The other day I was walking to work. I walk to work every day, not because I like to walk necessarily, but because it seems the least invasive way to add exercise to my daily regime. Ideally, I would prefer not to move my limbs at all - rather, I would like to be surrounded by cushions and brought things on occasion as I needed them. And if you think that this is a recent affectation, think again: I did not deign to walk until I was two. I realized early on that life is easier if people just come to you. Why move when you can just sit there and make people laugh and have them feed you? I must admit, this is much easier to pull of while wearing a diaper, but I digress.
In any event, whoever is in charge has decided that I was not to be a man of leisure.
And so I must walk. To work. And even though I do so, please do not for a moment
think that I am one of those people who wears runners with his suit
so that he does not wreck his dress shoes. No, I wear my expensive, uncomfortable and impractical shoes on my walk to work - for life is a difficult journey along a difficult path and it begins with one small step and you must keep your head high and always look forward. Therefore, it helps to have fabulous footwear.
Of course, it is not really a hardship to walk in the early morning beside the ocean as the sun rises through the mist. The view of the mountains is not quite as unobstructed as it once was, having been obscured by many tall shiny buildings where rich people get to live, but I can deal with that. And I must be careful not to step on the people asleep on the sidewalk - who seem to have multiplied at the same rate as the number of Bentleys driving by... but can I deal with that?
No. I cannot. And if there had been someone to yell at I would have done so, but I was loathe to disturb the slumber of the people sleeping around me - for they have few other comforts save their dreams. And if I could have run with superhuman speed after the Bentleys and Lambroghinis and Mercedes, and attacked them with my keys and thrown the cellphones of the owners into the sea, I would have done so, too. But I have never been a good runner. I had no choice but to keep walking in my ridiculous shoes, and for the first time in a long time I looked down rather than forward, as is my custom.
...and speaking of walking...
Last night I went to the fireworks at English Bay. They were beautiful, and when it was over we all walked home - tens of thousands of people walking. And I thought to myself - there is no human force on earth that can stop so many people from moving in one direction like this. And as I looked around me I prayed that one day we would all be walking together - in the same direction - for something a little more important than a bit of noise and colour in the sky....
...because I hate walking over people.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Sunday, April 27, 2008
For Heather
I know it has been a long time since I have written... and I do recall that my last entry was rather morose, or at the very least far more introspective than I thought it would be. I wonder why we share our intimacies with people online - writing on a blog to me seems like the ancient Jewish ritual of scattering crumbs on the water at the New Year as a way of cleansing - of casting off the burdens of the past year. Words are like scattered crumbs in that you never know where they will end up, but it doesn't matter because you feel lighter having gotten rid of them. And I wonder why it is so much easier for me to share my innermost thoughts anonymously on a computer screen than it is to tell people who I have known all my life what I really feel.... perhaps because I do not know what your reaction to my words will be.
I hope of course that you will like them, but I cannot know. And if I could see the reactions of people's faces as they read what I write, I would certainly stop writing altogether out of sheer embarrassment. Indeed, the only saving grace about singing (like writing) is that usually you can't see your audience - the darkness makes it easier to bare your soul. In that way, it is like being in a confessional booth - you have the sense that you are anonymous and alone, but that somebody is listening.
One of the peculiar things about me is that I never know what I am going to write about when I start a blog entry. For instance, I was going to write all about Heather, but now I have written about something else altogether! Oh dear.
Well, the last time I saw Heather, she was wearing the most beautiful red coat, and it was custom made, and it looked as though a flower petal had fallen from the sky and molded itself to her, so well did the coat fit - so vibrant was the shade of it. And it had movement and I remember it was the only element of colour in an otherwise drab room, and I thought that was very much like Heather.
For when it comes down to it, we are here to add colour to drab rooms, and to have movement. And in that way we are like crumbs and words in that we travel and perhaps have no destination.... but it does not matter because at least we are
moving.
I hope of course that you will like them, but I cannot know. And if I could see the reactions of people's faces as they read what I write, I would certainly stop writing altogether out of sheer embarrassment. Indeed, the only saving grace about singing (like writing) is that usually you can't see your audience - the darkness makes it easier to bare your soul. In that way, it is like being in a confessional booth - you have the sense that you are anonymous and alone, but that somebody is listening.
One of the peculiar things about me is that I never know what I am going to write about when I start a blog entry. For instance, I was going to write all about Heather, but now I have written about something else altogether! Oh dear.
Well, the last time I saw Heather, she was wearing the most beautiful red coat, and it was custom made, and it looked as though a flower petal had fallen from the sky and molded itself to her, so well did the coat fit - so vibrant was the shade of it. And it had movement and I remember it was the only element of colour in an otherwise drab room, and I thought that was very much like Heather.
