Monty Python Live

I’m liking these new “sent by satellite from Britain” things in the movie theatres. I saw War Horse some months ago and today I got to see Monty Python Live (or mostly).
I’ve loved the Pythons since I was a wee bairn, back when I was shocked and vaguely titillated by their sexy humour (all very naughty schoolboy, nudge, nudge) and didn’t understand a bunch of it, not having had the wide education the Pythons had.
They’re not everyone’s taste, but the theatre full of people of all ages were helplessly laughing along with me as the troupe went through their paces. They’ve brought so much to my own personal culture, I feel awash with gratitude just seeing them, let alone watching them fix up their skits for yet another on-stage show.
I want to hug them all. Crusty as some of them seem with each other at this point, they are part of my family memory – watching with my dad in our upstairs den, laughing and quoting endlessly. I learned the philosopher’s names from them, saw great works of literature mocked (“Salad Days”), heard about the Spanish Inquisition (I didn’t expect that)(but then…no one expects the Spanish Inquisition!)
Terry Gilliam’s animations still make me laugh, the strange juxtapositions, the gleeful old man feet when the baby carriage ate the old ladies…
Eric Idle’s songs have always been a delight, from “isn’t it great to have a penis”, (which was updated for this show to include female parts and the generic ass) to the universe song (which was sung here by Stephen Hawking, no less), to Finland, to Always Look on the bright Side of Life. Eric seemed to be having great fun in this production, along with Terry and Michael – in fact only John looked unhappy about everything and uncomfortable and unwell. I call them by their first names because they are almost friends, so much a part of my being I can (but I won’t) quote most of their skits off by heart.
As with so many things, a lady is someone who CAN do these things, but doesn’t.
I’m beginning to feel old, though. Most people don’t know about the Pythons these days. Hardly anyone remembers how the Catholic Church freaked out over Life of Brian – my mother forbade me to go so of course I went…
The other day I tried to describe a pelvic tilt by saying it was like the pelvic thrust in the Time Warp in Rocky Horror, and everyone under fifty stared at me in utter confusion.
And the death of James Garner today is being mourned on Facebook by people who remember watching it with their mothers (I did, too)…another fixture of my life growing up that my kids have no knowledge of.

Well, at least they know about Monty Python and Rocky Horror, to their everlasting psychic damage. Of that I am proud.

But a little lonely. I went by myself to the theatre today because no one in my current circles is as mad as I am about the Pythons. I’d put the requirement in my next personal ad but am afraid I’d get one of the ungentlemanly types who would do the parrot sketch at inappropriate moments. I need someone who would share my appreciation, maybe sing the songs with me on a uke accompaniment, and then share a laugh at their brilliance. Brilliant they were, brilliant they are. Thank you, you mad set of Brits. And one American….

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott

41yP7zqWI8L._BO2,204,203,200_PIsitb-sticker-arrow-click,TopRight,35,-76_AA300_SH20_OU15_I know I am by no means the first to cheer this wonderful book about writing and life and joy and jealousy and competitiveness and outgrowing that and love and loss. It’s one of the MUST READ books in any writer’s (or person’s) collection.

But I had it out last night for some inspiration and came across the lines below and they made me laugh out loud. She’s commenting about how she takes index cards with her everywhere to note down things since she (like me and many of us) forgets them unless she does. I know I travel with piles of little notebooks to write down little phrases and such. (I hear you can also do it on Evernote but my battery runs down with astonishing regularity and there’s nothing to beat a pencil and paper in the rain.) She’s figured out how to fold the cards and her pencil so she doesn’t look bulky, even.

But here’s what she says about this need to write things down:

I think that if you have the kind of mind that retains important and creative thoughts – that is, if your mind still works – you’re very lucky and you should not be surprised if the rest of us do not want to be around you. I actually have one writer friend - whom I think I will probably be getting rid of soon – who said to me recently that if you don’t remember it when you get home, it probably wasn’t that important. And I felt eight years old again, with something important to say that had suddenly hopped down one of the rabbit holes in my mind…

Emphasis mine. How wonderfully witchy of her!

That’s the thing about writing. Because no one really KNOWS how it’s done, we’re all out here in the wilderness stumbling along, and the slightest little thing can make us feel eight again and hushed up again and told to stop that talking and shouldn’t you be doing something constructive? again.

Reading Anne Lamott brings me back. I may be only eight with little to say, but at least I have a friend here, and perhaps we can play with our word blocks together.

Come join us, if you haven’t already. Anne Lamott also writes great books on faith and life and so forth – depending on your religious stance, these may or may not be for you – but in all things she comes across as a gal I’d love to have a lemonade with and laugh til our stomachs ached.

And then we’d write. And write. And write.

Reading “Why I read”, by Wendy Lesser

9780374289201Don’t you just love it when you open a fresh new book and, especially if you are the very first one to get it from the library and it has that scent of new adventure all over it, and you turn to the first page and realize the author is a friend you just haven’t met yet?

I’m on page EIGHT, for heaven’s sake and already I see the rest of the day before me, curled up with Ms. Lesser and a cup of tea and wallowing in her excellent writing and wisdom.

She starts off addressing the readers of her book, something she says she’s not done before, as usually she writes what she writes and hopes people like it at the end (apparently they do, judging from her publication list). This time is different, she says:

But with this book – perhaps because it so often contemplates the very relationship between writer and reader, speaker and spoken to in the works of literature I have loved – I find myself wondering about who you are? Are you a young person…, or are you an older person…? Do you come from a background similar to mine, or are we completely unlike in all sorts of ways? I would hope that the answer might be “all of the above”, and perhaps it can be, for the written word, at least as embodied in the English language, allows “you” to be both singular and plural. It’s not only the writer who can say, with Walt Whitman, “I am large, I contain multitudes”. That truth applies to readers as well. (p.8)

I think I may just take my multitudes for a gentle stroll through this book for an hour or two before I start my writing day. I can already see tea with Ms. Lesser is going to be interesting, comfortable, and stimulating. How I love meeting a new literary friend!

