Making It Up On the Fly

McDougall United has these downtown Wednesday noon concerts during the Christmas season. They host a regular Wednesday concert series, but the Christmas one is different. It's in the sanctuary, which is all decorated for Christmas. Starbucks donates coffee. The Journal donates advertising and carol sheets. The church provides greeters, leadership in the carols, and a number or two performed by the church musicians.

There's always a literary moment in the Christmas series, too. And yesterday that literary moment was ... me.

They had asked someone else - a bigger media name. But they didn't get a positive response, so they asked me to step up to the plate. The musical group was the Pergolesi Brass - and I have to say they were in top form. They zipped through a Bach fugue that made my ears quiver with pleasure. And my ears are usually deaf to the reputed charms of Bach.

John Henry Weinlick, the minister at McDougall, got behind the podium and started an introduction. I'm getting weirded out by these events. There was one a couple of weeks ago - a wonderful Women's Breakfast with 65 amazing women in attendance - and I thought I would die of embarrassment when my accomplishments were reeled off. "I don't recognize that guy!" I wanted to say. So when John Henry started to wax over-fulsome, I pushed him away from the mic.

I hadn't actually had time to write the story down. These days everything seems to take twice as long as planned. So I stood there, in front of a healthy crowd who had just enjoyed the brass, and I had 7 minutes to fill.

I'm paper-trained. I admit it. As a musician and as a storyteller, I am used to seeing the material on the page and lifting it off. I have tried to be less anal about the music - and I find I actually learn it very quickly without hanging onto the security blanket of the page. But flying without a net as a storyteller? Not me!

The good folks at T.A.L.E.S. (The Alberta League to Encourage Storytelling) do this kind of thing all the time. But it's nervewracking. All those people staring at you, and they've been given a buildup...

I started with the brass. The only other known musician in my family was a horn player named Kleebach, and in the mid-1700s he moved from Dresden to London. Yes, it took 250 years for my family to produce another musician. The gene is highly recessive. And it wasn't until a few years ago, when I was researching the period for a show, that I figured out why Kleebach went to London. Handel.

Handel spent a lot of time being his own impresario, lining up singers and instrumentalists for his opera company and orchestral efforts in London. He often went to Germany and convinced musicians to join him in London. And because Handel tended to put his players on barges in the Thames - and brass players are a susceptible and non-swimming lot - he always needed new ones.

So Kleebach went where the work was, and probably played enough Messiahs to be heartily sick of them.

Classical musicians do a lot of work at Christmas. Tinned music doesn't carry the same spirit as a live musician. But it means musicians have an odd Christmas - they work and work and work, and often they find themselves far from home. Like Kleebach in London.

My first Christmas away from home was when I was in Banff in 1985. Oh, it wasn't the first time I had been separated from my family at Christmas. At my level of singing, I was always booked locally at Christmas. So if my family wanted to spend time with relatives, they would have to go and I would be the one staying home. But I didn't mind, because I was out there, enjoying being a part of all those Christmas services.

In 1985 I was at the Banff Centre, and one of my musician colleagues couldn't afford to go home to Toronto for Christmas. I had enough money for one round trip ticket. So I decided to stay in Banff, and I gave him the money to go home. When he came back in January, he was able to pay me back.

So there I was, alone in Banff at Christmas. There were only 4 of us at the Centre, eating our meals at the makeshift cafeteria.

My mother makes a hard, sugar-crystally fudge at Christmas. Somehow the tradition developed that she would make it for the ones who were away - and those of us at home wouldn't necessarily get any. Mother not only sent me fudge: she sent Christmas in a box! There was a small fake tree, complete with decorations. And baking and presents and the fudge!

So on Christmas Eve I sang at St. Paul's church. Then I went back to Lloyd Hall, dressed more warmly, and I hiked up Tunnel Mountain in the dark. I was used to Tunnel Mountain - I had been running up and down it for more than a year. On Christmas Eve there was no-one else there. The bears had gone into hibernation, the elk were quiet, and the tourists were all busy doing Christmassy activities in the town.

I got to the top of the mountain, and I looked out over the town, which nestled in the Rockies and sparkled with the Christmas lights. The stars were bright, and the northern lights were humming in that annoying way they have. But it was music of a kind - the music of the spheres, like a natural high drone. And then I was singing. Christmas carols, mostly. And a little Handel, for Kleebach I suppose. And when I was hoarse, I put my hand in my pocket and brought out a piece of my mother's fudge. And I put it in my mouth to soften it as I picked my way down the mountain in the chill dark, feeling that this was the best Christmas ever: I had music, I had my mother's fudge, and the world had God.

So that's the story I told, on the fly, in my 7 minutes. And it's almost all true...

Happy Grammarians

I entered the marks for my college students today - those brave souls who have been coming out to class for 3 hours every Wednesday morning. And they came. If the final exam results are any indication, they even learned a thing or two about the English language.

This was a rare term in which all my classes - the creative writing class, the grammar class, and the more casual teaching and coaching I do - were a blast. The students were creative and alive, and they were a tonic through a period which is generally typified by the gloom and exhaustion I feel as the sun goes south and the work pace picks up. Without those vibrant students, I would have had a rough go of the past month. The constant round of chiro, and now acupuncture, to deal with the aftermath of the August car accident. And my beautiful dog is showing her age - she has terminal liver/kidney disease. It's winter, and she's lost much of her coat. The vet didn't sound optimistic about her prognosis; all I can do is keep her on a special diet and wait while the disease takes its toll. She seems perfectly happy. I am not. But I refuse to dwell on the dreary. Life on this side of the tracks has enough to be blue about, and I refuse to wallow. Why should I?

