Pod: self-contained unit

Cast: to throw something (so as to cause it to spread over an area)

Over the past two years, I guess I’ve become a podcast junkie. Though I’m a consumer and not a producer of them, podcasts have connected me to the world, so I feel a little less like a self-contained unit. I rely on them: to educate and entertain me; to broaden my horizons by introducing new ideas; to make me think (for a change, right?).

Whenever I wander around town — on the mountain, to the grocery store, to a friend’s house — I listen, not to music but to these portable audio gems. Some may say I should experience and explore my immediate world rather than disconnecting from it, wandering zombie-like with headphones blocking out the traffic, the wind and the bird calls. I do that sometimes. I do pull the earbuds from my ears and hear the same sounds as before, except now they are subtly different. Because I’ve changed.

In the past month I’ve stretched my brain around Alberto Manguel’s wonderful words, and his passionate ideas about words, in the 2007 Massey Lectures (on CBC’s Best of Ideas podcast). Last week, on the BBC’s own Arts and Ideas podcast, I nodded (in agreement, not doziness!) listening to director Mike Figgis speak apocalyptically about the end of culture, and why it’s a bad thing that art (captured for a digital “eternity”) no longer deteriorates.

I heard from an amazing man who helped draft the progressive South African constitution. Later, I was introduced to the author of the His Dark Materials trilogy (incredibly, I hadn’t heard of it before!). Then I met a ninety-year-old who has just published his first novel, with McSweeney’s. (Mind you, he’s been writing all his life; 60 years ago he helped create Mr. Magoo.)

I listened to the brilliant Mark Kermode verbally spar with Simon Mayo, all while poking fun where fun ought to be poked (i.e. at some Hollywood tripe like Good Luck Chuck). Then I synced my steps to the smooth world groove mixes of Canyella (forgiving the fact that she pronounces her chosen Catalan “DJ name” incorrectly). Speaking of Spain (y hablando en español), I continued to hone my Spanish, thanks to Ben and Marina’s prolific Notes in Spanish series, which I’ve subscribed to since (before) it began. I enjoy the occasional photography podcast. And, of course, the daily nonsense of the Onion Radio News. Yes, it’s all a lot to get through each week, but since I only listen out of the house, while walking, it forces me to do a lot of walking!

My two favourite podcasts are actually radio shows that interview authors: CBC’s Words at Large with Eleanor Wachtel, and KCRW’s Bookworm with Michael Silverblatt. I have enjoyed more authors, and discovered more books, on these two programs than I can count. (Actually, so that’s a wee exaggeration since I can count pretty high, but you get the idea…) Ideas, too, is an inspiration.

So, a huge thank you to all those out there making witty, intelligent podcasts (and to those organizations providing their quality radio shows for download on the internet).

Dysphemism - We all know euphemisms, those quaint words or expressions we use to lighten up something unpleasant or crude. “I have to go tinkle.” “I feel like I’m about to toss my cookies. Go on, then, go feed the fish!” Well, dysphemisms are the opposite, where you “downgrade” an expression into something more crude or vulgar. They don’t have to be so rude they are unprintable; for example, I believe “bureaucrat” would be considered a dysphemism for a government employee (gives it a negative spin), “pencil pusher” for an office worker (is that all you do?), and “bean counter” for an accountant (rumour has it they can count other things!). Calling Winnipeg “Winterpeg” would also qualify. Dysphemisms can also be a bit ruder, like calling television the “glass nipple”. And they can be much worse. Just think about some of the “unofficial” military terms for food, washrooms, prisoners, dead people, etc. I won’t mention them here, but I’m sure you get the idea.

Politicians and their “spin doctors” (hmm, another dysphemism, this time for “speech writer”) have to be masters of the euphemism and dysphemism. Unfortunately, often so do biased journalists (er, I mean: hacks) and editors…so keep an eye on your local “rag” for loaded words that pack more punch than just their literal definition.

