the cassandra pages

Still Rolling as the Temperature Drops

(originally written on Thursday - it's pouring at the moment!)

Well, on to cheerier thoughts. We've got a bright-ish day here, and are still on our bikes even though the city is starting to close the bike paths for the winter. Of course, Montrealers being who they are, some people continue to commute by cycle throughout the entire winter, each with their own combination of clothing and equipment - like studded bike tires. Not I. Once there's ice on the pavement, I'm through. It also becomes more dangerous because drivers and pedestrians aren't looking for bikes as consciously in cold weather, and you're much more likely to get clipped or have someone step out in front of you. Of course I do have my equipment (all pretty inexpensive and low-tech) - lights, mirrors, gloves, bike lock, a helmet with a wool liner these days, a windproof parka and a scarf that can be pulled up over my mouth, a plastic bag to go over the seat in case it rains while the bike's locked up outside, a backpack for the computer, a couple of paper towels to wipe off the handlebars. I guess for a lot of people this would be too much hassle, or too much work, but I'm in much better shape now than I was in the country, and the fresh air and tour through the neighborhoods almost every day feels great. It reminds me of being a kid, when my friend Lorry and I spent lots of time riding around our little town on our one-speed bikes, feeling free, and checking everything out that was going on.

For me, the bike represents both exercise and freedom - it's so wonderful not to have the hassle of a car, having to find parking spots, and then being tied to that spot rather than able to roam around freely. We're going from owning two cars to one that we use fairly infrequently, and saving substantial amounts of money as well as feeling like we're doing our bit for greenness. In spite of being a city where cycling is difficult or impossible for four months out of the year, Montreal does a great deal to support and encourage it, extending bike paths and this year starting the BIXI program for short commutes, and I'm grateful.

I took my first ride on a BIXI bike a couple of weeks ago. We bought a subscription when the program began, to support it and to be able to offer a bike to visitors, but we found that once in a while it was convenient for us too. I think the day I used one it had been raining hard earlier and so I didn't have my bike at the studio, but later I needed to do an errand. There are a great number of conveniently-located BIXI stations all over the central part of the city. You just choose a bike with the seat at the right height, put your "key" in a slot, release the bike, and you're ready to go; at the other end you just dock your bike into a station and your ride-time is registered as terminated; all the stations are solar-powered and the bikes include digital microchips so they can be identified and found. The BIXIs are super-sturdy, with the chain enclosed so you don't have to worry about pant legs getting caught or anything; there are three gears, lights, and a basket with attached bungie cords. The system has been very popular in its first year, and I've heard that Montreal has sold its high-tech home-developed BIXI system to two or three other cities - which is good, since it took a lot of money to develop and launch.

Sometimes I reflect on how totally unaware I was of the problems of city transportation when I lived in the country, where we just got in the car and drove everywhere we couldn't walk to -- and there's the problem, of course. Moving millions of urban people every day and trying to do it responsibly is an enormous issue that's become fascinating to me, and I'm glad we have options here and that the city continues to innovate, pushed by a population for whom environmental issues are fairly high on the priority list. Still, construction projects are everywhere, the streets are full of potholes, and huge amounts of oil and gas are being consumed every day. The bridges into the city are congested with single-occupant vehicles, and I'm constantly aware of the constant movement of trains, boats, airplanes, cars and trucks in and out of this transportation hub. My little bike trip to and from work is truly a tiny gesture.

Addendum: and then there's this. about vandalism in the Paris system. Our local bike system has a low rate of vandalism and theft: high-tech improvements allow unreturned bikes to be found, and the pedals also lock after a certain period of time, rendering the bike pretty useless to thieves. Bixi officials say nearly all "lost" bikes have been recovered becasue people call up to say they've seen one that seems to be abandoned. Follow-up articles in the Montreal papers, after this NY Times piece about Paris, suggest that another reason for the low rate of Bixi vandalism here, as opposed to the French system, is that the Montreal pricing structure was set to make it possible for almost anyone to rent and ride a bike, whereas the Paris bikes are perceived as expensive and elitist, and are therefore a source of resentment rather than pride for less affluent citizens. Whatever it is, it seems to be working - and the Bixi people have announced trials of 7-speed bikes for next year.

Body Conscious

Two poem-like things from the past week:

I dream a volcano beneath a familiar lake
water rising, red fire in the rocks.
Tell my poet-friend, “we must go quickly!”
”Good luck,” he replies, shows me
the bionic implant in his back, his stitched skin –
suddenly it’s fatal to be real.

