L'hiver à Québec



Clear sky, pleine lune, the fur around my hood whispers through the scrape of the wind on my face. 21:00 Les Plaines deserted, except for the street lamps that succesfully compete with the moon. Instead I must imagine la neige au clair de lune. (Writing that phrase, I remember my father playing Debussy. The aural memory immediate.)

Ash blue light after sunset, before dark, webs of branches black against it.

Weekend of 22,23, and Monday am. Extreme cold almost thrilling. Taking out the garbage, half-dressed, cold slips under my long skirt, encases my knees. crack, crunch .According to the weather network, it feels like minus 43. I remember my beaded muklunks, my long skirt, scraping at the interior windshield of my vw station wagon as I drove into Whitehorse for work in the mid-70's. Lis waiting for the bus, bundled in her turqoise blue snowsuit, face wound with scarves.

That Monday night,waiting for the #25 at Maguire because the driver dropped me off too early. Il fait froid de canard et le bus est en retard! Bon que je continuais, parce que, when I finally reached the Centre Formation I met a very good teacher and many good étudiants de FSL. Je pense que je vais apprendre beacoup. Mais, trop froid!

My day often begins with the smell of coffee from the downstairs neighbour, who grinds his beans at about 6:30, and ends with the sound of water running through the pipes as he showers at about 23:00. On Saturday I woke smelling coffee, but the neighbour, whoever he is, was still sleeping. Pavlovian connection now: When I wake I smell coffee, when I smell coffee I wake.

Concert at Palais Montcalm. Wonderful conductor, Airat Ichmoouratov, presented his own Symphonic Poem based on the legend of David of Sassoun. Thrilling musical imagination, and he inspired an idea for my fictional composer. These concert tickets Russ supplies...what a gift! To return the favour to some extent, I have introduced Russ to small cd players and the work of Arvo Part and John Adams' El Nino.

The beauty of flocons catching the sunlight,scintilla, snow dances.

Excitement à les Plaines. People buying queues de Castor, watching snow sculptors carve and chain saw, and finesse their huge blocks of snow, waiting for the ferris wheel to open, standing at the fence as the ice palace is completed. Skiing off across the Plaines. That night, more excitement, many more people crowded into espace Hydro Quebec for the opening ceremonies, music, the sculptures coming closer to their final white shape. A concentrated, brilliant explosion of fireworks above les Plaines!




2 fevrier

Snow blowing sideways, whitening the mortar between the bricks. Wind gusting to 52 k. A perfect day to stay inside all day.

Inspired

..by the thoroughness, the strong and not stylistically flashy writing, the wholeness of characterization that J Franzen achieves in Freedom. Also, by A Proulx`s energetic prose, her original, apt, sometimes surprising diction. One difference, Franzen takes a long time with a scene; Proulx covers decades in pages.À Québec I will be reading the books (such as Accordion Crimes) Carleen has here, that interest me. Freedom is the only one I will carry back, because I have to; it belongs to David Z.

Bilingue cont'd

Enthusiasms blind me, leaving me to trip over comments such as from the man on the ferry who told me, Quebec is one province I never want to visit, and a woman who described Francophone federal employees in Ottawa as bullies. The editor of the local newspaper on the Sunshine Coast editorialized about the potential danger for the citizenry who have to wait for RCMP notices to be translated into French before being published. I like the fire of the argument but I don't like the heat.

19 janvier
Mais, maintenant je suis ici à Québec encore et je sens bonne être ici. Carleen met me and helped me up the stairs to the cozy, now familiar appartement. Left me breakfast, dinner in the fridge. Une chose que j'adore -- le lumière vient plus tôt que à C-B. J'ai trouvé le froid fortifiant, et le jour prochain j'ai magasiné et fais du yoga tout en français. Ce matin, je me suis reveillé à le son des chasses-neige. C'est tres belle à l'extérieur.

Easy walk a le vieux québec, mais triste que la serveuse Chez Paillard m'a repondu en anglais. Aussi la neige fondue! Slush. I don`t like it.



Dear Russ surprised me with a bouquet and later took us all to the Grand Théâtre de Québec for a concert. To me, Schubert's 9th demonstrated the passionate conductor's skill at drawing out the most from his musicans in this rich orchestral piece, but the Brahm's Concerto for violin and cello had the narrative, the emotional complexity that held me, plus two great players, Darren Lowe and Blair Lofgren.

Oh, and Basterache! Le rapport, finalement. Les nouvelles que j'ai reçu pendant l'automnne fini. Ah, Bellemare. Il essaye,mais qui sait vraiment la vérité?

