the cassandra pages

A Heavy Hoof on the Earth

This article at today's New York Times is mainly about the health cost of red meat consumption, but the statement in the second paragraph was a shock even to me:

Anyone who worries about global well-being has yet another reason to consume less red meat. Dr. Popkin, an epidemiologist at the University of North Carolina said that a reduced dependence on livestock for food could help to save the planet from the ravaging effects of environmental pollution, global warming and the depletion of potable water.

“In the United States,” Dr. Popkin wrote, “livestock production accounts for 55 percent of the erosion process, 37 percent of pesticides applied, 50 percent of antibiotics consumed, and a third of total discharge of nitrogen and phosphorus to surface water.”

Style

She got on the train at Berri-UQAM and sat down nearby: a woman of indeterminate but elderly age. From the black silk flower in her hair to the soft and artful black and rust outfit, her huge black-framed glasses, and the handmade-looking bone-bead bracelet watch with its oversize dial, she had put together a fabulous look from inexpensive pieces, and carried it off with the same confidence and grace I noticed in her smile when she looked over at me. She got off at Place des Arts; I continued on, feeling inspired.

I went to a dental appointment, and then spent a couple of hours downtown doing some shopping. It was fun to browse around with a little extra time to spare; I was looking for a gift for a friend who's graduating next week but also checking out the sales, enjoying the spring colors and patterns and stopping for a cup of coffee and a biscotti at Indigo. I bought a simple $9 black T-shirt and a half-price short grey trench, cut close to the body with large dark buttons and a funnel neck,  lined in a funky yellow and red print.

Today we got up at 5:00 am and drove down to Vermont, leaving the city before rush hour. In the early afternoon I was at the local mall buying groceries, and shoppers in their baggy shorts and sweatshirts were looking at my new trench coat as if I'd dropped out of the sky.

today's micropoem

Outside Iberville,
pampas grass fountains leap up
to meet a willowy waterfall;
yesterday's rain
darkens waiting fields.

Coming Alive

From siona today, this quotation:

"Don't ask what the world needs.
ask what makes you come alive,
and go do it. What the world needs
is people who have come alive."
                                - H. Thurman

Back in the 70s there was a book titled "Do What You Love, the Money Will Follow." Not many people today would believe that, though there's some truth in it still, but the core points in both the quote and the title are absolutely true: do what you love, and you'll find a reward. Who are we? Where does our heart reside? When we know the answers to these questions and put our energy there, at the quickening point where we are most alive, good things happen, for us and for the people around us. Positive energy attracts positive energy; it also multiplies.

I've been hearing a lot of complaints of blogger ennui lately - it comes in waves, and is probably fed by diminished commenting. A number of us have blogs that have recently turned five or six: that's a long time, and burnout is pretty understandable, especially in a changed environment. It's been good to see long-time bloggers like Blork and Chris Clarke starting new projects. Nora, author of The Twilight Zone and "A Fresh Start in a New Place," is posting a new novel. Our favorite pseudonymous blogger is back, under a new name, at (p)(b) (porous borders).

We've talked here before about the changes that have happened in the whole online world since blogging first became popular. I know I find it satisfying to blame blog proliferation and diminishing attention spans, as well as the rise of social networking and microblogging, for distracting readers from the longer, more serious writing in this corner of the blog world. It's also a reality. So is the fact that the entire publishing world has changed; writing and publishing books is harder than ever, especially in a shrinking traditional market and beleaguered economy driven by mass media and popular culture. If we're writing because we hoped for fame, or, gasp, actually making money off our work, well, most of us are a few decades behind the curve. But there's never been a better time to write because we care about writing well, and because we have something to say and want to do it in a cooperative environment. Twenty years ago we could have cared just as much about those things, and been burning with ideas, and found no audience or kindred spirits at all.

When I look at myself vis-a-vis this medium, it's clear to me that while the sense of community is very important, what really determines my happiness and sense of satisfaction with it is the energy I put in. That's been true of every artistic endeavor, all my life: what makes me come alive is the turned-on act of thinking, imagining, creating, and trying to do my best. When I focus on this, and write regularly, and also read and comment on other people's writing, I feel both inspired and better about my own effort, and the level of discussion usually goes up too. The truths we learned about blogging in its first few years still hold: you have to update regularly, build readership and community through generous, active relationship with the people who read and comment, and consistently offer new and interesting content. We're each the wellspring of our own energy and creativity, and a dry well doesn't give water. So we have to know ourselves: know both "what makes us come alive" and the sources for renewal when we're in a period of dryness. 

