20 Years After December 6

Hello, friends. Sorry about the absence. Between the mom's visit and an office Christmas party, I was either acting too much like a teen, or drunk like a teen, to do too much blogging. Even the book covers thing didn't get done. I've had a lot of things on my mind lately, from the banal (Christmas presents) to the tragic (the 20th anniversary of the Polytechnique massacre.) A great prof posted this video:

Reframing the Montréal Massacre from Maureen Bradley on Vimeo.

I had started watching it earlier in the day, after reading this Babylon, PQ editorial. I was intrigued by the photo Jamie O'Meara described and the controversy behind it. I wanted to see it for myself, so I could decide whether it was moving or just grotesque. Oddly enough, this video critiquing its placement on the front page the morning after the massacre also appears to be the only place you can see the photo online.

I started watching it, and while I agreed with what she was saying about Barbara Frum's line of questioning, I couldn't agree with her on the McInnis photo. Partly, it's because I'm generally disposed to think that a society should be assaulted with graphic depictions of the violence it's played a part in.

And it's also because, on a human level, it's such a revealing photograph. I doubt taking down the holiday decorations would have helped the police in their investigation. Instead, they probably just couldn't stand the cruel contrast between the banner and the bodies they were dealing with. That's the emotional level, there's also the social one. If this had been a photo of domestic violence instead, they probably would have left them for the cleanup crew to deal with. That they wanted to change the space show just how much this was a public massacre and mourning, from the location in a school to the vigils, and how its interpretation would be negotiated in that area.

So I was annoyed that she kept on going back to the photo, cropping out the newspaper and even the rest of the photo even as she decries its graphic and pointless nature. She's trading on the same visceral, gut reaction that she accuses the paper of exploiting and it's feels, well disingenuous. It also removes the context that most of the people would have been receiving this image as part of a news story. Still, it's an interesting video that reminds us, if a little flatly, how media frames stories and manages our reactions.

Never Forget: Geneviève Bergeron, Hélène Colgan, Nathalie Croteau, Barbara Daigneault, Anne-Marie Edward, Maud Haviernick, Maryse Laganière, Maryse Leclair, Anne-Marie Lemay, Sonia Pelletier, Michèle Richard, Annie St-Arneault, Annie Turcotte, Barbara Klucznik-Widajewicz.

A Love Letter, A Little Too Late

My roommate's cat in Stitch Niche yarn.

For the past week or so, I've been trying to ignore the fact that my favourite knitting store is about to close down. Which is easy enough to do when I'm a few hours away, and can keep myself busy with school and work. Or when I can convince myself that Frankie will somehow find a way to keep it going. But I have to accept that it's going soon, and before it does, I want everyone to read me get all mushy, so they can know how much the Stitch Niche meant to me. You see, it saved my life. When I dropped out of school second year and needed to pull my life from the brink- and maybe kill some stash at the same time, if that wasn't asking too much- Frankie's kept me going. Every week I would show up, pretend I was happy and normal with the other women, and knit a little more. Another block would be added to Leo's baby blanket. Another pattern repeat to Katie's socks. And in between all of the stitches, I didn't have to pretend as much anymore. I might not have become happy or normal, but I was a little more so. Enough to get by on, to get to the next week, until I had made it through a four months and could pass for a functional human being. Sure, it wasn't just the Stitch Niche- stores as places of mystical transformation work better in books than in real life. Real life is messy, and has to deal with counselling sessions, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, repeats of Canadian Idol and other petty grievances. But it, and all of the women there, meant a lot to me. They meant safety.

Before this, I never really understood why people got upset when stores or businesses closed. To me, they were just places, and the public shiva over Sam the Record Man or CBGB struck me as excessive. I thought those people were just substituting something that could be bought for communities that had to be earned, the kind that grow up around beloved parks and dignified churches. I was wrong. If we buy things to fill a need, than why can't the places where we buy mean the same to us as that church? Especially if they maybe, finally, begin to fill that need? Even if they don't, maybe it's just the residual nostalgia that makes us sad, for when happiness was something that could be purchased with legal tender. I don't know. Trying to quantify it just makes me sigh irritably.

And, anyway, my sadness is only a part of this. There's everyone who used to show up, and then there's Frankie. This place was her time, and her love, and her effort. And it was nothing but bad luck that she had to close it. I hope, if any one's reading this in Guelph, that you'll find time to visit it in the next few weeks, and to buy some pretty yarn as well. Alpaca doesn't quite take out the sting, but it's a good place to start. It was a great place. But Frankie will always be a great person.

The Facts of Life

Today was... not such a great day. I'm going to write things down in list form, because complete sentences just seem daunting right now. In parantheses, you will find the Protagitron Wellness Meter, describing my approximate level of emotional health, with matching colour schemes. Yes, I was inspired by those frightening terror alerts they broadcast in American airports. Crimson is the worst- a three valium day- and blue is the best. When I'm blue, I'm just high on life.

1. Job interview at 11:00 (-2)
2. I get the job*- in spite of nervousness and copious amounts of sweat. Yay! (58)
3. Presentation in class. Starts well in spite of nervousness and copious amount of sweat- a motif of the day (83)
4. Notice prof giving me the biggest wtf? look ever as she listens to my part (68)
5. Decide to stare her down. Advantage: Protagitron (78)
6. Go home to get blank check for job, food, rest (90)
7. See truly horrific photo of me posted on Facebook (68)
8. Descend into moodiness; phone parents (53)
9. FIND OUT MY GRANDFATHER DIED. (-47)
10. Still digesting news that my GRANDFATHER DIED, and I was calling my parents to bitch about my looks (-62)
11. Mood: very glum and tired- think of how sad my grandfather was for a large part of his life (-70)
12. Find out I will have to phone stupid telecom company (-75)
13. Can't even gather the energy to count out money for flour. (-77)
14. Decide that call can go to hell, or at least move to tomorrow (-67)
15. Cookie baking similarly postponed (-70)
16. Return to bookstore with employee forms (-65)
17. Proceed to make ass of self as I explain about the grandfather, babble on about family history, and look generally morose and distracted (-85)
18. Return home (-84)
19. Knock over drinking glass; break drinking glass (-87)
20. Call from Josh- argument over how to deal with politics in art raises spirit (-72)
21. Remember grandfather is dead (-92)
22. Call from Frances; spirits lifted with commiseration (-84)
23. Discover odd bug fiesta near ceiling light fixture- wtf? (-89)
24. Decide to go to bed, wait for life to begin anew tomorrow. (-85)

Maybe some other time, I'll write all about the background to this job, or why I have a phobia of telecom companies. I might even write about how my grandfather's death made me feel. Or not. This is hard, sometimes. And sleep is easy.