The news of the past few days leaves me interested and excited. The French have had a massive strike aimed at stopping “Darko’s” efforts at streamlining the French economy. There are strikes at a British an oil refinery that have spread to other parts of the country over the issue a foreign contractor winning a bid and intending to use Portuguese workers. Meanwhile in America the stimulus package has suddenly found itself attached to protectionist measure, aimed at slowing imports. Depending on who you talk to it could be as simple as foreign steel being stopped, or as dastardly as blocking all manufactured goods.
What fun what fun what fun.
This is not the end of globalisation, the word never meant anything coherent in the first place, but it should represent an end to a certain way of thinking about globalisation.
People are now more fully aware than ever about how in the past few decades money has found unobstructed paths throughout globe. They are suddenly conscious that money is after profit and unconcerned with such niceties as national interest or quaint ideas of obligation.
With this awareness comes wariness and at times anger when they see foreign companies impinging on their space. Now that everyone is a little bit scared about the big bad world, they are falling, ever so slightly, into themselves and the collective bosom of the nation state once again.
Save us! Oh save us!
I am not clever enough to predict where this is heading. Mr. Obama made protectionist noises during his battle with Mrs. Clinton, and now house Democrats have attached the ideas to said stimulus package. Will he follow through and throw up tariff barriers? I doubt it on a universal scale, but wouldn’t be terribly shocked if we saw gates and obstructions thrown up in certain sectors. Canada the most likely to benefit.
Gordon Brown’s words from Davos don’t seem to indicate any massive change of tactics from where he has been over the past decade and a half. He seemed quite pleased to claim an end to the cyclical nature of the economy, and now that it apparently continues he seems incapable of finding new directions and strategies.
Those on strike are more clear in their ideas, plainly horrified by foreign workers taking British jobs, and are advocating a new, British first direction. Interestingly one union leader felt the need to clarify that it wasn’t about racism, just jobs. Whether this is criticism being levelled at the strikers in Britain I don’t know, being in France as I am, but I think it reveals eerie possibilities.
Are we about to see a shift to the right? Not in terms of economy, as I have no idea how classically right-wing economic positions could be supported given all the things we have recently seen, but in terms of society, culture and what those terms mean, especially as it pertains to the exclusion of others.
I’m going to be optimistic and say racism will not flourish; Obama was just elected president wasn’t he? But people are scared as they see terrorists at the gate, and maybe inside the house, and now foreign masses looking to steal jobs. Globalisation isn’t what it was cracked up to be, and there could be a series of very negative responses to ideas of foreign capital flows, cross-border jobs, and even foreign aid if things get too harsh and difficult. Or, people might look up and realize there is an elite who haven’t been leading for the people’s interests as previously advertised. On the other hand there’s a chance that this recession could simply be deep but very short, not allowing any time for concerns to fester.
I’m generally a pessimist when it comes to any notion of people (Canadians being my main frame of reference) overcoming sedentary and distracted lives to mount any change to the system (whether revolutionary or something more relaxed). If things drag on, however, with people losing jobs and money, they won’t be able to afford previous distractions, and who knows what they’ll do with their new found time or who they’ll blame for the problems.
But what the hell do I know? It’s more likely that hyper-intelligent cats will become the overlords of humanity, than I am going to accurately predict anything.
Who could have guessed that a skinny cat with big ears and a funny name could one day become the first feline Emperor of Earth? All hail Emperor Barack Hussein Tufty!!!
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Struggles with francophilia
Before we even begin this one, I warn you, you’re about to enter a realm of perhaps and maybes. An analysis that begins somewhere in the middle of something and ends not far away. Good luck.
***
As much as I would like to deny it, I can’t help but feel an affinity to the French lifestyle.
The slowly enjoyed meals, once, twice, three times a market on a regular basis. A satisfaction with buying locally that comes from a perspective of how-it-has-always-been rather than a ‘new’ idea someone in North America has recently chanced upon. Even grocery stores are likely to carry locally produced goods, although these tend to come from the slightly larger and more commercialized local farmer, rather than the lady who pulled a few carrots out of the garden this week. (On this topic I know there is something to be said about subsidies the agricultural community is provided, but for now I will leave that alone.)
And this ability to buy locally works hand-in-hand with an abundance of personal gardens I see spread out, both in backyards and in larger communal spaces where many families work cheek by jowl. Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité et Rutabagas!
Economically, as I walk the streets of Rodez the stores are varied. There is a jewellery maker displaying his certification from some Parisian school, and a, well I don’t know the appropriate term, but he reupholsters furniture and makes drapes. Fine cloths and quality workmanship no doubt. And now that I think of it, I have been struck before by the number of chair repair technicians I have seen, vending their most recent efforts at the market.
A gajillion little coiffures, boulangeries and boucheries line the streets. The hairdressers in particular seem to spend most of their days relaxed and reading the paper, waiting for a periodic entry on whom they can wield their scissors. One fellow I pass daily I saw sitting for the first time yesterday, up until then he has always been cheerfully working one person’s hair, never anyone waiting, never anyone just having stood up.
I had never even seen the lady who I chose for a trim earlier this week, until I entered after reading the posted price. Suddenly she was upon me, catching me unawares. I later saw where she sat, on a plush chair in a darkened sitting area. Reading the paper of course.
(Strangely, given how quiet these places all seem to be, she had me into the chair, trimmed and out in about 4 minutes. When she drew down the mirror to show me the back I was more than a little shocked to know we were finished, but aside from a little mis-trim with the clippers above one ear the result was satisfactory. Her newspaper must have been dynamite because she couldn’t have been expecting another customer.)
But the point of this; there are many little jobs where no one is becoming super rich but fewer people go wanting. People can put decent, local food on the table, traipse around the market and generally lead a satisfied, French life. I like this outlook and way of being, or at least how I perceive it up to this point.
---
Admittedly a brief list, and not sufficient to even consider defining a ‘French way’, but the examples do represent things I appreciate and in some cases have attempted to work into my own life. They are ideas about living for life rather than money.
Why then do I hesitate to embrace Francophilia, starting this piece with ‘as much as I would like to deny it’?
