On a Clear Day

Today was absolutely the most beautiful day I've seen in Vancouver. The sun shone all day and giant cumulus cloud hung mid-way above the horizon, accentuating the mountain tops below them and the startling blue above.

I had to drive to Richmond this morning to be trained on a box office ticketing system. Did I mention I was volunteering for a local film festival? I've met some fantastic people while providing myself with the option of ongoing procrastination, and plenty of shortcuts to insanity.

What? What about writing?

No, I haven't got much done. But I'll make up for it. I promise.

To distract you, here are a lot of pictures. None of them are from today, though. Luckily, the battery in camera was dead while I was driving, 'cause I seriously would've taken photos while driving on the Granville Bridge. The view was breathtaking. In hindsight, photography while driving is probably not the wisest activity to undertake. So here are some of the photos I have taken in the past four weeks.

The lichen and the mushroom photos are for Tammy. I'm sorry the mushrooms on the stump photo isn't better. It was taken in Stanley Park, and the battery died right after I snapped that shot.

Lichen


A View from Stanley Park


Mushroom Blur


Lichen II or "Muppet Trees"


Totem Zoom, Stanley Park


Title Not Required


More Water


Pondering


Yes, But Do You Love Each Other in Esperanto?


Even More Water


Back in the Day, A Sculpture Could be Called This Without Sounding Provocative


I Had Never Seen Wood Ducks Before

That day I also saw a heron and two eagles.

Large Container Ship Prompted Thoughts of Consumerism and Globalization


The View From the Living Room Where I Am Residing


Coal Harbour Sea Walk


City of Glass


Wall Motif


Coal Harbour Seawalk II


Full Moon


They Just Call It De Dutch


De Dutch II


Horseshoe Bay


Nancy Drew, but Shannon Falls

Can you believe I bothered to steal that joke? Like it's not lame enough?

Breakfast in Whistler or Do Not Question Good Fortune


The View during Breakfast was Better than this Photo


The following photos were taken last Sunday on the way to the Chinese New Year's Day parade.

On the Way to Chinatown


Reflection of an Ice Pig or How Not to Take A Picture


It's okay to take photos of other people's children if they're this cute and blurry


This Kid's Braid was Fake and Attached to his Hat!


Festive


Hello Doggie


Lion Feet


Cool Dude Taking Photos

That's the Falun Dafa group drumming in yellow behind him.

Hipster Dude with Pinwheels on his Bike


Choy Cheng (Thank you, Google)


Choy Cheng - Zoom


Year of the Very Modern Pig

That was in a shop window.

Red and Green


That's it for now. I hope that will keep you entertained for at least three minutes.

The Rain Has Returned

After almost two weeks of sunny weather, the rain has returned. I had stopped believing it would. That nice umbrella I chose not to buy yesterday is laughing at me from Gastown.

Gung Haggis Fat Choy

I'm up to page 41 in the revisions. Not good, not bad.

Reading Squiddity, reminded me that I had these pics to post. These are from a market my cousin took me to, but I can't remember it's name.
Sorry for the shoddy quality.



The haggis below actually move and scare the living daylights out of people who skeptically approach. It's pretty funny. Shall I tell you how?


And here, one more pic to tide you over till I write something interesting.
The view from Granville Island at night, waiting for the (tiny little) ferry.

Sidney Sheldon

Sidney Sheldon has died.

Around age thirteen, I read Master of the Game. It was the first and only book of his that I read. It shocked me to think adults could be so horrible - especially to their own family members. Reading the review for it now on Amazon, I realize that I only remembered one awful moment, and the rest of the soapy epic had faded from my mind completely.

No, he was not my favourite writer, but I admire his prolificness. (According to dictionary.com, that's a word.)

At the end of the CBC obituary, he is quoted:
"Then I do a complete rewrite — 12 to 15 times," he said. "I spend a whole year rewriting."

Oh, joy.

Vancouver

I'm ba-ack.

Anyone still reading? Awesome.

Here is the low-down on my life since my last post.

Join temp agency.
Get job.
Start volunteering.
Take writing class at U of T
Circumstances demand more time spent with family.
Stop volunteering.
Class ends.
Cousin offers me chance to stay at his place in Vancouver (as he is not often there).
Job contract ends.
I go to Vancouver.

