Category Archives: journal

June – July 2003

It’s all about balance, one of those things in which there can be an enormous gap between theory and practice, between intellectual understanding and living it. And being someone with a natural tendency to obsess on intricate and specific things for long periods of time (‘tis the nature of writers and editors) sometimes that balance can get radically off-kilter. Don’t worry, I’m working on it.

By this time last year, Swimming in the Ocean, the first novel, a novel it took me ten years to understand how to complete, was out and I was in full tour mode. But by this spring, I was in a mild state of depression, a place I hadn’t been for quite some time. I think it was brought on by a series of things happening concurrently: let-down from finishing the book at long last, tour exhaustion, financial stress, too long and cold a winter, and finding several people dear to me also suffering various stresses. I was seriously considering packing my bags and leaving (Toronto, that is), not that I had any place else in mind. It was more an escapist consideration than anything else. Realizing that no matter where you go, there you are, I stayed.

Things turned very suddenly. For several weeks, I found myself overcommitted to paying work, sometimes juggling three clients simultaneously, afraid to turn projects down, getting up at five or six in the morning to start work, just to try to get it all done. That phase seems to have passed now, allowing me some time and energy to get back to what I’m really here for: writing.

Depression is a low-energy state, a state in which it’s difficult to locate creative energy; too long without a creative fix can send me into severe depression. Being overworked is a high-energy (or high-anxiety) state, a state that, while invigorating, is a difficult one in which to locate creative time. I seem to function optimally when there’s too much going on. I need a great deal of stimulation to keep from getting bored; if I get bored, I also become depressed (something that keeps me away from routine jobs). I think a period of hyperactivity was necessary to snap me out of the state I was in. Since rebounding from these two extremes (both of which had a negative impact on my writing productivity), I now feel like I’ve relocated my centre, my balance.

My psycho-emotional life is a bit of a tightrope by times, an exercise in extremes – anyone who’s read Swimming in the Ocean is probably already aware of that. You may be relieved to hear that I’m considerably less volatile than I used to be. I’ve worked to understand what to avoid and how to explore difficult emotions, which are often necessary to the writing, more safely. Which isn’t to say I don’t go out on limbs anymore; I certainly do, but I usually tie off the safety rope first.

Although statistically people are more prone to depression the more times they experience it, personally I feel that the work I’ve done in understanding my depression has made me more conscious of when I’m moving in that direction and more able to redirect my energies more productively.

Although I have been offered the quick magic of pills to alleviate the symptoms of depression, I’ve always declined. I’d rather develop my own coping strategies, no matter how rudimentary. It gives me a greater sense of control. There’s no denying that antidepressants help a lot of people, but recent clinical evidence, which agrees with my experiential evidence, supports the notion that talk therapy alone can change brain chemistry. Unfortunately, I think we as a society are too busy or too lazy or too disconnected to sit down and do the work of actually figuring out what the problem is and would generally rather pop a pill to feel better, while not addressing our damaging behaviour. While medication can make talk therapy more approachable in some instances, the drugs alone don’t fix anything. They’re a little like putting a bandage on someone’s toe while gangrene is consuming their leg.

I recently heard stats on the rapid growth in the use of antidepressants in Canada. Hopefully this dramatic increase isn’t simply the result of mass-marketting campaigns by pharmaceutical giants out to pad their earnings reports, but I’m not sure what to make of it. If we, as a society, are becoming more accepting and supportive of people with depression and other mental illnesses, I think it’s a good thing and about time too. Denial, the inability to discuss psycho-emotional problems, even among families or with friends, is damaging and has caused tragedies to be needlessly repeated. However, if the dramatic increase in the use of antidepressants points to an increase in depression in our society (and there’s a lot to be depressed about in our world), that’s frightening. Maybe we all need to take a serious time-out this summer, reassess our priorities in life, turn off the news and stop trying to run our lives around the technology that keeps pushing us to produce ever-faster. What have you done for yourself lately?