---

1.The EKG man is doing research. He talks while pulling the blue paper gown off my breasts as nonchalantly as tissue from an orange. "I ask the patients, 'What do you recall about this test?' They tell me, 'you never put electrodes on my legs.' You see? The memory lies to us."

2."Aha!" says the nurse, triumphantly tapping the small vein. My blood obediently flows into four vials: purple, yellow, green, blue.

3.In the patient lounge, a masked teen coughs miserably. Her mother, in boots, chic tights and a short black dress, plays with a cell phone. Trapped with them, three of us exchange glances. Beside us, a pitcher of orange juice, a fancy coffee machine. We've each been here for two hours, waiting for various tests, fasting since last evening. Every now and then a doctor comes in, pours a cup of coffee or juice, leaves without looking at us. Bilingual eyes roll.

H1N1 Self-care Guide

I was at the my doctor's today for an annual check-up, and on my list of questions was whether or not I should be vaccinated for the swine flu/H1N1 virus.

"Yes," she said, and explained that she's listening to the advice given by the health officials of the province of Quebec, who are trying to achieve what she called (rather unflatteringly but accurately, I'm sure) "herd immunity," by vaccinating a large percentage of the population. There will be free, widespread clinics in Montreal, in shopping centers and other big public locations, over the next month, with the vaccine available first to the populations most at risk. The general public will be able to get shots about one month from now, and I'll probably follow her advice and go myself. Besides, there's something eminently bloggable about getting a flu shot in the Olympic Stadium, n'est-ce pas?

But I did want to pass along this link to the Quebec H1N1 Self-care Guide that arrived in the mail a few days ago. I thought it was particularly well done - full of important information, calmly presented, designed to keep public anxiety at a low level and help alleviate the pressure on the delivery system. (This is the English edition; it's also available in French of course, and you might find it interesting to take a look at the edition adapted for people of the First Nations.) The decision chart on page 15, which describes symptoms and what you should do in each case, seemed especially helpful to me, and applicable to anyone, anywhere.

Meanwhile, wash your hands and don't lose sleep over this.

Tawny Companions

All day, the light has shifted behind clouds, slant and brilliant, then dull, then setting the leaves ablaze again. It's been warm, as the thermometer reads - above 50 degrees all day - but if you go out the wind is fierce and quickly chills your face and hands.

I spent some time on the terrace, taking advantage of the warmth and dryness to sweep and clean up. The plants all came in last week, and tomorrow we'll take some of them to the studio where they'll have a happier and sunnier winter. The woodbox is free now, ready for the short snowy trudges on evenings when we want a fire. The porch boxes are also free, and all morning a squirrel ran up and down the locust tree, jumped over the fence and onto the terrace to dig rapturously in the soft dirt. I went to the glass door and glared at him. Totally unperturbed, he hopped off the planter and walked up tot he door and looked at me expectantly, hoping maybe I'd bring him some nuts and save him a trip.

In a little while I looked up again, catching a glimpse of movement, and saw a large yellow cat also digging in the planter. This time I went outside. The cat - the same one I've petted a few times recently as he sunned himself on the hood of a nearby parked car - came up to me and rubbed against my hand. He didn't have a collar or tag, but looked well-fed and was strong and muscular. I sat down on the door sill, sunny but sheltered from the wind; he hung around my legs, purring and soaking up any affection I felt like giving, then settled down in a patch of sun, glowing yellow, and we rested there in companionable silence while the squirrel, temporarily thwarted, scolded us from the trunk of the tree.

A Week's Worth of Micropoems

Maybe because things are changing, the fall seems to have given me a push to start
writing these again. I wonder if they'll keep coming, or if winter will be as poetically frozen as summer seemed to be!

The close garter-stitch helmet renders androgynous
this medieval horseman on her wheeled steed
her quiver a pink milk crate.

---

Evening water boils
scent of chamomile and mint
sleep is still far off.

---

Red leaves on a wall
Purple berries stain the trottoir
Pecking holes in autumn
the starlings scatter.

---

Indian summer day, in colors of the real India-
saffron, cumin, cardamom green, cinnamon brown-
above it all, the upside-down blue sea.

---

The tree-leaf fingertip connection
so tenuous it’s severed
by a single drop of water.

---

Like my neighbor's lace curtains
snow veils the beyond.
The one entices, the other
I know all too well.

The Poaching Pope

 

Charlemagne and the Pope

Pope Benedict announced yesterday that the Vatican is establishing a way for disaffected Anglicans to become Catholics.

By means of a decree known as an apostolic convention, the Pope has created a new structure allowing Anglicans to join the Catholic Church while maintaining their own liturgy – in particular the historic Book of Common Prayer – and in some cases having their own bishops. 

