Clearest, starkest brilliance #1: When Randy Bachman held my heart

Harriet is pictured here in her very early days, back when a moment of daytime peace was worth a photo for posterity. But lately, actually, I've been thinking of a certain moment of nighttime peace, when Harriet was about five days old.

For the first few weeks of her life (how long exactly doesn't matter, suffice it to say, it was an eternity), we had to wake her every three hours for feeding, as she'd not yet returned to her birthweight. (This was when I was reading Tom's Midnight Garden and "Only the clock was left, but the clock was always there, time in, time out.") And once the alarm went off, we'd leave the radio playing while we fed her, and so we discovered that CBC at night subscribes to programs by other public broadcasters. The Australian Broadcasting Corporation at 1:00am, and 4:00am would be Swedish, and something uptight and BBC close to the morning.

This one night in particular was not so late, however, and I remember waking up to Randy Bachman's Vinyl Tap. So there we were, up with our baby daughter in this weird, wide world that was the size of our bedroom's four walls and we hadn't thought outside of it in five whole days, which might have been a lifetime (and they were). So that, in effect, Randy Bachman was coming at us from the farthest reaches of outer space.

Fittingly, his show that night had a stars and planets theme, and Canada felt very small as Randy's wife Denise introduced the next track, by Randy's son Tal. Surprisingly, it was not "She's So High", and Denise reported that she'd always felt so envious of Tal's talent. And then after that they played music that wasn't by anyone related to Randy Bachman, which I think was "Blue Moon"(and according to the program log, I'm remembering this in the wrong order, but that doesn't change the way it was). They played "Good Morning Starshine", and we marvelled at the lyric "Gliddy glub gloopy, Nibby nabby noopy, La la la lo lo." It was midnight, but it might as well have been the middle of the night, and the baby was sucking sustenance out of a tube stuck to my husband's finger, but anyway, we were happy.

But no more so than when they played "Little Star" by the Elegants. Our own peculiar lullaby, to which we found ourselves relaxing for the first time in days. Twinkle, twinkle to a doo-wop beat, and the moment was so beautiful, it shone. We were a family. And I wouldn't take back any of the awfulness of those early days, if I had to give that song back with it, and what it was like to be listening, and finally not anxious, and to be connected, in touch with a calm, blissful world.

Some things on Saturday

Oh, I wish I could tell you what I'm now reading, but you'll have to wait for the December issue of Quill & Quire to find out. Alas, but I'm enjoying myself. Birds of America is on its way to me in the post. For the last few days, I've been composing a love letter to the Spadina Road branch of the Toronto Public Library (which I'll put down on paper soon, and copy here). We've been listening to Elizabeth Mitchell at our house, and we're totally obsessed-- everyday I have a new favourite, but I like her version of "Three Little Birds" and also The Tremelos' "Here Comes My Baby". I've been playing guitar myself these days, and Harriet is entranced by the shiny tuning pegs. She also likes strumming the strings. We're going to England in less than a month, which is exciting, but seemed like a much better idea when the baby was still hypothetical. Now, I am a bit terrified, but pleased that her brilliant sleep patterns are wrecked already so that I don't have to worry about the time change doing so. (In terms of baby sleep, how about this: ask moxie hypothosizes that sleep is this generation of parents' "thing" [whereas, it once was potty training] because babies sleep on their backs now, where they do not sleep as well as they did on their fronts. This is also why our parents have little sympathy for the sleeping plight). I continue to be exhausted, much the same way I was when Harriet was born, except I have a life now and do not spend my waking hours sitting in a chair sobbing, and therefore the tiredness feels worse (and yet, I would not, could not, go back there, no). I've also quit Facebook, sort of. You see, I was totally addicted, checking it whenever I was feeding the baby and often when I wasn't, and there are better things I could do with my time. And yet, there are many things I love about Facebook-- friends' photos, event invitations, cool links, finding out about friends' achievements, that many of my FB friends' aren't friends otherwise, and I'd miss them if I went. But there are only so many strangers' photo albums you can peruse without feeling your life is slipping away, so, I had my husband change my Facebook password, and now I have to be logged in by him. And I really hope this doesn't happen all that often. So this should free up some time for me to finally read through my stack of London Review of Books that has been accumulating since Harriet was born. And I mean that. I am also going to knit Harriet a sweater from the Debbie Bliss Baby and Toddler Knits book I got from the library today, but I'll use the 12-24 month sizing, because I'm realistic about how long it takes to get anything done. Today, we had the most wonderful brunch at the Annex Live. And the baby is awake, so I must go lay out the newspaper on the floor so I can read it while I feed her.