Love the intensity, the bright eyes and minds of the students I returned to tutoring jeudi. Returning home, across Grand Allée, onto Briand, sparkles of snow enchanted the walkway.

Exposition..

..and where it is placed in the story, or in the knowledge of a person's history, determines how the character is viewed by readers, by friends. Sometimes, near the end of life, information spills from the mind's vaults. All becomes clear-er. Significant disappointments, unfulfilled desires - easier to parse a life knowing those. The happy moments, desires satisfied seem to have weaker steering power

Bilingue IV

Some of the things I love about la ville de Quebéc:

The bins towering with Quebéc apples in front of Provisioners. You have to go apple picking, said John, handing me a bag with some of the Macintosh's that he and Marie-Josée had picked. Later, Russ delivered some biologique Cortlands.



Les oies neige sur grève du fleuve St. Laurent.

Avenue Cartier around five, when the light slants in from the west and yellow leaves flutter through the busy steps of people stopping for groceries, to chat, or bustle past to Grand Allèe, to the south, or Blvd. René-Levesque, in the opposite direction.

La passion pour la langue française.

Toute l'histoire. Toutes les boulangeries. Beurre d'erable avec gâteau aux bluets.

St. Patrick's Cemetery with all the Irish names, so many Mary's, or Irish men having married Marie's, Marie-André, Marie-Christine.

Après mes reunions avec Marie et Mireille, avec mes étudiantes. Lanuguage is a gift we give to one another. I think of people who cannot communicate their simplest wants and needs, and beyond them, people who have acquired that basic skill, but cannot converse, enjoy the simple exchanges that allow us to know one another. Lanugage is the field we explore. Still nervous in shops, that I will say the wrong thing, or misunderstand and give the wrong reply. I said the right thing in le magasin d'écriture, avez-vous un photocopieur, and when the man directed me to another place, I heard and understood him, and then, as the remainder of his words fell like an isolated shower, I drifted in my mind. I know the same thing happens with Mireille, at least, on my part and on hers. Perhaps with the students, too. We approximate and misunderstand. Now I know that Mireille is going to Gatineau after Halloween. But I was not sure before.

Après la visite de ma soeur et ma nièce. It was easier, because I spoke English with them and did not try as hard in the shops. When shopkeepers noticed us speaking English, they just assumed we would prefer it. That led to some slight misunderstanding at la musée de civilization, where we went to see the opening of Aqua. Yet, au resto l'échaudé, un homme a pensé que j'ai été francophone. Il m'a écouté parler français avec la serveuse. Ah, ça marche quelquefois. Hier, quand je suis retourneé à la musée, j'ai parlé français toute la journée. Tres approprié parce que j'ai visité l'exposition de Québec. Et aussi aujourd'hui, d'achat du fromage et du vin.

35,000 words in the average French dictionary. And all the ways they can be used? So much to learn. Samedi matin -2, with réfroid éolian driving it lower. Hmm. Do I really want to be here in winter?

Yet, perfect hot chocolate at the chocolate musée with John and Marie-Josée, who had just finished the edits to her new book. Later, a fine dinner chez Ron, with Carlene's leek soup, salmon on a base of greens, red peppers and oranges; wine, cheese and brandy courtesy of Russ, and another apple cake from me. I may even have found a suitable hat!

The month ends with children on the street in costume, Jeane D'arc Garden and its wonderful ghouls, City Hall, aka the witch's lavoir. Snow is predicted and has already fallen in Montreal and the eastern townships.

Bilingue III.



15 octobre

Beaucoup de vent, pluie aussi. Un jour vraiment sauvage! Les feuilles pareil les oiseaux vite. Now that the leaves are going, gone, the neighbouring buildings seem closer. Basterache is considering the evidence and writing his report. Cary Price is stopping pucks, gaz de schiste is still in the news, along with les adieux triste pour les quatre jeunes homme qui sont mort dans un accident à Drummondville.

Experience overtakes the time, rather the patience I have to record it. Also, reflections self-organize according to theme, rather than time. Jour-nal. Dia-ry. Day-book. This netbook is handy but bad for the neck.

Already time is going fast. I have been here three weeks, and my progress? Tres bon à parler avec Marie et Mireille. Marie is better at English, and yesterday we walked around la Musée National des beaux-arts for our practice session. The wonderful Riopelle interested me as much as the Spanish work, because je n'ai pas su son oeuvre, and many of the Spanish artists I knew from having seen them at the Prado or the Reina Sophia in Madrid. Un cadre is a frame and there were many with beacoup d'ornamatation. But the more modern works included the wonderful Sorolla, Dali, Picasso. Marie is good at correcting me. Mireille, who is uneasy en anglais comme moi en français, is a natural teacher and she, also like me, has a desire to get to know the other solitude, as per the phrase, Two Solitudes.

