A little over a year ago I began this blog. And now that a year has passed I do believe that this will be the last post. What I wrote formed a kind of almanac of sorts--a collection of reflections on my environment, on the changing of the seasons, on books I had read, and on news items that concerned me. As winter is beginning to abate and the coming of spring seems like a very real possibility, so it is time to bring this to a close.
In February I wrote of the winter, of its fierce cold: "I suspect I'm not the only wondering, Can I stand it much longer?" The answer, for all of us, is, of course, yes, we stood it. We faced it. And here we are, on the verge of spring once more. In Norway House there is still a lot of snow on the ground and the river is still frozen solid, but the other day I saw a crow by my house--and that's a sign of spring in this part of the world. Soon, too, the eagles will return.
And so we end with a return: of crows, eagles, spring, new life.
Tuesday, 24 March 2015
Tuesday, 10 February 2015
Re. Munro's Dear Life
I just recently finished reading Alice Munro's most recent short fiction collection, Dear Life. I enjoyed it tremendously. And it is easy to enjoy Alice Munro's fiction--though serious, she is never grim. In many of her stories there is a spirit that finds life (in all its complications, disappointments, confusions) nevertheless fascinating and even enchanting.
Now a Nobel laureate, Munro enjoys an international reputation, one that's likely secure for generations to come. But I hope we never lose sight of our Alice Munro, because she is one of Canada's most important regional writers. Her region is southwestern Ontario during the mid-twentieth century decades, back when there were no wineries and no cappuccinos. Back when southwestern Ontario was a smaller place, a more constricting place.
When I read Alice Munro, I see my family with greater clarity. For my mother and mother-in-law both came from that time, that place. And through her stories I see the context of their lives. In turn, I can see the context of my own life, too.
In May 2014 I wrote about Farley Mowat shortly after his death; I wrote of how he reminded me of home. I can say the same about Alice Munro. And I believe that is one of the greatest compliments I can give to a writer: your writing reminds me of home, your writing made me think about where I came from. Your writing put home into focus for me.
Now a Nobel laureate, Munro enjoys an international reputation, one that's likely secure for generations to come. But I hope we never lose sight of our Alice Munro, because she is one of Canada's most important regional writers. Her region is southwestern Ontario during the mid-twentieth century decades, back when there were no wineries and no cappuccinos. Back when southwestern Ontario was a smaller place, a more constricting place.
When I read Alice Munro, I see my family with greater clarity. For my mother and mother-in-law both came from that time, that place. And through her stories I see the context of their lives. In turn, I can see the context of my own life, too.
In May 2014 I wrote about Farley Mowat shortly after his death; I wrote of how he reminded me of home. I can say the same about Alice Munro. And I believe that is one of the greatest compliments I can give to a writer: your writing reminds me of home, your writing made me think about where I came from. Your writing put home into focus for me.
Wednesday, 4 February 2015
The heart of winter
Once again we are in a deep freeze with temperatures below the minus thirty mark. Fingers are cold, toes are cold. The toque doesn't seem to work and the parka doesn't keep out the wind. The car won't start. When I walk into the woods in Norway House - braving the fierce chill - the only other signs of life are the Ravens and occasional Grey Jays. There are few tracks in the snow.
This is the heart of winter. December is past, January is part, the rest of February waits. And I suspect I'm not the only one wondering, Can I stand it much longer? Will February bring a respite from the cold? Will March? This is the point at which we feel stretched, taxed, tired from the cold. And even though I do love winter, even I am feeling the burden of the the harsh days, harsh nights.
One hopeful sign: the daylight hours are increasing. And at least the days aren't grey, for in northern Manitoba the sun does shine for much of the winter--and that's always a welcome boost. But today I was outside for only small stretches at a time - five minutes here, twenty minutes there - and my face feels burned. My skin feels hot, sore, leathery. The way skin feels when you spend a summer's day out on the water. I have acquired a kind of freezer burn, I suppose.
*
There are few tracks in the snow. But the tracks that I do see when I head out onto the trails on Fort Island (the island on which I live in Norway House): Wolf tracks. Yes, indeed. Even the Conservation Officers have confirmed that there is one Wolf on Fort Island, perhaps two. Often when I'm on the trails, the Wolf's tracks are the only other set of prints beside my own. Though it's difficult to explain why, I take great satisfaction in this.
This is the heart of winter. December is past, January is part, the rest of February waits. And I suspect I'm not the only one wondering, Can I stand it much longer? Will February bring a respite from the cold? Will March? This is the point at which we feel stretched, taxed, tired from the cold. And even though I do love winter, even I am feeling the burden of the the harsh days, harsh nights.
One hopeful sign: the daylight hours are increasing. And at least the days aren't grey, for in northern Manitoba the sun does shine for much of the winter--and that's always a welcome boost. But today I was outside for only small stretches at a time - five minutes here, twenty minutes there - and my face feels burned. My skin feels hot, sore, leathery. The way skin feels when you spend a summer's day out on the water. I have acquired a kind of freezer burn, I suppose.
*
There are few tracks in the snow. But the tracks that I do see when I head out onto the trails on Fort Island (the island on which I live in Norway House): Wolf tracks. Yes, indeed. Even the Conservation Officers have confirmed that there is one Wolf on Fort Island, perhaps two. Often when I'm on the trails, the Wolf's tracks are the only other set of prints beside my own. Though it's difficult to explain why, I take great satisfaction in this.
Thursday, 15 January 2015
But what if it's not really about freedom of expression?
Most of the discussion circulating in the media and social networking tended to frame last week's Charlie Hebdo killings as a freedom of expression issue. Radical Muslims, angered at the cartoons featured in CH, attacked the magazine's offices, killing 12 people in hopes of silencing the publication for once and for all. In response to this, people from across the world stated their support and solidarity for the magazine, or, more generally, for the value of freedom of expression in western society. The hashtag #jesuischarlie arose as a rallying cry.
