Heldenhobbit

Recipes: Omelette à la piperade

2010-11-05T17:47:00.002+01:00

Piperade refers to a mixture of onions, peppers, and tomatoes sauteed in olive oil. It is of Provencal provenance, and very versatile. You can use it as a basis for pasta sauces, or as a topping for pizza. Try adding anchovies, capers, and salt-cured olives for variety. You can also add eggplant and zucchini if it strikes your fancy. Vary the herbs too - basil and parsley work nicely. This is a breakfast or luncheon treat - unctuous, melting sauteed vegetables in a cloak of silky scrambled eggs. The fresh thyme really makes the dish, as does a long slow simmer of the vegetables in fragrant olive oil You can make individual omelets, as I am here, or just make scrambled eggs and add the vegetables. Serve with toast or roasted potatoes.

Ingredients - for 4

For the piperade:

1 red pepper, sliced
1 orange of yellow pepper
2 onions, sliced
2 cloves garlic, chopped
2 large tomatoes, peeled, seeded and chopped
2-4 tablespoons olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste
pinch hot pepper flakes
2 tbsp tomato sauce or commercially-prepared salsa
t tbsp chopped fresh thyme (or 1 tsp dried)

For the omelets:

8 large eggs
4 tsp water
salt to taste
4 tbsp butter
4 oz soft goat cheese
4 tbsp grated parmesan cheese

Method:

For the piperade, saute the onions and peppers in the olive oil with the hot peppers and thyme. When onions are translucent and peppers are tender, add the garlic and saute until garlic is fragrant. Add the tomatoes and tomato sauce or salsa. Simmer until reduced and vegetables are meltingly soft.

Omelets:

For each omelet, whisk 2 eggs with 1 tsp water and salt to taste. Heat 1 tbsp butter in a medium skillet until bubbles have subsided. Add omelet mixture and shake pan until omelet begins to form. Add a a few tablespoons of piperade mixture and top with 1 oz crumbled goat cheese and 1 tbsp parmesan. fold omelet in half and flip onto a plate.

Repeat for remaining omelets. You can keep the omelets warm in a 200 degree oven as you make them.

Bon appetit!

Struck Down

2010-09-26T16:10:00.002+02:00

Today I started an exercise tape, because you know, sound mind - sound body. And then I ate some bacon and now I am debating whether or not I should go back to the exercise tape or prepare a briefing on Ministerial Responsibility and all I really want to do is degrease the Boeuf Bourgignon I made last night and make a plum tart, and isn't that just the way of the world.

Back to School

2010-09-07T15:44:00.003+02:00

...And the government shall be upon his shoulder...

I have decided to go back to school. Not that I haven't always been a student, learning where I may. In truth, I think I've gotten an excellent education from my various adventures, but there comes a time when one must concern oneself with practical things, which is why I find myself at a medium-sized Canadian university studying the machinery of government. My father is ecstatic, my mother relieved. As for myself, I wonder how I got here. But studying government isn't as much of a stretch as you may think. Any analysis of the way things work invariably leads you to study the motivations of people, both base and noble...which is what you have to do anyway if you're to get anywhere, regardless of your metier. If I have learned anything, it is that heroism and mediocrity can coexist quite well in anyone, and although this is confusing at first, once you come to terms with it, you sleep a lot better. That, in a nutshell, is how one lives with studying government. But it is early, yet.

The other day, in a furtive attempt at hitting the books, I learned a few things about the bureaucracy of ancient Rome, notably that there were two orders of civil servant. The first consisted of aristocrats who - needing neither wealth nor status - sought prestigious short-term appointments - like leading a glorious campaign to subdue the barbarian hordes. The second order comprised the multitude of career functionaries who made the best of it supplementing their incomes however they could.

I always thought of myself as the former. In fact, I thought I was quite clever in getting as far
as I did without having to obtain any formal credentials whatsoever. Life was good for a time, far from the maddening crowd. But then I started knocking on closed doors, and I came to the realization that it is not so bad to be sensible. I prefer prudent.

And now I am in a computer lab- my first day on campus, dressed in what I thought was collegiate wear, but which I soon realized was a tad ridiculous and at the very least unfashionable. The other students are so trendy! Perhaps they will take me shopping. They speak a babble of foreign tongues! Perhaps I should learn what they are saying. And they are so young - I feel like I should be teaching them. Perhaps I shall, in time, although I feel I will learn learn as much from them as they from me, which is a good thing. I am too young to be set in my ways, which is partly why I decided to come here in the first place...

This morning I got lost 5 times, which is how it should be.

I hope to lose myself every day.

Discernment

2010-06-24T18:06:00.004+02:00

One day I decided I wanted to be a monk. I was in grade 5, you see, and we had just watched a sex ed movie entitled "And Then One Year". I was horrified at the prospect of actually having to acknowledge my body - its fears and foibles; thought my life would be better spent listening to Gregorian chant and practicing the calligraphy I was so fond of. Of course, one can't just go and be a monk right way. You have to take the time to think about it and decide if that sort of life is really for you. I believe the word is discernment.

Well, I have long since overcome my desire to take the habit, but I still value the process of taking time to decide what sort of life you want. But there is something to be said for just jumping into something and letting things sort themselves out, after you have taken the plunge. It does not matter how slowly you go, as long as you do not stop, said Confucius, who was a monk of sorts.

But then there is the fact that your life continues (whether you like it or not) regardless of what you do. You take a breath and then another and these add up to something. Perhaps foolish to expect more than equation of breath + breath = life. Perhaps it is good to know we are essentially all doing the same thing, and that it is enough.

But there is still the desire to take the plunge and try new things, which is how things should be, and the purpose of all discernment - to lead you to the point where you can move forward.
And so I have found myself in my brother's apartment, faced with the prospect of painting the walls a new colour, something I myself have never done. It can't be that hard, can it? If I make a mistake, I can always start again with a new colour, one more to my liking. This is good.

Yesterday I started lining all the window frames with green painter's tape, just to make sure I wouldn't go outside the lines. But then I discovered I am actually quite good at touching borders and going up on ladders to tackle the tricky, out of the way places. In fact, I thrive on it.
I decided to throw out the painter's tape and paint with a slow, steady hand - a clear eye and unlimited forgiveness for all the times I knew I would stray.

And I did better than I ever thought I could.

The walls are a light purple colour - one I quite like. Tomorrow I may change my mind, but paint is cheap, and I am a very good painter.

Prenzlauer Berg, Friday, 4:15 PM

2010-04-03T16:14:00.004+02:00

Oh GOD! You poor thing! Didn’t you know that to survive a Berlin winter you need either a sun lamp or good medication? I use both. Why? Well first of all, Berlin lies in the north, which means there are only about 4 hours of good sunlight at the best of times. Secondly, we are situated in the extreme eastern part of the time zone, so we get about an hour less sunlight than say, Frankfurt. I mean, if you go clubbing on a Saturday, and sleep in on Sunday, there is the distinct possibility you may never see the light!

Oh Darling, don’t worry about it. Pretty soon this city will come alive and it will be asparagus season! Big fat white asparagus, thick as your arm - drenched in butter…just melts in your mouth, really. Don’t give me that face….you and your dirty mind! Oh and the chanterelle mushrooms! I go to the market at Winterfeldplatz on a Saturday and stock up, then straight home to toss them in a pan of golden, foaming butter. Fantastic. If you are feeling particularly indulgent, you can top the whole thing with white truffle oil. And dear, the rents are

Save as Draft

so cheap in this city you really can afford such a luxury from time to time. You really MUST come by for dinner with Lutz and me some time…there is nothing I can’t do in the kitchen! Oh, cheer up- save the weltschmerzen for the vicars, as Prince Phillip used to say... I mean, in less than a month you will be able to visit the flower sellers on the Pestalozzistrasse - with their effulgent bunches of parrot tulips wrapped in pale, pale tissue. And there will be parties by the Spree, and foaming beer to moisten those sad, parched lips of yours. If you just wait a couple of weeks….

I know Berlin can be grey. Grey streets, grey skies, even grey people in the old Communist East. But I assure you, once the sun comes out, everything changes and you can then tell everyone you know you survived a Berlin winter. Really, it’s the closest you can get to a purple heart without inflicting wounds! Shall I design you a badge? What! I’m serious!

Now, don’t you just feel that much better? So, come along with me and we’ll have a mug of hot glűhwein at the bar down the road. And then off to bed, because Saturday night we’re all going dancing until dawn and I will be EXTREMELY disappointed if you don’t come.

You know, you look so much better when you smile. And I love your outfit, very smart.

And your sunglasses! Perfect. You know, I always say that in order to buy the right sunglasses, you really have to know who you are. To your own eyewear be true!

So shall we say tomorrow around eleven? The boys are coming round my place to sing karaoke to old Eurovision songs and then it’s off to the Irrenhaus club for a weekend immersion in sin!

In a word, bliss!

Neue Nationalgalerie, Thursday, 7:15 PM

2010-03-12T12:05:00.002+01:00

Tell me, how did you manage to snag invitations for THREE gallery openings in one night? We’re the only ones left in town? I hardly believe THAT. Georg and Andreas are in Paris, true. And Achim’s in Rio. Or is it Australia? Who can keep track! Oh, don’t feel so guilty about reaping the spoils – consider it compensation for enduring a Berlin winter! Besides, who needs the beach when you have Paul Klee?

But don’t tell me you come to these things for the ART! I certainly don’t. I find it much more interesting to look at the people. For example, have you ever noticed that Germans never have scuffed shoes? They’re always perfectly shod. Apparently it’s a national obsession. But I don’t mind - I’ve always loved good shoes. In my genes, wouldn’t you know: my grandfather was a shoemaker. Apparently, he fixed Gomulka’s boots in Siberia during the war. That’s how he survived. Of course, I learned this last week. Don’t you wish there were access to information legislation for family secrets?

And didn’t anyone ever tell you how to walk at these things? You must PREEN. Walk from the hip bones, like a dancer. I tell you, with the right walk and polished shoes, you can go almost anywhere. And you have to have a really well tailored jacket. Ideally, bespoke. Hand tailoring is the ultimate mark of status. Actually, the ULTIMATE mark of status is inheriting couture from a dead noble relative and then having the garment reworked to fit you like a glove. I saw it on TV once… But if your ancestors worked the plow, as mine did, you have to make due with good fabric and an expert tailor. Ideally, the jacket should be slightly worn and paired with expensive frayed jeans and interesting boots. But you can never look too put together, otherwise people will think you have to work for a living, and that would never do. If you can’t inherit, then marry well. If that doesn’t work, pretend.

And you may look down at the floor to observe the shoes, but that is the only excuse. Look at the paintings head on, and keep going.

Well. All this pontificating has made me mighty thirsty. ‘Tis a pity they don’t have free booze at these things anymore. Economic crisis… Let’s go down to the “Heile Welt” and have a gin and tonic.

I am tired of looking at paintings head on.

Netto Discount Supermarket, Wedding, Monday, 7:15 PM

2010-03-10T13:20:00.001+01:00

You know, I think the Germans decided to conquer Europe because they couldn’t stand their own food. I mean, is it any wonder they stock the liverwurst beside the cat food? Is there even any difference between the two? Of course, it’s not as bad as it used to be. My friend told me the first time he saw Mozzarella in Italy, he thought it was lard. Alice B. Toklas said she billeted German soldiers during the war who had never even TASTED butter. I wonder about her though: the world was coming to an end and she talked about how they preserved meat in white wine; hid dried fruit for the liberation. Maybe that’s not so crazy after all – saving something precious for better days. Besides, I have found that artists often retreat within themselves during crisis to create esoteric works which have nothing at all to do with their surroundings. Oh well, not everything can be Guernica. But maybe it should. And I have always believed that people who say art isn’t political should be shot. Now THAT would make a great installation.

Oh, what of it. Have you been to the Hamburger Bahnhof – the museum for contemporary art? There was this piece called “shithead”….I needn’t describe it, but I will tell you I was thankful they protected it behind 3 layers of glass. Oh, and there was an entire airplane hangar full of urine samples. I ask you: what’s wrong with a pretty painting? Wait…please don’t tell me.

So, what does one bring to a pizza party at a commune? I would bring ham, but I think the hosts are Israeli. Oh who cares, I’ll tell them its turkey. You know, I haven’t the faintest idea of how I fell in with the granola expat crowd. I met this girl in my German class, and before you know it I’m talking disarmament with documentary film makers from Kazakhstan with more facial hair than a mammoth. Of course, there are no Germans at these evenings…Why? Oh I think they think we’re crazy: A German would never move to another country to just “find themselves”, without a job, without any sort of support. Would you, raised on the milk of socialism…cradle to grave security, 6 weeks of holiday a year? No, this nomadic quality is a particularly North American affliction, a product of our frontier mentality. The mode of transport may have changed, but we’re still a bunch of naïve idiots in a wagon train looking for a pot of gold.

And where did I get my refreshing optimism? Darling, you know it’s impossible to explain a mystery. Now go and get me a beer…

…the one thing that links us all.

Café Einstein, Kurfűrstenstraße, Monday, 2:15 PM

2010-03-07T22:47:00.003+01:00

At the end of the day, you just have to decide what’s important to you. Do you want to take subsidized public transport to the opera, or do you want a big screen TV? Do you want to sing in “interesting productions of new works” or do you just want to be in La Bohème and wear a pretty costume?

…Big screen TV, right?

…Pretty costume?

HELLO!

Honey, wanting a comfortable couch and a car and personal space doesn’t make you a big sloppy American. Well actually it does, but there’s nothing wrong with that. I can completely understand: I would give my left arm for someone to be superficially friendly RIGHT NOW. Enough with direct and honest! What purpose has honesty ever served? The main reason I became an opera singer was to live in a world of illusion 24/7. God…that waiter looks like he wishes we were dead…ok…inside voice.

Oh, yes… two clubhouse sandwiches and two Diet Cokes.

I know we shouldn’t order Diet Coke, so unseemly in this lovely old place, but I swear the chemicals do wonders for your voice. You brought Diet Coke from home because it’s not the same here? Okay…definitely don’t move to Germany. You are beyond hope. You don’t want to end up like Cristina Onassis…no…not DEAD! She was addicted to Diet Coke – used to send her private jet to the states every WEEK to load up on the stuff. Apparently the cost worked out to $1000 a can.

Yeah, I agree. Berlin is sort of the Bronx of Europe, well at least this part is.

Of course it looks like the Czech Republic – we’re an hour away from Poland. I know, once you’ve lived in San Francisco you’re spoiled for life, but the only people who can afford to live in San Francisco anymore are oligarchs and all those smart hippies who bought property in the 70’s. Now, all of bohemia has decamped to Berlin and I fear it may be the last stand of the independent artistic spirit….

Oh, you know how I am…Glass not only half empty but chipped and dirty; nothing the same as it was; oceans rising, mountains falling. The world is teeming with angry people who want a shot at something, but I don’t blame them: I blame us for being complacent, for expecting this post-war party to last forever.

What would it have been like to have grown up in an optimistic time? I have friends who are optimists. I admire them greatly. They think we are one scientific breakthrough away from eternal life; tell me we should all work together to create a better world, erase borders, erase countries, live side by side…chacun a son gout…

But I know deep in my heart, when it comes down to it, you can’t trust anyone…

When I was a kid I always got the sense that when the knock on the door came, we would know what to do. These things are inherited, not learned. I knew that my mother would go to her room without a word, take the diamond rings and sew them into her dress. I would get a loaf of bread and a family photo and we would wait to be taken away. I used to look around the house and think “if they do come, it will only take me 5 minutes to hide the menorah, the Kiddush cup…” I had it all planned: I knew we could never relax because we had to be prepared for the knock on the door.

Of course, we were not in any danger, but it was the memory of being hunted, the deep knowledge that the worst could happen at anytime that made me feel on guard. So I find it hard to be an optimist, to be direct and honest. I fear this is the truth I will blurt out.

And then I will not be able to stop what I have started, which scares me a great deal, for what is the end of such a trajectory?

No, I would recommend you stay home. Come here from time to time and have a coffee with me…get nice seats at the opera, taste the goodness of the bread, but stay home, close to those you love, and wear a pretty costume.

As for myself, I must stay, for every time I go on the stage in this place, I take back a little of what was stolen from me.

Publish Post

This is the most powerful thing I can do.… The only way I can learn to become an optimist.

Or am I just full of shit? Sometimes I just want a big screen TV too.

Okay! Let’s go to KaDeWe and buy things! I’m so glad you decided to go with Erno Laszlo – the gold standard of skin products. If I were down to my last cent I would buy face cream, because once the skin goes….

Gartenstrasse, Mitte – Friday, 8:36 PM

2010-03-07T22:44:00.001+01:00

HEROIN! Now there’s a nasty drug. God, I remember doing heroin at the Beat Hotel in Paris in the 50’s with Allen Ginsberg. No, I always preferred the psychadelics; LSD and the like. But my favourite was psylocybin. What a pure high! It was almost VIRGINAL… I felt like I was in “The Song of Bernadette”. The first time I took it was in Berkeley in the 60’s – I forgot all about shopping; my bourgeois existence. Oh, did I tell you I sold the beach house? Top of the market. They turned it into condos and are selling them for a RIDICULOUS price. Boggles the mind, really.

But I’ve stopped doing drugs now; at my age you have to choose your urges and I save mine for sex! But do you remember the 80’s with Salomé? He would bring a big chunk of hash and we would play Scat. Oh no dear, Salomé wasn’t a woman, HE is a highly regarded artist…. Yes, I remember clearly – it was you, me, Salomé and ATTILLA…. at that dingy club in Schöneberg. What was it called - The Yellow Umbrella? Oh God, the SHOWS they used to put on! Real cabaret, back when there was still such a thing. The owner was this ancient transvestite from the Weimar years, and I always brought her little offerings of peyote so we could get a table by the dance floor. Say, do you remember that New Years Eve when the waiters walked around completely naked carrying silver trays of cocaine? Now THERE was a party. Nowadays it’s all benefits…raise money for this and that. Incredibly dismal; weltschmerz just kills my mood. I mean, how can you have an out of body experience at a benefit for Rwanda, or AIDS? At the end of it, I’d just rather cut a cheque.

Oh, don’t you just love Hildegard Knef? If cigarettes could sing! What a voice of experience. Hearing her interpret Cole Porter makes me want to just light up and get naked. I met her once, you know. Amsterdam. The 70’s. Now there was a time…these days they’re closing down all the whorehouses to make room for designer shops and other such nonesense. Oh how I mourn the demise of innocent pleasure, of cheeky hedonism…having sex in fits of laughter. It is all so serious, now.

And yes, I will have some more wine, now that you’re asking. Say, did you get that invitation for the opening at the Berlinische Gallerie? I would love to go, but I’ll be in Zurich that week. Wouldn’t you know Iskandar is turning 65? Can it be? It seems like only yesterday we were getting fucked out of our minds on Mykonos….

Café Fincan, Neukölln. Thursday, 11:40 AM

2010-02-22T06:35:00.005+01:00

Dahling, I haven’t seen you since before Facebook! Was there even such a time? How DID we keep in touch back then….carrier pigeon? Honestly, I have an entire DRAWER full of stationary I can’t be bothered to use. Not because I don’t love writing letters, but because I insist on writing them in fountain pen, and let’s face it, if you’re left handed, you smudge. I think that’s why I liked learning Hebrew.....right to left, dear….Hebrew is written right to left - didn’t I tell you? Actually, it’s the only kernel of information I care to remember from my religious education. The rest, trash. No bacon? No men? No way!

