the cassandra pages

What do you do?

"What do you do?" asked a new friend. "I'm sorry I haven't asked you before. I know you've just written a book but...do you do something else?"

I stopped, both because of the question, which I get asked far less often in Canada than in the United States, and because, suddenly, I really wasn't sure what to answer. I suppose I could have answered, "I blog!" but that would have been both true, and kind of facetious. So I told her I had always been a graphic designer, and now I was writing more, and that I was really not too sure what I would be doing five years from now. Which is also the truth.

This young woman is a very good painter, and yesterday we visited her studio, a light-filled space in a large converted warehouse on the edge of the Lachine Canal. We looked at her paintings, about to be sent to a gallery in another city, and drank coffee, and talked. The afternoon light drifted into the room, white and dreamy over the large table with its brushes and glass palette and jars of linseed oil, and gradually pooled into shadows behind the canvases leaning against the walls to become near-darkness by the door. We sat on wicker chairs and the piano bench and a quilt-draped old armchair, while the painter's calm greyhound languished on a round dog-bed, lifting a blond-lashed eyelid now and then to make sure all the humans hadn't forgotten her. In the group were two musicians, two photographers, a writer (me) and the painter: all serious about our work, all relatively new friends; readers, Anglicans, people deeply concerned about the world, but happy to share a few hours talking about art, and being together in a setting that felt - as the creation and contemplation of art sometimes does - outside of time.

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This morning at the cathedral, the men's choir surprised us with a 10th century Plainsong mass, the cantor stating the themes and the men's voices rising and falling in near-perfect unison. I closed my eyes and thought of the columned crypts in the oldest cathedrals I've visited in Europe; thought of Merton struggling irritatedly with the singing in his monastery choir, and smiled; opened my eyes to see the light refracting through the colored glass above the altar, marvelling at color itself.

I went up to the altar for communion, and in front of me was a young man with Down's syndrome; he's the son of a regular parishioner and is a lovely boy who often serves as an acolyte, doing a good and conscientious job. He knelt down at the rail, on my right, and held out his hands toward the priest who was coming along with the communion wafers.

She said the familiar words, addressing him by name: "M., the Body of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was given for you," before pressing the wafer into his outstretched hands.

He took the wafer, looked up at her smiling face, grinned back and said, in a firm, loud, happy voice, "Thanks!"

Cassandra goes Speed-Schmoozing

On Monday night, I got on my bike and rode up to a brew pub, on the Main and Villeneuve, where the Quebec Writer's Federation (which I've recently joined) was holding a party. An event. A...speed-schmooze. Although I'd read the publicity, I wasn't sure what to expect, and neither was anyone else. With glasses of the pub's own draft microbrew in hand, we all soon found out.

This concept - speed-schmoozing - was based on speed-dating, in which a roomful of hopeful male and female strangers have a two-minute chance to meet and talk before the chairs are shuffled and the new "partner" sits down opposite for a new two minute chat. In our case, the group of shy and lonely writers (actually one of the most chattery bunches of people I've ever seen), were told to sit down on opposite sides of several rectangular tables. After a two-minute talk with the person across from us, the people on one side would get up and move one seat to the right while the other side stayed in place. Eventually, everybody would have a chance to talk to everybody else, forming networks of mutual support, attending each other's upcoming readings, buying and pitching each other's books...well, that was sort of the idea. In reality, I felt like the instant assessment of one's looks or educational level or career path was replaced by the big question: "Have you been published?", which, whether voiced or not, seemed to hang in the air like phantom cigarette smoke, now banned forever from all Montreal bars.