Songs blasting by outside my window #2

I Want Your Soul by Armand Van Helden.

Not my bag

I hate jazz. I've never liked it, there was a time when I pretended I did and tried to learn to like it behind the scenes, but I never managed. I gave up pretences and decided to just hate it hands down the day a jazz-loving former co-worker walked into the staff lounge where someone else had put a bit of The Great Satan on the stereo, and co-worker waggled his head in a be-bop style, looked confused and said, "Hey, I thought this was my bag." Which summed it all up for me, and that was the end. My beloved Tabatha Southey illustrates her jazz-hating experiences in this week's column.

Bits and pieces

I am so excited to read the final volume of the Anne books-- I wasn't aware such a volume existed, and wonder if it's actually finished, as its form sounds quite fragmentary. But no less, my favourite Anne books were the last bunch (House of Dreams, Rainbow Valley, Anne of Ingleside and Rilla of Ingleside), precisely for their dealings with "serious" and "darker" themes this book supposedly contends with-- I couldn't help but think about Anne's stillborn baby in light of Montgomery's own experiences, Leslie Moore's marriage, WW1, the pied piper and Walter's death, when Anne fears Gilbert has ceased to love her, etc. Guardian blogger discusses the "dark side" of Green Gables. Bits of A.S. Byatt's The Children's Book called Rainbow Valley and Rilla of Ingleside to mind, actually, and Dovegreyreader interviews Byatt here. Speaking of interviews, Rebecca Rosenblum answers 12 or 20 questions. And speaking of nothing at all, 30 Rock ripped off the Muppet Show, why our federal tax dollars should not fund jazz, and Russell Smith on baby slings (he says do avoid the polyester).

What life has been like lately...

I'd post a picture of me and the baby, but as I've ceased to wear clothes, I've got none that are presentable. Harriet doesn't wear clothes either, but she pulls it off much better. We're now inhabiting a Harriet-centric universe, and we like it here. She's fitting into the family very well, and we're working hard to get her fatter. Her daddy is so wonderful to both of us, it makes me cry. She looks so much like him that it's a bit startling, and she's so beautiful that we can't stop talking about it. We also can't stop singing her "Ignition Remix" by R. Kelly, which may have a detrimental effect in years to come. But regardless, I continue to be a very lucky lady.

Psst: Harriet is after the spy, of course. I'll be writing more about that later.

Like acid-washed jeans

I really enjoyed Meghan Daum's collection of essays, My Misspent Youth. She comes by her Joan Didion comparisons honestly, except I laughed out loud at Daum's work, and however much I revere Joan Didion, she's never made me do that. For a sample, could I please refer you to "Music Is My Bag"? "I grew up surrounded by phrases like “rattle off that solo,” “nail that lick,” and “build up your chops.” Like acid-washed jeans, “chops” is a word that should only be invoked by rock and roll guitarists but is more often uttered with the flailing, badly timed anti-authority of the high school clarinet player." Oh my, yes.

Out in the world-- a concert and a play

Various events this winter are conspiring to keep me from becoming hermetic, and also providing me with opportunities I won't see again for a long time once The Baby is born. For example, a concert-- Dar Williams, live at the Mod Club this Saturday!! I am very excited, as I've not seen her since 2003 (live in Sheffield), being too poor for tickets when she was in Toronto in '05. And then a play! My very favourite play, no less- Arcadia, performed at Hart House Theatre in March. By Tom Stoppard-- have you read it? I've done so many times over the past ten years, and can't wait to delight in it again on stage.

