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While reading a Forbes article (via CBC) on attention span and 10 things that erode our attentive abilities, I found myself bombarded by advertisements that would not even let me read the whole article!

Talk about oxymorons!:

http://www.forbes.com/2008/10/15/short-attention-span-forbeslife-cx_avd_1015health_slide_4.html?thisSpeed=15000

It’s only been in the past few weeks that I’ve really come face to face with these methods of pop ups..they’re ads that are difficult to close and taunt you like a schoolyard bully waving his fist in your face.. seriously, these lingering ads have GOT to go cause I would rather go to an independent news site, I’d probably be safer there anyway!

I’m going to go try reading that article again once more..

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I saw a note from Barbara Julian, reviewing the workmanship of Charlotte Gill… I believe this is an accurate framing of a good short story..
“I have a fancy that characters in short stories really want to be in novels. After all, the novel is a larger canvas and everyone wants a big life, fictional people as well as real. I suppose this is another way of saying that if characters and their stories are engaging the reader wants to read on to the next chapter and the next-wants a whole novel. If they are not engaging the story was a failure; either way it is hard for a short story to be enough in itself, and it takes a real master to give it a conclusive, satisfying totality.
It is not enough to peep through a window on characters engaged in a random series of actions, before they happen to shut the curtain or wander out of view. A short story is not a fragment or a snapshot. “Short” means told economically, not cut off, and “story” suggests an unfolding, a process, requiring the time-honoured structure of conflict, climax and denouement. The short story, like its ancestors the fable and the parable, uses the same devices as a long story-a novel-but without the luxury of discursively sprawling into all sorts of beckoning highways and byways. Choosing to write the short rather than long form of fiction means choosing precision over expansiveness.”

This is not to say one is better than the other, though. Her first line may suggest such a thing, but I believe precision is the technique of some, and expansiveness the weapon of others.

I think I prefer short stories to novels. But I’ve spent the past year trying to read novels and completing around 6 full lengths.  I can spend the next 2 mos reading the two novels I’m reading right now (yes, I even practice polyamory in my reading habits) or move to better things. I have half a mind to buy this “Ladykiller” compilation by Charlotte Gill. Maybe I will!!! I bought some really stupid books recently which I meant to give as a gift to a friend (a joke gift), but I came up with something better (pitched in on a voice recorder)

I’m blabbering now..sigh

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As one of my web entrepreneur friends put it, in terms of whether the public can weed through the garbage online and figure out where the truth lies,

“Generally speaking there is a 80 to 20 ratio on the Internet. 20% are intelligent and the 80% are computer illiterate. Thus they are idiots and will fall for any traps.”

It’s like today’s news media. How many people do I see feeding into every bit of the news, never researching their sources, never knowing how much spin there is in everything they’re digesting into their bloodstream?

One time, my aunt called me up, all gung-ho about putting her daughter into acting and modeling. Apparently, my cute and eager cousin was approached by a solicitor at a fair and told she should join their school and talent agency. The price would be upwards of $2000.00.

Seeing as I have a lot of performing experience, my aunt wanted my advice on whether the school is good or not, and whether her daughter was too young. Now, I’ve known fraud. When I was young, in pre-Google times, I researched fraud agencies myself, painstakingly following forums and links till I got to the core of a topic–only to discover I’d been approached by a fraudulent agency.

It’s much easier these days. I simply typed in the name of the performing arts school my aunt mentioned (I can’t remember it right now). The first link was the website of the company itself. The average web-user will click on this site and get buried in the content of the site, its testimonials, and registration page. I simply looked below the first link and came upon threads and comments revealing the company for all it was worth. I promptly called my aunt and told her that this was the case.

The thing is, not everyone will take the time or consider looking further in this manner.

Similarly, we read countless blogs on a topic, and think that because it’s written in blog-style and from a real, live person…that we’re not being tricked.

BLOGS ARE MARKETING TOOLS!!

i just had to say that out loud. it’s pounding in my head. where is quality writing?

