That Which Grows

I'm not good with plants.   As with everything in my life, I'm an all or nothing person.  There's either a deluge of water or the Joad family might as well pack up and leave the dustbowl for greener pastures (note to the Joads---don't bet on California, it's not a sure thing).    In an effort to twart my cats and their bulimic behaviour, I took to purchasing realistic looking plastic bamboo .  In return, I was met with knocked over vases and consistantly teeth marked plastic grass.
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On the  other hand, my father had a touch.  His hands looked large and clumsy; his nails were often discoloured from having bourne the brunt of misaimed construction implements over the years.  His decades outside had turned his skin a dark brown and he was often mistaken for being First Nations.  A person wouldn't think that these hands could nurture  things the way he did, but at some point, it happened.
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I can't recall what inspired him to initially undertake it, but after the usual  vegetables, the banana trees came first.  Dad didn't have a computer, so he certainly didn't research it.  It was all instinct and it worked.  Somehow, a tiny shoot he'd  come into contact with, took root and grew.    Our winters aren't conducive to tropical fruit tree development, so he then built a small greenhouse in the backyard with some very thick plastic wrap.  A regular extension cord was dragged out there, an ordinary  heater was hooked up and some lights.  Voila....they grew and they thrived.
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I'm actually surprised we weren't raided, as the heating bill must have gone up and Hydro was on the look out for marijuana grow-operations.  I loved stepping into that greenhouse, as it had the smell that only falsely  humid places in cold weather has.   It's the same reason I enjoy Botanical Gardens in the dead of winter---false joy and hope.
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Dad would sit in his greenhouse with a radio playing.  He'd listen to talk shows, the sports and news.  He'd tend to his  plants and water them carefully.  Somehow, he had figured out a  soil balance.  He'd added to his menagerie  by chopping off the tops of pine-apples and they too were blooming.    Not only were the plants themselves managing to develop, but the fruit was edible.  They were shrunken down, dwarf versions.  However, they seemed  to contain all of the flavour and more.  Dad would offer up his wares with great pride and watch as we sampled them.
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My father passed away one November a few years ago.  It was then that I noticed a scent in the house, which became progressively stronger.   Seemingly out of nowhere and within the space of a few days, one of my plants had flowered.  I'd had this plant with me since living in an apartment and it hadn't grown an inch.  Now, there was a very odd looking flower whose aroma could be detected throughout the entire house.
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Some people would take it as a sign.  I'd like to believe.  It's not bloomed since.
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(The white stem and flower part grew within one or two weeks and then disappeared, never to be seen again.)

We All Quote the Man...

(Lytton Area)

Not all that far from where I live is a town called Lytton.  It turns out that the town is named after Edward G Bulwer-Lytton.  While the name may not be familiar today, we've all quoted the man.  He was a hugely popular novelist in the 1800's.  He was a dandy who influenced men's dress.  Because of him, it became fashionable to dress in black for fine affairs.
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Here are the phrases that were coined by Edward Bulwer-Lytton:
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---the pen is mightier than the sword
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---the great unwashed
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---pursuit of the almighty dollar
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Of course, who can forget, or forgive, the following:  "It was a dark and stormy night....?"  He penned the oft quoted and maligned opening line.  Who knows how many pulp fiction novels have been inspired as a result?
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Filth

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I saw Trainspotting twice when it first came out and laughed a little too hard at some parts.    It took some time for Filth to make its North American appearance, as it seemed to be having trouble getting distributed.  I ended up buying it via I-Tunes when it first became available.  I watched it again today.  It's one of those films that people either really get or they don't understand it at all.  The Scottish accent is difficult enough for some to follow, let alone the very dark humour.

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The trailer is more light hearted than the movie itself, for the actual premise is the coming apart of a person at that most festive and depressive times of the year.  Bruce, a detective, is up for a promotion.  He is superbly played by James McAvoy.  His machinations as he strives to get the upper hand will probably bring to mind at least somebody that we've met in our past---those people who pat you on the back with one hand and stab you with the other.  It would seem over the top if it weren't handled by such a good actor.

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"I used to be a good person," exclaims Bruce.  Can what was lost, be found?  There's a surprising twist in the film involving his marriage, and it ties into a murder case he's working on.    It's graphic and gruff and if one has a taste for things dark, it's a good film to watch.  There's a lot of sexual content, drug usage and violence----all of it by our man Bruce.