I’ve gone back to playing the piano, working primarily on Bach Inventions (for now) in an effort to get my hands and focus back. I was surprised at how much better I felt and can’t figure out if it’s the playing or if it’s the Bach (used extensively in music therapy because of the soothing effect of it’s mathematical stability). I felt calmer and more in control. What surprised me even more was that when I got busy and stopped making the time to play, a friend of mine commented on the difference. I knew playing was helping me internally, but it was helping externally more than I’d realized. So I’ve been playing again this week and now that I fully appreciate the point, I shall continue.

This is the sixth summer I’ve been in Toronto and I have yet to really engage with the city. My presence here has just felt too tentative, but that’s beginning to change. This may be the first summer I’ve really enjoyed for a long time. I have tea plans with various friends, have made note of some historical walks, have picked up tickets to see the big Rolling Stones concert, and generally I’m just keeping my eyes and ears open for interesting opportunities.

Now that the mad rush is over, I’m settling in to complete the rewrite of the novel version of Pairs & Artichoke Hearts, the gender-bender romantic-comedy screenplay I wrote in ’96. I like the idea of publishing work in the order in which it was conceived, so I want to complete this project before turning back to the new novel, which is well on its way.

I need to produce, to keep on keepin’ on. It makes me feel alive, most comfortable in my own skin. And maybe someday, if I persevere long enough, the work will provide for me and I won’t have to spread my time and energies so thinly. That would make me genuinely and deeply happy. In this life, we aren’t necessarily rewarded for our efforts, at least not always immediately or as expected, but as a music teacher of mine once said, “I find the harder I work, the luckier I get.”

©Catherine Jenkins 2003

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March 2003

After much deliberation and research, I’m taking the train to New Brunswick for the mini-tour this month. It’s a long train ride, twenty-four hours, but I’ve decided to splurge and get a single room for the overnight portion of the trip between Montréal and Moncton. I haven’t been on a sleeper car since I was a kid, so I’m sure it’ll be an adventure. Some people have expressed surprise that I’m not flying, given the time and distance. I find that, especially since 9/11, the cost, inconvenience and stress of flying has turned me even more against it.

There are many more train stations than airports in Canada so the chances of finding transportation to a less common destination are greater on the train. When flying to smaller centres in Canada, it’s difficult to do much comparison shopping on ticket prices because sometimes only one carrier flies to that destination. The train could’ve been considerably less expensive than flying if I’d been willing to sit in economy all night, but having done two twelve-hour train trips on tour last year (to Chicago and NYC), I know how uncomfortable that can get. The comfort of a single room makes the price of a train ticket about equal to that of a flight, so cost wasn’t a big deciding factor. But at least on the train I know that my ticket price is going toward travel, not toward airport and security taxes, which these days can add 25% to a plane ticket. I find airline ticket prices a bit deceptive and am pleased with the recent federal government announcement to enforce new regulations governing how airlines can quote prices.

Well, what about the time factor? Granted the actual flying time (roughly three hours) is considerably less than the overland route. But one also has to add the travel time to the airport (three-quarters of an hour to an hour), waiting and check-in time (airlines request two hours on domestic flights) and travel time from the airport at the other end (I have no idea). When flying, if one considers the actual time from home to final destination, it can double the travel time. On the train, I ride the subway to Union Station (about eighteen to twenty-two minutes), get on the train and go, so my overall travel time is little more than the time on the train itself.

I also find that when I reach my destination after a flight, I’m exhausted from dealing with the auditory and visual noise of the airport, the stresses of security checks, the engine drone, the questionable air quality on the plane and the thought that I’m suspended very far above the ground and that if anything goes wrong, I’m toast. And once I’m on the plane, there’s not much to see (clouds are fun, but they get a bit tedious after a while); there isn’t room to walk around and it’s generally not encouraged. The food is, well, uneven at best. Entertainment is limited to an odd and repetitive audio assortment or a commercial film, which inevitably I’ve either seen or studiously avoided. Sometimes I can sleep or read, but it depends on the amount of air turbulence and the impact of said turbulence on my occasionally delicate stomach.