Vinok Worldance hosted their traditional Christmas Around the World program in mid-November. This was my seventh year as host, and it's one of the happiest gigs you can imagine. Partly because my other half celebrates a birthday November 16th, and Vinok means I can provide her with a party that includes live band, dancing, 200 guests and...Christmas carols! Back when I was first hired, the powers-that-be wanted the script weeks in advance. Now we're comfy enough that I can show up at a dress rehearsal. The exception is the new musical numbers. This year I massacred Norwegian and Puerto Rican Christmas carols.

There is a law of theatre, and I don't know if it has a name yet, but if it doesn't I'll claim it! The law states that if you are going to go outside your comfort zone and tackle new material - a language, subject matter, a different skill such as juggling - an expert will be in the front row for at least your first three shows. I know - I had the Norwegian fellow right up front!

The year I brought someone up from the audience to teach them a basic German Schuhplattler step, the man turned out to be visiting Canada...from Germany! The year I sang a faux-drunken version of the Bartok Roumanian Christmas Carols...yep, Roumanians in the front. There has to be a way to make this law work for you. If I were to mimic a media tycoon, would the front row suddenly be reserved for Black, Murdoch et al?

The Vinok show is a tough sell. "Folk dance?" Yes! But it's more than that. The dancers are excellent, and that should be enough. But the costumes are stunning - they come from the places where the dances originate. And the 4-person band switches styles and instruments at a whirlwind pace. I counted, and one of those folks played 9 different instruments in the course of the show. Instruments as far apart as the accordion, string bass, hammered dulcimer, violin...

November is the busiest month for me. Early Christmas performances, the crunch of end-of-term at the various institutions where I teach. The month flies by, and I am left exhausted. Christmas then passes in a haze.

So I have neglected the blog. And that must change! But it can't change tonight. I have to write a short story for a performance tomorrow. And I have to look up an acronym for a procedure done in pediatric intensive care - not sure what the acro stands for, and I need to know. And my dog needs walking.

Magpies

When I first came to Edmonton, I was struck by the beauty of the magpies. We don't have them in Ottawa. Ottawa birds are on the whole a drab lot, which is fitting for a government town. So why would Edmonton, another government town, have the magpies?

As I was walking up the road to the Convention Centre from the river valley last week, preferring to walk since the whiplash injury, I noticed a magpie walking on the road in front of me. It was walking quickly, staying about ten feet ahead of me. Once in a while it would look back as if checking. And I looked back and saw four other magpies on the road, seemingly evenly spaced down the road and all walking in my direction. I had become the second in a procession, and we were all moving along at the same rate. I stopped and laughed. The magpies stopped. Then, as if caught out doing something they ought not be doing, they scattered to either side of the road and looked intent on finding something to eat.

The frost has come. This means no-one is camping in the lot next door. Fewer visitors to our tap. September/October always brings change. I am now working at the university, co-ordinating a project for one faculty and teaching a course in another faculty. For MacEwan College I am teaching grammar, and loving it!

Many years ago, when I was still thinking I would dedicate my life to avant garde opera (really!), I did a mask workshop at the Banff Centre. We went through a whole process of visualization and feeling, and we shaped the mask blindfolded. My mask ended up looking like my friend David - it had a truly wonderful aquiline nose, nothing like my hockey-accident stub. When we were done with the papier mache and the paint, it was time to play the masks. We didn't play our own - someone else put the mask on and waited for the character to emerge. Peter Spira played my mask. He said it was a 57-year-old English prof. I laughed at this, because I could think of few things less probable.

Well, I'm not 57. And I'm only a sessional. But it's eerie how my life seems to be headed in that direction some 20 years later. Am I in a procession of magpies, unaware that I am actually considered one of them?

YouthWrite

Last week I was teaching at the second week of YouthWrite, a fabulous writing camp held at Kamp Kiwanis outside Bragg Creek.

Not only was it wonderful to work with so many fine young writers, but spending time with the other instriuctors and the supervisors was also an unmitigated pleasure.

One of the most inspiring is Carolyn Pogue. She is firm in her belief that children can and will save the world, and she presents the many projects which have been youth-led and which are leading to positive change in our world. She makes me want to turn back the clock and become a kid again, but this time a kid who had the fortune to be in Carolyn's class. Encouraged to make a difference in whatever way I can, and shown that each individual can be an effective voice/force for change.

My fiction class was 15 of the most interesting and accomplished young people you're ever likely to meet. A week wasn't long enough. And everywhere you turned there were creative minds being challenged, and meeting the challenges, and it was awesome.

But then there were the ladies from Ipsos-Reid. One of whom was brand-new on the job. And they spent a day at the camp as part of an assessment being done of the programs supported by the Alberta Foundation for the Arts.

What is wrong with this picture: a highly successful program whose graduates are now out there making waves in the adult literary world, a program operated on a shoestring and only made possible by the dedication of the people who believe in it, is being assessed by two young women who revealed no background in the arts and who are not old enough to have a grounding in the history of these programs in Alberta.

This is part of a sweeping examination of the AFA programs. Again. The last time they went through this exercise, they had totally missed the challenges facing publishers (and subsequently we have seen several Alberta publishers fold or sold to out-of-province interests) and had made no provisions for service to our growing aboriginal population.

And why? Because instead of looking at what the people of Alberta need, they're busy navel-gazing about their programs. Some years ago the government cut the travel budgets of the consultants, so they can't go out there and find out who they're serving. The whole system has become about the board and the consultants talking to each other and evaluating the grants instead of being a proactive force behind the fostering of the arts in Alberta.

Instead of sending the ignorant to evaluate YouthWrite, they should have been sending Ipsos-Reid reps out to every school in the province to find out what the level of arts-related instruction is like. Instead of evaluating their grant program yet again, they should be sending ambassadors out to the small communities and to the reserves and reaching out so all Albertans understand that the Foundation is there to represent them and their interests. And then they might understand the value of a program like YouthWrite.

