Furbala

Whenever I was being petulant as a youngster (or last week) , my mother would say that I was acting like a diva. In fact, she used to call me by that name. I used to be offended, but then I remembered that to be a diva really means to be touched by God, and that made me feel better. The fact that my mother used the feminine pronoun of the word was unsettling (in reality, I would be classified as a divo, as in Il Divo, as in that photoshop-and-soundbyte "band" which is to music what poptarts are to breakfast... something sickly-sweet, white, square and indigestible).. , but I credited this lapse to an unfamiliarity to the structure of Romance languages. I was ready to forgive, take stock, and move on ...

And then I remembered that my mother wears lime green sunglasses indoors and has called herself Queen of the Universe on occasion, and my mind wandered to subjects of kettles, pots and "naming". So, I realized that in the end we are all touched by God, and larger than life, and in how many ways is THAT a cliche?! In any event, this realization means that whenever anyone tells you to get a life, you can inform them that you grew out of yours long ago and set it by the side ot the road like a snake sheds its skin. Of course, whether the aim of this process is to reveal one's true self, relieve boredom, is another question entirely. In the end, it doesn't matter, as long as you can make money while doing it.

Which brings me to Madonna, who has now assimilated another esoteric mystical tradition into her persona, and appropriated a whole new testament in the process. She is now known as Esther, the heroine of the Purim story (which is a very interesting story, but complicated... Basically you should know that most Jewish holidays can be summed up in the following words: "They tried to kill us...... Let's eat!").

Of course, if you deprive Esther of her "h" you are left with an Ester: " a volatile organic compound which is most often used to create artificial flavours and scents... ". To me, this seems a far more apt description.

Sometimes I begin to think about how celebrities have embraced "spirituality" in the last few years. First, Steven Segal claimed that he was the incarnation of a Tibetan lama, then there was Madonna and Kabbalah. I wouldn't be surprised if next week I read that Lindsay Lohan has discovered Kirkegaard...

The other day, I was shopping with my friend Soula. I came across a charm bracelet held together with a red string. It was made by Furla, the chic Italian design firm, and in her best imitation of a valley girl, Soula said "like, ohmigod... it TOTALLY looks like a kabbalah bracelet." And I was, like "Ohmigod... it's like, totally FURBALA"...

We both started to laugh hysterically, and then I thought... Furbala: 'the result of the combination of an ancient mystical tradition and commercialism.... something that is uncomfortable, that catches in the throat, and ultimately must be expelled at all costs."

Like, ohmigod.

Turning around the corner

Yesterday I had the good fortune to attend a dinner in honour of Arthur Erickson to celebrate his work and his life... my friend Michael is writing an article about him for Vancouver Magazine, and he asked me to attend the event... So, I put on my best silk pocket square and off I went. I can honestly tell you now that I had no idea who Arthur Erickson really was, other than the fact that he was an architect.... Sometimes I feel like in my pursuit of music, I can become a bit myopic. Needless to say, I am always glad for wakeup calls.. in whatever form they may come in.. First we went to a talk he gave at the Vancouver Art Gallery... here are my impressions...they are kind of rambling and unfinished... like the long threads of overworked dough... messy....

There was a genius in the room. There was a man who thinks before he speaks, and more importantly, has much to say. (But does a genius need to think before he speaks?) Arthur Erickson is an architect who minimizes the importance of buildings so that natural landscapes can speak. This to me seems like an act of great humility. He envisions architecture as the expression of human aspirations that must be made still, but yet always look as though they would spring to life.... Like a sprinter at the gate.

I think that Gertrude Stein said that when she met a genius, bells went off in her head. I have a feeling, knowing what I know of Gertrude Stein, that she must have heard bells when she met herself. Well, I am not so fortunate as Ms. Stein (may she pontificate in the salons of heaven forever), but I definitely felt something.... As I did yesterday I watched a video of Rostropovich's triumphant return to Moscow, after his citizenship was stripped from him, after he suffered so much for defending Solzenytsyn and Sakharov. He lived for music, and for freedom of expression. So did Beethoven... Today I listened to the Leonore Overture number 3 (overture to Fidelio)...Beethoven triumphing over his demons and calling us all to fight for our own voice, and in doing so, for our freedom, and for the freedom of others. And Arthur Erickson, like Beethoven, and Rostropovich, and Gertrude Stein, were against the status quo. Beethoven and Arthur Erickson said as much: Ericksoapproacheses his medium as an artist rather than a craftsman, and in doing so creates a unique vision for each building he designs. Similarly, Beethoven did not call himself a composer in the traditional sense, rather he called himself a Tondichter (literally a "sound poet") rather than a Tonkunstler (sound artist), which was the usual word for a musician. In doing so he revealed himself to be a musician of the Romantic age -- a poet concerned with feelings, expression and abstract ideals.

