the cassandra pages

Happy Thanksgiving

I'm guessing maybe 1966 or 67? (After that I had wire-rimmed hippie glasses.) This is with my dear grandfather, and we're performing the night-before-Thanksgiving ritual of stuffing the turkeys. A photo exists, somewhere, of this event every year, usually with my cousin Barbara also in the picture. My grandfather would have been in his mid-sixties here; he lived until he was 90, dying of a stroke a few days after another Thanksgiving. He was one of kindest, most generous people I've ever known, and we were very lucky to have him with us so long.

J. and I celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving last month, quietly, just the two of us. Our plan was to have a big meal on American Thanksgiving and invite a lot of our Montreal friends, but we've been working so hard we just couldn't manage it; I'm relieved that we didn't try.

When I think of those long-ago days and the tables full of family and friends, many of whom are gone now, I don't feel nostalgic or sad, as much as grateful. I'd love to see each and every one of them again, but they do live on vividly in my memory. Gradually, I'm learning how to deal with holidays without the irreplaceable people; holidays that are different instead of traditional. It's taken me a while, but it's a relief not to have to repeat the same patterns in order to feel OK at these times of year that are difficult for so many people.

I was incredibly fortunate to have a secure and relatively happy childhood; you learn that as you get older. My immediate family is much smaller now, but I feel rich in friends. So today I want to say thanks for past and present blessings, and to wish that more people in our world could have enough food, enough warmth, enough love. It's a good day, too, to do something tangible about that.

First Snow

First snow. Dark silhouettes of people going to work, against the newness of the white earth and frosted trees; the bright orbs of light from the lamps in the park; the muffled, soft stillness.

An ambulance careens by in a blur of chartreuse. A runner, in neon tights; a woman pushing a baby carriage through the slush; determined bicyclists; walkers under umbrellas.

How fragile we are, with our firetrucks and snowplows and ambulances, arming ourselves against the unpredictable! How we clutch at a bit of warmth: the early-morning coffee cup, a cigarette, the loyal dog trotting at our side in its bare paws; how we distract ourselves with colors of lipsticks and scarves; the question of whether to put salt or sugar on our oatmeal! Meanwhile the giant poplars are singing themselves to sleep, the earth shrugging and settling beneath its white blanket, the planet hurtling through the universe. I gaze at myself and my fellow travelers with tenderness: so tiny, so myopic, so trusting, so unprepared.

 

The Birds

 

 

 

Forgive me. Totally under-the-gun with work these days, so silliness is appreciated around here!

 

Two Mornings

Yesterday.

 

Today.

 

(1) an eight on the Charles River, Cambridge/Boston, at 8 a.m.
(2) a field in Vermont, 7 am

Late Harvest (2)

The outdoor vendors were still selling exotic fruits, from pomegranates to pineapples and cactus pears. Aren't they beautiful? It wasn't until this past year that I made the connection between  grenade and grenadine.

Late in the day, prices are reduced...asparagus for $1.00 a bundle is pretty cheap. But these won't last longer than a day; I know, I've bitten the bait before.

There were fresh olives. Unusual.

But I headed inside, to where there are more prepared foods and specialty shops, like this vendor who sells all sorts of olives, marinated in different flavors, stuffed with different things, or dried and cured with spices.

A more local product: cranberries, or canneberges in French.

There were soft fresh farmer's cheeses...

and lovely women selling pastel-colored macarons to little girls. These cookies are in exotic favors: the labels I can see are apricot/black tea, and tire d'érable, which I think we could translate as "pulled maple taffy" -- it's what the French call "sugar-on-snow."

And it's oyster season; these huitres are different prices depending on their origin, all from the Atlantic coast. I wish I could eat them, but I can't! I was amused by the name for the specially-priced box.

But this is where I ended up, after buying a tin of black cumin from Uzbekistan from a spice merchant who gave me a wonderful lecture, illustrated with scents, about the different origins and types of black cumin seeds.

These cheese are all made from sheep's milk; my favorite, along with goat's milk cheeses. Ideally I would have liked one of those white pyramids -- but $9 each? -- instead I bought a small slice of one of the hard, aged rounds at far left after the maker gave me a petit gout -- incredibly delicious. We made it last two evenings, with a glass of wine.

And then, in the twilight, I rode back home on this bike/walking path that goes along the Canadian Pacific tracks at the top of the Plateau.

