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This is a swan. There are some geese here pretending to be swans, and some ducks pretending to be geese, but this is probably a real swan.
Well, here I am at the Stratford Ontario Shakespeare Festival on a Playwrights’ Retreat, I think they are calling it. There are ten of us from around the country. We have been invited here as guests of the Stratford Shakespeare Festival to have some time to work on our new plays or whatever we feel like working on, really. There’s no pressure, it’s pure writing time. This is what all writers need more than anything else: PURE WRITING TIME.
I have with me my new play entitled “Those White Things in the Ocean.” Today I had an excellent dramaturgy session with my friend/colleague/mentor/dramaturg/director Bob White. I learned a lot about the play. I think I have about a week of walking around with my notebook thinking about it, then I will sit down and create a new draft.
I am also vaguely working on another play entitle “Ham” which is about ham. Turns out that Stratford is not only the Shakespeare capital of Canada, it’s also the place the pork producers call home. God works in mysterious ways.
While we are here, we can see any of the plays that are currently running. I am hoping to see “The Homecoming” by Harold Pinter tomorrow, one of my favourite plays.
Beyond this, I have found a coffee shop I like and a bar that has all the baseball games on.
I have made new friends and renewed old acquaintances. I feel blessed to have been invited here.
It’s a dream gig, being a playwright at a festival dedicated to another playwright, especially a famous one, maybe even the best one, ever. No pressure. The fact that a festival like this has invited living breathing writing playwrights to its facility, and paying us to be here, is really so encouraging on so many levels, I honestly never thought it would happen in my lifetime. But I’m glad it is.
More updates to follow. Thanks for reading. Here’s a wobbly photo of me looking dramatic (almost) on the stage of the Misanthrope:
I turned 55 today and it seems too old, somehow. I’ve never been one to worry about age, or maturity for that matter, but somehow 55 just hit me the wrong way. Maybe it has to do with the concept of Freedom 55, the idea being that if you’ve lived your life properly, intelligently, and definitely within the lines, you could contemplate retiring at 55. And then go sailing on your boat with your trophy wife and the rest of that fucking nonsense.
Truth of the matter is, I still don’t have a real job.
So I found myself in Calgary’s beautiful Riley Park today reading for an event put on by my old friend Sheri-D Wilson. I never read the email properly. The poems were supposed to have something to do with this being World Peace Day, which never registered on me at all because it’s my birthday.
So I read too extremely inappropriate poems, one of them laced with obscenities which I started to censor when I saw all the little children in the audience. Oh well. It’s somewhat heartening I guess to be 55 and still able to play the fool.
The best part of my birthday, as usual, was being taken for supper by my beautiful daughter Hanna. A lot of her growing up took place a few blocks from Riley Park and I couldn’t help but think of those days when I left the reading and walked up 13th Street, where we lived when we were still a family.
It’s all good and I’ll get over my birthday, always remembering that it’s better to be having a birthday than not having one, and for at least one more year I found myself looking at the green side of the grass.
Here’s the poem I read today. It was only written in my notebook, so here it is typed, still raw, the few people to check out my little blog will be the only ones to know about it, aside from a small audience in Riley Park this afternoon.
Freedom 55
Freedom 55 they call it.
Today I am there.
Yet it doesn't feel like freedom to me
Except that as a friend reminded me
Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose . . .
The sound of the children playing grows fainter
I no longer hear their laughter
I turn my collar up
Against the spectral chill of autumn
Trudging a while longer
Towards the final destination
Towards freedom at last.
Earlier this summer I received an email from Gail Howat, who tracked me down at St. Mary’s University College where I am the writer in residence. Gail was asking about a column I wrote several years ago about the difference between cats and dogs. I explained that I was so many computers removed from when I wrote for the Herald that I no longer had a copy. But then today I was looking for another document on my MacBook Pro and there it was: catsanddogs.doc.
The column was really an elaborate excuse for me to forward a funny email I’d received. I’ve cleaned it up a bit and so for Gail and anyone else who might be interested, here it is, so many years later.
Cats and Dogs
(Excerpt from column in the Calgary Herald, originally published in August, 2007)
This is my nightmare, being ripped apart by three pitbulls.