But what if it's not really a freedom of expression issue after all? In an earlier post on this blog (see below), I treated it as such. I must admit, though, I had my doubts. The reason for my doubts: it's far too easy to echo #jesuischarlie and to restate the value of free speech--and yet that doesn't address the real concerns, the real problems.
Certainly the killers wanted to silence the magazine; certainly they were not in favour of free expression. But affirming that we are in favour of it doesn't address the pressing issues: why did the killers become killers? Why did they arm themselves and seek out an opportunity to commit murder at a magazine office? What forces - social, economic, religious - played upon them so that what they did was, in their minds, the best option?
Repeating #jesuischarlie again and again does not in any way begin to discuss those issues. It only affirms something that we can assume has already been affirmed. A value that was never really questioned by most westerners (it's safe to assume most of us already value free expression). We have built our societies on this value--though how well our societies live up to this value is another matter.
In short, instead of making affirmations, we need to be asking questions.
*
Joe Sacco's provocative cartoon titled "On Satire" asks some difficult questions. And in turn Chris Hedges article "A Message from the Dispossessed" provides a few uneasy answers.
Borrowing from Sacco's "On Satire," published in The Guardian last week, it seems to me that we do indeed need to sort out "how we fit in each other's world."
#CharlieHebdo
But what if it's not really a freedom of expression issue after all? In an earlier post on this blog (see below), I treated it as such. I must admit, though, I had my doubts. The reason for my doubts: it's far too easy to echo #jesuischarlie and to restate the value of free speech--and yet that doesn't address the real concerns, the real problems.
Certainly the killers wanted to silence the magazine; certainly they were not in favour of free expression. But affirming that we are in favour of it doesn't address the pressing issues: why did the killers become killers? Why did they arm themselves and seek out an opportunity to commit murder at a magazine office? What forces - social, economic, religious - played upon them so that what they did was, in their minds, the best option?
Repeating #jesuischarlie again and again does not in any way begin to discuss those issues. It only affirms something that we can assume has already been affirmed. A value that was never really questioned by most westerners (it's safe to assume most of us already value free expression). We have built our societies on this value--though how well our societies live up to this value is another matter.
In short, instead of making affirmations, we need to be asking questions.
*
Joe Sacco's provocative cartoon titled "On Satire" asks some difficult questions. And in turn Chris Hedges article "A Message from the Dispossessed" provides a few uneasy answers.
Borrowing from Sacco's "On Satire," published in The Guardian last week, it seems to me that we do indeed need to sort out "how we fit in each other's world."
#CharlieHebdo
Monday, 12 January 2015
Hashtags are not actions
Two events from last week struck at the heart. They struck at the heart of anyone who believes in the need for free expression. The events: the killing spree at the offices of Charlie Hebdo, a French satirical magazine, by radical Muslims (for more info. see here); the flogging of Saudi Arabian blogger Raif Badawi, who received 50 lashes for creating a "Free Saudi Liberals" website (for more info. see here). Over the next few months, Mr. Badawi will receive 950 more lashes.
Social media was a-fire with these stories, especially the Charlie Hebdo killing. The hashtag #jesuischarlie quickly emerged as people posted messages of support and solidarity, indicating that they value freedom of expression and resist the fear that the killers sought to create.
But what does it mean to say "I am Charlie"? As for myself, I'm hesitant to make that statement. The images that I've seen of Charlie Hebdo's now infamous cartoons don't inspire me. They seem to be puerile, juvenile, repellent. The images would understandably offend any Muslim--moreover, they would offend any sensitive person in 2015. If I say, "Je suis Charlie," what kind of a discourse am I inviting, supporting, nurturing?
And there's the rub. If we value freedom of expression - as words, as music, as imagery - then we can't pick and choose. We have to accept it all. Freedom of expression can't solely protect those opinions that harmonize with our own. The true test of our dedication to that freedom is the willingness to be offended. So the choice is clear: though I'm holding my nose as I say this, "Oui, je suis Charlie."
*
But that's not enough. For all those who Tweeted their support for Charlie Hebdo, who Tweeted and Facebooked photos of themselves holding pens: it's not enough. You need to take it a step further. A hashtag is not a political action, a selfie of a pen-in-hand won't make a difference. To show true solidarity, please considering joining PEN, please consider joining Amnesty International and please use your freedom to aid a writer in need: Raif Badawi.
In the wake of #jesuischarlie, another hastag has emerged: #jesuisraif. And I wish I could echo those words and say "I am Raif Badawi" as a measure of support on my Twitter and Facebook accounts. But the literal meaning of those words paralyzes me. Because I know that I am not Raif Badawi. Because I don't believe that I would have had the courage to do what he did, to risk what he risked. Because I don't believe that I would have the courage to face what he must face every Friday until all 1,000 lashes have made their mark across his back--simply for doing what I'm doing right now, blogging about something that feels important.
But what I have done - what I hope that you'll do, too - is write a letter or email protesting his treatment. If #jesuischarlie, then you know what to do next.
Amnesty International's Badawi campaign
PEN Canada's Badawi campaign
#CharlieHebdo
Social media was a-fire with these stories, especially the Charlie Hebdo killing. The hashtag #jesuischarlie quickly emerged as people posted messages of support and solidarity, indicating that they value freedom of expression and resist the fear that the killers sought to create.
But what does it mean to say "I am Charlie"? As for myself, I'm hesitant to make that statement. The images that I've seen of Charlie Hebdo's now infamous cartoons don't inspire me. They seem to be puerile, juvenile, repellent. The images would understandably offend any Muslim--moreover, they would offend any sensitive person in 2015. If I say, "Je suis Charlie," what kind of a discourse am I inviting, supporting, nurturing?
And there's the rub. If we value freedom of expression - as words, as music, as imagery - then we can't pick and choose. We have to accept it all. Freedom of expression can't solely protect those opinions that harmonize with our own. The true test of our dedication to that freedom is the willingness to be offended. So the choice is clear: though I'm holding my nose as I say this, "Oui, je suis Charlie."