By contrast, on the train there are fewer stresses to deal with. I can arrive at the station a comfortable time ahead of departure and board without having the change in my pocket accidentally set off a metal detector. There is a certain hustle and bustle to Union Station, but it’s nothing compared to Pearson Airport. Trains do have a drone of their own, but it’s the pleasantly rhythmical, purely mechanical, rather comforting drone of something solidly moving along the ground. I wish it was still possible to open train windows for fresh air, but at least you can catch a whiff at station stops along the way or between cars. I can watch the scenery or sometimes catch a glimpse of an episode unfolding in someone’s day as we speed by. I can even take photos from the window or the glass viewing dome. If I don’t want to stay in my room, I can wander the aisles and lounges. I may enjoy a pleasant dinner in the dining car (the chowder is apparently recommended on this trip). I can choose my own entertainment and read or write in the privacy of my room. And when I’m ready, I can bed down in a proper bed, knowing that the magic of travel will ensure that when I wake up, it will be far away from where I fell asleep.

Train travel provides a very different sort of connection between the journey and the traveller. The traveller remains connected to the earth for one thing, but there’s a very different consciousness about the distance, the terrain, the event of travel. I arrive with a sense of having seen where I’ve been, of really having travelled the distance and understood what changes the land has undergone to get there. Although there is a certain excitement getting off a plane hours later and finding the air, the light, the ambience radically different, it’s also a bit disorienting. The change is too sudden.

On a train, the travel becomes part of the adventure, while planes are just a sometimes necessary evil. I’m not afraid of flying, but I can’t say I enjoy it. I’ll fly if there’s no other option, for instance to get across a large body of water, but even then, if I could afford the time and money, I’d prefer to travel by ship. This may seem rather Victorian or Edwardian of me, but it’s so much more comfortable and enjoyable; I can take pleasure in the travel as well as the destination.

The federal government has recently announced changes for VIA rail, allowing it to grow (again) and become more competitive with airlines by adding high-speed trains on heavily travelled routes. I’ve seen an increase in the number of travellers resorting to the train. Ten years ago, it seemed to be mostly students and the budget-conscious; now I’m seeing businesspeople and government employees. And the trains are full! It’s a shame that so many rail lines across Canada have been abandoned, but it’s heartening to see that they’re regaining popularity and that travellers are giving them another chance.

©Catherine Jenkins 2003

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Oct – Nov 2002

Thanksgiving. The unmerciful lineup at the bus terminal to go home. The line for tickets snakes back and forth between red ribbons seven times before heading straight through the terminal toward the far windows. Of the ten wickets, only five are open. For twenty minutes I wait, shifting forward at irregular intervals, finally purchasing my ticket with two minutes to spare before departure. The lineup for the bus extends past the lineup area, across the bus lane, along the far wall and almost out of the terminal altogether.

It’s the first major holiday of the fall season, a long weekend, the first visit home for students away from home for the first time and the traffic is insane. The driver of this bus (the second put on the route) tries to make up for lost time by steering in and out and around slower traffic. I’ve chosen a seat next to a reader because I don’t feel like talking to a stranger today, pull out my own book and continue from where I left off, occasionally looking up to notice the leaves outside have begun to turn orange.

Before the bus pulls in, I see my Dad waiting for me, looking slightly confused that I haven’t been on any of the buses which have arrived so far, spewing passengers and diesel fumes. We return to Mum and Dad’s to find my sister and family have arrived now too. Not everyone could make it this year, but a good showing nevertheless.

Several of us continue out to the cottage to close it up for the season – a very southern Ontario thing to do. And as I’m looking across to the island, its trees in full autumn colours, my sister informs me that it’s been sold to developers. Other developers have tried to encroach on this quiet place before and none of their projects have actually come to fruition, but one of these days they will. Already this place is not the place it was when I was a child; the lake, the cottage, the trees, are not the same. People have died, cottages have changed hands and, inevitably, they will continue to do so.

Back in town, we watch a movie, a comedy we all enjoy (a pretty amazing feat considering a range in ages from eight to eighty-seven) – If It’s Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium. My sister tries to get the kids to settle down for the night. She turns on the stern mother act to get their attention; funny how her words sound so familiar. Then she turns away, smiling at me, at the joke we both tacitly understand.

