Crocuses

There they are, these harbingers of spring, peeking out, pert and pretty above the debris of previous fall.

Gardening

The light is crisper, brighter, the smell fresh and new. It's spring. The garden is glaring at me, its dried up plants screaming to be cut, its soil begging to be cleaned and aired out. The crocuses are peeking out, tiny yellow and purple petals of hope among desolate brown leaves and twigs. I cannot get myself to start because it's a full day's work. It's Easter anyway. Dinner with my sisters and their families. Going back to the garden, I don't connect to the soil like some friends do. I admire their gentle caring, their nimble fingers, the way their hands lovingly get into the dirt. To me, it's a vigorous, sweaty chore. I keep postponing until the forsaken garden hurts my vision so much that I rush on my knees, and hack away to expose all the healthy green growth, the perennials that will soon blossom into summer colours. The results of my labour: a garden lush with nature's wondrous gifts. Why do I wait so long? Same story every year.

He's a lawyer, not a warrior

He tells me he wants to be in my short stories so he can read about himself in print one day. I haven’t had a need for a lawyer yet in my writing. But since B is a good friend of ours, here goes:

He has a relaxed posture, the kind made to lie down on a lounge chair by the swimming pool, to sip drinks with bright pink umbrellas floating in them. He smacks his lips with the appreciation of a connaisseur when he eats escargots à l'ail, drinks Pisse-dru, and looks at women in short skirts and cleavages. His navy suit builds up his thin frame into a slick package that speaks legal jargon with aplomb. Take the suit off and he’s so loose, you could fold him up neatly into a precious small bundle and put him inside your pocket. But you can't take him home. He's happily married. His young son, blue eyes ardent, innocent, adorable, says he wants to grow up to be a 'wawyer' like his dad. Your dad, a warrior? No, dear, he's a bon vivant.

B, go for it. Life is short.

French movies

This week is the 9th annual celebration of International Francophone cinema held by Cinéfranco at the Ropyal Cinema in Toronto. What a treat if you can catch some of the 38 movies playing this week. All films are subtitled in English. I already saw Travaux (Housewarming). Carole Bouquet plays a lawyer who sympathizes with new immigrants including illegal ones whom she defends and befriends. She hires them to add a staircase to her house and it's a wild hilarious journey where bourgeoisie meets immigrés in a chaotic clash of cultures and a renovation nightmare. Bizarre at times with Carole Bouquet dancing on the judges's desk to win her cases, it's French comedy with empathy for the plight of immigrants.

I also saw Combien tu m'aimes? (How much do you love me?). Monica Bellucci plays a ravishing prostitute (Daniela) and Bernard Campan, a very infatuated Parisian (François). Great scenes in Paris and tons of funny situations and terrific lines. "Someone who is so loud when having sex is only faking it," says François' neighbour who can't stand Daniela's erotic screams. The sexy neighbour then proceeds to make the sounds she claims are more authentic, arousing François in the process.

I'm looking forward to see De battre mon coeur s'est arrêté (The beat that my heart skipped). It has won many awards in France. I wish I could watch many many more. It's so much fun indulging in French movies. It renews my enthusiasm for the language, the culture and I can't have enough.

Prix pour la francophonie

J'ai reçu un appel de CIUT 89.5 FM (radio de l'Université de Toronto) pendant leur émission française (tous les dimanches, de 11:00 à 13:00 heures) car j'avais participé à leur concours pendant la semaine de la francophonie (qui aboutit dans une célébration spéciale demain, le 20 mars, Jour Internationale de la Francophonie) en répondant à plusieurs questions sur la francophonie et celui là: Le français, ça vous chante?

Ma réponse: Le français, ça chante avec une chaleur sensuelle à travers mes veines.

Et devinez? J'ai gagné le grand prix: deux billets Via Rail pour Montréal. J'ai fait une petite entrevue avec l'animateur Eric Cader mais j'avais de la difficulté à respirer car j'étais tellement emballée par cette bonne nouvelle. Que j'ai hâte de te revoir, Montréal! En parlant de chance, hier je disais que j'aimerais bien voir la pièce de Michel Tremblay en français à Montréal et aujourd'hui je reçois deux billets gratuits pour y aller. Ai-je un ange gardien qui m'écoute?

I got a call from CIUT 89.5 FM (University of Toronto radio) during their French program (every Sunday from 11:00 am to 1:00 pm) because I participated in their contest during Francophone week (which culminates tomorrow, March 20th, in a special celebration of International Francophone Day) by answering several questions, one of them being: How does French appeal to you?

My answer: French sings through my veins with a warm sensuality.