Reaction has been, to my mind, confused and wishywashy, but several points seem obvious and need to be made. (And I write this with some reluctance: after the publication of my book in 2006 about Bishop Gene Robinson and church politics, especially with regard to homosexuality, I felt very weary of the entire subject, and have largely stayed on the sidelines of the ongoing debate. However...)

1) This is a calculated economic and strategic move. Pope Benedict may be retrograde, but he is also shrewd. As Catholic parishes dwindle, and his insistence on "holding the line" against progressive movements that would bring Catholicism into the 21st century fails to result in Catholics "returning to the fold", the Vatican is looking elsewhere to fill its pews, clergy lists, and coffers. Many of the disaffected Anglican parishes are both conservative and wealthy. A drop in the bucket, in international terms, perhaps, but every bit helps. I'm quite sure the Vatican looked around and said, "If these parishes are leaving and aligning with African Anglican bishops, why shouldn't we try to get them to come over to us?"

2) Contrary to sentimental Anglican notions, the Vatican doesn't care about closer ties. Throughout the history of the Anglican Church, a portion of Anglicans have sought to reunite with what they see as "the one true church." These Anglo-Catholics have sought closer ties with Rome but have been repeatedly rebuffed; instead they have formed parishes which have, in many cases, refused to use the revised Book of Common Prayer (revised especially to use inclusive language) and steadfastly opposed the ordination of women. Even so, the Vatican has not made any offers until now - when it sees these parishes leaving the Anglican Communion anyway because of the ordination of gay bishops and priests. This isn't about closer ties that might ultimately lead to a rapprochement with Rome, which would, in fact, require ideological movement by both churches toward one another: it's an acknowledgment of irreconcilable differences and an indication that no movement by the Catholic Church is forthcoming whatsoever.

3) Therefore, the Vatican is essentially saying "welcome" to homophobic, anti-female, anti-progressive Anglicans: you're just the kind of Catholics we want -- rather than seeing what's happening in the Anglican Communion as an indication that fundamental change is required within Catholicism. It may also be a silent tit-for-tat reaction to Catholic defection by progressives and gay people to the Episcopal and Anglican churches.

4) Racism. Anglican and Episcopal leaders have reacted vaguely, but generally positively. I find that extremely disturbing, for the following reason. Besides the AngloCatholics, the other group outraged by gay ordination have been the evangelicals, led by bishops of the so-called Global South, particularly African bishops from provinces such as Uganda and Nigeria. When these Anglican bishops wooed American bishops, held illegal ordinations for new bishops, and circumvented Anglican rules of behavior, it was rightly called "poaching." Now we have Anglican spokespersons making statements like "there's no reason to see the Vatican's move negatively," (Canon Eric Beresford of Canada) or as "a comment on problems within Anglicanism" (Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams).

The black African bishops spoke openly about the end of the colonial legacy, and triumphally about the success of evangelical Anglicanism in the developing world, where the numbers are greatest and the church is actually growing. That attitude didn't go down well in North America and Europe, but a white European pope, wearing the same outfit and saying the same mass and preaching in the same restrained way? Well, this is something familiar; he is, for all intents and purposes, one of us - we northerners are all, so to speak, cut out of the same ecclesiastical cloth, and so we'll extend professional courtesy to one another. In my opinion, that's racist.

5) why should anyone care? A good question, and on that has been brought up in the comments in every article I've read about this development. The answer is that there are still people who find comfort and faith in the liturgical tradition maintained by Catholicism and Anglicanism, and - as Canon Eric Beresford so rightly pointed out, "people need to find a home." Here in Quebec, where the Catholic church has been so discredited, and deserted by the French Canadians who once filled every parish pew and balcony, we have an example of what the future looks like if churches refuse to acknowledge the past and look toward a future that keeps pace with the world. In our Anglican parish, the largest group of newcomers are gay former Roman Catholics who have found a home where they are welcome as full participants in the mass, and in the life of the parish. I've writtten already about the enormous damage done to gay men and women who were refused communion and rejected by priests and, in some cases, their own Catholic families as unredeemable sinners. Their personal stories are well known to me now, as is the pain that they've endured and their relief at finding a place with a different message, but the same basic liturgy of the mass. I understand why simply rejecting the church and leaving for good was not an option for many of them (and I also see why this is hard for people to understand who weren't raised in a Catholic tradition.)