In the morning, we begin preparations for Thanksgiving dinner. It’s a communal affair, several of us pitching in to make the meal. I was the one who suggested 2 p.m. for dinnertime. Why? Because that’s when Mum has always served holiday dinners. And now that the kids are passed hungry, I remember being passed hungry too and never understanding why 2 p.m. was imposed for these big family meals. The kids get a snack and dinner keeps roasting.

Mum, my sister and I go through tablecloths and china, the suggestion being that the history of each item should be documented on paper while there’s still someone to recall it. Dad suggests that Mum could give some of the items to the children now, my Mother reticent to part with them, my sister and I agreeing. Things happen in their own time.

With a final flurry of activity, the meal is served. The kids clean their plates before we’ve said grace (something I wouldn’t have been allowed to get away with). I’ve always considered us to be a pretty non-religious family (in the formal sense); consider myself strictly non-denominational. But it seems appropriate to say grace when we’re together, especially at Thanksgiving. It’s a “May the Circle Be Unbroken” moment.

Thanksgiving is one of the few (if not the only) holiday that I find myself drawn to, that I feel disappointed if I don’t acknowledge. Maybe it’s the pagan in me, but it seems so appropriate to acknowledge and celebrate the bounty of the growing season. I try to explain this to my niece, but she doesn’t get it; I didn’t at her age either.

Mum used to tell me to count my blessings and I always thought it was a daft thing to do. Despite a pretty privileged upbringing, I always had a knack for seeing the negatives (although for some reason many people seem to think I’m a very optimistic person

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August 2002

In the course of my tour, I had to find my way around several cities, and (as a budget-conscious writer) that usually meant acquainting myself with the transit system. Toronto, New York and Chicago all have good systems, but each has its own idiosyncrasies and takes some understanding to navigate.

Toronto’s subway is one of the simplest in the world, having only two lines. Of course, it’s also the one I’m used to. My expectation is that other subway systems will make as much sense, be as easy to navigate as the TTC. But they aren’t.

While Toronto has one of the least complicated subways to navigate, New York’s MTA has to be one of the most complex. Over a dozen numbered and lettered trains take over half-a-dozen different coloured lines all over metropolitan New York. And perhaps the most difficult part of trying to understand this system is that you can’t necessarily transfer from one line to another where you think you can. Just because a train comes through a station, doesn’t necessarily mean it stops there and doesn’t mean there’s any way to transfer to it. Returning from Brooklyn on the brown line, I found I had to go a couple of stops south on the green line to transfer to a northbound green line train to get back to my hotel. I felt a little embarrassed, that I must be missing some obvious connection, until I noticed other people doing the same thing.

Chicago’s CTA has six coloured train lines that all intersect in the Loop (four elevated, two subway), but again, transfers between lines only occur at certain stations. As with the MTA, there’s the difficulty of different lines having stops with the same name. It never struck me as a potential problem in Manhattan, probably because the streets and avenues are generally numbered, so it’s easy to figure out where you are. In Chicago, where the streets are named, they don’t give you that clue. It wouldn’t be enough to know you had to get off at the Harlem stop; you’d also have to know the line. In Chicago, there’re three Harlem stops, two of them on the blue line, one almost four miles south of the other.

Adding to their already inherent complexities and character, it was kind of mysterious fun to discover that all three systems have abandoned stations and disused tunnels. Although I may have the spirit of an urban adventurer, I’m more of an armchair aficionado and admit to some hesitation about exploring any of these firsthand.

The MTA system has a vast network of abandoned subterranean transit tunnels, due in part to its age and the number of companies originally operating. The Abandoned Stations site lists ten stations, six levels and nine platforms which have been closed. This site is meticulously updated with current and historic text, photos, timetables and maps detailing each closed station or section.

Forty feet beneath the streets of Chicago lies a completely abandoned freight rail system; sixty-two miles of tunnels about six feet wide and seven feet high, equipped with two-foot gauge track. Originally dug to carry telephone and telegraph wires, the tunnels were expanded and operated from 1909-1959 transporting goods, food, coal and packages to and from stores, warehouses, offices, factories, railroads and post offices. The system ran 149 four-wheeled locomotives and had +3,000 pony cars – sort of an industrial version of something you’d find in a children’s amusement park. The Chicago Tunnel Company Railroad site gives a detailed history as well as historic photos.