Now I am in Vancouver. I am sorry I have not blogged (nor read anyone else's blog) in so very long. I really appreciate anyone who is still checking this page out.

I have been here for two weeks and this past week has been remarkably sunny. The first week was an unending smudge of grey.

Since I've been here, I have only written on two days. Revising is a loathsome tedious process. You have to read what you've already written, acknowledge how much you hate it, resist the urge to delete the whole thing, and wrestle something better from your over-or-under-caffienated brain. It's not fun.

I will leave you with one photo from Stanley Park and I'll post more soon. This is a tree lying across the pedestrian/bike path around the perimeter of Stanley Park. Amazing and sad.

The Women, the Pigeons, and Me

Picture this. North York. Nineteen ninety-something.

I am a teenager. Maybe in my early twenties? I'm too old to remember now. I have decided in my foolhardiness to walk from Finch Station (the end of the line) to my parents' house in Thornhill. It's summer. I walk. I walk and walk and walk. This was when the plazas in North York on Yonge north of Finch were in slow decline. I walk up to Yonge and Steeles. Not much farther, I remind myself. I remind myself that I like walking. I feel I am a Friend to the Environment.

Yonge and Steeles is dominated by Centrepoint Mall. This story took place when it was Centrepoint, I think. Not so long ago that it was Towne and Country. This was before Yonge from Steeles to Clarke went through the Korean-Iranian renaissance.

I must have been a teenager because this was before the Depressive Episode, back when I talked to strangers. Er, more than I do now.

Let's begin again. I am walking. A woman stops me on the sidewalk. She has a big dog and a pigeon. (The pigeon is in her hands, not inside the big dog.)

This is not terribly unusual. I mean, the pigeon is unusual, but not the fact that she stops me. I'm often stopped by strangers because I often have a look on my face that says "harmless" and "bother me, I won't hurt you". This woman was looking for a stranger to stop and she found me.

"Please," she says, "can you take it?" She holds the pigeon out to me. It is in shock. (I am too.)
"Uh," I say.
"Please, her wing is broken, and I can't take her-" she gestures with her head towards the big dog. "The dog will go crazy."
"Um," I say.
"Please, her wing is broken, can you take her?" Her eyes implore me. I don't care if that's a cliche. "I can't leave her here," she says.

I can't disappoint this woman. I am young. I have compassion for all living things. Part of my brain is also flashing other messages at me like:
Pigeons-are-dirty-where-will-I-take-it-what-can-I-say-I-don't-want-to-look-heartless-etc.

I ignore the messages.
I take the pigeon.

I hold her - though who can say the gender of this particular pigeon - I hold her gently and firmly. The woman thanks me profusely and walks away with her big dog.

I stand there on Yonge Street. I enjoy looking at this pigeon up close, in as much as I enjoy examining any living creature, except slugs. I also wonder if the pigeon will peck me and if I will get a disease. I also begin to feel a simmering string of expletives form (as it always does when I've willingly and knowingly invited stupidity into my life). Sunday afternoon on the border of Thornhill and I've been entrusted with the life of a pigeon.

I don't know what else to do, so I continue walking north towards my parents' house. My internal monologue is strained to say the least. I mean WHAT am I doing holding this BIRD with a broken wing that I cannot fix and really what kind of PREDATORS would there be anyways out by the stunted pines of the ornamental greenery around Centrepoint Mall, and if I were a pigeon, I wouldn't WANT to be carried by a big scary human all the way to THORNHILL, I would just want some corner to feel safe so I could just DIE or HEAL as I (or Pigeon God) wanted me to, and WHO does that woman think she IS just handing off PIGEONS to people anyways, and isn't it perfectly NATURAL for her DOG to go crazy, as a dog would and why do I DO these things and can I somehow blame it all on RANGER RICK?

I've walked past Centrepoint Mall. I stop. There's no vet between here and Mom and Dad's. The only vet is almost right at their street. It's closed on Sundays anyhow. There's no park, no green space, nothing useful to a hurtin' pigeon from here to RICHMOND HILL for the love of... anways. I change my mind. The woman must be far off now. She won't see me.

