From a journal entry, August, 2001

Just finished reading Vladimir Nabokov’s memoir “Speak, Memory.” How observant an eye. How gorgeous a prosodist. How I dislike him.

There’s a meanness that hovers in the offing of his writing, a fastidious drawing-back of the skirts and nostrils that goes beyond mere daintiness into discrimination in its ugly sense. Whether it’s the peasant girl at a gate or the burghers in a Berlin park, these are beings beneath him.

I’m sure he could love very deeply – his father, his son, his butterflies. But the ordinary unwashed – he can’t love them, or understand why sometimes you don’t or can’t wash.

I know this is partly my good old knee-jerk leftish upbringing coming into play. I was utterly taken aback by the sheer wealth of his early surroundings – the estate in the country, the town houses in St. Petersburg, the summers in Biarritz, the servants, the governesses, the dentists in Berlin.

“About bloody time there was a revolution,” I was muttering by the end of the first chapter.

But I doubt my reaction is completely determined by solidarity with the workers. It’s a personal thing – a reaction to what seems small, self-centered. He is astonished when his governess, Mademoiselle, seems to remember a different relationship than the one he recalls. But he never thinks there is any doubt of his memory being the more accurate one.

Walt Whitman wrote, “If you love to have a servant stand behind your chair at dinner, it will appear in your writing – or if you possess a vile opinion of women or if you grudge anything … these will appear by what you leave unsaid more than by what you say.”

What Nabokov constantly leaves unsaid is, “I might have been wrong. Someone else might interpret the situation otherwise, and be just as correct.”

Oh, now and again he expresses a mild regret at writing a harsh review of someone. Once, he’s not sure, in the struggle of remembered emotions during an embarrassing school situation, whether he was empathetically silent or one of the rowdy teenagers who humiliated the tutor. (I’ll bet it was the latter, Vladimir.)

But mostly his sense of privilege is so deeply engrained that it is invisible to him, and this privilege extends to being the one whose account of the past is right.

And then there’s that affectation in the last chapters of never naming his wife and son, referring only to ‘you’ and ‘our son.’ I’m sure his official, external reason would have been to protect their privacy, not to claim them in public. But there’s a horrible possessiveness to that continual beat of ‘our child’. As though by depriving these people of their names, Vera and Dmitri, he denies them an independent existence.

Oh, it’s very lovely, very detailed, very synaesthetic, all those pictures in the park. But I never feel he recognizes they have different eyes to look through.

There’s one point in the memoir where Nabokov describes a failed dinner with Ivan Bunin, the Russian novelist and Nobel laureate who was also from an aristocratic background. Nabokov is not impressed by the fine restaurant—he’s had plenty of quails in his childhood, he prefers to eat lying down on a couch. (You have my sympathies, Vera.)

Towards the end of this tiresome evening, Bunin says, “You will die in dreadful pain and complete isolation.”

Just a page earlier, I’d been thinking, “Gawd, does this guy ever get his comeuppance?” So when I read that, I recognized a deep fellow feeling with Bunin.

In describing the incident, Nabokov was ostensibly being honest, citing the critical remark by a famous man. But underneath that (or on top of it), he is being smug. See, here I am in later life, not alone, not in great pain. After all, he issues this ‘final version’ of his memoir in his mid-sixties, in Montreux, Switzerland, well known, well-published. Life has never been hard—slightly impoverished for a while, but never hard.

Perhaps there were moments in his life where he knew he was alone and in pain. You can’t look into another man’s mind—only into his memoirs. But, as Whitman noted, they are curiously reliable. What we write cannot conceal what we are.

Nabokov thought comfortably well of himself. Conceit is an ugly thing. Bad enough when some macho guy in a mullet flashes his gold chains and a grin at you in the bar. But worse when an intellectual looks disdainfully in his direction and thinks, “I’m better than you are.”

I don’t actually inhabit the same universe as Margaret Atwood. I do live right on the border of one of those multiverses that the physicist John Wheeler thought up the math for, where the universe splits at every decision point and goes its separate ways. She’s in one of them, I’m in another.

I don’t live in the same world, but it seems I’m always introducing her. As I did again yesterday at an “Albertans for the Arts” rally, down in Sir Winston Churchill Square. The organizers asked me to pop up and say a few words to clarify federal spending on culture. This is like clarifying the math for the many-worlds hypothesis, and a bit hard to ask of a poet.

But I felt I should pitch in. I’m not unusually political, but I don’t want to live in a universe where the Canadian prime minister thinks all that artists want is the invitation to glitzy galas. If there is any small thing I can do to change the equations, I’ll do it.

