Category Writing

Dec 5 2014

Living Wages

Reuters headline yesterday: “Minimum wage fight hits the streets of nearly 200 U.S. cities”

Aug. 17, 1998

I went to work for a day and they paid me $70 an hour for six hours. At $7 an hour that’s 60 hours, or 42 hours at $10 an hour, more than a week’s work, standing on your feet all day, lifting heavy bolts of fabric, opening drawers of dress patterns, bending and heaving, cutting and turning, until you hurt your back, your wrists, your legs. Arthritis, rheumatism, varicose veins, carpal tunnel, you’ve got it all. $10 an hour – that’s a lot of money. That’s a good job. They made you manager of the store.

“What about you? What do you do?”

“Oh, I – I teach. I work on my own. Not all the time. Just when they call me.” I mumble and avoid their eyes.

They look at me, not sure whether to feel sorry or envious. “It’s good to work for yourself. Set your own hours. No one to be your boss.”

“Ahh… well, I have to work when they call. It’s hard not to know when I have to work. A steady job is good.”

They feel sorry for me now. “Yes, a steady job is good. Bring in some money. Pay the bills. It’s not easy, getting a good job.”

Dec 1 2014

Recent forays beyond the walls: Saint Joan

Saint Joan, the Arts Club production of George Bernard Shaw’s play, featured an amazing portrayal of Joan of Arc by Meg Roe. Shaw wrote the play after the canonization of Joan in 1920. In Shaw’s epilogue, the spectre of Joan asks: “[S]hall I rise from the dead, and come back to you a living woman?” As the men who were just revering the saint on their knees begin to make their excuses and leave, Joan says, “What? Must I burn again?” In this shortened version of the play, only the last lines of the epilogue, which in the original were voiced by Joan, were recited by Meg Roe:

“O God that madest this beautiful earth, when will it be ready to receive Thy saints? How long, O Lord, how long?”

Nov 26 2014

Recent forays beyond the walls: The Four Horsemen Project

The Four Horsemen Project by Volcano Theatre of Toronto is a madcap romp based on the sound poetry of Rafael Barreto-Rivera, Paul Dutton, Steve McCaffery and bpNichol. Words degraded into sounds and sounds imbued with meaning, mitigated by the physicality of dance and facial expressiveness of the actors, made for a satisfying and educational experience. At last I understand bpNichol.

Nov 24 2014

Recent forays beyond the walls: Cathedrals of Culture

Cathedrals of Culture. This beautiful documentary featuring six unique buildings and six directors left me with a warm glow for hours after. Michael Glawogger’s “National Library in St. Petersburg” was a mesmerizing movement of books over the intonation of the works of Russian writers. Robert Redford’s “Salk Institute in California” interwove stunning architecture with the prosaic routines of a busy science lab.

Nov 23 2014

Sad Pigeon Story

July 15, 1998

A pigeon, bald, smooth and shiny. Stick legs, walking on the paving stones at the side of the house, hurrying along ahead of me, stopping, then hurrying as I come up with my bucket, garden gloves and shovel. It stops when I stop to dig and pull. It moves away when I approach. Looks at me, walks into the plants, trying to keep its distance, a little hop and flutter, pit pit pitta. It reaches the front yard, doubles around and hurries to the back, sidelong glances at me digging and pulling. I go back with the bucket. It looks at me, head bobbing, skip, hop and flutter. It seems to like being on the paving beside the house, but it has to keep moving as I go back and forth with bucket, shovel, clippers and trowel.

Later, I hear voices outside the house. Two kids are looking under a parked car as other cars pass by. The pigeon pit-pats into the road, and the kids chase it back. They’re trying to catch it so it won’t get run over. But it’s under the car and the kids go away.

The next day I’m coming home from the gym and there’s a small smear with feathers on the road.

Nov 21 2014

Red

The red of the chrysanthemums on my desk is as red as… as red as… as the red of the chrysanthemums. The ones before had some orange in the red. These have some blue in the red. I can’t stop looking at them. Looking at them, I can only feel the joy of redness.