I turn around.

I walk back towards the only spot of green. The shrimpy pines around the mall parking lot.

I carefully set the Pigeon down under a tree. Animals like to be hidden in corners to die. I don't know how I know this, but I do.

Suddenly, "LIAR!" Much like that scene in The Princess Bride, the woman is back - how did she get there so fast? Was she waiting and watching around a corner?

"I trusted you! Why did you lie? You lied to me! You said you would take her!" She goes on and on. I am horrified. Not actually scared of her (which maybe I should've been), but ashamed of being busted. I feel guilty. I want to say, "pigeons are dirty" and "neither you nor I can help her now", but I don't say those things. I should've said, "why don't you leave your dog and take the pigeon", but I don't think of that till now, years later. I just stammer something like, "Sorry, sorry, I'll take her. I have a long walk. Sorry, sorry."

Are you ready? I take the damn pigeon AGAIN. I walk, holding her, for approximately 3.7 kilometres. I leave her in the bushes outside the vet clinic.

I go to my parents' house and wash my hands. I tell very few people this story. I phone the vet and leave them a message (or was it a note?) that there is a wounded pigeon in their shrubbery. I quietly loathe that woman for a long time.

*

But wait, there's more!

Fast-forward to now, just a few months ago. I was in Toronto, walking past a little plaza downtown. It is partly the front driveway of a building, and partly some stores. Mostly, it is full of parents watching little kids go round and round on bikes or roller blades. But that morning, a new person held court. A Crazy Pigeon Woman with a Piazza San Marco-scale pigeon brood at her feet. She is tossing them chunks of stale bread from her bundle-buggy. She has a black garbage bag full of bread. I suspect it was given to her in the hope that it would feed her not her pigeons.

Now I know why there's been a severe increase in pigeon crap in the area. It's not a coincidence.

"Excuse me," I say, "Why don't you feed them in the park?"

"There is no park around here!" she retorts.

"Yes, there is. There are three - one on X, Y, and Z, all in a row."

"They're too far," she says.

"No, they're not," I say. They're five minutes from here, I walk it every day." Besides, she doesn't panhandle or stick around the area, meaning she is getting to and from there somehow.

"What do you care?" she says. Our voices are rising. "You're wearing shoes! You don't eat off the ground!"

"Yeah, but why do I have to step in pigeon sh-t on the way to work? Why do you have to feed them here?!"

"Pigeons are just like people, you know. They have feelings! You have no feelings. You're heartless!"

"Fine. I'm heartless," I say. And then I get really mature and add, "At least I have a brain". And then I realize that I am having an argument with the Crazy Pigeon Lady, and that this can't be a good sign, and that also, I'm not winning. I walk away.

And later, as I ponder over my flaws and failings I spot the lapse in my logic. Did you catch it?
It was when I chose to start a conversation with the PIgeon Lady!!!

And lest you leave this entry convinced of my heartlessness, cowardliness, and neurotic tendencies, I'll have you know that I'm not the only crazy one in this blog entry. Here, read for yourself.

A Thimble of Magickal Tea - A Fanged Fable of Fright!

Marcella has just moved to the puddly town of Guimpton and something is very wrong. No one else can see it - not her parents, not her spaniel, Spotbottom, not even Old Jake Suspenderson who lives in the rowhouse next door! But Marcella can feel it: the grass curls strangely under her toes, her plastic play earrings crawl up her ears, even her jelly-tots play in her hand and refuse to be eaten. It would all be wonderful, if only Spotbottom wasn't turning so mean..."

There. That's my approximation of all the twee-and-crumpets crap that Neil Gaiman has written with this book. I've just read Coraline. Perhaps I was put off Gaiman years ago by someone who, er, used to influence me, shall we say? But lord knows, I've tried. I really tried with this book, because PHILIP PULLMAN is quoted on the front. (However, he just says to "applaud" for Coraline is "the real thing", by which he might mean, well, anything.)

The only original element in this book is the buttons. Read it and you'll see what I mean. Everything else is so derivative. When it's not derivative, it's plain and cliched. Blarf. I'm ready for a fight, all you Gaiman-worshippers.