It's been good for me to spend six weeks writing daily micropoems - the discipline has been helpful, but it's also been like working with clay after a long period of painting, and will probably help both my prose writing and get me back into writing some longer poetry. I'm not going to stop writing the small poems, but I'm ready to shift my energy back into blogging and essay writing. For one thing, I've signed up to contribute to Chris Clarke's new community environmental blog, The Clade, with some cross-posts about northern nature and environmental politics and attitudes here, and I want to get back into doing more photography too. Dave and I will be announcing a new theme at qarrtsiluni soon, and I'm very excited about that, as well as our first chapbook contest (only one month more in the submissions period!)

So, what do you think? Do you have, as Natalie calls it, blonnui?  If you aren't blogging anymore, are you active online in other ways, or doing something else with the energy you once put into your blog? What does make you feel alive, and what are the obstacles you see between where you are now and doing that thing?

today's micropoem

The first celadon haze hangs
like an embroidered net
above the bedstead of sturdy poplars,
delicate and aloof
while the world whirs to work.

Spring Slowly

"Every little girl in the city is wearing pink this year, have you noticed?" says J., and I tell him I have; they have on pink jackets and blue bike helmets, or pink helmets and pink tights with ruffly blue skirts. More little girls and boys are on the way, too; in addition to this year's crop of babies there are more pregnant women than I've ever seen here before: bellies swelling under purple stretch tops, or even spilling out above slacks, beautifully round and ready in the unaccustomed sunlight.

It's all happening too fast for me. After I swept and cleaned the terrace yesterday morning, when the temperature climbed into the seventies, we ate our lunch outside. "When did we last sit here?" J. asked. "Early November maybe?" I thought so too. "That means we have seven and a half months coming," he said.

"Well, if you really stretch it."

"I want it to slow down. Why can't we just stay here for a while? I hate it when I know the warm days are counting down, and already they are!"

I share those feelings, even as I crave the warmth and the freedom. It feels like such a release to be back on our bikes, to regain space in the house as plants move into their outdoor quarters. But there's also a melancholy feeling about spring for me, and always has been, even more so than in the fall, although my general mood always lightens with the longer days and greater amount of sun.

The late winter is so very long, and the spring so rapid here in the north, once it finally decides to come: an orgasm that can't be contained. I want to climb inside the branches and hold onto the back edges of the leaf-buds that are thrusting inexorably forward into greenness, hold them furled, waiting, quivering, just a little longer.

Le Fleuve

We recently rearranged our bedroom and J.'s office are so that the two are more separate; this meant putting the office where the bed used to be. Today we spent the morning at IKEA buying shelving and cabinets, and when we picked up the items that had to be brought out separately from the self-serve warehouse, we realized there was no way they'd all fit into our (small) car. So we rented an IKEA van for $19.95/90minutes, and made a fast trip into the city and back. (No, we're not going to spend the whole afternoon putting the kits together.)

On the way back, the road runs along the St. Lawrence, across from the port with its transatlantic boats and cranes and multi-colored shipping containers piled like so many matchbox toys along the waterfront. A little closer to the city is the iconic Saarinen tower from the Montreal Olympics, and the round stadium with its ridiculous roof and multiple white peaks, always reminding me of a meringue pie. Beyond them, of course, the skyscrapers of downtown Montreal can be seen through the towers of the Jacques Cartier Bridge, spanning the wide river. On the other side of the road are the South Shore suburbs of Longueil: residential streets, small shopping centers, highway interchanges.

It's all very... urban. Very flat. A lot of people would also add "ugly."

But the river itself refuses to be anything but a river, and a wild one at that. I don't have any warm fuzzy feelings about the St. Lawrence; it looks cold, uninviting, and dangerous during every month of the year, full of unpredictable currents and whirlpools, often high, always fast. It's enormous, even here, a long ways from the gulf where it empties into the Atlantic, discharging 4 million litres of water into the ocean every second. Its width doesn't imply a flat gentleness. The Lachine rapids are still rapids, and without the canal that was built to bypass them, Montreal would still be as far inland as one could travel via the St. Lawrence alone.

Although the Vieux Port/Old City area has been developed somewhat for tourism, it's hard to imagine the city turning toward the river for recreation, any more than it does, or for aesthetics. At a distance, yes, the luxury condo-dwellers want the view of the water, but the river itself seems to remain sauvage, a dwelling-place for cormorants and gulls and many types of waterfowl, for the fish that sometimes jump from the swirling depths below the Victoria bridge, for the muskrat, mink, beaver and river otters that used to form the basis of Quebec's fur trade.

