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You're a freak show just like me.
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montrealais: Margaret Atwood is cranky and fabulous.
What's the idea here? That arts jobs should not exist because artists are naughty and might not vote for Mr. Harper? That Canadians ought not to make money from the wicked arts, but only from virtuous oil? That artists don't all live in one constituency, so who cares? Or is it that the majority of those arts jobs are located in Ontario and Quebec, and Mr. Harper is peeved at those provinces, and wants to increase his ongoing gutting of Ontario - $20-billion a year of Ontario taxpayers' money going out, a dribble grudgingly allowed back in - and spank Quebec for being so disobedient as not to appreciate his magnificence? He likes punishing, so maybe the arts-squashing is part of that: Whack the Heartland.
Or is it even worse? Every budding dictatorship begins by muzzling the artists, because they're a mouthy lot and they don't line up and salute very easily. Of course, you can always get some tame artists to design the uniforms and flags and the documentary about you, and so forth - the only kind of art you might need - but individual voices must be silenced, because there shall be only One Voice: Our Master's Voice. Maybe that's why Mr. Harper began by shutting down funding for our artists abroad. He didn't like the competition for media space.
MARGARET ATWOOD STOP MAKING ME LOVE YOU. STOP IT RIGHT NOW.
(Just kidding, never stop.)
I just finished a book by Patrick O'Leary called The Gift, and it was the most intense, engrossing read I've had in a long while. It's kind of a fantasy, but it's not like any other fantasy I've read- sad and sharp and funny and horrifying and beautiful and painful, like all the best fairy tales distilled. It's a book about stories, and the danger of power, and the redemption of love. The kind of book that makes you feel refreshed and excited just because it exists. I'm glad I read it.
(Especially after A Song For Arbonne. I have never eyerolled so hard at a book before. Women are tender delicate nurturing moonbeams who must gentle their menfolk! You can tell that evil people are evil because they enjoy oral sex! "AMUSING" IS THE ONLY ADJECTIVE IN THE WORLD! Fuck you, Guy Gavriel Kay. Fuck. You.)
I discovered yesterday that Patrick Wolf's The Magic Position is the best album to listen to at night on the bus, when it's starting to rain and the streetlights have just turned on. (That sounds laughably specific, I know, but it's not really.)
Then, when I got home, I discovered this present from my mother on my bed:
Gosh, Mum, what are you trying to say exactly? YOU ARE BEING TOO SUBTLE. I DON'T UNDERSTAND.
montrealais: Margaret Atwood is cranky and fabulous.What's the idea here? That arts jobs should not exist because artists are naughty and might not vote for Mr. Harper? That Canadians ought not to make money from the wicked arts, but only from virtuous oil? That artists don't all live in one constituency, so who cares? Or is it that the majority of those arts jobs are located in Ontario and Quebec, and Mr. Harper is peeved at those provinces, and wants to increase his ongoing gutting of Ontario - $20-billion a year of Ontario taxpayers' money going out, a dribble grudgingly allowed back in - and spank Quebec for being so disobedient as not to appreciate his magnificence? He likes punishing, so maybe the arts-squashing is part of that: Whack the Heartland.
Or is it even worse? Every budding dictatorship begins by muzzling the artists, because they're a mouthy lot and they don't line up and salute very easily. Of course, you can always get some tame artists to design the uniforms and flags and the documentary about you, and so forth - the only kind of art you might need - but individual voices must be silenced, because there shall be only One Voice: Our Master's Voice. Maybe that's why Mr. Harper began by shutting down funding for our artists abroad. He didn't like the competition for media space.
MARGARET ATWOOD STOP MAKING ME LOVE YOU. STOP IT RIGHT NOW.
(Just kidding, never stop.)
I just finished a book by Patrick O'Leary called The Gift, and it was the most intense, engrossing read I've had in a long while. It's kind of a fantasy, but it's not like any other fantasy I've read- sad and sharp and funny and horrifying and beautiful and painful, like all the best fairy tales distilled. It's a book about stories, and the danger of power, and the redemption of love. The kind of book that makes you feel refreshed and excited just because it exists. I'm glad I read it.
(Especially after A Song For Arbonne. I have never eyerolled so hard at a book before. Women are tender delicate nurturing moonbeams who must gentle their menfolk! You can tell that evil people are evil because they enjoy oral sex! "AMUSING" IS THE ONLY ADJECTIVE IN THE WORLD! Fuck you, Guy Gavriel Kay. Fuck. You.)
I discovered yesterday that Patrick Wolf's The Magic Position is the best album to listen to at night on the bus, when it's starting to rain and the streetlights have just turned on. (That sounds laughably specific, I know, but it's not really.)
Then, when I got home, I discovered this present from my mother on my bed:
Gosh, Mum, what are you trying to say exactly? YOU ARE BEING TOO SUBTLE. I DON'T UNDERSTAND.
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*sigh* The way things are going in federal politics, eventually I'll be writing to you from jail.
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(Maybe we'll be cellmates! I call top bunk.)
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Sounds like a plan.
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p.s. I officially hate Catherine Parr Trail and Susana moodie
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P.S.: Are they the pioneer women who wrote stuff like, "Dear diary: Today I was bitten by a mosquito. The goats were sad"?
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Ughhhhh, classist pioneer ladies. :((((
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DID YOU WATCH THE OFFICE TONIGHT??????
DID YOU DID YOU DID YOU??
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Does everyone not know that well-known fact??!
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