If you don't know the need, what is it you're evaluating?

They're Back...

So last week I was washing out my coffee filter at the kitchen sink and I looked out the window and there they were. At the base of the tree in the middle of the hedge of the lot next door. Spindly legs up in the air and her privates open to view except for the bits you couldn't see because of the man on top of her and at first I thought it was a hooker, because sometimes we get those. But it wasn't. It's a couple, somewhat the worse for the wear, and they're living in the hedge.

They're not hedgehogs, nossirreebob. They share. There are probably six or seven people living in that hedge this week. And at night they laugh and talk and fight and the sound of their voices comes through our windows in a code of cheap liquor and Finesse and grunting.

Some people might find this distressing, having the lot next door become a gypsy encampment. I don't find it nearly as distressing as having the amaryllis bulbs stolen from our front deck this week. They were nicely arranged in a shallow planter - three sets of bulbs placed so the leaves would overlap. And the planter was on the table beside the clay tray full of cacti. Whoever took them didn't like cacti. I checked the back yard and they didn't take the plumeria either.

We live in a neighbourhood where people seem to think plants are common property, even the ones in the garden plots or the planters. We have one neighbour who outright asks to take stuff - I gave her several amaryllis last year. And this year half our peony blooms were stolen. Our solution is to try and plant enough stuff that a certain percentage of loss won't really affect things much. We have lots of white yarrow. No-one steals the yarrow.

When I lived at the Rockwood, it was the same. Someone dug up my carefully nursed opuntia, grown from seed and thriving in a small way in the parking lot. Someone dug up my daylily. They just come and dig them up and take them away. All the oxalis from my plot at Our Urban Eden. You never know what will appeal to the plant thieves.

It's not the gypsies next door who are doing the stealing. They don't have gardens or windowsills for these plants. Besides, we'd see the plants out there under the hedge.

Job Hunting

Been out there - looking for work and marvelling at the progress that has been made in HR recruiting since I worked in HR some decades ago.



First, there are the keywords. The job posting lists many things, and you have to make sure as many as possible are spelled out in your resume.



For instance, a job posting for a government position required some knowledge of fundraising. The HR consultant for the government did not understand that being the general manager of a registered federal charity for 7 years meant a background in fundraising. Because the word "fundraising" did not appear there, the HR consultant didn't see this as one of my qualifications. The fact that the position being advertised did not include any fundraising wasn't considered a valid point. Strike one.



Then there was the question of experience and knowledge of the film/television industry. The HR consultant read in my cover letter that I had some knowledge of the issues facing that industry, but he couldn't see that reflected in my resume. This is because he didn't know what it meant that I was on the local ACTRA council for 4 years, that I had worked on promotions for several television productions, and that I had even been in a few as an actor. It seems this particular HR consultant couldn't see that this meant I knew many of the people in the industry. Strike two.



And then there was project management - although the HR consultant said he was able to infer that I might have some project management experience related to the non-profit sector, it wasn't clear. So a university certificate in non-profit management, seven years producing concerts, more than a decade as a publisher, and many years as a theatre producer and director, and teaching Project Lead at MacEwan for 3 years - from these he was only able to "infer" that I had project management experience. Strike three.



Were these strikes against me? No. They were strikes against an HR system which allows a consultant to disengage from their critical faculties and just scan for key words. That's what he told me he did - scanned for the key words.



Now, the bio of the successful applicant for that job showed up in my e-mail. Nothing about fundraising, far less experience in publishing than me, some experience teaching in post-secondary institutions (not unlike mine), and not a word about any connection to the film industry. Probably the successful applicant had all the keywords in their cover letter so the HR consultant didn't have to think too much - certainly didn't have to compare this lesser-qualified applicant to me. I hadn't even gotten an interview.



So the next time I dealt with that department, I not only included the keywords but I highlighted them in red, just to help the HR consultant along. It worked! I got an interview.



And the interview was long and fairly thorough, although the three members of the interview panel showed some impatience because time was tight. They asked questions that required complex answers, but they hadn't allowed time for complex answers.



After my interview, one of the questions kept nagging at me. I felt the time crush had meant the focus of my answer was not exactly what I would have liked it to be. So I sent a brief e-mail to the HR consultant and gave a 3-point message of clarification. In response, I got an e-mail saying the interview panel was unable to consider any information outside the interview.



Unable? Well, no. It's one of those new HR policies. So the job won't necessarily go to the thoughtful person who does follow-up, but to the person who scores the most hits on the tick boxes in the interview. And I already knew I'd blown it over PowerPoint. I don't use PowerPoint. Too often it is badly used - like transparencies except you don't write on them. PowerPoint seemed very important to the panel. The fact that I work in a variety of computer programs, including having done design work, word processing, spread sheets, databases, html coding, and have been the bookkeeper for organizations using Simply Accounting, Quicken and QuickBooks - well, those don't fit in the tickbox. So even if PowerPoint is not particularly hard to use, and I could and would use it if required, I will have a bad mark in that tickbox while someone with inferior computer skills who says "Oh, I'm proficient in PowerPoint!" will be seen as more competent and qualified.



Again, the HR consultant doesn't want to have to think about the candidates as individuals, each uniquely qualified. It's about filling in the tickboxes from the application and the interview. Does this approach yield better results? Yes and no. It streamlines the process for HR, making it easier for them. They don't have to use analytical skills, don't have to have prior knowledge of the field, and don't have to make judgment calls - the tickboxes are quantifiable. But it works against finding the best candidate.



The position which was open was an executive position. PowerPoint should be the least of their worries. And a candidate who follows up with prompt and concise clarification of a point he thinks may have been misinterpreted - well, that's what they should be paying attention to, because that's the kind of person they need in the job.