For when it comes down to it, we are here to add colour to drab rooms, and to have movement. And in that way we are like crumbs and words in that we travel and perhaps have no destination.... but it does not matter because at least we are
moving.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Dear Diaries
One of the traits which I am less proud is my tendency to re-read my old journals.
I don't know why I do this - perhaps it is narcissism. Maybe I just like my own writing best! (How narcissistic). Maybe there is nothing better than to sit at night by a candle and try to make sense of things - that is probably it.
There they sit, my journals, arranged chronologically in an old steamer trunk I bought for 5 dollars at a garage sale. Some are them are beautiful - hand-bound with cream coloured vellum... others are just looseleaf stapled together, all are full to bursting. When I left home, I took only one suitcase, and it contained (in addition to completely impractical clothing and far too many toiletries) my scribblings... granted I moved out when I was 20, so there were (mercifully) far less scribblings then there are now. Interestingly, I still write the exact same things that I wrote when I was younger. I still have the same fears and wants and anxieties, for all my belief that I have changed.
I remember when I started keeping a journal - the exact day, to tell you the truth. It was May 10, 1996. I was sitting in Chemistry class and we were supposed to be working out some formula or another, and I wrote (in copperplate script, as was my custom)
"Ben is gay".
I remember feeling deeply afraid at that moment, for it was the first time I had accepted this, much less written it down. I don't know why I was compelled to write these words at that precise time, but nobody ever plans the moment when they cannot take it anymore. Nobody says "in 3 days and 10 minutes I will not be able to live a lie any longer". And so you should always expect the profound and the life changing to occur at inopportune times - while you are brushing your teeth, or writing your LSATS. Or as a 16 year old in chemistry class, as I was.
I was afraid, for change, by its very nature begets fear - especially if that change leads to increased vulnerability and openness, as it did in my case. I feared that somebody - my teacher... a classmate...a moth... would walk by and see what I had written and my life as I knew it - my carefully constructed artificial way of being, would spontaneously crumble and I would be alone in the world. Hastily, I crossed out what I had written, and although I felt smug in the notion that I had the power to write the truth, and then to rub it out - as if it had never been, I was compelled to write it again, and so I did. And this time I did not erase it. And I could not stop what I had started.
We were supposed to be working out a formula...one formula or another - some random collection of letters and numbers which would allow us to make a little more sense of the world: We were supposed to find out an an indisputable and absolute truth which we could hold on to and if things became too much or we lost our way, we could at least say "I may not know where I am going and I may not know who I will become but I did learn at one point in time many years ago that if you mix hydrogen and oxygen together in the proper proportions, you will have created water".
Of course, we all know that few of us really remember anything we learned in school.
We remember the moments in our lives when we had the audacity and the courage to write our own formulas - to be sure of one true thing to hold on to so that if things became too much or we lost our way, we could at least say
"I may not know where I am going and I may not know who I will become, but I did learn at one point in time many years ago to accept myself and to be brave enough to walk forward into freedom, even though I thought it might kill me. And I survived."
I don't know why I do this - perhaps it is narcissism. Maybe I just like my own writing best! (How narcissistic). Maybe there is nothing better than to sit at night by a candle and try to make sense of things - that is probably it.
There they sit, my journals, arranged chronologically in an old steamer trunk I bought for 5 dollars at a garage sale. Some are them are beautiful - hand-bound with cream coloured vellum... others are just looseleaf stapled together, all are full to bursting. When I left home, I took only one suitcase, and it contained (in addition to completely impractical clothing and far too many toiletries) my scribblings... granted I moved out when I was 20, so there were (mercifully) far less scribblings then there are now. Interestingly, I still write the exact same things that I wrote when I was younger. I still have the same fears and wants and anxieties, for all my belief that I have changed.
I remember when I started keeping a journal - the exact day, to tell you the truth. It was May 10, 1996. I was sitting in Chemistry class and we were supposed to be working out some formula or another, and I wrote (in copperplate script, as was my custom)
"Ben is gay".
I remember feeling deeply afraid at that moment, for it was the first time I had accepted this, much less written it down. I don't know why I was compelled to write these words at that precise time, but nobody ever plans the moment when they cannot take it anymore. Nobody says "in 3 days and 10 minutes I will not be able to live a lie any longer". And so you should always expect the profound and the life changing to occur at inopportune times - while you are brushing your teeth, or writing your LSATS. Or as a 16 year old in chemistry class, as I was.