Today I listened to David Suzuki say that we must realize that when we hurt the environment, we are hurting ourselves. All of these things are of a piece. For there is architecture in music, and music is movement, and music and movement in words.. and great buildings punctuate space like music does. But it is not about the music, or the building...it is the in between, and the before, and how the music and the building forever change what comes after. It is the moment before the overture starts, the moment before you turn around the corner and see the Louvre, or the El Asqa Mosque, or Angkor Wat... the feeling that you are going to come across something that will alter you profoundly. But how selfish a thought this is, for none of it matters in the slightest if we stay the path and destroy the world, and thus ourselves.

And I am grateful that I live in a time and a place where there is freedom. And I pray that I will not remember this time as the moment before the curtain fell, before the world became dark. Oh, how I hope. I hope that the world will continue to have room for people who dare to be unfashionable... who venture to craft time and space out of the depths of the earth and the depths of their being into something organic and timeless. And then I remember the words of Florestan,the imprisoned political prisoner in Fidelio who said

"Wahrheit vagt' ich kühn zu sagen, und die Ketten sind mein Lohn -- Boldy I dared to speak the truth, and chains are my reward."

People were not ready for Beethoven's music. They were not ready for Gertrude Stein, just as they were not ready for many of Erickson's buildings, like the Canadian Embassy in Washington.

But we are always turning around the corner....

How Dark the Con of Can

Yes, its true.... the real conspiracy of our time has to do with CRTC regulations regarding Canadian Content regulations in print and audio media.... And you thought it had something to do with Jesus. Pu-leeze.

Actually, I did go to the Da Vinci Code, and half way through, the projector broke. I think it was a conspiracy by the church so that we wouldn't see the movie. It sounds far-fetched, but when I was leaving the theatre, I noticed that the movie poster had mysteriously fallen to the ground....

Note to Catholic Church: at Book Stores everywhere, the Da Vinci Code is displayed in the FICTION section.

You say der wassermelonensalat, I say.....

"A dog is "der Hund"; a woman is "die Frau"; a horse is "das Pferd"; now you put that dog in the genitive case, and is he the same dog he was before? No, sir; he is "des Hundes"; put him in the dative case and what is he? Why, he is "dem Hund." Now you snatch him into the accusative case and how is it with him? Why, he is "den Hunden." But suppose he happens to be twins and you have to pluralize him- what then? Why, they'll swat that twin dog around through the 4 cases until he'll think he's an entire international dog-show all in is own person. I don't like dogs, but I wouldn't treat a dog like that--I wouldn't even treat a borrowed dog that way. Well, it's just the same with a cat. They start her in at the nominative singular in good health and fair to look upon, and they sweat her through all the 4 cases and the 16 the's and when she limps out through the accusative plural you wouldn't recognize her for the same being. Yes, sir, once the German language gets hold of a cat, it's goodbye cat. That's about the amount of it. "

- Mark Twain's Notebook

The other day I decided to go out for breakfast with Arvedt. He was going to New York for a week, mostly to go to the Met and see Parsifal. You can do these things when you are an employee of the German state and have an obscene amount of holidays. Arvedt has about 3 months left of his posting in Vancouver... and approximately 4 months of leave to use up.
Anyway, we were enjoying a fruit salad, when Arvedt squinted his eyes, pointed to a piece of watermelon, and said (in his best Prussian school teacher voice) "What would you call this in German?" He does this periodically, to see if I am mastering the language of the master race. I loathe these sessions, because as Mark Twain has explained so elloquently, German is needlessly complex. It seems as though they have projected their notorious sexual fetishes upon every single word by giving them a gender.... Let me explain: like most languages, objects can be "masculine" or "feminine". But German ups the ante by adding a third case... words can also be "neuter". The word for child ,"das kind" , is a neuter word, and I thank the heavens for it. God knows the last thing the Germans need to do is sexualize children...

I often wonder, if words, like people, can have gender issues! Is there such a thing as a gender reassignment for words which do not feel comfortable in their curent gender? Do they pass through the neutered state while undergoing reclassification?

Anyway, here is my German lesson with Arvedt:

"What is this in German"
"Das Wassermelon" (how can a watermelon have a gender?)
"No, it is "die wassermelone" (apparently, a watermelon is female...)
"What if you made a salad out of watermelon?"
"Well, that would be die wassermelonesalat" (duh)
"No... it is der wassermeloneNsalat..... because salad is masculine, and in a compound word, you must use the gender of the second word. Also, you must pluralize wassermelone, because it is a salad made out of pieces of watermelon"

Okay, we're not playing this game again. Because I really don't care about the genders of melons.

I have a basket of berets that I do not wear

There is a woman in a black beret... She sits, writing with a fountain pen in a dark corner of a dark cafe, on the first day of spring. She wears black eyeliner. She drinks coffee in silence and peers out into the world, blinded by the light. I love her. It takes courage to wear black, much less a black beret, and pour out your thoughts on a sunny day in Vancouver. It is a sign of an inner life. I walk by in my new designer gym outfit. I want to mouth "I am so sorry" because I have a basket full of berets that I do not wear... I want her to know that we are kindred spirits.