*
But that's not enough. For all those who Tweeted their support for Charlie Hebdo, who Tweeted and Facebooked photos of themselves holding pens: it's not enough. You need to take it a step further. A hashtag is not a political action, a selfie of a pen-in-hand won't make a difference. To show true solidarity, please considering joining PEN, please consider joining Amnesty International and please use your freedom to aid a writer in need: Raif Badawi.
In the wake of #jesuischarlie, another hastag has emerged: #jesuisraif. And I wish I could echo those words and say "I am Raif Badawi" as a measure of support on my Twitter and Facebook accounts. But the literal meaning of those words paralyzes me. Because I know that I am not Raif Badawi. Because I don't believe that I would have had the courage to do what he did, to risk what he risked. Because I don't believe that I would have the courage to face what he must face every Friday until all 1,000 lashes have made their mark across his back--simply for doing what I'm doing right now, blogging about something that feels important.
But what I have done - what I hope that you'll do, too - is write a letter or email protesting his treatment. If #jesuischarlie, then you know what to do next.
Amnesty International's Badawi campaign
PEN Canada's Badawi campaign
#CharlieHebdo
Tuesday, 16 December 2014
Re. Robert Bly and F. Scott Fitzgerald: their snow
At a time of human-caused global warming, the connection between Christmas and snow is based largely on nostalgia. But unless you live south of the equator, Christmas is a winter holiday and winter gestures towards snow, even though many places in the northern hemisphere will not receive snow at Christmas. In fact, in many of these places, if snow falls at all during winter it's freakish, city-stopping occurrence. Yet there remains a strong desire to see snow at this time of year. And not just any snow either: not the snow that you must shovel from your driveway, not the snow that makes your feet feel wet and cold, not the snow that turns to brown slush at the curbside--but a pastoral, picturesque snow, the kind of snow that, say, blankets a meadow in some not-too-distant countryside. The snows of yesteryear, to borrow a phrase from Villon (albeit via translation).
*
The other day I was leafing through a poetry anthology and came across Robert Bly's 1967 poem "Looking at New-Fallen Snow from a Train." I hadn't read it before and it made a strong impression on me. The poem's title sets the scene and in the opening lines the poet expands on the scene:
Snow has covered the next line of tracks,
And filled the empty cupboards in the milkweed pods;
It has stretched out on the branches of weeds,
And softened the frost-hills, and the barbed-wire rolls
Left leaning against a fencepost---
It has drifted onto the window ledges high in the peaks of barns.
The poem is somewhat pastoral, albeit a compromised pastoral: the train itself and the barbed- wire are signs of industrialization. And then the poem jumps the track, so to speak, as suddenly Bly imagines a man who "throws back his head, gasps/ And dies," and "A salesman [who] falls, striking his head on the edge of the counter." I must admit that I can't account for the sudden switch from one set of images to the other, except to say that this might be a kind of "Deep Image" tactic to rattle our expectations.
In the poem's third section we return again to the scenes flashing by in the train's window. We see the snow as peaks on rotten fence posts, as sloping down towards the slough, as lining the steps of a ladder leaning against a building. This is a return to the pastoral, until we reach the final line of the section: an image of the snow resting "on transformer boxes held from the ground forever in the center of cornfields." And on that note, the poem changes direction once more:
A man lies down to sleep.
Hawks and crows gather around his bed.
Grass shoots up between the hawks' toes.
Each blade of grass is a voice.
The sword by his side breaks into flame.
Although I can't explain what's going in the poem's final lines, I can at least say that they remind me of an old Christmas carol - not sung very often - sometimes called "The Corpus Christi Carol," sometimes called "Down in Yon Forest." There are several versions of the song, as is often the case with true folk songs. Here are the lyrics from the version recorded by Bruce Cockburn on his wonderful album, simply titled Christmas. The lyrics, which are traditional, can be found on the all-things-Cockburn website http://cockburnproject.net/:
Down in yon forest be a hall
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Tis coverleted over with purple and pall
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Oh, in that hall is a pallet-bed
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Tis stained with blood like cardinal-red
Sing all good men for the new born baby
And at that pallet is a stone
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
On which the virgin did atone
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Under that hall is a gushing flood
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
- From Christ's own side, 'tis water and blood
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Beside that bed a shrub-tree grows
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
Since he was born it blooms and blows
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Oh, on that bed a young squire sleeps
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
His wounds are sick and sick, he weeps
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Oh, hail yon hall where none can sin
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Cause it's gold outside and silver within
Sing all good men for the new born baby
*
Although the go-to novelist at this time of year is, of course, Charles Dickens, I like to turn to the end of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby to reread the portion where Nick Carraway remembers travelling back home by train to the American Mid-west at Christmastime. The passage is rich with nostalgia, with the sense of home-going, and rich with snow. FSF writes:
"When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again."
*
The other day I was leafing through a poetry anthology and came across Robert Bly's 1967 poem "Looking at New-Fallen Snow from a Train." I hadn't read it before and it made a strong impression on me. The poem's title sets the scene and in the opening lines the poet expands on the scene:
Snow has covered the next line of tracks,
And filled the empty cupboards in the milkweed pods;
It has stretched out on the branches of weeds,
And softened the frost-hills, and the barbed-wire rolls
Left leaning against a fencepost---
It has drifted onto the window ledges high in the peaks of barns.
The poem is somewhat pastoral, albeit a compromised pastoral: the train itself and the barbed- wire are signs of industrialization. And then the poem jumps the track, so to speak, as suddenly Bly imagines a man who "throws back his head, gasps/ And dies," and "A salesman [who] falls, striking his head on the edge of the counter." I must admit that I can't account for the sudden switch from one set of images to the other, except to say that this might be a kind of "Deep Image" tactic to rattle our expectations.