So here’s an interesting question, at least to me: what makes the man who likes to make people laugh, laugh?
Looking through this paper, there isn’t much to laugh about these days, for most of us. In fact, it’s looking pretty grim out there.
But I’ve always thought there’s a lot of comic potential in the old cat-dog debate. I’ve written columns that were transcriptions of conversations I had with my cat, Kiko. In particular, one bleak day when I found out I had not received a Canada Council grant I was counting on, and she presented me with a dead mouse. As if to say, “Here’s my contribution to the house for the winter.”
And I am on record as saying that in a dating situation, once the woman pulls out pictures of her pit bull, or schnauzer, I am out of there. Exit, stage right.
I’m a cat person. And so this little email, sent to me by my friend Brent, confirms everything I ever thought about cats and dogs. It made me laugh until I cried. I hope you find it funny as well:
DOG DIARY
8:00 am – Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am – A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am – A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am – Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm – Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm – Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm – Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm – Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm – Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm – Wow! Watched TV with my people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm – Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!
CAT DIARY
Day 983 of my captivity. My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a “good little hunter” I am. Bastards!
There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of “allergies.” I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow– but at the top of the stairs.
I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released — and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded. The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe…..
For now.
Tonight I was the sacraficial poet at the Calgary Spoken Word Slam at the Auburn Saloon. This is me reading my poem, Some Poets Fuck, I Guess. I've included the text of the poem in the poetry section.
My maternal grandparents homesteaded in Saskatchewan in the very early years of the 20th Century. They ended up settling and raising a family in Broadview which is in the southeast part of the province. My mom and her siblings grew up on a farm near Broadview in that rather bucolic age that we think of as Canada’s agrarian past, Laurier’s vision made reality.
My grandfather prospered and had business dealings as far away as Chicago and Vancouver. From all accounts he was a capitalist of the first order. At the time of his death in the 1950’s, actually a month after I was born, he was speculating in real estate in Vancouver. Had he lived a few years longer I probably would have been born rich. He didn’t, I wasn’t. Too bad, so sad.
Prosperous as he was, in the 30’s, that decade when it didn’t rain or snow on the prariries (according to my mother), my grandfather being a man of conscience, couldn’t sit back and watch his neighbours lose their farms, or worse, starve, without taking action. So he and other like minded men founded the CCF party that is now the NDP. My grandfather, William A. Hunter, also helped start the Saskatchewan Wheat Pool.
When I was growing up, we lived in Alan Blakeny’s constituency. He was one of the great Premiers of any province in the history of Canada. The NDP, and the principles that the party espoused, were taken very seriously in my family.
Throughout my adult life I have been a supporter of the party at least in a philosophical sense. Sometimes, especially in Alberta, one has to be savvy and vote for a candidate who at least has a chance, because in Calgary at least, a candidate for the NDP has the proverbial snowball’s chance in hell. But it doesn’t really matter who else you vote for. Out here, the Conservatives always win.
On Monday evening, I happened to be in Ottawa, staying in a hotel not far from Parliament Hill. I saw on the news that there was a vigil for Jack Layton so I walked over and paid my respects. All the candles and flowers and bottles of Orange Crush and signs made up a beautiful tribute to Mr. Layton.
It was sometime late Monday evening that I saw the letter he wrote, and was deeply touched by his final words:
Love is better than anger.
Hope is better than fear.
Optimism is better than despair.
Tonight, there was a vigil in Tompkins Park, just south of the Mount Royal neighbourhood in Calgary that has to be THE bastion of conservatism in Canada. It was heartening to see a good crowd forming, as unlikely as it was. Maybe the facade is finally starting to crack.
So many writers have used Mr. Layton’s death to promote their own thoughts and ideas and I have no wish to do so in writing this, other than to say that I admire the man, and I believe he has made a tremendous impact on the way we see ourselves as Canadians. He has not answered many questions that linger in his death, but he at least posed them.
I know my grandfather would have been proud.
Jack Layton memorial in Tompkins Park, Calgary, a stone's throw away from one of the most staunchly conservative neighbourhoods in Canada.
Ahhhh, to be a celebrity. The glamorous glorious life. Well, it ain’t always what it’s cracked up to be.