Guess what? I won their first prize: a trip for two by Via Rail to Montreal. I had a short interview with the radio host Eric Cader, but I was kind of out of breath from this sudden good news. Wow! Here I come again, Montreal! Talk about wishful thinking. Yesterday I mentioned I'd like to see Michel Tremblay's play in French in Montreal, and today I win two tickets to go there! Is there a guardian angel out there?

French theatre in English

Went to see Past Perfect at the Tarragon. I like the cosiness of this small theatre. Our seats were so close to the stage that when Albertine raged with passion, we could see her lips tremble and wild fire leaping from her eyes. The backdrop of silent slow-motion black and white movies from the twenties gave a dramatic atmosphere to the scene. Talented actors and engaging script made for an enjoyable afternoon. It was as convincing a performance as one could produce in English but I wish I could have seen this play of Michel Tremblay in French since it is about a Québécois family after all. Ce sera pour la prochaine fois à Montréal.

painting and sketching

I love the fluidity of dyes on silk. It's like watercolour but the dyes move much faster. I have to move the brush quickly and be intuitive with the alchemy of colours. If you like this scarf, there are more at the Guild Shop in Yorkville, Toronto, or The Gallery Shoppes in Winnipeg.




I enjoy the gentle motions of silk painting. But every once in a while, I crave for a hard surface under my hand, I need to paint or sketch on paper. I love to observe people, and draw whatever inspires me about them, whether it's their hairdo or their sensuality. Human nature is so complex, and yet so full of simple moments. I recreate the person, and it is an imagination-filtered version as opposed to a photo of them. Not to say one is better than the other because photographs can capture the essence and the mood of people with artistic expressiveness. When I can't find an interesting subject to sketch, magazine photos are great for inspiration.

Paroles - Jacques Prévert

Je suis comme je suis
Je suis faite comme ça
Quand j'ai envie de rire
Oui, je ris aux éclats
J'aime celui qui m'aime
Est-ce ma faute à moi
Si ce n'est pas le même
Que j'aime chaque fois
Je suis comme je suis
Je suis faite comme ça
Que voulez vous de plus
Que voulez vous de moi

Je suis comme je suis - Paroles - Jacques Prévert

I am who I am
I am made like that
When I want to laugh
I hoot with laughter
I love who loves me
Why is it my fault
If it's not the same
That I love each time
I am who I am
I am made like that
What more do you want
Do you want from me

Le plaisir

L'homme est né pour le plaisir: il le sent, il n'en faut point d'autre preuve. Il suit donc sa raison en se donnant au plaisir.

Pensées - Blaise Pascal

Mankind is born for pleasure. It feels it. It does not need any other proof. It follows its common sense when it pursues pleasure.

On books and love

Some books I've been reading lately: Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club, a compelling, fast-paced writing style that suits the graphic violence in it; Joan Didion's The year of Magical Thinking, a very lucid account of a shattered life after losing a husband of forty years. (Teri, thanks for the recommendation); Marguerite Duras' Le ravissement de Lol V. Stein, an intriguing story, with a cinematographic quality to it, about the strange behaviour of a jilted woman.

Never meant to focus on such depressing topics, but the books were inspiring, and have put me in a mood for experimenting with different writing styles. Come to think of it, these books all have to do with love. In Fight Club, it's a lack of it that leads to violence. In the other two, it's all about the loss of loved ones.

Après avoir souffert, il faut souffrir encore;
Il faut aimer sans cesse, après avoir aimé.
Poésies - Alfred de Musset

After having suffered, there is more suffering;
After having loved, there's a constant need to love.

An artist from Winnipeg

I was told from sshhh ... a very reliable source born there, that some of the greatest in Canada come from Winnipeg. From singers like Neil Young, and Burton Cummings of The Guess Who to writers like Carol Shields (The Stone Diaries) and Miriam Toews (A Complicated Kindness), there is tremendous creativity in minus thirty degrees. My sister-in-law is not only very pretty, smart, and kind, she's also a wonderful artist. I like the mood in this watercolour of hers. Need a portrait of yours for posterity? She can do it from a photo. To find out more about her work, you can e-mail Charmaine Johnson Putnam at: toputnam@mts.net


© Charmaine Johnson Putnam

Umoja

Went to see Umoja, a South African show in which dancers, singers, and drummers infused us with their vibrant energy. Colourful costumes, voices that belt out with joy or mournfulness, frenetic drumming, and then, the dancing. Powerful, sensual and compelling. Rhythmic foot stamping, hip grinding, pelvic tilts, zapping kicks, and jumps. My feet were moving on their own, itching to hop on stage with them. The drums were pounding, taking over the pulse of our heartbeats, making the spectators one with the performers. At the end of the show, when the crowd was invited to dance, not one person hesitated. Young and old of all colours were wiggling their hands, and rolling their hips. It was Umoja (the spirit of togetherness).

