Poke

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

"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

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

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

"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....

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

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

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

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.....

"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).

Vin Jaune

It is said that the ingredients of an authentic peasant dish will be prohibitively expensive outside their country of origin. I told this to Phillipe the other day over coffee, as he was describing the food of the Jura region in his native France. One of the dishes he liked to prepare was Coq au Vin Jaune aux morilles. Now, in order to make this you need an organic grain fed chicken. In France, these are pretty easy to come by, and are so revered that they have special tricolour cockades attached to their still-intact claws to show their provenance and eclat. They kind of look like skinned sans-coulottes.

You also need morel mushrooms- morilles - which are the most expensive kind of mushroom. At Urban Fair (or as I like to call it Urban Unfair) dried morels go for 50 dollars per 100 grams. This greatly upset Phillipe - he could understand paying 1000 dollars a month for an apartment in a city that wasn't even Paris, but that much for morels was criminal. You see, where Phillipe comes from you can just walk out your back door and pick them for free. I suggested substituting another kind mushroom, but he would not hear of it - "the morel mushroom has tiny pockets that soak up the sauce in a very unique way" he explained , as if I were some sort of stone-age creature who dines on raw mammoth. We bought the morels.

Coq au Vin Jaune would not be Coq au Vin Jaune without Vin Jaune. And what is Vin Jaune?
Yellow wine. Duh. That is what I said. But Phillipe said that the taste of Vin Jaune was absolutely distinct - like lifting up a rock and licking moss. He picked up a stone and told me to smell it. I just laughed. But he was serious, so I smelled it. The rock smelled like a rock, and spearmint (there was some gum stuck to the rock). Apparently, Vin Jaune is fermented in the same way as sherry. It comes from a temperamental grape that must be handled gently. So I guess you could say that if I were a drink I would be Vin Jaune.....

Unfortunately, we were unable to find Vin Jaune, as apparently people here do not appreciate its earthy flavour. We made do with Chablis, but Phillipe insisted it was not the same.

It never is.

Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?

Happy New Year.

I don't particularly like the phrase, to tell you the truth. If the new year was meant to be happy, why would it begin with the futile downward spiral that is January?

And as for New Year's resolutions. Well, I don't believe in them.
I came to this conclusion after spending a few days reading Proverbs while doing cardio and eating celery sticks. "Why am I doing this to myself?" I thought. "What exactly am I trying to improve in myself?" I was lifting weights, but what for? My clothes don't fit anyway due to my abnormally developed sternum. If I work out, I'll have to buy new ones, and I can't afford them (because it is January). Besides, no matter how much I exercise, I will never be lithe nor limber. I will never have a torso long and lean like the Baja peninsula. I am destined to face the brutal winds of time like a monolithic, mesomorphic plinth. I am not willowy, nor wispy. My build suggests one who was made to walk against the current head on... not smile, sylph-like, while being carried with it. I do not consider the lillies of the field who neither toil nor spin. Clumsily, I mow them down. And move on.

This is what I was thinking when I was on the treadmill. And after I left the gym, I went and bought myself some blue cheese and went down by the ocean and gazed at the water and thought, maybe I do have a resolution. And it is this: I resolve not to resolve. I will be a series of contradictions all my life, and there is nothing I can do to escape from the body or the mind that I have been given. Pope John XXIII, who was not willowy either, said: "See everything, overlook a great deal, correct a little". I like that.

And so I give thanks for the things that I have, and I give more thanks for the times I am free from wanting more than I have. And I give thanks for breath, and for bread and butter.

I give thanks for every second that I am alive.

Happy New Year.

Dietary Requirements

Since my last rant, I have been verbally attacked by more than a few latte-drinking lululemon-wearing fake-blondes. It seems that Vancouverites, when attacked, become very passionate about defending their city. In a sense, I am relieved. Any opportunity to see a Vancouverite express a genuine emotion is cause for celebration in my books. Everybody who doesn't live here thinks that I am crazy for criticizing Vancouver because apparently it is such a wonderful place to live. Well, I guess they are right to some extent. I am sure that even the inhabitants of Mount Olympus got bees in their bonnets (or crowns of olive leaf) from time to time... Maybe Zeus was crimping their style. Deities can do that in the most ingenious ways, I have found.

