Just finished reading the book 1982 in time for the reading/signing by Jian Ghomeshi tonight at McNally’s. If you don’t know who Jian is, you should. He used to be in the folk rock band Moxy Früvous and is currently the host of Q, an arts and culture program on CBC Radio.

1982 is about Jian’s life growing up as the son of Iranian immigrant parents  in the mostly white neighbourhood of Thornhill, a suburb north of Toronto. As the title says, the book focuses specifically on 1982, the year Jian decided he wanted to be like David Bowie, the year he met the girl of his dreams and the year that ultimately set him off on a career as a musician, writer, producer, and radio and television host with stellar interview skills.

1982 has a fond place in my heart too. While Jian was in Grade 9 and starting high school, I was in Grade 10. It was the year I developed a crush on a boy that was so severe (unbeknownst to him) that I took to writing poetry about him and other things in my life. This ultimately resulted in the “publication” of Musings of a Mad Poet, a “book” with carefully typed pages housed in a binder with a hand-drawn cover.  Multiple copies were made at the request of my friends whose lives were also chronicled in some of the poems. I even sent my manuscript to a local printing company. I still have the nice sort of rejection letter someone in the company sent back. The well meaning employee informed me that the company wasn’t exactly in the business of publishing poetry books, so perhaps I should consider self-publishing, an idea back then that was somewhat ahead of its time. I find it funny now that as the staff supervisor for my school’s yearbook my first actual involvement in a published book was through that same local printer.

1982 was also the year I took the “Choices” career test in school that suggested I should pursue a career in writing. It was the year I decided to come out of my shell a bit,  allowing my English teacher to read my poetry assignments out loud in class. It was that year that I entered and won an honourable mention in the Manitoba Chapter’s Canadian Authors Association short story contest and got to attend a special reading of the top three stories (phew, dodged a bullet and didn’t have to read mine!). It was the year I had my Christmas story, The Red Scarf, read on CBC radio. It was the year I gave a speech I had written about UFOs in front of the entire school. In short it was essentially the year that anyone who previously didn’t know me that well because I was so quiet found out that I was a geek who liked to write.

It was also the year I decided I would enrol in the Creative Communications program at Red River College when I graduated. “Choices” advice aside I had already decided that I hadn’t lived long enough or seen enough tragedy to write the next great Canadian novel so while waiting I decided to pursue a career in journalism.

Like most Canadian teens my age, who were about to be introduced to video rock shows like Good Rockin’ Tonight, Video Hits and Much Music,  music was a big part of my life too. 92 Citi FM had a good enough range to reach my brother and I even way out in the country and our school bus driver let us listen to more popish songs on KY58 every day on the way to and from school. So, of course, my brother and I both had dreams of becoming rock stars too.

Unlike Jian, who actually started a band eventually, my attempts at becoming a rock star (Jian was more into New Wave) were limited to using my hair brush as a microphone and, with my brother, recording myself singing Hotel California into his new Sony combination radio/cassette recorder/player.  Later attempts at fitting into the music scene  included using blue hair spray to “punk” up my hair on weekend outings to watch punk bands with my cousin.

That’s why I found Jian’s recollection in 1982 of using purple eyeliner (to be fair he thought it was black) to glam up his New Wave look particularly touching. I’ll bet those kids wouldn’t have laughed if they would have known where Jian would end up.

You will enjoy this book if you grew up in the 80′s or know someone who did, you like 80′s music,  or, if you made it through the pain of a high school crush in the 80′s (or any decade for that matter). If you didn’t do any of these things you will still enjoy 1982. It was a good year and it’s a great book.

As I make my way past boys with skateboards tucked under their arms for the bus ride home, patio patrons lamenting their last outdoor latte of the season and river trail walkers returning to their cars, I momentarily get that panicked feeling I feel when I’m late or lost or both.

I’m here at the Forks for Voices of Oodena, a series of readings hosted by the Winnipeg International Writers Festival. The readings are to take place at the Oodena amphitheatre that should be here somewhere nestled into the base of a hill near the forks of the Assiniboine and Red Rivers. Oodena is a meeting place of ancient times. It is a meeting place of today, except that today I can’t seem to find it.

As I stumble from a graveled walkway onto the grass I hear a low murmur. Walking toward the sound I come upon a giant but thin sculptured metal horn, with one end pointing to the sky and the other pointing into a bowled out area at the base of the hill I am now standing on. Below is a stage and seating area surrounded by a low circle of brick walls that form the Oodena Celebration Circle.

Oodena Circle at The Forks.

I would like to write that a sudden sense of peace and calmness overcomes me but instead I feel self-conscious as I pick my way down the hill and past the outdoor stage already populated by the authors and organizers who are here to share their words with those assembled.

I make my way to the cement stairs at the back of the circle opposite the stage choosing a spot away from the rest of the crowd where I can sit and lean against a brick wall, a handrail above my head that I can use to pull myself up again from sitting when it is time to leave. I choose this spot complete with handrail because I anticipate that as the sun sets there will be a damp chill in the air that will settle into my bones making it difficult and awkward to get up when it’s time to leave.

I stretch out my legs onto the step in front of me, zip my coat up to my neck and cross my arms on my chest, adjusting my hands so both of them are tucked in and warm even though the chill I expected has yet to materialize.

The moderator makes her way to the microphone and explains that all of tonight’s writers have a connection to Manitoba and its history. She adds that not once in the history of these summer turned to fall annual readings has the show had to be moved indoors; something magical about this place keeps the cold and weather at bay.

As one by one the writers step up to the microphone and read out loud their stories, poems and observations, the sun sets, darkness comes and a two thirds moon rises above the stage.

Oodena Circle at night

The yellow lights inset into the rugged bricks that make up the skeletal form of the amphitheatre give Oodena a warm glow. Or maybe it is the words the writers utter that bring warmth to Oodena – words about a Norse trickster god and his journey with a man to Gimli, words about familiar bridges with unfamiliar background stories, words about ancestors, food, gardens, families, awakenings, and muddy water – the aboriginal meaning of this place we call home.

And when it is over, I easily push myself up from the ground that anchors me to this place, this time and the time before it… somehow lighter than before I came.

- A special thank you to Chadwick Ginther, France Adams, Sarah Klassen, Niigaanwewidam James Sinclair, and Rhea Tregebov for their words.

After just over a week on my new treadmill desk I am still treading and loving it. In fact I am walking as I write this.  To those who are familiar with my absent-minded nature, especially when I am concentrating on writing, you had no need to be concerned. I only fell off once. After my first tread walk I forgot the treadmill was still elevated and didn’t expect the long step down when getting off. I lost my balance but safely toppled onto the spare bed conveniently located beside my treadmill in my office/spare room.

Another time when I was engrossed in doing some layout work and walking at the same time I stepped left to reach something and found one of my feet dangling in thin air but I quickly just shifted it back onto the treadmill belt and never missed a beat.

Now my lack of serious injuries is likely also due to the speed I have been walking – - only 1 mph. Now that I am done doing layout work for a while and will be turning back to writing I plan to ramp up the speed (at least a little).

Another question I have been asked is about the noise level of the treadmill. There were a number of times I jumped on the treadmill Continue Reading »