The end of an era

ImageThere’s something terrifically sad about the end of a generation, that moment when the last of a set of siblings pass away and you realize, with shock, that there is no one left who truly remembers your parents as kids and you forgot or were too busy or wrapped in your own details to ASK about them, to get the info, to spend the moments with your loved ones.

My dear uncle Laurence passed away this week. I say my dear, not because I knew him well, because I didn’t – but I knew him a bit and extrapolated from what I knew of him and what I knew of the rest of my dad’s family and my gosh I wish I’d sat down with him for hours and picked his brains about his life and the others’.

It was a remarkable and unremarkable family, tested with illness and some separations (most sadly, my family’s separation from the clan over time), but tied together with love and humour and a sense of family that is, to my experience, truly exceptional. I’m envious of the other Brown families – they are close together and supportive for the most part, and we didn’t manage that to the same degree.

The boys served in the war, the one girl became a nun, but a nun with a wicked sense of humour who couldn’t be restrained there forever, and left in her middle years to share her spirit and enthusiasms in a wider realm. The boys must’ve been a handful for my grandmother, a woman given to small smiles that hid an outpouring of love for them all. They interfered with their dad’s radio opera mornings, they played tricks on each other, they told each other jokes. John, one of my very faves, actually told dirty jokes to my mother’s brother, a priest, and managed to reduce him to helpless giggles. He introduced me to “Elvira, Mistress of the Dark”. I’ve never recovered. Jim i barely knew, but I remember him calling my dad when he was sick with cancer, and telling him jokes until my dad could barely breathe. George I met in England, a wonderful, big hearted man. Every single one of these Brown families has, without hesitation, welcomed me and my siblings with open arms any time we appeared.

That’s not common in families, at least in my experience. They are truly loving people. I want to be like them.

Uncle Laurence, handsome enough to be on screen, given to a roguish twinkle in his eyes even when I visited him nearly two years ago – he raised a family of gentle loving girls. There are photos of him dressed to the nines, others of him with some disgusting trick goo dangling out of his nose (which reminds me so of my dad, tossing fake vomit out in front of my Cousin Grace, or feeding my Grandmother Warner and Aunt Annie grasshopper chips and then showing them the bag after they’d eaten a bunch.)

They were all capable to being funny without being cruel, of getting away with foolishness in the best way. I think they made the world a vastly better place. 

I’ve posted a photo by my sister, Margaret Gagnon, to go with this post, to give form to the family in a way. When we were in Florida one time, we came across a pack of laughing gulls like these that would hang around if you threw them Cheerios. They’re called that because their cry sounds like they are laughing. My dad was delighted. He’d recently found a book of Henny Youngman jokes and kept telling them to us to no reaction. You know, the “take my wife…please” sort of jokes. When he saw those gulls he figured, hey – the perfect audience – finally someone will laugh! So we threw up some Cheerios, gathered a crowd of the gulls, and he started talking. The gulls stopped laughing, completely. They were dead silent.

My dad did get a laugh that time – my sister and brothers were rolling on the grass, laughing at the gull’s response.

This family, god love ‘em. I just know they are cracking up the crowds in heaven. Be prepared for rain – tears of hilarity…

I miss them all. Love to Uncle Laurence’s family, particularly, as they cope with this huge loss of a wonderful man. xoxoxo

June 2014

dorothyanneb:

a lot of my faves, and me of course, in here…

Originally posted on Open Heart Forgery:

View Issue

Vol. 5, No. 3

Writers:

Erica Allanach
Dorothyanne Brown
Richard Collins
Tim Covell
Joan Dawson
John de Moss
Cathy Hanrahan
Jim Hoyle
Charlie Keeler
C. A. Lamond
Erica Lewis
Catherine A. MacKenzie
Shallon MacKenzie
David R. MacLean
Lindsay MacNeil
Lorie Ann Morris
Dyrell Nelligan
Elzy Taramangalam
Wendy Watkinson
Robin Young

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Freaking Out!

Gawd. I am losing it, and so, apparently, is the rest of the world. Everyone is fighting one another, my sodding firstFH9J-born is still not speaking to me with extreme prejudice, journalists are being kidnapped and women everywhere are being killed and raped and abused and by golly jinkums, I am just about ready to lose it and go postal on the entire place. And don’t get me started on the mess that is this Canadian government, else I shall shoot coffee out of my nose and burn you with the effluent.

It’s hard being cheerful in such a world. I find it almost impossible. Why just the other day I thought, quite seriously, about driving my car into a tree. What’s it all FOR, anyway? We don’t seem to be progressing, we dwell in hatred and anger and the urge (ever larger) to cling to the almighty penny rather than share a wee bit with anyone else.

What the hell is wrong with us all.

Oh yeah, and I’m writing crap. For my course. Which means I will have to send it to someone I respect and feel her frustration and watch the edits mount up online. Which of course is the worst thing of all the above…

Just kidding. The world sucketh anon. But if it weren’t for people like Helen Humphreys and Roald Dahl and Christopher Moore and Terry Pratchett and Stella Gibbons and Bronwyn Wallace and Norton Juster and A.A.Milne and Edward Gorey and Jose Saramago and Donna Morrissey and PG Wodehouse and Nancy Mitford and Kermit, it would sucketh more, much much more.

And so off I toil, in the hope that somewhere in all this random verbiage, a flicker of magic may occur that makes some of this soul-sucking world make sense, even for a moment.