Lanugage: seldom think about the platform it provides for communion. I see how immigrants can feel so estranged. Here, people generally are more patient with me outside vieux quebec, and women more than men, with some exceptions. It's the accent that immediately gives me away, and makes for misunderstandings. French requires more nose and throat, je pense.

Marie-Josée said, many quote the title (Two Solitudes) of Hugh MacLennann's book, without having read it. M-J and John met me for coffee one morning. I wanted to thank them for helping me find this place pour rester à Québec. Une couple tres sympathetique. M-J m'a donné son livre de contes, Tokyo Express. Peut-etre je les verrai encore.

Et Annie! La visite de ma cadette! C'était super. Le premier nuit, elle, Pascal et Russ et moi avons eu du vin et h'ors-d'oeuvres, et Russ told a good joke: what is the question to the answer, 9 W? Is Wagner spelled with a V? Nein, W! Fun to walk around the city, along the river, through the neighbourhoods I like. She introduced me to poutine, bought me a café irlandais at the Chateau Frontenac. With her, Pascal and his parents, we celebrated a bilingual Thanksgiving dinner. Or the potential for one. Malhereusement, we spoke English, but I learned much about the culture here and in New Brunsick from Michel and Janette, both literary types,Michel a Radio Canada journalist. Good talk avec ils.




La langue, la langue! Un bon dimanche parce que I conducted myself comprehensibly at Nektar, my favourite coffee bar, and then, after much self-persuasion, initated a conversation with the woman sitting next to me at lecture by Alberto Manguel, full auditorium at la musée de beaux arts. I understood Alberto, too. Oh that felt good. Il a dit que la fête litteraire autour Borges était meilleur que autour Dan Brown. Un festival historique pour Québec and pour Canada aussi. Manguel has always preferred the imaginary, more than the realistic, the importance of the word, of language as symbol. Il me fait à penser. Peut-etre, I really can become binlingue...someday. Meanwhile, the concentration, thinking about words, has to be good for writing.

A debate described, typically, as raucous, as the Charest government pushes through new rules regarding the schooling of children in English. The language debate continues. I wish it weren't a matter of law but of desire, that everyone appreciated the beauty of binlgualisme. Sitting in the gallery of the National Assembly, the afternoon following the forcing of the law, j'ai écouté the PQ's Pauline Marois accuse Charest of abandoning le Quebecois. Could we trust good will, the nationwide recognition of the gift bilingualism is for a country, a person? Reading responses to the issue on the CBC Montreal site makes me doubtful.

Binlingue II.



Je ai trouvé les accents! so I continue m'aventure bilingue à la ville de Québec.

29 septembre

Novel revison took me to 10 am, when the door rang and my dear neighbour Russ appeared at the door with a bouquet of flowers in bright fall colours, un cadeau to apologize for not being able to take me to dinner before the symphony. What a gracious man!

Down Chemin St Foy to Holland, where the tranquille chef de benevolas at the YWCA, interviewed me for a potential spot, a strategy for speaking French suggested by Jean, whom I met at the Morrin Centre. Parcours, I notice all the balconies, some of traditional wood posts, others more ornamental, in iron, comme les balcons à l'Espagne. Another battle site, too, commemorating the battle of St Foy, that the French side won, though victory would not last long. More cannons. Balconies and guns. A sense that people are standing firm. I remember my neighbour Martin's remark about les gens de la ville de Québec, who, according to him, sit on their balconies and go nowhere. Ah, l'histoire, qu'at-il fait pour nous?

In the evening the symphony at the vraiment Grand Theatre with the mural by Jordi Bonet sculpted in cement and stone. It affected me viscerally, figures appearing to climb cement grids, in one place. Of the pieces the Quebec Symphony, featuring Janina Filaokowska, played, including Ravel's Mother Goose, Chopin, and Sibelius,#6 - which I liked because it ended with not even a whimper, let alone the usual bang - my favourite was the premiere of John Burge's Variations, which he wrote for Janina, to commemmorate th 200th anniversary of Chopin's death. After the concert, Carleen, Ron, Russ and I walked to the Concorde, and rode up to the roof rotatif for a drink. Great company. We all walked back along Laurier, under yellow leaves that looked like butterfly wings in the lamplight.