Perhaps the most obvious culprit is language. Without a solid grasp of that I have a hard time accessing all the relaxed meandering and banter that I see around me. One can only meander alone for so long. To have the language is to have the ability to communicate, make friends, deal with the bureaucracy and be generally comfortable within a country, so I will stake a large part of my hesitancy here.
Interestingly, negative concerns also arise from the relaxed mode of life that I presented positively above. This way of living is not just about the people on the streets, also spilling into France’s bureaucracy and technological systems.
As with the storefronts, one finds a plethora of minute jobs within the bureaucratic structures, whether health, school administration or local government, and I can only assume the same is true farther up the ladder. The stamp lady position may keep more people employed, allowing everyone to work fewer hours - more time for meandering - but it also means my life is slowed down.
I am happy moving at a slow pace, but when I do get it inside me to do something I want it to happen smoothly, quickly and with minimal re-requests for copies of my birth certificate. (They have a copy and they have photocopiers but somehow need me to send it again, this time with notes in the margin. Perhaps it’s an elaborate scheme to maintain levels of employment in the postal service but more likely the idea that different nations might have different document formats hasn’t struck them.)
Similarly, sometimes I just want to be able to use the internet. Whether it is my laptop on a wireless network or a desktop in a computer lab I want the connection to be reasonable, and the computer to have all the basic programs one needs to surf in this day and age. As for having a computer that doesn’t explode when I open more than two programs, I can grant some leeway here on the grounds that to update at the rate of technology is to bankrupt both one’s accounts and the environment, but running Windows 98 is a bit obscene.
But internet technology here is behind the times, at least in terms of hyper-wired Canada. Or - knowing as I do the significantly different reality in the North, on reserves, and even in the rural south – at least the parts of Canada I am familiar with. Website design, function and reliability are also problematic, but I won’t speak to that here.
---
So after this brief self-reflection where do I find myself? I am undeniably appreciative of a place where people take the time to live and provide themselves with nourishment, whether from the garden or more ephemerally. But I also find myself wishing, every once in a while, things worked more quickly and efficiently. That the trains didn’t strike so often, computers didn’t sound like TB patients, etc.
And what is the answer to this internal division? Language, again, is a huge part. The time and patience to allow for adaptation and the discovery of a new normal are also vital.
Maybe it is also about me wanting to be unique. It’s all well and good to be the relaxed no-getter in a culture where it is the norm, but when everyone is doing it I feel out of place.
I don’t think I have actually solved anything in this spiel and although I have edited a fair amount the whole thing feels a bit confused and rambly. I actually started writing this in an attempt to determine whether I had a right to be peeved at a bunch of young French guys who had just come into the library being very loud. With that in mind this makes even less sense.
I suppose to not post it at all might have been an option.
I will end by saying I am pleased to be trying to sort through some of this muck; in an attempt to decide if I want to stay here longer, surely, but also to better understand myself and another culture’s ways of thinking and being.
And I’m sure I get some smug Canadian, post-modern, former grad student satisfaction from emphasizing the realities of difference between peoples, places and times, rather than a superior-inferior, binary mindset, which would make things a whole hell of a lot easier.
Or maybe nothing can be absolute or perfect, this all just silly navel-gazing, and I should get on with something more productive...BLAH.
***
As much as I would like to deny it, I can’t help but feel an affinity to the French lifestyle.
The slowly enjoyed meals, once, twice, three times a market on a regular basis. A satisfaction with buying locally that comes from a perspective of how-it-has-always-been rather than a ‘new’ idea someone in North America has recently chanced upon. Even grocery stores are likely to carry locally produced goods, although these tend to come from the slightly larger and more commercialized local farmer, rather than the lady who pulled a few carrots out of the garden this week. (On this topic I know there is something to be said about subsidies the agricultural community is provided, but for now I will leave that alone.)
And this ability to buy locally works hand-in-hand with an abundance of personal gardens I see spread out, both in backyards and in larger communal spaces where many families work cheek by jowl. Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité et Rutabagas!
Economically, as I walk the streets of Rodez the stores are varied. There is a jewellery maker displaying his certification from some Parisian school, and a, well I don’t know the appropriate term, but he reupholsters furniture and makes drapes. Fine cloths and quality workmanship no doubt. And now that I think of it, I have been struck before by the number of chair repair technicians I have seen, vending their most recent efforts at the market.
A gajillion little coiffures, boulangeries and boucheries line the streets. The hairdressers in particular seem to spend most of their days relaxed and reading the paper, waiting for a periodic entry on whom they can wield their scissors. One fellow I pass daily I saw sitting for the first time yesterday, up until then he has always been cheerfully working one person’s hair, never anyone waiting, never anyone just having stood up.
I had never even seen the lady who I chose for a trim earlier this week, until I entered after reading the posted price. Suddenly she was upon me, catching me unawares. I later saw where she sat, on a plush chair in a darkened sitting area. Reading the paper of course.
(Strangely, given how quiet these places all seem to be, she had me into the chair, trimmed and out in about 4 minutes. When she drew down the mirror to show me the back I was more than a little shocked to know we were finished, but aside from a little mis-trim with the clippers above one ear the result was satisfactory. Her newspaper must have been dynamite because she couldn’t have been expecting another customer.)
But the point of this; there are many little jobs where no one is becoming super rich but fewer people go wanting. People can put decent, local food on the table, traipse around the market and generally lead a satisfied, French life. I like this outlook and way of being, or at least how I perceive it up to this point.
---
Admittedly a brief list, and not sufficient to even consider defining a ‘French way’, but the examples do represent things I appreciate and in some cases have attempted to work into my own life. They are ideas about living for life rather than money.
Why then do I hesitate to embrace Francophilia, starting this piece with ‘as much as I would like to deny it’?
Perhaps the most obvious culprit is language. Without a solid grasp of that I have a hard time accessing all the relaxed meandering and banter that I see around me. One can only meander alone for so long. To have the language is to have the ability to communicate, make friends, deal with the bureaucracy and be generally comfortable within a country, so I will stake a large part of my hesitancy here.