Cusp of falling headlong

I'm now reading The Outlander, which I'm not particularly loving, but I feel I may be on the cusp of falling headlong into, particularly if DGR's assessment is right. Though I do fear I may have set literary standards too high, having spent part of this weekend reading Jools Oliver's Diary of an Honest Mum. (You can read the hilariously digested version here). We shall see... Elsewhere, I loved Rona Maynard's take on the Facebook 25 things meme. To Nigel Beale for the best used book sales in Canada (and I concur, because it includes my favourite). My baby kicks like mad to this song. And there would be more, if I weren't so tired, or if lately the newspaper had been remotely interesting.

Astrobiology

From our Rap Songs Commissioned to Drum Up Interest for Unfashionable Topics file (see Hip Hop Wordsworth Squirrel), we bring you "Astrobiology", NASA's rap about the search for life in outer space.

Looking forward

It may have been raining plenty of late, but it is still summer. We're off on a cottage mini-break this weekend, for which we're very lucky and excited, and life is never ever better than it is in July. However the following is a list of things for which I'm looking forward to autumn (and they must be good, to make me look past July). Surprise, surprise, they're mainly bookish:

• Once by Rebecca Rosenblum (Biblioasis, September 15)
• Goldengrove by Francine Prose (Harper Collins Canada, September 3)
• The Flying Troutmans by Miriam Toews (Knopf Canada, September 2)
  
• Alfred and Emily by Doris Lessing (Harper Collins Canada)
• Lucy Maud Montgomery: The Gift of Wings by M.H. Rubio (Doubleday Canada October)
  
• When Will There Be Good News? by Kate Atkinson (Bond Street Books, September 9)
  
• What It Feels Like For A Girl by Jennica Harper (Anvil Press, September 15)
  
• Promised Land by Dar Williams (September)
  

So much can slip on by

I'm now rereading Joan Didion's Where I Was From, which is a very different book from the one I first encountered last May. Partly because I've visited California since then, and therefore have a more concrete image of what she describes. Which is not to say Didion's descriptions are inadequate, but rather now I see something different. In addition, I just finished Sharon Butala's The Garden of Eden, which has provided Didion's consideration of California agriculture-culture with a context. I've also found that Joan Didion is always worth a trip back to, for she is so subtle that much can slip on by.

Good things on the web of late: I also thought Feist singing "One Two Three Four" on Sesame Street was truly lovely, and will link to Carl Wilson's post about this because it contains some other vintage Sesame Street counting hits. My new favourite website is Fernham, by Woolf scholar Anne E. Fernald. Writer Margo Rabb's struggles upon discovering she'd written a YA book, and Laurel Snyder understands.

Dance dance dance

Stuart surprised me with a present today, and a tea accessory at that! A porcelain tea infuser, as seen on this rather fabulous tea blog. I also ate a raspberry white chocolate scone at work. Today the sun is shining, hinting spring, and Marian M. seems outdated again.

I just finished reading The Outcast by Sadie Jones, which presents a tonier 1950s British austerity than I'd ever before glimpsed. "If she had been a drawing, she would be drawn with a few lines, and strong ones", and all its characters seemed as such. And quietly cinematic.

And speaking of cinema, I watched Once on the weekend, particularly due to my friend KD's endorsement. It was truly extraordinary, and I don't think I've been so convinced by a film in a long time. Any writer could learn loads by understanding the dynamics in that love story, a story where plot seemed secondary to human nature. If that makes any sense. And it's been on my mind for days and days since, running through my head and not just its music. I think I had forgotten the possibility of fundamental goodness in a film.

Do note that my favourite song right now is "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance with You" by The Black Kids. And I like that their chosen tracks include songs by Sloane and Lauryn Hill.

Reading without gravity

I was fascinated to read Astronaut Steve MacLean's blog post on reading in space (from Canada Reads). The wonderfully inspiring Rebecca Rosenblum has written a wonderfully inspiring post on being short-shortlisted for The Journey Prize. I am excited to now start reading Belong To Me, particularly after Deanna's endorsement. (And not because the cover is of Wellington Boots, which are a few of my favourite things.) A wonderful post at The Pop Triad about the music we find in films.