Which brings me to the subjects of religion. The other day, I was having coffee with my friend Angus, and I was spouting off as I normally do. He told me my opinions had a lot in common with Nietzsche, which surprised me because I have never read any of his works. The only thing I know about him is that he said "God is dead", which makes perfect sense. Of course God is dead. God was never alive. Unless you are a Christian. For them, God is merely hibernating. We are, apparently, in the midst of a bleak midwinter. Duh.

And speaking of Christianity ('tis the season), I was talking with my roommate Mike and my friend Pablo after consuming a bottle of port. Both of them are lapsed Catholics. Have you ever noticed how nobody will admit to being a Catholic? Would you? Half the people I know, when asked about their religious persuasion say that they were "born Catholic". In fact, I think I only know one person who still admits to practicing Catholicism. Brave soul. Anyway, we were talking about transubstantiation, which is the belief that the bread and wine in communion become the blood and body of Christ. So, naturally, I wondered aloud why Catholics want to eat God. Is cannibalism a sacrament? Are Catholics anemic? Maybe the early Catholics had a low-protein diet and an active imagination. Nevertheless, I was confused. I mean, if you eat God, but God is dead, does that make you a pervert or just a potential victim of food poisoning?

There are just so many unanswered questions!

Rant

Sometimes I just don't get Vancouver. In fact, I wonder if Vancouver had anything to get in the first place. I mean, take away the mountains and the oceans you are pretty much left with Edmonton. Except we have attitude and statues of orcas. I was talking to my friend the other day, and he whispered excitedly that Vancouver is becoming an "international city". Whatever that means. All cities are international. Nations barely exist anyway.... they have been replaced by corporations. But, if living in an "international city" means that you have to wait a half an hour for the bus, or if it means that there are more homeless people, then Vancouver is definitely on its way.

I can't blame my friend for being excited. He is from Vancouver, and I am not. When he was growing up, Vancouver was pretty much a Britsh colony. Goodness knows it is better now, but this city is full of small minded repressed petty people. They cry over the felling of a tree in Stanley Park and then walk over the man sleeping in the bus shelter at the bus loop. It is full of snotnosedhalfcafskimextrahotsugarfree latte drinking vapid barbies who strut around in the rain and worry about nothing more than wondering if their cardio-striptease class will interfere with brunch (poachedeggonbrowntoastnobutterfruitontheside...ohmigoddidyousaythatyoudopoledancing? yeah,umwaiteress,i orderednohashbrowns...doesitLOOOKlikeIeatcarbs?) with the "girls".

All you have to do is look in one of the many free daily "newspapers" and see the "night out" section to realize that the entire movie industry, when combined, has the intellectual capacity of a piece of seared ahi tuna (which is oh-so-ubiquitous in this town. Take a slab of meat, grill it, put it on a square plate, give it to an anorexic high school student, and serve it forth in a room where you can't hear yourself think. That is not dinner. It is the putrid remains of marketing campaigns and "image".)

There they are, rows and rows of people with identical photo shopped smiles out for a night on the town- hair perfect, tits out, (and the men have them too... either implants, or FAR too many hours in the gym. Have you ever noticed that people in Europe don't go to the gym? That's because when you, prototypical Vancouverite, are doing squats, they are eating good food and drinking wine and living their life. They eat their perfect morsel of cheese, and then they walk to work. In great shoes. So take that you idiot miniranchricecakedietpepsi-for-lunch Vancouver morons). And you look at them and think " I hope that your next botox treatment kills you. I hope that the botox enters your pharynx and renders you mute so you won't talk on your cell phone when I am waiting in line at Shoppers. You know, just once I want to pick up the paper and read about people with bad attitudes who don't give a shit about the environment and smoke, and drink and don't wear yoga pants. I want to read about people who swear and cry and laugh and enjoy life and don't count calories. I want to see people whistling when they walk down the street. I want to see people getting into passionate arguments about stupid things. But the time for this is past. Now we are online. Now we are hooked-up and plugged in. And boring as hell.

And

And you can't get a cab in this city because they are having delays. You see, there are a higher number of requests for cabs because it is RAINING. Of course if is raining. IT’S VANCOUVER. I called for a cab the other day, and I was told that calling for a cab is not a guarantee that I would get one, even if I called ahead. And the only reason I called a cab was because I was sick of watching busses pass me by because they were full.