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I really didn’t expect to like Las Vegas. Sin City, “Whatever Happens in Vegas…”, “Vegas Baby”
really aren’t the sort of things that typically woo me. I was expecting a dirtier Dubai, something akin to Amsterdam on ecstasy.
But I think it’s the people here that have captivated me. They’re all really crazy, freespirited, ruthless and charming. They talk the talk and walk the walk, everyone knows ’someone’ who knows someone. They’re not moved by celebrities, and they talk to anyone that speaks their language. Oh and what a language it is. Filled with dollar signs, nods, and concealed handshakes.

Poolside at the Mirage, “Pool Bare”, I watch a girl prance around in a sparkly bikini, popping her foot in the air behind her and laughing at something a friend says a few feet  away. She glances around her mischievously, and checks to see if anyone is watching. Of course, someone is always observing, besides me. Behind her, a woman sits with a group of men and fondles her visibly hard, rock solid breasts while sipping on a mojito. My friend and I exchange a glance of certainty on the question of implants. She is the only topless woman at the pool, which welcomes nudity, and I am the only one in shorts and a t-shirt. We all do something to stand out. The sun is beating down on us, and the DJ plays on behind me. The transitions are smooth, I’m loving every song as he spins Red Hot Chilli Peppers mixed with Kaskade and the guy across from me flexes his chest muscles to the bass, hiding behind his sunglasses with a smirk.

This is Las Vegas, where anything goes, and where glamorous movies find their muse. Every conversation is laced with inflated status, and nothing is offered for free or out of the goodness of ones heart. The warm, inviting promoters get $50 a head for each person they bring into the club, and they shamelessly request your phone number after looking you up and down without noticing you. Thinking that they way to your heart is through flattery, they spin words around your head, perhaps dazzling you on the first night…but that’s why you need to stay in Vegas about 5 nights. Everyone says, leave after 3 nights. I suggest 5 nights–the 4th night, you meet the people you’ve only introduced to. The 5th night, you digest.

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I went to the Inside Out film festival showing of “Beirut Apt” here in Toronto, today.

It was playing at the Isabel Bader theatre, and was up for the Audience award…so I paid even more attention, since I knew I’d have to sign a ballot with my opinion when I left.

The doc was short, it was less than an hour long and it flew by. I think it was well-put together, considering the subject of Israel and Lebanon has been thrown around a lot in documentaries. Though, the issue of homosexual Arabs is not really an openly discussed subject.

I liked that the doc was short, I liked that it hit a lot of specific points along a surface, and that it packed it all into a 50min set. I’m sure they could’ve come up with more and probably lost a lot of footage in editing, but the goal of some documentaries is to create curiosity, to strike a person’s interest or fancy..It’s something I’ve always found in film docs—you have only so much of a person’s time, and every frame has to strike a chord of some sort. People are so  quick to get distracted, as it is.

So the characters in Beirut Apt are nothing special. That’s what it is –they don’t have big names, they didn’t pour out their hearts or have dramatic, intense moments with the camera..on the contrary, they just spoke in a very conversational manner about their encounters as gay, lesbian, and Lebanese individuals. It just leaves more doors open for the viewer to RELATE to the subject when they don’t go in too deep, I think, sometimes. It’s a little like small talk–surface conversations are just easier to steer.

That’s not to say the viewers are comfortable and not moved to question the issues at hand. In fact, things are said so lightly and simply by the subjects that you may brush it off and laugh. The end of the movie, with the last, most poignant subject, really tied things together. There were some excellent aesthetic qualities to this film, once again simple and not in-your-face.

And upon discussing the politics of the documentary, which was possibly the most important (”everything is political”, even if i don’t want it to be!!:))  aspect, I have been enlightened on a few things re: class structures and how they manifest themselves in the film and its interview subjects. Beirut Apt. features members from a spectrum of classes.