Spiced Up

It was almost as exciting as when Backstreet was back, except it was the Spice Girls, who we used to go to high school parties dressed as in 1997, refusing to break from our Spice personas. There is also a lingering memory of dancing on cafeteria tables, but we turn away from that. I was Ginger, and last night Baby and I attended the Spice Girls' second sold out show in Toronto. Scary would have come, but she thought she'd be on a business trip to the Cayman Islands, but it turned out she was only home with a throat plague. We missed her, and we also missed Posh (who I haven't actually seen for ten years) and Sporty (who is currently working at the South Pole).

And it was fun-- we were on our feet dancing and singing for the show's entirety, I'm hoarse today. "Wannabe" was the encore, and that one would have to get with our friends in order to be our lovers is as true as it ever was-- just ask our lovers. Arms waving at "Viva Forever" and "Goodbye"-- "look for the rainbow in every storm." "Mama" brought tears to my eyes-- how much additional meaning the years have brought it. The Spice Girls in real life, and they can really sing. Interestingly, though, they are about as good as I am at dancing. All a wee bit perfunctory, but what did one expect?

The downside was the absence of our Spice comrades (friendship never ending, and all), and that everybody there was fifteen. Then I got upset because all the fifteen year olds were way prettier than me, and had perfectly straight hair, and Baby and I were both cranky, and tired after all day at the office, and I was wearing winter boots, and we had headaches, and kept yawning, and even though she holds the group together, why doesn't Mel C. get the credit she deserves? I also couldn't stop thinking about Eddie Murphy, and that I am way too lame to go out on weeknights.

Young girls are coming to the canyon

Though I had a variety of things to get done tonight, none of them seemed to take precedence over compiling a San Francisco/California/USA Mixtape for our upcoming vacation. Actually a playlist, as follows:

1. We Built This City by Starship
2. Big Sur by The Thrills
3. America by Simon and Garfunkel
4. California Stars by Billy Bragg and Wilco
5. (Sittin' on) The Dock of the Bay by Otis Redding
6. Surfin' Safari by The Beach Boys
7. California by Joni Mitchell
8. Twelve Thirty by The Mamas and the Papas
9. Surfin USA by The Beach Boys
10. Long December by Counting Crows
11. America by Razorlight
12. California Girls by The Beach Boys
13. Drinking in LA by Bran Van 3000
14. California Dreaming by The Mamas and the Papas
15. Feel Flows by The Beach Boys
16. California by Phantom Planet
17. San Francisco (Be Sure To Wear Flowers in Your Hair) by Scott Mackenzie
18. Good Vibrations by The Beach Boys

Some selections sure to drive the purists mad, but alas. Dreams come true often have cheesy soundtracks.

Love is a walkman

I have a soft spot for objects that last. My favourite umbrella (which is semi-retired now). Jeans that will turn four this year, my blue corduroy bag which is five, my always reliable ipod-shuffle, which is three. I so respect solidity, and staying power. That when I spend a few extra bucks, I can be amply rewarded.

But there is one object in particular, revered above all others. Which is my Sony Sports Walkman (1990-2001). In vivid yellow, from Bush to Bush, from the Cold War to the War on Terror, from elementary school to university, and every single time I mowed the lawn. It was dropped, manhandled, made to be play mix-tapes with Air Supply and Peter Cetera, survived the Abba Gold craze, my Beatles obsession, songs taped off the radio, and the theme from Titanic.

Rewinding killed the batteries so I would flick the button to play the other side of the tape, and I got to know the exact second to flick back over when the obsessional-song-du-jour would start up on the other side. A gift from my parents for a school trip to Ottawa, it finally died one day while I was riding the subway East on the Danforth Line, listening to Summer Mix 2001 which contained songs by Sloan, Debbie Gibson, Sophie B. Hawkins and Robbie Williams. (Currency was never my strong suit). The motor went kaput altogether, not surprisingly as for months before songs had been playing too slow.

I kept it for awhile, playing the radio; after eleven years, it was hard to let go. When I replaced it, it was with a Panasonic walkman that I dropped from a six foot height never to listen to again, replaced by another Panasonic that died for no discernible reason (and was hideous), and then a cheap mini-disc player, followed by not-cheap mini-disc player (what a folly, I know!). And then my beloved Ipod shuffle, whose three-year-so-far life span I now know not to take for granted. Dare I hope for a similar reliability to the personal music player I once knew? But ah, few people get so lucky twice in a lifetime.