And it is like that here; because Vancouver is largely populated by aging moneyed white people who still think of this city is their own private playground with pretty trees and immigrants on the periphery. They want to maintain something quaint and charming and I can't fuck stand it. Get it together Vancouver. I have learned by now that you have no soul, but at least get some more busses for those of us who are not offshore investors buying up all the condos downtown, driving lexuses and forcing ordinary people to move out of downtown.


Postscript:

It has rained so much that we can't drink the water without boiling it. This means that all the Starbucks are not serving coffee. Which means that any moment, Vancouver will cease to function? What will people do without their lattes to hold on to as they walk down the street? Maybe they will reach out and lend a hand. I doubt it.

Frittata

There is a time in late August (for me it usually happens on or around the 20th) when I think that the delights of summer will never end, when leaves seem as though they will never turn and it is hard to remember ever wearing a sweater, much less your winter jacket. How glorious it is to bite into a warm ripe peach and see the juice trickling onto bronzed skin. (I once shared a peach in this way with a man I met in Italy - he said it was the most sensual thing he had ever done.....He was very young.)

Indeed, if the powers that be thought to design something as glorious as midsummer, (with all the ripe fruit if offers) and then have the unimaginable generosity of spirit so as to give it to us, asking nothing in return except that we enjoy it, why would they take it away and give us the poor consolation prize that is November?

Why indeed!

I suppose you could lament, rend your garments, and hoard peaches, but there is no use in that. It is the destiny of man to wait and rejoice and mourn. Each must be felt in equal measure to remind us that we are alive. And so as the seasons turn and we turn inward I would like to offer you a dainty dish that will warm your heart and mind and kindle sunlight within you, so that even on the most dank dark day you will feel as though August has never left you.

I will start with something called a Frittata, which to my mind sounds like something an English duke would say upon exiting a room, but in reality is a very satisfying open-faced omelet with vegetables that comes from Italy. Like most dishes from Italy, it is straightforward, but harnesses the individual gifts of each of its ingredients in a way that maintains their integrity. What is more, it is an economical dish to prepare and is delicious hot or cold. You can serve it for breakfast with toast and coffee, or for a light lunch with a green salad and a glass of wine. It also travels well, because it cooks up like a pie and can be cut in wedges and taken with you as you brave the world.

Before you begin, it is essential that you choose some music to listen to as you work, something that will inspire you, and is in harmony with the food. I would recommend some choral music from the 16th century. I listened to a Lutheran mass for Christmas morning by Michael Praetorious when I last made this dish. It was suitably reverential and peace-giving. This music was written for the sole purpose of praising the divine. A frittata is made to celebrate the glory of simple food. Simple faith, simple food... you get the idea.

Frittata with Fall Vegetables and cheese:

Ingredients (physical):

6 eggs (when you break them open, they look like the sun...a good start!)
1 tbsp water
pinch salt and freshly ground pepper
______

2 tbsp olive oil
1 onion, sliced
1 clove garlic, minced
1 red pepper, peeled, cored, seeded and cut into strips
1 small zucchini, cut into quarters and sliced
1 tomato, peeled, seeded and diced
1/2 tsp dried basil
pinch sugar
salt and pepper to taste

_______

1/2 cup feta cheese, crumbled
1/4 cup Parmesan cheese, grated finely
1 tbsp butter

A note on preparing vegetables:

How fussy it is to peel and seed tomatoes and peppers. But if you give these humble vegetabes but a few moments of your time your palate and digestion will appreciate it infinitely! Instead of bits of indigestible skin and kernel, you will have a luscious Mediterranean mouthful of vegetables bathed in olive oil that gives you nothing but pleasure.

To peel tomatoes:

Cut an "x" in the non-stem end of the tomato. Cover with boiling water and leave for 30 seconds. Drain and rinse with cold water. The skin will come off very easily.

To peel peppers:

Before cutting peppers, just peel with a vegetable peeler,as much as you can.


Method:

Preheat the broiler.

In a small bowl, whisk together eggs, water, salt and pepper. Set aside.
Heat an medium, nonstick frying pan over medium heat. When it is hot, add the olive oil. When the oil is heated, add the onions, and cook until they are softened. About 5 minutes. Then add the zucchini, peppers and garlic. Season with salt, pepper and basil. Cook until vegetables are softened. Add tomatoes and sugar, and cook until tomatoes have broken down and all the liquid is evaporated. Turn heat to medium-low, and pour in egg mixture. Stir so that eggs and vegetables are well combined. Cook slowly - the mixture will take some time to set. When you see tiny holes on the top of the frittata, it is almost done. The top won't be set. That is okay. This is when the magic happens.