Every time out I learn a little more. If I were unprincipled, I would land a fabulous job for which I am only marginally qualified by crafting my responses to exactly what they want to hear. In the meantime, the jobs for which I would have been a terrific fit have gone to people who learned that game faster than I did - and all the more power to them.

Hoops

I understand the temptation to spill all in a blog. There are several things I would love to vent about, but discretion is a virtue I must cultivate.

NEWSNEWSNEWS

On May 23rd I will receive my MFA in creative writing from UBC. It's been a process with a few glitches and it has left me much further in debt than I have ever been in my life, but there it is. So I would like to thank the profs who guided me through the shoals of the workshop-based MFA, in no particular order:

Susan Musgrave, who never failed to take my work seriously even when I wasn't sure poetry was "my thing".
Gail Anderson-Dargatz, who challenged me to get out of my head.
Terry Glavin, whose regard for Orwell will never be forgotten.
Glen Huser, who put together a workshop which challenged, excited and encouraged.
Sara Graefe, my thesis supervisor who showed great insight, flexibility and grace.

I have been very fortunate to have these people in my life over the past two years. The time flew, my writing improved, and I've got piles of projects on which to work.

ARMCHAIR CRITIC - Oliver!

So on Sunday Candas and I went to see Oliver! at The Citadel. Huge show - cast of over 50 (lots of kids), and a set that overwhelmed everything. I'm not going to give a report card on individual performances. If I had the ear of the directors (which I don't) I would ask a few questions:

Why take a musical in which the emotional journeys are all so fragile, and the scenes so distilled, and then overwhelm it with a massive mobile set that takes the combined energies of the entire cast to move? My heart goes out to Krista Monson for valiant attempts at choreography on a nightmare stage.

Why make Fagin look so old when his song makes it clear 70 is distant?

What was said to Nancy, Fagin and Sykes about their solo numbers that led to ineffective staging and musical choices? These are accomplished performers, but they are not well-served here. Please give Fagin some stage and musical support in his number; please remind Sykes that a tense closed throat doesn't "read" as menace when it chokes off much of the sound; please encourage an actual journey in Nancy's reprise instead of a blasted belt from beginning to end (impressive, but it didn't serve the drama). Please support your title character in finding the notes.

I know these performers. If they are well directed, they can deliver top-notch theatre. And maybe there wasn't time for personal direction, given the logistics of the set. But I am tired of seeing fine performers like John Ullyatt in roles that don't suit them. Or Larry Yachimec (whose Actor's Nightmare remains on my list of favourite performances of all time) playing down his strengths for bland choices.

ARMCHAIR CRITIC - Verdi's Macbeth

Edmonton Opera tackled their first Macbeth recently with a charming disregard for text. The bearded witches were not bearded, Fleance jumps on the back of attackers (apparently this has to do with a miscued curtain which was then allowed to stay in the show), Malcolm doesn't run away when the guards are accused of killing Duncan, and Lady Macbeth begs for night to come when the stage is already black. Macbeth calls for his armour, says they'll meet their foes in battle (and he already knows the witches' predictions are unreliable) and then we're treated to a bare-chested fighting Macbeth. Ludicrous. And we were treated to a lot of cauldrons and braziers and cutesy flash tricks. Oh, and the lady-in-waiting did double duty as the head witch - which made a laughingstock of her later scene with Seaton where she sings about how distressing Lady M's behaviour is. The peril of surtitles is that the whole audience, not just the Italians, can read the text and see the discrepancy with what's happening on stage.

And the banquet scene - Macbeth at the downstage end of the table so everything has to be delivered upstage? And Lady M's sprightly "Everything is fine!" music quite ignored in the direction? And the scene starting out with as much celebratory cheer as the Oilers' dressingroom after the final game of the 2006 Stanley Cup... And what's with making the male leads fall down so much, and so early in their scenes that they then have to deliver wads of the scene propped up on their elbows?

Don't ask me why so many people wandering through the forest at night are doing so without aid of a lantern or candle. I'd love to hear what Brian Webb has to say about the process. Webb was credited for the chorus movement in one of the most statically-staged choruses in memory - the artfully posed witches were less threatening or interesting than your standard Zellers matrons, and in some places the chorus was left standing around the stage looking for all the world like they were waiting for someone - anyone - to give them something to do.

But like Oliver!, it was a production focussed on the set. In this case it was the flying scrims and their projections. How annoying. Especially with such fine singers in the leads.

Director Michael Kavanagh has given Edmonton some amazing operatic moments - Rake's Progress had stunning visuals (although some questionable other elements). So what happened here? Too many clever people at the production end and not enough attention to the basics?

End of Term

School is done! And in short order I will have my MFA in Creative Writing from UBC, which will then mean I can... ummm...

Now I have to polish the manuscripts and get them out there, along with the 3-Day Novel manuscript. But first on the agenda is finding paying work. This is critical, since I have a mortgage and my tuition is clogging up the credit card.

School is almost done! All I have to do is grade the exams for Project Lead, mark the remaining papers for Distilled Prose, and then I can... ummm... look for gainful employment?

Mozart coming up in a month with the Bow Valley Chorus in Calgary and Canmore. With any luck, this will make up for having to miss the St. John Passion. And I'm also hoping Pro Coro Canada can find a way to record the Allan Bevan piece over the next year.

The Finesse bottles are cropping up in our backyard - more reliable than the crocuses. And the gaggle of the homeless that hang out in the empty lot are back. The spring winds are blowing a daily load of garbage in. Tonight we bought all the bags of topsoil left at Save-On so we can dig out part of the backyard and see if we can't get something decent growing there. Right now it's a mat of early weeds, with the chamomile already budding.

Looks like the giant sequoia didn't make it. I took a chance on it, burying the young tree's pot in the spot where I dug up the dead magnolia last fall. I don't seem to have much luck with trees. Not an arborist. I knew the sequoia might not make it, but I was tired of babying it. If I try again, I think I'll plant the tree in the river valley in a spot where it might have a fighting chance.

