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MY TYPE
Wednesday Nov. 9, 2011
column written/ published from my residence in Cranston (SE Calgary) near the Bow River valley
Morning walk: -8C/17F, bright clear pre-dawn sky gave way to glorious sunrise – my type of day, and Gusta offered no complaints as we circled the soccer and ball fields while school buses cruised by.
Some people are just not my type but I have difficulty describing just what that means.
What defines your type? Does this puzzle you too?
Do you have a type? I believe we all do, but it is difficult to define – until I meet someone I conclude is ‘not my type’.
Then I know! That serves, until I encounter someone completely different and find myself saying ‘not my type’ again – which makes me wonder how I could possibly define someone who is not my type. And what differentiates them from someone who is?
Last night I found an amusing and slightly disturbing contrast – a Canadian jazz singer Molly Johnson of considerable acclaim, performing and, while being interviewed between songs, admitting she neither typed or drove. Ludicrous. Not my type.
Just a few hours later, watching the Giller prize (congrats to Calgary born winner Esi Edugyan) awards (for non-Canadians, you should know this is the premier annual award for Canadian fiction), and so thrilled to listen to the interviews of those extraordinary authors who not only drive, they type too! I am sure that if I met a wide range of writers there would be some I wouldn’t like very much, but I expect I’d find them all to be ‘my type’.
Just a short while ago, it was dark here (metaphor intended).
Before daylight arrives, when turning on lights is too bright a start, the led lights of devices and glow of the computer screen are plenty to open my pupils. After a while, after a cup or two of coffee, a newspaper – then it is time to open myself to the world.
While many folks who are blind or visually impaired find their joys in other ways, a huge one for me is the revelation of the day that comes with the first look outside.
I can think, read and write without that view, but I don’t feel much until I let the light in, can’t do much worth doing without letting the out come in, even when it is still inky-dark outside. Window blinds, blindfolds or blindness – prevent us from seeing what is there, out there . . . or over there.
Sad/sorry to learn friend/muse/curmudgeon extraordinaire Larry Solway is having a bad go and hospital stay … wishing him happier days at home soon and being-well times to type. Get well soon Larry. You’re definitely my type Larry! (you can leave a greeting for Larry on his blog: http://larrysolway.blogspot.com/ )
I’m always fascinated when writers describe their writing as something that allows them to think. Of putting words, feelings and idea strands together in stringy bits on a page enables thought rather than just reciting it, because that is so like how it works for me.
Mark Kolke
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Comments Received:
FARMER
My grandfather was a farmer all his life and homesteaded near Standard . He died in the fields at 88 . All he cared about was farming, AN, Calgary, AB
For the last couple of weeks I have been trapped, My only source an endless series of news stories all starting to sound the same. You have to have done it to discover utter bored-o: the Greeks are up the Greeks are down and we are ready to pass over to the next basket case: Italy, where the profligate government pays six and a half percent for money to run things. Canada spends 2.3 percent for its debt. Enough said. The Berlusconi factor is no more. The hedonistic and corrupt man who has run Italy for the past 16 years is leaving. I'm writing this only to touch base with all my blog readers. I very nearly died from cancerous lungs and am still languishing in PMH where if my luck holds, they will be sending me home, where I can cuddle up to the trap of my own TV. I hope to survive. If not. It's been good, LS, Toronto, ON
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