But when God closes a door, he opens a window, or whatever. The Canada Revenue Agency called and the ex-ballet dancer handling my file is pissed at me!Read More
It would be nice to be discovered a la Lana Turner at a soda shop and then signed by Warner Brothers but, alas, writing is a grind that you have to buckle down and complete, or you never get better.Read More
When the right people believe in you and your abilities as much as you do, I am telling you, YOU WILL BE UNSTOPPABLE.Read More
Depending on the angle, when I look at you, all I can see is a blank space where your face should be. Other times, you are fractured and broken, like a Picasso. My eyesight is playing tricks on me but I am also seeing things differently, metaphorically.Read More
Expectations ruin everythingRead More
It's surprising how prodigious we can be when Death is sitting in our living room.Read More
Well, I made it. It was winter when I left Toronto, and today is the first day of Spring. I have been in Stratford for one month and I've gotten the hang of how this town works now. Last night at 11 pm I shuffled out of my condo and threw my garbage on the curb. There was another bag and I shook my head because THEY forgot to use a garbage tag. Tut tut. I do think charging residents $2.55 a tag to dispose of their garbage is monstrous but what do I know about running a small town.
I won't be returning to Toronto until Passover which means I will be wearing my big, maroon, puffy coat and lumberjack boots for another 10 days as the temperatures soar. I've already experienced the sweat trickling down my back while walking home from the Festival at 5:15 because it's above freezing and it is not pleasant. That being said, I am still trying to channel my inner Olivia Pope as I walk the hallways of the Festival Theatre. I have the strut but I do not have the swag; it's Banana Republic on my back and I don't have a Prada bag (yet).
I have finished reading Their Eyes Were Watching God, Krapps Last Tape, and some short stories by Julian Barnes. I'm reading Winner and Losers by Marcus Youssef and James Long to understand how to structure a two-hander since I'm writing one with Nick Green; it's a really enjoyable play. I started reading the introductory essay to Coriolanus and put it down but, I swear, I'll finish the play before it opens on June 22. Andre Sills in a Robert LePage production? It's going to be beyond mind-blowing.
What have I learned in 30 days? I know how to use a toaster oven now but I just don't see the point of them when a toaster does the job faster. I can make a perfect soft boiled egg and peel the shell off in one move. Thank you, Bon Appetit. I miss seeing a couple of plays a week but I love having multiple evenings at home to do as wish. Spring is an opportunity to refresh and reboot and I’ll use the next three months to learn something new (and eat less chocolate chip banana bread, maybe). But fellow Canadians, don’t be foolish, it’s going to snow again so keep the snow tires on and don’t put away your winter gear. We go through this every year! And you know what? The snow is pretty and the cold never bothered me anyway.
I never saw black children onscreen when I was a child growing up in London, Ontario, except Buckwheat from The Little Rascals and Arnold from Diff'rent Strokes. They were mischievous, and they pulled funny faces. At no point do I remember a dark-skinned black girl who was smart and confident that I could point to and say, 'I want to be like her.' Penny from Good Times, maybe? Nah. She was being physically abused by her momma (remember that very special episode? With the iron??) and pretended to be Mae West. Oh Norman Lear, you did not understand little black girls in the 70's. *insert ironic coincidence here* A Wrinkle in Time Producer's Norman Lear connection
This was running through my mind when I took my nieces and nephew to see 'A Wrinkle in Time' this weekend. Even though they hadn't read the book I felt that it was important for them to see kids that looked like them onscreen. They're biracial, high achieving, happy children, but female and male heroes of colour in films are in short supply. When Ava DuVernay chose to cast Storm Reid in the role of Meg Murry she opened a door to a universe of possibilities for children of colour; it was a door I could never envision for myself when I was 12 and in love with Christopher Reeves as Superman.
Meg is smart, with big curly hair, and glasses. In fact she's a brilliant example of what a child exposed to science technology, and mathematics can do, if they had faith in themselves. The character is never embarrassed or shy about her abilities to solve a problem with physics. She understands that her faults can be her gifts and at some point gets out of her own way; but she does starts out as a self-conscious, sullen, angry, teenager. She hates the way she looks, is bullied, and get called to the Principal's office where she's given the opposite of a pep talk.
Meg comes around to appreciating her kinky, curly hair, and that's huge. Little black girls are bombarded with images of black beauty that reinforce the idea that only straight, silky hair is beautiful. She scorns a compliment about her hair early in the film and it's a reaction to which I could completely relate. I wanted swishy hair, hair I could flip over my shoulder, and not be affected by shrinkage from pool water. Meg shakes off those shackles in a nifty moment where she pulls her hair into a bun and receives another compliment, which she accepts graciously.
