wholly delusional.


Writers really need to hang out in one way or another with other writers or artists because theirs is a world which lies at the polar opposite of the mainstream.


All art is based on acts of blind faith. And the funny thing is, without this kind of art invading the solidity of the workaday world, there would be nothing to entertain us, or stimulate us. There'd be no jokes, no drama, no splashes of colour and whimsy; certainly, there would be no fantasy worlds in which to escape. And no civilization has ever endured without all manner of flights of the fantastical -- be it architecture or the realms of the spiritual.


Knowing this, I, once again, wobbly as a a newborn, giddy as a schoolgirl with an age-old crush, take my seat in front of my personal dream spinner, hit my acceleration pedal and push off from the dingy curb.


When it comes to writing and to the sound of words, I am an addict and shall remain so to my last breath.

The New Year -- On a Note of Hope

Granted, the concept of a Waterford crystal ball dropping in Times Square is widely observed and thought to be the be-all and end-all to our state of mind, mood and year -- but, it's not everyone's cup of tea or even everyone's idea of  a new year.
For Jews, the year is 5771 and it was celebrated in September 2010; for the Chinese, this year is about the rabbit -- but not until February 3rd.


Now, the Year of the Rabbit sounds wonderful.


It's considered a lucky year -- rabbits are in favour of the arts and all things beautiful. They are non-confrontational, nest-building, endowed with quiet reassurance, calm and thoughtful nurturing. They are communicators, peaceable, teachers, negotiators. Rabbits like privacy. Rabbits take care of home and hearth, and care about women and children. Rabbits are, on the whole, approachable and friendly -- but, famously introverted.

(I'll bet you've already forgotten about Times Square and that ball.)

Regardless of how you woke up today, January 1, 2011, chances are the Gregorian calendar rules your technology, so in essence, we are all on a clean slate, a fresh abacus, a new page.

Happy New Year -- Now Go Be A Cwazy Wabbit!




  Carol's Annual Wisdom and Guidelines For Writers


1) You cannot keep saying you are a writer if you don't write.


2) Bad writing can improve. Good writing can get better. Best writing is a question of taste, but it will never sink to bad writing regardless of who passes judgment.


3) Successful writing doesn't always mean good writing.


4) Never write what you know. Always write what you need to know or want to know or suspect you know.


5) There are no tricky 'how-to' rules to writing. Not one. Except that you must hold an audience and write comprehensively.

6) Never confuse talking down to your readership (by spoon feeding them too much information) with assuming your readership knows the world you have created as intimately as you do. They don't. Let them in, little by little. Make 'em beg for more.


7) Read good writers. Avoid reading bad writers. Steal from good writers. Like, what? Like techniques, or structure, or their ability to paint in broad strokes with a wider vocabulary than you possess.
Absorb good writers' assuredness. They have every reason to write confidently because they write well. Make that your goal, too.


8) Obey the rules about crossing the street: STOP, LOOK, LISTEN.
Good writing comes from keen observers who question everything, wonder at what might have been or could be, and who pay strict attention to the tiniest details.
Then, they bring those details to their writing. 
Smells, tastes, sounds, colour.
 - Lazy writing equals blah: "He bought her flowers"
 - Lively writing equals interest: "He bought her purple wildflowers because she lived year round in jeans in the Village and he figured they'd look perfect on her windowsill."


9) Don't confuse inner editor with inner critic. The former is your best friend who helps you elevate first drafts to final drafts; the latter is your enemy. You must kill him or her.


10) BE FEARLESS. The "mouse that roared" is achieved because you take risks, you wade right in, you learn to ignore disapproving voices, you find strength in the impact of one well chosen word rather than five. You write from the heart not the head, and you write with honesty.


Happy New Year, yes. Happy Writing, even if it kills you, absolutely!

COLIN FIRTH -- Please Talk Dirty To Me Again

I just reviewed THE KING'S SPEECH -- my money is on this film to take most of the Oscars.

You can read it at Rover Arts - (roverarts.com) -- the link is on this page, below. Let me know what you think -- have you seen this film, yet? You must!

Things I did not say in that review:

I LOVE COLIN FIRTH. What I find so remarkable about this man (apart from the obvious, I-want-to-run-my-hands-through-his-hair-and-commit-unspeakable-acts of-savage-love-on-his-person) is his ability to rise in the acting firmament as a romantic lead and then veer in any direction as a character actor. 

From Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice and Mark Darcy (ha-ha--we all got it) in Bridget Jones's Diary, to my strong favourite, the character in Love Actually who falls in love with a Portuguese woman and learns the language well enough to finesse his way into her heart and her family's, to a complete about face in last year's Oscar-worthy performance in A Single Man, as a grieving homosexual, replete with stylish Charles Nelson Reilly eyeglasses à la director Tom Ford's artful take on the 1960s.

Did I mention I loved him as the brooding, enigmatic Vermeer in Girl With A Pearl Earring? Did I mention I love whatever he does and that he probably knows it? Did I mention that I'm onto him...he prefers not to smile (but what dimples!) and more often than not presents the promise of something yet to come; a dark, mysterious personality who speaks in smooth modulated tones, stingy with his smiles, as though they represent a naked, caught-off-guard facet of his personality. Or, maybe, he just doesn't think much of his smile. Ah, yes, the wonders of thespian applications.


I didn't mention in my review that if you want to hear Firth's take on unutterably dirty swear words, you'll get a thorough review of them, in TKS -- mind you, as George VI, but, hey, you close your eyes and imagine what you want, right?

I didn't mention that Colin Firth not only tackled the painful stammer of George VI in a masterful way, but actually raised his voice timbre to match the king's. I noted his manner of walking, as well.
Firth really became that monarch and that's the difference between play acting at something, and actually inhabiting a character.
I drank in every pulse at his temple, every throb along the jaw, and I always sink comfortably into all that passionate expression simmering beneath the surface of his eyes.

I didn't mention how much I love Marcelle waves in hair -- Helena Bonham Carter's hair, to be exact. Nor did I point out how very much Claire Bloom submerged her own persona into that of Queen Mary's.
I scarcely recognized Anthony Andrews -- remember him as Sebastian in Brideshead Revisited?
Geoffrey Rush is brilliant as Lionel Logue.

There is rich detail in this film. A veritable feast. One ironic twist comes at the end. As King George delivers the momentous speech to rally his subjects toward vanquishing Germany, the swell of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony, second movement, surges upward with great poignancy.

But enough. Let's just say, I saw the film twice and had a bollocksy good time.

The Power of One

I am going to miss American diplomat Richard Holbrooke -- I think the world is noticeably diminished now that he's gone. Too soon. Much too soon.

I was peripherally aware of his work through the years in a general sort of way, but always of the opinion that he was a diplomat of substance and tremendous personal integrity.


And then I discovered the Power of One and shortly after that, I really paid attention to his words and deeds. We were of similar minds.


You know how you grow up hearing ancient axioms like "the pen is mightier than the sword" and that one person can change the world? And you know how frustrated you feel when you see evil out there and you want to make it stop but feel your words will fall on deaf ears or that your donation of a measly buck to a cause will be of no use because what's needed is an ocean of money-- not a teaspoon, and no one else is contributing, so what's the point?


That feeling of frustration and anger worked overtime on me in late 1993.

I had been in a lather -- a serious one -- since 1992 when the Bosnian War got underway. As months wore on, stories of madness, violence and mass rapes dominated the news along with the words "ethnic cleansing." News of concentration camps was reported. The Serbs were going after all the Muslims in Bosnia-Herzegovina and their political and military actions were spearheaded in Sarajevo and elsewhere by fiendish sicko, Dr. Radovan Karadzic. 
I feel pretty much the same about Karadzic as I do about the Nazi Dr. Mengele. Karadzic was a psychiatrist. Guess he had some inkling into the depths of shame and self-loathing 20,000 women would experience during rape and afterward. He really knew how to get his jollies.

I never understood why the rest of Europe turned a blind eye to what was happening only miles away from the nearest wine bar and hot plate of pasta.
And where was the UN?
And where were the millions of available Muslims in the world to save their brethren from this ethnic cleansing?

I was being deliberately naive because I didn't want to think the world had learned nothing since World War II and Hitler's near-eradication of the world's Jews.
I didn't want to think that when people said "Never Again" it was ever going to be more than a symbolic reminder.

I certainly didn't want to think that most of the world's Muslim community didn't care about Muslims of the former Yugoslavia because they were "too western" and therefore not really good-quality Muslims.

And then one evening as Christmas approached, CNN did a story out of Sarajevo. They interviewed a woman standing on the balcony of her apartment. 

I was struck by many things at the same time. 

In the first place, her apartment building looked just like all the other apartments built in the 1970s in most North American cities. A slab of concrete, a high-rise, with standard issue sliding windows etc. Hers, however, was riddled with bullet holes.
The next thing that struck me was the obvious similarity between Sarajevo and Montreal. We are officially "sister cities" and as I gazed at the rooftops and remembered with fondness, the recent Olympic Games held in Sarajevo, I was overcome with an incredible sense of disbelief. How on earth could all this be happening, right in the glare of the lights of the CNN cameras?

