Legs and Guns: The Rhythm of the City Million

I've spent a great deal of time searching for images and articles related to my dissertation in magazines from the Weimar era. One of the most accessible sources is the Illustrierte Presse, where many popular magazines have been uploaded. I think I was looking for images of carnivorous plants, when I came across the below collage from Das Kriminal-Magazin.

Das Kriminal-Magazin (April 1929)

The kaleidoscopic arrangement of the images and texts reflects the perception of the city as a rhythmic space of disorder, spectacle and danger. Particularly telling is the association of women in seductive poses with headlines announcing drugs and crime. Women (called the new woman) are as much a threat as other dark corners on the street.

Two headlines stand out as positve amidst the many references to crime. In the top left, the headline, "Ich bin eine anständige Frau ..." (I am a respectable woman) dominates the image. As with the other positive headline in the bottom left hand corner, "Immertreu" (always loyal), the headlines are ironical statements  - they are a knowing wink to the viewer, signaled through quotation marks. The women aren't loyal - they aren't respectable. They are women walking the streets.

The Great Literary Mono-voice: The Author's Lullabye

Am I hearing voices? In short, no. There is just one voice used by every author when reading their work. The soothing voice has great pretensions to literary greatness. It cries out "I am an author" as it lulls me to sleep. I was at the "Word on Street" festival listening to authors present their work and I could barely hear what they were saying. Their voices were the tick, tick, tock of the hypnotist's pendulum rocking me back and forth into a trance of needless phrases. (This is also a problem with academic papers, but we needn't get into that here).

I thought two things.

One. Does anyone write anything remotely original? Are we heading to one great mono-voice that claims to represent a multitude, while in actuality misrepresenting.

Second. Writers don't know how to read. They're boring people who write down all their thoughts because, face-to-face, they can't speak. They're frozen, prudish people who haven't an ounce of drama in their lives because they've spent their lives writing drama.

I definitely know that the second isn't true. Every writer I've met intrigues me. Or maybe they just have a way with words. Gosh, that just hits me close to the heart (or as D. H. Lawrence would say "in the bowels"). You're a writer? Let me buy you that drink.

I suspect that the first is closer to the truth. We may have a fundamental problem that is particularly unique to the digital age. We find what we are looking for and what we are looking for is us. When reading, we gravitate to what we like and what we believe in.

The fact that we are facing an increasingly specialized age and living in spaces with invisible partitions is asking for an incestuous relationship. Meaning, that a community with a variety of people is healthier than one with a homogeneous group. The answer to the "writer's" voice is to start speaking with voices other than those believing to be great big "L". The "writer" has written. It's time to write on. 

On an Ordinary Day: The Tree of Life Loses a Leaf

I should take better care of myself.

This morning as I was walking home from dropping Oliver off at daycare, I saw a middle aged woman struggling to hold up her husband. She was calling out for help, but in a middle of a city so busy as Toronto no one was within earshot. Or maybe no one wanted to hear. The man was in distress, struggling to breath, unresponsive and turning purple.

I ran inside and told the receptionist that a man had collapsed outside. He called 911. Back outside, I lay my purse under the man's head and asked his wife for his name. His hair was shorn and he wore a hearing aid. Three people passed us by, before the doctors ran out and took over.

More and more doctors arrived with a cart of medical equipment that belongs in the OR. I could see the strap of my purse underneath him as they removed his clothes and began CPR. His face had taken on a queer cast. It must have been the shock of seeing someone in such a critical state - I began to cry. The poor woman.

They ushered me inside when the firefighters came. The wife was inside seated alongside two workers who were comforting her. I gave her a hug and sat with her for awhile. After the man had been taken to hospital, a kind hospital administrator asked for my statement. It felt strange that they would be worried for my sake, when I was clearly fine.

I have been feeling unsettled all morning. I tried to write but have been distracted. I'm looking for something. In such a state, it's unpleasant to face the ordinary walls, when I feel anything but usual. I gave the hospital my phone number but I don't expect to hear any further news. I became tangled in a stranger's life at such a significant moment only for my day to continue on as any other day. Her day is anything but. I wish her well.

Today and for the past year, my experiences with the Canadian health care system have tought me that doctors are human beings. The group of doctors who cared for the man were as shaken by the incident as I was. They also spoke of the mistakes that had been made. That's why it is so important to take responsibility for your health and have an advocate. As well-trained, as organized, and as intelligent as they may be, doctors are subject to the same limits as every other person.