I’ve told this story many a time, but here goes once again. In 1994 I was an unknown playwright, although I at least had one hit under my belt, my play “Some Assembly Required,” which premiered at Alberta Theatre Project’s playRites Festival early in the year. Some may remember the old slogan: “The Hottest Six Weeks in Winter.”
After the run of the play, the theatre made me their Playwright in Residence, a position I held for ten years. All told, I wrote six plays for ATP, 3 of them were done first at the playRites Festival and then brought back for regular season productions. That’s a lot of productions of my work in the Martha Cohen Theatre.
But back in the day, when I was relatively young and an unknown, I was asked to attend a function for something or other on behalf of ATP who had recently become my employer. It was the usual assembly of upper end corporate types in the audience and low end celebrities who ended up on stage: some kind of dog or hound, a mascot at sporting events; a third string, injured offensive lineman from the Stamps; Miss third runner up to the Stampede Princess crown; and a drunken weatherman. And me.
Well, they all got a great intro, but they are all truly famous in Calgary, I guess. When the MC got to me — all I remember about him is that he was very short and was wearing a huge black cowboy hat — with no doubt a huge black pickup truck in the parking lot — he said this:
OK, next up we have a guy named Eugene (You-GEEEEEN) Strickland, says here he’s a playwriter whatever that is (wait for laugh) and he works for an outfit called Alberta Theatre (Theeee-ATE-er) Projects, whatever that is.
Well, you get the idea. I made up my mind right then and then I would change things, people would know how to spell my name (there’s no R, ever, in my last name) and they would know what Alberta Theatre Projects was, was what we do there. Either that or move back to Regina. But 17 years later I’m still here, and I think I made all my points.
So, to this day, when a “celebrity” event comes up, I like to take it. I like to think I can still make a difference and that I still have a message to deliver. Which is, simply stated: “The arts exist in Calgary, we the artist are here to stay. Deal with it.”
Because I took the trouble to go to the Kingsland Farmers Market on Saturday, I ran into some old friends — Ald. Brian Pincott, with whom I worked at ATP a lifetime ago. He was one of the best lighting designers in the country before he gave that up for politics. Ahhhh, but I would have him throw lights on one of my plays, any day.And I met some great new friends as well. Trond Franzen, for example. I know him only because he befriended me on Facebook. But he seems like a great guy. I have no idea what he does, or why he was there, or why I was there.One of these days I’ll find out more about him.
So, what seemed like a corny event turned out to be great way to pass some time on a Saturday afternoon. And the corn! It was like I was tasting corn for the first time.
It’s a cool market. Check it out some time. Macleod Trail and 78th Ave.
TTFN.
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Patrick, seen here in fine footwear and overall fettle, was awarded the Betty Mitchell Award for Outstanding Performance by an Actor in a Drama in Ground Zero/Hit & Myth's "reasons to be pretty." From the 14th Annual Betty Mitchell Awards.
My friend Zenon who is a famous DJ in town got some tickets to the Blues Festival and so on Thursday evening we headed down to the Shaw Millennium Park to catch Blackie and the Rodeo Kings and Ray Manzarek & Roy Rogers. We had no sooner got into the grounds when we were picked up by Maurice Ginzer, the event’s producer, and driven around the grounds in his golf cart. Zenon had done a series of on air promotions for the Festival and was called upon last night to introduce Ray Manzarek. To that end, we got the rock star treatment and before you knew it Maurice had us backstage in the green room and we were drinking beer with the musicians and back stage folks.
In case you didn’t know, Ray Manzarek started the Doors, along with Jim Morrison and played keyboards on all of their albums. His work includes one of my favourites, “Riders on the Storm,” which he and the band played as an encore Thursday evening. After his show, I had the chance to tell him that the Door’s album “Strange Days” was a very important work in terms of my journey as an artist. The song “People are Strange” has long been a personal anthem of mine. Although he’s probably heard it a million times, he was very appreciative and understanding.
After his set, we talked some more about the theatre, Tennessee Williams, the Beat writers with whom he did a show in New York a number of years ago and life in general. We had a lovely time, and I can honestly say that I felt that my life was enriched by a wonderful evening with great friends, old and new.
