My Sask Lit students are reading Lloyd Ratzlaff's Backwater Mystic Blues, a collection of memoir-essays, and imitating it. Like Lloyd, they've been writing--in a series of journal entries, two or three every class, that may turn out to be chapters in their own memoir-essays--about such things as where they used to go to be alone, what liquor or cigarettes (if any) they scoffed from their parents or older siblings, and, juiciest of all, who their "most enchanting creature in the world" was.
That last matter raised a storm of delight in the classroom today when one student told us about a certain guy she adored years ago. After a pause, someone else in the class said "Are talking about Neal _______?" She was. Turns out the two students, who don't even know each other, both know this Neal. "I am so going to facebook this guy tonight," one of them said.
(And I told a story of my own. One afternoon in grade five or six, I was sitting in my desk with my head on my left arm down at scribbler level as I wrote My girlfriend is Barbara Barker. (It may have taken a full minute to write it, so enchanted was I by this creature.) I became aware of someone standing in the aisle next to me. It was Barbara Barker, leaning over to read what I'd written.)
I've observed many times that students willing to commit to memoir writing learn much about themselves and about writing. On Wednesday I'm going to remind those students who haven't yet made the commitment that if the 50s-style moments like those lived by Ratzlaff don't work, then what they have to do is let their own realities write and be written. Seems obvious.
Monday, 19 January 2009
Sunday, 11 January 2009
Hooey
The profoundly irritating Obama playlist thing on CBC Radio 2 has only one more week to go. Starting tomorrow, they want us to vote for the 49 songs, from a shortlist of 100, "that define us," as their promos say.
What nonsense. There is no simple or singular Canadian psyche, soul, identity, essence, or spirit (or any other such term used in the past week by people explaining their nominations for the shortlist) for an immigrant nation like Canada. There is no "fundamental truth about Canada", no stereotypical Canadian cultural moment. No collection of songs--even a shortlist that will include, I'm guessing, songs in French, songs from the north and all the regions of Canada, songs from various genres--can define "who we are".
Have you listened to the lyrics of "Canadian Railroad Trilogy" (the most frequently nominated song) lately?
What nonsense. There is no simple or singular Canadian psyche, soul, identity, essence, or spirit (or any other such term used in the past week by people explaining their nominations for the shortlist) for an immigrant nation like Canada. There is no "fundamental truth about Canada", no stereotypical Canadian cultural moment. No collection of songs--even a shortlist that will include, I'm guessing, songs in French, songs from the north and all the regions of Canada, songs from various genres--can define "who we are".
Have you listened to the lyrics of "Canadian Railroad Trilogy" (the most frequently nominated song) lately?
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
A missing apostrophe
CBC Radio 2 is running a feature with this rationale (as stated on the Radio 2 website):
"'One of the best way to know Canada is through the depth and breadth of our artistic expression,' says Denise Donlon, Executive Director, CBC Radio. 'We're excited about the new President and we want him to be excited about us, so we're asking our audience to help compile the list of our most definitive Canadian songs!'
A total of 49 songs will be determined.So, what Canadian music do you think are [sic] the most definitive 49 songs from North of the 49th parallel?"
I heard about this feature when I flicked the radio on yesterday morning. The host, Tom Allen, referred us listeners to a website and an email address, both of which included the phrase "obamasplaylist". I bet they left out the apostrophe, I said, probably out loud, as I slammed out of bed, over to my computer to check. Sure enough.
Now, I'm no hard-ass when it comes to punctuation or grammar rules. But I do encourage my students to be at least aware of the choices they're making. So in a series of emails and website comments to CBC, I've been demanding/pleading/suggesting that Denise Donlan and her underlings at least acknowledge that they're aware the apostrophe is missing from the email and website addresses, and that, silly them, they could have just called it "obama playlist" without the s or the need for the apostrophe at all.
And this business about "knowing Canada"--impossible, ridiculous business anyway--is further undercut by grammatical errors in CBC promotional material, don't you think?
"'One of the best way to know Canada is through the depth and breadth of our artistic expression,' says Denise Donlon, Executive Director, CBC Radio. 'We're excited about the new President and we want him to be excited about us, so we're asking our audience to help compile the list of our most definitive Canadian songs!'
A total of 49 songs will be determined.So, what Canadian music do you think are [sic] the most definitive 49 songs from North of the 49th parallel?"
I heard about this feature when I flicked the radio on yesterday morning. The host, Tom Allen, referred us listeners to a website and an email address, both of which included the phrase "obamasplaylist". I bet they left out the apostrophe, I said, probably out loud, as I slammed out of bed, over to my computer to check. Sure enough.
