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.
the cassandra pages
words, pictures, and a life
Saturday, December 04, 2004
ROCKETS RED GLARE...
There are explosions outside, but it's fireworks at the conclusion of the "Marche des Flambeaux", a candlelight citizen's march, with instrumental music and choirs, to kick off the Christmas season in the Plateau and raise money for Christmas meals for the needy - each candle purchased for the march contributes to a fund that is used to feed people. We wanted to go, but I'm coming down with a cold (dammit) and standing around in wet, below-freezing weather didn't seem like a great idea. Instead I've spent the day trying to solve a technical problem on the professional side of my life, as yet to no avail, stopping the head-bashing now and then to read some blogs or knit a few rows, with gratitude for life's simpler things.
The Thai government is planning to drop over 100 million origami birds, made and sent in by citizens, on the disputed Muslim southern area of the country, as "origami peace bombs". The air drop is partially in response to a horrific incident in which 80 Muslim protesters suffocated when they were taken into custody and piled on top of one another in a army vans. Apparently the Muslims in the area of unrest accept the gesture but see it as simply that, a gesture, saying, "a political solution would be preferable". On the other hand..Thai citizens everywhere participated in the paper-folding, and how amazing it will be to see those paper birds fluttering out of the sky. I'm not cynical enough to dismiss the idea that symbolic gestures can spark real change. (from today's BBC)
Marja-Leena recently posted about an exhibition of experimental Inuit prints, and the art was so wonderful that I wanted to encourage you all to go over there and look. As she and I have been discussing, I love a lot of Inuit art and have been sad to see how the rawness and directness of the early work has given way to some commercialism and repetition. But because the printmaking techniques used for this exhibition were new, the work breaks free of convention and the artists seemed free to "play". For those who don't know her site, Marja-Leena is a highly-accomplished Canadian-Finnish printmaker and she often writes about, and links to, works by other contemporary printmakers and art of native or aboriginal peoples. Thanks, M-L, for this link and for all the wonderful art you lead us to!
Tonight we went to a free concert at the Chapelle Saint-Louis of Eglise Saint-Jean-Baptiste, not far from our apartment. We arrived only a few minutes early, after a brisk walk in the cold, and joined a serious audience of fifty or so; the woman next to us in the pew was reading Hegel. The concert was by two groups of young musicians, in their early twenties, it seemed, from the Montreal Conservatory, playing Baroque chamber music. There was a small orchestra of flutes, strings, oboe, bassoon, harpsichord, a lute, and another ensemble of harpsichord, cello, and two flutes. They were quite good - and it was nice to watch their concentrated young faces and the happiness when they played well - but we found ourselves fascinated by the space. The concert was in a side chapel of this enormous church, and it was a confection of over-the-top French ornateness and sentiment - gilded plasterwork, domes, niches, gold mosaic behind the altar, porcelain statuary, pink and yellow painted plaster walls, and maudlin Stations of the Cross paintings on the walls. All rather run-down, but fascinating: my instant reaction confirmed yet again how Anglo I really am, and how Protestant.
At one point we were invited to promener into the church to hear two pieces for tuba and organ. St-Jean-Baptiste itself is a cavern, with an enormous dome; a huge altar like a half-round stage under that dome, with yellow marble pillars rising up to another giant, gilded construction of filigreed blue and gold, with angel faces staring down from the top rim of the dome, chandeliers, carved saints, and huge copper sanctuary lamps, burning red in the half-darkness. There are so many pews, all with brass number-plates on the ends - so I suppose at one time a church like this would have been filled on a Sunday morning. Tonight it felt empty, cold, unused, in contrast to the chapel which was at least warm and filled with an enthusiastic audience of friends and family of the young musicians.
One of the two conductors was a young man obviously in love with the Baroque; he had on a dark shirt under his jacket and a loose dark satin bow at his throat; thin round glasses; his hair, which came halfway down his back, was tied back with a wide maroon satin ribbon; and he conducted while playing his own violin.