In the poem's third section we return again to the scenes flashing by in the train's window. We see the snow as peaks on rotten fence posts, as sloping down towards the slough, as lining the steps of a ladder leaning against a building. This is a return to the pastoral, until we reach the final line of the section: an image of the snow resting "on transformer boxes held from the ground forever in the center of cornfields." And on that note, the poem changes direction once more:
A man lies down to sleep.
Hawks and crows gather around his bed.
Grass shoots up between the hawks' toes.
Each blade of grass is a voice.
The sword by his side breaks into flame.
Although I can't explain what's going in the poem's final lines, I can at least say that they remind me of an old Christmas carol - not sung very often - sometimes called "The Corpus Christi Carol," sometimes called "Down in Yon Forest." There are several versions of the song, as is often the case with true folk songs. Here are the lyrics from the version recorded by Bruce Cockburn on his wonderful album, simply titled Christmas. The lyrics, which are traditional, can be found on the all-things-Cockburn website http://cockburnproject.net/:
Down in yon forest be a hall
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Tis coverleted over with purple and pall
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Oh, in that hall is a pallet-bed
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Tis stained with blood like cardinal-red
Sing all good men for the new born baby
And at that pallet is a stone
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
On which the virgin did atone
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Under that hall is a gushing flood
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
- From Christ's own side, 'tis water and blood
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Beside that bed a shrub-tree grows
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
Since he was born it blooms and blows
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Oh, on that bed a young squire sleeps
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
His wounds are sick and sick, he weeps
Sing all good men for the new born baby
Oh, hail yon hall where none can sin
Sing May Queen May sing Mary
'Cause it's gold outside and silver within
Sing all good men for the new born baby
*
Although the go-to novelist at this time of year is, of course, Charles Dickens, I like to turn to the end of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby to reread the portion where Nick Carraway remembers travelling back home by train to the American Mid-west at Christmastime. The passage is rich with nostalgia, with the sense of home-going, and rich with snow. FSF writes:
"When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again."
Monday, 1 December 2014
My parka, my friend
The weather has been quite wintry lately. The temperatures have been in the double digits below zero for at least a couple weeks now. For northern Manitoba, however, that's not surprising. Now that we're stepping into December, it will simply continue to be cold and stay cold. And so I once again to reacquaint myself with an old friend--my parka.
My parka is nothing fancy. It's not one of those grand Canada Goose jackets. It's just a serviceable number that I picked up at an Eddie Bauer store in Saskatoon one February (thus getting it at a sale price). It's black and it still looks new-ish, though it's seen me through roughly seven winters now. And though the zippers are starting to go (they're becoming rather temperamental about zipping and unzipping), I think it will see me through another winter.
But my parka is more than just a coat: from November til April, it becomes my home base. Like Tom Baker's coat in the Dr. Who series from the 1970s, my parka is full of pockets with a seemingly unending amount of storage space. And I put all sorts of good, useful things in those pockets: naturally my wallet and keys, but also a pen or two, a notebook, matches, a handkerchief or two, a Swiss army knife, a small flashlight, binoculars - maybe even a bird guidebook - and a slender thermos-bottle. When I'm travelling my passport slides into a pocket effortlessly, as does a spare set of glasses or sunglasses. I can tuck a sandwich or granola bar easily away into one of my pockets. And when I'm not wearing my toque or gloves, they can be shoved down into the pockets as well. My world seems to revolve around my parka and the things I put into it.
I take my parka all over the place, too. All across northern Manitoba and down to Winnipeg. I bring it with me when I'm snow-shoeing or taking a quick run to pick up some groceries at the Northern Store. It's been with me in Saskatchewan. It's been with me in Labrador. It's been with me in Ontario. I wear it at Christmas. I wear it at New Year's. I wear it (often) at Easter, too. It has been a kind of faithful and constant companion--like a good old-fashioned side-kick, like a good old-fashioned dog.
My parka is nothing fancy. It's not one of those grand Canada Goose jackets. It's just a serviceable number that I picked up at an Eddie Bauer store in Saskatoon one February (thus getting it at a sale price). It's black and it still looks new-ish, though it's seen me through roughly seven winters now. And though the zippers are starting to go (they're becoming rather temperamental about zipping and unzipping), I think it will see me through another winter.
But my parka is more than just a coat: from November til April, it becomes my home base. Like Tom Baker's coat in the Dr. Who series from the 1970s, my parka is full of pockets with a seemingly unending amount of storage space. And I put all sorts of good, useful things in those pockets: naturally my wallet and keys, but also a pen or two, a notebook, matches, a handkerchief or two, a Swiss army knife, a small flashlight, binoculars - maybe even a bird guidebook - and a slender thermos-bottle. When I'm travelling my passport slides into a pocket effortlessly, as does a spare set of glasses or sunglasses. I can tuck a sandwich or granola bar easily away into one of my pockets. And when I'm not wearing my toque or gloves, they can be shoved down into the pockets as well. My world seems to revolve around my parka and the things I put into it.
I take my parka all over the place, too. All across northern Manitoba and down to Winnipeg. I bring it with me when I'm snow-shoeing or taking a quick run to pick up some groceries at the Northern Store. It's been with me in Saskatchewan. It's been with me in Labrador. It's been with me in Ontario. I wear it at Christmas. I wear it at New Year's. I wear it (often) at Easter, too. It has been a kind of faithful and constant companion--like a good old-fashioned side-kick, like a good old-fashioned dog.
Monday, 10 November 2014
How it begins (again)
During my first year in northern Manitoba - back when I was living in Flin Flon - I recall being told that when it snows after Hallowe'en, it stays. The snow stays and that's winter. And it can come very quickly.
Since last Thursday winter came and took hold. At first it was picturesque, with a few flakes glinting in the sunlight. On Friday morning Norway House was an image of Christmascard pastoral: every treebranch lined with soft snow. Soft snow softly falling. But by Friday afternoon the wind came--hard, fierce and sharp. The lake began to freeze. And that sharp wind stayed all weekend, freezing the river that flows past our home. The snow is now ankledeep in places.