Interestingly, negative concerns also arise from the relaxed mode of life that I presented positively above. This way of living is not just about the people on the streets, also spilling into France’s bureaucracy and technological systems.
As with the storefronts, one finds a plethora of minute jobs within the bureaucratic structures, whether health, school administration or local government, and I can only assume the same is true farther up the ladder. The stamp lady position may keep more people employed, allowing everyone to work fewer hours - more time for meandering - but it also means my life is slowed down.
I am happy moving at a slow pace, but when I do get it inside me to do something I want it to happen smoothly, quickly and with minimal re-requests for copies of my birth certificate. (They have a copy and they have photocopiers but somehow need me to send it again, this time with notes in the margin. Perhaps it’s an elaborate scheme to maintain levels of employment in the postal service but more likely the idea that different nations might have different document formats hasn’t struck them.)
Similarly, sometimes I just want to be able to use the internet. Whether it is my laptop on a wireless network or a desktop in a computer lab I want the connection to be reasonable, and the computer to have all the basic programs one needs to surf in this day and age. As for having a computer that doesn’t explode when I open more than two programs, I can grant some leeway here on the grounds that to update at the rate of technology is to bankrupt both one’s accounts and the environment, but running Windows 98 is a bit obscene.
But internet technology here is behind the times, at least in terms of hyper-wired Canada. Or - knowing as I do the significantly different reality in the North, on reserves, and even in the rural south – at least the parts of Canada I am familiar with. Website design, function and reliability are also problematic, but I won’t speak to that here.
---
So after this brief self-reflection where do I find myself? I am undeniably appreciative of a place where people take the time to live and provide themselves with nourishment, whether from the garden or more ephemerally. But I also find myself wishing, every once in a while, things worked more quickly and efficiently. That the trains didn’t strike so often, computers didn’t sound like TB patients, etc.
And what is the answer to this internal division? Language, again, is a huge part. The time and patience to allow for adaptation and the discovery of a new normal are also vital.
Maybe it is also about me wanting to be unique. It’s all well and good to be the relaxed no-getter in a culture where it is the norm, but when everyone is doing it I feel out of place.
I don’t think I have actually solved anything in this spiel and although I have edited a fair amount the whole thing feels a bit confused and rambly. I actually started writing this in an attempt to determine whether I had a right to be peeved at a bunch of young French guys who had just come into the library being very loud. With that in mind this makes even less sense.
I suppose to not post it at all might have been an option.
I will end by saying I am pleased to be trying to sort through some of this muck; in an attempt to decide if I want to stay here longer, surely, but also to better understand myself and another culture’s ways of thinking and being.
And I’m sure I get some smug Canadian, post-modern, former grad student satisfaction from emphasizing the realities of difference between peoples, places and times, rather than a superior-inferior, binary mindset, which would make things a whole hell of a lot easier.
Or maybe nothing can be absolute or perfect, this all just silly navel-gazing, and I should get on with something more productive...BLAH.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Art
Sitting in the médiathèque’s reading room in Rodez I can’t help but notice the walls are lined with books.
Yes. Well said.
Deep, knowledgeable commentary there genius.
But before the attacks become too personal, let me continue. First of all, it is no longer bibliothèque. In a surprising twist, the place where books continue to be loaned out is one of the more technologically forward places in Rodez, perhaps France. There are DVDs and CDs to borrow and computers to use. I know this is common practice in North America but given the general technological infrastructure of France it comes as a mild shock. The biblio is dead, long live the média. What does library mean anyway?
(Maybe they connected the public institutions to the new technology first, thereby tying people more fully into the bosom of the state, and only later did technology spread into public use, the opposite of NA. This notion that the French state is under perpetual construction from the centre is not an original idea of mine, but is something I am considering and will likely give further depth to elsewhere.)
I really must try to remain focused, the title of this piece, is ‘Art’ not ‘A short treatise on the vagaries of book storage in the early 21st century’ (really more of a movie than a blog entry).
So, the walls are lined with books. But these books aren’t novels, those are elsewhere, along with all the other books one finds in a city’s library. These books are the fat, juicy art, cinema and technical folios - I think folio is the right word but perhaps describing them as encyclopaedic in nature would be accurate as well - that cost a fortune and to my experience are a more common sight in university libraries. Or I suppose the one university library I am most familiar with.
From where I sit, the wall of art books deal with topics such as the Baroque era of French art, the 19th century, Australian art, COBRA’s work in the first half of the 20th century, and Istanbul. And that is the tiniest sample of the spines I can read, there are many more.
Without getting too carried away by the other sections - science, cinema, history, geography, politics, economics, etc. - the thought that a city library of this size has this type of collection for art books intrigues me. Along the lines of my earlier commentary on urban space designed for living rather than purely economic exchange, I think this inclusion of art in the zeitgeist of the country is simply tremendous.
(On the topic of urban space, very briefly and simplistically, the idea of art in said space is good, largely regardless of one’s taste. Looking out the window here I am certainly not overly enthused with the French modernist (post?) style I can see. But within the art and architecture lies the basis for public discourse, so the end result is positive in my eyes.)
Do people use the books? That I don’t know, but the point is they are here. A person can stumble across them or search them out specifically and access them for free. Even if rarely touched, they still hold within their covers potential. Potential for an artist to realize himself or herself, someone else to realize their iconoclasm, or, indeed, the potential for someone stumbling in on a cold, wet day, to have light brought to their face with the realization that humanity can, has and will continue to create amazing things.
Yes. Well said.
Deep, knowledgeable commentary there genius.
But before the attacks become too personal, let me continue. First of all, it is no longer bibliothèque. In a surprising twist, the place where books continue to be loaned out is one of the more technologically forward places in Rodez, perhaps France. There are DVDs and CDs to borrow and computers to use. I know this is common practice in North America but given the general technological infrastructure of France it comes as a mild shock. The biblio is dead, long live the média. What does library mean anyway?
(Maybe they connected the public institutions to the new technology first, thereby tying people more fully into the bosom of the state, and only later did technology spread into public use, the opposite of NA. This notion that the French state is under perpetual construction from the centre is not an original idea of mine, but is something I am considering and will likely give further depth to elsewhere.)