There is a woman in a straw hat, waiting for the bus. She sits, smoothing her skirt. She is wearing white gloves and holding a hymn book. She is also blinded by the light, or so she thinks. I walk by with my latte, wearing shorts.. She purses her lips in disapproval. I want to say to her "I'm sorry". I like hymns too... I wear white gloves sometimes too. I have a whole basket of gloves I do not wear.. I want her to know that I am a nice person.

There is a man in a doorway in Paris. He is smoking a cigarette and looking at me with a frown. I smile and he closes the door. I am holding the Jewish newspaper. I bought it in a silent shop full of silent people in an old street. I read on the first page that a man was kidnapped and beaten to death. I am afraid. I hide the newspaper in my bag. I start to mouth the words "I'm sorry" but the words catch in my throat.

I have a basket of berets that I do not wear.

Exercise is not a substitute for a social life.

Today I came home from my singing lesson fully intending to go to yoga class, when I got a call from my friend Wade inviting me over for dinner. My gym bag was packed.... I was going to realign my chakras and sweat out the impurities accumulated over the generations. Then I thought that exercise is in no way a substitute for a social life....So I bought a charming bottle of Montepulciano and hopped on the bus. I mean, who wants to suffer through hours of trytopushmyarmthroughmyassna when one can sit in a deck chair with a perfectly mixed gin and tonic and homemade salsa? True, both activities stimulate a feeling of restfulness and psychic wellbeing, except that the latter doesn't cause one to sweat. When it comes to sport, I think that Winston Churchill said it best: "Sometimes I feel the urge to exercise, but then I lie down and the sensation passes."

The other day I was talking to my friend Randy... Randy is a voluptuous and extremely intelligent woman in her mid twenties with a cute boyfriend named Aristotle who buys tailored suits on trips to Shanghai. She decided that it would be wise to start work at 9 rather than 7 so that she could go jogging before work. When she told me this, I looked at her in absolute horror. She said she wanted to go jogging in the morning to give her energy throughout the day. I told her that working at the Passport Office was close enough to hell on earth as it was, and why did she need to add to her misery? Besides, jogging does not give you energy. Sleep does. And if she wanted to burn calories first thing, there was Aristotle. If I had two extra hours in the morning, I would give myself a refreshing cucumber astringent while listening to Debussy, or I would take myself out for breakfast. After, all, I find that there is nothing more luxurious or satisfying than wasting time in the morning. I try to fit in at least 3 sessions each week. Just think of it as pilates for the soul.


If after this regimen, you do feel the need to take exercise, I would suggest pretend you are a pioneer woman and make a dinner from scratch. Or, run to the corner store as if being pursued by the Mongol hordes. I find that nothing makes me run faster than fear. At the very least, be creative!

That being said, I will probably go to yoga tomorrow. As my instructor said, (after telling us that we must give of ourselves selflessly to achieve enlightenment) "who are we kidding? You're all here because you want a sixpack."

Consider The Strawberry - fallout

I just got an email from my kindred-spirit cousin Miriam. Miriam is an intern on the Food Network (bow down and worship..) What is more, she wears vintage clothes with great aplomb. I distinctly remember a fabulous ensemble with dark jeans, a red patent leather purse, and lots of gold lame (and hoop earrings). Miriam is fabulous, because we can talk about food and channel the personalities of our neurotic, but lovable Eastern European Jewish forebearers. She also appreciates the search for "reality" (and by this I am not talking about those reprehensible television programs that are a sign that we are in the midst of a steady decline. The Romans ate flamingo brains by the tonne, oblivious of the Visigoths at the gates. We watch shows like "Wife Swap") .... Here, for your reading pleasure, is an email from Miriam:

Benalah, You NEED to publish your blogs. My mother has been forwarding them to me and I can't get enough of them. I just read your thoughts on all things real and identify with every word. Recently in pastry class we were making the traditional strawberry shortcake ( pastry was not the highlight of my year as we used a lot of fake butter and whip topping instead of 35% cream and so on). Anyways, the strawberries looked outrageous... glorious nuggets of perfect red. I shouted this out to my pastry chef. She then said, "Yes Miriam they are beautiful but have you tasted them?"

I really miss you and can't wait until we can hug and shmooze. My life is fabulous and I am very busy. Just the way I like it. I have been interning at the Food Network, working with a food stylist there. Definitely an avenue I want to pursue. As well, I believe I will be working for George Brown College doing research for the Dean. Miriam on a computer...not so sure but the networking Ben the networking! As well, I have a wonderful boyfriend, Neil. Soooo cute. I am very lucky. So, when is Ben coming to Toronto? I want to hear more of your trip. Do you still have the same phone number? Are there any boys? I need to know these things. I love you so much Ben and really miss you.

All the best in the world,

Miriam

ps. Fresh ricotta cheese with a little brown sugar, marinated blueberries and strawberries in balsamic reduction, then you can reduce the balsamic juiciness from the berries again, over the cheese with shavings of white chocolate. Could you not die? Sometimes I make little butter tarts and stuff the ricotta filling in and spoon the marinated berry mixture over with a white chocolate spears on top.

pps you were the one who opened up my world to what real balsamic vinegar is. We need to talk olive oils next time.

_________