This is how it begins. And this is how it will stay, staying with us until April. And I admit I don't look forward to month after month of wondering, Will the car start? Months of frozen fingertips and cold ears. But all the same, there is, to my mind, something calming and peaceful about winter.
Since last Thursday winter came and took hold. At first it was picturesque, with a few flakes glinting in the sunlight. On Friday morning Norway House was an image of Christmascard pastoral: every treebranch lined with soft snow. Soft snow softly falling. But by Friday afternoon the wind came--hard, fierce and sharp. The lake began to freeze. And that sharp wind stayed all weekend, freezing the river that flows past our home. The snow is now ankledeep in places.
This is how it begins. And this is how it will stay, staying with us until April. And I admit I don't look forward to month after month of wondering, Will the car start? Months of frozen fingertips and cold ears. But all the same, there is, to my mind, something calming and peaceful about winter.
Thursday, 6 November 2014
Re. Cheever's "The World of Apples"
When I was 19 years old I read The Letters of John Cheever. I don't believe that I'd read any of Cheever's fiction at that point, but I suppose I'd come to believe that the collection of his letters was an important thing to read. We do that sort of thing when we're young, don't we? We come to believe that a book or an author is worthwhile, important, valuable, and so we doggedly, painstakingly read--reading every word thoughtfully, thoroughly, dutifully.
However, some real good came of it. My 19 year-old-self was right about Cheever. I must have intuited something about him when I picked up that book of his letters--for Cheever is a good writer. And every time I read one of his stories, I'm deeply impressed. Just the other day I read Cheever's "The World of Apples," about an aging American poet living in Italy, and was moved by the story's quiet power. It's one of those stories in which every word seems to be well-placed, perfectly placed, and every scene beautifully rendered, building towards a powerful - though understated - conclusion.
However, some real good came of it. My 19 year-old-self was right about Cheever. I must have intuited something about him when I picked up that book of his letters--for Cheever is a good writer. And every time I read one of his stories, I'm deeply impressed. Just the other day I read Cheever's "The World of Apples," about an aging American poet living in Italy, and was moved by the story's quiet power. It's one of those stories in which every word seems to be well-placed, perfectly placed, and every scene beautifully rendered, building towards a powerful - though understated - conclusion.
Thursday, 30 October 2014
Re. H.P. Lovecraft's "The Shadow over Innsmouth"
As Hallowe'en approaches, I enjoy reading something festively macabre. This year I've been reading H.P. Lovecraft's novella "The Shadow over Innsmouth." And I've been enjoying it immensely. One thing that strikes me about H.P.L.: yes, he over-writes, but he knows how to over-write, which is a real skill, a real talent.
To read the long story, please see:
http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/soi.aspx
To read the long story, please see:
http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/soi.aspx
Friday, 24 October 2014
The view from here
After the events of this past week - the shooting on Parliament Hill being large in my mind - plus international events - the spread of the Ebola virus also being large in mind - I can't help but feel particularly lucky to be where I am.
Today in Norway House it is grey and misty. The snow that I wrote about earlier this month has melted away and the temperature is relatively mild. The trees and shrubs, now bare, clustered leaflessly together, look like woven baskets. As I walked back and forth from the college where I teach, only a few ravens were out and about, lazily coasting over the treetops.
It is, in a word, peaceful. And that's nothing to take lightly.
Today in Norway House it is grey and misty. The snow that I wrote about earlier this month has melted away and the temperature is relatively mild. The trees and shrubs, now bare, clustered leaflessly together, look like woven baskets. As I walked back and forth from the college where I teach, only a few ravens were out and about, lazily coasting over the treetops.
It is, in a word, peaceful. And that's nothing to take lightly.
Tuesday, 7 October 2014
How it begins
It takes more than one swallow to make a summer, the saying goes. And it takes more than one snowfall to make a winter. On Sunday, I was willing to say that it was just one of those early snowfalls that one gets in northern Manitoba in October. A snowfall that would come and would go, sloppily melting away as the temperature crept back up over zero. But now I'm not so sure: it's snowed off and on throughout Monday and today it's still snowing. Is this it? Is this winter? Not all the leaves have fallen yet.
*
A few words from Patrick Lane, from his poem "Winter 1," a peaceful moment taken from his short, fierce book simply titled Winter:
The generosity of snow, the way it forgives
transgression, filling in the many betrayals
and leaving the world
exactly as it was.
Tuesday, 16 September 2014
Franklin discovery
Last week's big Franklin announcement - the finding of a significant shipwreck from Sir John Franklin's fated 1845-46 expedition in Canada's Arctic waters - left me rather cold (pun intended). As a student of Canada's north, I suppose I should have been excited, but I must admit that I wasn't.
The story of the Franklin expedition is one that Canada loves to tell (hence Prime Minister Harper was on hand to help make the announcement). It seems to say something about us. A kind of national narrative. Of course, if it says something about Canada, its message is rather oblique: after all, Franklin's expedition was British, not Canadian. And as it was a mission to find the Northwest Passage, it's worth keeping in mind that the whole purpose of the journey was to avoid Canada.
But, that aside, it offers some suggestion about Canada that we seem to enjoy. Perhaps because the Franklin expedition provides a message about the harshness of our country, about our northlands, about how we must observe humility in the face of this harsh northern region--because all hubris will be crushed. But what if it's the wrong story to tell? What if it's too much of a cliche to still be telling that story in 21st century?
One thing that I like about the news re. the Franklin discovery: it proved that the Inuit had it right all along. They knew where one of the ships could be found. And maybe that should be the story: the story that we need to know and reflect on.
*
In the Opinion/Commentary section of The Toronto Star, Kathleen Winter had this to say: "How long do we refrain from challenging a national government that uses sad, outworn tales of lost Franklin ships like a magic lantern, superimposing a narrative of patriotic swagger over the real north — a land whose elements, people and animals are trying to tell us something about what it might really mean to be Canadian in this melting global world."