30 septembre

Another rainy day. In fact a tropical storm front is dumping beaucoup de pluie sur some U.S. cities, causing major flooding. It is coming down hard enough here to keep me in until afternoon, when I hop over puddles along Grand Allee to Colline Parlimentaire for a tour of the parliament buildings, including a visit to the National Assembly. This sleepy afaternoon, almost no legislators are present. More attend the hearing on Dying with Dignity, across the hall. I catch some of the debate, wish I understood more. Evidence of the Irish influece in the history of this provice take the form of gold shamrocks which alternate with symbols of England, of First Nations and the Church, in a pattern along various walls. The cross is considered more an historical than religious symbol, the guide explained. In a painting that shows an early meeting of parliamentarians,two guards hold rifles as if they were spears and tigers were about to take from either side of the room.

1 Octobre

New month, new opportunity, at Loisirs Montcalm on Blvd Rene Levesque. I walk through the rain to attend a session on English conversation. The teacher is surprised, but lets me stay to offer, at the end of the class, conversation exchange, English for French. I like les huit, laughing, 60-plus or minus femmes in this group. They get right into the role playing the teacher devises for practice, shout corrections to one another, en français, share perplexed expressions. How much do they learn here? Comme moi, a le centre francophone de colombie-britannique, plus que elles ont connu avant. Two de les belles femmes, Marie et Mireille, make appointments with me for conversation exchange. Finally I might make some progress!

2 octobre

No rain aujourd h'ui. I walk down Salaberry to the building where I will find the ashtanga yoga class. Karen, l'enseignante, helps me en anglais when je ne comprend pas the instructions en français. Inspirez, expirez. Though more demanding than the yoga I have been practicing these last several years, I'm here to challenge myself in all ways. Inspirez, expirez.

Retournant à Laurier, je vois un vague bleue filling the streets. A rally pour les nordiques sur les plaines! Peut etre, 10,000 people wearing blue jerseys, some dogs with jerseys, too, and everyone waving the flags of QC, of Québec. Tous joyeux!Do people here miss the communal experience the hockey games provided, the chance to be together and cheer, or moan?

Finalement, a meeting with Marie, who needs less help with English than I need with French. We meet at les halles, Petit Quartier. Her instructions are precise and she describes her own wants and needs exactement. We agree to meet once a week, same place, same time. By the time we finish, the rally has also finished, and many constituents of the wave linger on Cartier terrasses, drinking beer, enjoying the sun

3 Octobre

Church bells ringing, blue skies and leaves lemony against the black limbs they cling to outside Carleen's window. I understood a bit of the sermon chez St. Dominique, concernant service? The new governor general? But such a beautiful day tempted me to leave before the service finished. I found St. Joseph E where La Bordée is putting on Bonjour la Bonjour, stopped for coffee at a café across from Biliothéque Gabrielle Roy. Je n'ai pas compris when the fille de service said that she would bring the coffee to me. A moment of glumness. Hard to live as a stupid one. Easier to spend l'apres midi cooking for Annie's friend Pascal. Le poulet de Maroc. Pascal sent me my first text message, which came through on the land line, a French speaking robot informing me that Pascal serait en retard. A student in International Journalism at Laval, Pascal is worried before his career has even begun that he will become jaded like journalists he met during internships in Belgium, France, Mali, Canada. A sweet kid.

4 octobre

After finding my way to Laval, a pleasant meeting with Isabel in the ESL department, j'ai cherché un tapis de yoga à St. Foy. I miss so much of what people tell me, and never did find a yoga mat. Later, sitting on a bench enjoying the leaves whose colours are fruit-like in their brilliance, I watched a chestnut-backed chipmunk leap across the grass. Six semaines? My expectations may be too high.



Bilingue (sans les accents)



Pres de La Musee des Beaux-Arts

25 septembre

The train divided countryside planed by corn fields and creweled with coniferous green forests, deciduous trees turning lemon, apricot and russet. Instead of the francophone seatmate I expected, an Aussie engineer who commented on the abundance of water, first the St. Lawrence we crossed over leaving Montreal, then smaller rivers, some ruffling over broad rock-mottled beds. The remainder of the seats on the sold-out train were filled by tourists, many Americans, and at least un petit infant qui a parle en francais. His voice piped above the rumble of rolling metal.

Nous sommes arrive tot! Mais, quel domage. A la gare, while waiting with the other passengers for a taxi, from la ville's apprently thin ranks of them, I discovered that I had left my reading glasses on the train. Kind Frederic, the VIA attendant, encouraged me to wait while someone looked for them. This turned out to be a bonne idee parce que while I waited I tried mon francais on Frederic and he was kind enough to listen and respond. VIA staff must speak both official languages, but even Frederic has trouble understanding Newfoundlanders, he said. Tres sympa about the problems I have comprehending ordinary speech.