Top the frittata with the cheeses, and place the pan under the broiler until the top is set and the cheese has begun to brown. If your pan has a plastic handle, do not fear. Just open the door to your oven and hold the pan close to the broiler, making sure to keep the plastic handle out of the oven. Return the pan to the stove, and gently coax the sides of the frittata from the pan with a spatula. Slip little bits of butter underneath the frittata... This will create a brown crust and help release the frittata from the pan if it is stuck.

The frittata is now done. The top and bottom are brown and crusty... the cheese is melted, and the egg and vegetable mixture is unctuous and well flavoured.

Cut into wedges and serve. This frittata will serve 4 people sensibly. But I only ate a quarter of it when I prepared it this morning, and I am hungry for more.
It is all a question of appetite!

When you see the frittata on your plate, all golden and red and toasty, with suggestions of green throughout, you may think of the turning leaves. You may contrast it with the grey of the clouds, and think about the changing seasons. You may just think "Yum! Eggs with tasty bits!"

That is okay, too.

May you eat with a happy heart!

Private lessons

"I always think about that invisible connection among us all , what we have in common, as opposed to what divides us"

-Meryl Streep


This week, I took a French course at Berlitz. It was a private course, payed for by the Government. Each day, I had the opportunity to discuss any subject that interested me. You may think it bizarre for me to say this, but I think I was able to express myself more clearly in French than in English because I had to think very carefully about which words to choose. What would have ordinarily been a convoluted discourse became almost zen-like in its simplicity and clarity because I had a limited vocabulary. I had no choice but to say what I meant. So, you could say that what I perceived as a weakness was in actuality a great strength.

French is a beautiful language. When you speak it, you cannot help but feel sophisticated and inspired, and therefore capable of improvising elevated treatises on the the most intimate and profound subjects. The secret is in how you use your lips. I remember that a professor of mine had to pick up a French colleague they did not know at the airport. When he asked his friend how he would recognize the said colleague he was told "just look at the mouth. It will be parted ever so slightly... and the lips will be jutted out. Like he wanted to kiss you, but hesitated." When you adopt this stance for yourself and then try to speak French on top of that, it has a magical effect-- you can say precisely what you think and not be embarrassed by it at all.... For the French are not ashamed by sentiment. To explain what I mean, I want you to imagine saying the following things in English without laughing:

- What is the the nature of man? We know that man is an animal with instinct, but also endowed with reason. Perhaps the existence of both creates conflict between the two, and is the fundamental root of all the problems that plague humanity.

- Why does art exist? Art exists to elevate humanity, but also to console. When one creates art, one can practice what one wants to achieve, but in the moment of performance, it is in the hands of the divine.

- What is the nature of our previous lives? My teacher, Sylvie, told me that in a previous life I was a French noblewoman, perhaps associated with the Basilica of St. Andre. At the very least, I am an old soul who is currently my last life. She said that she was in her last life too, and that she was content not to meet her soul-mate, as perhaps that was asking too much of the universe which constantly inspires her and gives her messages which she cannot understand.

- What role do symbols play in our lives? Consider the oriflamme - the sacred banner of the Kings of France, which rests eternally in the basilica of St. Denis in Paris. Its heraldic device is a flaming red arrow. Ah the arrow. So strong, so indicative of a path to take. But in the end, so deadly.

Comprenez-vous?

Such is the magic of French, that even a phrase like "I have to go to the bathroom" acquires a special musicality and sophistication. In French, if you need to answer the call of nature, you say "Je dois passer au petit coin - I have to pass by the little corner".... If you say this in the right way, like my French teacher Sylvie (who I swear is the long lost twin of Bridgitte Bardot) with the appropriate fluttering eye movements and insouciant smirk, you can make people believe that you are not going to the bathroom at all, but a cute little boite for an exquisite meal and a secret rendez-vous with your lover.