For Winter's full piece:
http://www.thestar.com/opinion/commentary/2014/09/15/the_true_legacy_of_the_franklin_expedition.html
The story of the Franklin expedition is one that Canada loves to tell (hence Prime Minister Harper was on hand to help make the announcement). It seems to say something about us. A kind of national narrative. Of course, if it says something about Canada, its message is rather oblique: after all, Franklin's expedition was British, not Canadian. And as it was a mission to find the Northwest Passage, it's worth keeping in mind that the whole purpose of the journey was to avoid Canada.
But, that aside, it offers some suggestion about Canada that we seem to enjoy. Perhaps because the Franklin expedition provides a message about the harshness of our country, about our northlands, about how we must observe humility in the face of this harsh northern region--because all hubris will be crushed. But what if it's the wrong story to tell? What if it's too much of a cliche to still be telling that story in 21st century?
One thing that I like about the news re. the Franklin discovery: it proved that the Inuit had it right all along. They knew where one of the ships could be found. And maybe that should be the story: the story that we need to know and reflect on.
*
In the Opinion/Commentary section of The Toronto Star, Kathleen Winter had this to say: "How long do we refrain from challenging a national government that uses sad, outworn tales of lost Franklin ships like a magic lantern, superimposing a narrative of patriotic swagger over the real north — a land whose elements, people and animals are trying to tell us something about what it might really mean to be Canadian in this melting global world."
For Winter's full piece:
http://www.thestar.com/opinion/commentary/2014/09/15/the_true_legacy_of_the_franklin_expedition.html
Thursday, 11 September 2014
Bears
In Norway House, as summer winds down and autumn takes hold, both teachers and black bears can be found returning to the community and roaming around at large. Presumably the teachers are largely well-behaved--but the bears are a another matter. They're usually shy and easily scared off, but the potential for danger is there.
After a couple of encounters with a scrawny-looking yearling bear that was hanging around our property, I phoned the Conservation Officers to let them know. After I made the phone call, a bear trap - which is a wide culvert pipe with a metal grill at one end and a trap door at the other - was placed along our laneway. But the bear never took the bait and after a day or two the trap was placed at a different location.
One of the Conservation Officers told me that there are about 15 bears prowling around the community, all hoping to fatten up for the winter. The COs try to trap and relocate them, but the bears have got wise this year and are largely avoiding the traps. (I heard today that they had to start baiting the traps with fruit instead of meat because they were mainly trapping stray dogs.)
In a few more weeks, of course, these bear sightings will grow less and less frequent. And then eventually the bears go into hibernation. It's just part of the cycle of the year here.
*
The bear photo (above) was taken by my wife as we were on Highway 373 (a.k.a., the Norway House Road). It was just hanging out by the side of the road, no doubt hoping for handouts from passing cars. As we slowed down to have a better look at it, the bear came out to greet us. Needless to say, we didn't give it anything to eat. About 500 metres up the road we came to a construction zone and we told one of the workers about the bear nearby. "We know him allright," the guy with the Slow-Stop sign said. "He's the friendly one."
After a couple of encounters with a scrawny-looking yearling bear that was hanging around our property, I phoned the Conservation Officers to let them know. After I made the phone call, a bear trap - which is a wide culvert pipe with a metal grill at one end and a trap door at the other - was placed along our laneway. But the bear never took the bait and after a day or two the trap was placed at a different location.
One of the Conservation Officers told me that there are about 15 bears prowling around the community, all hoping to fatten up for the winter. The COs try to trap and relocate them, but the bears have got wise this year and are largely avoiding the traps. (I heard today that they had to start baiting the traps with fruit instead of meat because they were mainly trapping stray dogs.)
In a few more weeks, of course, these bear sightings will grow less and less frequent. And then eventually the bears go into hibernation. It's just part of the cycle of the year here.
*
The bear photo (above) was taken by my wife as we were on Highway 373 (a.k.a., the Norway House Road). It was just hanging out by the side of the road, no doubt hoping for handouts from passing cars. As we slowed down to have a better look at it, the bear came out to greet us. Needless to say, we didn't give it anything to eat. About 500 metres up the road we came to a construction zone and we told one of the workers about the bear nearby. "We know him allright," the guy with the Slow-Stop sign said. "He's the friendly one."
Thursday, 4 September 2014
Backyard revisited
I should qualify my remarks re. the sacredness of the backyard. I don't think that if we only loved our yards and gardens more we would then become more ecologically minded. Instead we might just want to spray it all down with weedkiller--all in the name of love, of course.
However if we loved our yards and gardens the right way, then we might become more environmentally aware and sensitive. My thinking on this is informed by William Cronon's well-known essay "The Trouble with Wilderness," in which Cronon argues that one of the problems that wilderness poses is that we tend to denigrate the nature around us (like, say, weeds growing in a vacant lot) in favour of what we perceive to be pristine, unspoiled and largely untouched distant wilderness regions. Cronon points out that we often do terrible environmental damage close to home simply because we don't value the nature close to home--nature that might also be called wild. After all, are sparrows or dandelions any less wild than grizzly bears or sequoias?
It seems to me that an appreciation for those weeds, for the scrubby greenery blooming in that so-called vacant lot - or for the birchtree in the yard or for the moss growing along the fence - might just give us a greater appreciation for the sometimes subtle but always powerful workings of nature.
*
For more on this: here's a link to my poem "Slow Life."
http://www.tcr.gov.nl.ca/tcr/artsculture/artsandletters/2010/Slow_Life.pdf
However if we loved our yards and gardens the right way, then we might become more environmentally aware and sensitive. My thinking on this is informed by William Cronon's well-known essay "The Trouble with Wilderness," in which Cronon argues that one of the problems that wilderness poses is that we tend to denigrate the nature around us (like, say, weeds growing in a vacant lot) in favour of what we perceive to be pristine, unspoiled and largely untouched distant wilderness regions. Cronon points out that we often do terrible environmental damage close to home simply because we don't value the nature close to home--nature that might also be called wild. After all, are sparrows or dandelions any less wild than grizzly bears or sequoias?