I was afraid, for change, by its very nature begets fear - especially if that change leads to increased vulnerability and openness, as it did in my case. I feared that somebody - my teacher... a classmate...a moth... would walk by and see what I had written and my life as I knew it - my carefully constructed artificial way of being, would spontaneously crumble and I would be alone in the world. Hastily, I crossed out what I had written, and although I felt smug in the notion that I had the power to write the truth, and then to rub it out - as if it had never been, I was compelled to write it again, and so I did. And this time I did not erase it. And I could not stop what I had started.
We were supposed to be working out a formula...one formula or another - some random collection of letters and numbers which would allow us to make a little more sense of the world: We were supposed to find out an an indisputable and absolute truth which we could hold on to and if things became too much or we lost our way, we could at least say "I may not know where I am going and I may not know who I will become but I did learn at one point in time many years ago that if you mix hydrogen and oxygen together in the proper proportions, you will have created water".
Of course, we all know that few of us really remember anything we learned in school.
We remember the moments in our lives when we had the audacity and the courage to write our own formulas - to be sure of one true thing to hold on to so that if things became too much or we lost our way, we could at least say
"I may not know where I am going and I may not know who I will become, but I did learn at one point in time many years ago to accept myself and to be brave enough to walk forward into freedom, even though I thought it might kill me. And I survived."
Monday, February 04, 2008
Update from Chad
I was starting to get worried because I had not heard from Arvedt in a couple of days - but all cellphone links to Chad are now blocked, so there was no way for him to text me. I had read that all non-essential personnel had been evacuated, but I wasn't exactly sure how they determined who was essential and who was not. So I waited, and checked news updates on the internet more often than was probably good for me.
I got a call early this morning. Arvedt is fine - he had just been airlifted to Libreville in Gabon and was calling me from a French military base. He said that he was caught in the middle of the fighting, because the German consulate was located between the presidential palace and the front line of the rebels. He told me that there were 5 unexploded grenades inside the embassy compound, and that there was shooting everywhere and that he had not slept for 3 days. He said it was not clear who was in control in Chad - there were periodic announcements over the loudspeakers proclaiming victory by the rebels, and then there would be another announcement by the government stating the rebels had been defeated. Arvedt said that this development was unexpected, because everyone believed that the government troops would defeat the rebels at a battle 80 km outside the city. He told me that he had just had hist first meeting with his French counterparts 10 days ago, and they had talked about emergency measures and crisis management, but the talks were informal.
Needless to say, he was glad they took place!
After waiting in the compound for 3 days, they were were rescued by French commandos. Everybody had to literally run across an open field into waiting helicopters, where they were flown to the French military base and then to Gabon by cargo plane.
Arvedt sounded very calm, and after he told me all of this he asked very simply
"how are you? How was New York?" .....I just had to laugh.
I got a call early this morning. Arvedt is fine - he had just been airlifted to Libreville in Gabon and was calling me from a French military base. He said that he was caught in the middle of the fighting, because the German consulate was located between the presidential palace and the front line of the rebels. He told me that there were 5 unexploded grenades inside the embassy compound, and that there was shooting everywhere and that he had not slept for 3 days. He said it was not clear who was in control in Chad - there were periodic announcements over the loudspeakers proclaiming victory by the rebels, and then there would be another announcement by the government stating the rebels had been defeated. Arvedt said that this development was unexpected, because everyone believed that the government troops would defeat the rebels at a battle 80 km outside the city. He told me that he had just had hist first meeting with his French counterparts 10 days ago, and they had talked about emergency measures and crisis management, but the talks were informal.
Needless to say, he was glad they took place!
After waiting in the compound for 3 days, they were were rescued by French commandos. Everybody had to literally run across an open field into waiting helicopters, where they were flown to the French military base and then to Gabon by cargo plane.
Arvedt sounded very calm, and after he told me all of this he asked very simply
"how are you? How was New York?" .....I just had to laugh.
Friday, February 01, 2008
New Message
Today I was sitting at home eating soup. Pretty routine... I had a rehearsal later today, and then a performance at the opera. I was listening to a CBC radio programme about perfume. Suddenly, my phone started beeping, and I opened it to find that I had a new text message from my friend Arvedt who is first secretary at the German Embassy in N'Djamena, Chad. This is what it said:
"Hi Ben... we have 4000 rebels 10km out of town. They want to end the dictator's presidency. Lots of military at the presidential palace 500 m away. Lots of work. I am working closely with the French Embassy on evacuation plan for us 50 Germans, but it is too early to tell."
First of all, I couldn't believe that I was getting a text message from the middle of Africa. Second of all, I couldn't believe that a friend of mine was sending me
a text message in the midst of an attempted coup d'etat. One wonders what Edward R. Murrow would have done with such technology....