And then, as if the universe was going to pat me on the back for accepting the challenge, the organizer said “Oh, great—and will you introduce Margaret Atwood?” She had gracefully agreed to say a few words at the rally, which was taking place right before her lecture at the Winspear Centre.

The immediate picture of an alternate universe dizzied me. I would make a short, inspiring speech (about budgets? But this was to be another universe, I could do it.) I would deliver a warming couple of paragraphs to summarize her multi-page biography. She would hear it all and maybe even remember my name!

(In the other universe that bubbles immediately and irrepressibly out of this delirious one, she would say, “Oh, Alice Major!¦ Of course. I do like that last book of yours!”)

So I crafted two minutes worth of federal budgetary comment around the snappiest metaphor I could come up with in 24 hours, dressed myself to balance financial expertise and poetic flare as best I could, and went downtown. Where the media cameras were circling like a pod of nervous whales about to be beached by the six o’clock news.

The timing  was supercritical—Margaret Atwood had only five minutes to give us before going on to her lecture. The television news needed to get their feeds in. We delayed for a few moments while scouts scanned the square for our arriving star, but had to start.

I give my remarks. No Margaret. Maria Dunn comes to the stage to sing. In mid-song, the buzz went round—”she’s here, she’s here.” Maria picks it up and cleverly works it into some closing bars. The crowd cheers loudly.

By now there is no practical need to introduce her and the cameras are jostling like breaching whales who desperately need to breathe some air. I leap on the stage, say a single laudatory sentence and jump back into anonymity.

Sigh.

This is not the first time I have introduced Margaret Atwood. I did so when she gave the Anne Szumugalski lecture for the League of Canadian Poets in 2006. This was at a banquet in the Ottawa hotel where the League’s annual meeting took place. As past president, I was to give the introductory remarks about the lecture series and—gasp—sit at the same table.

Well, imagine putting Margaret Atwood in a room full of poets, all of them hoping to live in the same alternate universe. (Oh, yes, Peter X, that last book of yours! ) It’s as though you’ve changed the strength of the gravitational constant when she comes in the door.

“For god’s sake, let’s look as though we’re grown-ups,”I had muttered to Mary Ellen Csamer, then the League president. I spent the whole meal glaring at poets who wanted to thrust poems into her hands, books into her hands, even one member who was handing out samples of non-animal-product body lotion or something like that and wanted to give one to Atwood.

Of course, I had imagined the scintillating conversation that I would have with her. Instead, I spent the whole meal across the round table from her, too far to converse, just glaring at renegade poets beyond her shoulder.  If she noticed me at all, it would have been to wonder who that woman with the sour expression was.

I have found myself beside Margaret Atwood in a cafeteria line-up, trying to make up some intelligent comment about pancakes. I have sat across the room from her during  meetings of the Writers Union of Canada, knowing I’d never have the nerve to say anything at all.

In fact, much as I’d like to live in the same universe, I know that the bubbles of our separate worlds will forever bounce gently off each other and go their separate ways into the foam of the multiverse.

Surely the math could come out better! I can only hope the federal election does.

I was very moved to read the revelation in last Saturday’s Globe and Mail that L.M. Montgomery’s death was suicide. All these years, it has been called “heart failure”—and indeed, her heart did fail at last, but not in the polite way we were told.

I have read her Selected Journals over the years, volume by volume as they came out, discovering that she was much more complex than her sunny novels-for-girls. I also discovered that my life came curiously closer to hers than I’d ever realized. I had always thought of her as living off in Prince Edward Island, not in the brick house I often drove past on Highway 7, on my way through the small town of Norval. In 1991, as my journal records, I realized another crossing point…

A strange sluggish day—partly the result of sleeping for almost 10 hours and then sitting around in my bathrobe reading the second volume of L.M. Montgomery’s “Selected Journals.”

I hadn’t realized, when I went to the Writers Union meeting last month and stayed at John Abbot College in St. Anne de Bellevue, that Montgomery had stayed there herself when she was called to the deathbed of her beloved cousin and friend, Frederica Campbell. David had told me that John Abbott had been MacDonald College, the old agricultural school, but it didn’t mean anything in particular at the time.

I wish I had known. I would have tried to find out some of the history: where Montgomery had actually stayed, which building would have housed the infirmary. History makes such strange layerings—a group of writers clustered on a terrace on a mild, sweet evening where an anguished woman wept and paced seventy years earlier.