Finally, what disturbs me the most is the Anglican leadership's equivocation when they act as if these two divides are somehow equal, natural and right. All that says is "what we care about is not truth, not the existence of moral principles and justice, but the preservation of the institution by whatever means are necessary." Breaking into multiple divisions rather than struggling together is the easier way out, but even if that happens, why should we sidestep what it really means and what we are saying when we support it? Are women and gay people to be endlessly excluded from full participation, or do we actually stand for something? If we do, then it should be said courageously, with no mincing of words, and lived out as fact. Without this, is it any wonder people who can detest hypocrisy are deserting the church in droves?

A Familiar Face, and Another Reflected

Yes, that's the man. William Jefferson Clinton was in town today to receive an honorary doctorate from McGill, and I was lucky enough to know someone who had a ticket and was able to get another. This event took place under the radar, or so it seemed; there was one small TV truck from CTV near the building, very little press inside, no crowds, a relatively small contingent of Secret Service, six or seven unmarked black vehicles. I had the impression that the event had been managed very carefully. We arrived about 40 minutes early, and judging from past experience with things like presidential debates or candidate appearances in New Hampshire, I had expected a long wait before being cleared for entrance, and even debated whether I should bring my cell phone, let alone a camera. In the end I took a small purse with both in it, but I needn't have worried: there was no gauntlet of security to go through, no metal detectors that I could see, not even a bag check. It's harder to get into any art gallery in a major American city than it was to get into this event. We gave our names at a desk, received our tickets, and walked into the auditorium along with about a thousand other people, and that was that.

 

The low-key scene at the back door, after the speech

Clinton's plane was late, and the master of ceremonies informed us we'd have an extra ten minute wait. But soon we heard the sound of bagpipes, and a solitary piper in full regalia entered the auditorium, followed by the chancellor of the university and the board of trustees and other officials, all in their lovely red robes and soft black academic caps, along with the guest of honor. It wasn't a huge room, so we weren't too far from the aisle or the podium, and at the first glimpse of that utterly familiar face I felt a quizzical sense of comfortable recognition: yes, that's Bill Clinton, we're in the same room after all these years, how bizarre, but how...normal it feels. I've followed his career, listened to his speeches with attention and admiration, watched him on television so many times and for such a large chunk of my life, that he does feel familiar. All the mannerisms I've come to know were in evidence: the hang of the head while listening to the introduction, the wry little grin, the way he looks up and suddenly moves from introspective listening to engagement, and then to that disarming charm and charisma. A flawed man with a very big heart, and a true genius for connection. Someone who may even do more as a past-president than he was able to accomplish in the office itself.

Since I was little, I've been interested in political speeches, sermons, orations, and the people behind them. A part of me, I guess, has always wanted to do that myself, but (although my mother hoped I might) I didn't go into politics, nor did I follow in the footsteps of my paternal grandfather and uncle and go into the ministry. I remember what must have ben a formativ time, listening to Jack and Bobby Kennedy, and to Martin Luther King when I was between 9 and 12, and talking with my parents about what they had said and what made them such gifted orators. In the intervening years, few people came close to those standards - Jessie Jackson, sometimes; William Sloane Coffin; Mario Cuomo was a reluctant but gifted speaker. But Clinton had it - perhaps not the ringing, memorable lines that will go down in the history books and enter the anthologies of quotations, but definitely the gift for connecting with an audience, and saying real things that created a movement of the heart, so that I often found myself changed through the course of his speeches. What also astounded me was his ability to talk extemporaneously and compellingly and with great relaxation about the most complicated subjects - I've never seen anyone, including Obama, who does it better.

Today was no different. After the degree was conferred, Clinton went to the podium and proceeded to speak, without notes, for over an hour. It was World Food Day, and he talked about farming, and soil, and feeding the world; he also talked about AIDS and malaria, about lowering the price of medicine and delivering it to the people who need it. That's the work he's involved in now. But mostly he talked, throughout his wide-ranging speech filled with stories of people he'd met and the initiatives they've taken, about finding and nurturing hope in ourselves and the crucial need to move forward as a world together. He pointed out that intelligence and dreams exist in human beings everywhere. What we tend to have, and a lot of people don't have, are the systems that allow, for example, medicine to be delivered to those who need it. "It's not like a food drop," he said. "You can't airlift medicine to Africa and drop it into a field." Putting together the money, products - often innovative ones - and people, and building systems for delivery and then for self-sufficiency is what matters to him. He also extolled the internet as a means by which people can multiply their own power and actually make things happen, whether that's tsunami relief or much smaller projects that require a collective spirit. He spoke about things like the postal code lottery in the Netherlands, wher epeople buy lottery tickets but the prize doesn't go to an individual but is split between all the buyers in a postal code - with the profits going to humanitarian work. 'What a different mindset that comes from!" he remarked. Or the small tax of 1 or 2 euros on international airline tickets, first imposed in France and then joined by other countries which has generated huge sums of money; his organization has been able to use some of the money raised in this way to lower the cost of AIDS medicine from $600 to $60 per individual in the African countries where he works.