So… You’re entering a competition for emerging opera directors…sponsored by Krupp. How very exciting! What’s your idea? …The Magic Flute…great choice – you can do TONNES with the piece…SO loopy! Hmmmm? You want all the costumes to be black? Well, that’s simple…a bold statement. And slimming – the singers will love you. Sets, black too? Isn’t that a bit…monochromatic? I can see your point…black is neutral; allows the drama to speak….and you want the singers in black face? Whatever for? To erase artificial constructs of gender and ethnicity ...Got it…black light? Honey, you know I think you’re brilliant, but wouldn’t it be easier to get the audience to close their eyes? ….but there are different kinds of black. You do have a point there, and I wish you all the best. I really do. Here’s what: when you win, call me and we’ll buy something fabulous.

Hey listen, I know it’s before noon, but do you want a drink? You don’t drink anymore….because... alcohol clouds the vital force of your creativity…okay…something to eat - they have really fantastic cheesecake here. Dairy...How could I forget.

A black coffee. Why am I not surprised?

No…no, I’m not mocking you, it’s just… gentle teasing that’s all...

oh, but it is so good to see you!

…and you don’t like people touching you…an invasion of your personal space - you feel you need to clearly define the parameters of our friendship. Of course I understand. Next time you crave physical contact, just send a delegation to my country’s embassy.

Oh, it was just a joke. Honestly. Are you all for black moods, too? No, you shut up!

Now you’re asking if the coffee is ORGANIC? Honey, we’re at a Turkish café in the middle of Neukölln: the coffee was probably traded for weapons! Now I’m racist. Well, I’m not the one who wants the singers to wear black face! But it’s a postcolonial reclamation of otherness? Who are you, Edward Said? …

Of course theatre is political. Everything is political....Did I say it wasn’t?

***

Well, I think I should go. I’ve got an appointment with my therapist in an hour, then a session with a cranial-sacral healer at 2. This evening I’m rehearsing an experimental 1 act opera about Chernobyl. No, it’s manageable; I just have to remember not to push myself.

So, next week? Same time? Great.

Give my love to Lutz and Dante!

Prenzlauer Berg, Tuesday - 1:45 PM

2010-02-15T15:18:00.006+01:00

Well, I think we’re done. Oh I know we’ve only been working on the dialogue for an hour, but you know as well as I that the director is going to change it all in the first rehearsal. Besides, it doesn’t matter how we do it, as long as we can tell him that we got together to talk about it…that we have IDEAS…that we’re committed to the PROCESS…

…oh, theatre…

Prosecco? You read my mind! Tell me, why are you debasing perfectly good wine with Amaro? A “spritz” you say? Learned how to make it in Venice? I can tell we’re going to get along famously. What a perfectly sensible way to spend a Tuesday afternoon! No apologies! If you ARE a bohemian, you might as well LIVE like one….And pasta Puttanesca! I adore it. You know what Puttanesca means don’t you? Noodles in slut-like sauce! Apparently the ladies of the night needed something quick and spicy to sustain them…so they came up with this...but it sounds so much better in Italian.

Shocking…..

Oh Hello! You never told me you had a girlfriend (shit shit shit shit shit)….she plays the flute? How lucky for you - understands the angst of being a musician but will never be competition. Oh I don’t mind that she doesn’t really speak English. Just today I was wondering when I would get to practice the second person informal plural. Do you (you + girlfriend) like noodles in slut sauce?

And yes I will have another spritz, now that you’re asking.

Delicious….

If I close my eyes I can picture Rome. Every Sunday I would go to this ancient trattoria for lunch…“Der Pallaro”, if I recall correctly…located on the exact spot where they killed Julius Caesar! It is things like this which make it impossible to compete with Rome. I mean, what are they going to do in Berlin… build a Starbucks on the Hitler bunker? Decidedly NOT poetic. I have no idea what a Pallaro is, actually. Neither did the waiter…he just shrugged, but then again he shrugged at everything. He was 80, after all. There was no menu… you just ate what they gave you, and I think the menu hasn’t changed since Caesar…you know… Imagine the absolute bliss of sitting on a quiet piazza in the height of summer, shaded by a plane tree, sipping cold white wine, eating lentils from a chipped earthenware dish. A date with eternity - the closest I have come to communion. One day the cook – an ageless woman in a turban – saw me enjoying her food and kissed me on the cheek. She had tears in her eyes.

This is why I want to move to Italy.

And the pasta! Spaghetti carbonara every day, and I never tired of it. They always brought it to me in a mixing bowl, told me they had run out of dishes. I think they were trying to insult me because I was ‘straniero’- a foreigner - but they told me it was a special honour. This is typical of Italy…they wrap an insult in gilded paper and you only realize too late…

But they made carbonara with real guancale…crunchy and salty and piggy – the apotheosis of pork. Oh but I do eat pork, and I don’t feel bad about it in the least. I have committed so many grievous sins I can’t possibly worry about what I put in my mouth.

Besides, I was eating ham at Stephens United Church in Fisher River Manitoba for years before I even know what a Jew was. My parents were both school teachers and we lived on a reserve.

How much do you pay for this gorgeous apartment? 500 Euro! You know, if you tell anyone they’ll want to kill you. God, you can live in Berlin like a king for almost nothing! An apartment like this in Winnipeg costs more.

What’s Winnipeg? My home town...not so bad really, just cold sometimes, that’s all. How cold? Well, on the weather channel they often warn you “exposed skin will freeze in a minute”… I never paid attention…couldn’t bear to dress for that. Besides, I had a vintage camel hair coat…fabulous. I froze my ass off, but looked great…which would explain the missing fingers.

KIDDING!

Oh lunch smells divine. You’re not putting raisins in the sauce? I think they do that in Sicily….must be the Arab influence. Never been there, mind you, but I would love to go. In Italy they call Sicily “Africa”. Isn’t that horrible? But why, I wonder. Africa’s not horrible, is it? Well, it is…but Africa as a concept really isn’t horrible. Anyway, my friend says that Italians from the north will tell you that Palermo is the only third world city without a European quarter. They even look down on Rome: in Milan they say the only thing Romans know how to do is have lunch. Is that so bad? If only Berlin were notorious for the way its citizens took their meals.

No, but I love Berlin!
Well, actually I don’t…it makes me think of death.
I love you guys though!

And so I raise my glass.
To long life…and drinking on Tuesday afternoon.

God… the last time I had prosecco was after a performance of Ligeti’s “La Grande Macabre”, also in Rome – at the opera… friends of mine have a box there. I know, what a life. Anyway, it was all rather grotesque (macabre?). The set consisted of a giant naked woman in papier maché, and the characters would come out of various…orifices. I asked my friend “how much do you want to bet that in the second act, they’re going to turn that girl around have the singers come out her behind?”

Needless to say, my friend bought the proescco!

Oh, and another time….

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Staatsoper, Unter Den Linden, Friday 8:45 PM

2010-02-13T11:40:00.003+01:00

How amazing is this! Here we are at the Berlin State Opera, watching the Marriage of Figaro for less than it costs to see a movie at Silver City. Who cares if I don’t have a job? Who needs a nice apartment when you can go to the opera and forget about it all? That’s why they invented opera, you know, to forget… But perhaps also to remember… (oh so poetic am I, la la la). But seriously, haven’t you ever wondered if truth is on the stage and our daily lives are just… imagined? No, I didn’t think of it, John Lennon did. I don’t get John Lennon at all? I never claimed to! Imagine all the people! Shit…it’s a recipe for agoraphobia

Oh – the people watching at the Staatsoper is so much better here than at the Deutsche Oper. Why? The Deutsche Oper is in West Berlin. All the hipsters live here in the East and would never dream about going “over there”; it just isn’t done. This city has never been more divided, wall or no. Besides, the only people I know who live in West Berlin are opera singers, and we’re so boring! We want to be close to the gym… grocery store….dry cleaning! SNORE. Who else but an opera singer goes HOME in Berlin before 11?

Oooh…there’s a man in a leather tuxedo. There’s a woman in a leather tuxedo.

They have identical fur coats, and perhaps the same plastic surgeon?

I’m dying for a pretzel. Want one? I can’t get over the sight of these women in their finery, eating pretzels at the opera…just too much! Sort of reminds me of an opening night party in Vancouver: they forgot to order food, so at the last minute they delivered fifty pizzas, and there was this grand old dowager in a ball gown nibbling on a slice of meat lover’s. Talk about stoic! But pretzels are part of the culture here, whereas Domino’s is…

Speaking of Vancouver, the Olympics begin tomorrow. No doubt the opening ceremonies will feature some sort of performance which fuses yoga, Chinese acrobatics and Aboriginal dance into an insipid, PC mess…sponsored by Starbucks! And did you know the security bill for the games is expected to top 1 billion dollars? Not because they’re worried about Al Qaeda: they’re scared of the hippies and naked bike protesters. What can you say about a city which spends so much money to protect itself from its own citizens? Revolution! Now there’s an amateur sport I’d watch on TV.

What’s that? Of course I’ll get up to watch the ceremonies. I absolutely love the Olympics: now that there are no absolute monarchies left, it really is the only venue for quality pageantry. Speaking of which, I just bought an audio version of the Queen’s Coronation on ITunes. Sensational….like sports commentary for homosexuals:

“The baron of the Cinque Ports, in his gown of crimson velvet processes through the nave! The Lords of the Black Rod, the Purple Rod and the Blue Rod in their mantles and coronets crane their necks in anticipation as THE QUEEN appears, resplendent in the glittering Imperial State Crown, having been anointed with the sacred spoon. All do homage. What colour! What ceremony! What a day!”

“She shoots! She scores! God save the Queen”

And here I am talking about myself.

What did you do this afternoon? Went to the Jewish Museum? Sort of felt like Jewish Disneyworld? Of course I’m not offended. I stopped being offended a long time ago. Now I just carry mace. You thought the interactive displays were kind of weird? Yeah, me too: “To hear about a gas chamber, press 1. To feel a yellow star, wait for the tone”. Didn’t it sort of remind you of “Touch the Universe” in Winnipeg?

…Touch the Jewniverce!

I love it. Sometimes I wish that instead of a Jewish Museum there were actual Jews. Well, there are Jews in Berlin, but they’re just mostly expats like me, although technically I’m neither an expat nor a foreigner. Discuss.

But I told you I take a German course at the Jewish Community Centre, right? Kind of bizarre…today we talked about the liberation of Auschwitz. Yeah – learning German through discussing the Holocaust? Can you say FUCKED UP? I almost lost it when our teacher, Axel, wrote “Final Solution to the Jewish Question” in German on the chalk board. But we all wrote it down, dutifully, in our notebooks.

What’s that about?

I just don’t know about Axel. He’s so German I call him Triple Axel….figure skating, darling…FIGURE SKATING. Are you sure you’re gay? Yesterday I was in the washroom and there were 2 other guys beside me at the urinals. Axel swept in and exclaimed “was fűr ein schönes Bild” – what a lovely picture. Very Ernst Röhm… I would be offended, but Axel is sort of cute, in that ruggedly handsome, inwardly psychotic, goyische drill sergeant kind of way.

Oh, what of it? We all love our oppressors: “Like a dog returneth to his vomit, so a fool returneth to his folly.” Of course that’s biblical…it’s from Proverbs, which I love…so dishy.

Each verse is a tweet from God.

Well, I think that’s our cure to return to our seats. Anyone who said Wagner was long has never been to one of these Mozart operas… 4 hours! Nothing in this world should last 4 hours…except maybe a flight in first class, or opening ceremonies…or a coronation!

See you here after the show? You know, I would absolutely love to go out for a drink, but I have to be home by 11. I have a lesson tomorrow…and then I have to go grocery shopping and pick up my dry cleaning. Why don’t you come by for herbal tea?

What’s my address?

West Berlin….

Galleries Lafeyette, 2:14 PM

2010-02-08T19:32:00.002+01:00

Look.... over there....NO - not at THAT TABLE...why would I want you to look at an old Bavarian couple? Left....See her? Obviously French. Who else would pair fingerless cashmere gloves with 2000 Euro snakeskin boots? No, definitely not from around here. Oh, bless - she's reading a used copy of "The Second Sex". I'll bet she's not reading it at all - just bought it at the second hand store so she could come here and LOOK like she was into it... Reading Simone de Bouvoir in public is simultaneously alluring and forbidding. Men don't understand, but they want women to think they understand, but only so they can screw them, and she knows this. I should get a chair in Women's Studies for that one! Who upholsters the chairs in Women's Studies? Is it Laura Ashley! Oh, I am so horrrrrible. Say, have you ever read that short story "Hairball" by Margaret Atwood? It is about a woman who tries to play by the rules in a man's world and gets so pulped in the process she develops a huge tumor...which, once removed, she rolls in cocoa, places in a box of chocolates, and messengers to the man that left her for someone younger and cuter. It is the only work of fiction I have ever read which made me comprehend what it must be like to be a woman scorned.

Oh that girl! You'd think she was HOMELESS the way she was dressed, but I assure you her outfit is VERY expensive. It takes a lot of money to look like a bum.... but as they say, God is in the details and the sweater is angora. Did you know Angora is rabbit? They shear bunnies to make sweaters. The world is fucked.... And she KNOWS she is driving them crazy! Classic Madonna/Whore - chaste, ethereal makeup with slutty red lips and black nail polish, chipped just so, but lustrous enough so you know its Chanel or something. Please tell me you've read Camille Paglia!

Look at her now...nibbling her croissant like a cat drinking cream. Liberty leading the people, not with a raised tricolour, but a pain au chocolate…hot as an affair.

…God, how I love the French. Who else can make a 3 act play out of a piece of pastry....build an entire civilization on something ephemeral as taste - on the complex alchemy that turns butter and flour into a thousand layers? But really, that is how the French are - they do some fancy tricks with base elements, puff themselves up , put themselves on display for all to see.... then poof -gone in one bite. But what a moment! The first time I went to Paris, I arrived at 6 in the morning - pulled my suitcase down the Avenue Montaigne, and it was so beautiful I forgot to breathe. Seriously... I had to be revived by an immortel from the Academie Francaise in full regalia. He just happened to have some smelling salts.

Yes, I know I have an overactive imagination. How else are you going to get through Berlin in February? Maybe I should just go to France? But you don't GO to France, you REMEMBER France. You remember every detail and it throws the quotidien into high relief. The contrast between your daily existence and the gloire of memory is intoxicating. God - if I eat another Madeleine they'll think I'm Proust. And then I can write a big fat book and we can REALLY do Paris - and not the aide-memoire kind either. I'm talking about a suite at the Crillon....high tea at Fauchon. Fashion shows and sable throws.....

I'm talking about the moment you spend your life waiting for. You take base elements. With a little luck and ingenuity you puff yourself into a thousand layers, and even if it only lasts 10 seconds you can say you really lived. Yes I am comparing life to a dessert. Oh don't look like that.... they both come out of the oven.

But you should KNOW by now that I am completely ridiculous. Ridiculous and lovable and contradictory and avaricious, yet saintly when required. I am all of these things, and I am more. It isn't any special insight, just what happens when I drink in the afternoon.

Oh, shit - the girl is gone. She left with the Bavarian couple. How odd. Kinky, even. Maybe they liked the boots. Have you ever wondered what it is with Germans and boots?

For God's sake, don't STARE. Do what women everywhere have done for centuries - look at the mirror in your compact. And if you're not going to finish your french fries, I would be happy to oblige. They fry their potatoes in beef tallow here- the only way.

Oh, STOP IT...life is cruel. Rabbit sweaters, snakeskin boots....objects cooked in rendered cow. All about conquest. Sex and death, Sex and death - a thousand different times, a thousand different ways. And the sooner you realize that, the more exciting your life will be. God, there is this fabulous Helmut Newton photo of a perfectly manicured woman wearing huge diamond rings, tearing apart a roasted chicken...only the most erotic thing I have ever seen.

Now, what was I talking about? Oh, I can't remember.

But wouldn't it have been fabulous to have met Diana Vreeland? She said that in Paris, before the war...In Paris, people used to have 3 fittings for a NIGHTGOWN. She said that when war was declared, she was at a fitting with Chanel…she said how sad she was, moping her way to the last boat out of town before the Germans came.

All she could think about were her clothes.

Shocking, isn't it.

Ooooh.... I love your new sweater. Purple is such an august colour.

Did you know they used to make royal purple out of mollusc shells?

Did you know that molluscs don't have bones, but still have weird exoskeletons?

Fascinating…

Did you know I can't eat molluscs, even though they are my favourite thing?

Last time I ate them I ended up in the hospital with a Benedryl drip.

Oh I fear I shall PERISH before I run out of things to say.

I have a solution!

Live forever. What do you think?

Maybe I should just shut up and die?

Oh, fuck off and give me your fries....

Crumbs

2010-02-03T10:07:00.001+01:00

I got a text message from my German teacher this morning. He was in the hospital last night, so I don’t have class today or tomorrow. This means I have a few more unstructured hours in my day, not that I need them. But perhaps it’s true what Gertrude Stein said: to be a genius you need a lot of time to do nothing - to wait for the great ideas to come. I admire the sentiment greatly, looking as I do for excuses to be idle and possessing delusions of grandeur. I should mention that Gertrude Stein came from money and had servants. Perhaps this is genius?

Still, I wonder what would it be like if I were idle the whole day long; if I didn’t tidy the kitchen or fold the laundry. I was brought up to believe that you must clean and clear as you go, but having since found that sparkling surfaces and ordered shelves often indicate a hidden chaos, I have my doubts.

I remember watching my mother scrub the floors in the middle of the night. I decided to be naughty and ate a muffin, purposefully dropping crumbs on the floor. My mother did not see me - only the crumbs - and she followed, scrubbing as she went, wiping the floor in circles, without beginning and without end.

You could have had a picnic on our floor. You could have, but there was nothing to eat. There were only ordered cupboards; a family trying to fight the chaos within. There were sparkling surfaces and people going in circles, not seeing each other.

Looking for crumbs…..

Vision

2010-02-01T16:15:00.000+01:00

Words on a page,

artfully placed...

What separates a poem from a shopping list?

Bread, milk,

A Grecian urn

What is this alchemy?

It is terrifying to seize a vision!

To say: “this is mine…

how I see things.”

Words on a page

can’t be taken back.

And to paint a picture in verse!

…snippets of music, etched into silence…

Madness!

Yet madness too begins as a shopping list,

quickly turns to something else.

Is this magic?

Words on a page

Silent snippets of music…

All have value

because I have placed them there.

In this comes the courage

to say that which cannot be taken back

Which is in and of itself

A vision

artfully placed:

How I see things.

Curiouser and Curiouser

2010-01-31T10:29:00.001+01:00

Living in Berlin, I often feel I have fallen down the rabbit hole. Last night, after a perfectly sensible evening of homemade shepherd’s pie and German homework with a friend, I attended a composer’s birthday party in the emerging area of Neukölln. I was also invited to a fashion show at the Martin Gropius Bau, and a burlesque/ laser tag evening at the Planetarium, but I had RSVP’d, and I am punctilious in keeping my word…. most of the time. In truth, I often don’t go to parties, preferring as I do to cocoon and drink tea in silence, but I felt that in this case I felt I should make an effort, not only because I think I should expand my horizons, but because I need a new place to stay. You never know who you might encounter…

There seem to be two constants in Berlin: parties and moving, and if you think about it, perhaps this is what life is about anyway. Oh, I should apologize for being so deep so soon. In writing, as in relationships, they always say you should wait to reveal. But I have been writing poetry of late, and poetry has a way of infusing meaning into everything, which is useful, and in fact why poetry exists, but quite annoying when trying to do anything which requires split-second decision making…like buying stamps or crossing the street. Should I go? Should I stay? If I go now, will I get run over? Is crossing the street a metaphor for life?