Her journals oppress me—first with that sense of incessant work, work, work. Missionary Band and Sunday School concerts, pickling hams and putting up pears, and putting up with visits to parishioners. The idea of a life where you might get half an hour to yourself at the end of the day makes me wince with a combination of guilt and pity.

(Especially as I sit here at noon in my dressing gown. The pace she maintained would drive me literally insane in a month. I can keep that kind of life going for a week or two at most before turning poisonous.)

The other oppressant is the emotional stress. That horrible year of losing Frede to the Spanish flu epidemic; finding out that her husband had developed ‘religious melancholia’; wrestling over ongoing copyright issues related to Anne of Green Gables—and all of it with no apparent emotional outlet, no capacity to discharge the stress safely.

It seems curious, to a woman today, that the prospect of Ewan losing his parish would strike such horror into her. The idea of having to put him in a sanitorium, break up the Leaskdale manse and find another home was unthinkable, and she exerted all her formidable energy to conceal and make up for Ewan’s illness. But why? She was a well-known writer who could make a substantial sum from her pen. Leaving the duties and constraints of a minister’s wife’s life should have seemed like a back door into freedom. But she didn’t seem to put her hand on that door-knob, even in thought.

Perhaps the financial constraints of raising two boys on a writer’s royalties would have been too much. However, I think the real barrier to freedom was a psychological one—her sense of Protestant duty, combined with a deep-down sense that a woman derives her status and place from her husband.

No matter how successful she might be in her own right, L.M. Montgomery could not really exist outside the confines of a book jacket. Her real social identity was that of Mrs. Ewan MacDonald. In that identity, she was mother of her sons; in that identity she decorated her home and, in fact, had a home to decorate. That identity was both structure and trap.

She never let herself off the hook, never let herself open the door because, in a very real sense, she could not. Upbringing, the expectations drilled into her as a girl and reinforced by a young womanhood spent in cramped attendance on her grandmother paralyzed her. The expectations about what kind of man was eligible to link with her, about what kind of life she was allowed to live were so ingrained that (even if she ever did question them) she couldn’t break their hold.

Had she been a happier woman, she might have been a better writer. Her natural inclinations to take risk, to experiment, to express all the wide range of emotions she was torn by had been throttled back. To compensate, she developed a writing creed that ruled happy endings and kept her from truly exploring the full range of human behaviour in her fiction.

But she did manage to write a book a year! And we still read her—including the happy endings.

I admire her. I’m glad she wasn’t my mother. I would have liked to know her as a friend.

Journal entry, 1991

Feminism in the ’90s …

Embracing feminine energy … It sounded like a good idea.

My friend Gail was one of the organizers. About 25 women would sit around a large carpeted room and explore the force of story in their lives; we’d bask in the solstice magic of symbol; the leader would be wonderfully insightful.

We started out the morning warm and fuzzy as a baby blanket. But as the day wore on, I found myself wishing for a little more intellectual rigour – and a little less of Doris.

I’m not sure what trauma she suffered in her childhood. I felt obscurely sorry for someone who was obviously in such long-term psychic pain. At the same time, as she rocked herself and recounted nightmares, I could hear my mother’s voice saying tartly, “Come on, now. Get a hold of yourself.”

I suppose one of the reasons I didn’t respond too well to Doris was this sense that she didn’t like me either. I had been sitting beside her for a while, but when a latecomer arrived, Doris interposed her between my seat and hers saying, “Here. I need you beside me.”

Unfortunately, I was stuck in a little sub-group with her and two of her friends for much of the afternoon. If there was any feminine energy circulating, it was passing me by. Anything I said was bundled off in the baby blanket and suffocated on the spot.

The idea of ‘the feminine’ – a cluster of powers, characteristics, and ways of relating to the universe that has often been undervalued in western civilization – is an attractive and often fruitful one. But it poses the same dangers that any system of thought can pose: it’s too easy to be so enchanted with the pattern that you want to impose it on everything that moves. Whether you’re Brian Mulroney trying to impose a labour-negotiation model on the Meech Lake talks, or an environmentalist trying to impose purity on a messy world, you’re at risk for developing tunnel vision.

The other related danger about the whole idea of the feminine is that it is essentially part of a duality. It is what is not ‘masculine’ and it leads us to divvy up the world into two piles. If ‘logic’ is masculine, ‘’intuition’ is feminine. Changing the adjectives used to describe intuition from ‘sloppy and emotional’ to ‘powerful and creative’ may help celebrate it and change attitudes, but it still implies we exist as polarities, not as a whole.