For more info, check out:

  http://www.myspace.com/thebeirutapt

http://beirut.helem.net/

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My friends and I are trying to figure out the best place to go camping in Ontario.

We’re not against the idea of crossing into Quebec, since half our friends are coming from Montreal.

But really, we need to make it something halfway between Toronto and Montreal.

Anyway, last year we went to a camping ground near Lancaster, in Ontario.

This year, our options are:

Charleston Lake
Bon Echo
Sandbanks
Sharbot Lake
Petroglyphs

I’ve driven through the Sharbot Lake area, I find it very quaint and secluded as a town..And their forests seem thick enough..then again, how does one gauge an idea of ‘a good camping site’? what makes a good camping site? i’d say clean air, not too many people, and a nearness to water…a personal favoured aspect of CAMPING is WATERFALLS!!!!! I would love to sleep near the waterfalls:)

Anyway, I am embarrassed to tell you how few times I’ve actually gone camping, but I can tell you that I’m an avid cabin/cottager and the requirements are similar..ideally, you want to be as far away from the city as possible..I’ve been to a lot of cottages in Ontario, though. My family used to be really into the fishing thing. My big dream, at one point, was buying a nice cottage.

Anyway, I’m not up for going to Sandbanks..just because it has so many camping sites and I don’t know if I want to be in an area where there are 500 other camping sites set up:)

That being said, Bon Echo camping area seems really cool. There are petroglyphs, paddling, hikes, cliffs, etc!

Let’s see which we choose…can’t wait!

Oh, and LongSault park is looking good too.. all of these are pretty much in  eastern Ontario.

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I was sitting at the corner of Queen and Yonge today waiting for Mutton to meet me for dinner..it was rush hour, everyone was leaving work and I was reading the paper on a bench. Truthfully, I couldn’t concentrate, as there were too many fashionable clacking heels passing amidst the streetcars and out-of-place bicycles. I need to take notes on what’s in! Not to mention I was wearing sunglasses and I’ve not grown accustomed to the accessory, let alone a dark shadow on my print.

For those who aren’t familiar with this hood, it’s a bit of a crossroads. Walk a little north, and you hit Toronto’s attempt at Times Square–Dundas Square, where flashing lights and fountains run the show. This is also where the main downtown mall is situated, the Eaton Centre.
Take a stroll a bit south, and you’ll hit the financial district, where Blackberrys and speed-walking mark the territory. You’ll also cross paths with some young lawyers and old ones that will swallow you with their eyes.
East and west are a little trendier, but haven’t formed enough of a consistent identity for me to comment on, or rather, are in such transition these days that labels such as ‘vintage’, ‘boho’, and ‘yuppy’ would not suffice.

I noticed these two women stop beside me. One was in her mid 50s and the other was in her 20s probably. They didn’t look at me, even though I was yakking away on my phone about all the hot suits that work in my building. Not that my conversations are so important they should eavesdrop, but I was sitting right beside them. They didn’t really talk to each other, and I figured they were taking a rest from shopping, or working. I went on with my mundane chatter, and a friend I hadn’t seen in about 3years happened to recognize me, even incognito in sunglasses and prep wear.

The friend and I reunited, chatting for a short bit about what we’d been up to and how our lives are progressing. We were distracted, with him noticeably pacing at the thought of his departing train and myself, wondering where the hell Mutton was and when I’d be eating.

As D turned to leave, I glanced to my right and saw that these two women were sitting cross-legged at the core of the city, with eyes closed and fingers poised, pressed together in the direction of the sky. I was stunned. I hadn’t even noticed them. Their expressions were blank, but full. They were withdrawn, but present. I am convinced they were in a space so quiet that no one could wake them until the time was right. Theirs was a peace I don’t envy, but would rather achieve, master, and recreate.

Mind you, theirs wasn’t the attention-grabbing religious activist sort of prayer. It was private, not shy but natural.