I really must try to remain focused, the title of this piece, is ‘Art’ not ‘A short treatise on the vagaries of book storage in the early 21st century’ (really more of a movie than a blog entry).
So, the walls are lined with books. But these books aren’t novels, those are elsewhere, along with all the other books one finds in a city’s library. These books are the fat, juicy art, cinema and technical folios - I think folio is the right word but perhaps describing them as encyclopaedic in nature would be accurate as well - that cost a fortune and to my experience are a more common sight in university libraries. Or I suppose the one university library I am most familiar with.
From where I sit, the wall of art books deal with topics such as the Baroque era of French art, the 19th century, Australian art, COBRA’s work in the first half of the 20th century, and Istanbul. And that is the tiniest sample of the spines I can read, there are many more.
Without getting too carried away by the other sections - science, cinema, history, geography, politics, economics, etc. - the thought that a city library of this size has this type of collection for art books intrigues me. Along the lines of my earlier commentary on urban space designed for living rather than purely economic exchange, I think this inclusion of art in the zeitgeist of the country is simply tremendous.
(On the topic of urban space, very briefly and simplistically, the idea of art in said space is good, largely regardless of one’s taste. Looking out the window here I am certainly not overly enthused with the French modernist (post?) style I can see. But within the art and architecture lies the basis for public discourse, so the end result is positive in my eyes.)
Do people use the books? That I don’t know, but the point is they are here. A person can stumble across them or search them out specifically and access them for free. Even if rarely touched, they still hold within their covers potential. Potential for an artist to realize himself or herself, someone else to realize their iconoclasm, or, indeed, the potential for someone stumbling in on a cold, wet day, to have light brought to their face with the realization that humanity can, has and will continue to create amazing things.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
the new way
A bothersome thing about trying to write nice entries is sometimes they take a long time to produce. So when I'm trying to write something deep, lyrical and full of introspection I find that by the time everything is edited up and ready to go my mood has shifted.
Also, I'm still not totally comfortable with posting things that become too personal. Although no one sees it here, the point is they COULD, so I hesitate sometimes.
With all this in mind, if anyone wants to read some of my thoughts immediately after the holidays on France, language and future plans feel free to request and I shall do my best to send.
And as a special reminder I don't really ever look at the comments, so to ask there will do no good.
Also, I'm still not totally comfortable with posting things that become too personal. Although no one sees it here, the point is they COULD, so I hesitate sometimes.
With all this in mind, if anyone wants to read some of my thoughts immediately after the holidays on France, language and future plans feel free to request and I shall do my best to send.
And as a special reminder I don't really ever look at the comments, so to ask there will do no good.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Carcassonne Church
Sound’s surface was smooth, unpocked by the evening’s cold drizzle now rendered dry and silent and far from those sheltering below. The cold remained. Stonewalled and tall, the church was a space of echoes and dusk, lacking the electric intensity buzzing outside its doors. Creaking floorboards of the devout and merely interested expanded, reveling in their rare ascendance. A sole elderly woman, head bowed, kneeling, kept up a constant, inaudible supplication – willingly taking-on physical strain in the hopes of something greater. Sharp pecked whispers, loud voices floating disembodied from the street, the thunderclap of failure as a padded door, let down by a hinge, announced each new entry. Rarely. Silence had brought majesty to the empty pews.
In writing the above I tried to mimic some Tolstoy style, most directly the piece below, taken from The Cossacks.
'Along the surface of the water floated black shadows, in which the experienced eyes of the Cossack detected trees carried down by the current. Only very rarely sheet-lightning, mirrored in the water as in a black glass, disclosed the sloping bank opposite. The rhythmic sounds of night — the rustling of the reeds, the snoring of the Cossacks, the hum of mosquitoes, and the rushing water, were every now and then broken by a shot fired in the distance, or by the gurgling of water when a piece of bank slipped down, the splash of a big fish, or the crashing of an animal breaking through the thick undergrowth in the wood. Once an owl flew past along the Terek, flapping one wing against the other rhythmically at every second beat.'
And here are my actual notes that I quickly jotted into my notebook while trying to keep my rain jacket from rustling too much.
Prayer that lasts, drone front left, sharp pecked whisper behind, cars, loud voices on the street, creaks, floors, pews and bodies. I’m out of place. Everything echoes. Silence brings majesty. Time for supper
Finally, here is the first thing I started writing based on the experience in the church. Very brief and unedited.
A Catholic church, when not in the throes of mass, is a place of sanctity and silence. Calm and calming. Despite this, it is part of the real world; to claim otherwise renders a church useless in the search for salvation.
At the highest moments of sanctity, the moments when Jesus is really laying it on thick, that’s inevitably when the baby cries, because the baby doesn’t give a flying flip about Jesus. The baby wants fed or the baby wants the shit removed from its pants. Little things, which in their own ways are far more important than eternal salvation.
In writing the above I tried to mimic some Tolstoy style, most directly the piece below, taken from The Cossacks.
'Along the surface of the water floated black shadows, in which the experienced eyes of the Cossack detected trees carried down by the current. Only very rarely sheet-lightning, mirrored in the water as in a black glass, disclosed the sloping bank opposite. The rhythmic sounds of night — the rustling of the reeds, the snoring of the Cossacks, the hum of mosquitoes, and the rushing water, were every now and then broken by a shot fired in the distance, or by the gurgling of water when a piece of bank slipped down, the splash of a big fish, or the crashing of an animal breaking through the thick undergrowth in the wood. Once an owl flew past along the Terek, flapping one wing against the other rhythmically at every second beat.'
And here are my actual notes that I quickly jotted into my notebook while trying to keep my rain jacket from rustling too much.
Prayer that lasts, drone front left, sharp pecked whisper behind, cars, loud voices on the street, creaks, floors, pews and bodies. I’m out of place. Everything echoes. Silence brings majesty. Time for supper
Finally, here is the first thing I started writing based on the experience in the church. Very brief and unedited.
A Catholic church, when not in the throes of mass, is a place of sanctity and silence. Calm and calming. Despite this, it is part of the real world; to claim otherwise renders a church useless in the search for salvation.
