Rain and the meaning of happiness
Jun. 3rd, 2003 12:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vaneramosSaturday afternoon I went on a quick road trip to Toronto with Duncan. He had to pick up his new glasses from an optician downtown.
I met his sister "Shelley" for the first time. She is a lesbian and lives with her partner in the ghetto. They both do hair and makeup for the theatre companies.
Duncan and his sister are from an evangelical Christian family. They have two homophobic parents and another homophobic sister who live in a different province. Shelley came out as a teenager. I don't know the details of that event, but it caused an uproar. Now a couple decades later Duncan is coming out but doesn't plan on telling the rest of his family. Shelley has been one of his mainstays.
I didn't meet her partner, who was working on Saturday.
I had to borrow a yellow plastic raincoat. We walked through the Village in incessant rain.
Last time I went to Toronto with Jon I said hello to six acquaintances in three blocks between the parking lot and Zelda's. Saturday the streets were busy, but I didn't see anyone I knew all afternoon. The Village is unpredictable like that.
Duncan's glasses weren't ready, so it was a wasted trip. But we sat in a pub and ordered lunch. Shelley is going through dental surgery so her voice was muffled. I could barely hear her talking to Duncan over the hiss of rain on the awning overhead, so I just watched water pouring off the edge beyond the patio.
I had pasta alfredo with salmon and asparagus. It was delicious.
After lunch we stopped at Church Street's remarkable little bookstore, This Ain't The Rosedale Library. I wanted to get a back issue of The Advocate so I could read![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lfkbear's cover story, but they didn't have any left.
Duncan had to get home for his evening performance, so we stopped briefly at Shelley's then headed home.
We had some interesting discussions in the car. Duncan can't understand why I called my writing process excruciating. He said when he writes something he puts himself in a positive frame of mind.
"It's wonderful to be able to do something creative," he said. "Why are you complaining about it?"
"I'm not complaining," I said. "I'm just saying how it feels. Writing a book is like being pregnant. It's not always pleasant. I'm motivated by the outcome."
Then he started talking about the difference between happiness and joy. It's the sort of debate evangelical Christians have all the time. As if by choosing the right word and defining it properly, you can control your feelings. I tried to engage him in this discussion, but eventually got lost in the words.
To me as a poet definitions are fuzzy. I play with words. Sometimes I use them for something entirely different from their intended purpose. Words not only communicate precise ideas, they also evoke feelings and images. A clear sky reflecting off the surface of ripples becomes lightning. I salivate over words like glimmer, verdant and numinous. I might use joy in a poem because it has one syllable and sounds like a little girl jumping in the grass, not because it means something different from happiness.
Once I used the word interstice in a poem. Later I saw it used in a way that made me question its exact meaning. But it sounds good in the poem, so I'm not going to change it. Sometimes I'm more interested in how words sound than what they mean, so shoot me.
I met his sister "Shelley" for the first time. She is a lesbian and lives with her partner in the ghetto. They both do hair and makeup for the theatre companies.
Duncan and his sister are from an evangelical Christian family. They have two homophobic parents and another homophobic sister who live in a different province. Shelley came out as a teenager. I don't know the details of that event, but it caused an uproar. Now a couple decades later Duncan is coming out but doesn't plan on telling the rest of his family. Shelley has been one of his mainstays.
I didn't meet her partner, who was working on Saturday.
I had to borrow a yellow plastic raincoat. We walked through the Village in incessant rain.
Last time I went to Toronto with Jon I said hello to six acquaintances in three blocks between the parking lot and Zelda's. Saturday the streets were busy, but I didn't see anyone I knew all afternoon. The Village is unpredictable like that.
Duncan's glasses weren't ready, so it was a wasted trip. But we sat in a pub and ordered lunch. Shelley is going through dental surgery so her voice was muffled. I could barely hear her talking to Duncan over the hiss of rain on the awning overhead, so I just watched water pouring off the edge beyond the patio.
I had pasta alfredo with salmon and asparagus. It was delicious.
After lunch we stopped at Church Street's remarkable little bookstore, This Ain't The Rosedale Library. I wanted to get a back issue of The Advocate so I could read
lfkbear's cover story, but they didn't have any left.Duncan had to get home for his evening performance, so we stopped briefly at Shelley's then headed home.
We had some interesting discussions in the car. Duncan can't understand why I called my writing process excruciating. He said when he writes something he puts himself in a positive frame of mind.
"It's wonderful to be able to do something creative," he said. "Why are you complaining about it?"
"I'm not complaining," I said. "I'm just saying how it feels. Writing a book is like being pregnant. It's not always pleasant. I'm motivated by the outcome."
Then he started talking about the difference between happiness and joy. It's the sort of debate evangelical Christians have all the time. As if by choosing the right word and defining it properly, you can control your feelings. I tried to engage him in this discussion, but eventually got lost in the words.
To me as a poet definitions are fuzzy. I play with words. Sometimes I use them for something entirely different from their intended purpose. Words not only communicate precise ideas, they also evoke feelings and images. A clear sky reflecting off the surface of ripples becomes lightning. I salivate over words like glimmer, verdant and numinous. I might use joy in a poem because it has one syllable and sounds like a little girl jumping in the grass, not because it means something different from happiness.
Once I used the word interstice in a poem. Later I saw it used in a way that made me question its exact meaning. But it sounds good in the poem, so I'm not going to change it. Sometimes I'm more interested in how words sound than what they mean, so shoot me.
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no subject
Date: 2003-06-03 01:56 pm (UTC)Hm. Or my Dad, poor guy. Or many (though certainly not all) of the libertarians I've met, to circle back to an earlier post.
no subject
Date: 2003-06-03 02:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-06-03 09:44 pm (UTC)I just love that.:) Beautiful entry overall! accompanied by lovely photo. Another book I'm enamored of that you might like: H2O: The Beauty and Mystery of Water. BEEEAAAUUTiful photographs...I'm using it as inspiration for some artworks I'm doing with layers of translucent resin.
no subject
Date: 2003-06-04 06:25 am (UTC)