There are lots of warehouses and old factories along the tracks, like the one where we have our studio, and on the track-side, they ae often covered with graffiti and tags. It looks like a rather unsavory place, but it's actually quite safe, and people are using the path all the time. You can get quickly from the eastside, near de Lorimier and Iberville, over to Mile End, without ever stopping for a traffic light.

And at the end of the path, I was treated to the rising full moon, pink and beautiful over the city, and not made of bleu cheese at all.

Late Harvest

While the Midwest was being pounded with violent storms, we had an unseasonably warm weekend, and I took advantage of it to bike up to the Jean-Talon market, late on Saturday afternoon, as a break from work that has been occupying us pretty much every day. Lots of other Montrealers were there too, soaking up the precious rays of sunlight and enjoying the colors and flavors of the late harvest. We all know what's coming!

A maison de torrefaction is a cafe that roasts their own coffee. As I've mentioned before, street photography is not really legal under French privacy laws; I'm not sure if this fellow resented having his photo taken, or was just giving me the eye. Most people don't care, especially at a place like the marché, where lots of people are taking pictures. Nevertheless, on to the inanimate objects of interest:

The outdoor parts of the market were pretty much shut down, but there were cabbages and peppers...

more apples than anyone could count...

artichokes...

choux de Bruxelles, $5 for a huge stalk...

all manner of cauliflower and cabbages...

...and of course, potatoes. These are tiny new ones, which I would have bought if I weren't on my bike and trying to keep the carrying weight down.

Everyone was in a good mood. This fellow is dressed in a typical Quebeçois way, with his short jacket, scarf, and knitted toque. He reminded me of a man I like very much, the father of my friend Eric D. (A toque, by the way, is a knitted watch cap in Quebec. The word comes from the Arabic words for "Round" and "Hat" [taquia, which originally meant something round with an opening.] It's been known in English since 1505, but came through the Medieval French toque (15th century), probably from the Spanish toca "woman's headdress", also via the Arabic.) Like a lot of Quebeçois French, the word is a holdover from terms used by the early explorers and colonists of New France.)

This artisanal product was something new to me: gingras, "very old (aged) cider vinegar."

This musician is a market regular, accompanied by his fine chat.

After her long day I think she deserves some of this, don't you?

That's duck foie gras, and I didn't buy any of that either, though I'm sure it's delicious! Tomorrow I'll show you what I did buy, and some more photos from the interior of the market.

John Tavener

I was sad yesterday to read of the death of British composer John Tavener, at the too-young age of 69. Tavener wrote a lot of liturgical music, which is mostly how I know of him, though I have not sung a lot of it myself. He also wrote much more, in a wide variety of genres. I didn't know that he had suffered from ill health for many years: an early stroke, Marfan's syndrome, and a heart attack in 2007 from which he nearly died and which left him with compromised breathing and constant pain.

Critics called Tavener a "holy minimalist," a dismissive term that makes me suspect the writers simply didn't understand the composer or his motivation. There's an appreciative obituary in The Guardian which tries to present Tavener, instead, in his wholeness:

"Suffering is a kind of ecstasy, in a way. Having pain all the time makes me terribly, terribly grateful for every moment I've got," he said. But Tavener seemed to find a joy in that difficult truth.

At its best, Tavener's music is a cathartic confrontation with the biggest of all life's questions. Yet, like the man who wrote it, the music invites you into its world with charm, gentleness, humility, and a twinkle in the eye.

And in this interview, conducted for The Telegraph just two weeks ago, Tavener speaks about mortality, creativity, and how his illness has allowed him to re-engage with Western music and with poetry; his new work, Three Shakespearean Sonnets, will be performed in Southwark Cathedral later this month by the South Iceland Chamber Choir. How I wish I coud be there!

Yesterday, listening to some video clips, I watched the entire end of Princess Diana's funeral at Westminster Abbey. (This version, blessedly, has no narration, though you'll have to skip an ad at the beginning.) Tavener's Song for Athene was sung as the casket was borne from the cathedral; when the procession reaches the door, they pause, and the Abbey bells begin to peal while the organist plays Bach. That jarring and yet perfect juxtaposition of sound brought me, unexpectedly, to tears. Here is the clip, followed by another performanceof the same piece, in case you prefer to focus on the music and keep Diana out of it. On the other hand, the Diana funeral clip illuminates the public role of a composer like Tavener, whose music -- like the best poetry -- goes beyond mere melody to the expression of emotions that are so often ineffable.