See, there I go again.

Now I have committed the second cardinal sin in writing: going off topic. I wonder why these things are so important; being topical - skimming the surface until you are sure the reader/object of your affection (and are they not one and the same?) has been lured into your trap. I think it is all about control, which is what most things are about anyway. Parties, moving, control. What else is there?

Oh yes - there is having coffee in the Literaturhaus on the Fasanenstrasse with someone perfectly lovely -- one of those afternoons when you plan to meet for an hour and then notice it is getting dark. You wonder where all the time went, forget about crossing the street….even about control. You begin to think life can be about poetry after all.

Now that’s on topic….

“Wie, bitte?”

2010-01-25T21:19:00.000+01:00

I think it was Mark Twain who said that life is just too short to learn German. My internet connection is down so I just can’t be sure, but he seemed to have a lot to say about the German language – none of it positive. As for myself, I have nothing in particular against German, except for the fact that upon hearing it I can’t help but be reminded of the annihilation of my family. But let’s not dwell on trivial matters. After all, German is a perfectly serviceable language….good for commands and such, and I have been happy absorb it in my own way for months now, using the time-honored tradition of immigrants everywhere: television. I have also been learning a lot of German by arguing with government officials, cab drivers and sales people. Everyone comments on how “good” my German is, not because I can speak the language particularly well, but because I am a very good mimic. But you’ve heard all this before…

Unfortunately, there is only so far you can go with a charming demeanor and the native cadence. Sooner or later, the movers and shakers will find out that I learned German on the streets (and not very nice ones at that), and I am loath to see the doors of opportunity closing in my face. No, it was definitely time to enroll in another German course.

But where?

Well, there’s the Goethe Institute, but they’re ruinously expensive, as are individual tutors of any quality. Private schools which cater to diplomatic wives and aimless Americans are also quite dear. I have been a diplomatic wife, and have already met quite enough aimless Americans to last a lifetime. (Where are you from? Portland. What do you do? I’m a gallery assistant…and a performance artist…I have a band…). There’s the public language school, but they require all sorts of documentation which I don’t have, and which I don’t want to go through the bother of getting…although maybe I would learn a lot of German in the process…

There remained only one option: The Jewish Community Centre. I know it seems ridiculous, learning German under the auspices of the Jewish Community, but there was no entrance exam, no documentation required, and two months of daily instruction for only 80 Euro. Talk about wholesale! Who knows, maybe I would even meet a nice doctor out of the whole thing…. (A charming story, really…Shimon and I connected in Berlin…at German school of all places! I knew we were beshert as soon as I heard him conjugate reflexive verbs in his intoxicating Israeli accent. We live in Switzerland now.)

So my friend and I enrolled. As usual, I charmed the pants off of the intake officer. As usual, I was placed in a level which far exceeded my skills, so now I am faced with homework which I have no idea how to begin:

“Exercise 1a: Case. Choose the appropriate case for the following examples and explain your choices in detail. Please use the following: Nominative Case, Accusative Case, Dative Case, Genitive Case….”

(Basket Case

Mental Case

A Case of You…)

Okay….make herbal tea, do calming breath exercise… here goes:

1) The thick white girl gives the jocund blue ball to the squat purple antelope. The squat purple antelope belongs to the tolerant flailing zebra, which enjoys playing handball with the amicable green giraffe.

What is this, German on acid? I am beginning to think Mark Twain was right.

…I wonder what’s on TV…

Little Match Girl

2010-01-24T12:02:00.000+01:00

January is a difficult month at the best of times. Most of us are fatter and poorer then we were in December and have little to show for the excesses of the season except a few trinkets and the memory of family feuds. I think my friend Rebecca had the right idea by hibernating with her husband over Christmas and making pasta from scratch. Rebecca is often sensible and I miss hear dreadfully. We have been friends forever and were neighbors for a time, creating a warm community by the ocean in the midst of a city of strangers. I would go over to her cozy apartment every Saturday and she would educate me about Afrobeat. We would make homemade mozzarella or drink tea and consume an entire loaf of Cobb’s fruit and nut bread, toasted just so. For her birthday I prepared scallops in a cream sauce, enriched with egg yolks and crème fraiche…I have always believed that butterfat equals love, and Rebecca agrees.

I knew Rebecca and I would become fast friends the day I met her in the music library at the University of Manitoba. She was wearing velvet pants and a peasant blouse and was doing her theory homework on vellum with a vibrant purple calligraphy pen. Her long blonde hair cascaded in defiant, unruly tendrils. I felt as if a light had been turned on.

Rebecca and I were the misfits of music school: we were queer and had voices that just didn’t blend. People often told us to sing more quietly, to tow the line, but we couldn’t and we would often cry together in an empty practice room after our voice lessons, overwhelmed by the frustration of wanting to express the infinite through song and not really knowing how…..some day we will be able to sing as loudly as we want and nobody will tell us to blend. This I promise you…

We often cry together still, out of love, out of longing…because we miss each other. Yesterday, Rebecca and I talked on the phone for the first time in almost 2 months and I told her all about my Berlin adventures - how I ran out of coal over New Years and thought it might be a good idea to burn the discarded Christmas trees I found on the side of the road to keep warm. She said I was like the little match girl, that I needed a knight in shining armor to rescue me. I told her there are no knights in shining armor and that maybe I should have just remembered to order the coal already….

For there are no knights to rescue us, no silver bullets, no miracle cures. There are, however, laughter and tears, and the desire to express the infinite through song with a voice that is your own. There is friendship. There are scallops in a rich creamy sauce…

and there is the light, turning on.

This I promise you.

Progress

2010-01-23T12:30:00.000+01:00

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for not writing. You see, over the last few weeks I have been trying to radically change my life. I am trying to eat better, think better, be better, do better….but not in the context of a comparative framework which would destroy the fragile self esteem I have acquired by nurturing my inner child – that sensitive creature neglected by a perceived lack of parental support during times of trauma during adolescence whose dysfunction is compounded by feelings of shame and inadequacy due to an overly competitive nature and destructive perfectionist tendencies which engender feelings of worthlessness.

Can you tell I bought a self-help book? I have also eliminated (since yesterday) refined sugar, dairy, chocolate, alcohol and worrying. I now eat my organic porridge in blissful silence and ponder the complex flavors and textures of a banana - chewing each mouthful precisely 20 times so as not to cause the malnourishment resulting from an inadequate absorption of minerals, and thus having to endure the anxiety and irritability which would accompany such rapid fluctuations in blood sugar. But have you ever tried to chew a mouthful of porridge 20 times? It is like waiting for death!

Despite my new regime of health, fitness and intense self care, I still manage to make time for recreation. Why only yesterday I decided to submit myself to the ministrations of a Turkish barber and I can safely tell you that heaven on earth is having your eyebrows threaded by a 250 pound Middle Eastern hunk. It is just the right mixture of pleasure and pain, with the exciting frisson of the forbidden. I also had him trim my beard, but I don’t think he understood what I was saying because he fashioned my facial hair into narrow sideburns and a Lothario's moustache. I now look like some sort of pimp - which is appropriate as my street is known for its “nocturnal activities”. I should mention at this point that I grew a beard because my teacher told me I am no longer a character tenor but rather a Spinto which is an Italian tenor that gets to sing all the lovely emotional music that critics love to hate, but which makes ladies of a certain age (myself included) swoon. Having a butch voice means you have to embrace your masculine side, but if you have no masculine side then facial hair will have to do… so maybe it is not such a bad thing that I look like some sort of shady swindler rather than the anxious cherub I really am.

However, the transition is not quite complete… I may have facial hair, but my wardrobe needs a little work. Last night I wore a bright red sweater and a fetching ascot to a concert at the Philharmonie. I thought red was appropriate, since the work performed was a setting of the Communist Manifesto by the German-Jewish composer Erwin Shulhoff. Apparently, this piece has never before been performed in Germany. After hearing it, I can tell you that there are several good reasons why. My friend, who is actually a bona fide Communist and quite knowledgeable about music but too kind to say anything mean, exclaimed “oh, but what a wonderful text!”

I think the school’s out on that one.

Ok – now I’m off to visualize my life goals which today seem to be grounded in images of chocolate.

Pictures

2010-01-03T09:55:00.000+01:00

...because today, for the first time, I allowed myself to grieve...

There is a picture of my family which I particularly love because it was taken before our world fell apart. We are sitting on a carpet of leaves in the park. It is autumn and the warm sunlight dapples my father’s golden hair. He has impossible hair, my father, and a corsair’s moustache: a survivor’s bravado. My mother has impossible hair too - long and black like Joan Baez. She leans on my father’s shoulder and smiles the smile of a woman grateful to have been released from demons. As for my brother and I, we are quirky and alive in a way only children who are deeply loved can be. My father is holding my brother up by the arms, all baby fat and bad moods. I think he is sort of weird but cute - me with my Mona Lisa smile and cowlick that just won’t stay put.

When I tell you I had a perfect family, please don't feel envy, for our world fell apart. Instead, feel awe and reverence. Know that the shining sunlight of promise did indeed shine for a time on four lovely people, two golden haired and two dark haired; two older ones, two younger ones, intertwined – sharing a simple picnic on a carpet of leaves, laughing in the beauty of an existence unclouded by illness...

Mourn, my mother says. Mourn the loss of this world. Know that you cannot go back, for it is not there. We were lucky that for a time we knew this peace and this ease, so blessed. Take your hand in mine, my son, for I have been waiting for you. Go out into the wide world laughing and aware and accepting yourself for who you are. You cannot hide in a blanket, nor crawl back into my arms – nor should you, for all the security in the world can be taken away from you when you least expect it. We are living proof. Because of this, and especially because of this, but not only because of this, be brave. Take your hand in mine and know that the sun shines on us still, and that the seasons will turn and in the fall there will be a carpet of leaves to cushion our steps. We may not be able to ride our bikes to the park, but we can take your father in his wheelchair and you can make that potato salad he likes so much.

I wonder what this picture will look like….

I push my father in his wheelchair through the streets of Berlin. His hair is still impossible, Einstein-like; wild. He sits on that wheelchair like it is a throne. Until the end he will never give up an inch of his dignity. My father has not been back to this part of the world since he was a boy. He tells me that Berlin reminds him of Poland. But he will not go back to Poland. My father and his sister walk with pain even though they are still young and I know it is because their health was compromised when they were children: I know this is because of decisions that were made in Berlin. I push my father in his wheelchair, the sleet pelts my face. I am glad for it because maybe he will not notice I am crying. But would that be so bad?

My father has been sick for 20 years.

Take a picture.

It will last even longer.

Chanukah in Berlin

2009-12-15T10:00:00.000+01:00

One of the things about being an unemployed artist is that you frequently have to be on the move – and here I am not speaking of the particular challenges of practicing your craft, but rather the more mundane task of finding a new apartment when the lease runs out. For the last few months, I dwelt in a place high above the fray, with central heating and comfortable couches where I could cocoon. It was too good to last, and in its place I have found a suite of very large rooms with a very small coal oven which is supposed to provide enough heat to keep me warm. For a few days I was sort of shocked…you mean, I actually had to do something to make heat? I had to light a fire? Preposterous!

But then I realized that my room had 14 foot ceilings and a piano, and that perhaps it is not so good to be comfortable all the time. Besides, my new roommate – Adam - an Orthodox Jew from New York – is great fun. We both like Amadeus and are sort of obsessive about good coffee. I will never forget the sight of him in his yarmulke showing me how to load the furnace…. “Do you think we’ll get more heat if we use corpses?” I asked. Fortunately he got the joke.

Besides, I knew Adam was a kindred spirit because he invited 4 people for dinner and bought enough food for 20. He asked me if 4 bags of ziti were enough and I told him it would be plenty, but he bought more just in case, because you don’t want people to go hungry…..They say that the memory of famine lasts generations. My grandmother survived the war and thought that if the only thing she fed my father was chocolate pudding, he would surely become strong. He got rickets. My mother was ill in the hospital and I thought if I just made her scrambled eggs with extra butter and cream it would make her better. I did not know she couldn't eat it, and yet she could not tell me. I wonder if there will be a day when we can just eat. Not while there is hunger - nor for the generations that come after, say I. There will have to be a hundred years of plenty before food becomes just food.

Tonight we are having a Chanukah party at our apartment. Adam just came in with 50 pounds of potatoes that he carried with him on his bike from the Turkish market down the road. “Do you think this will make enough latkes for 20?” I said it would, but he is still not so sure.

Bless him for that.

We do not have a menorah so Adam and I went down to the recycling bin to look for empty wine bottles that we could use as candle holders. The candles were too big, so Adam took out his pen knife and started whittling them down so they would fit. It wasn’t exactly kosher, but surely God gives special dispensations for people trying to celebrate Jewish holidays in Berlin. I think there is even a blessing asking God to just let it go because you are trying your very best, under the circumstances. If there isn’t, there should be.

Of course, this was not the first time I found myself without a menorah – when I was young we lived in an Aboriginal community in northern Manitoba, which most people would say is the middle of nowhere but which most certainly is not. We did not have a menorah but we did have a 2x4 and some red candles left over from a dinner party, and in the middle of the wilderness we kindled festive lights that shone in the darkness. And so it does not matter whether or not you have silver candlesticks, nor does it matter where you are. Any place where you light candles becomes for a moment the centre of the world, and a holy place from which the planets will for a brief moment, take their orbit - if they have any sense in them.

I am off to buy some more potatoes…

Blessed is the match consumed in kindling flame.

Blessed is the flame that burns in the secret fastness of the heart.

Blessed is the heart with strength to stop its beating for honour’s sake.

Blessed is the match consumed in kindling fame.

-Hannah Szenes (1921-1944)

State Visit

2009-12-13T11:35:00.000+01:00

When I was young, I remember watching a documentary about the Queen preparing for the state visit of Lech Walesa. I was fascinated by the months of preparation, the attention to detail…the costumes. I never thought that I would be preparing for a state visit myself, but I got word a couple of months ago that my father has decided to come and see me in Berlin, and while the visit of one’s parents cannot really be compared to an official diplomatic exchange between countries (or can it?), you should know that my father is a dialysis patient. What's more, the last time he was in this part of the world he was a 10 year old refugee from Communist Poland who wore steel toed-boots so he could injure the children who called him names. Needless to say I have been trying to find ways to make this visit easier, not only for my father’s comfort, but for the safety of the local populace. I have reserved a car – a Passat. I have secured an apartment on a ground floor with fluffy towels and a muted color palette….I have stocked up on tranquilizers. But it is hard to know what to prepare for and what to leave in the hands of fate. I worry that things will not be to my father’s liking – that he will not have a good time. After all, Berlin is going to be a tough sell, and so anything I can to leaven the lump I will gladly do. Of course, if this really were a state visit, I would have teams of officials at my disposal and the full resources of a nation state to procure the best of the best of everything. As it stands I have a dictionary, lots of free time and willpower. But I have learned that armed with these three things, you can pretty much get anything.

…except a temporary handicapped parking permit in Germany.

I don’t even know how the subject came up. I think I found a special website designed for travelers with disabilities that said that you could simply go to the ministry of transportation (Bundesministerium für Verkehr, Bau und Stadtentwicklung Referat Bürgerservice, Besucherdienst) and make a request. It seemed easy enough to me, and I knew that being able to park in handicapped spots would make things a lot easier, so I got dad to send me his medical information, and off I went.

The ministry of transportation is not open to the public. This is well known. You can, however, leave a written message – on very nice stationary, I might add. I did the best I could with my dictionary and my determination, and came up with something like this: “Dad visits Berlin from Canada. No movement ….. possible parking spaces for broken people? I remain your most faithful servant…” Well, I got the point across, and I knew how to close a letter properly because the first thing I do when learning a new language is to study the correct forms of salutation and address, for I have found that you can say almost anything if you do it politely.

I had expected to get a response in a couple of days, but when I received an email within 24 hours I took it to be a positive sign:

Most distinguished sir. Thank you so much for your petition which you kindly deposited at our ministry yesterday. In reference to your question regarding parking spaces for disabled persons who are temporary visitors to Germany, but who are not members of the European Union I can offer the following answer. It would be unconstitutional to refuse such a permit to anyone, as this would be in contradiction of the German Basic Law of 1949 which prohibits discrimination to anyone on the basis of physical ability. That being said, we do not handle such requests at our ministry, nor am I at liberty to divulge contact information for the appropriate government department, as this is not part of my job description. I would recommend that you go to the city hall in your district for further instruction. With friendly greetings...

Okay – fair enough…. Off to city hall.

Yes – welcome to citizen’s services. Do you wish to make a complaint? Ah – handicapped parking. Well, actually we do not take care of that here, for this you must go to the Strassenverkehrbehörde. But the Ministry of Transport told you to come here? Why would they do that? Everyone knows that the In Deutschland entscheiden über Gewährung von Parkerleichterungen für behinderte Menschen (Ausnahmegenehmigung), die Bürger von Nicht-EU-Staaten sind, die Straßenverkehrsbehörden der deutschen Bundesländer.

Of course they do, how silly of me. In my confusion, I called Arvedt, who finds great solace in the efficiency and logic of German bureaucracy, himself being a German bureaucrat. I mean, if he didn’t believe in the system then who would? And what would that mean for the future of Germany? Can you feel the angst? (Last summer Arvedt was very tense because a train was 3 minutes late – this was the 4^th time in the last 2 weeks that he had experienced such ineptitude and he was genuinely concerned that this marked an unacceptable decline in the level of services of the Deutsche Bahn, and that he would most certainly be writing a letter… I told him that I thought that the trains in Germany could stand to be a little less punctual if only to differentiate them from the trains of the past. He failed to comprehend my meaning and asked me to explain myself. I didn’t want to get into it, and this made him even more upset because not only was I failing to make myself clear, I was avoiding a subject – and in Germany these two things are cardinal sins, unless you are talking about the war of course, which I was doing, if only euphemistically, so maybe I was off the hook? Fortunately the train arrived right at that moment so all was forgotten and Arvedt began to look up and down the length the compartment for an official complaint form so he could make his displeasure known. I went to the restaurant car and got a beer.)

Arvedt listened to my tale like a priest hearing confession. He was patient and kind and made some suggestions, but he never for a moment doubted the absolute rightness of the system…..

You know Ben, I am really quite proud of you for going about this in the proper way. I think that you will learn a lot about Germany. I would recommend that you call the Strassenverkehrbehörde between 11 o’clock and not later than quarter after one, and you should have a certified translation of your fathers Besicherungsausweis – this means official certificate of disabled status. And you should make sure that it is stamped, because in Germany everything must have a stamp.

Like the scarlet letter? Like a yellow star? What’s the deal with the stamp? Well, here goes…..

Strassenverkehrbehörde – Schröder speaking. You want a temporary handicapped parking permit for a tourist? This is of course possible but you would need a certificate of handicapped status from your home country that would have to be translated into German…yes….of course it has to be stamped. The stamp is extremely important. Why would we accept anything without a stamp? Now, does your father have a dog assistant…I mean to say, some sort of house animal that helps him with regards to the seeing? Because if he did, then you would need a special permit for this too and it would have to be stamped. The permit would have to be stamped, not the dog. Why would you stamp a dog?

Good question

I knew full well that my father did not have a handicapped sticker, nor did he possess any sort of official proof that he is disabled. I knew for a fact that my father would rather be dead than yield one inch of freedom to his illness, and it is this tenacity which has kept him with us. But the truth is, he can’t really walk. I wondered if I could send a video of my father buying groceries that could be used in lieu of said certificate. If they could see him in his military parka trying to push a shopping cart through the snow at the Superstore in Winnipeg, they would most certainly issue some kind of documentation, or maybe a purple heart. But what is the correct procedure for stamping a video? I am sure there is some sort of government office for that, too…..