At the highest moments of sanctity, the moments when Jesus is really laying it on thick, that’s inevitably when the baby cries, because the baby doesn’t give a flying flip about Jesus. The baby wants fed or the baby wants the shit removed from its pants. Little things, which in their own ways are far more important than eternal salvation.
Monday, January 19, 2009
self evident
I’m walking away now, following the lead of the lady carrying bread. And before her, the younger one. The latter saw it all from the start, made the call to the police, actually runs away and is probably late.
The police aren’t interested in asking me, or anyone, questions. I’m not in the mood to talk or explain my role. To try to talk and attempt to explain my role.
I suppose it is all rather self-evident. One man sitting on the ground, a pool of blood continues to grow in front of him, his glasses twisted and missing a lens beside him. He is leaking from his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Trying to pull his identification from a jacket pocket his hand shakes. And is spackled as he breaks the vertical plane of his blood’s downward trajectory.
The younger of the two women I am with is non-plussed about the blood. I catch her saying something about not wanting to, or perhaps she can’t stomach, looking at the wound. I feel a bit guilty; the gash is my fault.
Finally the police pull up to take charge of the scene, carefully unnecessarily blocking a road. She’s around twenty-four, five months and seventeen days old, and is explaining she saw him fall three times: there, there and finally here.
Before, she is telling a man rushing up, late to the party, with a cell phone, that she has already called the police. I realize I don’t know what one dials here, certainly not 9-1-1. Something to look up, or maybe I should just be extra careful. For life.
A new woman appears beside me, says something, waves her hand in exasperation at the nerve of some people. I think she just got out of a car that is parked nearby. I take her to say, “The nerve of some people. Falling on their faces, stumbling in the roads, causing traffic congestion...” I respond with, “Je suis un assistant de langue...” and let her fill in for herself that I have no clue what she’s talking about.
I should try to converse more fully I suppose, but I decide when something important might need to be communicated it’s better she knows I’m a git.
The two ladies and myself are just standing around, watching our friend slowly dripping-out onto the sidewalk. He moans a bit. Inspects his shattered glasses. Stares, watching as the drips trace a degreeless arc, straight down. The cement is still plenty grey.
I help him lift his face from where he had embedded on the cement, hooking him under the arms and dragging him a few feet to a cement pole he can lean on. My decision to help him into a sitting position came a few moments too late. Might have been better if I had done that in the first place. I didn’t.
Instead I leave him leaning on a car thinking that should do the trick. Off the road and safe. Gravity has other ideas. He goes forward. His arms don’t.
It’s funny how I have read the phrase “a sickening thud” or others of its like dozens of times. But each time I hear a sickening thud all I can think is, ‘Oh right. A sickening thud.’ It’s one of those noises. You’ll know it when you hear it.
Sometimes language makes me pause for the briefest instant. A helping hand doesn’t need words but sometimes words let you grab someone more fully. The struggling trio apparently needs my help. It’s nice to feel strong as I hoist the man. I catch a whiff. Not like any seizure I’ve ever smelled.
Just coming up the stairs from the IUFM where I work and there’s a lady carrying une baguette, moving to aid another, younger woman. Across the road she is trying to help a man slouched on the road rise. There are cars waiting for a clear path. Some sort of seizure I figure.
The police aren’t interested in asking me, or anyone, questions. I’m not in the mood to talk or explain my role. To try to talk and attempt to explain my role.
I suppose it is all rather self-evident. One man sitting on the ground, a pool of blood continues to grow in front of him, his glasses twisted and missing a lens beside him. He is leaking from his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Trying to pull his identification from a jacket pocket his hand shakes. And is spackled as he breaks the vertical plane of his blood’s downward trajectory.
The younger of the two women I am with is non-plussed about the blood. I catch her saying something about not wanting to, or perhaps she can’t stomach, looking at the wound. I feel a bit guilty; the gash is my fault.
Finally the police pull up to take charge of the scene, carefully unnecessarily blocking a road. She’s around twenty-four, five months and seventeen days old, and is explaining she saw him fall three times: there, there and finally here.
Before, she is telling a man rushing up, late to the party, with a cell phone, that she has already called the police. I realize I don’t know what one dials here, certainly not 9-1-1. Something to look up, or maybe I should just be extra careful. For life.
A new woman appears beside me, says something, waves her hand in exasperation at the nerve of some people. I think she just got out of a car that is parked nearby. I take her to say, “The nerve of some people. Falling on their faces, stumbling in the roads, causing traffic congestion...” I respond with, “Je suis un assistant de langue...” and let her fill in for herself that I have no clue what she’s talking about.
I should try to converse more fully I suppose, but I decide when something important might need to be communicated it’s better she knows I’m a git.
The two ladies and myself are just standing around, watching our friend slowly dripping-out onto the sidewalk. He moans a bit. Inspects his shattered glasses. Stares, watching as the drips trace a degreeless arc, straight down. The cement is still plenty grey.
I help him lift his face from where he had embedded on the cement, hooking him under the arms and dragging him a few feet to a cement pole he can lean on. My decision to help him into a sitting position came a few moments too late. Might have been better if I had done that in the first place. I didn’t.
Instead I leave him leaning on a car thinking that should do the trick. Off the road and safe. Gravity has other ideas. He goes forward. His arms don’t.
It’s funny how I have read the phrase “a sickening thud” or others of its like dozens of times. But each time I hear a sickening thud all I can think is, ‘Oh right. A sickening thud.’ It’s one of those noises. You’ll know it when you hear it.
Sometimes language makes me pause for the briefest instant. A helping hand doesn’t need words but sometimes words let you grab someone more fully. The struggling trio apparently needs my help. It’s nice to feel strong as I hoist the man. I catch a whiff. Not like any seizure I’ve ever smelled.
Just coming up the stairs from the IUFM where I work and there’s a lady carrying une baguette, moving to aid another, younger woman. Across the road she is trying to help a man slouched on the road rise. There are cars waiting for a clear path. Some sort of seizure I figure.