I texted Arvedt back and told him that I was glad he was safe, and to keep me informed...It is hard to believe that a few short weeks ago he was visiting me in Vancouver -- we were sitting by the ocean drinking lattes and talking about nothing in particular, watching the ducks swim by - looking at the reflection of the mountains in the water. I don't know how any of us have the audacity to do such things when there are horrors being perpetrated around the world every day... and yet we do.. and they probably sit by the water and drink coffee in Africa too, when they get the chance.
I finished my lunch, and went to work, where I put on my costume for the Vancouver Opera's production of "The Italian Girl in Algiers" . It consisted of a turban and a loose cotton robe and as I looked in the mirror, I realized that I looked almost exactly like the pictures of the Chadian rebels I had seen on the BBC website earlier in the day.
And I thought to myself: "The world is fucked".
"Hi Ben... we have 4000 rebels 10km out of town. They want to end the dictator's presidency. Lots of military at the presidential palace 500 m away. Lots of work. I am working closely with the French Embassy on evacuation plan for us 50 Germans, but it is too early to tell."
First of all, I couldn't believe that I was getting a text message from the middle of Africa. Second of all, I couldn't believe that a friend of mine was sending me
a text message in the midst of an attempted coup d'etat. One wonders what Edward R. Murrow would have done with such technology....
I texted Arvedt back and told him that I was glad he was safe, and to keep me informed...It is hard to believe that a few short weeks ago he was visiting me in Vancouver -- we were sitting by the ocean drinking lattes and talking about nothing in particular, watching the ducks swim by - looking at the reflection of the mountains in the water. I don't know how any of us have the audacity to do such things when there are horrors being perpetrated around the world every day... and yet we do.. and they probably sit by the water and drink coffee in Africa too, when they get the chance.
I finished my lunch, and went to work, where I put on my costume for the Vancouver Opera's production of "The Italian Girl in Algiers" . It consisted of a turban and a loose cotton robe and as I looked in the mirror, I realized that I looked almost exactly like the pictures of the Chadian rebels I had seen on the BBC website earlier in the day.
And I thought to myself: "The world is fucked".
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
French Lessons
The other day I decided that I needed to improve my French. It is, after all, what a lady of breeding does when searching for a husband. In fact, this limitation is the only piece missing from the puzzle, as I am already quite an accomplished debutante: I am a masterful flower arranger and an expert cook. I sparkle in conversation and can play Beethoven sonatas on the piano.... I even have my own personalized stationary (understated yet elegant - with my name printed on medium weight cream coloured vellum. No monogram though... that would be a bit much).
While I do have infinite time to devote to this pursuit at the moment, I do not have infinite resources,so that rules out the larger schools like Berlitz. However, I do want quality instruction, and so I viewed it as positively providential that I happened to come across an advertisement for private lessons at an establishment named "Le Petit Sorbonne". The name appealed to the snob in me, and the price...well it couldn't be beat.
My teacher, Nicolas, is so kind. He is from Montpellier - in the south - and there is a touch of the Spaniard in his dark complexion and liquid eyes. He has traveled the world and lived in 52 countries. The only reason he moved here is because he has never lived in North America. He told me that he loves Vancouver, but he believes that the women here are the most frigid in the world. I blushed. He says it is because of English Canada's puritan culture, and he thinks that we Vancouverites don't know how to enjoy life. As I took a swig from my decaf-skinny-sugarfree latte and observed the hordes of people rushing about to their various exercise classes in Lululemon yoga pants, I could see his point.
Oh, how wonderful it was to talk with a French person... I have always loved France - its "laughing awareness" (as Julia Child says) -- its insouciance, its joie de vivre. My mother thinks that in a previous life I was an absolutist king giving edicts from Versailles. I told her that I must have gotten my perceived hauteur from her, because as far as I remembered, she ruled the household by what seemed to be Divine Right. In fact, she even insisted on a simplified version of the "lever" ritual in which the monarch would be attended by the nobility of the court as they awoke. It was my responsibility to convey to my mother her morning coffee at precisely 8:00. In my house, as at Versailles, the bedrooms were quite far from the kitchen, so I had to ensure that I moved quickly lest the coffee become cold. I also had to make sure I walked silently and did not spill. One did not want to raise the ire. Once I delivered the coffee, I would gently wake my mother and wait for further instructions.
It should be noted that Louis XIV invented elaborate court ceremonial to ensure that the nobility stayed under his control. Before the Sun King, the nobles lived on their own estates and were free to plot against the king, which they did. By building Versailles and making it so irresistible, Louis ensured that his nobles would live in a gilded cage: free to pursue pleasure, but completely dependent on him for
everything...in attendance...waiting with bated breath for any sign of favour.
