Wot the dickens...

Just the other night I came across these comments regarding Dickens at Catalogue Blog:

I have never been a big fan of Charles Dickens' novels. I admire him greatly as a writer, and can appreciate that his fiction is great fiction, but I have always felt alienated by his two-dimensional portrayal of women.

Further to all the Dickens comments of the other day, I'm wondering if his treatment of women factors into your dislike (or like) of Dickens, or if it's a non-issue. I'd never given the matter any thought before.

(I'm starting to think I should read some real Dickens now just so I can get more of the jokes to be had in the Jasper Fforde books.)

Feel free to discuss this among yourselves while I sit here quietly working.

Big words for little people

The ever-entertaining Bill Richardson looks at a few children's books in today's Globe and Mail.

Nothing is more creatively daunting than the picture book. True believers aver that Good Night Moon is an intellectual achievement just marginally more sustained than Gravity's Rainbow.

Bill was once a children's librarian. I feel I can trust him. He gives kids some credit for being able to handle things like creepy endings and big words.

I feel I need the help of a professional to navigate this genre. (I miss hearing about E and Tulip's adventures in reading.) Of course, once I can get past the sense of the overwhelming responsibility of shaping my daughter's reading sensibilities, this journey into the unknown is rewarding for both of us.

Richardson points out that many kids' books set out to reassure children or to impart a moral. The books are marketed to the parents, after all. One can't help but wonder if authors take fewer risks with creativity than they might.

Margaret Atwood steps up to the plate with another book featuring consonant alliteration. This time, "B" and "D," bold and delightful, bodacious and delicious.

What I like most about BB and DD is what some will object to, and that's that it's full of words that will be totally unfamiliar to many in its "target audience": "She had to drudge from dawn to dusk, dabbing with a dust mop and dealing with dirty dishes in a disreputable dive, where dirty-deed-doers drank daiquiris."

Some will say that this kind of thing, and there's a lot of it, means that you're forever stopping to offer up an explanation. Others will say that it's a good exercise in vocabulary enrichment and hell, you have to learn about rum some time, it might as well be when you're 4. Me, I think the virtue in this cascade of consonants is the joy that lives in the sound of the words, the merely phonetic exuberance that's at least as important, at a certain age, as meaning. Whether Bashful Bob and Doleful Dorinda works — and here I'm thinking of it as a read-aloud — will depend in large measure on the persuasiveness of the performance.

Time to start practicing.

A friend recently favourably reviewed Atwood's "R" book.

She brought to my attention an article in which Scholastic’s Language Development and Reading Specialist observes:

Young children love the sound of long and seemingly difficult words. Your child might suddenly blurt out that her friend's behavior is "ridiculous" or that the baby's diaper is "saturated." These instances of surprisingly sophisticated language use come from children's attention to, and interest in, the way adults use words to express precise feelings and reactions. So don't shy away from using words you think are over your child's head.

The beauty of it is that these are the words we use every day, that Helena hears every day, even if sometimes we choose simpler words when addressing her directly. Why should I avoid "ridiculous" in print when I blurt it out naturally a dozen times in the course of a day. (Really. We use the word "ridiculous" a lot around here.)

Atwood's "P" and "R" books are ready, wrapped, and waiting for Helena. "B" and "D" will find their company soon enough.

Catch a star

One of the books Helena received for her birthday is How to Catch a Star, by Oliver Jeffers, published by HarperCollins. Delightful.

It reminds me a lot of Kitten's First Full Moon, by Kevin Henkes (which is extraordinary, by the way, and finding a place on lots of year-end best-children's-books lists), in the naive attempts, and failures, of our heroes to reach the sky.

The text is little meatier for this boy-hero than in kitten's adventures: "He thought he could fly up in his spaceship and just grab the star. But his spaceship had run out of petrol last Tuesday when he flew to the moon."


 

The illustrations are a complete contrast to Henkes'. They're wacky and modern, but without being jarring or busy.

While the Henkes book is romantic, the Jeffers is adventurous. How to Catch a Star recounts a serious expedition, not a whimsical dream of a notion.

It's been generally well reviewed, and I like it.

Helena doesn't yet love this book. It's rare that she experiences love at first sight, whether with books or any object. (People, too, I think.) She's a lot like me that way. She has to warm up to the idea of something.

But I already see the glint in her eye that signifies this book is an idea that holds some appeal.

J-F dropped off Helena at daycare this morning and reports that little Xavier was delighted to see her. He called out her name, ran over, and hugged her. She hugged back. They stood hugging. Minutes passed. They kept hugging. To the point that J-F wanted to scream "Get your grimy little paws off my daughter."

Although, it being all fluffy-snowy outside, today is a good day for hugging.