France makes me lie
It isn’t my fault. Honestly. All my ‘bonjours’, ‘bon soirées’ and ‘grand plaisirs’ are filled with nothing but the most genuine of whatever it is that particular combination of letters is meant to intone.
But, sometimes, it’s just easier, and necessary, to lie. The other day a student teacher who is doing her teaching placement (stage) here asked me a question. She is training to be a Spanish teacher, and as such spent much of the last term hanging out with the two Spanish assistants, Juan Carlos and Lucilla.
I was cruising through the salle des profs last Friday and was intercepted by this stagiare.
Est-ce que tu sais si Lucille a retourné?
Well, in fact I had just seen Lucille at the IUFM (the teachers college across town where I work), she was leaving her class just ended, as I was mine, and was holding a train schedule. I assumed she was returning to the family she lives with in a neighbouring town and because of this explained to the stagiare that I hadn’t seen her Spanish friend, only having just returned a few days before myself. The lie seemed to make more sense than trying to explain the whole train-schedule-in-hand scene and my assumptions. (I should be writing my response as dialogue but it was very much deer in headlights French that wasn’t and wouldn’t be of much help to anyone.)
These language lies occur because I don’t know what to say, or don’t want to try (assuming I won’t know), and getting out of the conversation seems the better alternative.
The other type of lie I find myself engaging with revolves around silly French rules. In particular the salle de musculation (love that word) I use at the local fac (university) has a rule that requires a minimum of 2 people to be in the room at any time. Posted right on the door and everything.
One of the first times I went to fetch the key from the secretary (they tend to vary day-to-day) she asked if I was alone, and pretending not to understand her question I mumbled
Je suis un assistant de langue. Pierre Zoopas a parlé avec quelqu’un… (Pierre being the prof I work with). With a sigh and a look of rule-breaking-concern she told me to be very careful and gave me the key anyway. I don’t think she was that concerned.
Pourquoi? the rule, I asked.
Pour la securité, she said.
Well, we do live in dangerous times.
But that’s not much of a lie. This week, however, a new lady was at the desk looking a bit more officious and serious.
Êtes-vous seule?
Non. Il y a des autres, I said gesturing vaguely down the stairs. Key! Victory! Although I was pretty sure she was onto my ruse right from the start.
When I went in today her eyes told me all I needed to know before she even asked me if I was alone. “Les autres arriverai dans quelques minutes…”
Having none of it she spun off her chair and went to ask her supervisor. When it was established I was a language assistant and not a student, the key was handed over. I’m not sure if that means they trust me because I’m not French, pity me because I have no friends to life weights with, or don’t care if I get damaged.
So what have we learned? I’m awesome. But we always learn that. We have also learned that lies grease the wheels of life. We all lie a gajillion times a day (I think the actual number is lower than that but surprisingly high…read some science) to grease the wheels of human interaction, and I would suggest while there is nothing wrong with this, butter works just as well.
But, sometimes, it’s just easier, and necessary, to lie. The other day a student teacher who is doing her teaching placement (stage) here asked me a question. She is training to be a Spanish teacher, and as such spent much of the last term hanging out with the two Spanish assistants, Juan Carlos and Lucilla.
I was cruising through the salle des profs last Friday and was intercepted by this stagiare.
Est-ce que tu sais si Lucille a retourné?
Well, in fact I had just seen Lucille at the IUFM (the teachers college across town where I work), she was leaving her class just ended, as I was mine, and was holding a train schedule. I assumed she was returning to the family she lives with in a neighbouring town and because of this explained to the stagiare that I hadn’t seen her Spanish friend, only having just returned a few days before myself. The lie seemed to make more sense than trying to explain the whole train-schedule-in-hand scene and my assumptions. (I should be writing my response as dialogue but it was very much deer in headlights French that wasn’t and wouldn’t be of much help to anyone.)
These language lies occur because I don’t know what to say, or don’t want to try (assuming I won’t know), and getting out of the conversation seems the better alternative.
The other type of lie I find myself engaging with revolves around silly French rules. In particular the salle de musculation (love that word) I use at the local fac (university) has a rule that requires a minimum of 2 people to be in the room at any time. Posted right on the door and everything.
One of the first times I went to fetch the key from the secretary (they tend to vary day-to-day) she asked if I was alone, and pretending not to understand her question I mumbled
Je suis un assistant de langue. Pierre Zoopas a parlé avec quelqu’un… (Pierre being the prof I work with). With a sigh and a look of rule-breaking-concern she told me to be very careful and gave me the key anyway. I don’t think she was that concerned.
Pourquoi? the rule, I asked.
Pour la securité, she said.
Well, we do live in dangerous times.
But that’s not much of a lie. This week, however, a new lady was at the desk looking a bit more officious and serious.
Êtes-vous seule?
Non. Il y a des autres, I said gesturing vaguely down the stairs. Key! Victory! Although I was pretty sure she was onto my ruse right from the start.
When I went in today her eyes told me all I needed to know before she even asked me if I was alone. “Les autres arriverai dans quelques minutes…”
Having none of it she spun off her chair and went to ask her supervisor. When it was established I was a language assistant and not a student, the key was handed over. I’m not sure if that means they trust me because I’m not French, pity me because I have no friends to life weights with, or don’t care if I get damaged.
So what have we learned? I’m awesome. But we always learn that. We have also learned that lies grease the wheels of life. We all lie a gajillion times a day (I think the actual number is lower than that but surprisingly high…read some science) to grease the wheels of human interaction, and I would suggest while there is nothing wrong with this, butter works just as well.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Hogmanay
Hello dears. This is just a quick note to say hello and ask how things are in these early stages of the new year.
Cecil and I have been tremendously busy since returning from Scotland. The snow that has fallen is simply astonishing and clearing the drive is more than enough to keep us in constant motion. Not that either of us enjoys driving in such weather, but one never knows when a clear route to the road will become a necessity.
If only it were our sole trial. Our beloved Mr. Tufts has taken ill and I fear he is not long for this world. He’s a fine old cat and whatever his fate I’m grateful to have known him for these past 15 years.
Enough of bad news though, one needs to start a year on a fresh and positive note. And in that vein I simply must recommend Edinburgh both as a city and a place to ring in the new year, or Hogmanay as they call it over there.
