Frozen shoulder

Meg’s shoulder is frozen. That’s what they call the old injury which now limits the movement in her right shoulder. She fell while skiing two years ago, but didn’t complain about the pain until recently. When the shoulder started hurting, she finally went to a physiotherapist and now is undergoing sessions twice a week to un-freeze the rigid joint. There’s quite a bit of pain involved, while she does her stretching exercises. It’s difficult to watch her suffer -- she’s like a bird with an injured wing, trying to take flight anyway. But, after a month of physio, some results are showing -- her “wing” is closer to the full span she used to have.

Throwing words in the wind

I’m listening to a pretty interesting audiobook on my runs. It’s “The Man From Beijing” by Henning Mankell. Only about a third into the story, but it’s quite gripping already. Mankell is another fascinating Swedish writer -- after the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo series by Stieg Larsson, I wonder what is it with Sweden to produce such good mystery writers. Maybe it’s the long winter with not much to do that gets the imagination going?

In the book one of the characters, a Chinese man, writes a book of his life. He’s going through a rough period in life -- in fact, his whole life is rough and full of misfortunes -- and, when he starts writing, everyone in his family is dead. He wonders who is he writing the memoir for. Then he realizes that it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he writes it, then, if no one else wants to listen, he’ll tell his story to the wind. He will find the way to make the wind listen and carry his words.

I wonder if that is the winning formula, the right attitude to write? Without caring if anyone will ever read it. Just throw the words into the whirl of pixels, the digital version of the wind, to carry them far and wide. Maybe, one day, someone will find them and care enough to read. Maybe not. But the satisfaction of pouring one’s life into words will live with the author.

Is this what I’m doing here, on the pages of this blog?

Censored: First Twain, now Dire Straits!

In the previous blog I ranted about the political correctness that is being forced on us in many spheres of social life. In the meantime another thing happened which made me alarmed and sad in equal measure.

Based on a complaint by a single listener in Newfoundland, the Canadian Broadcast Standards Council (CBSC) banned a popular song, “Money for Nothing” by Dire Straits from being aired on radio stations in Canada. The reason for complaint was that the song contained the word “faggot,” which the listener found offensive. You can read more about this incident in the National Post.

The song was recorded in 1985. It took the merry (or should I say gay?) listener 25 years to be offended by it. More likely, the complainer found himself bored out of his wits (providing he is in possession of such a thing as wit) when the song played on the radio, so he made the complaint. To be honest, although I find his action completely senseless and dim-witted, I can’t blame the guy for being, for the lack of better word, plain stupid. What is really alarming and frightening is the action of CBSC. Who gave THEM the right to decide how we should listen our music and what music that should be? It’s also insulting to find out that the Council deems all Canadians incapable of recognizing sarcasm -- the word “faggot” was clearly used as sarcasm in the song. Isn’t it the same as calling the whole nation stupid and unable to think their own thoughts? With each of this thought-policing incidents I keep asking myself -- do I really want to bring up a child in such an environment? I better start looking for a place where one can think freely, and speak freely too. Sadly, neither the States, nor Canada seem to be that place any longer.

Mark Twain’s “nigger” becomes “slave” in the act of political correctness (or stupidity)

I can’t help to ask the question: When does political correctness become a sheer stupidity? Or, maybe I should ask if there is a difference between the two at all?

The latest example, as nicely described in THIS ARTICLE, is the re-writing of the classic masterpiece, Mark Twain’s “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.” For the sake of correctness, in the new edition, which is to be released by NewSouth Books, the word “nigger” is replaced by the word “slave.” Granted, The New Yorker magazine writes about it in a politically correct manner, but the essence is the same - some idiots in charge of the reprinting of the Twain’s well-known classic, decided that the word “nigger” has become too offensive for some readers. I used the politically challenging word “idiots,” which some may find offensive, but it is done in effort to find the strongest and most descriptive word to define them, which could be widely used by all who care about literature, literacy and state of mind of the average reader.

Being an immigrant and as such not offended by it, I asked the opinion of co-workers in the newsroom, and all of them confirmed that, yes, they find “nigger” a very offensive word. Yet, this is the word used at the time Mark Twain penned Huckleberry Finn, and, who knows, maybe the old master intentionally used such racially highly-charged word to put the emphasis on some characters. To my racially-ignorant opinion, it can be an insult only if it’s directed to someone. The word may have a negative connotation, but if used in a literary piece as a way to express the language of the time, it must be permitted. We should not be afraid of words, and we should stop underestimating reader’s ability to differentiate between an insult and a literary expression.

