Now THIS is a great idea!

I just came across the blog of the Monreal poet Meb (for Marie-Eve Bouchard), who has posted what she calls a cinemotscope--a nice play on words in French that translates roughly to "motion picture word filming." And there you have it, I have just given new meaning to the term "rough translation."

You can see her initial cinemotgraphic effort here, a haiku. I, for one, will be keeping an eye on this blog. She's reading tomorrow in Montreal with some other poets, including, my friend Maxianne Berger (who usually has the audience rolling in the aisles). Unfortunately, I am otherwise occupied, so I won't be able to go.

Here's to Norwegians

If you're Canadian or Norwegian, you probably already have heard this story about Olympic generosity, but I thought I'd post it here in honour of my Norwegian friend Shisa, whose lovely country I will be visiting this summer.

Finland vs. Sweden = Habs vs. Leafs

On Sunday, the Finns and the Swedes play for Olympic gold in men's hockey. And while no one would have predicted that Canada (or the US, for that matter) would be knocked out of the medal round altogether, there is still a Canadian connection to the gold-medal game (let's face it, there always is).

Sweden is captained by Mats Sundin, who also captains the NHL's Toronto Maple Leafs. Finland is captained by Saku Koivu, who captains the NHL's Montreal Canadiens. Neither player has won a major tournament, whether it be the Stanley Cup, World Cup or Olympic gold. That will change for one of them on Sunday. Both men are veterans known for their blue-collar work ethic and white-collar scoring touch; both have gone through rough spots due to injury and/or illness (with Koivu beating cancer a few years back); both are very much deserving of a gold medal.

So for Canadian hockey fans, the Finland-Sweden match up essentially boils down to a Montreal-Toronto game, though to make it more realistic, it should be held about 12 hours earlier, on Saturday night rather than early Sunday morning.

As a Montrealer and Habs fan, I'm rooting for Finland. I think a gold medal would do wonders for Koivu's confidence and silence some of his critics, who say he doesn't have what it takes to captain a championship team. I've never believed it, and watching this Finnish team play during the Olympic tournament has only confirmed my feelings that Koivu's not at fault for the Canadien's recent woes. He simply needs a team that is willing to follow his lead; the Habs' current crop of over-paid whiners simply won't.

Go Habs--er... Finns--Go!.

February 22, 2106

Ungainly as a rock-bound iguana,
my once sleek, bird-like body
sits rusting in a barren red field,
my ghost free to roam the open road,
terror of the empty earth.

My good friend Paula, kind soul, is handing out daisies. Unfortunately, Montreal is going through a relative cold snap, so all I have to offer is some St. Lawrence River ice.

This just in: same old same old

Stephen Harper was sworn in today as Canada's new PM. You remember Stephen, don't you? The guy who ran on a platform of accountability. The guy who--like all aspirants challenging a party that has been in power a while--made the most of the issues of government corruption and cronyism (as Cretien did so well in demolishing Mulroony's Conservatives in the 1988 campaign).

So what is the first thing he does as Canada's new head honcho? He appoints Michael Fortier Minister of Public Works, a portfolio that controls billions of dollars of Canadian taxpayers' dollars. Who is Michael Fortier, you ask? Why none other than Harper's co-chair in Quebec during his campaign to become Conservative party leader. What riding does he represent? Well, that's where Mr. Harper has some explaining to do. You see, Fortier didn't run in the last election. Our illustrious leader had to appoint him to the Senate so he could take on the porfolio. Isn't that the same Stephen Harper who said he'd never make a Senate appointment for purely political reasons?

But wait, there's more. Harper also appointed David Emerson as Minister of International Trade. At first glance, it looks like a great choice because Emerson is one of the few people in Harper's new cabinet who has any previous cabinet experience. But there's one small problem with this picture. Emerson's experience came as Minister of Industry in Paul Martin's cabinet, and last time I checked, Paul Martin was a Liberal PM. How is this possible, you ask? Simple. Emerson pulled a Stronach (in other words, he crossed the floor, defected, changed sides, turned traitor--you get the picture). Seems to me I remember a whole bunch of Conservatives making a whole lot of political hay (not to mention tasteless insults) when Belinda Stronach crossed the floor to join Martin's cabinet.

So, we have a public works minister wielding boatloads of our cash but who doesn't have to answer for it in the house because he's not elected, and we have an international trade minister who, after winning his seat as a Liberal in the last election and saying he would be a thorn in Harper's side, is now at Harper's side, but not exactly as a thorn. So much for making government more accountable and frowning on opportunism (or was that what they meant by "Standing up for Opportunity").

Throw in the fact that only six of the 27-member the cabinet are women (22 whole percent), and you have a fine first day as PM. Nice start Mr. Harper. Where do we go from here?

Go Girl

I just love this story. I would love to have been a fly on the wall in whatever hole these two idiots crawled into after getting taken out by a 15-year-old girl.