When you exist in this world of the jutting lips and deep thoughts, it is easier to think of yourself as superior to others. One of my teachers, Kasse (who comes from Congo, and therefore is intimately acquainted with the perceived and actual arrogance of the French) asked me if I thought the French were arrogant. I paused, and said that if I were French, I would be arrogant as well (Si j'étais français, je serais arrogant aussi). Of course, English can be poetic too, but only when you think like a French person. That is to say, you must be simultaneously amused, disgusted and inspired by the human condition.

Indeed, I believe that in order to learn a language well, you must first of all think like a native speaker of the tongue. If you want to speak German, you must resign yourself to being angst-ridden, precise, and brutally direct. If you want to learn Italian, you must summon all the passion in your being and make the expression of your ideas a matter of life or death. To this mix you must add sophistication and the knowledge that all roads, real and imagined, lead to Rome. Only then can you speak like an Italian. It also doesn't hurt to wear a really nice suit. When I tried to learn Russian, I pretended that I was a 75 year old Babushka from a collective farm. It worked wonders for my consonants. I know people who speak foreign languages perfectly, but they lack passion and an understanding of the mind of a native speaker. So, in reality, they speak IPA. I also know people who can only speak a few words of a foreign language, but they are masters of communication. How do they do it? With a wild imagination, a perfect ear and ideally, a bottle of wine to share. Failing that, a few choice swear words and a well developed repertoire of facial expressions do the trick very nicely.

It is very nice to occupy your time in the pursuit of learning a foreign language, but the world has a way of intruding on things, and it came to pass that one afternoon I was compelled to explain the history of the Middle East to Kasse. In French. And if this doesn't summon all the vast resources of a language, nothing will. He was baffled by the complexity of it all (who isn't), and replied that we are all, au profond, the same, and that there are more things that link us together than would divide us. What a cliche, you might say. But if you say it in French, it does not seem so embarrassing. And so I would like you to read this phrase, and repeat it often:

"Nous sommes, au profond, tous les frères

Every day of the course, I wore a different pocket square. In this way, I could look sophisticated and European without having to spend a fortune. I also like pocket squares very much. Kasse admired them too, and so I bought him one as a thank-you gift in my favourite colour - lime green (or vert-citron). He was very touched, and he put it in his non-descript Berlitz-issue grey dress shirt. Kasse and I look very different. He is 6 feet tall and black. I am definitely not 6 feet tall, and about as far away from black as you can get, but that day we learned a little bit about each-other, and we both wore lime green pocket squares.

Which is to say that we found one more thing in common.

"Nous sommes, au profond, tous les frères " .

Just your typical Saturday night.....

I seem to be going to a lot of very interesting parties lately, which is how it should be, this being summer in Vancouver. I just came back from a loft in the remotest part of gastown where a gay couple from Oregon was celebrating their one year anniversary in Canada. Apparently, they lived in the one county in Oregon that allowed Gay marriage, so they got married. A few months later, the supreme court of the state overturned the law, and they were sent a letter in the mail informing them they were now divorced. Understandably, they came to Canada. I wonder what is going to happen if gay marriage becomes illegal here....Well, there is always South Africa.

I have no idea what these men do for a living, but they make a ton of money....and they spend it like children, which is to say on anything that strikes their fancy. There were 4 wine fridges, and a special humidified cabinet filled with whole prosciutto.... there was a room completely devoted to their single malt scotch collection. They celebrated their anniversary in Canada by opening bottles of Cristal with fencing swords and then we read Edna St Vincent Millay in between tokes of a Moroccan Hash Pipe. And just when you thought it could not get any more surreal, I noticed a well thumbed copy of Das Kapital beside the humidor. It is true when they say that the only difference between a crazy person and someone who is merely eccentric is a great deal of money.

I drank single malt langavulin and smoked vanilla flavoured cigarettes and my friend Ellie and I performed an impromptu concert of Puccini arias...Ellie has met a 45 year old man who looks like he is 30 because he is content with his life, and is not a tortured soul (or so Ellie says). And so, most of Ellie's technical issues when it comes to singing have sorted themselves out, even though she lives in Terrace and doesn't study with a teacher right now. This is what happens when you are happy. And that is the crazy thing about having an instrument which is inside you.