Read Lewis Carroll. Read Pullman. Read C. S. Lewis. Read Beatrix Potter. Heck, I'm a big fan of Good Omens. But Coraline? Bah. I'm sure it'll be a nice little animated film one day, but please stop calling it a "classic".

I promise

I promise I won't turn this into "solely" a shoe blog.
But look, a running shoe I would wear!

I'm ba-aack

"Why Ms. Mazal, would you care to explain your absence?"

You might think that being off blogging and jobless would have resulted in a flurry of creativity and productivity, but you would be wrong. I have nothing nothing to report on the writing front. Really. It's embarrassing. But since NOT blogging didn't help any, I'm back to blogging.

However, there is some news.

Two week ago I started a new full-time job. It's nine to five. It's a very short walk from home, and so far, it's great. It's an organization that helps children, so hurray.

I've also started taking a writing class at U of T. I'll let you know more about it, but so far, we've only had one class.

Next week I start volunteering at a literacy foundation called Frontier College.

Otherwise, I've been happily watching the leaves turn, 'cause Autumn is my favourite season. I've been reading the Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Nothing like a pioneer family to make you feel dull, slow, lazy, unaccomplished, ungrateful, and morally lacking in comparison! Laura's knowledge of English grammar at age 15 is more than I have ever learned.

I also just read The Ruby in the Smoke, the first in the Sally Lockhart series by Philip Pullman. It's terrific. It's too bad I didn't hear about it in the '80s. The cover on the edition I got from the library is awful, though. The one in the middle of this Amazon page is my favourite - and the only one I've seen on store shelves here in Toronto.

Oh, and if you've never read The Devil's Storybook by Natalie Babbitt, you should. It's a lot of fun. I've been on a bit of a children's lit kick, as you can see.

And lastly, here's a page of fall boots that you are all welcome to buy for me. I like the Nydia, Beta, and the Tamika. I should never ever have gone into the Cole Haan store, because nothing in any other store will measure up now.
Buy us!

Hope you're all having a lovely October, wherever you are.

Shwoe-ning

What would make me return to blogging before I have reached any goals?
Would it be that I've accomplished something great? No.
Did I get lots of writing done? No. Although, I did revise around 30 pages yesterday.
Did I get lured back by the flattering comments I received? No. (Although, that was tempting. Flattery works here at Fictionally.

No, it was this:
I have discovered via Andre Leon Talley, style maven at Vogue, the name of a shoe designer named Courtney Crawford. Page 240 of the current September 2006 Vogue with Dunsty Antoinette on the cover.

Am I ashamed to be swooning over a shoe by the same man who designed shoes for - gag - Mariah Carey? She of little-to-no style? Yes.

But the gaudy, tacky, vicious, 1980s Versace-esque gold stiletto on page 140, called MAN EATER, really took my breath away. Is it my favourite shoe of all time? No.

But it's enough to bring me back to blogging.

More soonish... or I may have some guest bloggers in for you...

All Play and No Work

All play and no work makes me low on funds. And short on word count.

I'm gonna stop blogging for a while - for as long as necessary to get my writing back in line.
When I've written a good amount, I'll be back.

Have a good weekend!

Hmmph!

Gawker's post on the Forbes nonsense

Smart Bitches/Trashy Books on the Forbes nonsense.

It's too nonsensical to write anything more about it. But yes, I decided to blog it anyways.

Bon Cop, Bad Cop

Well, it could've been soooo good. But it was okay.

Wonderful idea, but the movie was very uneven. Some parts were funny, other parts, the humour seemed to dip to thirteen-year-old boy levels. Colme Feore and Patrick Huard were both fantastic, but even the best actors can be hampered by script and directorial choices.

The script, the credits say, was written by four people. It shows. It seems like the four did not agree on the tone or the pace or even, at times, the idioms of English speakers. I don't know any sister that would say to her brother, "Oh, c'mon, brother...". Although, it may be more common in Quebecois lingo ("ah, mon frere...").

I was really hoping that this would be The Great Canadian Bilingual Movie. A succesful franchise and series spin-off. But it is not.


My friend Natalie the Incredible sent me this link. It is a list folks in "creative fields" should read. It's from a website called Gaping Void.


