Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
A piece in the Guardian made light of Yukon signs that advise residents to social distance by keeping one caribou apart or, in the absence of caribou, four ravens. Ah, those crazy Canucks! If you read to the end of the article, you’ll note some standard Toronto measures, too. Keep one hockey stick apart or,…
The latest instalment in my pandemic reading list speaks to all arts organization who find themselves in a state of limbo: Station Eleven, by Emily St. John Mandel.
I hate the thought of spending good money on a new lens and not using it. So, instead of stalking wildlife in Toronto’s ravines, I’ve played Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window, propping my gear on a tripod and waiting to see what happens in neighbouring buildings.
Douglas Coupland announced that his pet dog had died of Covid-19. I was a reporter at the presser and smirked when he started to cry. Other reporters scowled at me and accused me of being heartless and insensitive.
William had been brooding about it ever since he saw that tabloid photo of Harry holding the sleek phone to his ear. Now that he was off to America, Harry seemed to get all the good toys.
Let’s bust up this concrete lockdown and hurry back to going nowhere.
Already, we engage in public conversations about returning to normal life. More than 350 years ago, the people of London learned a hard lesson which screams to us down the centuries: do not do this!
I wonder how we will return to normal. Will we allow our children to play freely? Or will we regulate public play? Maybe the state won’t need to regulate childhood interactions. Maybe it will be enough for anxious parents to hover on the edges of our playgrounds.
Moon of the Crusted Snow, by Waubgeshig Rice (ECW press) came to my attention with the life-imitates-art story on the CBC of a Quebec couple who drove to Whitehorse then flew from there to Old Crow, the Yukon’s northernmost community.
The more someone like Trump points at China and Wuhan and wet markets, the more inclined I am to suspect that he’s trying to play us. It’s more of the same: sow confusion, ratchet public discourse into screaming matches, distract us from his acts of personal enrichment.
I went to work and my boss told me I’d have to start working from home. I said I was happy to go along with the new rules, but I did have one question: how do spies work from home?
Garth Kaminski ascended to the throne on May 7th, 2019, the day on which the lead story on all the major television networks declared that Josh Hannon had died and on which the top trending Twitter hashtag was #worldsfattestman.
Every year, personal autonomy in the arts suffocates a little more as corporate interests suck more oxygen out of the creative atmosphere.
This time, what renders the novel dystopian is that it “imagines” America—or at least the heart of Detroit—as a post-industrial wasteland. I put the word “imagines” in quotation marks because, at this point in time, Matt Bell could write reportage instead of fiction and end up with the same book.
I wonder if there is such a thing as a literature of self-isolation. I suppose there is if I say there is. All I have to do is find examples and thread them together in some coherent account.