Helena's spent other mornings kissing this same boy. I don't know how to react to this. Is she merely mimicking behaviour she sees at home? Is she "exploring and discovering"? Has she formed a special attachment to Xavier? Is it an attachment imbued with anything other than having a best friend? How is it that she can already be this complex creature with emotional needs satisfied by physical comfort?

It's obvious to me that the emotional and physical are intertwined in our experience from birth — no wonder we have difficulty trying to separate them (I know now, of course, we shouldn't bother trying).

I won't be seeing my mother for Christmas this year, nor do I have set plans to see her immediately after the holiday. (This is a first.) As such, I've ordered some presents for family and friends online and am having them delivered there. The first parcel arrived today. My mother did not remember my warnings and instructions: my brother has already opened the package — the unwrapped contents are spilled — and thus will have no surprises from me on Christmas. On top of this, my mother actually sounded disappointed to learn that the other gift therein contained is intended for my sister and not for her. And so the festivities commence.

I love Nick Hornby

He's smart and funny. And sincere. A regular guy. His novels make me laugh.

He wrote a novel in which the narrator was female. It's just about the only example of cross-gender narratorship that didn't make me cringe. That counts for some kind of talent.

And his books make great movies. Vastly underrated movies.

The new book, The Polysyllabic Spree, is a collection of his "Stuff I've Been Reading" columns in The Believer. (This book will probably not be made into a movie, though I'd like to see someone try.)

Excerpt:

Zaid's finest moment, however, comes in his second paragraph, when he says that "the truly cultured are capable of owning thousands of unread books without losing their composure or their desire for more."

That's me! And you, probably! That's us! "Thousands of unread books"! "Truly cultured"! Look at this month's list: Chekhov's letters, Amis's letters, Dylan Thomas's letters ... What are the chances of getting through that lot? I've started on the Chekhov, but the Amis and the Dylan Thomas have been put straight into their permanent home on the shelves, rather than onto any sort of temporary pending pile. The Dylan Thomas I saw remaindered for 15 quid (down from 50) just after I'd read a terrific review of a new Thomas biography in The New Yorker; the Amis letters were a fiver. But as I was finding a home for them in the Arts and Lit nonfiction section (I personally find that for domestic purposes, the Trivial Pursuit system works better than Dewey), I suddenly had a little epiphany: all the books we own, both read and unread, are the fullest expression of self we have at our disposal. My music is me, too, of course, but as I only really like rock and roll and its mutations, huge chunks of me — my rarely examined operatic streak, for example — are unrepresented in my CD collection. And I don't have the wall space or the money for all the art I would want, and my house is a shabby mess, ruined by children ... But with each passing year, and with each whimsical purchase, our libraries become more and more able to articulate who we are, whether we read the books or not. Maybe that's not worth the 30-odd quid I blew on those collections of letters, admittedly, but it's got to be worth something, right?

Right on, Nick!

Review of the book in Salon:

Hornby is writing about the day-to-day process of being readers as most of us practice it — not following some neat scheme but reading without premeditation, going higgledy-piggledy from one subject to another, based on whim, recommendation, chance.

The result is less a column to read for insight into any one book (though there is that sometimes) than a column in which to recognize the habits that bind readers together, no matter the differences in what they read.

Interview:
In which Hornby claims Dickens is "the greatest novelist who ever lived" for, among other reasons, the "jokes — proper, funny jokes, not 'literary' jokes."

Rule 1 in this essay on making book recommendations is a really good one:

If you really want people to read a book, buy a copy and give it to them. One of the best book recommenders I know swears by this policy. He says you can't reasonably expect them to read it if you won't put your money where your mouth is.

I've done that a few times in the past, but I'm reminded how effective it can be.

That said, I'm not going to buy you all a copy of a Nick Hornby book. (Heck, I don't know which I would choose to give you — you'd all get different ones, for different reasons.) Heck, why am I even referring to a rule on book recommendations — it doesn't really belong here, except in that it's a smart and decent thing, and that recommendations, whether a professional critic's or a friend's, are a big part of how we build the libraries that shape and describe our lives.

I just like Nick Hornby.

Coquine

Helena's word of the week: coquine. "Mischievous." She's been repeating it all week. It was the first word out of her mouth this morning (well, after "mama" and "milk").

The only reason she'd know the word is if she'd been hearing the word, and the only reason she'd be hearing the word is if someone had reason enough to use it.

We had reports last week that she likes hiding things. I can picture her amusement at watching her peers look for their favourite toy, then revealing the missing object with a flourish and a wink. Yes, she's got the makings of a prankster.


Astronaut or rockstar? 