Despite its relative youth, even the Toronto subway has two abandoned stations (Lower Bay and Lower Queen), as well as a few rarely used tunnels. Toronto-based urban adventurer Ninjalicious has a fascinating article on exploring TTC tunnels in Infiltration.

The MTA operates 8,231 rail and subway cars (along with 4,864 buses) and charges $1.50 (US) per ride, payable by MetroCard. In my limited experience, the system is very reliable, although one must take a Zen approach to the timetables. Although some lines still use older trains which have been re-painted countless times to cover graffiti, the well-used green line number 6 has the most modern trains I’ve ever ridden. They’re sleek silver bullets, with roomy open interiors, and recordings that announce train information at every station. LED signs at both the front and rear of the train repeat the information and maps above the seats have lights that indicate the next stop and direction of travel. It all makes it easier for the uninitiated to get where they’re going without mishap and I didn’t get lost once! (Those of you who know me well can now get off the floor.)

The MTA platforms reminded me of Roman baths, with clean white tile and porcelain crests emblazoned with the station name. However, the stations tend to have low ceilings, great depth (to accommodate four train lines) and a rather dark, cave-like atmosphere which on occasion made me a bit nervous.

The CTA has 1,100 rapid transit cars (and 1,900 buses) and operates the second largest transit system in the United States, charging $1.50 per ride using a Transit Card. The system is comprised mostly of elevated trains that run about level with the third storey of most of the buildings they snake through. Els certainly have some advantages over subways: there are no mice or rats to contend with (only pigeons), riders are never surprised by the weather and they can enjoy the architecture enroute. I also imagine passengers are occasionally surprised by a display through a carelessly opened bedroom blind.

The TTC operates 672 subway cars (along with 1,468 buses and 248 streetcars) and charges $2.25 (CDN) per ride (a little less if you buy tokens or tickets). It has an annoying tendency to break down when the pressure’s on and it’s most needed (rush hour, inclement weather). However, I’ve also taken a lot more rides on it so I’ve had more opportunity to see it at its worst. Generally speaking it works and works well and is still a lot cheaper and more environmentally friendly than owning a car.

©Catherine Jenkins 2003

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July 2002

As promised, this month’s journal is an exploration of the polar opposites (figuratively, not geographically) of Picton and New York City. Why would I consider such an odd juxtaposition? Because those were the two places my reading tour took me in June (as well as home in Toronto, of course).

If you’re not familiar with Picton, it’s the largest settlement in Prince Edward County, an island community that rests against the north shore of Lake Ontario. The area was a stronghold of the United Empire Loyalists who started settling there in the late 1700s after a strong difference of opinion with the Americans.

The community’s pride in its heritage is apparent in its pristine old farmhouses, barns and fields. Downtown Picton is brief but lovely. As well as numerous B&Bs, there’s the Historic North American Hotel (founded circa 1835), with cream and antique red colouring and flower baskets hanging from its second-storey porch. Among Picton’s other buildings of note is the Regent Theatre, housed in a building also dating to the 1830s. After renovations, it reopened in 1922 as an Edwardian-style opera house with 900 seats. It still operates as a venue for both live theatre and movies, although the number of seats has (fortunately) been halved.

On my last day in the county, I took a quickie driving tour with my camera and journal. I started in Bloomfield (where I had the pleasure of staying with a former teacher of mine), drove east, took a detour to see the old army barracks (still sometimes used for film shoots), then took the road up to Lake on the Mountain (which is just odd), stopped at the Black River Cheese Factory (newly reopened from the fire last fall), made a failed attempt at finding the pebble beach at Little Bluff (and was very glad I’d paid for the extra chip and scratch insurance on the rental car), drove back through Picton (it really is very pretty), made a quick tour to the entrance of Sandbanks Provincial Park (but decided to wait until sometime when I have time to do it justice), came back through Bloomfield, continued on to Wellington for a brief stop (thanks for the cup of tea, Mac) and then headed north until I hit the old number 2 highway and came home.

