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To Blog or Not to Blog
On August 24, 2015 by Speranza
I haven’t been here for a while (hola, you ten faithful readers in Brazil who keep on visiting!) and I have no excuse, save the fact that my blogging mojo has been seriously depleted of late and I have devoted more time than I care to admit to feeling badly about my writing and being completely intimidated by other more polished blogs and writers who look edgy and are all geometric-hipster-haircuts and matte lip colour.
I’ve been writing on and off my whole life and certainly I have been published regularly in that short blasts of non-fiction/fiction here and there kind of way but it’s not really satisfying to me. It’s like making do with cheese and crackers and pretending it’s enough when actually, you are still starving; in fact, it’s like you are pretending you even like cheese and crackers in the first place.
I don’t know why short fiction has an inferiority complex but to me it does. I want the depth of a novel behind me, something I can point at and say, there, see that? I wrote that and there is my name and photo even if the same book is now wedged in the remainder bin …
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Happy Birthday Bodhisattvas!
On June 8, 2015 by Speranza
Last night we celebrated a double birthday dinner for my Best Friend in the World and my eldest, Frasier’s 24 years, a fact that fills me with such strong emotion that I am unsure how to carry it or how to process.
It’s such a cliché to hear so many mums lamenting throughout the years about how fast time goes and since this is one of the worst things that one can say to a new mother strung out on no sleep I can proudly say, that I have never said it myself – honestly – but the fact is? It’s the icy, shocking, can’t-believe-this-is-happening-to-ME truth. One minute I was running down the street with a forgotten lunch bag or volunteering on a school bus trip, breathing in the heady smell of little-kids’-feet and strawberry Chapstick for two hours and now here I am surrounded by colleagues and a Significant Other who are all quoting gloomy economic forecasts, consulting charts and obsessing about retirement. How did I allow this passing of time to happen without holding on to key moments more tightly than I did? When am I ever going to be pretty now? Why do my ankles suddenly swell for no good reason, lending that camel-feet look to every outfit? Will I soon begin cultivating an interest in supportive underwear? When exactly is my writing career going to take off in earnest– and how long can I keep kidding myself that this is even a thing? I mean how pretentious to even try, my inner voices accuse darkly, pointing out the futility of this very blog, as a feeble exercise in self-absorption. Oh and why is it only about shaved or regular slice at the deli counter now, when it used to be about looking up from under my lashes at the swarthy and romance-cover-worthy butcher?
Now the butcher seems to be only eleven and wants me to hurry up, already, between the stone-roast ham or the Black Forest.
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Why Reading (At All) Still Counts …
On April 20, 2015 by Speranza
Dana Girls
Frasier ( Son #1) has often told me that people are not reading less now but rather, reading differently. He cites his own reading habits here – and many of his hipster friends – who may dip in and out of many respected, intellectual websites and blogs/instagram accounts daily but not necessarily read an actual book with any degree of regularity. But is the ability to settle down and enjoy a longer body of work for pleasure gradually being edged out by all these shorter blasts online?
Is there a case to be made about our attention spans atrophying since the onset of the internet?
I’ll try to keep this brief …
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The Year of the Mat
On April 7, 2015 by Speranza
Perhaps it’s because I myself have worked in public service for many, MANY years that I have a certain expectation of how I should be treated by store clerks or basically, anyone behind a counter. Firstly, no matter what kind of slack-jawed, no eye contact person I encounter, I will never be rude or do the whole store meltdown thing but what I will do is happily return home and send a detailed email about “how we did today.” (Which incidentally, is a universal way to get management excited, especially if you send it to someone with a real name at HQ. Just saying.)
And no, I am not a curmudgeon(ette) or even remotely uptight I merely expect to be treated fairly and hopefully with a few jiggers of respect and understanding thrown in if I am trying to resolve an issue.
Okay so last week I presented at a certain store carrying a mat under my arm for a print that needed re-framing. I knew the exact colour I needed which was plain, olive green. I would also have been fine with black.
The woman behind the desk was occupied with other presumably more important framing projects for a good five minutes before looking up and when she did, she did not speak.
Her expression suggested that I had interrupted an instore writing of her LSAT and she only had a few minutes left.
I said that I would like to get an estimate for having a mat cut and that I had brought the correct size with me (here gesturing to mat I was holding).
She pointed to another counter, final-spirit-Christmas-Carol style – still no words – and then joined me at the new counter.
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My Heart Belongs to Dyson
On April 6, 2015 by Speranza
About 15 years ago, a friend of mine bought a Dyson vacuum cleaner. I didn’t really pay much attention; I mean I vaguely knew the name but vacuum cleaners are not really something that I find exciting to discuss in most social settings. But she talked about this thing with all the zeal of an evangelist, using body language to show how the carpet fibers were now totally upright and what about the dirt you could actually SEE in that clear canister. Why even bother cleaning if you are just spreading the dust about, she reasoned with open palms. (This from a professional and highly educated woman who does not vacuum for pleasure –usually).
And so it came to pass, with several shedding pets in tow I got one myself …
The first time I used the Dyson, I was astonished that after a few broad sweeps of the carpet there was a swirling core of ginger cat hair in the Dyson’s Oz-like clear canister.
This was especially impressive since we have never actually owned a ginger cat.