The other night Helena tried to engage me in a song. Some little ditty with actions she'd learned at daycare. Charming, to be sure, but it made me a little sad. Of course the song was in French, and, as such, completely foreign to me. I'll find it out eventually, but it takes more effort than simply reaching back for half-memories from my own childhood. (J-F, it turns out, is not a reliable source for nursery rhymes.) Even when Helena "sings" in English, it can take minutes to decipher a couple words and recognize a hint of a rhythm before I figure out the song and can join in. I know that bilingualism can only serve her well in this world, but it's a reminder too that she is growing into her own person. Awesome, but it still makes me a little sad.


The new do. 

I bought a lovely little children's book on sale yesterday — Hush, by Anna Strauss — though I think it's more for me than for Helena. The little girl in times of need turns to her mother, and her mother comforts her, and the girl grows up, but still turns to her mother, and her mother still comforts her. It's very sentimental (with simple, happy illustrations), but it's a nice reminder of my role.

One unhatched chicken

I just got back from a job interview. I think it went well, but I'm not sure I'm any good at gauging these things.

I set out looking very smart. (Smartly dressed, that is. I'm afraid some days my eyes glaze over and I don't look very clever at all.) Wearing my new coat (I'd conscientiously set it aside yesterday, keeping it hermetically sealed after having removed all cat hair from it) and my new boots (When I bought them last weekend they were the best of thousands I'd tried on, but I bemoaned the fact they did not come close to matching the boots that needed replacing on comfort. I bought them anyway. Today, they are surprisingly comfortable.) and sporting my new handbag (Large enough to hold a diaper, snacks, and whatever novel I'm reading, without screaming "diaper bag" or looking obscenely pouchy. Today I carried magazines instead of diapers.), I looked like I don't need a job at all, but if I were to have one it would be a very hip and cool editorial gig.

I'm more nervous now, wondering if I said anything stupid, than I was going in. I do want this job — it's different from and more creative than any job I've held before, and this employer scores very high on the hip'n'cool quotient, though they warned me it doesn't pay very well. (I never ask on a first interview — I think it's crass.)

And that's all I'm going to say about that. Coincidentally, this morning I learned about dooce and being dooced, and having been mildly dooced in a family context, I would hate to jeopardize a cool job over a silly little blog. Maybe a not-so-cool job.

(Heather's love letter to her 10-month-old daughter is worth reading. It's funny cuz it's true.)

I took some time off work yesterday and today. Against my better judgement, but I'm feeling pretty good about it at the moment. I'm at an impasse with the book I'm copyediting. It's formula-heavy and very boring. No matter how long I sat at this desk staring at this computer, I couldn't navigate my way through it. So I stepped away. I cleaned up the apartment. I had a bubblebath. I napped. I'm in a much better headspace now — relieved, too, with that interview out of the way — and ready to get to work (in just a minute).

I have a bad habit. I have many, actually, but one of them is to shop for things without buying anything. This does have some advantages, particularly as far as cost savings go. I tend to take mental note of what it is I'd like to acquire, and consider it carefully, mull it over in the comfort of my home, visualizing the potential acquisition within the context of my furnishings or wardrobe. Often, this exercise in itself satisfies the initial impulse, and the desire for the object vanishes. However, there are times I go back for an item, and the item is gone.

There's a book I'd spotted a couple months ago in the bargain stacks at Chapters (There. I said it. I called it by name even though I vowed never to do so, only ever referring to it obliquely as "the big-box bookstore."). When I went back for it, it was gone. Of course, I could pull the trade paperback off the shelf and pay full price for it (in which case, I'd march over to the nearest independent bookseller. I swear.), but that spoils the thrill of the bargain hunt. Stubbornly, I've checked other outlets, but I came up empty. But the online database for weeks has been telling me there's one copy left. And for weeks, I've been going back and poring over the stacks. The database could be wrong, but I keep checking, just in case.

Today, as if by magic, there it was. Maybe it's a sign. I'll go back for it tomorrow.

(Don't be silly. This time, I bought it on the spot.)

Book nerds

Jasper Fforde's The Well of Lost Plots was fun — literary pulp! — but nothing much happens. I expect it would've been more satisfying if I could've read the whole thing in one sitting some lazy Sunday morning in bed rather than in 5-minute snippets. Still, if you're a book nerd, there's much to enjoy. There just aren't enough pregnant heroes in the world, and I particularly like the conversation with Captain Nemo about the best coffee in the world.

(To avoid emitting outbursts regarding typos etc, which as a book nerd you're bound to make, please make sure your version is properly upgraded before you begin reading.)

There's a ton of end-of-year booklists out there and I love them! I'm always hoping to find something Brilliant and Important (although unputdownable or reasonably interesting will do) that I may have missed during the year.