It is as inconsequential to label certain qualities as ‘feminine’ and others as ‘masculine’ as it is to use ‘le’ and ‘la’ in French. We create an arbitrary grammar, an allocation of words that in themselves do not have gender, then end up matching the arbitrary grammar to real gender and acting as though this hybrid construct governed real men and real women.

That men and women differ is true in many biological ways; as a result there are many ways in which men and women differ psychologically. This biological-psychological link is a provocative and interesting field of study and contemplation.

But you can’t get too carried away by it. The differences between men and women are dwarfed on the one hand by our common humanity and, on the other, by the enormous differences among individuals.

I’m all for baby blankets. But I am a lot more like David than I am like Doris.

(I hope.)

From a journal entry, June 30, 1990

My first book, The Chinese Mirror, was a fantasy novel for young adults – which took me for a while onto the fringes of the SF writing community. In July 1989, I took part in my first ‘con’.

This conference on speculative fiction has started. When I was asked to take part I said yes, of course, happy to – and then thought ‘Ohmigawd, I’ve hardly read any new science fiction or fantasy for years!”

I re-read old favourites and I love to find new authors that I enjoy. But it’s so hard to find the good stuff. Everything has the same lurid cover, not to mention the same blurb on the back … “Will [XYZ] be able to slay [ZYX] and prevent [YXZ] from destroying [O]?”

(It is slightly dispiriting to realize you could put the same blurb on the back of my book)

Anyway, I went to the library and hauled away a pile of books, and have been studying as if they were going to set me an exam. Discuss Sprague de Camp’s use of the hero myth and compare with early Rice Burroughs. Name the evil dictator in Brunner’s novel, “Squares of the City. How is he similar to Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein”?

What if I flunk?

This seems like a distinct possibility. After all, I was assured that this would be a ‘writer’s con’ – that it would be very different from the usual SF cons focused on fandom. It would be serious, not Star Trek.

I walked in the door of Lister Hall behind a young woman dressed in a vaguely medieval costume, who looked like a cross between Maid Marian and Queen Arwen Evenstar, and went up in the elevator with her and someone in a large furry suit. This is serious? 

There also seem to be a large number of young men who look as though they need more fresh air and exercise. Though they are certainly ‘serious’ about writing. I overheard one of them buttonholing William Gibson.

“Has it occurred to you that Neuromancer is the dark side of Sons and Lovers?” he asked intensely.

Gibson gave a snort and said, “Well, now it all falls into place.”

My co-panelists included Phyllis Gottlieb and Judith Merrill. Phyllis’s voice is a Bronx honk and Judith’s voice is a husky snarl. They are both women of strong views. I sat meekly between them during the panel discussion while they disagreed with each other, and I disagreed (silently but just as intensely) with both of them. No one seemed inclined to ask me about the hero myth in L. Sprague de Camp.

Judith in particular seems like a writer of another vintage. “Candas, you don’t seriously propose to discuss writing in a room with no coffee and no alcohol,” she roared during this afternoon’s for-writers-only session.

Writers I know today seem like watered-down versions of the old booze-and-body-abuse stereotypes. We’ve all become sober and interested in fitness, and half of us seem to be women waking up to their creative potential rather late in life. Hemmingway and Dylan Thomas seem like old-fashioned models for the writer’s life.

Every hero myth gets modulated through the years…

From journal entries, July 1989

Lots of us have taken part in that strange ritual, the corporate team-building night out. I’ve never been able to turn the following experience into a poem, but some day…

We start at Yuk-Yuk’s, West Edmonton Mall.

Caricatures of comedians, all American, painted on the wall. A young, good-looking, half-Arabic man from Vancouver as emcee. He asks how many in the crowd are having birthdays and makes life miserable for those who are mad enough to admit it. Could be brought up on charges of harassment and aggravated innuendo.

He brings on the warm-up act – a clean-cut man called Jack Smith (surely an alias). His shtick is sort of “Mormon-on-acid.’ Olive-green suit and shiny ochre tie, hair cut short but tinted an electric gold at the tips. More sexual innuendo, but he doesn’t say ‘fuck’ quite as often as the emcee.

Finally the main act – a black American comic who starred on a now forgotten sit-com. Shaved head. Pacing the stage like a tom-cat on speed. He doesn’t say ‘fuck’ at all, but has a lot of stories about male sexual insecurity. He’s genuinely funny, but the main impression of the whole thing is that male comedians worry a lot about sex. So do the rest of the population, I guess. But most of us could get through the day without worrying about it that much.