IDIOT # 1: (nose swollen and bleeding) "Whad da fug was dad?!"

IDIOT #2: (rubbing shoulder and walking around trying to shake off the dull ache in his balls) "I dunno man, maybe some kind of superhero. Y'know, like Cat Woman, or Super Woman?"

IDIOT #1: "Well, dads the lass dime I'm listening do one of your bride ideas, you fug!"

IDIOT #2: "How the fuck was I supposed to know the kid could fight!"

IDIOT #1: "Nex dime, leds juss pick someone older, K?"

IDIOT #2: "But not someone with a walker. Those things are lethal, man."

At last, a story I can proudly post on both my blogs

Apparently, some dude is developing a "smart" poetry fridge magnet . They're not available yet, but they look like a sure fire way to get me out of my poetry doldrums. On the other hand, I think I'd get bored with writing poetry in front of the fridge pretty quickly. Not hungry, but bored.

[via Engadget]

American Idol, Canadian Hero? I think not.

I don't know what came over me, but this evening, I watched about 15 minutes of American Idol. But I forgive myself. I'm cured. I honestly don't understand why people watch the show, especially these early audition rounds. But what I don't understand even more is how the judges (what are their names again?) sit through days and days of idiots trying to sing bad pop songs. I think I would turn suicidal after a few days of it. And they're into what, year four? You couldn't pay me enough.

I'm dead serious.

Last night, I watched for several hours as my fellow Canadians elected a Conservative minority government. New minority government, different party. The only thing that has really changed is the name of the leader. How long will this parliament will last? Two years, tops. Just in time for another Quebec referendum.

Maybe I'll go back to watching American Idol after all.

Jay

Breast feathers veil
clasping feet
snow lightly as down
You, jay, perch in a willow
look straight ahead
look side to side
ready to fly into
grey sky in an instant
but you wait there
like a camera shy model
until the lens is pointed elsewhere

RIP, Irving Layton

One of Canada's great poets has died at the age of 93. He'd been suffering from Alzheimer's disease for many years and so hadn't written anything for a very long time. But when you speak of the great Canadian poets, he was near the top--if not at the top--of the list.

The CBC website is running a good obit.
Also, visit the Irving Layton website.

I was never a huge fan of his writing--prefering the simpler (and to my mind more elegant) work of Fred Cogswell, and the more subtle humour of Al Purdy--but I have to admit that he paved the way for so many of today's fine young Canadian poets.

In recent memory, Maurice Richard (hockey player) and Pierre Trudeau (former PM) both recieved lavish state funerals at Montreal's Notre Dame Cathedral attended by numerous dignitaries. For both, there were long line-ups to file pass their caskets. Somehow, I doubt a mere poet will rate such treatment.

We are now a two-iPod family!

I suppose this could equally go in my other blog (not-so-shameless plug), but since it follows directly from my last blogpost, I figure the legions of FFTMC regulars will appreciate it more than the hoards of STA readers who have been filling my in-box clamouring for another post (patience, grasshopper(s)).

Yes, I'm back from sunny snowy Cleveland. I think it snowed every day I was there, and me, naively thinking that travelling somewhat south would translate to somewhat warmer weather. When I left this morning at 6 a.m., there was a good 18 inches of snow on the ground. Here in Montreal, it's bloody cold, but there's comparatively little snow. To put a positive spin on it all, at least I now know first hand what "lake effect" snow means.

The gig went well, though it simply dragged on forever--a gruelling week, what with the rehearsals, five concerts, four recording sessions, along with various and sundry translation projects squeezed in here and there while sipping at Starbucks (where, if you sat near the front window, you could pick up an open network nearby. Thankyou Mr. or Ms. linksys, whoever you are). Now I have to resume work on a big project that's supposed to be finished by Christmas. Any bets on whether I can translate 40,000+ words in two weeks?

But despite all the work in Cleveland (flog flog) I did manage to make my first trip ever to an Apple Store, where I picked up a sexy black iPod Nano for S.--a combined embarassingly late birthday present and compensation for being left alone for eight days. I figured she would like it--even if it did smack of Fred Flintstone buying Wilma a bowling ball for Christmas--but, to my great surprise (and perhaps somewhat to her own), she's absolutely thrilled. I have to admit, they're nice little units, but even if I wanted to, I doubt she'd let me use it much anyway.

The best thing about being home, aside from seeing S. again, is a home-cooked meal. I'm just not built for life on the road.

Road trip

I'm not sure how much blogging I'll do for the next week or so (not that I'm posting like a fiend anyway) since I'm off to Cleveland for 8 days tomorrow morning to play and record a Christmas Vespers program with Apollo's Fire. Hidden somewhere on the site is my bio, which I hope Rebecca Loudon doesn't feel is too long.

Anyway, my flight leaves at 6 AM, which means I have to leave for the airport by about 4 AM. Tonight's going to be an early night, so please don't try to call after 9.

