Just one of those days...

...when I feel extraordinarily privileged. I'm sitting out on my back deck, "working." It's one of those summer days that you wish would last all summer, I'm listenening to the Eroica (up next: Cecilia Bartoli singing Mozart arias) on my iPod. The garden is just starting to bloom, and I know that when I start to sweat a little, I can take three steps and I'm in the pool. Sometimes it's hard to prevent guilt from spoiling the feeling...

GLG (gotta love google)

Though I don't get out that much, working from home and all, I wouldn't exactly say I lead a sheltered life. I mean I may be over 40, but I can still talk the jive with the kids, if you know what I mean. But today, in casual conversation with a buddy who is all of four years younger than me, the term "bitch slapping" arose (don't ask). Now, while it may be fairly self-explanatory to many of my dedicated, RSS-feed-junkie readers (you know who you are), and though I've heard the expression before, I--being the meticulous type--wanted a specific, OED-type definition, just in case I had to use it in one of my translations. One must sound like one speaks from authority in these situations.

Google to the rescue: bitch slap. Not exactly the OED, but now I know. I also now know the term "pimp slap," which I had never heard of before my quest for enlightenment. I suspect the young folk are using other new-fangled idioms that I'm not yet aware of, but two is enough for one night.

Teapot update: still nothing. Went to The Bay tonight with moderate hopes. Turns out, they have the same brand I had before--James Sadler--which I would have bought if the biggest model they carried hadn't been a measly six-cupper. I mean, what am I going to do with such a minuscule teapot when me Mum comes over for a cuppa? I ask you!

Don't listen to the weather forecast

It'll only get you down, and it's all LIES!

Anyway, today, despite the negative vibes put out by Environment Canada, was quite a beautiful day, and the first one in weeks (it seems). S. and I went for a walk in the park and, for all you birdwatchers out there, it was warbler city! Eleven species of warbler in all, including a blackpoll, which we hadn't seen since moving back from Winnipeg 14 years ago. All told, we tallied 38 species today. I guess the birds were as happy about the weather as we were.

In other news (albeit late news), last Friday, I broke the spout off the teapot I've owned since I moved to Montreal in 1987. I don't normally put much faith in such things, but my friend Aisha recently made a post on the Brown Betty teapot. I've always thought mine was a Brown Betty, but it says Stadler on the bottom. I guess I subconsciously wanted an authentic BB. Anyway, I'm off to see if I can find the most English of teapots in this most French of North American cities. Wish me luck.

Finally!!!

With the mail this morning, along with International Musician (time to feed the recycling bin), was a very fat padded envelope with my two contributor's copies of In Fine Form, an anthology of Canadian formal poetry in which my pantoum "Lucy, Lucie" is published. This is my first (and so far, only) appearance in print. The book is published by Polestar, an imprint of Raincoast Books, which, incidentally, also publishes the Harry Potter books in Canada.

The book looks great, and I must say, has been worth the nearly two-year wait since I first submitted. It's pretty neat to be anthologized with the likes of Leonard Cohen, Margaret Atwood, Irving Layton, and Al Purdy, to name a just few of the Canadian poetic all-stars that appear in this book.

Now all I have to do is figure out what to do with this cheque I got with the books. I'm thinking it might be better to just frame the darn thing. It's not like I can retire now.

Thanks Aish!

My friend Aisha and I were chatting on AIM when she said, "give me a line break and I'll give you a poem." Well I did, and she did (it was pretty darn good too, considering it took her about 5 seconds). Then she challenged me to do the same. I'm not nearly as quick witted as she is, so I couldn't send her back a poem that instant, but I did take the challenge seriously. Here's what I had to work with: "straddling a fence Wednesday/ on". Yikes!

Well, here's the result:

A Week in Provence

Two wheels beneath me
since Saturday, I imagine myself
riding the Tour, try to empty
my mind of all but the Champs-Elysée.
But I can’t shake the feeling I’m merely sitting on
—or rather straddling—a fence. Wednesday,
on my way up Mont Ventoux, I
stopped once, not to catch my breath,
but to admire the Rhone flowing single-minded
to the Gulf of Lions. Now, pedalling
slowly through Carpantras, I admire pretty
provençale girls strolling narrow streets
and realize that Friday is almost gone;
tomorrow I fly back to a life pedestrian,
and still, I have decided nothing.

Rock

Your weight on the page
Your mass sitting on my eyes
Your immovable presence
forcing me to go around
and not straight
to where I want to go.

Lame five-minute pseudo-sonnet. Don't laugh too hard

I think I'm going to go back to my roots
start writing formal poetry, the stuff
that got me into print in the first place, boot
my butt back onto lyric land, huff and puff
my way back into the arms of Erato.
I've been away too long, poor Penelope
waiting on the strand, hoping to
glimpse my barque on the horizon. Me
I've been goofing off, having pretend adventures
"discovering" my cool new computer
but now I'm 40, I've got to wear my dentures
like a man. And if I want her
to stay, I'd better start living up to the hype—
I could lose a hand tomorrow and never again be able to type.

