I forgot to brush my hair this morning

So, if yesterday I couldn't button my sweater properly, today I forgot to brush my hair.  It's amazing how a new routine can mess up the details of my old routine; how could I forget to brush my hair?  It wasn't until the middle of this afternoon that I walked into the bathroom of my room and noticed the mess.

The morning had involved workshopping the writing of three different members, including me at the end.  The commentary and feedback were all helpful, and I learned that of the three short pieces I submitted and which we workshopped, the one that is the most fictional is the one that was best liked by the group.  David Carpenter asked me the following question:  What is it that, in your mind, makes these pieces creative non-fiction?  I had to come clean.  The real answer to his question, I told him, is that I've applied to come to Banff before, once for poetry, once for fiction. Not accepted either time.  So for this application I pulled three of the most non-fictional pieces from my short story collection and used them to apply for the non-fiction program.  Accepted.  So, I was outed.  But really, I wasn't fooling any of them anyway; they all "knew" that I was a fiction writer.  I maintain, however, that the three pieces I am working on this week are more non-fiction than fiction; crap-a-doodle, one of them is literally a transcript of something that really happened.  

Tonight I am "doing a reading".  Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday nights are "reading" nights.  I thought to read three poems but no, I've decided to read a REAL non-fiction piece about when I worked in High River and Calgary.   I only have 7 minutes to read, so that means I won't get the not as strong part of the narrative.  I spent this afternoon reading the piece out loud to myself so that I could edit for the oral experience and to ensure that I keep under the 7 minutes.  Eight others will be reading, including David Carpenter, and the readings will be a mix of poetry, non-fiction and children's literature.  

Is Banff really out there around me?  Occasionally I remember to look up as I move from building to building, but mostly I am writing, eating, editing, workshopping or sleeping.  Soon enough I'll be back home, or travelling somewhere else; maybe on my way out on the bus I'll look at Banff.

Nobody actually commented on my hair this morning, my hair not being brushed.  Maybe it didn't get messed up until the afternoon's rewrites, maybe I clutched chunks of hair in my hand and twisted them around until they knotted; I just don't remember.  

OOO la Library!

I can't remember the last time I was in a library that had books about music, art, drama, theatre, philosophy, literature, acting, comedy, dance...oh, yes, I remember, it was in Calgary, when a trip to the University of Calgary library was a day long affair, a dangerous incursion into places out of which I may not emerge, a playground of fun that wrapped its seductive tentacles around my ankles and kept me captive so that I missed classes, appointments, and the daycare closing time.  (Sorry Lorraine if my absentmindedness has led to some insecurity on your part.)

This library at the Banff Centre just gets right down to business, and I don't mean that there are copies of the Economist at the front entrance.  No, right there at the front, to the left, are thousands of classical music CD's just waiting to be listened to, and to the right, the literary and other arts journals.  It's a strange feeling because I'd forgotten, holed up as I've been in the provincial world of the two-year college in small town British Columbia where the trumpet call of the past few decades has been "training for jobs, jobs, jobs", I'd forgotten that there can be, that there are, places that forgo that particular linear and profitable obsession and actually embrace and support the world of the creative imagination.

I spent a good part of the afternoon reading about aesthetics.  I was actually looking for something about metaphor, but the closest I came to what I was looking for, and it's not actually quite good enough for my project, was this:  "metaphor may be thought of not as a way of revealing hidden truth but simply as a way of supplementing the other resources of language."  p. 263 of The Structure of Aesthetics, by Sparshott, 1963.  Not quite enough, but a good start.  What I'm trying to do is pull apart the function of metaphor, to find something that has been written, more recently than 1963, about how metaphor can help to enhance meaning and also about how it may obfuscate meaning.  I'm more interested in the latter, because I think enough has been said about the former.

While reading, I watched a thunderhead move towards the library where I was sitting on a comfortable chair surrounded by floor to ceiling windows.  I think the library may be my hangout for the next few days, with all that light and all those books and all that music.  And when I stumbled down the stairs, my knees still locked and stiff from sitting still for so long, I noticed that the buttons on my sweater were out of sync.  Sheesh.  I really don't care, you know?  I spent the afternoon in a library!  Who needs symmetry?

Breakfast & Other Mundane Details

This morning's shower revealed that yes, the bath towels here DO fit all the way around me and that they absorb water.  These are important details, especially given the one-size-fits-all spa gown that does not.  I discovered at breakfast that I'm going to have to watch myself here: with a swipe of my artist's card, I gain access to several varieties of bread and toasts, croissants, butter, jams, cream cheese, peach slices, orange segments, chopped pineapple, baked apples, yogourt, mixed fruit salad, hash browns, omelets, bacon, ham, coddled eggs, pancakes, waffles, syrup, gluten-free muffins, and scrambled eggs.  I may have missed something, as I'm writing this from memory.  Obviously (or maybe not so) I didn't try everything, or I would be sleeping right now and not writing; I tried to limit myself to the healthier things like the fruit, yogourt and bacon.  Associating bacon with health is a complex mental trick that I engage in that allows me to continue to eat it.

A day at the Banff School of Fine Arts, Writing with Style program, looks like this:  breakfast 7:30 to 9:30; morning workshop session from 9:30 - 12; 1:30 on, consultations with faculty/individual writing time; 7:30 to 9:30, Faculty and Participant Readings.  Well, a few things are different on some days, such as tonight, when there is an orientation evening at dinner time, and Wednesday night, which is "free".  On Thursday at noon there is a group photo shoot, and on Saturday night, a farewell reception.

And the smoke has cleared somewhat

Oh why do all these writers have to be such interesting people?  How will I ever get to work surrounded by all this?

There's smoke in the air

The Banff air is full of smoke, but that doesn't reduce my enthusiasm and excitement about being here.  This is truly a fantastic place, and as always, my abstract belief about where I am going is very different from where I end up.  I have a beautiful room with a king size bed, two spa robes (one-size-fits-all, which of course won't fit me, but they look nice freshly laundered with their arms tucked inside the robe and held down by the belt),  clean white towels, and an ironing board (?) which I will never use, but it's a nice touch nevertheless.  Oh, and a TV.  A coffeemaker.  A lamp.  A telephone.

I just went to get my artist's ID card and to do so had to go to the Sally Borden Building.  Surprisingly, my photograph didn't turn out so badly, at least not as badly as every passport photo I've ever had taken, and every driver's license photo.  I wonder if I get to keep it.

Behind the spot where I sat to have my picture taken is a pool.  Oh, and a weightroom.   There is a climbing gym, indoor running track, squash court, whirl pool, steam rooms...and if I want I can get a massage, physio, a fitness assessment, personal training, yoga and pilates classes....much of this included in the price of admission (well, not the massage, physio, fitness assessment, but still, I wasn't planning to do any of that anyway)...

My artist's ID card is my passport to everything here that's free for me.  So I went to get a sandwich in the Sally Borden Building as soon as I had my ID card created, and a bottle of Perrier.  An hour later I've had my dijon mustard and sparkling water and I'm ready for a nap.