My Montreal neighbourhood (the Plateau) will host the first ever Zen Poetry Festival, from March 16 to 18. From their site:

Poets, translators, story-tellers, scholars, musicians, and Zen monks will come together to explore how Zen embraces a paradoxical relationship with language – a relationship which has strongly influenced both Asian and North American poetry movements.

I guess this would mean, in part, Haiku. And so, I offer you this:

Early Morning Grey (it doesn’t) Matter

by El Jardinero Zurdo, June 11, 2006

This confused morning, I eat a sad mosquito
and watch a tree fluff trying to mate with
one of its kind: suspect it’s life.
Pathetic, funny at times, but grey. That’s my banana.

This sad morning, I suspect a tree fluff
and eat one of my kind — trying to watch
life mate with my banana.
Funny, grey at times, but confused. That’s a pathetic mosquito.

This pathetic morning, I mate with one of my kind
and suspect life of trying to eat
my banana. Watch — a funny mosquito?
Grey, confused at times, but sad. (That’s a tree fluff.)

This funny morning, I watch life
and mate with my banana trying to suspect
a grey mosquito. Eat a tree fluff.
Confused, sad at times, but pathetic. That’s one of a kind!

This grey morning, I eat my banana
and watch a confused mosquito trying to mate with
a tree fluff — suspects it’s one of its kind.
Sad, pathetic at times, but funny. That’s life.

Something I didn’t know: Liberal party leadership hopeful Michael Ignatieff is a Booker-nominated novelist! CBC.ca Arts has an interesting article on politicians who write.

But…surely there are many more than the five they mention in the article! What about the prolific Peruvian writer Mario Vargas Llosa, who ran for President of Peru? His opponents read racy excerpts of his works to try to scandalize the voting public (and apparently it worked). Or the last President of Czechoslovakia first President of the Czech Republic, Václav Havel?

The 8th “Blue Metropolis Bleu” Montréal International Literary Festival is on, from April 5 to 9. I got a bunch of tickets to various readings, lectures, panels. It’s a great (if short) festival; apparently the only multilingual literary festival in the world. We’re not just talking (and reading) English and French, but also Spanish and — this year — Italian and Russian!

Yesterday I went to see Cuban-born Spanish writer José Carlos Somoza give a reading and talk (en español). He is a psychiatrist (thus writing for the pleasure of it and presumably not for the money ;-) so you can be sure he has some interesting observations on the human mind. I’d already been intrigued by his book Clara y la Penumbra (English version: The Art of Murder), so I took this opportunity to buy it. And yes, I’d decided to fork out the $18 for the book even before he sweet-talked me — he asked how long I’d lived in Spain(!) after hearing my accent.

Today I’m off to see a session called La rue Fabre, le centre de l’univers, about the Plateau Mont-Royal, Montréal’s “mythical literary location”. There’s not much detail in the description, but I assume it’s in reference to Michel Tremblay’s Chroniques du Plateau Mont-Royal characters, whose “universe” revolved around this street. Later I’ll attend a panel that looks intriguing: Metrópolis Azul: Desplazamiento, migración, literatura, which asks a panel of 5 Spanish-language authors: ¿Cuáles son los desafíos para el escritor que vive y trabaja en otra cultura y otro país? (What challenges face the writer who lives in another culture and country?) Among the panelists is the great Spanish-born poet Tomás Segovia. Because of the Spanish Civil War, his family left Spain and he lived much of his life in exile. He greatly influenced culture and literature in his adopted country of Mexico.

Tomorrow I’ll attend an interview with Michel Tremblay (Montréal’s “greatest living writer” and winner of this year’s Blue Met Grand Prix award), and later a reading by Tomás Segovia. Then more on Sunday.

You see, Montréal can be intellectual…uh, sometimes…

I like the idea of those “daily creative thingy” sites, where the author/artist creates an image, comic, or something every day. (It’s the idea I like, as I said — you’re not likely to catch me doing it!) It’s quite a commitment, and I think the trick is to stop doing it when (if) it becomes a chore.