Videoabnahmestempelbehörde? (Video stamp office)

Filmbezeichnungechtheitsprüfungamt für Schwerbehindertenausweis Ausgabe? (Film-stamp authentication bureau for the purposes of the designation of a handicapped certificate issuance)

Sekreteriat – Anwendungsentwicklung des Bilddokumentation Bestimmung Befristetbehindeterzustandparkerleichterungen Deutschlands? (Secretariat for the application management of visual documentation for the determination of temporary disabled status parking spaces in Germany)

I think I will go call Arvedt. I am not giving up on this one.

Nothing Personal

2009-12-12T18:44:00.000+01:00

Some countries like

France

Italy

entice the potential traveler with images of sensual lusciousness – ripe fruit, brimming wine glasses… pretty girls. Some countries like

England

Greece

inspire with vistas evoking the majestic past…Acropolii and Thermopylae…Stonehenge. For

Germany

, things are not quite that easy: German food has a middling reputation, and German history, while peppered with interesting events (have you read about the Frankfurt parliament of 1848?) is - well, German history. It is therefore not surprising that the powers have taken a different course of action and have decided to market their fair land as - “

Germany

: Land of Ideas”.

Pretty sexy, isn’t it. Of course, that is not the point – “Germany: Land of Ideas” is portentous, solid and impressive, and these things are very important to the Germans. One would not want a slogan that minimized the importance of the German geist, or spirit. One would not want the world to think that the Germans were not earnestly struggling with their identity or thinking about the nature of their country, themselves, and their relationship to the world. But in the end, I would much rather go for the glass of wine – even a pretty girl. Wouldn’t you?

Germans have always loved ideas. Ideas are perfect. They do not disappoint, like people tend to do. To be fair, the Germans have had some wonderful ideas –like inventing the printing press, or coating marzipan in chocolate. They have also had some not so wonderful ideas: lederhosen, for example…or using pesticides to massacre children. It is unfortunately the latter which most people recall when they think about Germany. I do not blame them.

But there is something heroic in the German quest for the ideal, something noble that is all too often lost in our world full of intellectual and moral compromises sent from an iphone. And while this adherence and search for the “ideal” is wonderful when it comes to the representation of romantic art, it is a bit of a pain when it comes to buying stamps or paying a parking fine. Living here, I sometimes wish the Germans would just “let one go” and bend a rule, just once in a little while – just to let me know that within them the human heart still beats…maybe just this once my certificate of good conduct wouldn’t be required in order to rent a movie about the Baader-Meinhof gang. Maybe this time I will not be scolded for exiting from the front door of bus. Oh, who am I kidding… it is never going to happen and the sooner I realize that, the happier I will be.

I first came to this realization last summer when I had a day off of rehearsal and decided to treat myself to Kaffee und Kuchen at KaDeWe. In the formerly divided Berlin of yore, KaDeWe, short for Kaufhaus des Westens (Department store of the West) was the preeminent symbol of all that was right, or wrong with capitalism - depending on your point of view, for at KaDeWe you really can buy anything – for a price: fresh crocodile meat? -Done. How about a bag of loose diamonds to go with it? - But of course. And why not a 10 dollar can of imported Campbell’s Soup to stave off the home sickness that strikes us all? Would you like it gift wrapped? A friend of mine who had grown up in East Berlin told me that he had learned all about KaDeWe in school – that store over there where you could buy whatever your heart desired, but only if you had the money. But not everyone had the money – far from it, so wasn’t it better to live in a society where everyone did have money but there was nothing to buy?

As always, my desire for chocolate trumped any questions of a political nature, so I went to the Lenôtre pasty counter on the 6^th floor – that place where you can believe that life is just that much better when things are dipped in sugar and put on display. It had been a pretty long week so I decided to treat myself and order a latté in addition to my usual gateau Marly (kirsch-soaked genoise filled with champagne butter cream, coated with pink marzipan and topped with fresh strawberries tantalizingly glazed with red currant jelly - served with vanilla flavored whipped cream on a china plate with a silver cake fork by a woman named Ulrike who had perfectly manicured nails and a charming demeanor until your friend asks in a loud voice for a glass of tap water….)

I need not tell you that the experience was sublime. I was in Berlin, after all, and I was an opera singer. What’s more, I was being paid for the privilege. I had left my comfortable bourgeois life behind me and was really living the dream, as it were. It goes without saying that the cake was exquisite – a symphony of tastes that seemed to validate the choices I had made in life. I sat there for a moment, trying to capture what the moment meant to me – that synthesis of fulfillment and pleasure; yet another sign that I was doing the right thing. With sugar-enhanced bravado, I asked for the receipt in German – a master of fluent nonchalance. I reached for my wallet. It was not there.

I can tell you from experience that losing one’s wallet is an anxiety inducing experience. By extension, losing one’s wallet in a foreign country where one only has a basic grasp of the language could be considered to be the catalyst for a full on panic attack. But I did not panic. I was in Berlin, and I was an opera singer, and if these two things had taught me anything, it was the ability to exhibit grace under pressure. Besides, I was not about to let Ulrike see me sweat. Luckily, at that precise moment I managed to find 5 euro and 90 cents in my coat pocket. Since the bill came to 7 euro (it would have only been 5.50 had I not ordered that verdammte latté), I was only out about a euro, and who would care about that?

With a mixture of sweet relief and the last vestiges of my enhanced self confidence, I calmly informed Ulrike of the situation: Oh silly-but-well-meaning-foreigner-me, forgetting my wallet at home but doing the proper thing by informing the authorities…oh, couldn’t you just please just let this one go, Ulrike? You see, I have almost enough, and I owe only a little more than a euro, and you know I will come back – I really will. How could one go for more than a week without a slice of Gateau Marly? I mean, it is like communion for me! Ulrike? Why are you making the tap water face? Why are you telling me to wait right here while you dial a number into the slim line telephone with your beautifully manicured nails?

In retrospect, I wonder why I didn’t just ask a fellow customer for a euro or two and be on my way. I did think of this, but I was more embarrassed by not being able to formulate the correct German word order needed to do so than I was by being - for all intents and purposes - a shoplifter (but is it shoplifting if you eat what you steal?). I could have also just taken my chances and left as fast as I could, but at the time I thought - “what’s the worst that could happen?”

And so I did just as I was told and sat there while a pride of impatient Charlottenburg matrons cooled their very high heels. I tried to explain to them that I could not actually leave the counter because I was being detained. This was perfectly understood, and they agreed among themselves that being held against one’s will was quite a logical state of affairs. What they could not understand was why I had elected to address them using the informal you and they pointedly told me so, as did Ulrike – brandishing a silver cake fork.

“You are the man who lost his wallet, ja?” I bolted upright and spun around to find a very trim man in a very trim suit – my accuser. He was flanked by two larger men in baggy tracksuits. I guess this was security. I nodded, not really able to speak, not wanting to be corrected again.

“You see,” he began, “I must detain you until the exact amount of the bill has been paid. The fact that you only owe 1 Euro and 20 cents is not the point. If I were to let you go now, then this would set an impossible precedent and eventually people would be able to just steal whatever they liked, and then what would the state of the German economy be?”

To say that I did not care would be a gross understatement. I asked him what I could do – perhaps I could phone my friend and he could provide the store with a credit card number. Perhaps they could just trust me to return later in the day with the outstanding money. Or, perhaps they could stop acting all crazy-ass and spend their time trying to catch the people stealing the designer underwear on the 4^th floor instead of interrogating me over a partially paid for piece of cake. Nope.

“You said you have a friend?” He was intrigued. “Well then you must call your friend and inform him that he must come to the store with either your wallet, or with the exact amount owing. At that point, I can let you go, but not before. You must understand, sir, that this is nothing against you personally – I am sure you are a very competent member of society who pays his taxes and directs his complaints about public order to the appropriate ministries, but perhaps as a visitor to our country you need to better understand that in Germany, we have rules.”

No shit

Saying that Germany has rules is like telling someone that Canada has snow while they are waiting for the bus in Winnipeg in January – that is to say that it is so painfully obvious that you begin question the sanity of the speaker. If I had been at a bus stop, I certainly would have written this man off as crazy. I certainly would have ignored him, but sadly I was not at a bus stop, nor was I in Winnipeg for that matter.

I was in Berlin, and this was not personal, only ridiculous. Ulrike handed me the slimline telephone and I called my friend.

…Nothing personal

In the know

2009-12-06T19:48:00.000+01:00

Last night I went to a concert in an abandoned ball house...very divine decadence – crumbling plaster and faded gold leaf - sputtering candles expiring with a fizz onto chipped gilt mirrors. In a word, fabulous. I went with a friend to see a very earnest Finnish pianist play Brahms. It was lovely. My friend told me that he would be accompanied by a man who owned a very exclusive boutique, so I of course dressed for the occasion, which meant my very best cravat and the Kelly green loafers I only bring out for the most special of occasions. I thought I looked pretty good, truth be told.

When I arrived, my friend greeted me warmly and introduced me to a painfully thin couple who were dressed entirely in what seemed to be black rags. I thought they looked like hobos dipped in India ink, but my friend assured me that their clothes were very expensive. The woman extended a limp wrist and smiled, except that it looked like she was wincing in pain. The man looked me up and down and gave me a withering glance, the kind a society matron gives when confronted with a wet dog. They did not comment on the shoes…..everybody comments on the shoes! I think it is because the shoes were not black. My friend told me that this man and his girlfriend had not been seen in anything other than black for almost 20 years. Perhaps they are mourning their sense of humour.

After the concert (which was appropriately dark, being late Brahms and all), we went to a little café for a bite to eat. Over lentil soup I learned all about the man in black – his business philosophy (be aggressive), his “concept” (be aggressive but try to hide it), his tips on how to succeed in life (there are winners and losers- you choose). I think I was supposed to be impressed, and I was: I was especially impressed that a man who sold clothes for a living thought so much of himself…It showed lot of chutzpah, I thought. I mean, if he were a master tailor who knew how to sew an exquisite button hole - that would be something. If he made shoes and knew how to cloak a customer’s foot in buttery calfskin, I would show my reverence. But the shmatta business? Are you serious? Am I to be pontificated to by someone in trade?

I must admit, however, that this man’s confidence piqued my interest, so I decided to check out the website for his store the moment I got home. I was immediately confronted by a solitary image of barbed wire. Did this mean he was selling striped pajamas? Was there even still a market for that in Berlin? Actually, the barbed wire was meant to suggest a barrier which signaled the exclusivity of the venture – a velvet rope for the most masochistic of fashion victims. Of course..... Question: Why is it so cool to be forbidding? Who invented that? Moving on…..

I learned that the store is so exclusive it doesn’t have a sign to let you know it is there. You are just supposed to know. Oh, and the location of the store changes every few months and this is not advertised. You are supposed to know this, too. You are also supposed to know that the store is not really a store but actually an “avant garde guerilla sartorial experiment” which is open for 4 hours a day, by appointment only. What’s next, land mines?

It goes without saying that everything on display was black. Most of the items were artfully torn, ripped or discolored. I believe the term that they used was “distressed”. There was one piece - a scarf, I believe (it was hard to tell) - from a very exclusive underground designer that consisted of frayed clumps of wool in various shades of “muted charcoal, midnight and pitch”….it looked like my grade 8 sewing project and cost 400 Euros… 400 Euros? For a scarf that doesn’t even keep you warm? What are they, mishuggah? I can only imagine bringing something like that home, only to discover that my father had mended it by morning with a piece of denim scrounged from his workbench in the garage. “Why can’t you buy yourself a decent scarf?” He would say. “Let’s go to Canadian Tire – they have scarves on sale for 4.99. Nice ones…warm! So what if they have reindeer on them? Are you going to fucking care what the fucking scarf looks like when its 50 below?”

Good point.

It gets better. I scrolled down to find a one-of-a-kind fiberglass coat by a Japanese designer for 5000 Euros. I immediately called my friend…“could it be true?”, I asked. Indeed it was – my friend told me that he had actually seen the coat in the store before it was snapped up last month, and that he noticed that the label said “not to be worn – fiberglass cuts skin”. An $8000 coat that you can’t even wear. Who would sell such a thing? Maybe it comes with a special undergarment? Maybe there is a danger element I don’t know about? Maybe we’re all going to hell in a hand basket?

Am I just supposed to know?

I told my friend that with 5000 euros you could pay the rent in Berlin for an entire year. He laughed, and we agreed to meet tomorrow for coffee – not lunch, mind you. My friend always brings a sandwich with him wherever he goes. He is trying to save money while he finds a job here in Berlin. In the meantime he studies German 5 hours a day and goes swimming in the evenings because it is less expensive. He wears bright red pants that he bought at H&M.

They look great.

Just for Me (?)

2009-11-29T09:52:00.000+01:00

I must admit I live a fabulous life. Of course, I would never in a million years admit to it being otherwise – having flitted off to Europe to pursue my dreams, no strings attached. Tonight I am going to an experimental opera in a subway station and then an all-night party at a 100 year old ball house where it girls and it boys learn how to do a proper Viennese waltz from East German ladies who have been AROUND. Why, at this very second the melted buttery afternoon sun is streaming into the window of my apartment –casting exquisite shadows from the crown moldings onto the unfinished parquet floor. It is one of those Cecil B. DeMille moments where the clouds part and you find yourself the recipient of a shaft of light that seems to indicate that you have been given some divine acknowledgement for just being yourself - when it is really only chance and the lady on the floor below – the one with the noisy cat and the Schlager music at 3 AM probably feels the exact same way because the shaft of light is shining on her too. Still, it is nice to have those moments – those unexpected breaks in the weather…a turning of the dial to a more pleasant frequency.

Yes, I do have a pretty fabulous life – but in gay terms, it is only entry level fabulousness.I came to this realization over tea with my friend Michael. I had just gotten my diplomatic passport because I was about to be sent on assignment to Rome. We were both very excited because now I had something really fantastic to tell people at parties. What did it matter that I was really only going over for 6 weeks to feed paper into a scanner? Since when does a good story have to be burdened with something as ridiculous as the truth? I was finally fabulous and this would have to be acknowledged. Of course, Michael and I both came to the conclusion that it would have been far more fabulous had I been an ambassador or something – someone with a retinue and a car and all sorts of decorations. Then, every knee would bend and all would be forced to recognize the absolute supremacy of my existence. There would be much plotting of my downfall of course, but I would persevere and overcome with that steely grace that is my trademark.

They don’t call us queens for nothing.

In the gay world, fabulousness must be maintained at all costs: even if your life is going down the toilet, you must present well. For example, a cramped bachelor apartment is a charming pied-à-terre. Old clothes are called vintage and skipping dinner because you can’t afford it is slimming down for spring. One must never, EVER admit to the banality of one’s existence, much less the oppression and ridicule one must often overcome to get on with it. To do so would admit some sort of defeat, some tacit acknowledgement that the forces that have tried to keep you contained - to keep you invisible have won, or at least gained ground. My dear, this is not DONE: Not only must you have a stiff upper lip, but the makeup must be perfectly applied.

And while all this social corseting is very impressive, resulting as it does in an entire subculture of perfectly turned out people who thrive on artifice and dreams, it can be exhausting because you can see the gears working: it takes a lot of thought to upgrade your life on a constant basis. That being said, a night out in one of the gay clubs of Berlin can be a great deal of fun, as long as you don’t scratch the surface and expect anything real. But who expects reality after dark?

The other night I went for a drink with some fellow expat friends at a pub over in East Berlin. I was telling them – as I have told you - that I had a fabulous life…but that it would probably be more fabulous if I took a private plane with Bjork or something.

Here is what followed:

Jack

Bjork? ….Oh God – I know people who PARTY with Bjork…she is crazy – really, she should be committed. I went to a club with her in Ankara once that was too INSANE to believe. Oh Ben, you’re sweet – meet Robert – he’s sweet too and from New York… we hooked up in Pyongyang when I was on assignment for Lonely Planet…this was of course before I met my husband and we moved to Istanbul (the food is to DIE FOR). Oh, how I love the Turks – such little anarchists. Not like the horrible rule-bound Germans…but really, are the French any better? The European Union needs a collective FUCK, if I do say so myself. Now Ben…is it? Ben – why are you in Berlin? You’re an opera singer? Oh faaaabulous! You must meat Adonis…yes that’s his real name – he is a singer too – from Manila. Such funny names they have down there….I think his mom’s name is Conception or something. God – that’s like naming your daughter Impregnate or something. How bizarre! Folker…oh FOLLKER…where’s Adonis? Very funny…no Folker, I don’t think you’re that cute. -What’s that? Adonis is in Milan? Now Ben, Adonis is a fabulous countertenor and he is dating a conductor from Lithuania...they just bought a house in Crete. Have you been to Crete? No? You MUST go. I would go, but my husband is in Iceland for a fashion shoot and I am just PINING for him. Oh and then of course there’s Guinevere - a singer as well, but she is doing her PhD at Columbia on feminist undertones in modern German opera. Folker….oh FOLLLLKER…does Guinivere have a Fulbright? Thought so…very smart….you would never guess she comes from Kentucky….what’s that? Where do I come from? Kansas. Can you believe it? Well, we all must come from somewhere. I know I talk with a European accent...it must be because I’ve lived EVERYWHERE…., I went to school in Munich, and then I lived in Japan for a while …and then I moved in with a bunch of Jewish lesbians in Berkley. We are no longer on speaking terms - they think I’m Anti Semitic because I don’t worship Susan Sontag. Do you want a drink? Oh, just try some of my champagne…entre nous I know it looks ridiculous, but it really does taste better when you drink it from the bottle with a straw… Folker.oh FOLLLKER – get Ben a straw. Isn’t this fun?

Dante

Oh GUINIVERE– you really are the queen lesbian bee of the party. And you know there can only be one – queen, that is. I am intensely jealous! But you are such an ENLIGHTENED despot…rather like Joseph II of Austria – benevolent yet firm and in control. And isn’t that just what one needs in a man? What’s that? Of course I know you couldn’t care less, but you’re hanging out with a bunch of queers so could you just PRETEND to look interested? Folker…oh FOLLLLKER! Where’s Adonis? Milan? I thought they already went to Crete. One can never keep track, coming and going....like my last trick! Well, I should be going myself – I have to travel to San Fran at the ass-crack of dawn and I haven’t even BEGUN to think of what to pack. No – I won’t be back next week… I’ve decided to take a few days off after the conference….Sergio and I are renting a car and driving to Napa. But I’ll be back in December after I meet with my thesis advisor at Stanford. Come to think of it, next week might be a bit slow…I’ll be away of course…. Bryce is going to Moscow for work…and Sebastian will be in New York at his art opening…well Ben, it has been a pleasure…but do tell me, why are you drinking champagne with a straw?

Seamus

What am I doing in Berlin? What aren’t I doing in Berlin – that’s the question you should be asking! No – the question that you SHOULD be asking is WHO aren’t I doing in Berlin. My God! This place makes Sodom look like North Dakota. Do I own a boutique? How flattering – you are so charming…Ben, is it? No, nothing as glamorous as that – although one does have dreams. I am a translator and interpreter….from Polish to German and Russian to German…and German to Czech, and Czech to English. I work on contract with Krupp, Siemens….all of those lovely companies who built tanks during the war…and you? You’re a singer! Have you met Guinevere? You have? She’s on a Fulbright…very smart – although I can’t for the life of me understand what she’s writing about. How about Adonis? He’s in MILAN you say? He does get AROUND, that boy. Well you know what they say - to succeed in the opera business you have to get under good conductor. Ben, darling - lovely to meet you – we MUST do this again some time….and champagne with a straw…very daring – you’re BAD aren’t you… don’t try to admit you’re not! Tschussi!