Finally, what brought me to tears was the woman herself. She was wearing fashionable red-framed eyeglasses and watering potted vegetables on her balcony as she spoke to reporters. She said she had no lights, no heat, little food, and no hot water. She said this had been going on for two years. Soap itself was scarce. I think she was a professor, I am not sure, but definitely a well-educated professional. Anyhow, as she spoke, her voice took on a tinge of bitter sarcasm. Staring into the camera she said in a calm voice that the people in the west didn't care about her or anyone in Sarajevo or Bosnia. She spoke in such matter-of-fact tones that I felt my blood run cold.
"I care," I yelled at the screen. "Goddammit to Hell, I care!"

Days later, as I sat in warm tub of bath water, holding a fragrant bar of soap I had received as a holiday gift, I began to shake and cry. Suddenly, I started chanting names: Sarajevo, Mostar, Tusla, Srebrenica, Auschwitz, Treblinka, Belsen...and then, I knew what I had to do.

The Power of One.


I sat down and wrote a strong op-ed piece for the Montreal Gazette. I said that towns in Bosnia were not meant to live in the annals of history in the same way the Nazi camps did. And yet, and yet, why was I chanting them with the same horror? I accused the world. We had always used the excuse of so-called ignorance when it came to knowing what was happening in the Nazi concentration camps. But, what was our excuse now?
I implored people to take action. I accused the UN of being a broken promise in the East River. I said I had heard that woman on her balcony and I was not impervious to her pleas.
I challenged readers and journalists to rally, to go with me and march on the UN if necessary, if our own governments refused to act.
And, I exhorted people to rise to their better  natures. We are, I said, made of Gandhi and Joan of Arc. I just knew that people had to be more good than bad and indifferent.


Sensing I might have tapped into a zeitgeist of some kind, I rented a PO Box because I had a feeling I might receive mail.


The story ran in the Gazette, and was then picked up by the wire services and appeared out west, and the Calgary editor smartly placed the piece alongside a picture of the Sarajevo marketplace which had just been bombed.


Do you know how many letters I received? More than 1,200. 

Ordinary people wrote, local and far away. School teachers had their children write to me, draw pictures. I got some mail from Holocaust survivors and some mail from Nazis -- why the Nazis were upset, well, I guess it's because I had mentioned how names lived in infamy when they had no business doing that. I even got mail from prisoners who wanted to send money. Everyone was touched, everyone was angry, everyone wanted to help. 
And that's when the Bosnia Help Committee and other organizations contacted me and then I was able to direct people and donations etc. to the right places in Washington and Ottawa.


Through all of this Richard Holbrooke was actively pursuing positive and decisive action. What a horrible, horrible failure we made of things with the UN who were not mandated to shoot and fight, and who ended up running for their lives out of Szrebrenica while men were rounded up and major assassinations and crimes against humanity rained down.


Nevertheless, Holbrooke, cobbled together the Dayton Accord and finally, the war stopped. He was tough and determined. I was grateful for that.


In 2008, he returned to Bosnia and said he was reminded of his Jewish grandfather who had had to surrender his worldly possessions to the Nazis and run for his life. Holbrooke supposed one didn't have to be Jewish to imagine the kind of anguish and horror of the Bosnian War.
I realized he and I thought about the same things.


On a personal note, I have to say, that each and every letter I received as a result of my editorial made me cry. Strangers spoke so eloquently. I was moved more than I can say by the outpouring, and proud of Canadians and thankful for them touching me and making me feel less alone, as I had, apparently, done for them.


Of all the writing I have ever accomplished, that one small editorial and its ripple effect has to be the finest use of my "pen" to date.


I remember hugging those letters (which I still have locked away) and saying out loud, "If I were to die now, it would be all right. I finally did something good. Something to be proud of."


Indeed, I had proven that each and every one of us is imbued with great power and resolve, and that it only takes one act, one book, one idea, one incredible sense of drive and determination to help change the world.

Something to think about as we all gather around hearth and home this holiday.

I would love to know where that lady on the balcony is these days. I would love to wish her a continued good life filled with hot water, soap and electricity -- things we take for granted far too easily. I hope she has changed her view of ordinary people in the west. 


Finally, and not the least of this post, my sincerest condolences to the Holbrooke family -- and my deepest gratitude to a great man.