We woke this morning to an extremely dark bedroom, and when we looked out the window there was thick heavy wet snow on everything, and falling fast. J. peered out the front window. "Oooh," he reported back to me (still in bed with the covers pulled up). "People don't look happy." There were still bicycles going by, and parents pushing babies in strollers, and joggers...but everyone looked slightly shocked: they were trying to continue doing what they've been doing every morning since April...what had happened? Even the poor kids trapped in their strollers seemed to be leaning forward in alarm, kicking their little feet, or wriggling around trying to get out of the cold wetness suddenly assaulting them from the sky while the earnest parents trudged onward, valiantly trying to keep the wheels moving on the mushy sidewalk.
It would have been a good day to stay inside, drinking tea and eating cake, er, I mean making healthful, warming soups (I actually did do that - the soup part), but instead we went out exploring and came home with a fireplace grate and a set of fireplace tools, and some dark green linen-y curtains for our bedroom, all acquired at RenoDepot (the Canadian version of Home Depot), along with a few Christmas presents. And after dinner I finally got my cake - something called gata that has become a favorite - a Persian sweet bread that has some sort of ricotta-like cheese in the middle and a shiny, deliciously delicate light brown crust on top.
It's still raining/sleeting. I'm going to get in bed.
I just found an online advent calendar that looks quite wonderful. It's called Tate's Calendar(Tate is, apparently "le chat qui rit" - the cat who laughed) and the calendar, drawn by Penelope Schenk, features the adventures of a black cat, with a story for each day. Take a look.
It just occured to me, writing that title, that I don't know where the expression "catch-up" came from. LH, where are you? Or maybe somebody else knows?
Mr. Bush is here, and I'm proud to say that the Canadians haven't given him a very warm welcome. He may think he's king of the world, but he hasn't managed to control other populations yet; Jack Leyton of the NDP called on people to protest the visit, and they are.
It seems like many of us are behind on our blog reading, due to holiday cooking, guests, and traveling, so I won't write much tonight. I'm sitting here listening to a great jazz show on Espace Musique, 100.7; there are candles burning in the old brass candlesticks on the mantle, illuminating some delicate pine boughs and the two tall Swedish angels, made of wood and straw, that used to be part of my grandmother's Christmas decorating. It's a peaceful, gentle night, after a good day of work - the book in the morning, and some upcoming professional projects in the afternoon. I went out for a mid-afternoon walk in the sun-drenched but cold air, venturing to the eastern edge of the Plateau, where I bought a salmon filet, and then worked my way back down Mont-Royal and Brebeuf to the bakery for a baguette and a little tarte aux poires that we shared, with coffee, a couple hours after dinner.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
This morning we attended the 10:00 service at Christ Church Cathedral, where we're beginning to be recognized and greeted by familiar faces. It was Advent I, and the sung Eucharist used a modern choral setting, Missa Adventus ed Quadragesimae, by the Czech composer Petr Eben (b. 1929, and previously unknown to me) for a choir of adult men, which totally blew us both away. I'm amazed by the hand-in-hand beauty, sincerity, and solemn informality of the services at the cathedral. It is a grand and glorious place, with fine choirs and a great organ, a lofty vaulted ceiling and carvings and stained glass, and many clergy, and could easily be very full of itself. But instead, the Dean comes to the lectern in front before each service begins, welcomes everyone very warmly, gives the announcements, and also explains the order of service and how to follow it. They take risks: they've decided to lead the way by being a progressive, open, and inclusive church, and this is expressed in a multitude of ways. What comes across is a sense of generosity rather than pomposity; they understand that theirs is a particular mission of welcome to strangers, many of whom may not be Anglican at all - and they carry this out with humility and grace, rather than trying to impress by calling attention to how grand and important they are. As a result, one comes away more moved and more uplifted.
It's nice not to sing in the choir, for once, and to be able to sit beside my husband, who didn't come to church for years. And it was wonderful to sing the great Advent hymns: Bach's "Sleepers Wake" and the plainsong "O Come O Come Emmanuel", and a couple of solid, new-to-me hymns from the Canadian hymnal.
I also liked that the bulletin requested that imperishable food for the needy be brought to the church pantry. And, oh, all right, I'm willing to pray for the Queen as well as Paul Martin and Rowan Williams once a week; with that family, she probably needs it!