Lunch weirdness

I must say that of late, the whole blogging thing is getting a bit old for me. It’s probably because I don’t get out much and so figure I have nothing much interesting to recount. For instance, since I work at home, my typical day consists of getting up, eating breakfast, doing some translation, making supper, fiddling around until bedtime, repeat. Occasionally, I go to a rehearsal in the evening, and a few times a year, I play an actual concert.

But this afternoon, I have something to report that might just interest my reader. (Disclaimer: if you have a sensitive stomach, stop reading here.) The larder is bare, so lunch today called for some serious scrounging. Here’s what I’m having (as I write this, in fact). Three pieces of pannetone sliced like bread, topped with mayo and smoked halibut on one slice and sardines in tomato sauce and cheese on the other two. Even I—he of the cast-iron stomach, Ranger the human vacuum—think that’s strange, and I’m pretty sure it is by just about any standard. But hey, if you’re hungry… Actually it’s not that bad; the sweetness of the bread and the smoke flavour are surprisingly good. I haven’t got to the sardines yet, so I may change my tune in a mouthful or two.

Ranger, god of dreams

Morpheus


?? Which Of The Greek Gods Are You ??



Actually, I'm kind of happy about this. I usually hate the outcomes of these little schemes, but this is pretty close to me (especially the imaginative and smart bit ;-)

OK, I've been away for a bit. My grandfather's on his deathbed (again... he keeps surprising us, but I doubt it will be long now), so I had to fly out west to be with the family. But I'm back now, surfing a new machine, and ready to go. So let's start with the stick.

You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be?
OK, I still don't get this question, but I'm going to say Homer's Iliad the way it was meant to be--memorized (OK, maybe as an audiobook).

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?
Big time. Hardy's heroines Bathsheba and Tess. At least Bathsheba ended up with someone worthy (Gabriel Oak had the patience of a saint, though), but poor Tess.

The last book you bought is:
Running: Start to Finish, by John Stanton

The last book you read:
Thomas Hardy, The Mayor of Casterbridge. Not one of Hardy’s best, IMO.

What are you currently reading?
Running: Start to Finish (not the book I hoped it would be)
Guns, Germs, and Steel, by Jared Diamond (excellent read, really well written)
North in the World: Selected Poems of Rolf Jacobsen (thanks, Aisha, for introducing me to this awsome poet)

Five books you would take to a deserted island:*
1- Frost: Collected Poems, Prose, & Plays (Library of America edition)
2- The Aubrey-Maturin series, by Patrick O'Brian (OK, this is 20 books. So sue me.)
3- The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
4- Watership Down, by Richard Adams
5- Far From the Madding Crowd, by Thomas Hardy

*Not necessarily in this order; I reserve the right to edit this list at any time.

Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons) and why? --

I'm going to toss the sticks in the air and let them fall where they may. If you haven't had the stick passed to you, consider it done.

Stuck with the stick

I guess it was inevitable. Aisha has whacked me with this stick (I think they call it "passing" ;-). I usually don't respond to chain mail but I'll do my best with this because a) it isn't really chain mail, b) it's gets people thinking about books, which can't be that bad, and c) I'm caving under the weight of peer pressure.

But first, I need to think about a few things, especially that desert island question.

Second, I don't get the first question (You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be?). I mean, this is a book about book burning (I've never read it, but the plot sounds very similar to 1984). So I'm a book inside this book. But what is the question asking? If I'm a book and I want to be a martyr, which book do I want to be? Is my goal to create the longest-burning fire? Maybe the question has suffered from the telephone effect; maybe it should be "You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to read?" That would make more sense to me. Anyone out there in blogland care to help me out of this conundrum? While you're thinking about it, wingtips actually burned a book to make this image. Now that's dedication to art. Thanks Paula.

The Letter A

I turn to face St. Helens, my back to the easel
balanced on one slope, frozen in time.
I have painted a year’s worth of sunsets,
all too red, gaudy and unnatural.

In a hundred years, no one will remember her
intact. Her presence,
goddess bent under the weight of rage,
wearing the grey mourning dress of her own ashes,
overpowers any two-dimensional remnants.

The easel, fallen silently to the floor behind me;
The mountain, collapsed before me;
My hands, powerless at my sides.

Voyelles

A noir, E blanc, I rouge, U vert, O bleu : voyelles,
Je dirai quelque jour vos naissances latentes :
A, noir corset velu des mouches éclatantes
Qui bombinent autour des puanteurs cruelles,

Golfes d'ombre ; E, candeurs des vapeurs et des tentes,
Lances des glaciers fiers, rois blancs, frissons d'ombelles ;
I, pourpres, sang craché, rire des lèvres belles
Dans la colère ou les ivresses pénitentes ;

U, cycles, vibrement divins des mers virides,
Paix des pâtis semés d'animaux, paix des rides
Que l'alchimie imprime aux grands fronts studieux ;

O, suprême Clairon plein des strideurs étranges,
Silences traversés des Mondes et des Anges :
- O l'Oméga, rayon violet de Ses Yeux !