Now, I'm no hard-ass when it comes to punctuation or grammar rules. But I do encourage my students to be at least aware of the choices they're making. So in a series of emails and website comments to CBC, I've been demanding/pleading/suggesting that Denise Donlan and her underlings at least acknowledge that they're aware the apostrophe is missing from the email and website addresses, and that, silly them, they could have just called it "obama playlist" without the s or the need for the apostrophe at all.
And this business about "knowing Canada"--impossible, ridiculous business anyway--is further undercut by grammatical errors in CBC promotional material, don't you think?
Friday, 2 January 2009
As if the teaching work drives the writing work
Today I'm out from under the "special features" on a bunch of Seinfeld dvds, seasons 4, 5, and 6. In one of them, Jerry Seinfeld likens (in retrospect) a season of his show to a transatlantic submarine voyage for which they load all provisions on board and hope they have enough to make it across, knowing they won't be able to surface on the way. In another feature, one of the staff writers speaks of Larry David's notebook, which he's constantly adding to and pulling ideas from. That notebook would be near the top of the provisions list, I guess.
I'm no Larry David's notebook, but here I am, half open on a Friday before the new university term.
I'm no Larry David's notebook, but here I am, half open on a Friday before the new university term.
Monday, 8 December 2008
Final exam notes
Of the 27 people writing the final:
One was a baby in '85 when I held her for her mother, a writer friend.
Two asked me what "awe" means.
All 27, for the first time all term, face the same direction: toward me, as if I'm the bus driver, with seat reversed, facing them.
One had given up coming to class a month ago but showed up for the final, stayed a half hour and left, forgetting her purse.
All of them observed my flight-attendant-walk up and down the rows, checking that everyone was double-spacing (for readability), or my bingo-worker-walk, displaying extra exam booklets.
Five will be in one of my classes next term.
About 16 whisper "thank you" and "have a good Christmas" as they hand in exam booklets and pick up essays on the way out.
In the "Instructor's Name" space on the booklets: Gerry Hill (10 times), Gerald Hill (8), Hill (1), Gerald A. Hill (1), Gerald Hall (1), Hill, Gerry (1), [blank] (4), Prof. Hill (1).
One was a baby in '85 when I held her for her mother, a writer friend.
Two asked me what "awe" means.
All 27, for the first time all term, face the same direction: toward me, as if I'm the bus driver, with seat reversed, facing them.
One had given up coming to class a month ago but showed up for the final, stayed a half hour and left, forgetting her purse.
All of them observed my flight-attendant-walk up and down the rows, checking that everyone was double-spacing (for readability), or my bingo-worker-walk, displaying extra exam booklets.
Five will be in one of my classes next term.
About 16 whisper "thank you" and "have a good Christmas" as they hand in exam booklets and pick up essays on the way out.
In the "Instructor's Name" space on the booklets: Gerry Hill (10 times), Gerald Hill (8), Hill (1), Gerald A. Hill (1), Gerald Hall (1), Hill, Gerry (1), [blank] (4), Prof. Hill (1).
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Irony, continued
Warning: THE FOLLOWING IS WRITTEN BY SOMEONE TOTALLY SMITTEN WITH JILL BARBER.
She's been introduced, and the band is onstage, but no sign of Jill, until there she is: entering shyly from state left, wearing a baby blue, knee-length, empire waist dress with black polkadots, hair in a modified beehive, earrings dangling. Her shoes, I found out once I stood up for a closer look, were some kind of transparent plastic pumps with heels (if pumps have heels). On her face: the same blissful, shy, room-capturing smile she'd wear all night. And the room, the Exchange in Regina, was more packed than I'd ever seen it.
This is where the irony comes in, or goes out, or whatever irony does. She sang songs from her new Chances cd--retro, almost wartime-flavoured songs that, as the cd jacket says, "come clear and true to the listener." Without irony, in other words. That's the way she delivers them; that's the way this listener takes them. No doubt about it: she had me one hundred percent being her man, or leaving her, or making promises, or whatever else she wanted me to do.
But other listeners, like maybe the students I'll play a couple of her songs for tomorrow (on the way to revisiting the Robertson poem, see previous blog entry), will be unable to commit to her without irony. They'll think she's hokey, a dreamer, lost in some time warp. They won't believe her. Furthermore, Barber's not without irony herself, as in her comments about how glad she is to be "out of Saskatoon", which raised a predictable roar of appreciation from us Regina folks.