Driving along the river today, I saw it has calmed down from its spring flood. The low islands near Boucherville are emerging from the water, and the riverfront parks along the south shore bike path suddenly looked like a place I'd like to visit, binoculars in hand, to look for different bird species. When we first moved here from Vermont, all I could see near the river's edge was industrial, urban ugliness. Now I've either become more used to it, or curious enough to look past the manmade constructs toward the nature that continues to exist in spite of us.

As if to underscore my thoughts, a heron flew parallel to our route for a while today, legs outstretched, before slowing down to land in a reedy spot near the shore. We drove across the bridge, and up the steep slope that was once the bank of an inland sea. I think that's it: to me, the St. Lawrence still feels somewhat prehistoric: even if narwhals no longer swim within walking distance from my apartment, I feel like the river remembers, and maybe even waits.

Odds and Ends

It's always good to see a new post from Redemption Shoes. They don't appear often. In her latest, she welcomes (p)(b) back to blogging, as I should have done before now; tells a personal story in her unique style and tone; quotes a beautiful and appropriate passage from Frost.

A few days ago I received a letter from Hal Lewis on my post about Chris Hedges' article suggesting America is in need of a moral bailout. Hal took me to task, kindly but firmly, asking why I had equivocated at all about Chris' message.  I answered him, and we've subsequently posted our exchange in the comment thread. I've also added a letter I received about this article from a much older friend. Along with the previous exchange there with Vivian, I think these thoughts add a lot to what was a fairly sketchy post to begin with, and so I'm calling your attention to them. It would be great if any of you wanted to add your own ideas to this thread; I did hear a good deal more offline than in the comments, which was too bad; the views different from mine added a lot to the discussion.

---

The last few days in Montreal have been sunnier and brighter, nearly convincing me that spring is around the corner. I do see that sleet is predicted for Tuesday. Sigh. We seem to be putting two steps forward for every one back, though. On one bright afternoon I went over to the park and sat on a bank above the lower lake, which hasn't been cleaned up or reflooded yet, and still contains evergreen trees and large mounds of snow and ice left over from the skating area that continued almost without interrruption all winter long.

Like me, lots of other people were sitting and enjoying the sun on their faces or backs, or walking their dogs and baby carriages along the paths that circle the lake. A tall man came down the middle of the dry lake, walking on the gravel, trailed by a tiny daughter whose little bare arms, poking out of a pink ruffly dress, waved and gesticulated in the cool air. She carried a stick that bumped over the rocks and then beat against the ice; she dropped the stick and put both hands down on the snow and then lifted them up over her head, as delighted at the coldness she'd just discovered as any polar explorer.

On my other side, a very young couple - they couldn't have been more than twenty years old - had brought their winter-born baby out for what seemed like its first park outing. Passing a camera back and forth, the boy and girl took turns taking pictures of each other with the baby, the lake in the background, and then spent a while propping the baby up against a tree and taking more pictures of it. I wondered what the baby thought. I've seen quite a few of these new babies lately, blinking in the sunlight as they face forward in vigorously-propelled strollers, plunged headlong into their first spring.

Commenting problem?

Have you been having intermittent trouble making comments here? I've gotten a couple of messages over the past few days from people who haven't been able to leave comments, though I haven't turned commenting off on anything. Please let me know, if so.

Many the wonders

Many the wonders but nothing walks stranger than man.
This thing crosses the sea in the winter's storm,
making his path through the roaring waves.
And she, the greatest of the gods, the earth --
ageless she is, and unwearied -- he wears her away
as the ploughs go up and down from year to year
and his mules turn up the soil.

Gay nations of birds he snares and leads,
wild beast tribes and the salty brood of the sea,
with the twisted mesh of his nets, this clever man.
He controls with craft the beasts of the open air,
walkers on hills. The horse with his shaggy mane
he holds and harnesses, yoked about the neck,
and the strong bull of the mountain.

Language, and thought like the wind
and the feelings that make the town,
he has taught himself, and shelter against the cold,
refuge from rain. He can always help himself.
He faces no future helpless. There's only death
that he cannot find an escape from. He has contrived
refuge from illnesses one beyond all cure.

Clever beyond all dreams
the inventive craft that he has
which may drive him one time or another to well or ill.
When he honors the laws of the land and the gods' sworn right,
high indeed is his city; but stateless the man
who dares to dwell with dishonor. Not by my fire,
never to share my thoughts, who does these things.

Sophocles, Antigone, c. 441 B.C.
(translation by Elizabeth Wyckoff)