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?