Our room was in the Scotsman Hotel and gave us a fine view over Princes Street and the adjoining gardens. In addition to the city’s regular trappings we could also see many of the garish contraptions and bright lights set up by the carnival folk for the season. Some of the lights, particularly those on the big wheel, are reasonable and nice, but any joy tends to be undone by the never-ending loud songs that I can barely bring myself to call music. I’m sure Suzanne might consider them fine dance numbers but they are beyond my appreciation.
There were an abundance of rides and games sheds but my attention was most thoroughly held by some sort of over-sized slingshot. A ghastly contrivance that had people sit in a metal framed orb attached to two large elastic bands, slowly stretched before the orb was released, sending it and its human cargo skywards. I must admit I watched the process six or seven times despite feeling quite ill when thinking of the poor souls inside.
We had been to Edinburgh’s famous castle on a previous visit and decided to give it a miss this go round. Instead we took a short train journey out to Stirling to look at its castle, a former capital and home to many Scottish kings and royal courts. A lovely place with glorious views on what was a crisp, frost-covered day. My lunch was a touch underdone but Cecil quite enjoyed his steak and beer. A lovely time all-in-all.
But the true excitement of the visit was undeniably the Hogmanay celebrations. Aside from the aforementioned fair there were a number of events put on in the evenings. The first was a torch parade where everyone could buy a torch, what was essentially a large candle wrapped in a wick. It was led by a phalanx of Vikings carrying professional torches and so many pipers and drummers it made one’s head spin. Cecil said there were 50 pipers in all but the din was such I lost count after the first few rows. Simply glorious.
At a point along the parade route there were other pipers, these ones on the side of the road facing one another in a circle. There were even 5 or 6 little ones in the centre of the ring, playing their tiny instruments and looking adorable. The scene reminded me of one of those nature shows where the big arctic musk ox gather in a great defensive circle with the babies in the middle when a predator approaches too closely. Except those beasts face out of course, to keep an eye on whatever Mr. Fox, or whomever, is up to.
The fantastic end to this procession of fire, after quite a walk let me tell you, is atop Calton Hill where they put on a stunning fireshow. Fireworks aplenty and at the very end a famous bonfire, the reason we were all willing to stand in the cold for so long.
A gigantic pile of wood topped by a fearsome lion, assembled from what I presumed to be wicker boughs, made for a truly grand spectacle. Our Viking vanguard had the honour of tossing their torches in to ignite the pile, and while the wind kept the flames from burning straight up, they were so big it did little to dampen the spectacle.
I only felt sorry for the poor lion, who through no fault of his own failed to have an absolute, fiery death and was instead relegated to losing only one paw and part of his lower jaw. He ended up a trifle rat like by the end, but I suspect they did the honourable thing after we had departed and ensured he was completely incinerated, wind be darned!
The next day was meant to have been a large street ceilidh, a wonderful celtic dance with much music and spinning, but the cold of the previous night got the better of me and I spent most of the day in the room, or in a steaming tub. Fortunately Cecil was able to find a nearby pub with men of similar passions, darts and beer, to while away the day.
As for New Year’s Eve itself, there was an official Hogmanay party that took up most of the downtown area. Centred on Princes Street and promising live music it held great potential.
Instead I decided to get shittered and danced my face off with a bunch London hotties.
Edinburgh and Hogmanay, a fine start to 2009 and highly recommended.
Love to you all and best wishes for the year ahead!
Lucille and Cecil
Cecil and I have been tremendously busy since returning from Scotland. The snow that has fallen is simply astonishing and clearing the drive is more than enough to keep us in constant motion. Not that either of us enjoys driving in such weather, but one never knows when a clear route to the road will become a necessity.
If only it were our sole trial. Our beloved Mr. Tufts has taken ill and I fear he is not long for this world. He’s a fine old cat and whatever his fate I’m grateful to have known him for these past 15 years.
Enough of bad news though, one needs to start a year on a fresh and positive note. And in that vein I simply must recommend Edinburgh both as a city and a place to ring in the new year, or Hogmanay as they call it over there.
Our room was in the Scotsman Hotel and gave us a fine view over Princes Street and the adjoining gardens. In addition to the city’s regular trappings we could also see many of the garish contraptions and bright lights set up by the carnival folk for the season. Some of the lights, particularly those on the big wheel, are reasonable and nice, but any joy tends to be undone by the never-ending loud songs that I can barely bring myself to call music. I’m sure Suzanne might consider them fine dance numbers but they are beyond my appreciation.
There were an abundance of rides and games sheds but my attention was most thoroughly held by some sort of over-sized slingshot. A ghastly contrivance that had people sit in a metal framed orb attached to two large elastic bands, slowly stretched before the orb was released, sending it and its human cargo skywards. I must admit I watched the process six or seven times despite feeling quite ill when thinking of the poor souls inside.
We had been to Edinburgh’s famous castle on a previous visit and decided to give it a miss this go round. Instead we took a short train journey out to Stirling to look at its castle, a former capital and home to many Scottish kings and royal courts. A lovely place with glorious views on what was a crisp, frost-covered day. My lunch was a touch underdone but Cecil quite enjoyed his steak and beer. A lovely time all-in-all.
But the true excitement of the visit was undeniably the Hogmanay celebrations. Aside from the aforementioned fair there were a number of events put on in the evenings. The first was a torch parade where everyone could buy a torch, what was essentially a large candle wrapped in a wick. It was led by a phalanx of Vikings carrying professional torches and so many pipers and drummers it made one’s head spin. Cecil said there were 50 pipers in all but the din was such I lost count after the first few rows. Simply glorious.
At a point along the parade route there were other pipers, these ones on the side of the road facing one another in a circle. There were even 5 or 6 little ones in the centre of the ring, playing their tiny instruments and looking adorable. The scene reminded me of one of those nature shows where the big arctic musk ox gather in a great defensive circle with the babies in the middle when a predator approaches too closely. Except those beasts face out of course, to keep an eye on whatever Mr. Fox, or whomever, is up to.