A few examples (my hat’s off to them…or maybe it’s only off because the nice weather has finally come to Montréal):

• Boring 3D (click on Archive). Was creating a 3D image (with strange/funny caption) daily for a few years, now is less frequent.
• toothpaste for dinner. Simple drawings with simple text.
• Married to the sea. Done by the same person as “toothpaste”(?), but it’s a completely different (and very funny!) idea.
• Truly silly (in a fun way), the guy at Aural Times (temporary mirror site) sings a news story (or should I say a new news story?) every two or three days.
• DailyScribble Sketchblog from a collective of “sketchers”…
• …and of course on the commercial side, publishing a new “creative thing” every day is nothing new!

Then there’s a slew of similar things, where an image, word (or something) is highlighted each day.

• Astronomy Picture of the Day, or the more general NASA Image of the Day.
• Earth Science Picture of the Day.
• Even good old Wikipedia has its own Picture of the day.
• National Geographic POD.
• Foto del día from an artist’s collective (based in Chile).
• Or get “Interesting Photos” from the last seven days on Flickr — a seemingly endless supply (just keep hitting “reload”!).
• More of a verbal person than visual? How about the Merriam-Webster Word of the Day (of another from Dictionary.com)? Perhaps a Quotation of the Day?
• What happened on This Day in History? (por ejemplo: Pope John Paul II died a year ago today)
• Want some humour (that is, if you consider puns to be humour)?
• Prefer a poem?

Even if you yourself aren’t doing something “per day”, these things can provide plenty of inspiration for your own creative projects, whenever you do do them!

P.S. Of course, most people share their “daily creative thingies” using blogging software, you don’t need to. You can just author normal HTML pages and use something simple and cool like RSSPECT to syndicate your work!

Each week I listen to a number of podcasts (which ones?). I do my listening as I walk the mean streets of Montréal, trolling for a funky café to sit and read in, or write, or watch people, or scald the roof of my mouth with a chai latté. As I wander, I scowl at people and antisocially listen to my iRiver which has been lovingly prepped up with said podcasts.

On my regular listening roster, there isn’t normally a lot of humour — most of my podcasts are to do with writing, writers, Spain or Spanish (still haven’t found any podcasts on spanners). But today one of those “boring writing podcasts” had me chortling out loud and smiling like a lunatic as I strolled and dodged around harried mothers pushing strollers and hairy old men grumbling at harried mothers pushing strollers.

What was so funny (besides all that hair and strolling)? It was a rare Bookcast from Powells.com. Most of the episode (starting from about four and a half minutes in) featured writer John Hodgman — who I had not heard of before — presenting the areas of his expertise, live. And unlike many authors doing readings, he was a great performer. It’s hilarious, give it a listen. But that’s just my opinion, and I love all things made-up. Well, almost all things — I’m not so big on Kiss.

Once again, I thought I’d constrain myself by randomly picking a noun, an adjective and a verb (I won’t tell you which ones because that would spoil the fun) and also by forcing myself to use exactly 400 words (roughly one printed page) in a little rapid-fire fiction. If I can make a story out of it, all the better, but if it just ends up being a scene… Well, that’s fine too. Here’s we go!