At the end of the film my nieces were all atwitter about Storm Reid and her performance. They loved her, the child who played her brother, Charles Wallace (Deric McCabe), and Meg's mom, played by Gugu Mbatha-Raw, MBE. I loved seeing this powerful, yet understated representation of strong women who didn't need to be saved. Meg saves herself and family with intelligence, math, self reflection, and the realization that from pain comes strength.
Or, as Mrs. Who, played by Mindy Kaling, quoting Rumi says, "The wound is the place where the light enters you".
It's snowing again and I'm not even mad about it.
I’m loving Stratford. It’s pretty, small, and very quiet. I go to bed early, sleep well, and read a lot. I’ve been pretty darn comfortable.
It takes 20 minutes to walk to work and every trip results in pebbles in my boots. I walk funny. Or rather, I comport myself with a little too much twitch in my step. By some magic hot step of my own design I manage to flip small bits of stone into my footwear. It is very uncomfortable. If you see me walking down Ontario or Albert Street wearing giant headphones and a beatific smile on my face, you can bet I’m grimacing on the inside. I’ll eventually stop, untie the lace on one of my London Fog boots, pull it off and shake. Three or four pebbles will fall out. This happens every single day.
Yesterday as I winced in pain rounding Nile Street I came upon a revelation about my teeny companions: one must get comfortable with being uncomfortable. Even though I was feeling great about my state in Stratford, I was troubled by distant memories about old betrayals, unfinished scripts, and creeping weight gain. As I ruminated on an old heartbreak that morning I banged my head on a lamp and I took it as a sign to be more present and enlightened. We really do create our own prisons.
When I arrived at the Festival theatre and removed my coat and scarf, I pulled off my boot and tipped it over to release the two rocks that had spring-boarded inside as I walked up Queen; I felt calmly hopeful about my day. I had a huge problem looming in front of me and had no idea how to fix it. By the end of the day, with the help of my mentors, the issue was resolved. But I know there will be another ‘crisis’ because they are as inevitable as the pebbles in my shoe.
I sip green tea in the morning.
I've been in Stratford for one week. Anxious about how the change to my schedule would affect my mood I had been alternately excited and apprehensive about leaving Toronto for three months. I have left my home for that much time before, when I was on tour with various plays, but that was different. I was on the road in a new place every few days. This would be a complete upheaval of my very regimented routine that, while boring, was familiar.
A year ago when I came up with the idea of taking a break from Toronto I was aggravated with everything. Stagnating, as well. I became a producer by accident and I seemed to have a knack for it. After producing my third indie show I wanted to learn something new. I figured the best place to learn was outside of my comfort zone and in a new place. My routine of gym-coffee-read-waffle over what to do-see a play-go to bed late was tedious.
I get up early.
I sit in my lovely place in Stratford and read the plentiful Facebook and Twitter posts about the plays I just 'have to see': Bang Bang; Jerusalem; Rhubarb; Cottagers & Indians; etc….but I can’t ,because I’m too far away to travel there and back in one evening. I’m learning to stop feeling guilty about missing plays because, try as you might, you're going to miss something. Besides, I’m on the Dora jury for the Indie category; I see plenty.
I’m trying to drink less alcohol.
I don’t make new year’s resolutions because I feel that quitting is almost a given. I am someone who cooks almost all of my meals, goes the gym regularly, calls her parents every week, and tries to keep her head above water as a writer/producer. I deserve a glass of wine at 5. But, lately I’ve been looking forward to a glass of wine the way normal people look forward to the weekend. I resolved that Stratford would be the impetus to change my routine; no more drinking. Ridiculous. There’s an LCBO across the street from my condo in Stratford. I bought my favourite: Small Gully Mr. Black’s Little Book Shiraz, and some McClelland that was on sale. No regrets. Then I went out for fried chicken at Laotian hotspot, Lauhaus, on Downie Street, since they would be closing for good the next day. It was delicious.
Food Poisoning Can Change Your Perspective
There are a lot of thoughts that run through your mind when you’re hunched over on the subway, traveling west on the Bloor line, covered in a thin coating of sweat, nauseas and trying not to poop yourself. One is: this is too nice a coat to have an accident and the other is, I really hope it wasn’t the fried chicken. Three hours later, prostrate and tired from illness, in my pretty condo all I can consume is tea. The next few days all I put in my body is broth, water, plain crackers, and green tea. I glare at the bottle wine, shudder at the idea of the McClelland, and stay away from all things dairy. When I woke up on Tuesday morning the sun was blazing, it was five degrees, and I felt less burdened than I’d been in months. The pressure I have put on myself is lifting and I think I may be freer than ever.