I'd meant for this blog to be a place to record and review the books I read, but I never feel up to the task of organizing the project. (Similarly, I keep meaning to spruce the place up a bit, but then I figure it's about the content, not the pretty fonts and colours, and I get on with my day.) Really, who the hell cares what I'm reading and whether I liked it or not? Why the hell do I even want to document my reading? Is it just something book nerds can't help but do?

The other week I stumbled across a blog that includes a master list of all the books the blogger has read since 1979. (I'd started a list almost a decade ago for insurance purposes but never maintained it.) It was awe-inspiring and incredibly anal, and I was compelled to tell him so. He thanked me for the compliment and proceeded to tell me about the application he was hoping to build around it. What is it about book nerds?

Is this the quiet book lover's unassuming manner of advertisement, to surreptitiously suggest what you should be reading (to make you a better person, to make you smarter, to make you more like them)? Or a meaningless and self-proclaimed badge of honour?

There's a breed of book lover who loves to talk about books — not their stories and ideas, but the joy they take in the shopping for them, weight of them, smell of them. I'm one of those. When things are getting to be too much, I go hang out in a bookstore. The touch of them helps ground me.

Other bloggers are now posting year-end lists, and Michele asked about favourite reading spots the other day. It's got me examining my relationship with books in general. Time is not unlimited, yet I devote an insane amount of it to books — if not immersed in reading them, reading about them, planning their acquisition, blogging about them.

(Is there a Bookaholics Anonymous? Seriously. Where one's addiction isn't considered charming? I suppose most bookaholics wouldn't much care that books interfered with their social lives, but I wonder if it's been known to interfere with people holding down a job? Or are booklovers too smart to let that happen? Is there a book on the subject?)

Book nerd that I am, I still can't understand people who read while walking. I used to do that as a 7-year-old, reading Nancy Drew — I was always late for school and got in trouble often enough to curb the tendency. As a grown-up, I think you've got to be more assertive — read, or don't, or get to where you're going and then crack it open. Except when it's work, and you're reading a memo or report between offices. But you can't enjoy a good book that way, can you?

I told you so

I told you so. I told you so. I told you so!

There. That's a bit better.

It's been a crappy weekend full of crap. My tongue is raw from biting it those many times I almost said "I told you so" but kindly refrained.

It has something to do with how the balcony door decides to blow open all by itself to let in the cold and the snow, and how we're going to fix this problem. Frankly, I no longer remember what it was I told that was "so" — but I needed to say it here to get it out of my system.

This weekend has included much coldness, more child-tending, more tension headaches, less sleep, and considerably less productive work than originally scheduled.

I'm mad that when Helena's home for a day during the week, it's assumed I can drop work, and then that my proclamations that I need to make up some work time go unheard. Well, they're not taken seriously, anyway. And then I get to feel guilty for being a spoilsport too, unable even to enjoy a movie rental and a bottle of wine.

I'm mad that I had to write a test for a job I'm applying for. Because nobody told me anything about writing a test and returning it Monday morning when we were in contact earlier this week to set up an interview. And mostly because I'm sick of this test-writing process. Makes me feel like I'm in high school. But I'm an adult and a professional. Nobody would ask me to write a test if I were applying for the position of chief financial officer.

Grr.

But I really want this job. For a gazillion reasons. This job could be the coolest job ever.

And then the bank might give us a mortgage so we can buy a house and live happily ever after, and that would be very good too.

I'm mad that I'm getting so mad these last few days. I hate that side of myself. I never knew much about this side of myself at all till recently.

Last night, for the first time ever, I felt old. Not like a grown-up, but like what I imagine most women are trying to express when they obsess over their age. My hands, once beautiful and delicate, are dry and scaly and cracked. I'm not taking care of myself the way I should.

On the up side, Helena was exceptionally cuddly this evening, and spent more than an hour just dozing off in my arms, not wanting me to put her down. And even though this cuddling cut into my work time, the therapeutic benefits were vast and immeasurable.

A lock of hair

We took Helena for her first professional haircut yesterday.

For all the road rage (him), nagging (me), and comatose holiday shoppers we endured along the way, it was worth it.

I paid about $12 (plus tip), for which she got the most darling do before she knew what hit her.

I've tried trimming her bangs on a few occasions, but the kid is squirmy. I suppose it would help if we had a cool car chair complete with steering wheel and horn that I could pump to the appropriate height, and if she were surrounded by mirrors, and if there were cartoon-playing tvs strategically located to coax her head to a downward angle. No need for The Hairdresser's Husband to step in.

Plus they gave Helena a lollipop and a certificate featuring a lock of her hair. All in about 15 minutes.