I have no idea if anything my friends told me was real – or rather, at which point the reality stopped and the embellishment began. It did not matter because I was entertained and caught up in the froth of it all. But I had, at that very moment, the overwhelming desire to race home and sit in silence. In the middle of the most exciting city in the world, I longed for solitude and for something that I could say unequivocally was real. Silence is real – it does not pretend to be anything more than it is. It is the absence of embellishment – it is the place from which you can build a firm foundation. It is in and of itself complete. It is the ending of things, and it is the beginning of things.

In this most exciting city in the world, I longed for a new beginning of things - one which was based in something as pure and complete as silence; based on the knowledge that I am in and of myself complete, a firm foundation – no need for embellishment.

Remember how I said that it was sunny? It isn’t. It is actually quite grey….and I am actually not going out tonight. Tonight I will sit in quietness and read a book, or really enjoy eating that pear I bought the other day… it must be ripe by now – although one can’t rush these things. I did, however, go to an opera in a subway station the other day, which was quite interesting...and from time to time, when the sun shines, I think it is just for me. But of course it does not shine just for me, and I think that is the lesson in all of this.

No need for embellishment.

Quite Enough

2009-11-24T19:26:00.000+01:00

It is Sunday morning in Berlin. The church bells are ringing, but I can assure you that the pews will be empty. Berliners do not go to church, and if they do, they certainly never admit to it. If a Berliner admitted to going to church on Sunday morning, then there would be the assumption that they did not go out on Saturday night, and that is an unpardonable sin - perhaps the only one - in this Sodom on the Spree. I am assuming that most people are asleep, although they could be at one of the all-night bars in Schőnberg where they paint the windows black to keep out the sunlight– those places that have not been renovated in 30 years…where they still play disco on cassette tapes and where strangers still ask you to dance.

It is almost 10. There are still a few brave revelers on their way home, swerving in and out of the sidewalk, glinting at the unwelcome brightness. One young man in impossibly tight leather pants raises a beer bottle to his lips but misses and in the process sprays himself with foam… a baptism of sorts – a sacrament of the cult of Dionysus – just one of the things you see every day in this city where carousing is an act of defiance, where scars run deep.

For in Berlin there is no half-hearted revelry, no tripping the light fantastic – here there is grit and seediness in pockmarked buildings – a desperate hedonism that is revolting, but which you cannot resist. In Berlin people still drink to forget - to overcome – and it feels as though the thousands of neighborhood pubs that define this city are a living theatre where world-weary citizens act out their collective history with a vital force that never sees the light of day.

Heavy, I know – and perhaps a bit outdated, for Berlin is changing fast. It is becoming more international - worldly, more style and less substance. It is more difficult to find that Berliner Schnauze – the pugnacious come-as-you-are crustiness of the people who have seen it all – people whose surly exterior reveal a genuine warmth once you get to know them.

Indeed, going for coffee in the recently rebuilt Potsdamer Platz feels like going out for coffee in any number of cities – sitting in a Starbucks, across from the Marriott, beside the McDonalds. You order your latte and your muffin and sit down – listening to the CD of the week that is the same one you heard everywhere else. It is hard to know where you are - until you look outside and see the double row of stones on the pavement, marking the place where the wall once stood. I asked my friend why they didn’t try to rebuild Potsdamer Platz in a more authentic way that was rooted in the history and culture of the place. He looked at me and calmly told me that the stones were quite enough.

Yes, the stones are quite enough. Stones where the wall once was, stones where the Jews once were, stones where the boots once marched…stones where the books once burned. Berlin changes, reinvents itself, stays the same, tries to remember and at the same time move on, can’t decide which one is more important...can't decide if one can exist without the other.

But I can tell you that even if Berlin were razed to the ground - if it ceased even to be a place on the map, that Berlin would still be marked forever. And this is right and good, lest we too become only stones - the ones that people step over on their way home from a night of drinking, the drinking they do to forget the fact that they knew – knew all along what had happened in this place.

And that they chose to do nothing.

Sehnsucht

2009-11-03T09:03:00.000+01:00

Last night I went to a pub in Prenzlauer Berg. Prenzlauer Berg is the epicentre of all things cool in this city, and it is quite difficult to get to. I think this is on purpose: if it were really accessible by public transit you wouldn’t get to embrace the zietgeist and ride your antique looking but actually brand new and quite expensive bicycle – its front basket laden with organic produce and a memory stick containing your latest digital art. In addition, if there were more buses in the area, then everybody would live there, and then how would the people of Prenzlauer Berg feel superior to the people who lived everywhere else?

Everybody in Prenzlauer Berg has a bike…and a child….and this being Germany, various state of the art contraptions to adapt one to the other. In fact, there are so many children around that the area is now called “Babyberg”, and one can while away the hours on the Kollwitz Platz watching the urban-hipster-moms agonize over which brand of fair-trade quinoa to buy for little Jochen or Eva before riding home (how do they do it in their peasant skirts and combat boots?) to work on their dissertation/performance art/sustainable macramé.

Of course, those in the know will tell you that Prenzlauer Berg has become far too gentrified to be considered a hip and happening place. Apparently, the action has moved further afield to the great socialist housing blocks of Friedrichshain –although I hear that these too have been overrun by drunk British tourists, and other species of untermensch . It is hard to know where to go, really – but someone did tell me the other day that there is this club in a bombed out basement in Lichtenberg that is hot and as of yet, undiscovered. You bring the vodka - I’ll bring the keen sense of awareness. (By the time you read this, the place will probably have lost its edge and then we will have to drive all the way to Poland for a good time, perish the thought.)

Prenzlauer Berg is in East Berlin.

East Berlin was once ghastly and is now less so, although traces remain. Interestingly, many people feel a sort of fuzzy longing for the iron-clad security of daily life in the socialist past. There are even East German -themed parties: you get driven there in a Trabant, dress up as a Young Pioneer and dance like its 1988. Few of these parties feature food shortages and police informants however, nor are you walled in. East Germany – it was the party you just couldn’t leave.

It is curious to note that a good portion of the people who suffer from Osalgie never actually lived in East Germany. Many would consider it peculiar to be nostalgic for something you never knew, but not the Germans – they have invented a word for it: Sehnsucht.

Was ist Sehnsucht? My dear, there isn’t enough ink in the world. Sehnsucht is an emotion – how does one say auf Englisch - a feeling, or the perception of a longing for that which is unknown, but on a deeper level is perhaps understood. It is the acceptance that the delicious pein of this unfulfilled longing is sweeter than the fulfillment of any mortal desire. In the context of the fall of the Berlin wall, I think it would be like saying that you wished you knew, or could actually have seen for yourself if the grass were really greener on the other side. Of course, now that there is no other side, you will never know, and the realization that this particular longing will never be fulfilled only serves to make it more intense. But with the pain comes a frisson of excitement – the awareness that you are perceptive enough to have this longing; that you posses the character to be able to experience and identify these feelings at all, and in so doing, confirm the depth of your soul. I mean, you always knew that you were deeper than your friends – more aware, more attuned to the human condition, but now this longing has confirmed it – and you feel special…but oh, the pain.

That, in a nutshell is Sehnsucht – although the Germans will delight in telling you that it just one of those concepts that is impossible to translate, but if you become a willing student of German culture and society, maybe – just maybe – you will be able to understand and then someday soon you too can experience Sehnsucht and it will cause you to rent a Trabant for a day, or live in a commune.

I know one man who actually does lives in a commune. He is from West Berlin, of course, and comes from a distinguished family. We went out for dinner the other day, and he was beside himself with glee. Communal living! Now he could finally cast of the shackles of his capitalist past and contribute to “actually existing socialism”. (Cheers to that). He told me that he loved living communally because everything was shared – costs, chores, frustrations and joys (blame?). In fact, he pulled out his iphone ™ from his Burberry™ trench coat to show me a picture. Now, I don’t really know much about living in a commune, but if it means you can buy designer clothes, then I am all for it.

In the interim, I will have to endure the unfulfilled longing I have for a bespoke suit.

It could be a lot worse. I could be walled in.

Anything at all

2009-10-31T08:06:00.000+01:00

A lot of people in Berlin lament the fact that their city has now been “discovered” by the international artistic community - that you are more likely to meet an Israeli or an American on a night out than an actual Berliner. Mention the construction of the new airport that will accommodate Trans-Atlantic flights, and they visibly cringe. I don’t blame them. If people discover Berlin, then Berlin will become more expensive, and if Berlin becomes more expensive, the singers, performance artists and writers who have come here in droves will have to get day jobs…and then Berlin will be just like where they came from.

Since nobody in Berlin really works, there is a lot of nightlife which means you are never far from a party, or at least a warm place to drink. The fact that there are thousands of artists trying to escape from themselves means that these places are always full. It is, however, important to know at least one person with a real job - if only to buy you a beer from time to time.

I consider myself extremely fortunate because not only do I know someone who is gainfully employed, he is a friend of mine from High School. Ming Vu (not his real name) and I were the only out gay kids in school, and while you may think this would have been a big deal in the mid 90’s, it wasn’t for us. You see, my parents - in an act of atonement for their bourgeois existence - decided to send me to the worst school in Winnipeg. Actually, it was a wonderful place and I received an excellent education, but when half of the student population is strung out on glue from the art room and the other half has just gotten out of juvenile detention, the sexual preferences of a couple of nerdy kids with glasses is not front page news. At the very least, nobody is going to care whose picture you put on your locker. In my case it was an artful collage of Matthew McConaughey. I have better taste now.

I am still amazed at our brazenness back then. When we were 16, Ming and I used to go to the gay bar, which was precisely 1 block from school – a fact that amused us to no end. (To this day I don’t know where I learned more.) Where the straight boys stole porn from the smoke shop on Donald Street, Ming and I bought ours outright – even though we were clearly under age. I guess we figured the cashier would be too shocked and uncomfortable to tell us we weren’t allowed to buy Mandate. We were right.

Of course, I never thought I was going to see Ming again.

After High School we went our separate ways. Ming became a pharmacist and I became a handful, but after seeing him I am happy to report that we have both become more like ourselves, which is an achievement and a victory of sorts. Last night, we met for a beer with some of his friends in Prenzlauer Berg and I asked him how he had the energy to go out clubbing every night and still get up for work in the morning. He told me that his job was pretty boring – mostly reading spreadsheets and compiling reports. He said that he had quite a pleasant life and enjoyed his work, but that it didn’t define him.

“Be thankful you’re not creative” - I said - “it’s hell!”

My witticism elicited some knowing looks from the assembled crowd, for it was “word fag night” – a weekly gathering of literary folk who translate and teach and interpret. John, a doctoral student in Victorian history, clutched his artfully tied kaffiyeh to his breast and pretended to faint. I thought it was an appropriate gesture, given his field of study.

Ming just smiled and told me that if I ever needed anything - anything at all that I could just call him up.

I think I might just do that.

Thesis Statement

2009-10-27T18:30:00.000+01:00

For Deb….Long may she reign!

Last night I had dinner with a couple of German academics. No, I was not forced. I was, however, relieved: it was one of the few evenings I have spent with intellectuals where they did not try to eat me. One of the academics studies the cultural implications of public service announcements in the Weimar Republic, and the other the cultural implications of keyboard music in Restoration England. Together, they explore the cultural implications of their relationship, which last night meant groping each other under the table.

I love how academics find an obscure atoll of expertise and seize it. Like modern-day conquistadores, they plant their flag on the shores of knowledge and shout to all and sundry in the full refulgence of their superior intellect: “Now know this: I hereby claim post-colonial feminist readings of Milton in perpetuity.” I would tell them that nobody’s listening, but that would be rude.

Like most people, have listened to academics on occasion – sometimes out of politeness, sometimes because I paid for the privilege, but mostly it was in the absence of an accessible fire escape. I have heard highly developed minds expound on a wide variety of subjects, none of which I remember presently. What I do know is that I have never heard an academic discus his or her thesis. By this I mean that I have never heard an academic actually tell me what their thesis was about. I find this peculiar, as one’s thesis usually has to with 1) oneself or 2), one’s field, and I have rarely met an academic who shies away from discussing either. Don’t get me wrong - they talk about their theses all the time, but the discourse is usually couched in phrases like “when I wrote my thesis I took lithium” or “my thesis destroyed my marriage” or the perennial favorite - “My thesis adviser is a cross between Machiavelli and Hitler”.

All of this makes me wonder if academic studies are not really the pursuit of higher learning for the general advancement of society, but rather some form of self-inflicted torture. Of course, there are many academics who do not consider the completion of a doctorate to resemble the trials of the damned, but they are usually straight men or scientists - and who cares about them? In truth, I think many academics don’t talk about their theses (rhymes with…) because they are traumatized by the experience of writing them. In fact, when I was young, I actually thought that The Thesis was some form of disease - like The Flu or, The Plague. You see, my mother decided to move to a remote Aboriginal community in northern Manitoba, have two children and then compose a 1000 page treatise exploring the relationship between cubist art and modernist literature.

We are still asking each other why.

In my experience, The Thesis has recognizable symptoms: long periods spent at a desk followed by a curious kind of mania which results in an exquisitely clean house and experiments in Indonesian cooking…tears… The Thesis skews logic: Many evenings - before going out - my mother would calmly inform the babysitter that if there were a fire….that if there were a fire, the first priority would be to save the green bag that contained her research. The second priority would be to see to the children. I wondered what could possibly cause my own mother to value the welfare of a sack of papers above my own. Then I remembered: The Thesis. In the still small voice of a child, I prayed to a benevolent God: “Please, deliver us from The Thesis…let us know peace once more.”

My prayers were soon answered. One day, after working for a year without a single day off, my mother emerged from her makeshift basement office ringed by a halo of cigarette smoke. I would say she looked like a prophet, but I have the feeling that my mother would be offended by a description based in androcentric patriarchal hegemony. On the other hand, she might see the use of the word prophet as a reclamation of sorts. It is hard to tell . It would also be apt to say that she resembled Joan Baez on Quaaludes.

In any event, I knew something special was happening because I was allowed to have any toy I wanted at Woolco. Even better, I got to ride in the shopping cart as mom danced with it in the aisles- humming along with the muzak and emitting a strange form of guttural laughter.

It was at that moment I knew we were free.

Our freedom was short lived, however. A few months later, mom decided to enter Academia. For those of you who don’t know, Academia is a network of institutions designed for people whose theses have gone into remission, only to come back a few months later in a more virulent strain….but that’s another story.

Postscript:

I still remember the day The Thesis arrived at the cottage. It was a pleasant summer afternoon, and we were sitting on the patio – drinking. The Thesis was stunning - bound in a deep hunter green with gold writing. Being a scholarly work, it was suitably heavy – but it also had an elegant slimness which I still find appealing. In fact, I think The Thesis would look lovely in a wood-paneled library with a fireplace and overstuffed club chairs. Mom’s friend Nancy picked up a copy and slurred

“Debbie, what the hell is this about?”

My mom started laughing and replied

“Nancy, I have no fucking idea”.

WIEEEEE HEISSSSEEENNNN SIE?

2009-10-20T17:43:00.000+02:00

It is funny how each time you go back to school, the shine on the apple wears off a little earlier than the last time. I realized this at my very first German class a couple of weeks ago....There I was with my newly purchased notebook and color-coded flashcards (green for grammar!). I felt sort of chic because I had chosen a language school that was chiefly populated by refugees. I was eager to decline verbs with my fellow citizens of the world...we could help each other with our homework....they would invite me to their homes where I would listen to their stories and apologize for my bourgeois colonializing existence.

It was 8:59 and my teacher - appropriately named Herr Fundament - entered the room.
I had a feeling that something was wrong when he introduced himself....

"ICH.....HEEEEIIIISSSEEE (he is pointing to himself and writing on the blackboard in giant block letters)....HERRRRR TORRRRRSTEN FUUUUUNDAMENT..... Okay - he must think that we're really dumb, because this is supposed to be the intermediate class.... I even took a battery of tests to make sure I was in the right place. I got 52 percent, which meant that I was at the very bottom of the cut off score for intermediate, and the woman made me take the test AGAIN so she could be sure to put me in the right place. She just wasn't sure, you see, and it would have been impossible for her to make a decision that was not based on empirical data.....

So if I am in the intermediate class, why do I feel like I am in kindergarten?

"WIEEEEEE.....HEEEISSSSEEN...SIEEEEEE? " Her Fundament gestures to a woman in a burqa:

"Ich ....ch....ch...eise......Maryam"
"GUUUUUUTTTTT.....WOOOOOHHHEERRRRR....KOMMMEN SIE?
"Ich komme ....aus Palestine"
"AAAAHHHH....PALESTINA....GUUUUUUUT" - intones Herr Fundament.

I am in a German class with Palestinians.

Her Fundament points to a nervous looking man eating chocolate....
"WIEEEEEEEEEEEE....HEEEEISSSSEN....SIEEEEEEEEEEEE"
"Ich heisse Pavel....komme aus Polen"
"GUUUUUUUUUUT"

I am in a German class with Palestinians and Poles.

Herr Fundament points to me..... "WIE.....HEEEEIIIIISSSEEN....SIE?"
"Ich heisse Ben"
"AAAHHHH...GUUUUUT.....NACHNAME?"
"Schnitzer"
"AAAAH....SCHNITZER....DAS IST EIN RICHTIGES DEUTCHES NAME!!! GUUUT!"

I am in a German class with Palestinians and Poles. The teacher thinks I am German. Is this a joke?

In a way, it was. It turns out that the administration had placed me in the beginner class by mistake. When I asked them (in German) why they had done this, they indicated that the adjudicator of the placement exam had clearly marked on the registration form that I was to be placed in course A1. When I explained to them that I had used complete sentences and several verb tenses to register for a course that was designed for people who had no prior knowledge of the German language -- that this might have been a clue that the adjudicator had made a mistake, they told me that it was not their place to ask questions: If the adjudicator thought it was appropriate for me to be placed in the beginner's course she must have had her reasons. Punkt.

One wonders aloud how history might have been different if the Germans had asked questions....like "where are the Silvermans going?".

But let's not dwell on the past. The administration duly registered me in the intermediate class, and I began my studies in earnest the next day. They did not apologize for their error, but I didn't mind. I was just happy they didn't make me take another test.

A few days later I was in the lobby of the conservatory waiting for my lesson. I bumped into Patrick - a fellow tenor. We study with the same teacher. He is very nice and personable, but understated-- qualities you find in a lot of German people. I find this rather unnerving. I am suspicious of how well adjusted they are...why aren't they self-deprecating, sarcastic and cagey like I am?

"What is your last name?" asks Patrick....
"Schnitzer"
"Ah, so you are German"
"No"
"But someone in your family is German"
"No"
"But somebody in your family must have taught you German, because you speak German pretty well....and then there's your name."
"My family is from Poland"
"So you are Polish?"
"Yes...and no..."

And then Patrick gets it

"Ah...are you, perhaps, from a Hebrew family?"
"Yes"
"Ah...I see, but your family - they obviously survived..."

etc.

And therein lies the answer. If you had to go through this every time you introduced yourself you would be a little cagey yourself. Sometimes I just want to have a card - like the blind people who sell pens at the mall... I could hand it out to people:

"Hello, my name is Ben Schnitzer. I am not German, even though my name is German. Funny, right? You are probably wondering if I am....you know....Jewish. I am. My family comes from Poland, and I am Polish too, but not a Pole. And no, my family did not survive the war. Well, obviously some of them did because otherwise I would not be here. How are you?"