"What I think has persisted in Canada but been lost in my country, until the past ten years or so, when it's slowly started to come back," he said, "is a spirit of communalism - a sense that we need each other, and we need to move forward together." That's what his speech was about, at heart, and it was one of the best I've ever heard him give. I wish the religions could do as well as this at touching that flame of love and hope that, I believe, burns within each of us. Bill Clinton didn't mention God, but it was a deeply spiritual speech, and I was not the only one with tears in my eyes as we stood to applaud at the end of it.

Riding the metro on the way home, I caught sight of my face in the darkened window. I saw the reflection of a thin woman, getting older, with lines around her eyes, and the strong feeling of optimism and inspiration that had buoyed me through the cold streets gave way a little. I felt my heart sink. "You're too old," that demon voice whispered. "You've missed your chance, it's too late to make a difference, to do anything new." But then I saw another face in my mind. "You idiot," said the angel on my other shoulder. "He's older than you are, his face is full of years, full of sadness and hope and determination, not that different from yours. He's not going to give up, and neither are you. It's never too late."

I'm so grateful to have had this unusual opportunity and gift today, and happy I had the chance to stand up and applaud one of the great human beings of our time. I look forward to hearing what he'll do over the next years, and hope I can retain the encouragement I felt from his words. As another very thoughtful friend once told me, "It doesn't matter so much where you go in, where you put your energy, so long as you go in somewhere." In other words, act.

A Little Suspense

Tomorrow (Friday) I'm heading out early to see someone I've always wanted to see. Someone well-known. Who hardly anyone knows is in town. Stay tuned.

κριτικός

kritikós: "able to discern," from the Greek

Several recent conversations have made me think about the role of bloggers as critics, myself in particular. Just the other day I wrote a pretty harsh review of a film, and today I responded to a post and conversation at (p)(b) about literary criticism in general and a particular book, Caroline Alexander's "The War that Killed Achilles," and a review thereof in the NYTimes.

I've had some second thoughts about the review I wrote, trying to put myself in the shoes of the filmmaker if she were to read it. It certainly hurt me when I read negative comments in reviews of my own book, and I don't want to be unfair, especially to someone who is clearly talented at the art of making films and who could, I think, grow into a deeper interpreter of her own cultural heritage. So there's that.

Trying to be non-judgmental and kind has always been my desire. But when also trying to get at the truth about things, a sharp intellect and verbal skills don't always result in absolute kindness.

Someone close to me recently asked, basically, "Who do you think you are, setting yourself up as a critic?" suggesting that doing so is mostly about my own ego - a charge that probably fits most critics like a tight T. But, as if there were a wasp caught inside that taut shirt, the comment stung me.

There's a difference between having something to say (and trying to say it well and carefully) and pontificating in order to put oneself up on a pedestal. The Greek root of the word, κριτικός, has to do with that overused Anglican word, "discernment," (often trotted out in vague circumstances when people who don't agree at all agree to go through a "process" together to "discern the will of God.'") The "ability to discern" has come to imply a sifting of right from wrong, good from bad, making the best decisions rather than not-so-good ones. Not much in life can be put into such neat piles, it seems to me. I suspect the original meaning was closer to "having good judgment", a by-product not of innate intelligence or sharply-honed debating skills, but of long experience and wisdom -- which is why it probably grates on us to read snarky put-downs of other writers and artists by young self-seeking critics. In my role as editor at qarrtsiluni, I have to pass judgement on other people's work; the result can encourage or it can, especially when handled clumsily, completely squelch someone's creativity. It's not a task I approach lightly, and it's only recently, on the upper end of middle-age, that I've felt comfortable at all about taking it on. A degree of humility seems fairly important, but even if you have that, the role itself can obscure it.

Maybe offering opinions is always fraught with peril. I probably won't stop, but thinking about what I'm doing, why I'm doing it, and weighing the potential results is pretty crucial.

What do you think? Just as the internet has allowed everyone to publish their work, it also allows us all to be critics. Is that good? How do you "discern" intelligent commentary and discussion from the clamor of the millions of voices out there, and is it even something you seek? Or is much of the popularity of the medium, really, just because we get to to hear the sound of our own voices?