Had sushi tonight at Ho Su. The company was delightful, the sushi less so. It's slipping every time I go there. My Futo Maki and my spicy salmon rolls both tasted like they'd been sitting around. Not fishy or anything, but the rice seemed a touch stale, if that makes any sense. Only the hamachi nigiri I ordered at the end was really remarkable and delicious. I think Shogun is edging them out as my new fave sushi place. Maybe I should only order Korean Food at Ho Su.

Tonight's Movie

Running out to see Bon Cop, Bad Cop.

Will report later.

Your Sunday "Tough Love" Motivation

J. A. Konrath, thriller writer, has this saying on the side of his blog. It certainly shut up the whining in my head.


Fate is simply a future that you didn't try to change.

Selling Out for 100 Million Dollars

An interesting little bit of news I was previously unaware of:

Colgate-Palmolive bought Tom's of Maine.

Back when I was an idealistic teen, I often bought Tom's of Maine toothpaste in Fennel flavour. It's like cool, hip, enviro-friendly, toothpaste with mountain-climbing, hiker indie-cred! Toothpaste that the Man wouldn't brush his teeth with! I would still buy it (for the occasional change in toothpaste flavour), except that even as it's become more available, the price has never gone down. I think it still sells for around $5.50 CAD. It's a bit hard to justify when you're not rolling in money and plain old Colgate goes on sale for 59 cents.

Even though I'm sure the founders will do a lot of good with their money - I'm sure they'll conserve wetlands etc - it still struck me as a bit sad. I like having a lot of choice. And now, even though the choice to buy the product is still there, the money goes to the same people as if I buy the 59 cent Colgate. I know my logic is flawed, seeing as I haven't bought their product in years, but it affects me emotionally, not rationally.

I can't really blame them. I'm sure most contracts look really really good with $100 million attached.

"Mama, if that's selling up, then I'm sellin' out! Doo doo dee doo dee doo...."

Write from the Hip

I cannot overstress how important it is that you go see Write from the Hip, part of the Groundswell theatre festival.

Why would I have an ulterior motive? What are you implying? Ok, fine, my best friend's play is being showcased. HURRAH!

Since I can't trust you to click on the link, I have cut-and-pasted the blurb here:

"Our Write from the Hip unit will have readings of their plays on August 20 at 8 p.m. Hip participants include Christine Nicole Harris, Patricia Lee, Haley McGee, Martha Schabas, Paula Schultz, and Yaya Yao.
Tickets are Pay-What-You-Can at the door (Suggested amount $10 per person). Limited seating. No Latecomers."

That's Sunday at the Distillery District. Click on "theatre" and scroll down, if you don't see it. Nightwood's at Building 74, studio 301. I'm assuming that's where the show's gonna be.

Be there.

The Contest and the Sneaky Link

The Contest:

At Writer's Market, there's currently a short short story contest on. Do your best in 1500 words. Entry fee is twelve bucks (USD).


The Sneaky Link:

At Hip Candy, I discovered a sneaky little tool - Work Friendly. Enter a URL and ta-da - it converts the URL to look like a word document! There's a "Boss" button too, which makes the whole page look like an article on time-management. Pretty funny. See? Now you can read my bright pink blog at work! I'm here to help.

My Postcard from Melbourne!

I got my postcard! Ok, technically, I received it last Thursday, but (a) I had a guest staying with me and (b) I have no digital camera of my own, so I had to borrow one. It's taken me a week to post this. I'm very sorry.

I have to say, I love this postcard. I love that it's a real gritty little bit of Melbourne. And I really like the blogger's blog it's from too! It's from Ed at Tomato, an Australian food blog.





Hopefully one day I'll get myself to Melbourne and check out the bar that's hidden via this alleyway. Since it's called The Croft Institute, maybe I'll even dress inspired by Lara Croft. But without the shorts. Oh, shaddup, I heard that.

Thanks, Ed! This is a terrific photo-postcard, and it'll be up on my bulletin board. Happy blogging.

Hm. The only Toronto restaurant I can recommend to foodies right off the top of my head is Edward Levesque's Kitchen. I've only been there for brunch, but I'd have no qualms taking anyone there. The food and the service have never disappointed.