Tonight there was a panel on homelessness at City Hall. Several speakers, varying degrees of passion and clarity. Candas Dorsey got up and made some points about concrete ways in which the problem could be addressed while empowering the homeless. Many people have made housing their profession, and they have a vested interest in keeping the status quo. It is a foreign concept to allow poor people to have control over their own housing options!

Spring Cleaning

We got the first crocuses blooming this week, and it made me feel guilty enough to clean up the yard. The caragana hedge is a magnet for plastic grocery bags. The bags have been used by gleaners to take empty bottles and cans to the bottle depot across the way, and then they're thrown away. It's windy in this part of town, and those bags snag on the thorns of the caragana and the next thing you know they're a greying eyesore.

I deliberately left the mess in the part of the hedge that juts out onto the lot next door. Not very neighbourly of me, I admit. But the man who owns that empty lot hasn't lifted a finger to keep it clean in five years. The city crews who pass by every day on their way into the city central yards - they come out and do a cleanup a few times each summer. And I keep the hedge trimmed at the front because if I don't, the sheltered ell made by the hedge is kitted out to be someone's home.

Don't get me wrong here. I have no objection to people camping out. But this block isn't a safe place for sleeping out of doors at night.

Anyway, today I go out there and one of my neighbours from an apartment down the street is out there on the sidewalk with a shopping cart full of garbage. He's got a pick, and he's picking up all the trash from the empty lot next door.

Lots of the neighbours think we own that lot, but we don't. In the interests of neighbourliness, I thought I'd better let the man know it wasn't MY mess he was cleaning up.

Of course, he was just doing it so he wouldn't have to walk by a mess every day.

"You got a nice place there," he says, nodding at my old house. "Shame to have this mess beside it when you keep it looking so nice."

It does look nice today. The sun is out and glinting on the three glass cloches in the yard, and we have those brave little crocuses, and the rhodos made it through the winter, and the rose canes are showing signs of greening, and I pruned the caragana back hard in the middle of the winter.

I thanked the man. His name is Raymond. And he just wants the street to look nice. But even Raymond has limits.

"Over there," he says, waving at the south side of the street, "they can look after their own garbage. Would you lookit that? Coffee cups, wrappers... I don't mind picking up a few things on this side of the street, especially for the old lady there. But I'm not going across the street."

Bach to the Blues

Do you suppose the universe won't let you play Pilate and Jesus in the same week? Is that breaking a religious code? I was supposed to sing Pilate in Bach's St. John Passion last weekend, and I'm playing Jesus on Good Friday. Both concerts were at the prestigious Winspear Centre, but for different musical organizations.

Lo and behold, if I don't come down with a humdinger of a cold. Bad enough that I had to cancel on singing Pilate. Now, Pilate is not a very large part in the Bach. It's not as tiny as Peter or Ancilla, but it's not a stretch. I've done it before, and I like it. But even a small role needs a voice. And my cold went straight for the vocal flaps.

For the first time in 30 years as a soloist with orchestras, I had to cancel. Not even enough voice to fake it. The production was saved by the timely intervention of baritone Michael Kurschat - who has my gratitude. And my fee. But he earned it!

It's been a week. By keeping my voice low and husky and sexy - and with an excellent mic and sound man - I was still able to host the Edmonton Vocal Minority cabaret: Sizzle! What a blast! The Chickadivas sang the first set - and if you haven't heard this lively a cappella group, run out and buy a ticket to their next show. The second and third sets were various ensembles and solos from the members of Vocal Minority and EKOS, two ensembles conducted by the amazing Paula Roberts. The evening proved that there is a depth of talent in these ensembles. Who knew that our amazing human rights champion, Julie Lloyd, is also an accomplished guitarist and singer? Or that the charming preppy Terry Harris is a born crooner? Not me. There should be a law against people being attractive, smart AND talented. Harrumph.

I alwaysmanage to pronounce someone's name incorrectly. This time, I ran all over the place checking to be sure. And I still managed to screw up - on EKOS! I pronounced it "eeee-kohs". Paula slid me a piece of paper to correct it - it's supposed to be like "echoes". Now, she said it would be fine just to say it correctly the next time I got up there, but I believe in transparency.

I fessed up to the audience, and told them all EKOS rhymes with geckos. They laughed. "Those of you who are laughing," I said, "have never been to the desert at night to hear the geckos sing. They're beautiful." A couple of the EKOS members said I'd solved the problem of a suitable mascot for them.

The other day I was stopped by a woman who lives in the apartment building across the street. She saw my picture in the paper for having won the novel contest, and she wanted to show me her poetry chapbook. It was really well produced. I was on my way to the airport and didn't have time to really chat with her, but she may be a good contact for an upcoming lit series at McDougall United.

And tomorrow it's Jesus. The piece is Allan Bevan's Nou Goth Sonne Under Wode, and this will be for a CBC national radio broadcast. It's a modern masterpiece, incredibly layered and effective, full of middle English poetry and King James bible verses. At the premiere two years ago, it made the Mozart Requiem seem anemic.

This time, at the request of the composer, I have been moved offstage so I can be the disembodied voice of Jesus. It's nothing personal - the published score has performance notes which suggest this is an option.

Walking back from the dress rehearsal tonight, through that strange mix of parking lots and ethnic restaurants and rooming houses that mark the space between the ritzy hall and my house, I noticed a flattened mouse on the sidewalk outside a hotel supply store. It was curled up and as flat as a sheet of bristol board. Maybe it had been inside the building and got hammered with a frying pan.

The winner is...