I was pleased to note that this establishment also offers "daycare" for a not unreasonable $4 an hour, with discounts for multiple children. The other mall we dropped into yesterday had a free child-watching service, but I think it's only a seasonal offer to Christmas shoppers. It's not a perfect or even easy world for mothers, but somedays it seems that it's better than I expected.

Getting philosophical

I've just discovered The Philosophical Mother. I've not yet had time to read the current issue, but I'm struck by the spirit of the publication as captured in its tagline: Where the personal is still political.

A recent column lists some prevalent characteristics: you know you're a philosophical mother if...

Among my favourite points (or at least the ones that strike a chord today):

You are still awe-struck that you have become your child's greatest role model, mentor, and teacher.
You believe that motherhood and feminism can and should co-exist.
You can't believe that nobody told you how difficult it all would be.

Noticeably absent from the list is the compulsive need to blog, but I suppose that's covered by the reference to therapy.

All mothers are philosophical on some level. Although I had the benefit of Ethics, Logic, and Metaphysics classes, motherhood is a school unto itself.

As for the politics of motherhood, another blog had me all weepy this week, about not only childcare but seemingly trivial things like accessible public transportation and those other political things that it's sometimes easier to find a way around, like breastfeeding in public. This woman makes the point that "Mothers have a lot of needs and if those needs are quietly taken care of within the home, within the family — well then there is no need for systemic change."

In my Utopia, mothering is a job, with a SIC code and everything. And as a job, it is expected that training and tools will be required. I mean, you would be very shocked if two hours after drifting off to a much needed sleep you were jerked awake and told that you are now a lawyer and are expected in court in 10 minutes.

"But I don't know anything about the law and I'm bleeding and cannot even go to the bathroom", you would cry.

"Sorry, you are a lawyer now. You'll just need to figure it out" would be the response.

And yet.

This way utopian elephants lie

I don't have more than a passing familiarity with Babar, and that comes from television. This is an odd realization to me actually, given my fascination with elephants.

This history and analysis of Babar, with references to specific tales, ensures that never again will I dismiss this regal behemoth.

The environment of Babar is that of the prosperous, well-educated, art-loving French bourgeoisie. Babar and his family go to the theater and hear concerts of both classical and popular music. They favor upper-middle-class sports: they sail, play tennis, swim and ski, practice yoga,[4] go to the races, and camp and hike in the mountains. Good manners are important, and so are good clothes.

Babar's is an ideal world, a kind of upper-middle-class French Utopia.

Then there are the rhinoceroses. I never knew about the rhinoceroses.

The most interesting though least agreeable alternative society in the Babar books is that of the rhinos... The rhinos' territory borders that of the elephants, but though they are Babar's neighbors they are often opposed to him. They are large, clumsy, and subject to fits of aggression and impulsive greed. They have bad manners and no apparent interest in art or music... They have very bad taste...: they like vulgar patterns and silly hats. Their king, Rataxes, wears loud-print suits or comic-opera uniforms.

The city of the rhinos is a large metropolis, with square brutalist public buildings... Rataxes' name is carved on each side of the palace steps, with a letter left off from the beginning or the end each time, so that it deconstructs into words that include TAXES, AXES, and RAT.

Did some academic have too much time on their hands, or is the world of Babar really this interesting? Why didn't I know about this sooner? Is this series unique in children's literature, or would all of those other books stand up to this kind of analysis? Should I run out and find some Babar to introduce to Helena?

Elsewhere:

"What puts the dys in dystopia?" And we answer: a denial of biology.

Part of human biology is, surprisingly for some, a yearning for culture. Although it might seem that biology and culture are antithetical, a capacity for culture is in fact one of humanity's most firmly established biological traits. It is thus notable that most literary dystopias include a suppression of the arts and humanities generally, and of literature in particular.

If you're going to define biology that way, it's really hard to come up with a counter example.

Science is fun!

Well the pressure's on to see that this day turns out as a tribute to the ever-charming Michele.

Although she herself suggested I enquire as to book shopping practices — we devour far more books than groceries, don't we? — a more scientific venture springs to light today.

The Guardian talks about a list compiled by New Scientist magazine of 100 Things to Do Before You Die.

For example:

• extract your own DNA
• measure the speed of light with chocolate
• swim in a bioluminescent lake

(See the article for more examples.)

While any science experiment involving chocolate holds vast appeal, I'm considering adding "spend an afternoon in zero gravity" to my before-I-die list. You?

J-F, meanwhile, convinced that last week's vomitorama was evidence of radiation poisoning, is in the market for a geiger counter. Ebay offers a number of affordable ones, but the labelling's generally in Russian — he'd at least like an instruction manual in a language he can understand. Any recommendations?

Groceries

Someone's noticed that the grocery stores are disappearing. The regular ones. (Nobody's worried that the big boxes in the middle of nowhere are going to vanish overnight.)