Despite that unfortunate insecurity among many of those present, it was fun anyway, but terribly loud; no one could hear very well and we all got hoarse from shouting. Writers, of course, tend to be pretty verbal, and some of the conversations packed a lot more than superficialities into the few minutes; in fact that became my own personal challenge as the evening went on. The QWF, which was founded to support authors writing in the English language in this province where we are a minority, had obtained a bunch of terrific door prizes from various local booksellers and theaters, and every now and then we were stopped by an anouncement rather than a bell, and a prize - a package of themed books, for instance - was given away to the first person who could produce a certain, named item from their backpack or pockets: a toothbrush, a book of poetry, a foreign newspaper, a subway token from a city other than Montreal, even...a condom. The atmosphere was good natured; the writers were of all ages and backgrounds, polite and interested; and the beer was excellent. Did I get anything out of it, other than an unusual evening and a new word for my vocabulary? I'm not sure.

I did meet one woman who stands out from the others. She had come in right before me, and was standing alone when I walked up to the bar, so I started talking to her. She was quite elderly, slight, wearing a plaid woolen skirt and a nice sweater and gold earrings, and she spoke in a non-French accent, smiling as she spoke. She had been born in Poland, she told me, and had managed to get to London before WWII. She and her husband, also Polish, lived in England for ten years before coming to Canada for what they intended to be a temporary stay, prior to returning to Poland when things "settled down." Instead, they never left Montreal. They started a travel agency and traveled all over the world; now she was writing down some of the stories of the places she had visited and the people she had met. Her husband had died two years ago, and I discovered that, like me, she had no children. As we talked through the evening (we were sitting next to each other during the speed schmooze), I admired her pluck and her spirit - in spite of her age, she had come out to a crazy event where she knew no one; she participated enthusiastically, and seemed anxious to meet new people. We exchanged addresses and said we'd like to see each other again, and as I cycled home through the rain I thought about her, heading home on the bus: a woman with her own unique story, determined to start a new life in this city, not unlike me.

Eid Mubarak

Yesterday was Eid al-Fitr, the celebration at the end of Ramadan. We happened to be at Adonis, the huge Arab supermarket in Montreal, doing our normal shopping along with many other people, both Christian and Muslim, but when we turned the corner and saw the bakery counter, it was clear that the market had prepared for a LOT of festivities. Yes, that is baklava in the picture - mountains of it!

We didn't buy any baklava, but along with our glossy eggplants and bags of coffee and tender Lebanese cucumbers we did buy something new to us - a plastic container with six large spherical openings - kind of like a plastic egg carton but with spaces for "eggs" twice as big -  filled with globes of different fruit sorbets in beautiful colors. Last night we ate the yellow one, which turned out to be an intense pineapple, with small bits of real fruit in it - delicious!

Daily bread

Yesterday I was at the big market in Montreal, and stopped in at one of the Arab stores to buy fresh pita bread; they had a shelf piled high with a new delivery. This is a very Arab, very Muslim place, with a halal butcher counter in the back, many spices and grains and canned goods and cooking gear packed into a tiny store. Outside there was the display of bread, and a number of boxes of pastries. It was getting quite bitterly cold. Everyone going in and out of the shop was speaking Arabic. Not many non-Arabs shop there, and as I stood looking at the bread I felt very blonde, very non-Muslim, very North American. But I picked up and felt several packages, as you need to in order to judge the quality, and from in back of me the clerk said, "Bonjour." I turned around and greeted him, and he smiled at me in a properly Muslim indirect way; often I've found that Muslim men in some of these shops are reluctant to engage in much conversation with me and I try to respect that; they say hello and don't meet my eyes directly or maintain a gaze, which is the recommended gesture for observant, conservative Muslim men and women who are not immediate relations. When you don't know someone, though, it's sometimes hard to distinguish this respectful behavior from hostility. So I had a warm feeling from the unexpected exchange, and wondered, well, maybe he is just friendly, or maybe he figures I know what I'm doing here, or at least that I like this kind of bread!