If two people can sit with traffic blaring,
honking,
lights,
cell phones,
smog,
talking,
screeching,
laughing,
the brush of bodies on the street,
the groan of trucks and transit system
under their feet…

Then there is little we can denounce in faith of the purest kind, and sincerity of the most congested mind.

I was stilled. Quiet, so quiet I wouldn’t dare speak in their presence. I had to walk away to exhale, and I had to lower my voice to a hush as I told my boyfriend what I’d just witnessed and not been able to take part in. In fact, I couldn’t even tell him the details as I was afraid of breaking the spell. I didn’t watch them, I only saw them.

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i’m fairly smitten with milan kundera. i am not smitten by him the way i have been caught up in a fine balance, or shantaram, nor the way i whizzed through jhumpa lahiri and unaccustomed earth..they’ve got nothing on him. i wouldn’t say i’m drawn to him the way i was intrigued by gabriel garcia and immediate host to gallons of respect for his compassion.

i would compare my reaction to kundera’s ‘immortality’ to the same weak-in-the-knees, to-be-left-alone shyness, willingness, and vulnerability i sensed in myself when reading the ‘intimacy’ compilation by sartre. elements of my short but intense relationship with ‘wicked’ by gregory mcguire….quick but never forgotten and forever touched upon in a positive light. triggers to my growth and dog-eared pages of notable points in my book-reading career. no, it’s hard to fall in love..and it happens so rarely that when you’re in it, you don’t want it to end, even though it must. i’m not the sort that wants to read book after book of one author after i fall in love with the first. i would hate to compare one with the other. but i am a slow reader when i sense an immediate connection. i want to write down everything they say, i take pauses and savour the words, the structure of thoughts and the immensity of what my lover is saying. i re-read sections within minutes, touching upon them over and over again. sometimes, when i am with a mortal lover that i can’t get enough of, i write down the things they say on a napkin beside the bed. but with a book, you can turn the page back, and no one will know you’re so love-struck. it’s all between the pages.

why do i feel so strongly about some books, and not others? i could quote kundera and support my statements..but i think it is that i see elements of myself manifested in the thoughts of these writers..that they could see right through me, and humans in general, is so profound that i believe them to be demi-gods.

so why would i read them slowly, and why would i not race to read their next book? i think love, when it nears its end, is the sweetest tragedy. best contained in its past. to read another book by the same person, with a completely different goal, time, place..could lead to a complete disconnect that may dissolve all previous . the same person i was in love with a year and a half ago is my friend today, and will never be my lover again. the person/book/place you fall in love with can come at the right time, fitting into you perfectly and clicking in place. sometimes you carry on this romance until it ripens into a sweet forever. but a lot of the time, relationships are meant to stay in their place. a book does not change with time, as people are so prone to doing.

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each day, we crack open a bottle of wine and talk about our lives. where we’re headed, where we’re at, and where we can’t wait to be…sometimes it spans time, events, realities and dreams..it’s a pretty huge spectrum. other times, it is derived from people..i want to be doing what she’s doing. not the same career but the same place, feeling, height..level of comfort..i want to feel what she’s feeling. in many encounters, we are sore. our eyes are dry, and our faces redden. we hold each other tenderly, bitterly, asking for help, hungrily…because there is no shame in what the eyes may say.
after our heads clear, we all walk away as if nothing happened. we put things down, and we pick them back up. in all ways, we are each other’s recyclers. there is nothing that can compare to a burn, a drop, falling to ashes. only to be left as embers, waiting to have life and air blown back.

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the most precious statement made in “Unaccustomed Earth”, by Jhumpa Lahiri, is the comparison of death to a dark room in a photo lab. “It must be something like this”.

I would hate to look at a picture of a person I’ve been close to, who’s died. All memories of them would dissipate, expressions, laughter in motion, frowns and facial flaws and reactions, to be replaced by the frozen, faded and distant perfection of that photo.

i resist this lump in the back of my throat, and i pretend i haven’t let go.

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