As I said, I should take better care of myself.

An Inanity of Mind or the Avocado Contemplations

I have a problem here. And it's not you. At the center of my mind, there's a blank spot. I've stared at the abyss lurking in my innards and watched my clever-most thoughts slide over the edge into the darkness like water over Niagara falls. There should be a Viagra for the mind. I would like to get those sharp little thoughts back up again. You can do it little chicky. Bawk, bawk, bawk. Or should I say...cock-a-doodle-do?

As the work on my dissertation slides into the past - my reflections on vampire plants and other varieties of the dangerous sort - I'm left with the blank spot. It's the part of me lost to the past - to time - to my conscious mind. That part still exists somewhere that is inaccessible to my waking life.

At the end of a long Friday, I sat on my couch with a plate of the food I like best. I noticed that avocado cleanses the palate and the salt in cheese feels like a needle straight to the brain. While eating, I thought of a poem by William Carlos Williams, "The Red Wheelbarrow". His poem, difficult to interpret, seems to claim the sensuous moment over the reflective. His descriptions of the wheelbarrow and the chicken are the sensuous moments. When we really pay attention to what we see, hear, smell, feel and taste, the blank spot becomes a window onto the world. The endless circle of the past, present and future begins then to flow easily.

Time for popcorn.

I'm more beautiful than you think

All that's missing from this Friday is an invitation to a BBQ. Any takers? No? Well, I know I don't have body odor (or do I...?), so that's not the reason I haven't been invited to any BBQs lately. I used to think my social isolation was due to there being something wrong with me. I'm not...just fill in the blank. In general, I don't connect with people well. Phoning people is a herculean effort, much less making small talk. I don't talk small.

Neither do I talk big. Therein lies the problem. I haven't been thinking well enough of myself. According to this lovely article, the majority of people think they're better than average. We think we're more beautiful, smarter and probably more funny. I am funny. Of course, I just don't open my mouth enough for anyone to know.

I've heard this conversation from friends on various topics (and yes, I do have friends even though I don't phone them). Over beer, this unnamed friends, shall we call him Mike, usually lists some study, such as 95% of people are stupid. Mike will then follow up with an example of how other people are stupid and he is not. Good for you Mike. Of course, I always think, how do you know that you're not in the 95%? And how could that even be a reasonable study? Lastly, I've heard you say things that definitely does not place you in that tiny-weeny top 5%. Shall we arm wrestle?

The article concludes that self-aggrandizing behaviour helps boost confidence, which in turn may get us places our current abilities don't warrant, but may eventually merit. Here's to leaping ahead of myself and to thinking I write better than I do. This dissertation is going to be awesome!

Hibernating Mothers and the February Forest: Giving birth Doesn't Mean Giving Up.

I'm utterly exhausted and not a little bit depressed. February is the heavy, gray month that comes after the hangover of Christmas. At least in January, you know that you feel horrible just because you had a fabulous time celebrating with family and friends over the holidays. And now it's morning, so you drink a lot of water and think the feeling will pass.

But in February, you're officially back to normal and the normal is a horrifying abyss with a bottom out of sight. I'm complaining because I'm tired, because I wonder if I've dropped out of the career to have a child, because it's gray outside, and because my little one year old still doesn't sleep through the night without demanding to be nursed. I thought two years old was when they started temper tantrums.

If you could visualize my brain as fuel graph from a Star Trek movie, all the glowing bars would be blinking bright red and there would be a red alert flashing from a huge red light on the wall. And Uhura would be reporting, "All communications are down, sir"

My energy and creative drive is low and I continually wonder if I haven't already given up. Have I given up my dreams in order to be a mommy? Have I leaned back in my chair as Sheryl Sandberg claims many women do as they begin to contemplate a family? Have I stopped raising my hand? Will I ever feel satisfied?

I've never been a loud one and definitely not on the track to CEO-dom, so the kind of success Sandberg is asking women to want doesn't appeal to me. I'm more the kind of person who wishes for a quiet space to create. Maybe the last question in the previous paragraph is the answer to the first. I have no family in the city, a few lovely contacts, a mostly wonderful man as a husband, and I'm tired. Yet, this exhaustion I feel is temporary. The ever present dissatisfaction with my current situation is a sign that I'm asking more for myself than simply watching the years go by. I have not leaned back. I will not always be mired in toddlerhood and that one day I will manage both the writing career I envisage for myself and the beautiful family life. I have just started both.