I handed him a package of large flat loaves and another of softer, thicker, smaller ones, and told him, "C'est tout" - "that's all." I was getting out my money when another man came by and looked closely at a box full of orange-colored, coiled, fried pastry that had been coated with sticky boiled honey. "What is that?" he asked in French. The clerk, who was wearing Arab dress and a Muslim cap, and rubbing his hands together to keep warm, said, also in French, "A Syrian delicacy, a dessert." The first man turned up his nose, pursed his lips as if in disgust, raised his eyebrows skeptically, and then wheeled around and went on his way. It was such an inappropriate and unexpected reaction that the clerk turned to me and grinned with silent, mischievous laughter, at the same moment when I also turned to him and grinned in disbelief - and for a moment this blonde American and recently-immigrated Arab Muslim looked at each other like two conspirators, our faces saying silently, "Oh, what does he know? That stuff is delicious!" The clerk gave me the change for my bread and said "Merci, Madame" and I said, "Merci, bon journée," and then "shukran," which is thank-you in Arabic. "Shukran, madame," he replied, and I went away happy.

Eid mubarak tomorrow to my Muslim friends and readers! I hope you have had a blessed Ramadan. I've missed not being able to share in any of the prayers and breaking-of-the-fast celebrations this month with my friends but I have thought of you often.

NO!

I can't believe it, but IT'S SNOWING.

Stranded in "the Glorious Ice"

If you can't bear descriptions of hunting, let alone a seal hunt in the Arctic, don't read this piece, but it is pretty fascinating:

Food writer Stefan Gates reports on how he is coping with the hunt for meat such as seal and walrus, and the effect that climate change is having on the existence of the Inuit population:

"Over the last few days, I have done some extraordinary things.

I have eaten raw ringed seal, raw caribou meat and raw Beluga whale skin.

And to cap it all, I have dismembered a walrus.

No, I am not on a mission to become the most hated man in the Western world - I am making a TV series called Cooking in the Danger Zone, using food to understand people around the world who are going through crises or rapid change." (from the BBC)

 

Deliverance

We confessed our sins, were blessed, and rose to "pass the peace", only to see the priest come to the center and motion to us to sit down again. The verger handed her a microphone. "Two of our parishioners, S. and F., were the victims of a home invasion this past summer," she said. "S. was terrorized, and F. ended up being shot - and fortunately he has recovered from his injuries. Now that some time has passed, and healing has taken place, this couple has decided that they would like to make a formal thanksgiving, and to do it in a public way, so today they are going to come forward and we will pray and say thanks together."

This was something new in my experience. I sat in silence with the rest of the congregation as the priest asked the couple to come forward. Down the aisle came a tall slender man and a tall woman, both black; she wore a beautiful embroidered white African dress and he was dressed in a dark suit; they walked calmly and serenely to the front of the church. Then the priest said that this couple had not come to the church alone, but were accompanied by the family and friends who had stood by them and helped them during this time, and who wanted to join them in giving thanks. She asked these people to now come and join S. and F. at the altar.

I expected, as is common for a baptism, that maybe six or ten people would come forward, tentatively, unused to being in the front of a church, especially a cathedral. But quietly, in the same dignified manner, a stream of people of all ages rose and moved forward: old women and men, couples with children, middle-aged people, teenagers. All were dressed solemnly and carefully, and they gathered at the front and stood quietly, ringing the priest and the two people they were supporting - a community of at least forty, who we later learned were mostly Nigerians. The small cathedral community watched: at first surprised, even stunned, and then deeply moved as the priest stretched out her hand over the couple and prayed. When the prayers were over - a space of five minutes at most - the group turned and moved back to their seats, the couple coming last, this time holding the hands of their two young children. We all rose and, wiping our eyes, greeted our neighbors with the familiar words, "The peace of the Lord be always with you," and the answer, "...and also with you."

Bonne Fête, Métro de Montréal!

I love the Montréal metro, but don't use it much except in the winter - my bike is cheaper, often faster, and I need the exercise. Usually we arrive in the city by car, park it, and rarely use it during the time we're here - which, for Americans who are used to having to rely completely on our cars to do just about anything - feels great. But I've been thinking a lot about our city's transit system, celebrating its 40th birthday this week, first because of a great series of articles in the Gazette, and second because yesterday was the métro's actual 40th, and rides were free all day on the whole system. I was amused by this story about a woman who rode the métro on its first day and yesterday - but never inbetween:

Quarante ans jour pour jour après avoir mis les pieds pour la première fois dans le métro de Montréal, lors de son ouverture officielle, une dame de 58 ans y est retournée une seconde fois, hier.