Now that the final episode has gone to air (March 25), it's official: my novella "Juggernaut" was selected as the winner of the first reality-tv version of the 3-Day Novel Contest, broadcast on BookTelevision and CLT nationally and on ACCESS Network in Alberta.

This comes on the heels of the same work having made the shortlist for the print version, the International 3-Day Novel contest.

There are many people to thank: producer Tate Young, Chapter's manager Rachel Sentes, the amazing team at BookTelevision/CHUM, Kyla Sentes (who catered the 3-Day Novel weekend and managed to make me delicious meals without any of my prohibited incredients: no corn, rye, oats, wheat, barley or alcohol).

The other eleven finalists wrote some amazing things during the weekend, and they should be proud of their accomplishments. Mar'ce Merrell, Wayne Arthurson, Ron Yamauchi, Felicia Pacentrilli, the indomitable Catherine Ford, Laura Kjolby, Tyler Morency, Mark John Hiemstra, Ali Riley, Darren Zenko and Jill Battson.

For the next little while, excerpts from all our novels will continue to be on the website at www.booktelevision.com

THE 3-DAY NOVEL CONTEST NEARS THE END

Since last September I have been waiting for this week. Tomorrow we will shoot the finale to the BookTelevision reality-TV series on the 3-Day Novel Contest, and the winner will be revealed.

Winter has been lightened here by having an instalment of the show to look forward to every week. I don't know what it's like for the general public to watch it. The website has a poll where the public can express their opinion about who should be "voted off the island". I logged in today and found that Jill Battson is their first choice to boot off, and I am second. But it's not a popularity contest. What matters is the writing, and I am confident that my entry Juggernaut (already shortlisted for the International 3-Day Novel Contest) is in the running for the top prize.

Keeping my extremities crossed.

What will happen? Brian Aldiss and Reader's Digest

The noted British science fiction writer Brian Aldiss was relaxing by the pool in Florida last weekend, and he asked me what was going to happen. When a science fiction writer asks "What is going to happen?" it is with the full knowledge that anything is possible, and no-one has a certain answer.

Mr. Aldiss wasn't talking about the change in hotel management, or the green water, or global warming. He was talking about his recent experience with the Reader's Digest Sweepstakes in the UK. He decided last year to "play" along with the contest - those officious faux documents with their inflated language and gimmicky stickers and envelopes and dire warnings.

He has been playing for months, and he said the time for the announcement of the winner was upon us...and what will happen?

I laughed. We've been filling out similar forms here in Canada. It gives Candas' 91-year-old mother something to look forward to, as each "official" notification lets her know that she is still a contender for most of the prizes. She doesn't read Reader's Digest. She has macular degeneration, and she is not able to read much of anything. We got the sample book, and the free gift (a redundancy!) of a doohickey to help open pop cans. None of us buy pop cans - you should have seen us inspecting this little tool, like archaeologists at the site of a forgotten civilization!

[At least, we think that's what the tool is for. It isn't sharp enough to slit your wrists if you've been banking on a win in the sweepstakes and find yourself disappointed.]

It had been a rough conference for Mr. Aldiss. He'd had a minor accident, banged his head and was examined at a local hospital - he was still wearing the plastic bracelet. He's been the Permanent Guest of Honour at this conference for ages, and it is going through changes. While there were many valued colleagues at the conference, there were also several missing. I have met so many amazing people at this conference (in no particular order): Daniel Keyes, Kathleen Goonan, Neil Gaiman, Peter Straub, Octavia Butler, Suzy McKee Charnas, Stephen R. Donaldson, John Clute, John Kessel, Anne Harris and a raft of other writers. There have also been moments of enlightenment and fascination in the presentations by scholars, and in the poolside chats. Sharon King from California always has something amazing from the early fantastic literature and theatre (medieval and renaissance France), and she has opened up a window on an entirely new world for me: reptile pets. Some academics give papers that are little more than book reports, but this year I caught some thought-provoking sessions that went beyond what you find in the books to what it all MEANS.

This year the conference was all about gender and sexuality in the fantastic - so the bonuses included Geoff Ryman and Nalo Hopkinson at the conference. My reading was at 8:30 in the morning on the Friday, but I was slated with Nalo and P. Andrew Miller - both engaging readers.

The International Conference on the Fantastic in the Arts has been held at the same hotel in Dania Beach for some 20 years. Next year they move to Orlando.

With New Orleans as the focal point for our memories of Hurricane Katrina, we forget that other areas were hit too. Florida was hit - and when I was at the hotel last year the changes in the atmopsphere were palpable. The trees and shrubs were stripped or gone, and you could hear the noise from the highway and the airport because the "green screen" was gone.

This year the changes were the result of a change in management, from Marriott back to Hilton. A large outbuilding, suitable for receptions and parties, was gone. The poolside bar was under plastic tarps - being reconfigured as a shower/changing facility. New carpets were being installed in the public areas while I was there, and the room had been redecorated. It looked very nice, but smelled like a chemical soup.

The water that came out of the tap had a greenish tinge to it. So did the water in the bathtub. At first I thought the pool had been repainted, but it was only the green water making it seem that way. I don't know if this was connected to the mysterious flu bug that was working its way through the conference attendees - a very fast-striking virulent strain.

I don't smoke. I don't drink anything stronger than coffee. I don't take drugs - not even aspirin. Sometimes I remember to buy vitamins, but mostly not. By keeping the expenses down, I justify this annual trip to an academic conference someplace warm. I don't go there as an academic; I go there as a professional writer and editor. If I were to go as an academic, I would have to pay for the conference. They have graciously waived the registration fee for a number of professional writers who work in the speculative fiction field. I still have to pay for airfare, the (greatly reduced) conference room rate, and most of my meals.

Orlando next year? Maybe...