It all adds up to a growing food paradox in this country. There are all kinds enormous stores opening up, and at the same time, smaller grocery stores are closing down — often in downtown cores. These were the stores that people could once easily get to.

I'm fortunate to live in a neighbourhood where I can remain blissfully ignorant of the phenomenon facing other urbanites across the nation.

We drive out to a big box supermarket about every two weeks — there's good prices to be had on some things and I like the convenience of the other services the store offers.

But there's a grocery store just around the corner from our apartment. And another one if you go in the other direction. And another just up head.

Throughout the week, if I need to pick up just a couple things, I head to one of those three grocery stores I shop at regularly. They're all within a 20-minute walk of home. There are two others within the same proscribed area that I don't frequent. I know of others, just a little further off and in the opposite direction of the one I usually take.

There is a grocery store across the street from Helena's daycare and J-F's office, in the heart of downtown. (I could walk there in 40 minutes if I wanted to.) There is another at the bus stop, which I stop at some days when I'm bringing Helena home on my own.

On top of all these grocery-shopping options there's a plethora of fruit and vegetable stores. And bakeries.

They're always busy.

Not every store has every brand, options may be limited in regard to some items, and pricing can be uneven, but living here I will never have to worry about being able to get out to do the groceries (unless I slip on a patch of ice and break my leg or develop a bizarre gastrointestinal condition that keeps me vomiting copiously, but even then I'm not above calling J-F at work with a list of things to pick up on his way home).

I love this neighbourhood. Where do you shop?

Memes explained

Well, not really. But if you think a meme is limited to those silly quizzes and lists that makes their way through blogworld, this interview with Richard Dawkins is a place to start educating yourself.

Another kind of selfish replicator to which Dawkins has called attention are "memes" — things like ideas, fashions, tunes, and so forth that multiply by leaping from mind to mind. When Dawkins introduced the meme concept a couple of decades ago, hopes were raised that the evolution of culture, or even of the human mind, might be explained as a sort of Darwinian competition among memes. But little has come of this project, even if the word "meme" does continue to get tossed around quite a bit by pretentious intellectuals. I asked Dawkins if he had cooled on the meme idea over the years.

"My enthusiasm for it was never, ever as a contribution to the study of human culture," he said. "It was always intended to be a way of dramatizing the idea that a Darwinian replicator doesn't have to be a gene. It can be a computer virus. Or a meme. The point is that a good replicator is just a replicator that spreads, regardless of its material form."

The book Dawkins is currently promoting has little to do with memes, but if I were interviewing Richard Dawkins, I'm pretty sure I'd ask him about memes regardless.

Sitting on my bedside table for about the last 4 years: The Meme Machine, by Susan Blackmore, with a foreword by Richard Dawkins and nicely summarized at the Literary Saloon, so I don't really need to read it for myself. An excerpt is available online.

Part of the appeal of the idea of the meme is no doubt due to the word's etymology. Clearly it is derived from 2 words: "me" and "me." And everyone wants in on a good meme.

Borders

Blork announces the November monkey: "Talk about awkward, annoying, or freaky things that have happened to you while crossing international boundaries." Because some days it's easier to let other people tell you what to blog about.

Overnight train, Krakow to Prague, the summer of 1994.

I find my assigned place. Only one other person in the compartment, asleep, reeking of alcohol and sprawled across my seat. I stretch myself out on the bench across from him and doze off.

The border crossing. I have the impression that we stop in the middle of nowhere, that the border is in fact between villages. In the dim light of the station outside I can make out officials scrambling off in different directions.

Silence. Dark. Nothing. I doze off.

Pounding on the compartment door. Gruff voices. Door slides open. I finally determine that I'm being told to remove my feet from the seat. The drunk is still asleep, feet on his seat, but they leave him alone. The officials march off down the corridor. Again, I doze off.

I'm being yelled at. I don't understand. I force my ears awake, but still I don't understand. He's speaking louder, but he's speaking Czech. A different man, also uniformed.

I ask in Polish if he can slow down. He rolls his eyes. I make out a demand for money. It's a fine, for having my feet on the seat. I pull out some Polish currency, but he tells me my money is no good. What kind of fool am I, travelling to Prague without any Czech currency? What snobs, those Poles, refusing to switch dialects. How rude.

Ah. I've been in Poland for over a month already. My accent is sounding pretty good. He thinks I'm Polish. Polish and Czech are mutually intelligible for the most part, at least to ears accustomed to navigating the Slavic dialects. Mine are not. He thinks I'm being difficult.

(I'm reminded of my visit to Portugal and the attitude of the Portuguese toward Spanish tourists, who would insist on speaking Spanish, very loudly, without even conceding an obrigada for a gracias.)