It seems to me that an appreciation for those weeds, for the scrubby greenery blooming in that so-called vacant lot - or for the birchtree in the yard or for the moss growing along the fence - might just give us a greater appreciation for the sometimes subtle but always powerful workings of nature.
*
For more on this: here's a link to my poem "Slow Life."
http://www.tcr.gov.nl.ca/tcr/artsculture/artsandletters/2010/Slow_Life.pdf
Tuesday, 19 August 2014
Sacred space: the backyard in summer
On Sunday evening a friend invited my family and I over to his place for a barbecue. His place, like ours and like so many others here in Norway House (which is about 8-10 hours north of Winnipeg), is located on the riverside. As we sat on the back porch, the burgers sizzled on the grill and the brown river waters flowed past. At one point an eagle rose in the air above us, flapping languidly overhead. And with a cooling breeze keeping the mosquitoes at bay, all was well with the world as the sun went down.
Admittedly the backyard vantage point for many of us here in Norway House is better than what many others have in this world of ours: you don't get views like this in Toronto, that's for sure. But still, the backyard in summer - no matter where you are, deep in the heart of suburbia or somewhere on the outer edges of an expansive wilderness - is a sacred space. It's time away from the rest of the world: with beer and wine near at hand and meat cooking in the open air, there's something gently festive about such moments.
Afterwards, it made me wonder about our relationship with land, with nature. It made me wonder if our connection with the earth - with the soil, the water, the trees, those elemental things - could begin right there in the backyard. One can, from the vantage of a backporch or a kitchen window, look upon the same tree, day in, day out, in spring, summer, autumn and winter, and get to know that tree closely: the shape of its branches become etched in the mind, become something so familiar it become a kind of face, like the face of a loved one. Known, familiar, pleasing. As a result, we come to feel connected to the tree and therefore responsible for it. And perhaps through it we are connected to a wider world.
I do recognize certain incongruities here. The beef burgers that were being BBQ'd aren't a sustainable source of protein and the Australian wine that we were drinking doesn't exactly fall within range of the 100-mile diet, so thinking of this Sunday evening scene as an example of environmental bliss, of a "deep connection" with the earth, is simply erroneous and maybe even ridiculous. But a few guilty pleasures are allowed, are they not? And that earthy connection has to begin somewhere, so why not with the humble view of the typical backyard birch tree?
Admittedly the backyard vantage point for many of us here in Norway House is better than what many others have in this world of ours: you don't get views like this in Toronto, that's for sure. But still, the backyard in summer - no matter where you are, deep in the heart of suburbia or somewhere on the outer edges of an expansive wilderness - is a sacred space. It's time away from the rest of the world: with beer and wine near at hand and meat cooking in the open air, there's something gently festive about such moments.
Afterwards, it made me wonder about our relationship with land, with nature. It made me wonder if our connection with the earth - with the soil, the water, the trees, those elemental things - could begin right there in the backyard. One can, from the vantage of a backporch or a kitchen window, look upon the same tree, day in, day out, in spring, summer, autumn and winter, and get to know that tree closely: the shape of its branches become etched in the mind, become something so familiar it become a kind of face, like the face of a loved one. Known, familiar, pleasing. As a result, we come to feel connected to the tree and therefore responsible for it. And perhaps through it we are connected to a wider world.
I do recognize certain incongruities here. The beef burgers that were being BBQ'd aren't a sustainable source of protein and the Australian wine that we were drinking doesn't exactly fall within range of the 100-mile diet, so thinking of this Sunday evening scene as an example of environmental bliss, of a "deep connection" with the earth, is simply erroneous and maybe even ridiculous. But a few guilty pleasures are allowed, are they not? And that earthy connection has to begin somewhere, so why not with the humble view of the typical backyard birch tree?
Friday, 15 August 2014
Comedy, energy and tears
Comedy is one of my favourite genres--be it literary, cinematic, theatrical. And the defining feature of comedy: comic characters have boundless energy to meet life's diverse obstacles.
Think of Laurel and Hardy's indefatigable attempts to move that piano up those flights of stairs. Think of Coyote's relentless pursuit of the ever-evasive Roadrunner. Or think of Didi and Gogo in Beckett's Waiting for Godot: only in a manner of speaking are the two tramps actually waiting for the no-show Godot; for the most part they are consistently active, questioning, exploring, resisting and wrestling with their peculiar situation. They are down, but not out. They are, in short, energetic, in spite of their circumstances.
On the other hand, tragedy is about ever-diminishing levels of energy. Tragic characters run out of steam and expire. This is true of Oedipus, of Hamlet, of Willy Loman. MacBeth might be the best example of this: he begins the drama as energetic and powerful, but his energy and power drain away as the drama progresses.
*
Another defining feature of comedy, one that's too-often overlooked: comedy and the laughter it creates aren't expressions of happiness. Why do people assume that comedians are cheerful, happy people just because they make others laugh? (As I write these words I'm thinking of Robin Williams, the actor-comedian who committed suicide earlier this week.) We too often think of comedy as all sunshine, but it's not. Comedy and laughter emerge out of darkness, but from that darkness they offer (sometimes too-thin) bulwarks against unhappiness, helplessness and fear. And so tragedy and comedy are a kind of tandem experience. As Beckett wrote in Godot: "The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh."
Think of Laurel and Hardy's indefatigable attempts to move that piano up those flights of stairs. Think of Coyote's relentless pursuit of the ever-evasive Roadrunner. Or think of Didi and Gogo in Beckett's Waiting for Godot: only in a manner of speaking are the two tramps actually waiting for the no-show Godot; for the most part they are consistently active, questioning, exploring, resisting and wrestling with their peculiar situation. They are down, but not out. They are, in short, energetic, in spite of their circumstances.