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In the midst of this, James McAvoy reveals a man who is actually lacerated by guilt.  There's a great original score by the ever talented Clint Mansell.

Scene / Seen (Rails and Steps)

Book Review: Half in Love: Surviving the Legacy of Suicide - A Memoir (Linda Gray Sexton)

I recently reread the book "Half in Love:  Surviving the Legacy of Suicide," by Linda Gray Sexton.  I had read her previous memoir as well as the compilation of her mother's letters,  which Linda had edited.   Linda Gray Sexton is the daughter of the acclaimed Pultizer Prize poet Anne Sexton.  On the surface, one would think that this memoir is an accounting of her coming to term's with Anne's suicide, but it is more than that. 
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Ms Sexton's family has a legacy of depression and suicide.  Anne Sexton's death,  hugging  her mother's old fur with the car running in the garage, is well known.  As was  Sylvia Plath, she was a confessional poet who detailed her struggles via the lyrical format.  Anne was not the only member of her generation and family who confronted such inner turmoil.  Linda Gray Sexton explores the sad madness of the maiden aunt, the alcoholism of her grand-parents and the suicide of another relative.  We now understand the genetic markers carried within our D.N.A.    When combined with the drama of being raised by people thus burdened with an illness, for that is what it is, there's an increased propensity for the legacy to carry on.
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"Half in Love" looks at how medications have increased our ability to deal with this sickness, even though people may not necessarily be any more open to talking about problems within the family.  Ms Sexton faced resistance when she disclosed that her book would be undertaking this exploration.  In fact, while her sister Joy is a nurse, she had little understanding or compassion for Linda's struggles.  Despite her education,  she had a bias that one should be able to pull it together to resolve and overcome such infirmaties.  Now, would be ever tell a person with cancer,  to do this?  We still have a ways to go.  The chasm between Joy and Linda was so deep that they did not speak for periods.  This is a hallmark of depression---when people most need help and should they actually try to speak of it to friends and family,  many are unwilling to hear or listen, let alone to assist. 
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This memoir looks at the difference in mental health treatment in Anne Sexton's time as compared to now.  She had a limited variety of drugs made available to her and these often had very negative side effects.  Furthermore, Anne was very likely misdiagnosed at the start as a mere depressive.   Only later in life was she called a "manic depressive," now known as bio-polar.  Were she alive today, the drugs and the treatment may have helped prolong her life and enabled her to continue with her productivity.  Anne Sexton detested the weight gain and sluggy slowness of Thorazine, as many creative people do.
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To add additional insult, Anne Sexton was labelled an hysteric when the darkness hit and she acted out.  Compare this to labels afixed to males---how many get called that word?  In fact, a male poet would be allowed the mood alteration, the drinking and, not being burdened by the task of house and home, would very likely have an easier go of it.
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Linda still had some dud therapists.  Ironically, the suicidal are seen as being too much work and may have a hard time getting a doctor to accept them as a patient.
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Ms Sexton explores how she inherited the disease and her struggle to maintain her own family without passing on the legacy.  I found that she also shared a history of migraines.  Unless people suffer from chronic pain, it is hard to comprehend how soul defeating it can be.  She is forthcoming about her utilization of self injury as a coping skill.  She does not shy away from the fact that she failed her sons on the days she couldn't get out of bed.  It is very honest.
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This is a good read for those who enjoy Anne Sexton's work, for those who have depression or bi-polar illness and for anybody who has an aquaintance with the disease.

Scene / Seen (An Ode to Hopper)

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A debt owed to Edward Hopper on this one.  It was an eerily familar view.



Happy Holidays to the U.S.

Happy Fourth of July to those in the United States.  Last fall we spent a few hours in Niagara Falls.  Here's a shot of the bridge which joins our two countries.  There's many places I would love to visit in the U.S. one day.  I have written in the past that as a kid in junior high I had the Sunday addition of  one of the New York papers delivered to my house.  I always wanted to go there.  Migraines have derailed much of my aspirations, including travel.  Yeah, there's the money too!  Nevertheless, it's a nation of incredible diversity and there's so much to explore.

Happy Canada Day