The official prods the drunk awake. He thinks the drunk is my boyfriend, and he should pay my fine. He's never even seen me before. The drunk speaks fluent Czech. He lives in Lithuania, but is going to visit his father in a small Czech village the official knows.

Finally, the matter of passports. I proffer my Canadian document — I think I see a glint of understanding in the official's eyes: "ignorant foreigner." Again he asks for money, but I have none (of the appropriate kind, anyway). Questions then about the dates of my visit, the dates on my visa, the issuing offices. There is much head-shaking and muttering. The drunk is glowering at me.

The official will have to consult with the other officers on how to manage the matter of my fine, though he admits that my papers seem to be in order. He takes my passport away with him down the hall for the longest 20 minutes of my life.

He brings back my passport with instructions. The terror ends, the tedium begins. Immediately upon my arrival in Prague, I'm to register with the Canadian embassy to make arrangements for the payment of my fine.

Ah, Prague! The first day is the matter of finding someplace to stay and figuring out how to navigate the city. I settle into an apartment, and find out where the Canadian embassy is. The second day I make my way to the embassy and spend 4 hours waiting. Four hours! I document my situation and meet with someone who assures me this will be easily sorted out — Czech authorities have not contacted them about me, but the embassy would pay my fine and bill me later, back in Canada, for reimbursement. The third day involved a trip to the Polish embassy for a visa to be able return to Poland, and arranging to stay longer than originally intended in the apartment, as so much time had already been eaten up.

I never did hear from anyone regarding that fine. I worked it out later that the amount worked out to the equivalent of about $15 Canadian. Experiencing Czech bureacracy like a character out of Kafka? Priceless.

My messy desk

Everywhere I turn there's the faint stench of vomit.

Being generally tired, cranky, busy, and uninspired today, I'm taking up Ann Douglas's suggestion to review the items on my desk. Helena (who vomited in her bed last night and then in our bed, and then all over me and the floor, and I expect the daycare is not too fond of toddlers who just keep vomiting) is home and currently napping, and though I doubt I will get organized, I may gain a little perspective.

A copy of The New Baby and Child Care Quick Reference Encyclopedia, splayed open at the entry on vomiting.

An old copy of the Canadian Association of Radiologists Journal.

A contract regarding the future copyediting of said journal, which I should review and probably sign.

Calculator, which I remember purchasing with my mother at Consumers' Distributing when I was in grade 7.

A big fat medical dictionary, which I use for work and which contains no helpful practical information regarding vomit.

Invoices from the Book-of-the-Month club, which I mean to follow up on, cuz they screwed up my order and haven't fixed it yet.

Manual for some world domination game J-F has been playing.

Two chewed up straws.

One tiny plastic purple teacup.

Photo of me on my second birthday, reminding me how much simpler life was 33 years ago, when if I vomited, someone else would clean up after me, and if someone else vomited, I likely didn't know a thing about it and could go about my day babbling to myself and eating cake.

PalmPilot, wearing a very thick coat of dust.

Three spiral-bound notebooks of different sizes, only one of which is mine, all mostly devoid of any real content (though mine does contain scant but very important notes regarding Sanskrit terminology), with nearly every page in the middle of the page bearing the stamp of Helena — a small but bold stroke, a hooked line, barely a squiggle, which she produces on declaring "I draw Mama. I draw Papa. Ilina! I draw bug!" et cetera. (I have yet to determine whether she means to draw a picture or write the word.)

Currently missing in action: my favourite pen.

Just plain missing from this picture: coffee! Where are my damn pop tarts?

Suspending disbelief

I noticed many students were completely lost. Not because they had trouble keeping up with the reading (a few did), but because they had trouble figuring out how to read a fantasy novel. It was a minority of my students that knew how to read a novel that mixed reality and fantasy, history and fiction, myth and the mundane. The handful of kids who had read other fantasy novels did fine... But the majority of students, kids who would have no trouble suspending their various disbeliefs for the most fantastic products of Hollywood, told me again and again that the book was nearly incomprehensible.

This comes from Matthew Cheney of The Mumpsimus, telling about teaching Neil Gaiman's American Gods in high school. He also talks about teaching science fiction in general.

(Via a post from Scribbling Woman that you should check out, and click on all the links cuz they're very cool.)

The above quote jumped out at me because I know people like this, people incapable of suspending disbelief, who just don't "get" it. The first such person I knew was my mother; I assumed this trait had something to do with age, a generational thing, maybe limited cultural experience. But there were others. Was it simply lack of exposure? Could they learn to grok?

I think the answer is no. Some people are just wired that way.

This is a trans-media phenomenon, although with the strong movie culture we have, it may be easier for some to fake literacy in this domain than in others — but on some essential level, they still don't get it.