I’ll be heading back the Festival at various times over the weekend. I looking forward to catching up with my old friend Jack Semple (we actually went to Scott Collegiate in Regina together) who is playing the Twilight Series at the Kerby Centre (a new blues venue in town) late Saturday evening.
Kevin Warren, Michelle Baker-Killen, Ray Manzarek, me and Zenon in the green room.
Tuckered out at the Zoo, here I am sleeping on the shoulder of Igor, a miliary doctor from the Israeli Army.
For the past few years off and on I’ve been working at a place called Alberta Business and Educational Services (ABES) in North East Calgary.
With some of my students: Farhana, Joya. Parinita and Priyanka. It’s not so hard to go to work every day.
They have a program aimed at helping doctors from other cultures integrate into the health industry here. I think it’s a sad and somewhat outrageous situation, we let these intelligent and talented people into Canada because they are doctors, and then we tell them they can’t practice here. I suppose the argument goes, well, some of them are from the third world, we don’t know how good their education was there. Tell that to a former student, Dr. Rau, who was an orthopedic surgeon in India, and who went to Nottingham in England to do post doctorate work in sports medicine. He became the head of the sports medicine clinic there. He then came to Canada, where he could only find a job stacking apples at Safeway for $9.00 an hour. Meanwhile, we have an acute shortage of doctors here. Go figure.
In the past few years, I have taught people from India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Mauritius, Sri Lanka, Nepal, China, Malaysia, Indonesia, The Philippines, Singapore, Japan, Korea, Belarus, Slovakia, Russia, Mongolia, Kazakstan, Ukraine, Serbia, Turkey, Israel, Afghanistan, Syria, Iraq, Iran, Egypt, The Congo, Congo-Zaire, Guinea. Ivory Coast, Cameroon, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Nigeria, Venezuela, Honduras, Nicaragua, Cuba, Colombia, even Australia — I’m probably forgetting a few but that will give you a sense of the international flavour of my classes.
It’s not ESL per se. It about helping them understand language well enough so they can have the best experience possible in their new country.
Most of them have given up very prestigious and lucrative careers (mansions, maids, the whole nine yards) to come to Canada because they perceive that their children can have a better future here. All I try to do is make them feel welcome and give them the skills to get a foot in the door in the health industry. Most of them will never be doctors here. The current system makes it too hard and too expensive for them to pursue accreditation. But most of them, I believe, will have a good life here. And their children will in fact have opportunities here that they never would have had back home.
So, after a few glorious months of working on my new play, riding the bike paths, hanging out at Caffe Beano, reading Italian mystery novels (Andrea Camilleri’s Inspector Montalbano series) it’s back to work for me this morning. I don’t like the idea of it, clearly I should have been born wealthy, not just rich but WEALTHY, but I like the work and I love the students and it’s not so bad at the end of the month when they pay me.
Hi ho . . . .
51.045000
-114.057222
David Trimble is an old buddy, an actor whose work I admire and an all around great guy. He phoned a few days ago. I hadn’t heard from him in some time. I assumed he was calling so we could get together at his place and do some laundry. He has a washing machine with a steam cycle. I have a bit of a laundry fetish — I even iron, using spray starch and the whole 9 yards. So we have a loose plan for me to bring some shirts over some evening and drink a few beers together while we wash the shirts on the steam cycle.
But it turns out he wasn’t calling about laundry at all. It turns out — totally unknown to me — that David has spent the last four years of his life putting together a film, “There by Grace,” which he has written and acts in (along with Léda Davies, Dave Trimble, Kira Bradley, Dustin MacDougall and Tamera Warden). There is a special showing of it this evening (Wednesday, August 3) at The Uptown Theatre around 7 o’clock. After party at the Auburn.
Last night Dave and I texted a bit about the fear one feels when sharing a new work with the world. It is a scary proposition, one that I’ve never gotten used to. I told him it will be hell, but that the world will keep on turning. I’m not sure how much I calmed his nerves. Oh well, at this point, there’s no way through it but to go through it.
It’s a big moment, not one any of us should take lightly. This is the work of a talented artist, representing four years of his life. We should all try to make the effort to see the work, support the artist, and of course, drink beer at the Auburn after.
I guess the laundry will have to make till all the smoke clears . . .
http://www.therebygracethemovie.com/
eugene stickland 