Who was Cassandra?
In the Iliad, she is described as the loveliest of the daughters
of Priam (King of Troy), and gifted with prophecy. The god Apollo
loved her, but she spurned him. As a punishment, he decreed
that no one would ever believe her. So when she told her fellow
Trojans that the Greeks were hiding inside the wooden horse...well,
you know what happened.
We’ve talked a lot in these pages about the places we move in and out of: the big natural places; the created cities; the homes of our childhoods, made by others; the found places and secret hideaways; the less-easily-defined realms of the spirit. None of these places belong to us; they are bigger than we are and we move through them, marvelling at the ones that seem permanent – the night sky, the desert, the mountains – and mourning the loss of those that change or disappear. Walking past a snowberry bush today in another town, I instinctively reached out and squeezed a waxy white fruit, instantly remembering my childhood hiding place beneath my grandmother’s big snowberry bush. I wonder if it’s still there.
The blogosphere feels to me like an even bigger place than the aggregation of physical places we call “earth”; it is dimensionless, nearly unlimited both in extent and imaginative possibility, and while we may be able to trace its beginning no one can predict its future. Unlike natural physical places, it’s a virtual representation of the minds of human beings, extending with them backwards in time as well as representing, very nearly, the immediate present, and portending the likely trends of the future. That makes it, perhaps, the most human – and therefore most compelling, surprising, seductive - of all “places” ever created.
I’ve been making personal places all my life. Once, during a parent’s visiting day at school, my father gasped when he caught a glimpse of the inside of my desk. Yet what looked like chaos to him was precious and personal to me, and invested with meaning. The spaces I’ve made, from childhood corners through dorm rooms to my first apartments and eventually a rambling house and garden, have all retained some of that early “meaningful” chaos, through art, artifacts from the natural world, and the continual presence of books, paper, and words.
I wasn’t the one who discovered weblogs; J. did that and told me, long before I started one, “You ought to look at this. I think you’re a natural blogger.” When I did start The Cassandra Pages I really had no idea what I was trying to do, other than continuing the journal-style writing I’d always done, in a public way. The eventual importance of the visual content shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did; both my weblog and physical home have a lot in common – except that TheCassandraPages are neater! Ideally, I guess I wanted my weblog to reflect me as accurately as possible, but also to be as hospitable to others as any physical place I could create. Trying to consciously do that – without voice, touch, warmth, eye contact - has been a fascinating challenge.
Blogging seems to prove a spiritual truth I’ve been writing and thinking about for a long time: people want and need to have a way of saying, “this is me, this is who I am” that goes much deeper than putting “Honk if you love golden retrievers” or “I love square dancing” signs on their bumpers. We crave self-expression both for its own sake, and because we crave communion. I think the virtual places we tend to return to are the ones that feed us, not unlike the physical places we visit, remember, and long to return to. We’re all looking for that elusive sense of home, where we’ll be welcomed just as we are.
Please read more responses to the current topic at the Ecotone Wiki
Friday, August 15, 2003
Back home. First impressions: chaotic display of coleus, pansies, standard fushias and aloes on back porch desperately in need of water. Zucchini rampiante is definitely rampaging, having sent out 8-foot exploratory stems in my absence. Ditto for volunteer yellow pear tomato. Sunflowers two feet higher, lovely. House feels spacious, the landscape green, kitchen inviting. Vodka-and-tonic; quick Thai stir-fry with salad after garden foray for vegetables (tiny patty-pan squash, zucchini, carrots, tomatoes, fresh cucumbers); followed by pot of Arabic coffee with cardamom. Aaaahhh.
Montreal in forefront of memory: Hot. Sweaty back, tired feet, thrill of new visual impression every ten metres. People more undressed than here, less self-conscious. Visual variety. Creative jazz up my spine: images, pulses, colors, scents, vitesse …the beat of the present….only eventually turning into words. Thinking in French. Hot. Metro on rubber tires; flock of school children held together by a ribbon; old Chinese man reading newspaper; tired beggars asking for change. Woman riding bike in tight black dress and high heels; conservative Muslim couple in restaurant, even her mouth is covered. Rich lemony taste of fresh-grilled salmon. Walking the city at night, still hot. Financial district, Corinthian columns, the big river, gulls, mirror skyscrapers; concrete grain elevators. Catholicism and fur traders. Construction crew pounding I-beams into the earth, shaking me too.
As usual, I’ve come back more tired than when I left. We saw a couple of movies: Spellbound, a new documentary that follows eight kids bound for the National Spelling Bee – terrific – and The Matrix Reloaded at the huge Montreal IMAX theater. Quite the experience: I thought it was better than the reviewers did, but seeing and hearing it on that scale of course didn’t hurt.