Sometimes the trigger is a "technology" like time travel. It can be the presence of elves. Talking animals. Anything claiming to be set in the even not too distant future. Cartoons.

Some of these people will claim that this is not a shortcoming, simply their expression of personal preference for reality-based drama, but when pressed, greater philosophical differences in how we see the world emerge. Many people can fully appreciate fantastic elements and do prefer other modes, but there are many more non-grokkers than I ever thought possible.

Some minds encompass a vision of the future, grasp the impossible. Others cannot.

Has it always been this way? Do our brains adapt with each generation to be able to fathom the next big idea, the logical extensions of existing concepts? Is this evolution in progress?

Suspending disbelief

I noticed many students were completely lost. Not because they had trouble keeping up with the reading (a few did), but because they had trouble figuring out how to read a fantasy novel. It was a minority of my students that knew how to read a novel that mixed reality and fantasy, history and fiction, myth and the mundane. The handful of kids who had read other fantasy novels did fine... But the majority of students, kids who would have no trouble suspending their various disbeliefs for the most fantastic products of Hollywood, told me again and again that the book was nearly incomprehensible.

This comes from Matthew Cheney of The Mumpsimus, telling about teaching Neil Gaiman's American Gods in high school. He also talks about teaching science fiction in general.

(Via a post from Scribbling Woman that you should check out, and click on all the links cuz they're very cool.)

The above quote jumped out at me because I know people like this, people incapable of suspending disbelief, who just don't "get" it. The first such person I knew was my mother; I assumed this trait had something to do with age, a generational thing, maybe limited cultural experience. But there were others. Was it simply lack of exposure? Could they learn to grok?

I think the answer is no. Some people are just wired that way.

This is a trans-media phenomenon, although with the strong movie culture we have, it may be easier for some to fake literacy in this domain than in others — but on some essential level, they still don't get it.

Sometimes the trigger is a "technology" like time travel. It can be the presence of elves. Talking animals. Anything claiming to be set in the even not too distant future. Cartoons.

Some of these people will claim that this is not a shortcoming, simply their expression of personal preference for reality-based drama, but when pressed, greater philosophical differences in how we see the world emerge. Many people can fully appreciate fantastic elements and do prefer other modes, but there are many more non-grokkers than I ever thought possible.

Some minds encompass a vision of the future, grasp the impossible. Others cannot.

Has it always been this way? Do our brains adapt with each generation to be able to fathom the next big idea, the logical extensions of existing concepts? Is this evolution in progress?

What do you want to do with your life?

43 things.

A plague of inanities

We thought we had banished disease and pestilence from our house, but once again some horrible plague is visited upon our heads.

J-F this evening has taken ill. In the middle of the Bridget Jones movie.

So, Mark Darcy or Daniel Cleaver? I may never know.

It'd been a lovely time until then. We'd taken the Metro downtown — no toddler babbling away in the backseat. What reckless, romantic abandon! Ah, the simple joy of making fun of the woman wearing legwarmers.

Our exit from the theatre didn't go unnoticed. J-F really did look ghastly. On our way out the movie folk were nice enough to give us passes so we could catch the show another time. I promptly lost them. Along with the cash I'd made J-F hand over so I would have it at the ready to pay for the cab. Some lucky stranger will take in a fine film and enjoy a few beers afterward in our stead — I hope it's someone nice.

Thursday, Helena had come home from daycare in fine spirits but not interested in supper. Shortly before bedtime, the spontaneous vomiting happened. Three sets of pyjamas later (and two changes of clothes for me), she seemed good as new. Helena is having a grand time with her grandmother this weekend.

We've faced bugs and infections together before, but there's something about throwing up — the violence of it, and the physical evidence — that invokes terror and pity more extremely. And confusion.

The baby books address vomiting as part of illness, but not in any hands-on way. Do I hold her? Let her be? Everybody deals with being sick in their own way, I know, and we'll just have to figure it out as we go. Still, I felt unprepared. Practically speaking, how do you minimize the mess of it? Helena has never vomited before; needless to say, she didn't know what was coming, nor that it's customary to make for the toilet bowl or some other receptacle. Amazingly, once her face and hands were wiped dry she didn't seem bothered at all.

We went to Ikea earlier today. Easels are on sale this weekend and I just had to get one for my baby, even if it does make me feel like we're a Sim family.

The Globe and Mail's ninth annual Great Canadian Literary Quiz has been launched. It's not all that Canadian, and it's really hard. I can answer about a quarter of the questions without doing any research. I have to wonder who would go to all the trouble just for the sake of winning some Globe and Mail merchandise. Quizzes aren't any fun if they're that hard.