When the show started, my 7 year old daughter was determined to videotape all of it with my digital photo camera, using the video function. She stood like a stick for almost an hour, and then the card was full. (Note to self: the kid needs a video camera and a tripod.) But the show wasn't over. I reviewed the photos on the camera and sacrificed a few snapshots of the baby, reduced the resolution to 5mgp, and ended up with enough space for 26 photos.
I gave the camera to my husband. "We only have 26 pictures left," I said. At that time I remembered the (not so) good old days, when a roll of film had 24 shots, maybe 26, if there was a bonus. We'd buy a roll of film for an entire trip to Niagara Falls, for example. But sitting there, watching the circus, I felt that 26 shots wasn't really enough.
Here are some of the photos, but of course, they can't convey the magnificent performance that we were lucky to witness. I could've cropped them more, but I wanted to show some of the audience as well. Two groups performed together in a a joint, superbly choreographed performance--the Igloolik circus, and the French Canadian group (I have to look up their name.)
I love the humour of the show (Notice a sign "Nunavut in 50 years" in one of the photos), as well as the incredible acrobatics. The last photo is of throat singing, and initially both singers were singing upside down. But by the end of the show the baby of the singer on the left (yes, there's a baby in the amautik!!!) fell asleep.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Too much daylight
The midnight sun of Iqaluit has been interfering with my natural writing rhythm. Everyone (meaning the kids) go to bed really late, and I end having little or no uninterrupted night-writing time. This is very frustrating, yet, on the other hand, being here is so magical and unique, that I shouldn’t be complaining.
I’ve been absorbing everything, feeling everything, experiencing it to the fullest. The writing time will come when there’s less sunlight, more opportunities to find quiet moments. But I also would like to allow myself to spend less time on my writing. Often, when I don’t have an hour or two, I tell myself that anything less won’t allow me to focus, and would be a waste of time. But this is just being lazy. True, I can’t revise unless I have at least an hour, but I can certainly write flash. I need to print this out and tape it to the wall above my laptop—“when in doubt, when pressed for time, write a flash.”
Alianait, the cultural festival is in town, and it has been fantastic. I loved the intimate workshops, where musicians would play for a room of 5-6 people and talk about their craft. My four year old son approached one of the singers, looked up at him with his big puppy eyes, and said, “I love you. I love you very much.” Yeas, he was that impressed. Contrast this with another performance which he attended listening to his sister’s ipod, making a sixty-something guitarist (performer and teacher) quite self-conscious.
I’ve been absorbing everything, feeling everything, experiencing it to the fullest. The writing time will come when there’s less sunlight, more opportunities to find quiet moments. But I also would like to allow myself to spend less time on my writing. Often, when I don’t have an hour or two, I tell myself that anything less won’t allow me to focus, and would be a waste of time. But this is just being lazy. True, I can’t revise unless I have at least an hour, but I can certainly write flash. I need to print this out and tape it to the wall above my laptop—“when in doubt, when pressed for time, write a flash.”
Alianait, the cultural festival is in town, and it has been fantastic. I loved the intimate workshops, where musicians would play for a room of 5-6 people and talk about their craft. My four year old son approached one of the singers, looked up at him with his big puppy eyes, and said, “I love you. I love you very much.” Yeas, he was that impressed. Contrast this with another performance which he attended listening to his sister’s ipod, making a sixty-something guitarist (performer and teacher) quite self-conscious.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Stepping back
Stepping back from my novel wasn’t easy, but it happened naturally, as I got involved with my other writing projects. The result? Amazing clarity.
Stepping back when my newly seven year old daughter writes a blog? Creative spelling and all, and calls me Any? Well, I’m exercising amazing self-restrain. It is her blog, and if she wants to blog about not getting any sleep because of her baby sister crying the entire night, well, that’s her blog.
Yesterday, her blog had more hits than mine. Creative spelling and all.
Several times in the last week I contemplated mentioning to her how certain words are spelled, or gently showing them to her in context. But I know better than that. I know she’s learning in her own pace and her obvious enthusiasm about blogging is more important than spelling. She’s aware of discrepancies, but she’s also content with the way she spells. I’m beyond content. Frankly, I’m thrilled. She’s blogging in English; still writing her novel (yes, about Unicorns) in Russian, and dreams about translating it and then selling to the targeted audience of Halifax children. Her marketing plan is better than mine as well.