The show ends. We’re herded out down a cavernous service corridor with cinder-block walls and institutional fluourescent lighting high overhead. We straggle in a V behind our leader, not quite sure what we’re supposed to be bonding to.

Next stop is the Sherlock Holmes pub next door, where a sing-along is in progress. The musician leading it is a slight young man with a couple of guitars and a synthesizer. He has a perky, boyish smile and tilts his head ingratiatingly to mark the end of each verse. Someone in our group happens to know the bouncer at the door, who tells us that the performer is actually a mortician by day.

Instead of Irish folksongs or war-time ballads, the songs are a mix of country tunes and rock music. Belting out the Rolling Stones’ Satisfaction as a pub song is truly bizarre, when you remember how outrageous and hard-edged it was back in 1965. Now it’s so much part of our shared experience that we can stand around high tables lined with beer glasses and shout, “I can’t get no…”

We’ll have arrangements for upright pianos next.

It keeps getting stranger. I start to notice a disproportionate number of short people in the crowd – one whole table near the loudspeakers. At first I thought they were all sitting down, now realize that they are all standing up. Several other tables also have shorter-than-average patrons.

“There must be some sort of conference for short people at the hotel,” I think, while the mortician directs us to number 14 on the song sheet and starts up Brown sugar on the synthesizer. Browanhn shugah, we honk, like a disaggregated line of geese.

Who organizes conventions for short people? I find myself looking at other bar patrons going by. “Are you one? Are you?” And realize how difficult the line is to draw. A trio of oriental kids has taken the other next table to us – they are normal Vietnamese height, but could dance with the people at the short table and look their partners in the eye. Shades of Owen Meanie.

But the people at the table nearest the speakers are definitely shorter-than-normal, shorter-than-they-should-be. One youngish man with a big rock-musician’s face and blonde, Rod-Stewart haircut looks as though his real height should be five-ten or so, but he’s a foot shorter than that.  Another man beside him, middle-aged with graying hair, is a little taller – maybe five feet one – but he still seems subtly disproportionate. One of the women has a slim, been-round-the-track kind of face, elaborately good posture and a country singer’s leonine shag. She’s the same height as the middle-aged man, but would seem quite an ordinary height if you passed her in the mall.

And nearby, there’s me, barely an inch taller.

I look from the group at the next table to our own (where Pat is calling out for “Number 32” and six-foot-tall Chris knows all the words without looking at the song sheet) then over at the mortician.

Who on earth put this all together? What team am I playing on? And for god’s sake, what’s the game?

April 22, 1996

From my journal of 1990 …

Spring beat me back here from Calgary this afternoon. When I walked back to the house from the municipal airport, the wind was warm and turbulent and the bushes in the light-industrial subdivision north of 111th Avenue were surprised with themselves. It’s as though the season has been squirted out of can, like foam hair mousse.

Why do I write?

Why I write in general is one thing. Why I write at a particular moment is another.

The first is out of curious fever for permanence, a hope of existing beyond myself in space and time. It’s a little like sending snatches of Bach and Jerry Lee Lewis out into the universe – signals that may, by some wildly improbable coincidence, be intercepted and decoded. As long as these signals are out there, we still exist – even if we’ve blown up the home planet in the meantime.

Why I write now is the very opposite of permanence. It’s because the sun is going behind a cloud, because a tracasserie of sparrows flew round the corner of the house, because of the cat-tickles of thought and the pond-ripples of memory, the intersection of past and future, the moving target. There is a constant glory in this sense of consciousness bobbing like a cork on the waves. You want to put your hand out and capture it. You get out a pen…

May 2, 1990

In 1996, I joined the League of Canadian Poets, and went to the annual meeting for the first time.  How do you dress to meet a hundred poets? Expensively….

I’ve just put $400 (!) on my credit card, trying to spend my way out of terror.

I’m in Ottawa for the League conference. I registered a couple of months ago and then more or less put it out of my mind. In retrospect, I was probably reluctant to bring it IN to my mind. The day before yesterday it came home that I really had to get on a plane to Ottawa in forty-eight hours. Yesterday, I finally put together a list of things to pack, based on the fact that Ottawa has had a heat wave for the past week.

I arrived to find the weather has done a back flip, cooled down and clouded over. I unpacked to find that – in a suitcase large enough to take me to Mars and back – I had virtually nothing that matched, nothing that suited the weather, and nothing to suit the conference agenda either. The most serious gaps were something to wear under the only jacket I’ve brought with me and something to wear for the evening events that would hit the right note of poetic-talent-at-the-cash-bar.