...or I could just wear a burqa...

Present Perfect

2009-10-13T22:31:00.000+02:00

I have decided to learn German. Finding myself presently situated in Berlin, it would seem like a prudent idea to do so. Actually, my friends consider me to be pretty good with languages - truth be told. Why only this summer I ordered dinner for a party of eight in Italian at a restaurant in Rome and everybody got exactly what they ordered. Don’t laugh – this is a major accomplishment in Italy. My proficiency was duly remarked upon, and I responded that I was not really fluent in Italian, but rather spoke “restaurant” – a sprinkling of different languages that lends you an air of sophistication when dining out and prevents you from being served something odious - unless you ordered it. In my case, I think my particular skill was due to my obsession with food rather than any aptitude for Italian.

However, I must remark that ordering a meal in a language which you didn’t grow up speaking presents several challenges, for you must make yourself understood without employing those embarrassing gesticulations which encourage the locals to think that you are in some way mentally incapacitated, or worse, a tourist. (I am speaking here of obstacles encountered by non-native speakers of any particular language: If you cannot order a meal nicely in your mother tongue, stay home.)

For example, say you find yourself in a civilized restaurant and you see something that you absolutely must try. To point at the menu and blurt out “I want that” would be rude. Rather, you should consider such an occasion the perfect opportunity to employ your nuanced understanding of the conditional tense, like so:

I would very much like to order the fricassee of infant.

Doesn’t that sound better? Now, if you were unclear or imprecise in your speech, you may not receive what you ordered. When confronted with this unfortunate situation, it is useful to know the past perfect – as well as the imperative:

Excuse me, but I believe there has been a mistake. I ordered the fricassee of infant, but this is clearly an adolescent stew. Please bring me what I ordered.

If you still have not received what you have ordered, or they tell you they are out of that particular dish – in this case fricassee of infant - it would be wise to familiarize yourself with both the past conditional and the future perfect:

I would have liked to have ordered the fricassee of infant, but it appears you are all out of it. In that case, I will have the barbequed toddler surprise…with a nice glass of Chianti.

If you apply these few simple suggestions to the language of your choice, you will soon find yourself possessing all the skills you need to eat well in any country. As your comfort grows, so will your confidence, and you will soon find yourself engaging in scintillating conversation with vital people the world over. At the very least, your waiter will be grateful for your efforts.

At this point it must be said that one of the frustrating things about studying languages is learning grammar. This is especially true these days as we live in an age where grammar of any sort is no longer taught in school. The time which was once spent on teaching children to spell properly and compose sentences is now used to teach them “creative writing”. I believe the results speak for themselves. In any event, many of the terms I have used may be unfamiliar to you. For this reason I am including a lexicon of grammatical terms of my own design for your reference.

Present tense: Current state of anxiety

Past tense: Before yoga and therapy.

Conditional tense: Tension which is dependant on proximity to one’s mother

Future tense: This is conditional

Future perfect: Hindered by an excess of the present tense.

Past perfect: This does not exist. It never did. Get over it.

Simple past: Wasn’t it though?

Simple perfect: Yes it is.

Now what does any of this have to do with learning German? I don’t know. I just started talking about languages, and now I find myself completely off topic – a complaint which has been made about my “creative writing” since I was in Grade 2. I remember my report card quite clearly: “Ben has a very active imagination, but his work is rather nebulous. For example, he wrote a composition about space which lacked clarity and detail”. I was – even then – quite offended. Of course I wrote a non-specific composition about space because space by its very nature lacks clarity and detail. That is why it is called space.

Another time I thought it might be fun to write a series of public service announcements from farm animals asking readers not to kill them. The other kids thought I was weird. I was. One day I taped the name tag from the Wandering Jew plant to my shirt and spent the morning walking around the school asking the teachers where I should go. I was seven. When the other children called me a nerd, I just told them they were being anally retentive. I didn’t know what it meant, but that’s what my mom said about people she didn’t like. I got to go to the guidance counselor for that one.

My finest moment was in Grade 5 when I dressed up in drag for Halloween. I wore white high heeled shoes and a lovely hat, but my feet were killing me. Seeing that I was in pain, one of my friends asked me if I was okay. My reply: “You have to suffer to be beautiful”.

This adage, by the way, does not only apply to shoes, although pretty shoes do hurt more. It has to do with having the courage of your convictions come what may. And so I guess this is all about learning German after all, or learning anything for that matter.…the present perfect comes to mind.

“You Gotta Fight… for your Right… to Party”

2009-10-08T08:26:00.001+02:00

One of the exciting new developments at the Komische Oper in Berlin is that you can now view the surtitles on the back of the seat in front of you. This means that you do not have to strain yourself to view the running commentary projected onto the top of the proscenium arch. This is the case at most other opera houses, and accounts for the preponderance of stiff-necked people at the opera.

The Komische Opera – one of Berlin’s 3 fully functioning opera houses – performs everything in German, the idea being that the work - to be rendered accessible - should be sung in the language of Das Volk.

Presumably this artistic decision would make surtitles redundant. However, opera – regardless of the language in which it is sung – is incomprehensible at the best of the times. This is a good thing: most opera libretti are embarrassingly bad.

This was not the case with last night’s offering – a newly composed operatic version of Hamlet by Christian Jost. Shakespeare offers the opera composer an immunity of sorts – even if the music and production values are horrible at least you cannot fault the text. Perhaps this explains the fact that there are literally hundreds of operas based on the Bard’s works, but only a handful performed on a regular basis. Of these precious few, only two are acknowledged as equal to the original plays – Verdi’s settings of Otello and Falstaff.

So where does this leave Hamlet by Christian Jost? - Somewhere in the vast middle, not that it matters. I will probably never see this piece again, which is in no way a reflection of its artistic value. Last night the number of people performing the work outnumbered the audience by a significant margin. Not so long ago, the premiere of a new opera was often greeted by mass euphoria, or at the very least general interest. Nowadays the best that can be hoped for are polite applause followed by some earnest discussions in the remotest circles of intellectual bohemia – where I now find myself.

In Berlin I often feel as though I am one of those people who got to the party just a little bit too late…sure, there are people milling about and the vibe is still pretty good, but you get the definite sensation that things are on the downswing – that in an hour’s time the DJ will have packed up and you will find yourself waiting for a cab in the cold.

For now at least, on this island, the party is still going strong. The DJ is spinning and there are lots of interesting people to meet. You can call up your friend and go to a different opera every night of the week. You can wear a tux or a pair of jeans – or a combination of the two. You can dye your hair green and wear leather chaps and nobody will care. This cultural bounty and this tolerance – Berlin’s greatest gifts to the world - have been hard won and have only come about after years of brutality and repression.

It is up to us to ensure that art and tolerance continue. It is up to us to ensure that there will always be a party to go to, and more importantly, that we will all be able to attend.

Einigkeit, und Recht und Freiheit....

2009-09-26T08:41:00.000+02:00

It is 7:00 on Saturday morning, and Berlin is providing me with proof that it is the city that never sleeps - there is a group of very drunk, very loud young men singing the German National Anthem at the top of their lungs outside my window. Now I don't hate German per se, but any time people raise their voices while speaking it I get a little uncomfortable. Also, the melody of the National Hymn has not changed since the Second World War, so that is a bit disconcerting. Oh, it is all okay you see because they use different words now (a different stanza from the same epic poem). Somehow this does not make me feel more at ease.

I found all of this out a few years ago when I was asked to sing O Canada for the festivities celebrating the reunification of Germany at the German Consulate in Vancouver. They had engaged a German opera singer who was singing with the Vancouver Opera, but he had rehearsal, so they asked me. I was reticent, but it was a job so I accepted. They then inquired if I would be so kind to sing the German National Anthem as well , and I was a little more reticent, but I had already accepted and the reception was the next day. I agreed. And then I went to the library to try to find the music and discovered that they did indeed still use the same melody as the Nazis did.

Had I known this, I probably would have declined their invitation, but it was too late and so on the appointed day I sang - pretty sure that I was going to be struck down at any minute. I wasn't, and when I was finished singing, I noticed an Israeli professor from UBC staring at me quite intently. She asked me how I could live with myself singing that particular piece. I told her that I was a music student and needed the money, and that they had kindly asked me to sing. I asked her what she was doing at a party at the German Consulate. She choked on her bratwurst and I got a beer.

I have extensive training in singing words and music that I don't identify with, or which are patently against my personal beliefs and frankly offensive to me. Most classical vocal music is ostensibly about either about Jesus or being in love with a women, and I don't really "get" either. If you are a musician, you must always try to find the deeper universal meaning of the piece you are performing, in order to communicate it to as wide an audience as possible. If you are a human being living on planet earth, you will probably have to make some sort of moral compromise in the course of your days, or find a way to rationalize your actions in a way that allows you to live with yourself. In my case, I turned these words and this melody into a prayer of sorts.... I prayed that the German nation strive for unity and righteousness and freedom - as the words of the anthem state.

I can live with that. I would not have survived the alternative.

One of the happy results of my gig at the German Consulate was meeting my friend Arvedt, who organized the whole thing. We became fast friends, and last summer I visited him in Bonn.
Arvedt is always trying to show me a rosy picture of Germany - the food, the Rhine, the trains that run on time (don't get me started). I find that very touching because he loves his country and his heritage, as he should. And I get carried away in it too, because I want to. Because I want to see the best in Germany. I want to forget.

But there is always something that brings me back to a reality I would rather not see, something that reminds me that Germany is a friend with whom I must always keep some measure of distance.

One morning, in Bonn, Arvedt and I were eating breakfast in a small café in the main town square. It was a pretty spectacular morning, and the buildings were as quaint as could be. We had just come from a bike ride down the Rhine and I was getting mentally prepared to go back to Berlin for rehearsals. On that particular day, there was a soccer match between Bonn and Cologne, which meant much excitement, and the usual crowds of drunken youth which accompany such events. I did not pay them much heed, and continued to eat. They were more an annoyance than anything else, until one of them started shouting

"Wo sind die Juden?"

And all at once, my carefully constructed picture of Germany - of kaffee und kuchen and dirndls and Bach crumbled to pieces. For this was the rallying cry of the Crusaders who massacred Jews in the Rhine valley 1000 years ago....in the exact spot where I now sat. This was proof positive that lurking beneath the surface of this carefully constructed country of basic laws and grand coalitions there still lurked something sinister. I looked at Arvedt, and he tried to explain to me that they didn't really mean Jews in the precise meaning of the word, but actually supporters of the Cologne soccer team. I don't know if he told me this to make me feel better, or to rationalize what was happening in his mind, but whatever the reason, it did not work. I started shaking and we eventually had to leave.

At that moment, I felt very sorry for Arvedt. When I think about that morning I do not think about the fear that gripped me or the disgust or the incredulity - I think about the look on Arvedt's face. For here was a good friend and a person who had spent their whole life working to be a decent and honest person - someone who would, damn it, dispel those awful stereotypes about Germans. Here was a kind man, a person who had tried in every action to be decent and fair - to be an example, to make up for the past. And it seemed as though all of that work - that picture of what it meant to be German for him - was being shattered too.

He never let me see that for long, and he never admitted to it. He told me not to worry about it. He told me to forget what happened. Let's go to the church and place flowers on Schumann's grave, he said - let's go to the Haribo factory and buy all the candy we can carry! I went along with it, not knowing what else to do, not knowing what else to say. I went along with it as much for him as for me. I went along with it because I wanted to forget what happened.

Of course I cannot forget, nor should I. If remembering - or being aware - means that my outlook is a little less rosy, so be it. If it means that I question what Germany is and what it represents for me - good and bad, that is okay too.

I can live with that. I cannot survive the alternative.

On the Move

2009-09-23T11:17:00.000+02:00

Rosa Luxemburg, the Communist activist and writer once mused that those who don’t move don’t notice their chains. Now, you may think that I am extremely well read and that I gleaned this kernel of wisdom by reading turgid manifestoes by candle light, but I assure you this is not the case. I was at a bookstore, you see…I was lost and was desperately looking for a map because a friend had invited me for dinner and I was late…..this quote was on the page before the u-bahn map in some Berlin guide book. And it has stuck with me.

…but first more about quotes…. Using quotes makes you look far more intelligent than you really are, and I advocate the practice highly, for no sane person should ever provide another with an excuse to call them stupid.

The more obscure the quotation, the better. If the quote comes from a writer we all have heard of, but whom nobody reads, that is excellent. If the quote is in French, or comes from a French writer who we have all heard of but whom nobody reads, this is immeasurably superior: French may not be the international language of diplomacy any longer (shhh…don’t tell the French) but it has lost none of its snob appeal. Now if the quote is from the language of a marginalized people, or an oppressed minority, you have won the jackpot. If you say that you heard the quote from wizened woman (she was so amazing….she welcomed us into her home) stirring her pot of groats in the Andes…or Tibet…while you were searching for yourself and contributing to societies-in-peril, then your life’s work is done. Good for you….buy yourself an organic sustainable soy latté. You deserve it. If, however, you choose not to translate the quote from the original, you may arouse the admiration of others, but possibly the scorn and derision of many more. I leave this vital choice in your hands.

Man is born free, yet everywhere he is in chains – or so the saying goes. I couldn’t tell you where this particular quote comes from (Descartes? Voltaire? A French writer we have all heard of but do not read?). You see, the café where I currently find myself does not have internet access so I can’t look it up, and of course without the internet we know nothing.

If man is in chains, but doesn’t notice them if he does not move, what does that mean?

Damned if I know.

Well, I am done my very expensive coffee and my very trendy café and I am loathe to buy another, for I fear that if I do I will zip right on out of here…and I don’t want to upset the chains too much – they have already been through quite enough this last month!

Why I left Vancouver....

2009-09-21T22:50:00.001+02:00

This is what they came up with for the "Cultural Olympiad" to coincide with the Olympics
(courtesy of the Globe and Mail) :

"A forest walk featuring sculpture and trombone music, a huge screen projecting cutting-edge videos and films by some of the world’s best visual artists, and DJs spinning electronic music into the early morning hours will aim to turn the city of Vancouver into a giant cultural installation during the 2010 Cultural Olympiad.

The Vancouver Organizing Committee for the 2010 Olympic and Paralympic Winter Games (VANOC) announced a number of new acts and programs on Monday for the upcoming Cultural Olympiad, which will run during the 2010 Olympic and Paralympic Games.

One of the highlights is certain to be a tribute to Canadian icon Neil Young, brought together by American music producer Hal Willner. Broken Social Scene, Ron Sexsmith, Joan as Policewoman and Iron and Wine will take part.

Other musical acts announced on Monday include Steve Earle (with Joel Plaskett opening); the Hilario Duran Latin Jazz Band performing with Jane Bunnett; and a double bill of Somali-born Toronto rapper K’Naan and Tinariwen, a collective of poet-guitarists from the south Saharan.

The Spirit of Uganda, a company of 22 young artists orphaned by AIDS or civil war, will perform in Canada for the first time. And Spain’s Maria Pagés will unveil Flamenco Republic at the Orpheum theatre.

A large screen will be set up outside the Vancouver Art Gallery’s Robson side to project video and film work by various artists.

In Metcalfe/Lewis: Ikons, Vancouver sculptor Eric Metcalfe will provide the visuals and New York-based trombonist George Lewis the audio for what’s promised to be a forest walk like no other. The forest and music are meant to respond to the actions of the people taking part.

Toronto-based sculptor Ed Pien will use fanciful creatures pulled from Chinese and Inuit mythology to create a maze-like installation.

Other cultural organizations participating include the National Arts Centre with a show called Made in Canada; Taiwan’s Chai Found Music Workshop; and Daniel Janke’s Whitehorse-based ensemble will play a live score for a series of short films, including vignettes from the animated classic Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland for Alice and Other Heroes.

The Cultural Olympiad will run from January 22 to March 21. The program will include more than 600 performances and exhibitions in Metro Vancouver and the Sea to Sky corridor.

For a full list of projects announced to date and to purchase tickets, visit www.vancouver2010.com/culturalolympiad ."

Um yeah....

Okay...let's play their game:

Soula P. (soprano) and Ben S.(tenor) , along with Pantelis the Pug and a host of invented animal puppets create an improvised children's opera that draws freely on Plato's Republic, the Talmud, Joni Mitchell and First Nations Imagery to create an intriguing soundscape that is at once new and rooted in ancient traditions. Drawing on the extensive history of madness in both of their families, Soula and Ben channel primordial emotions and project these "sound memories" using their own "classically" trained voices, but also augmented by the "other" voices of "found" characters.

Pantelis - a pug - is the mirror. He responds to the work and in the process adds a spontaneous dimension to the work, giving it freshness and at the same time depth.

Reviews:

"A highly compelling, if unusual piece. Perhaps there would have been more order if some German artists were involved" - Cottbus Review of Art & Performance (CRAP)
"I have not seen something so shattering in Dresden since the Allies blew up my house" - Dresden Review: Arts Tagespiegel (DRAT)
"The contrast of Parassidis' luscious soprano with the pug's haunting cries was, in a word, spellbinding. The U-Bahn setting added a nice echo..." - Schwerin/Halle Inter-Arts Today (SHIAT)
"Really, the apogee of improvised post-modern children's opera. A triumph of the genre."
- Weimar Art News Kultur (WANK)

This is what happens when you look yourself up on German Google...

2009-09-21T18:51:00.000+02:00

How do you like the makeover? I thought I would undergo some "light" plastic surgery to blend in....

http://www.bild.de/BILD/lifestyle/bams/2009/05/03/klassiker-der-kueche-extra/hg02/benjamin-schnitzer-kocht-spaghetti-bolognese.html

By the way, did you know that the past tense of "to google"in German is "gegoogle"?
Zum Beispiel: Ich habe viele geschichten über Beyoncé gegoogelt. (for example: I googled stories about Beyoncé).

May you be inscribed in the Buch of Life

2009-09-18T08:52:00.000+02:00

How does one celebrate a Jewish Holiday in a foreign land, thousands of miles away from family and friends? Well, the first thing to do is to go to a really good party.... Now you must think that all I do in Berlin is go to parties, or crash parties, or get into parties....this is not entirely true - it just happens most of the time. If you lived in Berlin, you would party a lot too - not because it is really that fun to actually go to parties, but after walking around Berlin for a day and being confronted by all that History one really does need a stiff drink, or in my case a Rosh Hashannah reception at the Jewish Museum. I attended as the guest of a friend of a friend who is involved in their cultural programming... he is also from Canada, but a Polish citizen as well...his family comes from the same town that my family does - Lodz - where the people are known for their quick wit and dirty sense of humour. I gave him Yiddish magnetic poetry for his fridge because he is letting me stay on his couch while I find a place, and the other night we sat at his kitchen table and tried to see how many words we could find that meant "idiot". There were 15. Isn't Yiddish great?

So my friend and I went to this party in honour of the Jewish New Year at the Jewish Museum.
Except there were no Jews . We were there - my friend and I - and there was one other short person with curly hair, but he was probably Austrian. He looked like Schubert. For all intents and purposes, the reception looked like a party at the German Foreign Ministry. There was a buffet catered by the Inter Continental with exotic fruit and an approximation of kreplach (Jewish Ravioli! The server exclaimed). There was a swing band made up of members of the Berlin Philharmonic (they didn't really swing....too much Mozart). The woman who played the shofar was one of the most well regarded trumpet players in Israel (she still couldn't play the darn thing...they are tricky). There were, however, no Jews.