 

 

The music of Tavener's which I have sung is also perhaps his best-known work, The Lamb, set to words by William Blake. It's deceptively simple, full of accidentals and melody lines that you just have to learn by heart, but the effect, when sung well, is transcendent. Here is a recording by The Sixteen, with the sheet music as the visual. To my mind, anyone who wrote such a piece is a genius, and I'm both sorrowful for his early death, and grateful today for his life and work.

 

“I’ve been thinking about the Presbyterian minister who had guided me as a youth. I remember he was a man who struggled with doubt, and that impressed me. He used to quote an old Zen Buddhist line to me: 'Life is a creeping tragedy. That is why you must be cheerful’.”

--John Tavener

 

Phoenicia Publishing News

Over at Phoenicia today, I was delighted to announce the forthcoming publication of Night Willow, a collection of prose poems by Luisa A. Igloria. Readers of The Cassandra Pages may be familiar with Luisa's work through her daily writing project, poems that are published and archived at Dave Bonta's Via Negativa.

I still remember reading, with that sense of excitement and surprise editors always look for, the first poem Luisa sent to an issue of qarrtsiluni that Dave and I were co-editing. We were pretty blown away by that poem, and by many subsequent ones too. That was the beginning of a long association which has continued on FB, where I see Luisa's regular posts. I've hoped to publish one of her books for a long time, and am proud that we've signed an agreement for Night Willow.

In addition to being a very hard-working and prolific poet, a teacher, wife, mother, and daughter, Luisa is a collaborator with other artists: her poems at Via Negativa are usually inspired by one of Dave's posts at The Morning Porch. Maybe it was fated that we'd work together on this book, because the title poem was inspired by a painting of mine, and a post I wrote here. Now I'm excited about making a beautiful book for her poems to inhabit.

That painting was dreamlike, and these prose poems of Luisa's are too. Like much of her work, Night Willow employs memory and associations as well as the ingredients of the everyday, but goes beyond the narrative and the purely lyrical to create a dream-like atmosphere that contains beauty and bewilderment, along with many other emotions.

In writing Night Willow, Igloria said she wanted to stretch both herself and her craft, asking her prose to do "the same hard muscle work I expect in every poem that I write."

"It was an experience that felt almost like trying my hand at musical composition," she said. "I wanted to create mood, tone, networks of memory and echo so that the poems could speak to each other across and within the collection - but at the same time achieve a level of language that is also precise and thoughtful."

Before beginning to work with Luisa on this project, I didn't realize that she was the first Filipina woman of letters installed in the Palanca Literary Hall of Fame in the Philippines, and is an eleven-time winner of that country's highest literary award, the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature (in poetry, non-fiction, and short fiction) as well as having a very long list of American poetry awards to her credit.

Like many other immigrant artists and writers, she is sometimes put into an ethnic classification: Carlos Angeles wrote, "“[Her] poetry inhabits the heart first, then the mind, and the soul…her work contains some of the most extraordinary and most polished poetry written by a Filipino poet in English today.” I absolutely agree, but think there's no reason to limit Igloria's strength by comparing her to one country's poetic output; it's extraordinary and polished poetry by any standard.

Secret Message

Speaking of Berets...

When in Washington, D.C. last month, I bought a skein of green worsted-weight hand-dyed yarn from this very nice woman, at a street market near Dupont Circle. Solitude Wool makes breed-specific artisan yarns from sheep in the Chesapeake Bay area.

I started knitting this lovely yarn into a beret during the week I spent with my father, just after that trip, and finished it a few days ago. (I ripped out the ribbing and reknit it with smaller needles after the hat was finished...typical me.) My pattern was the Simple Beret by Hannah Fettig, ($6 for the PDF download) which comes with directions for four different yarn weights: fingering, double knitting, worsted, and bulky.

I've worn berets and beret-style hats forever, even as a kid: I remember an authentic Scottish tam o'shanter that I loved, and two berets my grandmother made me -- one in black angora, the other in grey mohair. Somehow, though, I had never made one myself. The typical shape is created through increasing a great many stitches between the ribbing and the body of the beret, and then decreasing to make the flat crown, which makes this wonderful swirl pattern. A beret can be made as perky or as slouchy as you want. When you're finished, you wash it in lukewarm water (I added a little hair conditioner for softness) and block it on a dinner plate. Fun!

The photo shoot didn't go quite as planned, though I should have known better. This is the background: the wonderful scarf that goes with the beret, and everything else -- a gift several years ago from my dear friend Gay.

You can probably figure out what was going on behind my back as I was trying to take my own picture...

I guess I should make her one of her own, with little ear-holes: she's a French cat, after all!

But I got it back eventually.