A weekend in Montreal

Montreal was white with snow. We strolled along the Vieux Port, and stepped into a photo gallery. A young Québécois photographer working there: J'aime prendre les photos des gens dans la rue. On me dit que je suis bon. He's good at taking photos of people... Ever since Montreal released all its crazy people on the street, it's been more interesting taking portraits, he said. He told us where to eat and dance in Montreal.


Marché Bon Secours was a treasure trove. I love Quebec craftspeople, that they're willing to take risks, and are so bold with shapes and colours. Bought a few things I don't need, but they just looked so neat and different. Slippers, wallet, another hat ... How do I rationalize these purchases? They're a tiny contribution to the Canadian economy. They also brought goodwill from our Québécois vendors who were thrilled that Torontonians could speak French so fluently.

Commencer l'année avec une visite à Montréal, c'est comme respirer une bouffée de joie. Marcher dans les rues est une petite aventure en soi. Les gens se regardent. Il y a des échanges, une curiosité, une connection. Parler français, c'est déjà plus chaleureux. Ici, on célèbre la vie, les petits moments de bonheur et on est heureux. Ma copine et moi, on s'est amusé avec une telle intensité qu'on ne sentait plus le froid.

Marcel Proust's long sentences

Elle avait appris dans sa jeunesse à caresser les phrases au long col sinueux et démesuré, de Chopin, si libres, si flexibles, si tactiles, qui commencent par chercher et essayer leur place en dehors et bien loin de la direction de leur départ, bien loin du point où on avait pu espérer qu'atteindrait leur attouchement, et qui ne se jouent dans cet écart de fantaisie que pour revenir plus délibérément - d'un retour plus prémédité, avec plus de précision, comme sur un cristal qui résonnerait jusqu'à faire crier - vous frapper au coeur.

Un amour de Swann, Marcel Proust (1871 - 1922)

In her youth, she had learned to caress long sentences of Chopin, sinuous, excessive, so free, flexible and tactile, sentences which start by trying to find their place outside and far from the direction of departure, far from the spot where one hoped to feel their touch, and they played within this gap of fantasy only to come back more deliberately - a premeditated return, with more precision, like crystal that reverberates to the point of making you scream - to hit you in the heart.

I tried to translate this passage of Marcel Proust to convey his typical writing style, but it doesn't of course have the same flow as in French. At first, his long-winded sentences seem affected, incomprehensible and annoying, but when I read them again, and get used to his meditative tone, I find a lyrical quality to them, as if they're undulating, but with precise details and deeper meaning. I've always loved the flow of long sentences, but I never thought a writer could indulge in them to such extent that they work so well.

Perception of Pain by Anaïs Nin

"The primitive begins each day anew and does not relate today to yesterday, or envisage tomorrow. With lack of relatedness comes absence of pain. Pain comes from awareness ... It is our efforts to escape or protect ourselves from pain and shock which create a realm of anxiety unknown to the primitive. We live to defeat nature and they learn to live with it ... But the primitive had a natural paradise. We do not. We have to create an artificial one."

The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Volume Three 1939-1944
Anaïs Nin

I like the way Anaïs Nin analyzes emotions and tries to make sense of them. What she says is so true about pain. But I don't like the use of the word artificial here. I believe that the natural paradise she talks about is within us because we all have the primitive in us. It's a matter of letting the primitive come to the surface, feeling with all our senses, living in heightened moments of awareness. But it's also a matter of balance. If we live as primitives only, will we be able to feed ourselves? But then, when we're too busy defeating nature, and acquiring material goods, are we in touch with our higher needs? Finding a balance between the two is perhaps the key to happiness.

A weekend in the country

It was magical, the snow, the way it had covered every single tree that lined the laneway towards my friend's country house. We were entering a fairy tale land with white soft contours just a few hours after leaving the angular shapes of busy bustling Toronto. As if we had arrived in Narnia through the car instead of the wardrobe. The next day we shovelled, took a walk with the dog, fed the birds, watched blue jays and chickadees peck with zest at the feeder. White flurries formed momentary curtains when the sun dislodged large patches of snow from tall trees. The lake gleamed, majestic, omnipresent. By evening most snow had melted. Sitting by the crackling warmth of the fireplace, we gazed at the leaping flames, looked outside at the continuous rippling of water, the changing tones of sunset, and talked late into the night. My friend's partner had passed away over a month ago. She needed to talk about him. His spirit was there. I could feel it. She is discovering the challenges of living alone in the country. But the rewards are abundant.




I enjoyed being there. That feeling of communion with nature, that peacefulness, that friendliness and solidarity it brings in people. Breathing in the smell of pine, of damp soil, of burning logs. The deep silence at night. A light breeze swishing through the trees. A lone bird calling. The silence again. One learns to listen to one's heart. It felt good to be replenished with a good dose of nature before going back to the city.