Valentine Advice

by El Jardinero Zurdo, February 15, 2006

   “What’s cooking, handsome?” said Louiqa from the hallway. Syd grunted. Intrusions are persistent, he thought. He was chopping celery — the heavy steel cleaver metered out a satisfying tap-tap-tap. There were six bowls on the counter, arranged in a row and filled with evenly sliced vegetables. Objects are organized spatially.
   “Look at me!” said Louiqa. She stomped her bare foot on the threshold between the warm hardwood hall and the cold ceramic kitchen. The loose panel made a sharp clack and Syd started.
   He slammed down the cleaver. “Do you actually want me to cut myself? Do you…” He looked up. “Oh.” She was in a red negligee with stockings and a garter. Skin is naked, he thought, females have milk glands. “Oh…”
   “Forget it.” She flicked her fingernails — freshly painted fire truck red — against the fridge. “Too late.” Then she turned and left, giving Syd a fleeting look at her g-string. Play involves rules. Her footsteps creaked down the hall. “You need to fix that floorboard,” she called back, “I coulda cut my foot.”
   “Lou, I…” Syd considered abandoning his celery and going after her, but when he heard the bedroom door slam he decided to let her cool off. Consider whether it can be measured quantitatively. He opened the cupboard and lifted down a bowl. He placed it on the scale and when the red numbers stabilized, he pressed Zero. Satisfied with 000g, he scooped green crescents from the cutting board and dumped them in the bowl. 187g. He cut more slices, adding one at a time until he had precisely 200g. Now he could start cooking.
   When he reached for the wok, he heard sobbing. He held his breath but the sobbing continued. He knew he had to act. This — the unpredictability, the lack of rules — was the worst part of living together. If a positive decision cannot be made quickly, rules are not obviously being followed. Obviously not. Syd placed the wok on the unlit stove. He was trying to think what that article had said. He should go and read it now, refresh his memory. Couldn’t, it was in the bedroom. With Louiqa.
   Syd sighed, untied his apron and hung it on its hook. He plodded down the hall toward the bedroom, silently mouthing: Is attention directed to the play partner? Attention includes watching, listening, touching and so on. Good advice.

Once again, I thought I’d constrain myself by randomly picking a noun, an adjective and a verb (I won’t tell you which ones because that would spoil the fun) and also by forcing myself to use exactly 400 words (roughly one printed page) in a little rapid-fire fiction. If I can make a story out of it, all the better, but if it just ends up being a scene… Well, that’s fine too. Here’s the second one!

I Dreamed of an End to the Nightmares

by El Jardinero Zurdo, January 16, 2006

   Fred was the cause of my Technicolor childhood nightmares. He wore brown corduroy pants and ugly turquoise sweaters his mother knitted. They added menacing amorphous bulk to his more-than-sufficient silhouette. Why, I wanted to ask her — what is it about turquoise? Don’t you realize this colour enrages your son? We imagined her as a mad scientist, experimenting with mood-altering colours, excessive heat and persistent itchiness. Transforming Fred into a monster. The sweaters were knitted in a thick woollen yarn that pilled and frayed easily. It gave us terrific sweater burn when Fred coiled his arms around our necks. His armpits smelled oily, humid, sour. The smell of turquoise sweaters. On a good day we might struggle out of a headlock, but never out of his tyranny. We’d return from recess with hot red cheeks and ears, and the teacher would scowl at us — at us!
   I’m sure today they’d cry: “abuse!” and call in Fred’s parents. If we passed by the office we might finally see his mother, with her lab coat and Bride of Frankenstein hair. They’d expel Fred, or send him to a special school: a jail-school for bullies where the walls were painted in sick colours, like turquoise. Or they’d have mirrors everywhere, like a dance studio. The bullies would learn to face their own sweaters.
   If their reforms were successful, Fred would be released back into the normal world. He’d be intelligent and inquisitive, dressed in comfortable clothing. What is it about turquoise? he’d ask his mother (without our prompting). She’d explain something banal about bridesmaids’ dresses or birthdays in December. He’d laugh and — newly articulate and sensitive — explain to his mother that while he appreciated turquoise held happy connections for her, he’d rather wear a t-shirt, like other kids. Because he was thoughtful, he might promise to wear a sweater for a few hours when they were together, just him and his mother. That would make her happy.
   When Fred returned to our school, we’d avoid him at first, cringing when he passed by. He’d be dressed differently but his size would still be intimidating. He’d come over, smiling, to where we were playing and say: Hey, you guys, give me a chance. Then he’d tell us about the discussion with his mother. Oh! we’d say, laughing and relieved. We always wanted to know what it was with her and turquoise.