Eventuellement, je suis arrive a Av. Laurier, a charming narrow building pres de les plaines d'abraham. My temporary landlady Carleen welcomed me with wine and Quebec cheese and introduced me to the neighbour, a 94 year old former physicist who loves music and immediately offered tickets to both the symphony and the opera.

26 septembre

Il a fait froid et trop vente cet jour, mais c'etait mon premier jour complet! I walked through les plaines, past the Citadelle to vieux Quebec, noticing all along evidence of defence. Cannons point outwards, statues commemorate Generals. Chez Paillard, a Rue St Jean, la fille de service answered me en anglais, though I placed my order en francais. I persisted and la prochaine fille de service m'a repondit en francais, mais c'est apparent a tous that I am anglo. Many tourists in old Quebec, and why not? So few places in North America have buildings as old as these lining narrow cobbled streets. Eventually I work my way down to la gare and the marche at the old port. Feel successful in that I bought fletan, un bon bon, a pimiento et les mais, tous en francais. Aussi, j'ai eu un petit conversation avec le vendeur de le mais. Echappement!

Pendant que j'ai mange ma brioche et bu du the, I read about the various controversies reported dans Le Soleil. Macleans has inflamed the entire province with its cover featuring Bonhomme with a briefcase full of cash, and the headline: The Most Corrupt Province in Canda. Carey Price has lost two games. Can this cowboy from BC be the goalie the Habs need? Basterache, of course, the commission on judicial appointments, which may have been made on the basis of loyalty to the Liberal party more than merit. This commission inspired the Maaclean's article, but using Bonhomme? The symbol of carnaval? One commenetor chez Le Soleil catalogued recent English-lanugage media's negative comments concernant Quebec. If they think we're so bad, he wrote, why do they want us.

The fighting spirit remains. With a history such as the one this city grew from, defensiveness may be genetic.

27 septembre

Les nouvelles en francais, RDI et TVA, en anglais, CBC and Global. Deux sources mais les nouvelles sont presque tout de meme.

The day brightened to full sun, so I took Carleen's suggestion and followed St. Jean Baptiste, stopped at a shop that seemed to have everything, including a tiny, lace-curtained cafe where la fille de service spoke to me en francais because she had little English. We mostly understood one another. When I asked ou se trouve les toilettes, elle m'a dit, cote des pommes, and I found it near the small vegetable and fruit department, entree alongside the apple bin. Back to 60 Laurier for a bit of cheese and bread, but quickly back out, to the 398 stairs leading from les plaines - which are not flat, but roll, smooth and green - to the St. Lawrence. Fishermen with their shirts off, lounging on canvas chairs, drinking beer. On the way back, a troop of young teens using l'escalier for their p.e. class, obviously, challenging one another to see how many times they could go up and down. Tres fort!

28 septembre

Longest walk yet, from Loisirs Montcalm to inquire about tutoring English, to 915 Rene -Levesque, which I thought was a yoga studio, back to Cartier, then to Jean-Baptiste again, looking for a bank that didn't charge a fee for withdrawals. Finally ended up in vieux Quebec, found a bank machine, spoke to deux femmes de France who were almost as much out of their element as me. They share the language, I share the country. But this is another country to me, if one that I don't need a passport to enter. Back to Chez Paillard, which has good prices and decent food, for potage des legumes et un buiscuit trois chocolat. Mmm. Ce fois les filles et les garcons m'ont parle en francais. Improvement or determination? Found the Morrin Centre that Carleen, and also Kaz Connelly recommended. Nice coversation, en anglais, avec Jean Girard, the volunteer at the front desk, a beginning poet. I've lost the address he gave me for the writer's circle. Perhaps I will go back. They do have a beautiful library. Dark wood shelves, filled with bright-spined books, and leading to the mezzanine, a winding staircase of black wrought iron just wide enough for two legs. An anglophone volunteer in the library recommended her little Presbyterian church to me, pointing to it, across les chausees des ecossais. The second time in three days someone mentioned a church to me. Finalement, found my way to the Citadelle, walked through the drizzle along the ramparts to jardin de jeanne d'arc and Av. Laurier. Home, after four hours. I immediately fell asleep.