Twelve Women Breaking Bread

There were twelve of us at a potluck dinner to raise money for educational projects for women in Afghanistan where 90% of women are illiterate. It's part of an initiative by an organization called Breaking Bread for Women. It is run entirely by volunteers. I'm impressed that no one is being paid a huge salary to run this organization. I like the ongoing reports on their website about how donations are being spent, for example paying teachers' salaries, building new schools, etc.

It is stimulating and empowering to be in the company of women eager to help others. Our desire to initiate changes, knowing we can make a difference turned the evening into a cheerful, upbeat exchange of ideas and stories.

With globalization, faster communication and travels, the western world is more aware of the needs of developing countries. Dare we think there will be a new pattern to our self-centred consuming habits? That instead of indulging in another pair of shoes, another dress, another piece of jewellery we don't need, we will see what that money will buy: $750.00 is a year's salary for a teacher in Afghanistan, which means the chance for women to be educated, to get out of the cycle of poverty and eventually help bring peace to their country.

It seems like a naive and idealistic project, but I believe that massive changes often start with small steps in the right direction by people who listen and act with their heart.

Karate

Hurrah! I've done it! I've just got my black belt at a graduation ceremony this afternoon. Did a few kicks in the air, punched, flipped weapons around, chopped wood with my bare hand, threw attackers on the ground. It was so much fun.

A childhood dream has come true. Just to prove it's never too late to learn anything. When I was a kid, I wanted to chop, kick, and flip in the air like Emma Peel of The Avengers. 

To refresh my memory, I saw an old episode of The Avengers. I was shocked to see the woman I considered most sophisticated and liberated - oh, that smirk, those body moulding outfits, and black leather boots - seem so amateurish now. But times have changed. I'm after a new role model: Lara Croft of Tomb Raider fame. Sorry Emma.

Karate has been an incredible journey towards understanding what my body can do. When I look back at the tentative beginnings about six years ago, I'm awed at the strength and skills I've acquired.

To give each movement its intense power, one learns to go inside one's mind and body, and leave out all outside influence. That power of concentration extends to other aspects of life, giving confidence and focus in whatever one undertakes.

It's been a rewarding experience. Sweating and releasing repressed energy. Learning to defend myself. Toned muscles. Discipline was the toughest during the first year. Not just getting to class, but having to bow and show respect to higher belts, even though I felt little respect for certain types. One of the incentives that spurred me to drag myself to the club week after week at the beginning was the chance to admire those muscular male bodies in action. And the thrill of training with all that masculine energy.

Of course over the years, the elation of keeping fit and the deep feeling of camaraderie with other members made karate become a necessity. We're a large family and I love hugging those great bodies.

Les Fleurs du Mal

Derrière les ennuis et les vastes chagrins
Qui chargent de leur poids l'existence brumeuse,
Heureux celui qui peut d'une aile vigoureuse
S'élancer vers les champs lumineux et sereins;

Spleen et Idéal, III. - Élévation, Les Fleurs du Mal,
Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)

According to Baudelaire, one can overcome painful, debilitating heartbreaks by flapping one's wings towards brighter fields. I agree that the best way to forget is to have a change of scenery, travel, move to a different place, exercise, make new friends, touch others. To make it short, find any distraction that gets your heart pumping for a different cause. Eventually time heals, and one gains new perspective on the situation. Et voilà! Life is full of other pleasures worth living for.

Leaving this world

In recent weeks, I've been thinking of death. The beloved partner of a friend passed away after a motorcycle accident. He had just retired. She is floating, can't accept that he is suddenly not there to touch and feel when he is so present in spirit. I remember his warm, confident smile, as if he was embarking on some fun expedition.

Then, a few days ago, I heard about a friend who passed away in his sleep. He was only 51. I hadn't seen him since we were teenagers. I can clearly see him coming to my house to say goodbye before he left for his studies in Europe. He had large, kind, innocent eyes, and dark straight hair that he kept flipping from his eyes. I will always remember him that way.

Then, there is the nun from my high school who was so different from the rest, never lectured me about why I didn't go to church. Love seemed to radiate from her pores. I could feel her positive energy seeping through me with a mere eye contact or nod of her head. This charismatic person is still alive and well in spirit to all those she touched even though she passed away from cancer recently.

When people I know die, and I haven't seen them for a long time, I feel the pain of those who lived with them, how they will miss them, but I don't feel their physical absence myself. They're still alive to me, in my mind, in whichever way they've affected my life.

Then, there are all these people who died in the Tsunami, in New Orleans, in Pakistan, those who die from wars, hatred, revenge, violence. Even though I don't know them, I imagine the horror of such deaths, and cry for them.

And here we are, lucky to be alive. Why don't we celebrate it more? Every day? Every hour? Every minute?