This all brought on by an interview with Rob Sheffield at BGB. (I was reading his book just one year ago.) Sheffield remains a mix-tape devotee: "This summer I got pulled out of the security line at LaGuardia because I had a Walkman in my bag. The guy was like, “What the hell is this?” They asked, Why do you have an ipod AND a cassette player? I started to explain I just like listening to “Beggars Banquet” and “Let It Bleed” on tape better than on mp3—but fortunately they let me through."

Nation sweeping

Though I spoke disparagingly of trivia etc. in a review yesterday, I wish to contradict myself today. (I try to contradict myself at least daily, in order that I never actually form such a dangerous thing as an "opinion"). I do find Wikipedia infinitely valuable in my day-to-day life, mainly whenever I am in search of pop-music miscellany (i.e. what is a hoople or whatever happened to Kris Kross). Triviality and pop-music do seem to suit one another, which is not to say that pop-music is trivial, but isn't that sort of its very point?

Anyway, the moral of all this is that I love Britain. And what I love most about Britain is the way in which it can be swept. See, I'm from Canada, whose area is more than 9 million square kilometres, and nothing ever sweeps our nation. It's hard to sweep six time zones, after all. So then to contemplate Britain whose national grid experiences power surges after pivotal episodes of Corrie or EastEnders, as everybody and his auntie puts the kettle on for a cup of tea. I don't know; the UK can claim disunity, but all nationalism aside, its citizens are more together than they ever give themselves credit for (and someone Welsh will probably slug me for saying that, but...). 17.9 million people tuning in to find out who killed Phil? 17.9 million cups of tea? Though we've got at least 17.9 million people in Canada, I really doubt that all of them have ever even been awake at the same time.

But I digress. This time of year Britain is being swept by Christmas Number One fever. (People will tell you that they don't care, and they won't want to care, but fact is they do). The front runner is thought to be a terrible cover by the winner of a pop-idol type show whose winners have captured the Number One for the last two years, though competition is coming on strong by a grassroots effort called "We're All Going to Die", or a song by something called "Shaun the Sheep", and (now that downloads count) old favourites "Fairy Tale of New York" and "All I Want For Christmas Is You". I'm rooting for anyone but Souljah Boy. Complete list of UK Christmas Number Ones conveniently compiled here.

The fever rose today, however, as the nation became incensed about BBC Radio 1's decision to censor the lyrics to The Pogues' wonderful Fairy Tale of New York. The BBC received so many complaints about this, the decision was reversed early this evening. Rightly so, I think (and particularly if that ghastly Souljah Boy fellow gets to sing about doing repulsive things to "ho's" in his gratingly forgettable track). And this little bit of publicity could well help "Fairy Tale of New York" get to number one-- wouldn't that be grand? Particularly, of course, as it only got to Number Two at Christmas 1987, when it was beat out by the Pet Shop Boys' "Always On My Mind".

Library Page

Okay, I don't know that it's my favourite song but I am very impressed that Guelph band The BarMitzvah Brothers have a song called "Library Page". Which is, naturally, about the plight of the library page.

"I first saw this job in grade ten, I really wanted it then."

Very officially

It's very offically autumn. I know this not because of the food we eat, for we've been in squash-mania since September. No, I know it because today I turned up "Do They Know It's Christmas" and danced around my living room. People were staring from the sidewalk. I love that song, and mostly because it reminds me of being five years-old. Though I know now that that things do grow in Africa, that in fact rain and rivers actually flow, that a lot of people do know it's Christmas, and probably a whole lot more don't care if they do. I also know that trans-Atlantic concerts will fail to change the world, but I love that song anyway. From December 1st I play it so often no one dares to come over to my house, and in October I am allowed 1 (one) sneak preview. Today was the day.

It's also very officially autumn, for I have a new knitting project on the go, thanks to a trip to the wool shop yesterday with Erin. I am seven rows into this cardigan. Having a pair of socks under my belt, it's time to make something with sleeves, I think. No doubt it will turn out terribly wonky, but at this point I still am permitted hope. I also have knitting needles with sparkles, which were very cool and tres on sale.