Tomorrow we’re attending our first civil union. After that I hope to be able to contribute to the next Ecotone bi-weekly topic (due today, actually): "Weblog as Place".
Thursday, August 14, 2003
We spent most of today investigating the Plateau Mont-Royal area of the city, and arranging for a week's apartment rental in November. I've been negotiating with the landlord in French by e-mail, and it seemed good to see the place and meet her, also because we're trying to see if this would be a suitable neighborhood for a longer rental period. As it turned out, we liked it very much. The shopping/restaurant area known as "Plateau Mont-Royal" is pretty trendy and hip, and also relatively expensive, but surrounding it are very nice residential areas that are reasonable, with tree-lined streets and ordinary, mixed neighborhoods of young and old. We wandered around the area, checked out the availability of laundromat, bank, metro, and stopped in at the local supermarche - which was filled with beautiful produce, fresh bread, and a long fish counter of far better and fresher fish than we get at home, and also less expensive. J. pulled me quickly past the local patisserie, but I convinced him to stop in for a creme glacee at a lovely little shop run by an older French woman and offering about twenty kinds of freshly-made ice cream and Italian ices (I had strawberry, he had a lait frappe with ginger ice cream).
We took our lunches to the large neighborhood park, filled with mature trees, benches, big grassy areas and recreational sections of all kinds: playgrounds, pool, softball, tennis. People of all ages were walking and biking through the park, some with dogs, and everyone was very relaxed and friendly. While we were eating a man came and sat down on one of the benches and began practicing on his African drum. I noticed two things that startled me: first, he carefully put a thick cloth over the head of the drum before he started playing, to muffle the sound so he wouldn't disturb people unduly. Second, two little girls, unaccompanied by parents, came up and began talking to him and asking if they could play the drum. None of them acted as if this was unnatural or unusual - the man talked to the girls, showed them what he was doing, the girls were totally relaxed, and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Other adults in the park paid no particular attention. I felt like this told me a lot about the general temperature of relations between strangers here, and the level of anxiety about random encounters. For example, girls alone on the street look at you and often say hi. People regularly make eye contact on the metro or on the street. I never feel scared here at any time of the day, and when you watch interactions between people, they always seem more relaxed than I'm used to in cities.
My impression over the past three years of visits has been of a society that is less polarized by wealth or the lack of it, and in which the priorities of life are different and perhaps more generally shared. I sense less competitive agressiveness, less consumerism, and less disparity in wealth. There may also be less mobility and opportunity - I don't know. There's a lot more to learn. Aesthetically, though, there is a lot that is pleasing, and much of it is the French sensibility: the blue enamel house numbers, wrought-iron filigreed railings and window grilles, lace curtains on every door and window, potted geraniums. And the food! And the food.
4:44 PM
|
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
Bonjour from Montreal. We made a quick trip up here to do some errands and take a couple of days off. To our surprise, after weeks of rain at home, it’s clear up here and very lovely. After blogging at “Zoni” (that’s what we call this internet/copy place – our name comes from the internet place J. used in Damascus) we’re going to walk up to Parc de Mont-Royal and watch the sun go down over the city. Then maybe a dinner of Asian noodles and a movie. We’re both pretty beat after some very hectic days with our regular work.
Driving up, the sky was filled with huge cumulus clouds, grey and white over slate-blue mountains. Fields of hay and corn lay between the foothills, and along the roadsides, goldenrod and chicory were at theheight of their bloom. Every few miles one of us said, "look over there!" or "look at that!" We finally concluded that we live in a postcard.
But once you enter Canada, the land gets flatter and flatter. Beyond the border lie vast fields of corn -both feed corn for cows and "mais sucre", advertised colorfully on handpainted signs in front of each farm. Under one farmstand canopy, we saw just the eyes and forehead of a girl behind a huge mound of sweet corn, large enough to feed our entire village back home. Two other sights characterize the change in countries: roadside bars with big signs advertising "danseuses nues", and the tall, shiny, aluminum-painted spires of the Catholic churches in each village.
More tomorrow...and maybe some pictures.
4:49 PM
|
We've see a lot of movies, but two lately were so good I want to recommend them.