I was worried about the smoke and drinking affecting my voice, but then I remembered that Caruso smoked 4 packs of cigarettes a day, and then I relaxed and we had a great time. A man told me that I have a voice like port, which was a nice complement because I like port very much. Then this woman named Jen sang Van Halen songs, which was different, but still operatically intense and very good. Jen sings for fun...she is actually a software writer for a Norwegian internet company and just came back from skydiving in Utah. I like Jen because she smokes and drinks and laughs a lot, and clearly likes it. Now that you can't smoke anywhere and people are drinking low calorie beer or worse, we need more people like her. She also has the best books in her bathroom... Like a guide to walking tours in Vancouver from 1974 and a pocket size historical atlas of Europe. She also has a recording of Fidelio, and I think that has added a Beethoven-like profundity to her music making.

Anyway, I don't really know what I am talking about because it is 4 in the morning and I have many substances floating within me... but I am happy that I got to sing with my friend Ellie, just like last week I got to sing with my friend Rebecca. Ellie, Rebecca and I are sensitive people with big voices which is very special but sometimes hard. I told Ellie that some day we will all sing in a production of Die Walkure together. Rebecca will be Brunnhilde, Ellie will be Sieglinde and I will be Siegmund. We will sing lustily and we will laugh and be very aware of who we are and at the same time unaware of ourselves to the extent that we can let the music speak. And that is what you must do to sing.

Last week, my friend Rebecca got married, and I was supposed to write about that today.
However, I almost never write about what I think I am going to write about. And that is what you must do to write, I guess. Well, the wedding was supremely beautiful. There was Albanian honey cake and homemade quilts and the rain stopped when they said their vows.

As I was leaving to come back to Vancouver, Rebecca told me that the world was a safe and accepting place.

And despite all the contradictions, and taking into account the fact that one day a couple can get a letter in the mail saying that they are no longer married due to a clerical error, I believe it.

Transitive Properties

Mathematics 100: Geometry and Logic
Final Examination


Question: What happens when you draw lines through a pre-existing entity?

Answer: If you take an object (say, an unbroken circle) and bisect it at its widest point with a straight line, you will create a new object made up of congruent halves. For our purposes, we will call these compartments. The space once taken up by the object will also be lessened, due to the presence of the straight line. Note also that the extent of this diminishment will depend on the amount of space alloted to the straight line. If you bisect this straight line with another straight line, at a right angle, you will create a cross. This cross will diminish the size of the original compartments, and through careful analysis, you will be able to prove that the compartments can now only relate to one another in terms defined by the cross. Please also observe that while the resulting compartments have similar characteristics, they cannot join until the cross is overcome and the straight lines have been erased.

- End of Proof.

Before beginning the following question, please take time to review the following definitions:

Transitive Property of Equality:

"If a = b and b = c, then a = c.

The Transitive Property is one of the equivalence properties of equality. This is a property of equality and inequalities. One must be cautious, however, when attempting to develop arguments using the transitive property in other settings."

Lemma

"A helping theorem. A lemma is proven true, just like a theorem, but is not interesting or important enough to be a theorem. It is of interest only because it is a stepping stone towards the proof of a theorem."

Postulate:

"A statement accepted as true without proof. "

Axiom

"A statement accepted as true without proof. An axiom should be so simple and direct that it is unquestionably true. "



Question: Ben likes boys. What does that make Ben?

Answer

1) Ben likes boys. Therefore, Ben is gay (see lemma “if you are a boy and you like another boy or boys you are gay” ).

2) Gay is bad ( one can infer this from the answer to the preceding question, or by using the popular "gay is bad" postulate).

3) Therefore, Ben is bad. (Transitive Property).



Bonus question – if you get this one right, you will pass the whole course, regardless of the work you have done before…

Ben is bad. Now what?


We have proven that Ben is a bad object. However objects have many definable properties and we can observe that Ben is also good in school and can play the piano and sing. He can also cook and imitate his parents in a way that makes people laugh. If Ben works at these things hard enough for a long enough period of time, it is logical that people will overlook his inherent evil characteristics.

However, there is a new concept which is really a very old concept which supposes that all objects are good. While this concept cannot be proven, per se, we find that if adopted, it becomes self-evident. It is therefore an axiom, though it is viewed by some as experimental, controversial and vulnerable. We believe it to be correct.


Therefore,

Ben,

Who likes boys,

Is good.

He will still play the piano and sing and make fun of his parents, but he will not do it so that others will overlook any other aspect of his being. In this way, we can assume that Ben, in all probabilty, will be observed in a more comprehensive way, and can therefore exist in a more cohesive manner.