Story Slam at the Blue Chair

Last night I took a visitor out for a typical Edmonton evening - a story slam at the Blue Chair Cafe. These happen once a month - 10 writers sign up and they read their 5-minutes-or-fewer story to the crowd. There are 5 volunteer judges in the audience, and the stories get rated. A hat is passed and at the end of the night - voila! The winner gets a cash prize.

Last night's winner was Mark Ramsden, and he happens to be one of my students at MacEwan. I can take no credit for his talents. He isn't in one of my writing classes.

The chocolate mousse turned out to be gluten free and corn free, and it was the perfect topper to an earlier spicy chicken curry soup. The stories were in general palatable, but I was wondering why so many men write about being drunk or on drugs. Do they think the audience finds it as interesting as they do? Not me! I get plenty of exposure to alcoholics around here, so I prefer to hear about something else. Oh, maybe it was the thing to talk about back when drinking/drug culture was seen as the emerging literary force - all that Burroughs and Bukowski et al - which isn't much different from the opium culture of Coleridge's time. In the hands of a good writer, it can be interesting. It's not the content that attracts; it's the skill of the writer. Too many men don't seem to think abut that before they put pen to paper and outline their youthful indiscretions.

At the end of the evening, as everyone was paying their bills and heading out into the half-hearted snowy night, a young man stopped at our table. He had been watching the televised 3-Day Novel series the night before - the episode where one of the judges rapped me for what he saw as racism with regard to something I said to the band in preparation for the reading challenge. The young man wanted to tell me he thought the judge was wrong and that I was robbed. I really appreciated that.

One Less Voice

These days I’m paid to go to the big United church at the centre of town: McDougall United. It has a long history of being a centre of political and social influence, but that was in the past. It has come through the waning of the last couple of decades and is starting to grow strong again – and part of that is a refocusing on their purpose. McDougall does a lot with the downtown community – supporting the work of the Bissell Centre and the Edmonton City Centre Church Corporation.

McDougall also has a long history of excellent music, and it used to be a premiere concert venue for the city before the Winspear Centre was built. The acoustics are terrific, and the place is both open and warm. It’s the music ministry that pays me to be there.

I’m the bass section leader. That means I provide an anchor for the volunteer basses in the choir. I help keep it all together and provide leadership. This means I make sure the guys have the right music, that anyone who is having trouble gets a little extra attention. I keep attendance, assign robes to newcomers, and sing the occasional solo piece. At McDougall, the music ranges from Bach to Beatles.

This month is Gospel Music Month – a tribute to the musical heritage of the church as well as coordinating with Black History Month. Our attendance goes up a notch during Gospel Music Month. Maybe it’s the bluegrass band. Maybe it’s the informality of it all. Maybe it’s a nostalgia for a time when we weren’t living in doubt.

I’m the young guy in the bass section. That doesn’t mean a lot. Maybe it’s because the bass voice matures later than the others, but our section is well-lived. We have our challenges: some don’t read music, some are hard of hearing, some are dealing with the pains of growing old. But they come to rehearse every week, and then they show up on Sunday and they give what they have.

Our choir president resigned recently. 70 years old, he’s been singing there for 30 years. He was still singing the occasional solo – and while the voice does not have the robust fierceness of youth, it is still a resonant and sensitive instrument. He has chosen to stop now, before he loses his abilities. He doesn’t want to be an old man singing out of tune and out of time.

He has stepped down now, in Gospel Music Month, when the choir is more informal and when his absence won’t be felt as keenly. I might be the paid section leader, but he’s the man who has been the backbone of the section for decades. I miss him already.

So Dave, if you read this, know that your years of singing brought joy and pleasure to hundreds of people. Thank you.

Raw Fish and Minister Faust

Last night was the preview of BookTelevision's 3-Day Novel reality television series. I'd like to say everyone was there - but you know it's not true. O hyperbole, thou'rt fallen on hard times! There were quite a few of the contestants - Darren, Ali, Mar'ce, Wayne, Tyler, and me. And all the fab folks from BookTV were there, as well as the fab folks from Chapters. Some of them didn't have much choice, since the event was held IN Chapters, but it was good to see them. Chef Kyla was there, and (electro)Lucy for pet therapy.

And Minister Faust, one of the judges. Minister Faust made a point of saying that his way of helping a conflict situation (his judging) return to normal is to give people room; that some of the contestants may have thought he didn't like them because he kept his distance.

Ah, yes. One can see how they might think that. Or it might have been the things he said about them.

Chapters gave us presents! So did BookTV - including a set of collector cards with gum. These things are very cool. And the spread had several celiac-friendly goodies: smoked salmon, sushi, fruit, cheese. In abundance! I can't be angry with anyone when there's raw fish in the offing. Besides, Minister Faust likes the work of Daniel Keyes - and Keyes' Minds of Billy Milligan changed my life. And I like the Minister's blog. So maybe we can forge an understanding. Over sushi.

I missed Catherine Ford, who was sunning herself in warmer climes while we basked in the northern limelights.

The powers that be won't reveal the winner of the television competition until they film the finale in March.

As I was putting my coat on in the room where the 12 contestants slept last September, I noticed a binder labelled Loss Prevention Manual. Oh, the temptation! The opportunity for irony! I had a bag full of presents already - who would notice an extra bulge?

Did I? Of course not! It would be wrong.

Hopeless mission

So last night we were both at our computers engrossed in schoolwork (after midnight on a weekend no less) when the dog started yipping. She was sitting on a chair and facing the front door. We told her to be quiet and went back to our tasks. A minute later, there was a man at the doorway to the office.

He hadn't rung the bell or knocked, and this was one of the rare occasions when we didn't have the alarm set. He had walked in. He was looking for help, he said. He wanted blankets because the shelters were full and he was going to sleep outdoors in sheltered corner beside the entrance to the Ashton apartments. He was with his girlfriend.