Via VIA



Mount Robson




Oh I love the train. The entertainer who went from fairly boring guitar, to more interesting sax to rockin' piano on the euphemistically-named terrace of the Vancouver station, to my tiny room, crisp sheets on the bed, the window alongside, the countryside blurring past as we rolled out of the station on time. From my first glimpse of morning, the station in Kamloops, my first breakfast with other passengers. Oh, the food VIA serves! Transcontinental breakfast big enough to span the distance between the centre of BC and the eastern edge, approaching the Rockies at lunch. A more muted sunrise in Sasktchewan this trip(shown above); not the burst of gold over ice-glazed snowfields, but still the sun, caught in water this season. Half the 26-car train departed at Jasper, leaving a more committed group. Different partners for every meal, including the English tour guide, the Montreal menswear designer and his very political wife for one of the most enjoyable, but also the Mexican-born recent widower and his sister; another widower, going from desolation to desolation, as he put it. The quick trackside walks at Saskatoon, Melvielle. A time out of no-time break at Winnipeg, at the Fort Garry Hotel with dear Ian. Endless Ontario, but prettier this trip, at this time of year. Easy to see the Group of Seven's inspiration, the rocks, all the lakes, the trunks of white birch, the larch, leaves turning yellow. Sad Hornepayne, where there was no water but where Dazy found a battery for her watch. I become nostalgic before the trip is over, wonder how I can afford the trip back. Darn. I love the train.

More from Melville

"... a long sleek on the sea directly and lengthwise ahead, smooth as oil, and resembling in the pleated watery wrinkles bordering it, the polished metallic-like marks of some swift rip-tide, at the mouth of a deep, rapid stream."

"Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it"

"Hold; while Prometheus is about it, I'll order a complete man after a desirable pattern, Imprimis, fifty feet high in his socks; then, chest modelled after the Thames Tunnel; then, legs with roots to 'em to stay in one place; then, arms three feet through the wrist; no heart at all, brass forehead, and about a quarter of an acre of fine brains; and let me see - shall I order eyes to see outwards? No, but put a sky-light on top of his head to illuminate inwards. There, take the order, and away."

"Both the ancestry and posterity of Grief go further than the ancestry and posterity of Joy. For, not to hint of this: that it is an inference from certain canonic teachings, that while some natural enjoyments here shall have no children born to them for the other world, but, on the contrary, shall be followed by the joy-childlessness of all hell's despair; whereas, some guilty moral miseries shall still fertilely beget themselves an eternally progressive progeny of griefs beyond the grave; not at all to hint of this, there still seems an inequality in the deeper analysis of the thing. For, thought Ahab, while even the highest earthly felicities ever have a certain unsignifying pettiness lurking in then, but, at bottom, all heart-woes a mystic significance, and in some men, an archangelic grandeur..."

"One often hears of writers that rise and swell with their subject, though it may seem but an ordinary one. How, then, with me, writing of this Leviathan? Unconsciously my chirography expands into placard capitals. Give me a condor's quill! Give me Vesuvius' crater for an inkstand! Friends, hold my arms! for in the mere act of penning my thoughts of this Leviathan, they weary me, and me faint with their outreaching comprehensiveness of sweep, as if to include the whole circle of the sciences, and all the generations of whales, and men, and mastodons, past, present and to come, with all the revolving panoramas of empire on earth, and throughout the whole universe, not excluding its suburbs. Such, and so magnifying, is the virtue of a large and liberal theme! We expand to its bulk. To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme. No great and enduring volume can ever be written on the flea, though many there be who have tried it."

"There is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he forever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar."

"Another point of difference between the male and female schools is still more characteristic of the sexes. Say you strike a Forty-barrel bull-poor devil! all his comrades quit him. But strike a member of the harem school, and her companions swim around her with every token of concern, sometimes lingering so near her and so long, as themselves to fall a prey."

A Fable with Cell Phones



Forest spirit mask by Sandy Buck and Diego Samper.Photos by Diego Samper.

Difficulty at the beginning. How can everything be accomplished in five days? And a rocky gala, not the gala part but the under-rehearsed Fable. Most of the audience seemed not to notice but enjoyed the first formal performance Friday evening. Then Saturday, and rain. I stayed away. But Sunday! Deliverance! A crowd that grew larger for every show, a sky that brightened, lines, bits that became smoother, sometimes inspired. Spectators were eager to try the stunning masks Sandy and Diego created, open to what would happen next. Most things worked, or worked well enough that no one noticed the glitches. People returned from the forest smiling, many of them moved, touched. I was so happy for Chad, Sandy and Diego. Their vision became a reality. The dream from the earth, that they didn't know they had. Or maybe they did.

