Skip to content

Tacos to typewriters

Yesterday’s rambles took us from commerce to culture. We caught the ‘Dillo, a handy free bus service in reproduction trolley cars, and alighted opposite the Texas State History Museum, where we dodged flocks of school children to get to the excellent gift shop, stocking up on postcards and a few portable Texas flavoured knick-knacks.

By the time we got to Guadalupe on the other side of campus, it was high noon and we had to rustle up some grub. One of the travel forums had mentioned the Chipotle Grill, which was crowded with grateful students eating their incredibly good tacos and burritos for around $5. Thus fortified, we carried out a gruelling investigation of every clothing store in the area – and there are many, all of them apparently catering to twenty-something anorexics – after which we found our way to the Harry Ransom Center to see the Technologies of Writing exhibition.

Its many wonders included a note written to Arthur Miller in lipstick by one of his wives (not, apparently, Marilyn); and a sequence of 8 radiograms written by Ernest Hemingway, reporting from Madrid in 1935. One of them described “gastric remorse from excellent pre-battle celebration.” A letter from Tennessee Williams described how his Jaguar had crashed into a tree in Italy, after he’d taken two or three medicinal swigs from his thermos to counteract his nervousness, and he was struck on the head by his portable typewriter, which was damaged worse than he was. There was a page of manuscript from The Green Dwarf, by Charlotte Bronte, in such microscopic print the curators explained it must have been written with a sparrow feather quill. We saw Anne Sexton’s typing manual, and her Quiet De Luxe Portable Typewriter. Also one of Edgar Allen Poe’s writing desks, and a splendid “writing chair” created for one Compton Mackenzie.

We also visited a gallery on South Congress, Yard Dog Folk Art, where we saw some pieces by Tom Russell. Not *that* Tom Russell, we wondered? But yes, the writer of Navajo Rug (and my personal favourite, Road to Bayamon) is also a painter. Not my cup of tea, glass of beer, sip of water, but good on him just the same.

Disappointingly, Chipotle Grill was to be the culinary highlight of our day. We had a spectacularly average supper at Guero’s Taco Bar. The place – a cavernous silver room – was heaving with diners even at 9pm on a Tuesday night, so in my most charitable mood I can speculate that perhaps there are more reliable choices on the menu than the red snapper and vegetarian dishes we ordered. And nicer wait staff. Say no more.

Our momentum slowed by an incipient cold for one and a resurging migraine for the other, we decided to pass on the poetry open mic at Ruta Maya and ended the evening watching The Philadelphia Story and hoping for more stamina in the morning. We’re expecting a high around 30c today after which it should cool to the mid-twenties again…

Texas time

We left Victoria on Sunday morning, dressed in our winter clothes, appropriate to the 5 degrees or so that it was at 5am. And when we stepped off the plane in Austin at around 6 that night, it was 24 degrees (78f), and muggy. Which of course means we must go and buy new clothes at the earliest opportunity.

Which is not yet. We got distracted today by wandering through our neighbourhood – Soco (South Congress), a funky, fashionable area of alternative art galleries, great restaurants and even Allen’s, the cowboy boot emporium where we tried on many colourful pairs but decided we didn’t have the $300 – $400 necessary to complete our ensembles.

We have been knocked out by the food. We are dangerously near Magnolia Cafe, which is a 24 hour diner serving more than above average food. Had a chicken piccante there last night which was cooked in wine, lemon and capers with some smoky heat to season it to perfection; served with a mountain of grilled vegetables – yellow zucchini, red peppers, mushrooms, and a foothill of garlic mash. Judy had an amazing bowl of black beans with a cornmeal cake generously larded with jalapenos (we liked the way it showed on the bill: ‘japs in cake’). All washed down, of course, with a couple of Lone Stars.

Before dinner we’d made our way to a fabulous grocery store, the Farm to Market, which stocks amazing local products including Texas honey, Austin salsa verde, spelt crackers, fresh yogurt, great and varied cheeses, and gorgeous crusty bread. Friendly owners who volunteered their services as advisors on anything we wanted to know about Austin.

Lunch today was terrific as well: the South Congress Cafe, very chic and stylish with friendly staff and wonderful food – a duck and oyster gumbo followed by a seared ahi tuna salad with avocado vinaigrette for me; a shrimp and artichoke soup and a garden salad with jicama and a lime chipotle dressing for Judy, and some purdy pink hibiscus flower iced tea to drink.

Tonight we stopped in at a wonderful place, Cuba Libre, which we’d wanted to see because they advertise Martini & Manicure nights on Thursdays ($10!). They had great decor – leather benches and raw glass lampshades – and the most excellent entry: you open the front door and just as you’re wondering how to tackle the floor to high ceiling sheer curtains, they part magically at your first step, giving you a splendid grand entrance. They promised the best mojitos in Austin – they were very good indeed – and it being two for one appetizer night, we had plantain chips with pineapple mojo sauce and chipotle ranch dip, and some plantain-breaded oysters with a heap of lovely black beans. So much for supper.

We haven’t seen any cowboys, or even horses, but we have seen a lot of grackles! And last night we met a couple of Texas-sized cucarachas americanas. Too big to step on, too small to wrassle, so we compromised by relocating the one we captured: it scampered off to start its new life on the streets of Austin, and we wish it adios and good riddance.

