the false date means I
am not where I should be
— "Translations of my Postcards," Michael Ondaatje
Beam me up [2001.01.20]
Rushing, rushing everywhere, what I busy bee I am, and then the words "telnetting" and "port :80" collide as I rush through an instant message that pops-up on my screen; for a moment I imagine he actually wrote "teleport." It's (almost) like the other day when, glancing at the packaging of some organic fruit, I misread "our apricots are safe and healthy" as "our apricots are safe and happy." I like that better. So, enjoying this better idea of teleporting and remembering our conversation from the night before ("what I would do for you if I had the technology"), I beam at him from thousands of miles and a few time zones away. I'm reading for the general shape of things, not necessarily how they are but perhaps how they should be, and you know, I (almost) don't want to slow down. ¤
Detail from Love's back [2001.01.11]
By most accounts, Lot's wife acted out of faithlessness. Why she didn't instead turn into gold or stone like others in the cautionary tales of our childhood is that some nights earlier, she borrowed salt from neighbours, thus revealing that she had company at home when entertaining had been strictly forbidden. So, either she was a woman who risked everything and endangered everyone for the sake of pleasure or, this woman whose name was Edith, was just showing proper hospitality to guests of her well-known husband. In Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut invokes her story in his retelling of the fire-bombing of Dresden in World War II; he said he loved her for it, because she could not simply turn away; her humanness directed that she look back with grief and compassion, even though she knew there would be consequences. I always liked this interpretation best. ¤
Love's back [2001.01.09]
All this coming together and falling apart, a push in the right direction, or the wrong one, deepquakes within, s l o w l y shifting the bedrock. If you look back, you might turn into a pillar of salt.
What's behind love's back? ¤
A toque is a hat [2001.01.05]
I took one of my Mavis Gallant books down from its shelf, and an interview I clipped from the local paper years ago fluttered out. Gallant, reflecting on views on Canada she has encountered as an expatriate living in Paris and on national identity in general, commented: "Of course Canadians have an identity. I can tell if I'm talking to a Canadian. I can tell if I'm talking to an American — it's not the same thing. I have no evidence to explain this, but I can tell."
I can't quite place it, either. But this might be something:
In Canada, I haven't been Canadian enough. I always have to be from somewhere else. The fact that I answer the question of origins so politely should speak to my Canadianness. What I don't say is this:
How long do I have to be in this country before it can be mine, and I am no longer complimented on my English?
I've been living in the United States for six months now. People still ask me where I'm from. But here, most of the time, Toronto is a satisfactory response. Maybe it's foreign enough. They're happy to stop there and tell me about their aunt who lives in Bolton or the time they drove through Windsor on their way to Detroit — and maybe this is the same thing as before, but it's less boring. It's with a sense of novelty that I observe the amusement generated among my American acquaintances by my phrasings of words like "about," "again," and "sorry." And just like that, I'm finally Canadian enough. ¤
[updated 2004.05.31: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Am_Canadian]
Moment bienheureux [2000.12.23]
There are so many opportunities for time travel. A folk song playing in the shop brings me out of my dailiness, into things of the past soaked in sun, heat, pleasure.
Now, being winter, is another thing entirely. ¤
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