Arthur Rimbaud

Why would Rimbaud write a poem about vowels? Was he just stoned? Or was he up late one night talking with his lover and, drunk on absinthe, they began to discuass how vowels are different from the others--how they seem at first glance to exist happily within the alphabet family, but if you look a little closer, you see trouble, you see how they don't really fit in.

Vowels are always forcing the mouth open, while the other letters work hard to close it, forming consonants. In essence, language is a war between the consonants and the vastly outnumbered vowels, and the battle ground is your tongue.

Maybe Rimbaud gave the vowels a poem all their own because he felt that, like poets, vowels needed an advocate, needed someone to stick up for them. After all, they are gallant and valiant letters, managing to hold off the other twenty-one letters by themselves (though they sometimes get help from that sneaky double agent, "y"). And let's face it, without the vowels language would be nothing but clicks and hisses, not to mention song, which couldn't exist without them.

So let's give it up for the vowels, and Rimbaud, who gave them a poem. It's somehow fitting that a poet, a misfit of society, would write a poem about vowels, those misfits of the alphabet. And yet both are drivers of language. Rimbaud probably felt a secret affinity for them.

Embarassment of riches

Among the truly asounding and touching array of gifts I received for my birthday last week, a ghazal by my friend, the multi-talented artist Randy Adams.

hybrid ghazal #9

still a young'n though at 40
a distant memory for some

count our blessings one, two
and count our many losses

a poem for peter, blocked
for eons then this, go figure

there was no pen involved
this text exists only here

odd when you think about it
this aging in virtual space

A poem lovely as a sackbut

Never thought I'd ever see this, but someone (Ken Bolton, to be exact) has written a poem with a sackbut in it (who cares if he doesn't spell it correctly). Will wonders never cease.

Birthday present roundup

From sister and nephews:
Spiderman comic from November 1965 (not mint, but extremely touching)
Travel mug
Bicycling jersey
Bike speedometer

From mum:
Jar of marmelade, serving as a deposit on a bottle of scotch, to be delivered when sister et al. visit this summer.

From dad:
Complete 10-volume set of The Story of Civilization by Will and Ariel Durant (which has been in my family for almost as long as I have, and which I have coveted for years). Must have cost him a small fortune to send it!

From S.
Scandinavia: at war with trolls. A history from the Napoleonic era to the third millennium by Tony Griffiths
CD: Best of Bowie (including bonus DVD)
Nine Horses by Billy Collins.
And the folllowing poem (after "Soir d'hiver" by Émile Nelligan)

Ah! come le temps a passé
Ma vie est un jardin d'amour
Ah! comme la vie m'a gâtée
Qu'est-ce que la vie, mon amour
... l'amour que j'ai, que j'ai.

My last hours as thirty-something...

Can you hear this song
the notes rising and falling
with the strength of my breath?
Don't listen to the words,
hear the music of my voice
hear the Beethoven of my heart,
let the notes of my voice--
and now your voice, joining in
--rise and fall in unison
as we read the words from the page.

Perhaps the unison won't be perfect;
you have a country accent
handed down on your mother's side
(the way your vowels twang at the ends of words).
but our different timbres make a string
section, and we are richer for it, and the words
richer for our voices.

It doesn't matter what we say
as long as we say it together.

Fringe Benefits

As both musician and translator, one of my favourite gigs is translating liner notes for the record label Analekta. I get to combine my two professions, the liner notes are always well-written and interesting, it's a real challenge (as opposed to translating, say annual reports...yawn), and--the best part--free CDs periodically appear in my mailbox.

Last week was particularly wonderful; I got a padded envelope with two discs. One, a recording of Alessandro Scarlatti cantatas by Les voix baroques and countertenor Matthew White, the other a recording of Bach sonatas by the amazing young violinist James Ehnes.

Both CDs are wonderful. I've toured with Matt White. His voice is really starting to blossom and I predict a bright future for this guy (not that he's begging for work as it is). He also happens to be a genuinely nice person. This CD is magnificent.

I've played with James Ehnes too. When I was with the Wiinipeg Symphony, this guy was a 16-year-old child prodigy. Being from just down the road in Brandon, he played with the WSO often back then, though I see that that orchestra isn't even mentioned in his bio nowadays--you've come a long way baby! He was great as a 16-year old. Now he must be around 30, and he blows me away. I'm no great judge of violinists, but this guy is certainly one of my favourite young fiddlers. The Bach CD is good, though I'm used to hearing a more period-specific style. But Ehnes is such a fine musician. I can't say much against it.

Analekta has been putting out some really good recordings lately (I'm not biased at all, mind you). I hope they continue to thrive, both because I love the gig and because they're doing a great job.

Note to self:

if it ain't poetic, it ain't worth posting here...

TRHMIL

So I was reading The Anchored Nomad this evening when S. got up and sat down beside me, complaining that she couldn't sleep. So I told her about portuguesa nova's blog and what a good writer I thought she was, mentioning how she referred to her husband as TPMIM (the Portugese Man I Married). Next thing I knew, S. was telling me she should refer to me as TRHMIL. I thought for a moment and smiled. "The Really Handsome Man I Love?" I said hopefully. Close, but no cigar. Merely "The Red-Headed Man I Love." Ah well, its the last part that counts anyway...