I’m nervous about being here. I’d like to stamp myself on the memories of at least a few other poets. But this is the kind of gathering where I’m worse than useless – not even a wallflower. More like flower wallpaper. I’m also conscious of being forty-seven – hardly a hot young star in the literary sky.

So I want to look good, as good as possible. Only I can’t get away with skimpy little tops and tight skirts any more. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, even though I’m trying as hard as I can.

And of course this is one of those weeks when I feel homely. There are times I look in the mirror and see all the lumpishness that flesh is heir to. Heiress to. Other times, I can live with my reflection. (I don’t know what to make of these alternating realities. I mean, it’s the same mirror, the same body the same eyes. It’s a bit like Schroedinger’s cat, existing in a nervous superposition of states.)

When the going gets tough, as the saying goes, the tough go shopping. I can flex a credit card with the best of them. But when the going is this tough, so is the shopping.

I went tramping round the Bywater Market, looking for trendy little shops where I could get something ‘interesting.’ Finally gave up and went to the shopping mall on Rideau. Bought wildly anything that looked like it might work.

Now I have a closet that looks as though I intend to stay here through at least three seasons and a weird black vest that I will probably never wear. (Who wants to stand out that much?)

I still look dumpy in this godforsaken mirror.

And tomorrow I still have to go down and attach myself to a wall with suction cups.

– From a journal entry, May 23, 1996

In September, 1989, I was invited to a writers conference up in Grande Prairie. It was the first time I’d been the ‘expert’ at a Blue Pencil Café, where beginning writers bring a sample of their work for critiquing. It keeps you humble…

… I feel so for these people bringing their work for review. With women writers in particular, there is that narrowing and reddening of the eyes that presages tears. You are putting so much of your ego, yourself, on the line.

One lady, a Mennonite woman in a round cap, in her mid-sixties, wrote a lot of greeting-card verse. It had the merit of being reasonably scanned and well-rhymed, but it was platitude after platitude. I pointed out how, in some poems, she might have escaped the general and got down to the particular. And she too, a woman older than my mother, had that verge-of-tears intensity in her eyes as she would say, “Yes, I see what you’re getting at.” In fact, I think she did see – but whether she can translate that into her writing, I don’t know.

Then she showed me a little book of stories that she had written, which had been printed and illustrated by some Mennonite organization. The illustrations were quite charming. She told me that the printer had recently called her to say they’d run out of copies and could they reprint?

Over 10,000 copies of these little books are floating around! I thought wryly that’s she’s probably been read by far more people than will ever read me, the ‘expert.’ So who am I to say that platitudes don’t give people pleasure?

It reminds me of something that Granny used to send us from time to time – a yearly collection of sentimental verses and anecdotes called The Friendship Book of Francis Gay.  The rhymes were gentle generalities and yet people seemed to find them a source of satisfaction and inspiration. Not unlike a contemporary version of the same genre I found in the book store recently. It was a collection of sayings, one for each day of the year – a banal best seller.

If I’m feeling smug, I think that these versifiers have a blind spot for language – that they’re like colour-blind people trying to paint a picture. But maybe I’m the one who is colour-blind, unable to see why a particular shade of blue that seems ordinary to me is so ravishing to others.

Journal entry, October 1, 1989

How quickly you run into moral dilemmas.

 

 I had this bright idea of mining old letters and journals for blog entries, I was going to copy them verbatim. They’d be an absolutely unchanged record of who I was and what I was thinking.

 

Then I started re-typing the first one, about my time as a newspaper reporter in Williams Lake, B.C. I felt a little squirmy about the bright young thing I’d been and her arch prose. But what the heck – I kept going until I came to one part that described some of the street people, the ‘troopers’ of Williams Lake, who were mostly Aboriginal.

 

I couldn’t make myself put it in. It wasn’t meant to be mean. But it was off-hand, insensitive, essentially ignorant. I had never met a Native person in all my years in Toronto. When I thought it was romantic to find myself in ‘cowboys and Indians’ territory, I hadn’t a clue.

 

So I left that bit out. And later, took out the blog item altogether. And since then, I’ve been questioning my motives. Was it to avoid hurting people carelessly with words? Or was it so that you wouldn’t think the worse of me? I’d like to think it was for the first reason, it’s probably more for the second. Maybe it’s just a case of two different interests landing on the same decision.

 

The other question is – what will I do next time I run into the same kind of dilemma?  I don’t know.