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!
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Friday, April 13, 2007
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."
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."
Friday, April 6, 2007
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.
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.
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