What did they mean by that

Just the other rushed afternoon, when I was short of both time and protein for dinner, I consulted the Fannie Farmer Cookbook, and ended up making good ol’ salmon loaf, which I adulterated with some fresh dill and chopped capers. (It tasted a lot nicer than it looked.) Fannie recommended serving it with mustard sauce, and although I thought I was craving some lovely home-made tartar sauce, this was just as satisfactory, very yum and apparently can be used for a veggie dip as well. I used about a cup of strained yogurt, a tablespoon of Dijon, a teaspoon of prepared mustard, a tablespoon of minced onion, a tablespoon of lemon juice, salt and pepper.

Dinner out of the way, I went back to reading – slowly so it doesn’t have to end – Don’t Ask Me What I Mean: Poets in their own words, from Picador. It’s a collection of the pieces written by the poets whose books have been selected as quarterly choices for the Poetry Book Society, a kind of book of the month club for poets, which has been selecting a best book published in Britain each quarter since the 1950s. Here are a couple of my favourite quotes so far:

“It’s embarrassing to discuss your own poems in print. You come across as either an awestruck fan of your own genius or a tedious explainer of jokes.” —Michael Donaghy

“What keeps me writing poems – besides the sheer self-entertainment value of playing with language – is the impossible hope that one day I will produce that perfect poem, the one that is balanced precisely on the knife edge between comedy and tragedy, or at least between silliness and sincerity. As it is, every poem I have ever written loses its balance and falls to one side or the other.” —Billy Collins

The other morning we saw three harbour seals wending their way toward Portage Inlet, and a lone fisherman on the bridge, which make us suspect that the herring may be running, which means spring is here! Doing his bird dog best, Anton has spent a challenging week here on the Gorge helping local water fowl to find their way back into the water where they belong. Luckily, as demonstrated, he can do this on one foot while holding a yellow rubber bone in his mouth. So talented. I am hoping to have him back, possibly on a dogshare basis, after I return from Austin. Over and out till Texas!

Workshops that don’t cost a thing, and one that is worth every penny

“I like to write for performance, but I end up doing things which are somewhat beyond my capacities as a performer… What I can do, at a poetry reading, is give you an impression of what a piece would sound like if it were performed by somebody else more competent than myself.”– James Fenton (Don’t Ask Me What I Mean: Poets in their own words. Picador, 2003)

Last night at Mocambo, we had the excellent John Gould – always droll and delightful – reading with a terrific discovery, Canadian-born, Vermont-based poet David Cavanagh. Definitely one worth seeking out.

I’ve been a follower of the Guardian for some time, not least because of its extensive poetry coverage. Last year they began offering an online poetry workshop which is a great thing to try if you’re feeling stuck for ideas.

Another place that offers workshop ideas is Mslexia magazine. A good and useful website and a worthwhile extravagence to subscribe to the print copy.

And on the other side of the coin… well a pile of coins really… ok, to get to the venue might take quite a *big* pile of coins, with some paper thrown in… check out Tamar Yoseloff’s workshop in Crete coming up in June – no idea how full it is, but if you can do it, do it. I did last year, and I’d happily do it again. Have you ever seen such a delicious workshop space, or a more focused group of writers? Man, the calories we burned working on those writing exercises… This particular taverna, Notos, served the best kolokythokeftedes, tzadzki, octopus and much more besides. Our favourite lunching spot.

My first time in Greece, and yep I really get it now, why everyone who goes there gets misty and wistful talking about it. The food, the food: everything just tastes better under a Cretan sun.
Here’s a little bite from one of the pieces I wrote in Tammy’s workshop:

Kalispera, Good Evening

An evening breeze, kalispera,
blows us towards dinner, till now
the only Greek I’ve ever spoken:
fluent in haloumi, moussaka, souvlaki,
names grown tender
in the memory of my mouth…

Outsider arts

My dear pal Nancy has been taking a course called The Picture a Poem Makes, at The Poetry School in London, and she sent me a link her classmates have been sharing: UbuWeb, which describes itself as “a completely independent resource dedicated to all strains of the avant-garde, ethnopoetics, and outsider arts”. Just the place to find those elusive Gertrude Stein MP3s.

Making a living in one of the worst paid job markets in Canada

A little rant, for the record.

This morning I was approached, through a tip from a well meaning colleague, by a technical recruiter from Calgary who was looking for a technical writer in Victoria. But it was a junior position, and she offered me $20 an hour! That, I told her, is what my cleaner charges. This is the second recruiter in a six month period who’s offered me $20 an hour for tech writing; the last one was in Vancouver, for heaven’s sake. I think there is more pure dignity in working as a cleaner for that kind of money than as a technical writer, so I turned it down — in the interests of not driving the salary standards for professional writers any further towards the basement than they already are.

Who is accepting such wages, and can you please stop?

I think this also demonstrates the perils of agency employment vs contracting for a living; through the sweat of our brows we are offered the opportunity to subsidize the decent wages the recruiters are making. They do not seem to understand that there is a difference between a permanent salaried job with benefits that can be quoted as a theoretical hourly wage, and a contract position that requires us to patch a living together from a month here and a month there, and pay our own health care, training, holidays and overhead. Grrr.