There were interesting cultural displays and everybody was very earnest and appreciative and clapped when the trumpet player tried to play the shofar....this made me feel a bit embarassed - like the time when I was 13 and the German guests of my mother's best friend wanted to video tape our Passover seder..... to put in their archive of bizarre cultural activities of endangered foreign peoples? Like Leni Riefenstahl photographing African tribes? A Yiddish word comes to mind: Feh!

My favourite part of the evening were the fortune cookies. Why they decided to have fortune cookies at a Rosh Hashannah, I'll never know -but I was looking forward to a moment of levity. However, when I read my fortune, I discovered - not some light-hearted assurance that I would be prosperous - but a quote from the 1920s German-Jewish Communist poet Kurt Tucholsky which read

" Tolerance is the suspicion that the other person is right".

God love the Germans...even their fortune cookies are filled with lead. But can you blame them?

After the party my friend and I went and had a drink with an Israeli musicologist and her husband. She told me that when she was a child her mother used to take her on a picnic on Yom Kippur. They would eat ham sandwiches. We have made a date to do the same, although I am of course conflicted about not fasting.

Old habits die hard

The state of the Angst

2009-09-17T09:29:00.000+02:00

Much ink has been spilled about The Future Of Opera...at least in Berlin. Nobody really cares anywhere else. Do you? But here in Berlin it is a hot topic of discussion - along with the future of books, the nature of art, the future of art, the future of German art....the future of German books...do you see a pattern? Do you care? Exactly.

I care. Of course I care. But I don't like to talk about it, because I feel that when it comes to art, those who can't do, talk. And so I guess that means I am talentless because I am writing a blog about art or something. Shit. Oh who am I kidding - I don't talk about it because I hate being told I'm wrong.

So rather than go into an informed discussion about the state of the Western World's most esoteric and expensive art form, I will merely describe some of the things that I have seen and let you come to your own conclusions.

Last Saturday night I went to the German State Opera - a veritable temple of culture, which is, incidentally, right beside the Bebelplatz where the Nazis burned books. Charming. I went to see Mozart's great opera "The Abduction from the Seraglio". It is set in 18th century Turkey and is, like most opera, misogynist, elitist, class-ist and Eurocentric (thanks mom - for teaching me those big words). It is also a great deal of fun, and contains some of the best music Mozart ever wrote.

In this opera, the antagonist - Pasha Selim, is a despotic character and the keeper of a harem. However, in the end, he ends up being a decent man and sets everyone free, whereupon there is much rejoicing. In this production, he was Hitler...Hitler in a white dress and gold make-up, but unmistakably Hitler. Of course, this was a brilliant conceit on the part of the director, because no matter how bad the production was (and it was bad) the audience would not dare show its displeasure at an unfavorable portrayal of Die Fuhrer! And so they applauded wildly - mostly out of guilt, it would seem.

Bassa Selim's enforcer, Osmin, is a much more ruthless character. He was dressed in a track suit. It was his job to keep the prisoners in line. In a German opera production that means that he rapes them. The protagonists (two English nobles) are in love and haven't seen each other in a while, because Konstanze is a prisoner of Pasha Selim, and Belmote trying to rescue her. When they do see each other, they do not hug or kiss or say hello...they simulate anal sex....duh.

Hitler...rape...anal sex. In Germany? Really? What a surprise. So original.

The next day I saw an atonal opera about the history of communism. But do you care?

Exactly.

...Wish you were here....

2009-09-11T22:39:00.000+02:00

Just outside Tegel Airport there is a giant sign which reads “Germany – Land of Ideas”. This sign is meant to welcome you, which is logical because ideas can indeed be welcoming. They can also be repulsive...so can Germany, as history has amply shown. However, Berlin, for all its historical errors, is a city which has always embraced different ways of thinking. This has also been amply shown. Take – for example – the prostitutes outside my window.

No oppressed masses they - standing on the corner with the full support of the state. They are unionized and galvanized – and woe betide anyone who treats them with anything less than respect. Say what you want about the world’s oldest profession, but Berlin’s ladies of the evening can deduct their business expenses for tax purposes, thank-you-very-much.

Speaking of ladies of the evening, I just came back from the Vogue party at Galleries Lafeyette. Lest you think I am in the in-crowd and invited to these sorts of things, you should know that I was merely walking home from an extremely edifying choral concert at the Jewish Museum when I came across a red carpet, an open door and very good looking people holding trays of champagne. I am never one to pass an opportunity, and I was wearing a Hugo Boss suit jacket (albeit bought second hand in the depths of Prenzalauer Berg and altered by a chain-smoking Polish tailor), so I swished in and pretended like I owned the place and proceeded to get drunk on free Moet et Chandon champagne at the Hermès boutique. I also got a free catalogue which they put in a real Hermès shopping bag, which meant that I could freely saunter into to any number of stores without reproach….which of course I did – and it was a good thing too because I missed dinner.

But who needs dinner when you can have raspberry macaroons from Paris, or chocolate truffles shaped like high heels…or a mojito- flavoured sorbet made à la minute and served in a frozen lime? Mind you, most of the women there couldn’t really eat any of the food even if they wanted to (and they didn’t) because their lips were pumped up with so much collagen…. this just meant that there was more for me.

But I did not indulge. That would have been gauche. I merely took one of everything and pretended to look like I was seriously considering a 700 euro dog bowl or a hand-made riding crop made in the best artisanal tradition (these are very popular in Berlin, but not for horses…more about that later). As the saying goes, if you can fake sincerity you’ve got it made…..well, money helps too. So do looks. Money and looks help a lot.

The rest of us just have to crash the party and survive on our wits. And you cannot fake wit.

It is almost midnight and I am supposed to be working hard – with my nose to the grindstone and my eyes set on future heights (actually, that would be very uncomfortable…and it would look weird…think about it). Discipline will have to wait until tomorrow…okay, maybe the next day….or maybe I’ll just pencil it in for sometime next week. Say, Tuesday at 5 - after the gym and before La Traviata?

I am so busted….

Work/Life Balance

2009-06-02T16:50:00.000+02:00

In North America we are working more and doing less. The amount of stress leave has gone up exponentially and people are complaining of always feeling tired and overworked. Can you blame them? Times are tough and people are worried about their jobs. What's more, advances in technology mean that you can never really leave the office. Ever.

- Things are different in Italy.

In Italy you cannot simply come to the office and go to your desk and start working. You must say hello to everyone in turn and spend a few minutes talking about the shoes you bought, or the gelato you ate. Once at your desk you must re-apply your perfume or cologne because it makes you feel better. After 2 hours - as if by magic - somebody asks you to go for a walk and get a capuccino. There is coffee available in the office and Santina brought cornetti, but it is good to leave the building and get some air, no? Of course going out for coffee is not just going out for coffee. You can't go to the first place because they were mean to Fabrizia last week when she tried to pay with a 50 euro bill. The second place is closed because today is 3 days before the Festa della Republica and people like to take the days off beforehand per la vacanza. The third place is over on the Piazza Buenos Aires but of course this means we have to walk a bit - but it is worth it because they make a real Capuccino Freddo (cold cappucino) as opposed to just adding cold milk to hot espresso, which would be (apparently) unthinkable. Besides, if you take more time for a break, people will assume you were stressed and needed the extra few minutes, no?

Coffee proceeds at a leisurely pace...you sit at the terrace and flirt with the waiter and smell the Mugetto in bloom. You feel refreshed, and saunter back to your office and talk to your coworkers about where the best bakery is in the neighbourhood.

As if by magic, the next 2 hours fly by. And then it is time for lunch. Well, ordinarily it would be time for lunch but today there was a diplomatic reception at the Villa Grazioli, which of course we went to. Afterward, we went for lunch. There was food at the reception, but that was not lunch. And of course, you cannot have lunch without going for coffee....

Do you see the pattern?

Now it is 5:15, and I was supposed to leave at 4:30. Of course, I was not done my work at 4:30 because I went for a cappucino and a reception and lunch, and then coffee. But now I am done my work. And now I am going home. Maybe I will stop for un aperitivo on the way home.

Do you see the pattern?

- Ciao.

I love Rome

2009-05-31T20:03:00.001+02:00

I love Rome.

I love Rome because it is full of short people who like to eat good food and talk with their hands.
I love Rome because is a place where a bottle of good wine costs less than 5 dollars and waiters are offended if you don't eat at least 2 courses. It is a place where nuns dance in parks and old men sell flowers....

I love Rome bcause you can wear blue shoes and green pants and carry an orange bag and wear a pink tie....and nobody cares.

Rome invites you to make a nice dinner just for you...and to eat it overlooking an obelisk as the sun sets. Rome is confirmation that humans can be eternal and eternally silly.Rome gives you the permission to have delusions of grandeur and the grandeur of delusions. You can also just sit and have a coffee and watch the children play in the street...everybody else does!

I love Rome because Rome is crowded and confusing and noisy and beautiful.... I love Rome because Rome is old and has been around the block. In fact, I think Rome invented the block.

Rome has 7 hills and 13 aqueducts and a wall with 14 gates.
Rome has 3 million people and 2 million cats. Rome has children and nonnas and gardens and
fig trees and flowers and trafic and grafiti and garbage.

Rome has 1 big, beating heart.

I love Rome.

Walk like a Man

2008-07-24T18:34:00.001+02:00

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.

For Heather

2008-04-27T00:38:00.000+02:00

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.

Dear Diaries

2008-02-06T03:59:00.000+01:00

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."

Update from Chad

2008-02-04T17:37:00.000+01:00

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.

New Message

2008-02-01T08:36:00.001+01:00

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".

French Lessons

2008-01-22T18:56:00.000+01:00

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.

Vanity Fair

2008-01-04T20:55:00.001+01:00

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".

Only in New York, part 2

2007-12-23T19:42:00.000+01:00

Last night I took my cousin Anna to the Met. Placido Domingo was singing Orestes in a new production of Iphegenie en Tauride by Gluck, and it was sublime. However, experiencing the actual opera is only half the reason to go to the Met. Really, you go to the Met to get dressed up and drink champagne on the grand tier and look over and see Renee Fleming.

Anna had never been to the Met, and she enjoyed every minute - especially since she herself had played Iphegenia in one of her acting classes. However, the air was thin at the top of Olympus and rather than retire to an elegant lounge across the street, we decided to go downtown and see what interesting things we could find....

And what did we find? Lesbian burlesque (OH MY GOD...she's making a vulva out of balloons)...bisexual soldiers on leave (is he flirting with you or with me? If we're drinking the same drink and he bought only one, who is it for?) ...a blues bar where the musicians wore French maid outfits and sang in German... the best 2 dollar cheese pizza ever(okay...we're only getting one more slice, but we have to share) .... limousines parked in front of mountains of garbage.... and, last but not least, a situation where a police officer stopped the car and pointed a gun at us...well, really they pointed the gun at the hoodlums BEHIND us, but I digress.

Overheard on Madison Avenue

2007-12-23T19:34:00.001+01:00

Woman 1: "Oh! I love your dog...how much does she weigh?"
Woman 2: "About 15 pounds....why do you ask?"
Woman 1: "Well, we're looking for a dog - one that can handle the rigours of constant international travel on our jet. I think the limit is 15 pounds, actually."
Woman 2: "Really? I thought it was 20...well, I guess we'll have to start monitoring Bridget's diet. Thanks for the tip."
Woman 1: "Oh, no problem at all. Lovely to meet you... (in a cutesy voice): Bye Bridget!"

Food, Glorious Food!

2007-12-16T06:59:00.000+01:00

Here is an email that I sent to my friend Rebecca - gustatory goddess and foodie extraordinaire....

Oh my God. New York is just, well,aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh... I don't know where to start, so I will start with food. This is what I have eaten:

bruschetta with gorgonzola cream sauce - served piping hot...
Linguini with oven dried tomatoes, chicken, garlic oil, spinich, pine nuts and goat cheese - this was at an Italian place near Lincoln Centre - and guess who was sitting at the next table? Kramer from Seinfeld!
BRUNCH AT PASTIS! We saw Curtis Stone - that cute chef from from Australia who has a show on the Food Network.....we started out with Champagne cocktails that were bright pink and flavoured with rosewater...than a basket of baked goods that included:

raisin cardamom sticky buns
brioche with orange zest
VALROHNA CHOCOLATE BREAD - eaten with bitter orange marmalade
dense fruit-nut bread with dried cherries and walnuts....
then I had "eggs hussard" which were poached eggs over toast with ham and mushrooms and hollandaise, covered in SAUCE BORDELAISE (brown sauce with wine and shallots)...SO GOOD
wild mushroom ravioli with truffle oil
frangelico chocolate mousse
skirt steak served with arugula and shaved Parmesan
hot chocolate with ancho chillies and cinnamon!!!!!
the best cheese pizza...ever....
BAGELS.... with like a foot of cream cheese.
and I have only been here for 2 days.
I also went to this gourmet food market that had artisanal butter from france and more kinds of fish then I could ever imagine...and a black transsexual hooker buying fillet mignon???? And women in fur coats buying lobsters and
oozing brie and cherries in December and I went to Williams Sonoma where they have copper fish kettles and a candy floss attachment for a kitchen aid....and a demonstration kitchen where you can watch them make marshmallows.

Tomorrow I will slow down in the food department. Jackie O used to subsist on broth and fruit after she had overindulged. That seems sensible...and one should emulate Jackie O while in New York.

Anyway, lots to tell.... I have seen a lot, and experienced a lot... I had a lesson the morning after I got here at 2 in the morning! AAAAH...it was very cool, though....New Yorkers are very friendly and direct and they talk to you on the subway...about a great many things. My cousin is wearing a mini dress and stiletto boots and a vintage fur coat and is going out for tea at midnight ...she is very Sarah Jessica Parker. I think I am going to a concert of Medieval Christmas music tomorrow.... and then maybe to see some paintings by Klimt? Or my cousin and I may stay in bed and watch Annie Hall..... who knows!

love to you...

-b

Only in New York?

2007-12-15T15:30:00.001+01:00

I knew I loved New York within 5 minutes of landing at JFK. I knew I loved New York because because by the time I had collected my luggage, more people had talked to me then in my entire time in Vancouver, or so it seemed. People asked me the time, people commented on my new coat - people smiled and looked me in the eye asked me where I was from.... I told them I was from Canada, and they wondered aloud why I didn't add "eh" to all my sentences. One woman selling Hot Chocolate asked me if pot was legal back home, and told her that you could get high just walking down the street. She wants to move - but I don't see why, because New York is everything you could ever wish for. In fact, as I was walking down 5th avenue last night, arm in arm with a friend, I said to myself "this is how I always imagined life should be"...for I always imagined that life should be loud and crazy, and clothed impeccably. I always imagined that life should be full of people, and full of good things to eat. I thought that life should be direct and honest and laughing and perhaps even a bit pushy.

Most importantly, life should have windows at regularly spaced intervals: Windows full of light that illuminate the darkness - windows with beautiful things in them that cause you to dream.

Today I feel like I never want to leave New York - I know that I will have to eventually, but I will always look for the New York in every place I happen to find myself - I will seek out that which is original and causes you to stop in your tracks; that which is unconventional and beautiful -- that which is real...

I will look for these windows wherever I go.

Please leave a message

2007-12-11T19:21:00.000+01:00

Ah, the joys of being 28 and temporarily unemployed. I have found myself at a crossroads - I am at the juncture of the diverging paths of the beginning of the rest of my life! I am the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.

Actually, I have no idea what the hell I am doing. And in situations like the one I find myself in, it is best to skip town. So, I have bought at ticket to NYC, the city that never sleeps - and since I am not sleeping right now, it seems like a perfectly logical destination to me. It beats drinking warm milk.

You know, they always say that you should not call on New York - that you should wait until New York calls you. Very wise. To be perfectly honest, I think there MUST be something wrong with my phone, because I think New York has been trying to get through. I have just been out so much these days, and it is such a huge burden for a city of 9 million to leave a message after the tone. I will just have to contact information and patiently explain to them that I am expecting a call and that they should do everything in their power to ensure that ALL of my correspondence gets through.

One must take care of one's correspondence. One must take infinite care with messages of all sorts, methinks.

Let me just go and make that call.

Make your own season brochure....

2007-11-30T01:00:00.000+01:00

If you go to www.parterre.com, you can make your own "mad lib opera brochure" by filling in the blanks and submitting your responses. Here is what I came up with:

The 1944 season for Scranton Grand Opera promises an eclectic mix of Voluptuous and Dynamic works, as well as a gala Palpitations featuring the Intelligent personality Carol Channing as special bidet.

The thoughtful classic, Hindemith`s "La agilita di Poughkeepsie" boasts a new production directed by Britney Spears, with costumes by L. Ron Hubbard. This flatulent staging updates the action to turnpike in the early part of the 666th century. Soprano Leonie Rysanek stars as Lashawndra, a virginal bird bath who for most of the opera is disguised as a mysterious moped. Leonie Rysanek is perhaps best known from Wife Swap where she sang the lilting melody Sexy Back.

The neglected masterpiece "Der kaputschlechtbumsen" will be revived for only 57 performances. You probably already know the famous "viper Chorus" which was used on the soundtrack of the Academy Award winning film Bring it On. Due to the length of this work, all performances will begin at dawn.

Finally, the company will present the Lagos premiere of the opera "The Life and Times of Bob Barker" in a co-production with Opera Oregon-Pacific Sacramento (oops) and Opera Sous-Sol. The libretto is by Jeb Bush, based on the play Equus, and the music is adapted from the works of Schonberg by maestro Pierre Boulez. Exciting newcomer Deborah Winger makes her operatic debut as the flaccid heroine, and the men in her life are portrayed by Rush Limbaugh, Jon Stewart and Lassie.

Generous support for Scranton Grand Opera`s excrement was provided by the Delta Burke Foundation and the National Endowment for the dildo.

....

2007-11-29T06:51:00.001+01:00

Blessed is he
who comes in spite of the Lord
Blessed is he who is not
ashamed.

Blessed is the exile
standing steadfast with himself,
who curses and casts scorn --
who will not compromise.
Who will not yield.

Blessed is his anger.

Proverbs

2007-11-21T05:21:00.000+01:00

(1)

Between the lines is a narrow space with openings.
Between the spaces are narrow lines which are openings.
Between the words there are spaces that are not openings but are between openings which lead to opening.
Between the letters are spaces which must end because we choose to do that.
Between the heart and the head there is space.
Between two hearts there is space and opening.
Between space and opening there is the heart.
Between the heart and opening there is space which is not empty.

(2)

Not empty is not full.
Not full is empty and also not empty
Empty can be quite full
which can also be empty.

(3)

Also can, also ran.
Also could, also would.
Also much also soon
also muddling, also moon.

Jealous Mistresses

2007-11-13T18:49:00.000+01:00

A few months ago I went to the gracious apartment of a writer who agreed to talk to me about "the craft". I knew this was a dangerous proposition, because I have never considered myself to be a "writer". I know that to name yourself invites all sorts of problems... I am no fool.

We sat there and nibbled on biscuits from a silver salver. We drank sherry and listened to Schubert - it was hard not to feel at peace. And then we started to talk about anxiety. Not that I was surprised. I have come to discover that a confluence of sensory distractions is a sign of hidden, gnawing fear -- happy is the person who
revels in debauchery just because they feel like it.

He (the writer) asked me about my "writing process".
I told him I just wrote.
He asked me what inspired me.
I told him I was inspired by most everything. Or nothing. Depending on the case.
He asked me how I just "did it".
I told him that I already had an artistic outlet that caused me endless amounts of
anxiety. Writing was just something I did.