Blurry

Remember two posts ago, when I said I was sleeping at night?
I backslid.
I stayed up all night again. But, I revised another twenty pages of Book One, so it was not all wasted.

This morning did I did laundry, vacuumed and tidied up. Even showered and had breakfast before I went online. I'm inordinately proud. And ready to crash any minute now.

Like the title of the post, I feel "blurry". So more later.

Bonus photo. A shot I took last winter on the way from Gananoque to Toronto. I don't think I posted it, did I?

You Must Enjoy These

(1) You will watch Guest Room on Sunday August 13th. Check out "Stronger" the weekend after too.

(2) If you are female, you will submit your play to Write from the Hip

(3) You will attend this year's Groundswell Festival. The 2006 listing should be up soon. It's at the Distillery District.

You will have a good time. Trust me.

Circadian Joy

I slept at night.

Those who know me well, know that for the past few weeks, I've flipped my sleep schedule around (as usual), and have been writing all night/sleeping all day. My aunt said, "You're on Hong Kong time".

I finally stayed up a full 24 hours, and went to bed at 10:30pm. Woke up at 10:30am. This is positively thrilling. I did the coolest things this morning - like eat breakfast.

Stay tuned to see if I can sleep tonight too!

No new word count yet. I wrote 1500+ words yesterday, but it's for an online contest.

Right now, I'm busy with a 10 minute lecture I'm supposed to deliver in a week. Not freaking out at all.

And None of You Told Me

When I was away, I missed this bit of news:
The largest used bookstore in the city is going to open where that old boarded-up gothic building in the Annex was.

Bonjour, bookstore! Au revoir, money!

Back to Work, Please!

Saturn says:

Stop surfing, blogging, and watching CSI/Rodeo. Get back to work!

If you're wondering, "what's with your cat's face?" - she's a tortoise-shell.
Also known as "tortie". Here, you can learn about her genetic freakitude.

Her coloring is such that she appears to have two cream-coloured eyebrows which give her a look of perpetual worry. That's why I added the "please" in the title. She doesn't look very aggressive, does she?

And for all you dog people, yes, of course I love dogs too. One day I'll be mature enough to own one.

*

I am currently following the advice from chapter one of The First Five Pages: A Writer's Guide to Staying Out of the Rejection Pile. It's by Noah Lukeman. It has exercises at the end of each chapter to apply to your manuscript. I'll keep you posted.

*
Did you know some rodeo guys wear helmets instead of cowboy hats now? Ok, ok, going...

Philip Pullman on Writer's Block

What do you do about writer's block?

"I don't believe in it. All writing is difficult. The most you can hope for is a day when it goes reasonably easily. Plumbers don't get plumber's block, and doctors don't get doctor's block; why should writers be the only profession that gives a special name to the difficulty of working, and then expects sympathy for it?"

A great answer - though the word associations between plumbers and blockages strikes me as icky.

Word Meter

A cool word meter I've seen on other websites from Zokutu Writer's Tools, part of a writers' group website. Their main page is here.

Work in Progress #2 is now at:

17,821 / 90,000 (19.8%)

I'm not sure if that's inspirational or depressing.

Meeta's Postcards

What's For Lunch Honey?: My Postcards

I think that's the link back to the Queen Organizer of the whole affair that I'm s'posed ta post.

A Little Bit About the Postcard Below

I am actually a postcard collector, so it was tough for me to choose from my collection. I narrowed down the postcards to four - the criteria being that both art or image on the front and the artist be Canadian. I then decided that the postcard should actually be from the city I'm in. Then I had to choose between an art card or a somewhat more touristy card. This time I opted for the more touristy. Casa Loma is a Toronto landmark. You can find out more about Casa Loma here.

"What's For Lunch, Honey?" Blog Postcard Exchange

Some lucky blogger will soon be receiving this postcard:





Sorry for the delay in putting it up. My computer was co-opted by Sister In Desperate Need of Computer today. But she lent me her camera with which to take the above picture, so no big deal.

Now, I have to go back to the blog that started the exchange and make sure I'm doing this all right. And I have to mail the postcard out, of course!

More soon.

Oh yeah - W.I.P. #2 - wrote 4000 words last night! Yipee!