Now, about that crying baby. I’ve participated in on-line discussions about parents blogging about their young children, without their consent. I never felt my wrong doings so sharply as in the moment when she blogged about the baby crying all night. It was 2 minutes, 2mintues! I wanted to tell her. Yes, it coincided with you waking up, but it was 10AM already!
Yeah, right. Her blog. Her world. My blog. My world. I won’t be blogging much about her anymore. I will try not to. But moms find their kids too adorable not to blog about. Irresistible topics.
If I stick to writing about my writing on this blog, I need a new header, a new title. Maybe.
Stepping back when my newly seven year old daughter writes a blog? Creative spelling and all, and calls me Any? Well, I’m exercising amazing self-restrain. It is her blog, and if she wants to blog about not getting any sleep because of her baby sister crying the entire night, well, that’s her blog.
Yesterday, her blog had more hits than mine. Creative spelling and all.
Several times in the last week I contemplated mentioning to her how certain words are spelled, or gently showing them to her in context. But I know better than that. I know she’s learning in her own pace and her obvious enthusiasm about blogging is more important than spelling. She’s aware of discrepancies, but she’s also content with the way she spells. I’m beyond content. Frankly, I’m thrilled. She’s blogging in English; still writing her novel (yes, about Unicorns) in Russian, and dreams about translating it and then selling to the targeted audience of Halifax children. Her marketing plan is better than mine as well.
Now, about that crying baby. I’ve participated in on-line discussions about parents blogging about their young children, without their consent. I never felt my wrong doings so sharply as in the moment when she blogged about the baby crying all night. It was 2 minutes, 2mintues! I wanted to tell her. Yes, it coincided with you waking up, but it was 10AM already!
Yeah, right. Her blog. Her world. My blog. My world. I won’t be blogging much about her anymore. I will try not to. But moms find their kids too adorable not to blog about. Irresistible topics.
If I stick to writing about my writing on this blog, I need a new header, a new title. Maybe.
Monday, June 15, 2009
For Every Year
Dark, disturbing, and wickedly playful--check out Cami Park's Queen Isabella Eats a Pineapple and Misses the Jews in For Every Year Project.
Flawless writing that makes you uncomfortable and yet you want it to never end.
Flawless writing that makes you uncomfortable and yet you want it to never end.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Riding on the Night Train
I haven't been motivated to post lately. I keep thinking that in the last years I haven't grown as a writer, haven't accomplished much. I'm not sure if this is true, as I've been focused on my novel, and there wasn't the almost immediate gratification of flash fiction (both writing it, submitting, and getting pieces accepted.) I'm re-reading my novel and making more changes.
This time I'm finally distant enough from my writing, and I'm able to actually read it, rather than simply remember it. I think I've done a really good job with it. (Is this normal to be impressed with one's own writing?)This might sound like I'm contradicting my first paragraph here, but I still feel that I could've written this very same novel three years ago, hence the issue of "growing." Is it really happening? Silently and invisibly? Or am I stagnating? I simply don't know. Only time will show.
Another issue that has been bothering me is this: What if in my efforts to remain positive about my writing and not to get too affected by rejections, I'm creating an illusion that my writing is better than it actually is? How do I find the right balance? I started this post to shout about my new / old piece in Night Train, and ended up whining about my lack of progress. This is the story with the words penis and vagina in the opening lines. How's that for a hook? I wrote it 3 years ago, when we just arrived to Iqaluit. Read it here!
This time I'm finally distant enough from my writing, and I'm able to actually read it, rather than simply remember it. I think I've done a really good job with it. (Is this normal to be impressed with one's own writing?)This might sound like I'm contradicting my first paragraph here, but I still feel that I could've written this very same novel three years ago, hence the issue of "growing." Is it really happening? Silently and invisibly? Or am I stagnating? I simply don't know. Only time will show.
Another issue that has been bothering me is this: What if in my efforts to remain positive about my writing and not to get too affected by rejections, I'm creating an illusion that my writing is better than it actually is? How do I find the right balance? I started this post to shout about my new / old piece in Night Train, and ended up whining about my lack of progress. This is the story with the words penis and vagina in the opening lines. How's that for a hook? I wrote it 3 years ago, when we just arrived to Iqaluit. Read it here!
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