That brings me to my regular pet peeve -- the authorities nowadays are trying way too hard to be correct. As a result, we lost Christmas Holidays to Holidays Season, Christmas Tree to Holiday Tree (a couple of years ago by a decree from Toronto City Council, which was reversed the following year after the outcry from - check this! - Muslim and other religious communities in town), black people became African-American or African-Canadian, etc. Next on the list, I guess, are Indians, Pakistanis and Bangladeshis, which should officially become South-Asian-Canadians (replace “Canadian” with “American” where applicable), and for the sake of distinction, Asian people we should start calling North-Asian-Canadians. Since, as a European, I don’t like to be bunched into the same sack with the Germans, French and Brits, I’d prefer to be called Mediterranean-Canadian. On the second thought, I don’t want to be mixed with Italians too, they have Mafia there, so, please, refer to me as a North-Adriatic-Canadian.

But, why can’t we all be just Canadians? When I moved to Canada about fifteen years ago, all I wanted is to blend in, to become Canadian, and not to worry about the fine religious and ethnic divisions back in the Balkans, which made me come here in first place. Little did I know that Canada is a country where everybody belongs to an ethnic clan, a country which hasn’t discovered its own identity (yet), and maybe never will. Even during the Vancouver Olympics, highly praised for bringing up the sense of national unity, an Asian-Canadian spectator interviewed on TV said that he first cheers for Korea, the country of his origin, then for Canada, although he lived here for the most of his life. Until people like him learn that home is where your feet are planted, where you live, work (and pay taxes), and where your kids go to school, until we all realize that Canada isn’t something we can exploit while calling ourselves anything but Canadians, there will be no such thing as a real Canadian. And, politically correct people will keep editing our daily language, afraid of every shadow and unable to call a spade a spade. What we can use here is a little less correctness, and much more of the real Canadian backbone.

Painting of a painter

After prolonged hiatus, the maestro has the brush in hand again. I couldn't resist to do a painting of my own, with a little help of Photoshop Express for iPhone.

Snowhenge

It was thirteen of them. They knew their days were numbered, not only because of the unpredictable weather, but also because number 13 is, well, number 13. People in Canada pretend there's no 13. In high-rises the 13th floor is skipped, the elevator goes from 12th to 14th floor. Thirteen is unlucky. And so, they were doomed from the beginning, because the creators made thirteen of them.

Then came the weather change, and the thirteen melted in unison, their liquids soaking the fertile grass of the Cornell Rouge playground. When the weather changed again freezing their remains, when the fresh snow fell and covered what was left, the somber circle stood on in the fiery sunset, the silent reminder of the thirteen snowmen of Cornell Rouge.

No more books

I don’t mean I’ll stop reading, nor will I slow down. I’m not even going to stop reviewing the books I’ve read. The thing is, I realize that almost a third of the blog posts in the past year were about the books. So, I decided to outsource my reviews to Goodreads.

I still may, from time to time, offer my unsolicited opinion about a book that impressed me in some way, but if you are curious what I’m reading, or find my reviews irresistible (OK, just joking), please check up my reviews on Goodreads. You can always travel there from the Goodreads widget at the right column of this blog.

Goodbye 2010

As the last strike of the clock pushes 2010 through the needle’s eye of time into history, as we pour the champagne and wish for the better 2011, in that instant we reflect on the year that has just passed. There’s a fleeting moment, a flash really, when we feel its aftertaste—bitter for some, sweet for the others. All good and bad of past 365 days mix together and the feeling at the pit of the stomach is the true reflection of the year that has been.

My one was, like the pork dish Meg likes, sweet and sour. Or, rather, sour and sweet. The sour taste coming from work, especially in the first half of the year: uncertainty, stress, gloom. Meg, unfortunately, had the same spice in her environment. It was a soured year.

On the personal plan, it was sweet. I learned—and hopefully Meg did, too—that work is only a part of life, not the whole of it. The rest I dedicated to running, reading and writing. Running brought the most rewards: the indescribable excitement of Boston and New York marathons, the biggest two in the world. Reading, in 2010, was also extremely rewarding. I stumbled across an unusual number of great books. As for writing, it was a stop and go process, with more stops than goes. I write a monthly column on nationalpost.com about running; I record a bi-weekly podcast on runcast.net about running. But I still haven’t completed stories I carry in me. I still haven’t found the voice to tell them.

Meg’s highlights are, surprisingly, my marathons too. She was my devoted cheerleader who soaked the atmosphere, the cheering crowds, the tired runners, the fun and excitement. She, in fact, liked it so much that she started running with me. Unfortunately, she is sidelined with a knee injury for the last few weeks, but I have a secret plan to get her back into running when the snows melt.

Her artistic side blossomed through the painting she started. It’s a meticulous, detailed work on a huge canvas, and her effort ebbs and flows in change to her interest in gardening, but somehow both, the garden and the painting, show progress. I dare not describe the painting, because the artist don’t like showing the canvas to the public until it’s complete.

After all is calculated, I could say that we had a modestly positive year. Lots of room for improvement, but also lot of areas to hide from stress. And, lots to wish for and expect from 2011.