As for me, still pondering. I would write a different forest scene. Why, when the three different environments of the three different locations had given me the narrative arc I worked with, why was I surprised by the effects the three places had on the text and the performance? Not so much the spiral in the open; the cozy cobhouse, which invited play; but the simple solemnity of the forest. The changing light! Sun on moss-gloved limbs, rain. The first two acts worked better than the last. The forest absorbed voices. I would write stronger lines, create more tension, more of a ritual before the actual end, when a wonderfully conceived (by Sandy) spirit, in black and white, appeared in front of a burnt stump.

Synchronicity

Steve Wright recording the sounds of Geoff Smedley's Descarte's Clown
Homage to the concept in a Festival at deercrossingtheartsfarm. The planned events reflecting some synchronicity among creators, and spontaneously creating something among the spectators, we hope. Production week began today. A risky venture in that we're hoping to put the pieces of this event together in five days. It will be intense, revealing. For my part so far, A Fable with Cell Phones. Fun to imagine. Visual, active, playful. A challenge for me, and I'm hoping it inspires the visual artists, the musicians, sound artist, not to mention the actors. But I think I have imagined characters that will draw out qualities of both actors. What I had to consider: it will take place outdoors, in three different locations, so a promenade play; it must be for all ages yet must reflect my desire to avoid platitudes, the facile. There must be lots of room for other imaginations to play, ie the visual artists Diego and Sandy, the sound/music artists Serena and Steve. Eilis contributed six juicy lines from her poem Grimm. That Chad and Lani will bring imagination to their roles is assured by their motivation and the broadness of both characters. The land has a natural narrative shape, in my view. Cell phones as magic wands capable of transforming a situation. Here we go...

And then there's The Strength of Materials, based on Geoffrey Smedley's immense sculpture, Descarte's Clown. Steve Wright recorded the sounds of the machines. I jotted down words and rearranged them into a kind of list poem, guided by the rhythm of syllables and the sound of words, the potential for alliteration. I hope the piece gets its due during Synchronicity, but, because of place, time, other constraints, it may not. Already I have more ideas for the list poem. Diego and I should mount an exhibit somewhere, with his photographs and this sound piece. Much to contemplate --- a happy state.

En francais

Quel domage! C'est fini. Deux semaines d'etudiant la langue avec dix autres. Notre enseignante Nathalie etait charmante et elle a prepare pour chaque classe. Je m'amusais essaie de parler. Pour la fin de le cours, nous a mange ensemble au restaurant, Les Salades des Fruits a Le Centre. Tres delicieux! Pendant ces semaines, j'ai vu aussi le film, Les Herbes Folles, et le piece de theatre, Henry V, concernant la bataille d'Agincourt et Henry's marriage avec Catherine de France. Maintenant, je dois continuer etudier parce que je vais aller a la Ville de Quebec cet Septembre. Peut etre, par cet fois, je connaisserai comment faire les accents dans le texte! Il y a trop de trop apprendre, mais je veux comprendre la langue meilleur, et Quebec et les Quebecois.

Reading Moby Dick

Taken with Melville's narrative voice, which I haven't read for some years. Also, his insights:
( re a dreamy youth standing watch at the top of the mast) "...lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious reverie is this absent-minded youth by the blending cadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity; take the mystic ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep, blue bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange, half-seen, gilding, beautiful thing that eludes him; every dimly-discovered, uprising fin of some undiscernible form, seems to him the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by continually flitting through it. In this enchanted mood, thy spirit ebbs away to whence it came; becomes diffused through time and space; like Cranmer's sprinkled Pantheistic ashes, forming at last a part of every shore the round globe over."

Victorious


From left, Elizabeth Huber, Sue Broverman, David King,
Sam Broverman, Wayne Nicklas, Judy Cook, Nancy Hall.
Images from a profound Victoria Day Weekend.
Ten old friends having dinner together around the table while the man they have gathered to celebrate, Wayne, sits in an armchair off to the side, watching the light play over the Coast mountains above Howe Sound as nourishment enters directly through a tube in his arm.
Judy packing medical supplies into the rented Ford Flex at 5AM, helping Wayne to the passenger's seat for the short drive from Grantham's Landing to the Langdale Ferry terminal. She says she thinks of it as touring, as she's done in her dance career for decades. At 6:20, the Queen of Cowichan sets sail for Horseshoe Bay, a forty minute voyage during which Wayne and Judy stay in the vehicle, as they do while they wait at HB for another ferry, to Nanaimo, a ninety minute crossing this time.