At one point, it was the same with singing -- it was just something I did.
Then I started to learn about "how to sing" and the whole process became much more difficult and far less satisfying.

When I asked him what I could do to "improve" my writing, my writer friend told me that I should just go to a writing group and share my work with others. I felt an immediate twinge of angst. I thought to myself "oh shit... now I am going to have to try to understand what I do".

I prefer to live in ignorance and to embrace all the words that come out of me. There is a lot of chaff among the wheat to be sure...I can live with that.

But I cannot bear to try and understand. I vow to hold on to one thing in life that "just happens".

All the difference

2007-09-01T21:39:00.001+02:00

I believe it was Euripides who said that the wisest among us chooses his own path.
Now, lest you think I am profound or something, I should tell you that I read this quote on a fridge magnet. But I should also tell you that I am rather egalitarian when it comes to the acquisition of wisdom, and I don't believe that the sentiment would have been any more profound if I had read it from a dusty tome in a silent room far away.... Rather, I read it in the kitchen of a dear friend who had recently moved down the street. I remember that when I was reading it, I was laughing about something, and I was happy.

To be happy! And to laugh....and to do them both at the same time! - It was rather like rubbing your stomach and tapping your head concurrently: Very difficult to coordinate but rather amusing once achieved - something you just had to run to the mirror and see.

But there was no mirror, so I just smiled to myself and continued chopping garlic - content in the knowledge that I was surrounded by people who loved me very much, and whom I loved in return.

To love! And to be loved in return... at the same time....Very difficult to coordinate but amusing once achieved.

- Something you just have to see.

Wednesday's child is full of.....

2007-06-07T06:20:00.000+02:00

There comes a time when one wants to shed one's puppy fat and be lithe and lean like a jungle cat - ready to pounce; sinewy and dangerous. Of course, there are some who are more predisposed to such a state than I, but I am careful what I ask for and have decided that I am meant to be built like a tank and perhaps it is better to just go on steadily and run things over if need be.

That being said, I have decided to make economies for the benefit of my pocket book and figure. I know that I will never look good in a Speedo (so few do), but maybe some day I shall be able to see my toes while standing upright. It is good to see where one is rooted - if only for the peace of mind it brings.

My first measure was to forgo my monthly bus pass: If I walk everywhere, I will become fit. However, it was raining this morning and my umbrella broke...and I can always walk to work tomorrow. Having no bus pass and no change, I took a cab. Strike one.

My second measure was to give up my morning coffee. Coffee disagrees with my stomach, and I put far too much cream and sugar in it ( I dare not tell you how much - suffice it to say that it is rather like melted coffee ice cream).... So, I didn't make coffee today and felt very virtuous -- until I started work at 7 AM and a woman started screaming at me because her passport wasn't ready. Realization: There are some things that just cannot be borne without caffeine. Strike two.

Then I thought that I should eat more sensibly. Always a good idea. The body is a temple, and my body feels like a debauched shrine to Bacchus after the weekend I had. So last night I made brown rice and decided to have it for dinner with some vegetables. But then I came home to find that my roommate had bought scallops,
and there is this recipe for Coquilles St. Jacques that I have always wanted to try (now mix the butter and reduced cooking juices with a goodly amount of heavy cream
and two egg yolks...)! Strike 3. Strike 3 way out in left field...strike 3 "I missed the ball and it went over the stadium wall and is rolling in a gutter somewhere 5 miles away."

I can always have brown rice tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
And the sun will NOT come out tomorrow, because I live in Vancouver, where there is a moratorium on the sun because it causes global warming (if this is not true, I am sure there is someone in the deeper recesses of Patchoulia who has thought it should be)...

Sigh. I think there are some more scallops in the fridge.

Poke

2007-05-17T20:44:00.000+02:00

We live in an age where one can engage in frivolous pursuits that, while immediately gratifying, offer little fuel for the imagination or the soul. What I am talking about is our society's increasing dependence on things which are not genuine. A person can pass an entire day without doing anything real. I could wake up and eat some sort of low fat cereal bar - composed of chemicals (it would of course be low fat and high in omega 3 acids and every time I bought one an international conglomerate would give 35 cents to educating inner city youth in Bangladesh....so they could read the instructions on the sewing machine when they got a job at the local Nike factory making a pittance so we can buy new shoes). I could then log on to my computer and interact superficially in any number of ways with any number of people... I could poke my long-lost sandbox playmate on Facebook... I could instantly message my brother... I could chat with strangers from around the world... I could email/text/blog/post/download/post from sun up to sun down and not even leave my desk... not even go for a walk. I would not have to experience new things or compromise who I was because I would not be interacting in a real way with any living thing.

And for what? Would any of that communication be real? What would I learn from it?
What would I gain? The other day, I decided to turn off my computer and read a book.
And it seemed like an unusual thing to do... I decided to turn off my cell phone for an afternoon last week and everyone wondered where I had gone. I decided NOT to check my email for a day, and it seemed as though I was completely disconnected from the larger world. But was I? I went for walks. I went out for coffee with my friends... I learned music and made dinner and laughed.

Indeed, I vow to have an interesting life that is not connected to some technological device. I intend to have meaningful communication with people I care about, rather than surface chatter with a thinly spun web of "friends". Starting now. If that makes me unpopular, I don't care. If people don't understand, I don't care. I have left the building. I am not reachable right now. I am not online. I am not live. I am not hosting. I am not "at home". I am a human being with a right to a private life.

I was listening to the radio the other day and someone said that every email we write - every picture we post is saved on the central memory of the internet. This means that everything we do online is recorded for posterity, whether we like it or not. What does this mean?

The Nazis recorded everything they did for posterity with alarming detail, even though they did not have computers. They never thought that they would lose... they thought that their documents - their actions - would never see the light of day. But things did not turn out as expected, and their documents were seized, and now we know what happened. And yet, there are still those who deny.

What happens when our collective actions see the light of day? What happens when this mammoth collective online memory falls into different hands? What will we have to show for it? What happens if the power goes out and we actually have to rely on each other... actually have to interact - to compromise, to fight, and to grow?

Will we be able to handle it?

The other day I was reading a book written by a woman who survived the bombardment of Berlin. She was a journalist, and recorded her thoughts anonymously. This is what she had to say:

" We have been spoiled by technology. We can't accept doing without loud speakers and rotary presses. Handwritten placards and whispered proclamations just don't carry the same weight. Technology has devalued the impact of our own speech and writing. In the old days one man's call to arms was enough to set off an uprising -- a few hand-printed leaflets, ninety-five theses nailed to a church door in Wittenberg. But today we need more, we need bigger and better, wider repercussions, mass produced by machines and multiplied exponentially."

These thoughts were written over half a century ago.

I wonder: What is the power of our words now?

I am logging off.

False Economies

2007-03-14T20:04:00.000+01:00

"Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside."

- Mark Twain

Sometimes one feels as though one has lived a lifetime in a day... Yesterday morning, I awoke in Powell River, which is a sad place... one that time forgot. The houses hug the cliffs as though they are children afraid to jump in the water, and there is little to do but gaze upon the sea and imagine you are Andromeda chained to the rocks, waiting to be eaten. This could be a delightful experience, I imagine, but I suppose it would depend on one's proclivities.

And speaking of eating, I decided that this being spring I should amend my nutritive intake and subsist on inexpensive seasonal produce. I had visions of stirring applesauce and preserving asparagus - of serving forth delicate concoctions of herbs and embryonic vegetables for my delight and pleasure. I also had visions of fitting into a bathing suit and paying my rent. And so upon my return from the rocks on the sea, I bought spinach and tomatoes and made a healthful salad, which was enjoyed with a bottle of Perrier and the company of my friend Mike. We looked at the cherry blossoms outside my window and felt smug in our congruence with the turning seasons.

Alas, my delicately constructed sense of thrift and health were immediately shattered when, during our post-prandial walk, we decided to investigate a new restaurant called "Lift".... How could we not go in? It looked so inviting -- what with a marble bar and businessmen discreetly chewing rack of lamb in solitude. And how harmful could it be to order a chocolate souffle for two? Really, they are as light as air and we were so good at dinner. And it couldn't possibly hurt to order some Tawny port to sip while gazing at the twinkling lights of the city ... and one couldn't possibly imagine such an experience without a double espresso to add a final inky coda to the day.... And so, as I slipped further and further into a gastronomic haze, I thought

"Fuck it"

and gave the waiter my credit card, not looking at the bill.

Intermezzo

2007-03-09T04:44:00.000+01:00

As I was sitting on a couch which I had bought from a man who I loved, but who did not love me, I thought about love, and the meaning of it, and the desire for it.

Every day I wake before dawn and go out onto the stage. This is sheer lunacy, for the stage, any stage, is fraught with dangers and pitfalls. Or so I thought. I have come to realize, perhaps, that in my earnestness to create something - to finely hone a character or simply sing a phrase as best I can, I have imposed the impossible upon myself: I have tried to make people love me. I have tried, and still try, to convince others that I am worthy of their affection and adulation. I felt compelled to act on the stage because I wanted people to look at me and to feel love. For a long time I did this because I felt that if I were myself, and not playing a character, I was not worthy of love. But people do not love you because of what you do. They love you because of who you are. And everything you do, therefore, must spring out of an authentic sense of self, and then must be let go. And this is acting, I guess. But what is the difference between doing and being and acting?
And is not the development of an authentic self just narcissistic method-acting?

A part of one's personality is like a limb. It can be shaped and honed and sculpted and painted and even discarded. However, it does not mean anything more than mere flesh and bone. Which is to say it means nothing, and everything.

In this realization comes the freedom to try and to fail. In this comes the freedom to not care. And when you cease caring about yourself for even a moment, you can grasp the infinite, which is far more then flesh and bone and even love, for that matter.

Something greater than love, you ask? There is indeed. Peace.
But can there be peace without love? There can be indeed --

Respect.

The Stadt of the Art

2007-03-04T17:00:00.000+01:00

Hello Dear Readers,

Here is a report from my friend Soula in Berlin about some operas she has seen there:

"So I see a lot of show here in ol' Berlin thanks to my Young Classic Card - anyone under thirty can see a show for a tenner, any seat in the house.

The Magic... Flute?
the magic flute itself is a long, brown, three foot phallus. Papageno's bells are a tree of balls...yes, THOSE ones. The Queen of the Night rips our her own breast at the end of Die Hölle Rache. Sarastro is a cripple in a wheelchair who is pushed around by three lions. Those are just the highlights. To see more, go to Komische Oper website.

The Tales of Hoffmann
first off, auf deutsch dass klingt ein bisschen WEIRD (In German that sounds a bit weird) but whatev. Hoffmann takes a table with the MUSE at a chic Berlin eatery and proceeds to get drunk at lunchtime. Everything is in 60's mod style, and it is actually rather attractive. SO:
The Doll gives birth to a cat during her aria.
Antonia, well pretty normal.
Giulietta is dressed in a red patent pleather floor length dress with a slit up to Papagena's bells and five inch heels - well, she is a hooker. Quasi lesbo-action with the Muse during the Barcarolle. Oh, and one girl gets her dressed ripped off leaving her in her skivvies, and then her face gets crammed in Schlemiel's crotch for what seems like an eternity of ten seconds.

Actually, the shows here are pretty amazing. But sometimes I would just like to enjoy say, Simon Boccanegra without a Tom and Jerry cartoon interlude during what is seemingly the most important scene in said opera.

PS: a friend of mine singing her first Traviata has to take off her panties during the Brindisi and give them to the doctor who then proceeds to sniff and drool. Now that is art."

Tales from the Road: Carpe Per Diem

2007-02-22T01:57:00.001+01:00

"Throughout the world sounds one long cry from the heart of the artist: Give me the chance to do my very best."

-Isak Denesen, "Babette's Feast"

Whenever we go on tour, the opera gives us a lovely allowance with which we are meant to sustain ourselves while out of town. How this is spent is entirely up to the recipient. There are those among us who ration their money carefully - full of the knowledge that an artist never knows when the next engagement will come his way. Others pool their resources: They stay 4 to a room and devise artful meals from a can of tuna.

I, on the other hand, have just checked in for a three night stay at the Kingfisher Spa and Resort. I am writing you from my ocean-view room, clad in a terry-cloth robe and fuzzy slippers. I am drinking Perrier from room service, and recently returned from a calming head and neck massage. As Birgit (or was it Ingrid?) kneaded my tired muscles, I could hear the contrapuntal interplay of seagulls and the crashing surf. Afterward, spent, I repaired to the dining room for an anise-poached pair and a glass of late harvest Riesling. I have never known such peace.

As an ardent student of the method, I view it as my responsibility to inhabit my characters. As I am currently playing the part of a prince, I think it is incumbent upon me to see how a Prince would live. This is how I rationalize my sojourn here.

And what have I realized? That true nobility, if there is such a thing, comes from within. A prince is not a prince by virtue of his birth, but by virtue of his deeds and how he treats others. Would I have realized this great truth if I had not been swaddled in 500 thread count sheets and sated with grilled scallops? Probably not.

Is that not perhaps the greater truth?

Tales from the Road: You know you're in BC when....

2007-02-20T06:18:00.000+01:00

As many of you know, I am part of a touring group that brings opera to the masses.
This morning I awoke to find myself in Nanaimo. I thought it was perhaps a nightmare, and that the sensation would pass, but it didn't. Fortunately there was coffee, and as we were waiting in line I noticed that my cast-mate Raphael was wearing a lovely new dress. Here is an excerpt from our conversation.

"Raphael, I love your dress!"
"Thanks.... it's "Lotuswear" -- I got it at this place called "Karma". I was there the other week buying yoga pants, and I had to have it. Did you know it's made from 100% soy?"
"I didn't... hey Raph, coffee's on me - do you know what you want?"
"Yeah - can I get a grande non-fat latte with sugar-free vanilla syrup?"
"Sure... did you buy anything else on the weekend?"
"No...well, I did buy a pink camouflage rain jacket for my dog..."

Being Alive

2007-02-18T06:28:00.000+01:00

Ah, the deliciousness of a night in. Outside, the rain is pounding mercilessly against my window panes.... but I will not be reminded of the brutality outside. Here, all is warm and bright, and I am drinking Hungarian Tokay out of a hand blown glass that looks as though it might be seen at a party given by the Princesse de Lamballe for Marie Antoinette.

You know of course that the Princesse de Lamballe and Marie Antoinette used to dress up in the sheerest muslin and retreat to their hamlet where they would pretend to be milkmaids. In the midst of the baroque splendour that is Versailles, they chose to be rustic and earthy. It was not unlike the citizen of Vancouver who in the midst of privilege decides to wear homespun cloth and eat organic food in order to distance himself from the exploitative nature of his very existence... it is no good to take little where there is plenty. If a rich man eats only coarse bread, he will expect the poor to eat stones.

I do not expect anyone else to change anything about themselves.. that is folly. I, flawed and imperfect and miraculous can and will change. And to do so I will make choices. Of course, choices are easy for me - choice is the prerogative of the privileged. I do not expect those who are less privileged than I am to hate me any less because I choose to live in a way that I think less materialistic -- less exploitative.

For when you come down to it, I am where I am because of an accident of birth.
And I do not dare to think that I deserve to be anywhere else. I wholeheartedly accept my life as it is. In fact, I embrace it. I cannot say I have always done that.

I am drinking Tokay out of a hand-blown glass. And I know that there are millions of people who don't even have clean water. I don't know what to say.

15 minutes

2007-02-08T07:12:00.000+01:00

Ordinarily, I wait until I have something to say before I write it down.
But I am in an experimental mood, and for the next 15 minutes or so, I will write whatever comes into my head and not edit it at all. I guess you could call this "stream of consciousness" writing. Although, to me "stream of consciousness" evokes a little Confucian brooklet somewhere rather than a literary form. If my mind is indeed a stream of consciousness, I would venture to say that there are rapids and currents and that I cannot navigate them. Or perhaps I think I cannot. Or perhaps it is not important to navigate at all and I should resign myself to just close my eyes and float along - like Anne of Green Gables did in that little dinghy while reciting "The Lady of Shalott". Of course, her boat sprung a leak and she had to be rescued by Gilbert Blythe.

I however vow not to be rescued, even though I would like to be from time to time. And I must admit I do have an overactive imagination, like Anne Shirley (surely) did.

And so, I will now retire to my room and light a candle and listen to motets by Mendelssohn and look out the window at rain brushing against the bare trees. Oh God. I am so pretentious sometimes.

For Simon, Wherever You May Be

2007-02-06T10:38:00.001+01:00

When I was 17 I gave you the flowers I had picked in the wild.
They were cornflowers I think, and they stained my hands.
I wanted to place them on the windowsill so that everyone could see them
but we both knew it would have been unsafe to do so, so
I put them in an empty bottle and placed them in your closet
so that nobody would ask any questions.
But when I came to you in the middle of the night, I would take the flowers out and
put them in the centre of your room, and
we would stare out the window holding hands --
defiant in the darkness.

And the night before we parted I took you to a party
where everyone was dancing. I wanted to dance with you so,
but I knew that too would have been unsafe.
So I took you to the forest where the water ran clear
and we danced alone, in silence.

And when I left you you would not kiss me on the lips
and everywhere there were eyes, and everywhere there is injustice
still.

Dear God, this night I pray
that there is now music for your dancing,
Simon, wherever you may be.
And witnesses to your love,
and flowers
in the centre of your room.

A Rosenkavalier by any other name.....

2007-01-28T20:22:00.001+01:00

"All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril."

-Oscar Wilde, Preface to Dorian Gray

In the opera world of late, there have been numerous attempts to update classic works to make them more "relevant". There are those who think it is a good idea to "interpret" works of art that are already complete in themselves and which come with prescribed instructions about how they should be performed. I often wonder at which point, in our attempts to make opera more accessible we forget the original intentions of the composer and librettist.... However, if respecting these intentions means that opera as an art form will die out, shouldn't we be compelled to shake things up?

Is there a way to look forward while respecting tradition?

I don't know. But at the rate things are going, you might very well see the following creations at a theatre near you:

I, DOMINATRIX

Mozart's classic opera Idomeneo is updated for our licentious age. Follow the story of Idominatrix, "Mistress of Crete" as she makes a fatal deal with her pimp, Neptune. All will suffer, but this doesn't faze our heroine. She likes it.

COSI FAN BOOTAY

Another re-interpretation of a classic, if dated Mozart Work. Cosi Fan Tutte is now set in Harlem. The set will utilize authentic graffiti art and sections of an abandoned subway station. The text has been translated from the original Italian into ebonics... to make it more accessible. There will still be surtitles.

LA CLEMENZA DI JOSEF BROZ TITO

Ancient Rome becomes 1970's Zagreb in this heart-warming tale of forgiveness.
"Decadent and bourgeois, but slightly more acceptable than the original". - Pravda

THE AILS OF HOFFMAN
Listen to the story of Mr. Hoffman, a patient at Mount Sinai hospital, as he talks about his various medical conditions. "Touching...prodding even. A veritable prostate exam of art. Who knew?" - Canadian Jewish News.

MANON LETS GO

This timeless classic takes place in Kitsilano, where our eponymous heroine has opened a yoga studio. Featuring the heart-rending aria "Adieu, notre petite tabla". "Soothing" - Canadian Yoga Journal

DIE HALFWAYHOUSE

Johann Strauss' operetta as you have never seen before. Fin-de-siecle Vienna becomes Vancouver's Lower East Side.

TOSK'WA

Puccini's jealous heroine reappears on Haida Gwaii.

DIE DAL-PURI

Siegmund and Sieglinde find themselves in Little India.

DIE MASTURBATERS VON NURNBERG

- Starring EVERYONE (even those who deny it).