The first is Baran, the latest feature by Iran's Majid Majidi, the director of Children of Heaven and The Color of Paradise. I loved both of those, but felt that Baran was on an even higher level, a masterpiece. Not only are the performances (many by untrained actors) uniformly outstanding and believable, the cinematography masterful and often breathtaking (as those of us who are Iranian film buffs have come to expect), the story poignant and human -- it also presents a window into the plight of Afghan refugees trying to scrape by in Iran. (Most of the refugees pictured in this film came to Iran during the Soviet invasion). It's a film about racism and compassion, about male-female relationships within Islam, and about transformation. It's also, like Majidi's other films, about seeing and finding beauty amid dire poverty and desperation.
The second terrific movie is Y Tu Mama Tambien, a Mexican production directed by Alfonso Cuar?n, that knocked us off our feet. It's the story of two boys uncomfortable on the cusp of manhood - are they ever - and a slightly older woman with whom they go on a road trip. The film's advertising quotes the Washington Post as saying this is "the best road trip movie ever". Well, maybe, it's right up there. Beautifully made on a low budget, excellent screenplay, great direction, many surprises, and fine performances by everyone, especially the Spanish actress Maribel Verdu.
Both movies are available for rent from NetFlicks.com
By the way, I'm sorry and annoyed that HaloScan's comments have been down lately - please keep trying.
5:05 PM
|
Monday, August 11, 2003
FEVER-TREES
Following up on those trees on the banks of the great, grey-green, greasy Limpopo: fever-trees are cichona, the tree that gave quinine its name. An article in today's New York Times, "The Miraculous Fever-Tree", gives the details (Joel, this is for you!):
Ms. Rocco, who is the literary editor of The Economist, makes the pursuit of quinine (an ingredient in tonic water) her book's primary focus. She cites early discoveries of the title tree, which would be named cinchona (with a bark that yields quinine) in Peru, where early Jesuit missionaries understood its importance. She also discusses how valuable this substance would have been in Rome, which at one time was "the most malarious city on earth..." 7:29 PM
|
Yesterday was a feast for my eyes, ears, and spirit. Generous, dear friends had invited me to travel with them to Massachussetts to visit an exhibition of the late seascapes of J.M.W. Turner at the Clark Institute in Williamstown, Mass. , have a picnic lunch, and then go to Tanglewood for an afternoon concert .
I’d seen many of the Turners before, at the Tate, but while in London (despite my liking Turner very much) I felt overwhelemed by the sheer number of canvases and the yellow-ness of the paintings against the Tate’s light-colored walls, here the exhibition was focussed, manageable, and hung against a calming and complementary deep marine blue. I like the most abstract paintings the best, but I was struck by two of his very last seascapes that depicted whaling – one with a giant harpooned sperm whale about to overturn one of the chase boats, and the other a much more ethereal, even allegorical painting of a whaling boat putting in to an arctic port, with the severed head of a sperm whale hanging from the rigging, barely visible through fog. Yet for all the intensity and energy of Turner’s oils, I sometimes think my favorites are his small watercolors, painted on location – maybe because in them I can sense his spirit and even look over his shoulder as he moves his brush.
After the visual banquet, we ate our picnic of rosemary bread, fresh tomatoes and basil, Boston lettuce, cold chicken breasts, and cherries under a canopy while teeming rain fell through the tall tamaracks and oaks that flank the Clark’s pink marble exterior.
Then – on to Tanglewood, the summer home of the Boston Symphony, in the beautiful open hills of the Berkshires. The centerpiece of the afternoon was Renee Fleming, resplendently glowing in a copper satin dress with fitted waist, vast skirt, and plunging neckline, singing Richard Strauss’s Four Last Songs – the final songs he ever wrote, set to poems by Herman Hesse. I know these songs well; I’ve loved them for a long time, listened to my old LP of Elisabeth Schwartzkopf until it skips, and even sung through them myself back when I was studying voice.
Just as Fleming began, one of the strongest thunderstorms I can remember let loose and sheets of water literally cascaded off the roof of the Serge Koussevitsky Shed, Tanglewood’s big venue, which is open on three sides. Somehow, though, the storm was fitting, and it kept the 2000-person audience riveted to the stage. Fleming’s concentration never faltered, and her voice was limpid, searching, tender and strong: the perfect vehicle for Strauss’s final commentary. I wasn’t the only one wiping tears from my cheeks at the end.
Upon Going to Sleep (Song #3)
Now the day has made me weary let the starry night gather up my ardent longings, lovingly, as it would a tired child.
Hands, leave off all your toil, mind, put aside all your thoughts: all ym senses long to settle, now, into slumber.
And the soul, unencumbered, wants to soar in free flight into the night’s magic realm, to live deeply, a thousandfold. Hermann Hesse
You can listen to Renee Fleming singing excerpts from her all-Strauss CD here.
4:35 PM
|