"She has a wooden leg..." he said. I went to the door - which he had left wide open - and across the street I could see a shopping cart. Big blue plastic kind. And on the bottom level, where you'd put heavy flat things like bags of rice or kitty litter, there was a body all curled up. He'd been wheeling her around like that.

"It's warm in here," he said.

It's not the first time we've had uninvited guests. I came out of the bathroom downstairs once to find a woman looking at stuff in my livingroom. When I asked what she thought she was doing, she said "Just checking it out." That was in the summer and during the day, not the middle of the night in January. And there are a lot of people in our part of town who come from communities where no-one locks the door and you just walk in. It's not an invasion; it's just that boundaries are different in the towns these folks come from.

Our current visitor was a bit worse for drink. This made him behave like our arthritic one-eyed cat. He would open the door and sniff the air, turn back inside and say "It's nice and warm in here." And the door would still be wide open.

He'd left muddy shoeprints on the tiles in the music room. While my partner went to find spare blankets, I called the Hope Mission to see if they had any beds. I tried to get our visitor to stay put - and he probably thought my concern was for our stuff. Our house is full of interesting stuff - art and books and glass and ceramics. But I knew he wasn't likely to take any of the stuff. What would he do with it? No, I wanted him to stay put so I wouldn't have to spend more time cleaning the floor again. I'd just washed them all a few days ago.

The Hope Mission said they had plenty of mats and our visitors would be welcome. The Mission is only a few blocks away.

"You got something to eat?"

We had spent all day making sausages. We'd made two kinds: a pre-cooked kind with rice and assorted meats (goose, deer, turkey) and a raw kind. So my other half nuked some of the pre-cooked ones while I chatted to our visitor. He wasn't too happy with the phone call to the Hope Mission. I asked him how they found themselves in this situation.

"Don't ask about that," he said.

"You have a problem," I said, "and you want to make it MY problem, so I figure I have a right to ask." Hey, when you want something from a writer, there's a toll booth: cough up the story.

"So where are you from?" I asked.

"My mother."

A comedian.

"You got anything to eat?"

"We're getting you something. Sausages - we made them today. They're good - rice, meat. You'll like them."

"You got any socks?" he asked.

"On my feet." Two comedians. I went to see if my partner needed any help in the kitchen.

He wandered into the kitchen, tracking dirty snow through the livingroom and hallway. He didn't want the sausages. "They don't look right," meaning they don't look like the ones from the store. "You got anything else?" We didn't, really. We had used all the salad, had no fresh vegetables, and all our odds and ends of meat had gone into the sausages. We had dined on the leftover sausage meat.

"Pork...sausage...doesn't sound right."

"Maybe you should bring your friend in for a few minutes."

"She's got a wooden leg."

It wasn't a non-sequitur. The an building our deck started it last May and still hasn't come back with the railings, so the steps aren't safe for anyone who isn't confident of their balance.

We offered a ride to the Mission. He took the blankets instead. I understood this in a way - the shelters in town are segregated, so he wouldn't be sleeping with his girlfriend. So he took the beige comforter and an old red wool blanket that belonged to my partner's grandmother. He left before we could pack the sausages up.

He got his girlfriend out of the shopping cart and half carried her to the corner where they thought they might spend the night. He spread the blanket and comforter over them. My partner took them the sausages. All our visitor said was "You got any warmer blankets?"

My partner called the Hope Mission to see if their van could pick the couple up, but they only send the van if EMS asks for it. So my partner called the police and asked that they check on these folks. I washed the floors.

They did. After 5 a.m. A police car came and rousted the couple from their spot, making them pick up their blankets and move along. Just as the night was reaching its coldest.

Do I feel guilty? No. We provided good food, warm blankets. We found a bed for the night and offered transportation. Our uninvited guest wanted more. He felt completely comfortable walking into our home, asking for things, and then complaining that he wanted better. I wasn't looking for gratitude; it has always irked me that food and shelter aren't free. But he was rude, tracked dirt all over, lied about the shelters being full.

I still want to know the story, though.

Making the Grade

Labour Day weekend 2006 I left the cosy confines of Boyle Street and let myself be shut into a bookstore in the south end of town for the first ever television version of the 3-Day Novel Contest. Before I went, I spent a few hours wandering around my neighbourhood and making notes about the place.

So I wrote a novella set in my neighbourhood. It's fiction - none of the characters are real people, but they are based on real situations. There's the homeless Cree woman who showers under the outdoor tap outside my kitchen window. And the do-gooder United Church intern minister from suburban Ontario. And the gang of kids looking for homeless people to beat up. And the hookers and dealers and dog walkers and cat ladies. The bars, the park, the cemetery int he river valley.

Got word on Monday that the book didn't win the big International 3-Day Novel Contest based inVancouver - but it DID make the shortlist. We still don't know who won the television version of the contest, and I suppose we won't know until March when they shoot the final episode of what has become an 8-part series.

I spent a couple of hours in November serving lunch at the Bissell Centre as a volunteer. So many hungry people. People rotated through, some of them lining up over and over so they could amass enough sandwiches to take back to family or to keep them through another meal. We shovelled out those sandwiches as quickly as we could, and I kept trying to stifle that voice that said "What's really happening here?" because at the end of the day, all that's happening is this: people with enough food are sharing. Yes, I could care more about the root causes of poverty and hunger - and maybe I should, because as a celiac if I ever find myself relying on the Bissell Centre for lunches I'm going to have a rough time! But there's no point trying to fix someone's life when the immediate need is to make sure they don't starve.

The best news was hearing that the number of after hours requests for water at the Bissell Centre has dropped dramatically since we turned the tap on outside our house. As starving artists we can't really afford it, but where did the public water fountains go? When they redid Churchill Square? When they redid Giovanni Caboto Park? When they renovated Edmonton Centre Mall? Why are we begrudging people access to water and food?