- End of proof.

Why you should always remember to spellcheck.....

Look what I found on a tourism website about Canada:

NATIONAL ANTHEM"Ho Canada" was proclaimed national anthem on July the 1st of 1980, a century after to be sung the first time.

Alles hat ein Ende... Nur die Wurst hat zwei.

Once a year my mother and I have our tarot cards read. Not only is it great fun (we can be as self absorbed and anxious as we want to be for over an hour) but a tarot-session is about a third the price as a visit to the therapist, and the restaurant where we go serves great tempura. I ask you, does it get better than divining and fried food? Not in this life. During our most recent visit, the medium decided to forego the tarot cards as he had decided, upon reflection, that they got in the way of the psychic energy that flowed between himself and the client. This was perfectly fine by me. After all, I come from a race that has always been keen on leaving out the middle man, both in religion and retail. Besides, who needs cards when you have imagination and a wireless connection with the divine?

So then the time came when we had to decide who was to have their reading first. Of course, we each insisted that the other begin, not because we were being polite, but because we wanted to get the other's reading over with. You see, it is quite a trial to be polite and listen attentively when someone else is talking, but not talking about you. It is best to get this over with as soon as possible. Of course, my mother (being of an artistic disposition as I am) is of the same opinion. And so she smiled and looked at me with her " remember that I am your mother and I gave birth to you and I was in labour for 70 hours, indeed, it was the longest labour of 1979 at the Women's Pavilion" look. And so, my reading began.

The medium said that I was about to begin a new phase of my life, and that I must prepare myself for by "improving my attire" and "dressing the part". I took this to mean that I needed hand-tailored suits, or at the very least some off-the-rack Canali. My mother thought
that this was just a metaphor and had more to do with self-confidence. I tried to tell her that
you cannot help but feel your best when you are wearing deluxe Italian upper 200 count wool.
She adjusted the collar on her burlap cape and we moved on.

Apparently, in this time of transition, I will also be saying goodbye to many friends. This is true. As I write to you , Soula is preparing for a concert of Mozart arias at the Berlin Philharmonie,
Wade is on a plane to Quebec City where he will sleep on his friend's couch and learn French in an immersion program of his own design, and in a few weeks Randy will depart for Shanghai to set up an office for her boyfriend's engineering firm.

And then there is Arvedt, who has been recalled to Berlin to work in the protocol office, arranging travel for Chancellor Merkel.

The other night, we were sitting by the ocean, and I was eating Malaga ice cream, which is my favourite. Malaga is like rum-raisin, but the raisins are soaked in rum which for an obscenely long period of time, and then folded into a custard with an obscenely large number of egg yolks. Really, it should be banned. Eating it makes me feel like naughty and rich, like Catherine de Medici, who fit both descriptions very well. Along with the dinner fork and the corset, she is credited for having introduced three important things to France that define it to this day: gastronomy, high heels, and riots. She also introduced ice cream. I can see her now, in her bodice and stiletto heels -- Nero-like -- giving orders to carry out the St. Bartholemew's Day Massacre of Protestants while nibbling on a delicate strawberry ice.

And I am troubled, because while the Huguenot sympathizer in me hates her, the foodie in me cannot help but worship. Had it not been for vain Catherine, the French would still be eating things like goat udder stewed in hyppocras. Worse, they'd still be eating like the English.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, Arvedt. Arvedt was not eating Malaga ice cream. He was telling me about his camping trip to Saltspring Island, which is famous for being infested with mice. Arvedt hates mice, and so he told me how spent the evening lying down in his puptent wearing his bike light as a bandana and throwing morsels of cheese and trailmix to the rodents... not so that they would go away, but so that they would stop for a moment and eat. At which time Arvedt would hit them:

"Oh gott. Means like, the mices were everyvhere, and I kept hitting them with cheese and trailmixes... I said to myself, Gott, if I die now, it would be okay."

I stared laughing uncontrollably, but he looked at me with a straight face and said

"Why are you laughing? You have never had an experience such as this?"

We started to talk about the coming months, and I asked Arvedt how he felt about leaving Canada. He smiled and said

"Well, you know, in German, we have this silly expression: Alles hat ein Ende. Nur die wurst hat zwei"

Which means: Everything has an end. Only a sausage has two.

I wonder what Catherine de Medici would think about that!