The fantastic end to this procession of fire, after quite a walk let me tell you, is atop Calton Hill where they put on a stunning fireshow. Fireworks aplenty and at the very end a famous bonfire, the reason we were all willing to stand in the cold for so long.
A gigantic pile of wood topped by a fearsome lion, assembled from what I presumed to be wicker boughs, made for a truly grand spectacle. Our Viking vanguard had the honour of tossing their torches in to ignite the pile, and while the wind kept the flames from burning straight up, they were so big it did little to dampen the spectacle.
I only felt sorry for the poor lion, who through no fault of his own failed to have an absolute, fiery death and was instead relegated to losing only one paw and part of his lower jaw. He ended up a trifle rat like by the end, but I suspect they did the honourable thing after we had departed and ensured he was completely incinerated, wind be darned!
The next day was meant to have been a large street ceilidh, a wonderful celtic dance with much music and spinning, but the cold of the previous night got the better of me and I spent most of the day in the room, or in a steaming tub. Fortunately Cecil was able to find a nearby pub with men of similar passions, darts and beer, to while away the day.
As for New Year’s Eve itself, there was an official Hogmanay party that took up most of the downtown area. Centred on Princes Street and promising live music it held great potential.
Instead I decided to get shittered and danced my face off with a bunch London hotties.
Edinburgh and Hogmanay, a fine start to 2009 and highly recommended.
Love to you all and best wishes for the year ahead!
Lucille and Cecil
snack time
and now as a poem!
Drunk hands. But steady. And sure.
The knowledge of a thousand campfires rolled through them
Slicing the butter and smearing it in
To spread would be to savage and tear
No good for an artist.
Drunk hands. But steady. And sure.
The knowledge of a thousand campfires rolled through them
Slicing the butter and smearing it in
To spread would be to savage and tear
No good for an artist.
buttering
Drunk hands.
Steady.
Sure.
They had been drinking for a while and their eyes showed it. A rising interest in food was another clue; although the French was too thick for my ears, communication is rarely about language alone. The heavier one, thick in ankle wrist and eyebrow, seemed most committed to the prospect as he slowly sawed a baguette in half. A length-wise and labourious process, using only a pocketknife. Knowing his own limitations, buttering was left to his friend.
Tall and slender to the point of being long, the other Quebecois sat on the stairs that formed a miniature amphitheatre around the corner-mounted fireplace, reveling in the dual glows from without and within. His hands revealed no tremors as he took bread, butter and knife in hand, not interested in the toast himself but seemingly pleased to be involved in the process.
Not a spreading blade in a classic sense, the knife peeled the butter back one thin layer at a time, before being used to gently smear it into the crenellations and holes of the bread.
Slow. Deliberate. Safe thumbs and fingers.
A small ritual, executed this time at a hostel in France.
Before?
Perhaps around a campfire in the forests of Quebec, with a different flame holding back cold. Also the darkness. Made solid by the trees that melt into the night beyond the fire’s glow. Maybe just a fire pit. In a backyard. Or around a kitchen’s wood-stove?
The ease of the act spoke of habituity, habitual action, pleasant memory. Wherever it had happened before, the twin glows had been there. A slight grin on Long’s face hinted at times before, irretrievable if he had been asked to tell.
Drunk hands. Happy. Steady. Sure.
Finished and placed on a metal grate, the bread was quickly seared and flipped for all around toasting. The meal was complete and shared around. Long decided to have some after all.
The quiet confidence and pleasure spoke about more than a man getting a snack. A small ritual had been conducted, bread to toast and butter to spread. It wasn’t religious, but maybe just the slightest bit spiritual. Order had been brought forth out of madness, bread rendered tastier, actions and patterns from different times and places brought to bear in an ancient French city. And of course, one should never discount the silent rapture of a drunk man munching a snack before bed.
Steady.
Sure.
They had been drinking for a while and their eyes showed it. A rising interest in food was another clue; although the French was too thick for my ears, communication is rarely about language alone. The heavier one, thick in ankle wrist and eyebrow, seemed most committed to the prospect as he slowly sawed a baguette in half. A length-wise and labourious process, using only a pocketknife. Knowing his own limitations, buttering was left to his friend.
Tall and slender to the point of being long, the other Quebecois sat on the stairs that formed a miniature amphitheatre around the corner-mounted fireplace, reveling in the dual glows from without and within. His hands revealed no tremors as he took bread, butter and knife in hand, not interested in the toast himself but seemingly pleased to be involved in the process.
Not a spreading blade in a classic sense, the knife peeled the butter back one thin layer at a time, before being used to gently smear it into the crenellations and holes of the bread.
Slow. Deliberate. Safe thumbs and fingers.
A small ritual, executed this time at a hostel in France.
Before?
Perhaps around a campfire in the forests of Quebec, with a different flame holding back cold. Also the darkness. Made solid by the trees that melt into the night beyond the fire’s glow. Maybe just a fire pit. In a backyard. Or around a kitchen’s wood-stove?
The ease of the act spoke of habituity, habitual action, pleasant memory. Wherever it had happened before, the twin glows had been there. A slight grin on Long’s face hinted at times before, irretrievable if he had been asked to tell.
Drunk hands. Happy. Steady. Sure.
Finished and placed on a metal grate, the bread was quickly seared and flipped for all around toasting. The meal was complete and shared around. Long decided to have some after all.
The quiet confidence and pleasure spoke about more than a man getting a snack. A small ritual had been conducted, bread to toast and butter to spread. It wasn’t religious, but maybe just the slightest bit spiritual. Order had been brought forth out of madness, bread rendered tastier, actions and patterns from different times and places brought to bear in an ancient French city. And of course, one should never discount the silent rapture of a drunk man munching a snack before bed.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
new things
In BIG news I have new plans for the blog. Rather than treat it as a throw away thing I'm going to take the entries seriously, put some actual effort into them. They will still be about my travels (in that they're inspired by things I see while I'm not at home) but it will be different.
So if things are a bit confusing, no worries. I'm experimenting and junk.
Huzzah!
So if things are a bit confusing, no worries. I'm experimenting and junk.
Huzzah!
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