On my trip through this pastoral landscape, I saw roadside signs for deer crossings, cattle crossings, and in one instance, a cat crossing (they’re very civilized here). And of course, the lilacs were in bloom and they were everywhere! Lilac bushes that must have been planted by early residents two-hundred years ago have spread, grown tall and (if such a thing is possible for a lilac) gone feral. They dwarf the walls of abandoned houses and the air is thick with their fragrance. I was given some blooms to bring home and I enjoyed their scent in the car all the way.

Less than a week later, I was on the (mostly empty) train heading to New York. The train runs down the Hudson River valley, crossing and uncrossing the river and running along its bank with the wild white and purple phlox. After sunset, after the long dark ride through the under-river tunnel, I emerged suddenly somehow in the city.

Although I’ve been to New York before, I’d never gone alone, with my own unadulterated agenda. First I took a walk up to 43rd to ogle at the glorious lustre of the Chrysler Building, continued along to see Grand Central Station (outside and in), the New York Public Library (closed on a Sunday; probably a good thing or I wouldn’t have seen anything else), through the lights and flash of Times Square, down Broadway to see the Flatiron Building at 23rd and then back to the hotel.

The following day I walked down Christopher Street, through the Village to West where I followed the coast of the Hudson south until I stumbled across Ground Zero. I hadn’t planned on visiting the site but 9/11 is such a part of New York consciousness, it’s hard to avoid. There’s only flat rubble-strewn ground there now but the impact of seeing it gave me that hoof to the stomach feeling. Makeshift memorials have sprung up in sometimes unexpected places all over lower Manhattan. Three subway stops remain closed and a surprisingly large number of blocks are still cordoned off nine months later. Even being right there, I found it difficult to comprehend the magnitude of this event; not much wonder New Yorkers are still struggling with it. I stopped for a rest by the Hudson and noticed I was the only one bothering to look up when the helicopters trailed by every few minutes, and wondered if I was the only one noticing, even now, the occasional waft of burnt in the air.

I continued walking south around the tip of the island into Battery Park. What was once the entry point for new immigrants, now seems a mass of statuary, hucksters and mimes. Hard to tell what Lady Liberty thinks of that. I started walking up along the East River and found the South Seaport and the Fulton Fish Market. The guide book said you could find it by following your nose and it was right! I then walked over the Brooklyn Bridge, enjoying the architecture and the view, walking back just as the sun was setting over Manhattan and the city was lighting up for the night.

The next day I treated myself to a browse through the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I walked through the Modern and Annenberg Impressionist collections, an overwhelming assortment of Degas, Cézanne, Sisley, Caillebotte, Chagall, Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, Seurat, Picasso, Lautrec and a few others. I noticed not all the Van Gogh’s had been hung in the same room; if they were, they’d probably spontaneously ignite from the sheer intensity of energy and vibrancy of colour. They hadn’t mounted all the Monet’s in the same room either; his work glows in such a fluid way that viewers would be lulled into a complete state of calm and they’d never leave.

When I’d galleried myself out, I stepped into Central Park and walked some more, enjoying watching kids play, the statues, the bridges and the trees. It really is an oasis but Manhattan has a large population on a limited piece of land and that’s very apparent, even in Central Park. With strains of Simon & Garfunkel running through my head, I went to the zoo, now the NatureConservancy.

And there’s so much more. I stopped by the Center for Book Arts and The Poets House. Went to the Upper West Side for brunch and a look around, wandered the Village and Central Park some more. With Marianne Faithful hoarse in my ear, I took a walk around Times Square at night. This city just doesn’t stop. The New York Central Library and the Met alone would take two lifetimes to explore. Manhattan has done a lot of things right and it was a real joy to be there.

Ultimately, do I find any commonalities between Picton and New York? Yes. With most places I visit, I leave feeling satiated, like I’ve done them and I don’t need to return. Both Picton and New York are places I want to go back to, but for very different reasons: Picton for its quiet light and New York for its culture.

©Catherine Jenkins 2003

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