On the other hand, tragedy is about ever-diminishing levels of energy. Tragic characters run out of steam and expire. This is true of Oedipus, of Hamlet, of Willy Loman. MacBeth might be the best example of this: he begins the drama as energetic and powerful, but his energy and power drain away as the drama progresses.
*
Another defining feature of comedy, one that's too-often overlooked: comedy and the laughter it creates aren't expressions of happiness. Why do people assume that comedians are cheerful, happy people just because they make others laugh? (As I write these words I'm thinking of Robin Williams, the actor-comedian who committed suicide earlier this week.) We too often think of comedy as all sunshine, but it's not. Comedy and laughter emerge out of darkness, but from that darkness they offer (sometimes too-thin) bulwarks against unhappiness, helplessness and fear. And so tragedy and comedy are a kind of tandem experience. As Beckett wrote in Godot: "The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh."
Thursday, 24 July 2014
Weeding through the personal library
So I've been going through the personal library in order to do a little downsizing, to get an unwieldy book collection into better order. A necessary task - one that we've had to do repeatedly as we've had to move a number of times over the years because of school and work - but it does inspire a certain quality of dread.
After all, books aren't just papers bound with cardboard or cloth, they're memories. Our experiences with books go beyond the experience of reading the words on the page. Books resonate with our total reality. When I leaf through, say, Henry Miller's Tropic of Capricorn, I'm not only reminded of the book itself and what I liked and disliked about it, scenes that I remember, the way that it informed my thinking (informed my experience of literature, my experience of other books), but I'm also reminded of what life was like when I was reading it.
For example, I recall carting Capricorn around with me back and forth across Toronto during a very hot July in the late 1990s, reading it in coffeeshops, on subways, on the futon couch of my apartment in the wee hours of the morning when it was too humid to sleep. These memories might seem unexceptional - and I admit they are unexceptional - but it was a time in my life: Tropic of Capricorn was woven into my experience of that July and my experience of that July is woven into Tropic of Capricorn.
As I weed through the book collection, holding the books in my hand one at a time, these kinds of moments and memories come to mind, making it hard to put some books in the "TO GO" pile even if I didn't really like the book--which was the case with Miller's Capricorn. In short, this is the book-lover's dilemma.
After all, books aren't just papers bound with cardboard or cloth, they're memories. Our experiences with books go beyond the experience of reading the words on the page. Books resonate with our total reality. When I leaf through, say, Henry Miller's Tropic of Capricorn, I'm not only reminded of the book itself and what I liked and disliked about it, scenes that I remember, the way that it informed my thinking (informed my experience of literature, my experience of other books), but I'm also reminded of what life was like when I was reading it.
For example, I recall carting Capricorn around with me back and forth across Toronto during a very hot July in the late 1990s, reading it in coffeeshops, on subways, on the futon couch of my apartment in the wee hours of the morning when it was too humid to sleep. These memories might seem unexceptional - and I admit they are unexceptional - but it was a time in my life: Tropic of Capricorn was woven into my experience of that July and my experience of that July is woven into Tropic of Capricorn.
As I weed through the book collection, holding the books in my hand one at a time, these kinds of moments and memories come to mind, making it hard to put some books in the "TO GO" pile even if I didn't really like the book--which was the case with Miller's Capricorn. In short, this is the book-lover's dilemma.
Thursday, 3 July 2014
An open field
Just back from a trip to Ireland and I'm dipping and redipping into the works of Ireland's finest: Yeats, Joyce, Beckett, to name just a few.
Thinking of Ireland's literary history, it strikes me how difficult it would be to be a young Irish poet, to have to contend with such a weighty past of wonderful, powerful poets such as Yeats, such as Heaney. A young Irish poet would really have to absorb the works of Yeats and Heaney and somehow position themselves in relation to them--not an easy task, I think.
Do young Canadian poets have the same problem? There are few Canadian poets whose legacy makes the same demands as Yeats' and Heaney's legacies. Yes, certainly Irving Layton had been nominated for the Nobel Prize, but it's easy to imagine a whole host of younger poets writing today who pay his work very little mind. They don't really need to contend with him.
Don't get me wrong: This isn't CanLit bashing (a terrible thing to do in the wake of Canada Day). We do have writers who need serious consideration. Younger Canadian poets who fancy themselves nature poets do have to seriously think about the poetry of Don McKay, for instance--and that wouldn't be an easy task either.
What I mean is this: it seems to me that the field is open, the possibilities are there, the past doesn't make the same heavy demands.
Thinking of Ireland's literary history, it strikes me how difficult it would be to be a young Irish poet, to have to contend with such a weighty past of wonderful, powerful poets such as Yeats, such as Heaney. A young Irish poet would really have to absorb the works of Yeats and Heaney and somehow position themselves in relation to them--not an easy task, I think.
Do young Canadian poets have the same problem? There are few Canadian poets whose legacy makes the same demands as Yeats' and Heaney's legacies. Yes, certainly Irving Layton had been nominated for the Nobel Prize, but it's easy to imagine a whole host of younger poets writing today who pay his work very little mind. They don't really need to contend with him.
Don't get me wrong: This isn't CanLit bashing (a terrible thing to do in the wake of Canada Day). We do have writers who need serious consideration. Younger Canadian poets who fancy themselves nature poets do have to seriously think about the poetry of Don McKay, for instance--and that wouldn't be an easy task either.
What I mean is this: it seems to me that the field is open, the possibilities are there, the past doesn't make the same heavy demands.
Saturday, 31 May 2014
Re. Glenn Gould's Reader
I have been reading, enjoying and admiring The Glenn Gould Reader (1985) edited by Tim Page. I'm surprised that Gould isn't read more widely, isn't really thought of as a literary man. Did only B.W. Powe take him seriously as a writer? (C.f. Powe's The Solitary Outlaw from 1996.) I think Gould's "The Search for Petula Clark" is one of the most interesting pieces written about Canada's north--and I suspect one of the most interesting pieces written about Petula Clark.
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