«C'est vraiment un hasard. J'ai une voiture depuis l'âge de 19 ans et je reprends le métro pour la première fois aujourd'hui, a réalisé Ginette F. lorsque le Journal de Montréal l'a rencontrée.

«C'est quand même drôle. C'était gratuit il y a 40 ans et aujourd'hui aussi !» a lancé la dame.

Pour fêter le 40e anniversaire du métro, la Société de transport de Montréal (STM) avait ouvert les portes et fermé ses tourniquets pour la journée, hier...

...Il y a vraiment beaucoup de gens, c'est pas comme dans le temps. J'aime pas tellement ça. J'ai un peu peur», dit la quinquagénaire, qui regardait souvent autour d'elle, visiblement nerveuse.

Surprise par l'ampleur de la station Lionel-Groulx, où elle attendait, la dame était néanmoins satisfaite de sa seconde expérience dans le métro.

«C'est très beau en tout cas. C'est bien différent du métro d'il y a 40 ans. Il n'y avait pas de restaurants, pas de dépanneurs. Je me rappelle que tout ce qu'il y avait, c'était la rame du métro et les escaliers», dit-elle.

(thanks to the Montreal City Weblog)

The series in the Gazette, which I unfortunately can't link to here, told the stories of five commuters - all newspaper emplyees writing in their own words - who tried three alternate means of transportation for three weeks on their daily commutes into Montréal's downtown. One usually drove in, one took the bus, one rode a bike, one took the metro, one - who had the longest trip - did a combination journey by car and metro, but for these articles, each of them tried two other methods and wrote about it. Along with their stories was a sidebar showing exactly how much each method cost and how long it took.

There's been a big push to try to decrease the number of car commuters - a problem both because of air quality and because Montréal is on an island and the bridges get extremely congested. These articles, illustrated with good photos and taking a very human approach, probably did more to encourage biking and public transportation than any theoretical discussion ever could - even though (as we said to ourselves, heading back from IKEA with a set of shelves in the trunk the other day) once in a while it's really nice to have a car here!

Burning

The light outside my window is brilliant and golden, not red, but that's merely a change from this morning. When I rose, the trees were backlit and sparkling, each space between the leaves a little lens for the rising sun. I had intended to meditate for a while, staring at the rug in the semi-darkness, but instead I opened the curtains wide, wrapped a light woolen shawl around my waist, pulled a straight chair in front of the window and sat down, gazing out at the cars and bicycles starting to go by for their morning commute, the parents walking their children to school, the dogs running eagerly toward the park, and above them all, the red and gold leaves tossing in a light breeze, setting off cascades of scattered light and color, like a shower of little mirrored and colored papers: vermillion, chartreuse, emerald, lemon yellow, gold. I felt my breath slow, my thoughts give way to a greater awareness of my senses. It may not have been a deep meditation, but I saw the autumn.

A year ago, I was in the first days of recovery from a sudden illness, too sick to do anything but lie on the couch, eat jello, and try not to worry. A lot has happened during the intervening 12 months - some of the best and worst events of my life. I feel that starting to recede now, giving way to a more settled period that I hope will be productive too, but different.

Today we took out the air conditioners and replaced them with thick fiberglass batting; brought bags of kindling up the the terrace; checked the supply of firewood left over from last March. It's time to line the nest, to chink the places where air peeks through, to store up food and warmth and incubate new ideas, new directions.The blazing outside the window flares, intensifies as night approaches, consuming the old before making a fertile bed for the new.

Aramaic Translation Needed

I've been approached by someone who is urgently seeking a professional for a film translation project from Maalula-Aramaic into English. Do any of the readers of this blog know such a person?