With any luck, I'll be able to find some free wireless and maybe post an update on the gig. If not, à bientôt.

Tropical flies in resin,
dead leaves frozen in ice,
escape is an Arctic dream:
Resolute drifting unmanned out
Lancaster Sound and into Davis Strait,
finding her way unmindful of berg,
rock or lee shore.

Chance finds you
reborn a year/century/age later:
lady's slipper,
presidential desk,
amber necklace.

Morning is the joy of crowing
the joy that crows
the crowing joy

Crowing is the joy of morning
the joy that mourns
the morning joy

Morning is the crow of joying
the crow that joys
the joying crow

Joy is the crow of morning
the crow that mourns
the morning crow

The Marriage of Art and Gaming

Just discovered a strange "game" that is as unsettling as it is addictive and intriguing. AND it's really hard. I have yet to crack it and I'm not sure I'll be able to. Have a go if you're bored and want to kill some time.

[Via The Robservatory]

100 books you should read (if you call yourself a real Canadian)

The Literary Review of Canada today released a list of what it feels are the one hundred most important books in Canada. In many ways, it's a surprising list, but I have to say that most of them are probably pretty good choices (and I've read 'em all, believe you me!).

Strangely enough, when I heard about the list, the first book to pop into my head was Neuromancer by William Gibson. I was doubtful that a science fiction novel would make it, so when I saw it there, at number 77 (the books are listed in chronological order), I was suitably impressed. Other books that should be there and are, are Dennis Lee's Alligator Pie and Leonard Cohen's The Spice-box of Earth (was that really written way back in 1961!). On the other hand, why was Howie Meeker's Hockey Basics there, rather than Ken Dryden's The Game? Do the editors really think that we have Howie Meeker to thank for the NHL's current crop of millionaires? (Actually, I'll admit that I haven't read either, but by all accounts, Dryden's book is a classic; a 20th anniversary edition was published a few years back, and its on my "to read" list.)

I was also a little surprised to see only one book by Pierre Berton. I’ve blogged about Berton before; he was one of Canada’s best and most prolific writers, and a masterful storyteller. More than any other writer I can think of, Berton taught Canadians about their own country. The Last Spike certainly deserves to be on the list, but so do a number of his other works, such as The Arctic Grail. The oversight is even more glaring when one considers that two other contemporary writers, Mordecai Richler and Margret Atwood, got two mentions each. I can see A Handmaiden's Tale and The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz, but Survival and Solomon Gurskey? Give me a break. If you ask me, Richler's best novel was Barney's Version, but obviously, they didn't (ask me, that is). Maybe Berton only got one spot because he didn't write novels. What a shame.

I'll end by mentioning two fantastic novels that did make the list: The Stone Angel, by Margaret Laurence, and Two Solitudes, by Hugh MacLennan. The former is one of the great Canadian novels of the 20th century; and if you've ever been to Quebec and wondered why it is the way it is, read the latter.

Big Country Continuum

Horses glide across a November
prairie: in their wake, dead
leaves roil like lost souls
across imaginary lines in books.

No one counts them, relegated
as they are to mere seasonhood,
and though each bears a face—
voiceless.

Putain que c'est bon!

Now that winter is fast approaching, it's time to make a batch of one of my favourite pasta sauces: puttanesca. I'm told that the name for this sauce comes from the Italian word for "whore": puttana, and I assume this name comes from the fact that the sauce is "quick and easy". (Maybe my Italian friend Paula can tell me If this etymology is correct.)

Allusions to prostitutes aside, it's true that a quicker or easier sauce to prepare would be hard to find. Eight ingredients that you basically throw together, let simmer and voilà, you've got a VERY tasty sauce that's perfect for those cool autumn evenings. A word of warning: a little of this sauce goes a long way. Enjoy it over your favourite pasta with a glass of robust red wine. You can also freeze it and reheat it later, and you'll find that it's even better the second time around. Here's the recipe I use. It's a tripling of a recipe a friend gave me so it makes quite a bit.

Olive oil
garlic
2 onions (sautéd)
1 large jar of capres (drained)
3 tins of anchovy fillets (rinced and chopped)
1 can of chopped black olives (drained)
1 large can of diced tomatoes
1 can of tomato paste
1 1/2 cups of red wine.
basil (to taste)

buon appetito

Glad THAT's over

Well, avid FFTMC readers will be happy to know that the "Tuba Mirum" solo in the Requiem went pretty well. These things are never perfect, but I'm reasonably satisfied, especially given the circumstances. To tell the truth, I'm just happy I didn't crap all over it (to use a brass-player's turn of phrase).

I have to say, however, that life's getting a bit too short for this, or I'm getting too old--or both. This gig didn't pay nearly enough and/or the conductor was entirely too clueless for it to be truly enjoyable.

And next time, I'm taking real beta blockers. The bananas had no discernable effect.