While I do have infinite time to devote to this pursuit at the moment, I do not have infinite resources,so that rules out the larger schools like Berlitz. However, I do want quality instruction, and so I viewed it as positively providential that I happened to come across an advertisement for private lessons at an establishment named "Le Petit Sorbonne". The name appealed to the snob in me, and the price...well it couldn't be beat.
My teacher, Nicolas, is so kind. He is from Montpellier - in the south - and there is a touch of the Spaniard in his dark complexion and liquid eyes. He has traveled the world and lived in 52 countries. The only reason he moved here is because he has never lived in North America. He told me that he loves Vancouver, but he believes that the women here are the most frigid in the world. I blushed. He says it is because of English Canada's puritan culture, and he thinks that we Vancouverites don't know how to enjoy life. As I took a swig from my decaf-skinny-sugarfree latte and observed the hordes of people rushing about to their various exercise classes in Lululemon yoga pants, I could see his point.
Oh, how wonderful it was to talk with a French person... I have always loved France - its "laughing awareness" (as Julia Child says) -- its insouciance, its joie de vivre. My mother thinks that in a previous life I was an absolutist king giving edicts from Versailles. I told her that I must have gotten my perceived hauteur from her, because as far as I remembered, she ruled the household by what seemed to be Divine Right. In fact, she even insisted on a simplified version of the "lever" ritual in which the monarch would be attended by the nobility of the court as they awoke. It was my responsibility to convey to my mother her morning coffee at precisely 8:00. In my house, as at Versailles, the bedrooms were quite far from the kitchen, so I had to ensure that I moved quickly lest the coffee become cold. I also had to make sure I walked silently and did not spill. One did not want to raise the ire. Once I delivered the coffee, I would gently wake my mother and wait for further instructions.
It should be noted that Louis XIV invented elaborate court ceremonial to ensure that the nobility stayed under his control. Before the Sun King, the nobles lived on their own estates and were free to plot against the king, which they did. By building Versailles and making it so irresistible, Louis ensured that his nobles would live in a gilded cage: free to pursue pleasure, but completely dependent on him for
everything...in attendance...waiting with bated breath for any sign of favour.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Vanity Fair
They say that January is the busiest month for gyms. Of course, I have no statistical evidence to back this up, but I can venture to say that I speak correctly based on my first hand experiences at the West End Community Fitness Centre these last few days. The sight of legions of flabbily fearsome Vancouverites gyrating wildly to remove all bodily evidence of holiday gluttonies is something to behold before dying - if only for the comic relief. I say that it is a sight because when I went there, I took one look at the exercise room yesterday and promptly returned home... there were no machines to be had, and I did not feel like waiting.
However, I fear that I will have to return sooner than later, as I went for a costume fitting the other day for the upcoming opera, and I discovered (to my horror) that I will be dressed in harem pants AND NOTHING ELSE. The opera is called "The Italian Girl in Algiers" and is almost comically outdated, sexist, racist and out of touch with the realities of the 21st century. That is to say, it is typical of the genre.
Much of the opera takes place in a spa, where a chorus of eunuchs dressed as slave girls laments the fate of women... Interspersed among them are male "customers" who need attending (that would be me). I would have felt much more comfortable being a slave girl - I wouldn't really have to act, and the costume drapes so much better. But, I feel that playing a man will be more of an acting challenge and will therefore expand my range as an artist. It will also motivate me to stick to my embryonic fitness regime.
Failing that, I can just ask the makeup department to add a bit of contouring...
After all, as my brother (who is far more fit than I am ) says "Jews just don't have 6 packs".
However, I fear that I will have to return sooner than later, as I went for a costume fitting the other day for the upcoming opera, and I discovered (to my horror) that I will be dressed in harem pants AND NOTHING ELSE. The opera is called "The Italian Girl in Algiers" and is almost comically outdated, sexist, racist and out of touch with the realities of the 21st century. That is to say, it is typical of the genre.
Much of the opera takes place in a spa, where a chorus of eunuchs dressed as slave girls laments the fate of women... Interspersed among them are male "customers" who need attending (that would be me). I would have felt much more comfortable being a slave girl - I wouldn't really have to act, and the costume drapes so much better. But, I feel that playing a man will be more of an acting challenge and will therefore expand my range as an artist. It will also motivate me to stick to my embryonic fitness regime.
Failing that, I can just ask the makeup department to add a bit of contouring...
After all, as my brother (who is far more fit than I am ) says "Jews just don't have 6 packs".
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