Wayne with Nicola Cavendish, who acted with him in David King's
"Up Island" in 2008.
On the road, the Island Highway in Sam and Sue's rented car, the Ford Flex following us. Isn't it? I turn to check and see the gleaming black body of the Wayne-sized vehicle, the white roof, Judy at the wheel, Wayne reclining next to her, David in the back. At the same time, a doppelganger Ford Flex passes us, as if heading for a destination that is not on the itinerary.
Autumn colours weave through the set of The Sunshine Boys, reds, yellows, greens, browns. A gem of a production directed by Nicola Cavendish, another friend. This play at the Chemainus Theatre, starring his old pals Nick Rice and Harry Nelkin, is what Wayne and Judy have traveled all the way from Winnipeg (via Port Moody and the Sunshine Coast) to see. But first they had to check into the hotel for a rest. At 1:45, we're waiting for the Ford Flex to pull up to the stage door. Nothing. At 1:55, we have to take our places. Still nothing. At 2:00 the show must go on, and does. Oh no! After coming all this way, have they missed it? Then, ten minutes in, a door at the top back of the theatre opens and a few people are guided to their spots to watch the heart-full performances of men who have spent their lives in the theatre, just like the characters they are playing, just like Wayne. Victorious!
At the intermission, Judy explains that it wasn't the pain that started last week as esophageal cancer continued to whittle him, nor Wayne's frailty that delayed them, but a wrong turn out of the hotel parking lot.
The "Sunshine Boys" with Wayne, Harry Nelkin as Al, left, Nicholas Rice as Willy.

When the lights flicker in the lobby, announcing the second act, Wayne grabs some of our arms to hoist himself up from the sofa, and takes a front row seat this time, which is easier for him. Towards the end of the play, Harry Nelkin (as Al Lewis) helps his old partner Nick Rice (playing Willy Clark) into bed and the resonances multiply as Willy, who doesn't want to accept that he may be finished, bluffs about the work he has lined up, and Al laments his family's plan to send him to a home for retired actors. Line after line as if narrated from the life of the tall, gaunt man watching from just below the stage.
Barely 48 hours after his final appearance in the theatre, the 59-year old Canadian actor, Winnipeg's Wayne Nicklas, died in hospital in Duncan, B.C.

Friends of long standing


From the rather serious expressions on the faces of these two long-time friends, sculptor Geoffrey Smedley on the left, and architect/sculptor Richard Henriquez, one would never guess the brilliant and playful imaginations they possess. What a treat to hear Richard talk about his work and present images at another successful Gambier Arts and Ideas event. One line I remember, that..."the office building is the epitome of the homogenization of the world."

Now we are (still) ten...

From February, 2009

The first of us siblings died this week.
For years we wondered who would go first, what the order would be. Would we drop off chronologically, according to age? We have the answer now and it's no. So what does determine the order? The least liked to the most liked? Who would determine where each of us belongs on that scale? Would we go according to how interesting our lives have been, who has made the most important contribution to the world? Who has the biggest house, the most expensive car? Would we go by who can afford to live longest, first being the one who could least afford to linger? Considering who died first, that could be the order. But is it fair? Should the most successful automatically go last? By what are we defining success, in this case? What about those with the longest lasting marriages? Should their stick-to-it-iveness be rewarded with a life longer than those who divorced young, as she did?
And how to die: a painful last illness? Cancer? A general breakdown in the systems, as she did? Or easily, in our sleep, like our mother? Or, unexpectedly - a car accident, slipping on the ice and banging a head, a bear attack; or murder, as in the case of our poor niece.
And then what? What kind of hole will there be? A negligible one, just a snag, really, in the family cloth, or the kind of crater that creates a new landscape the way rutted paths influence the direction of water flow.
What about the funeral? A tradition has begun. Her children opted for an open casket, wake, funeral, the now-standard video tribute. But does this mean we need to follow the tradition? Do we really want to see each other's remains? Do we want to subject related-by-marriage mourners and friends near and distant to the sight of our dessicated corpses, dessicated because embalming fluid is not life blood but only creates the illusion that the shell in the satin lined casket is one of us sleeping? Turnout will be a factor, of course. In a family where numbers have always counted, where the success of an event has depended on how many of the eleven of us showed up, there will be one less next time. So who would want to be last? That which may seem like a reward could be punishment. The first to go drew the most mourners, and what is that in this large family if not success?
RIP Donna.

Still ten...

Just over a year passed and it was likely we would lose another sister, the oldest. In her case death has been a dance partner, swinging her out, swinging her back into to his cold arms. This time death had almost smothered her when the music changed and she swung back out again, skinny but strong, back on her own two feet.
Continued long life, Beverly.