Oh no...

Jack Layton died.

I was so hoping this wasn't going to happen.

What a blow for Canada. He was the best we had.

Against the dying of the light...

commodorified has a good tribute to Jack Layton today. She quotes him:

My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.



Full text here as well.

I hope other Canadians will be moved to think the things Layton was thinking, and to say the things he was saying.

Stones fall down, stones get picked up...

I found this interesting: The Rebuilding of Stonehenge. I knew there's been restoration, but I didn't know it had been as extensive as this makes it seem. I suppose it's good for the tourist trade to make it seem as untouched and authentic as possible. On the other hand, I tend to take with a grain of salt any site called "ufos-aliens" and which seems to be about cosmic conspiracies. Not that I don't love X-Files as much as the next fan...

I also, of course, went for a look at Constable's picture.

It made me think of the things Zawi Hawas has done in Egypt. Of the things that need to be done to the Colosseum in Rome. Time takes it toll, of course - and sometimes archeologists move things around, like Schliemann at Troy.

Sewing again...

I did something today that I haven't done in years: I made myself a dress.

I got the pattern on July 10, when, having seen the medieval jousting, Pim and I decided to make medieval costumes. This isn't the costume pattern; it's burda 7701, the dress on the left, not the sari - it's basically a shawar suit with long sleeves. But, as I usually do. I changed the pattern and the look - I left off the scarf, and made the skirt longer, and changed he neckline. And it's only one fabric and colour, a sort of swirly blue cotton print.

I had borrowed Pim's grandmother's sewing machine, but hadn't got around to using it, and Pim was saying she wanted it back. I meant to give it to her last night, and forgot, so I decided to make the entire dress today. Which I did. I'm tired, but feeling most satisfied.

The Alcoholic...

One of my favourite kinds of comic books is the autobiographical graphic novel. There have been a number that I have loved: The Spiral Cage by Al Davison, about living with spina bifida; Melody by Sylvie Rancourt, about being a stripper in a Montreal; Barefoot Gen, about a boy living in Hiroshima during World War II; and the works of Harvey Pekar.

The Alcoholic isn't quite that, since author Jonathan Ames hasn't identified it at autobiography. Fiction, then, telling a very personal story in which the protagonist has the same name and profession as the author, and who is drawn by the artist, Dean Haspiel, to look remarkably like the author as well.

Published (rather surprisingly) by Vertigo, it's the story of an American boy, Jonathan, growing up in a middle-class family, going to high school, where he becomes a weekend binge drinker with his friend Sal. His parents die; he becomes a mystery writer; he becomes obsessed with a girl who doesn't want him but still strings him along; he goes into rehab and out again, and he never quite manages to sort himself out. He never has a sense of belonging; he never feels quite good enough. Unless he drinks, or does drugs. But then he always comes down again. And his life takes one weird turn after another.



The part I liked best, sad though it was, was his friendship with a boy named Sal. Sal was Jonathan's best and only friend during high school. One night when drunk, they had sex. The next day, Jonathan was thinking how much he'd liked it, and was getting up the nerve to say "let's do it again" when Sal said, "Let's forget what happened last night. It was a mistake... Let's never talk about it again." So they didn't talk about it, and after a while, Sal started avoiding Jonathan, wouldn't return his calls... and Jonathan missed him dreadfully for years, always wondering what he'd done wrong.

Then years later, he ran into Sal, and they talked about it. Jonathan apologized for every possible wrong he could have done, and Sal said it was nothing like that at all. "I was in love with you. I could tell you were more into girls... I didn't want to wreck you." Avoiding Jonathan was the only way Sal knew of to deal with his feelings.

Then once again Sal avoids Jonathan's calls and won't see him. Much later, Jonathan hears from a mutual friend that Sal has gone back to Illinois, where he is dying of AIDS. His parents tell Jonathan that Sal is too ill for a visit or to talk on the phone, so Jonathan resolves to write to him. But every letter he begins seems wrong - he doesn't know what he wants to say, and in the end, Sal dies before Jonathan can write his letter.

The really sad part was that it was clear Jonathan loved Sal from the beginning.

Anecdotes and random scenes of Jonathan's life tend to focus on how self-conscious and ill at ease he feels, torn up by anxiety and loneliness. The only person he is close to is his rather charming nonagenarian great-aunt, who loves him but can't fix him. He always hid his drinking problem from his family.

Autobiography or fiction, it's an interesting and insightful book that beautifully illustrates a broken life, without offering solutions. It ends with Jonathan having a personal epiphany: "No one gets everything they want in life." And a resolve: "I will never drink again." He has resolved this many times before. There he stands, hesitant, in front of a bar advertising Happy Hour. Will he go in?

We can only guess.