Listening to CBC on the way home, about half an hour ago, I heard a song called "If You Rescue Me," written by Lou Reed in 1969. Reed wrote it but, the dj tells us, could never sing it. "It's too pure and innocent," he said. His is the irony the Robertson poem claims, ironically or not, to be "sick of."
In the end, give me Barber. She put on a great show, as did her opener, the fabulous Royal Wood.
And best of all, maybe: I got to shout out the punchline I'd been saving ever since I heard Barber sing a song dedicated to "all the men I've forgotten but would like to say thank you too", or something like that, at the Regina folk festival last summer. As she introduced the song tonight, I shouted out "You're welcome" loud enough for everyone to hear. It worked!
She's been introduced, and the band is onstage, but no sign of Jill, until there she is: entering shyly from state left, wearing a baby blue, knee-length, empire waist dress with black polkadots, hair in a modified beehive, earrings dangling. Her shoes, I found out once I stood up for a closer look, were some kind of transparent plastic pumps with heels (if pumps have heels). On her face: the same blissful, shy, room-capturing smile she'd wear all night. And the room, the Exchange in Regina, was more packed than I'd ever seen it.
This is where the irony comes in, or goes out, or whatever irony does. She sang songs from her new Chances cd--retro, almost wartime-flavoured songs that, as the cd jacket says, "come clear and true to the listener." Without irony, in other words. That's the way she delivers them; that's the way this listener takes them. No doubt about it: she had me one hundred percent being her man, or leaving her, or making promises, or whatever else she wanted me to do.
But other listeners, like maybe the students I'll play a couple of her songs for tomorrow (on the way to revisiting the Robertson poem, see previous blog entry), will be unable to commit to her without irony. They'll think she's hokey, a dreamer, lost in some time warp. They won't believe her. Furthermore, Barber's not without irony herself, as in her comments about how glad she is to be "out of Saskatoon", which raised a predictable roar of appreciation from us Regina folks.
Listening to CBC on the way home, about half an hour ago, I heard a song called "If You Rescue Me," written by Lou Reed in 1969. Reed wrote it but, the dj tells us, could never sing it. "It's too pure and innocent," he said. His is the irony the Robertson poem claims, ironically or not, to be "sick of."
In the end, give me Barber. She put on a great show, as did her opener, the fabulous Royal Wood.
And best of all, maybe: I got to shout out the punchline I'd been saving ever since I heard Barber sing a song dedicated to "all the men I've forgotten but would like to say thank you too", or something like that, at the Regina folk festival last summer. As she introduced the song tonight, I shouted out "You're welcome" loud enough for everyone to hear. It worked!
Monday, two poems
Yesterday, a couple of poems showed us a good time. In one class, Robert Frost's "Mending Wall" resulted in a small wall extending for a couple of feet across our classroom. (The assignment was to bring a rock and oh yes read the poem.) In the poem, a playful speaker teases his neighbour about his simple, uncritical belief in the necessity of mending the stone wall between them. Yet it is the speaker, not the too-sensible neighbour, who every year initiates the mending of the wall--the wall thus dividing and linking the two, as if (as one of numerous on-line commentators on this poem have noted) both sides, the non-sense and the sense, are needed. The poem raises these matters in blank verse, spoken as plainly as can be. It's a beauty, this little poem.
In the later class, it was time for William Robertson's "End of the the 90s Poem" from his 2005 collection Just Living. It's a poem about irony that may or may not be ironic. It offers a series of statements--"I love you", "Let's get married" and so on--which may or may not be ironic, ending with "I meant every word I just said" which may or may not be ironic. When I suggested to the class that maybe the speaker is just fed up with the ironic distance so prevalent in late-90s popular culture and just wants to lay his emotions out as genuinely as possible, no one admitted to believing me (not that I was sure what I believed anyway). Once irony is evoked, I realized as I stood in front of the class trying to help us all understand what this poem was doing, we can't be sure where we are.
In the later class, it was time for William Robertson's "End of the the 90s Poem" from his 2005 collection Just Living. It's a poem about irony that may or may not be ironic. It offers a series of statements--"I love you", "Let's get married" and so on--which may or may not be ironic, ending with "I meant every word I just said" which may or may not be ironic. When I suggested to the class that maybe the speaker is just fed up with the ironic distance so prevalent in late-90s popular culture and just wants to lay his emotions out as genuinely as possible, no one admitted to believing me (not that I was sure what I believed anyway). Once irony is evoked, I realized as I stood in front of the class trying to help us all understand what this poem was doing, we can't be sure where we are.
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