Purgatory for fascists

We're entering into what I think of as The Birthday Season at our house. My birthday is in a few days, followed immediately by that of elder daughter, then a host of friends' and family birthdays in early May, including that of younger daughter. Just before that, before we topple into the topography of Taurus, we trip over the hurdle of a troubling birthday which is today. I mean, elder daughter was born on Shakespeare's birthday (or what is assumed to be, based on the day of his christening three days later) which is nifty. I was born on Lenin's birthday which is considerably more ambiguous, but what about someone born today? Today is Hitler's birthday. I suppose you could concentrate on other much nicer people born today, but he's a heck of a person with whom to share your day, isn't he? Actually, one of my favourite songs is about Hitler, but to explain why, I have to back up a bit:

For some years, I was a volunteer at Hospice Victoria. Being a volunteer meant attending a lot of workshops, and we were well versed in the Kübler-Ross Model, otherwise known as the Five Stages (of Dying, of Grief, of Loss, etc.). We learned that the five stages didn't just apply to death and bereavement; you experience the stages every day, sometimes within seconds:
"I can't have lost my keys!" (Disbelief)
"Dammit! Where are the *&$%# keys?" (Anger)
"Please, not today..." (Bargaining)
"Well, this blows everything..." (Depression)
"I'll meet so-and-so from work, get his keys and then figure out what to do." (Acceptance)

I read somewhere a few days ago that Elisabeth Kübler-Ross's model is now losing its hallowed status, as many people apparently recover from loss without the long period of "grief work" that the five stages imply. I don't know; the theory always made sense to me. Kübler-Ross went into a rather odd stage after she became well-known, where she was interested in the afterlife. Not that it's odd to be interested in the after-life, but she seemed to be under the spell of some character named Jay Barham who was one of those people who claimed to channel dead spirits. I remember reading a magazine article (I think it was in Mother Jones) where the interviewer was asking her questions about this and sounded very baffled and bewildered, as Kübler-Ross said how every soul is redeemable. Naturally, the interviewer came up with the old war-horse: "What about Hitler?"

Now, I'm trying to paraphrase this from memory alone, so I'll probably get it wrong, but she answered something like this: that Hitler would be brought to a place where he could see, and come to understand, the consequences of what he had done.

This fuzzily-remembered idea has haunted me for years. At the Resident Fan Boy's church, they used to have a pre-confession prayer. I say "used to", because churches seem to be phasing out confession and saying you're sorry. Anyway, they used to say: "Some sins are plain to us; some escape us; some we cannot face." So, try to imagine being made aware not only of what you've done wrong, but of what you've done wrong that you didn't know was wrong. Is that purgatory? Or is that hell? We all wound others without being aware of it. Oh geez...

Back in the days when I still had LaunchCast, I was sent a song by John Wesley Harding (who was born Wesley Stapes), called "Hitler's Tears". I've tried to find a way of embedding or linking the actual song here (it appears in Why We Fight, and in a slower more acoustic form in The Garden of Eden), but the best I can do is an Amazon sample that gives you thirty seconds. (Update:  someone has posted it on YouTube -- but for how long?) 

I don't know if I understand the song at all, but whenever I hear it, I think of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, who moved into the afterlife about seven years ago, standing with her hand on the shoulder of Hitler as he's made to look beyond the veil of unknowing that protects us all. And he's sobbing. I also wonder if you looked into the heart of every dictator, would you find the face of a broken-hearted little boy?

Hitler's Tears

One man's tears stain the pillow
Where he used to lay his head
She's left him for another man
So how come they're both sleeping in his bed?
He can hardly sleep for misery
You can hear him catch his breath
He grinds his teeth into the night
And God says "Hey, Adolf, are you all right?"

One boy's tears stain the paper
Where he writes his Christmas list
And he inks in broken German
"Send me the skill of a fine artist."
Then he wipes out half a continent
With a flick of his wrist
He's so lonely, so misunderstanding
As he pulls his blanket across the landing

You can hear them falling every day (Hitler's tears)
Just open up the newspaper (Hitler's tears)
You can hide, there's no escape from Hitler's tears--
Just what makes the Führer blue?
He's crying for you

One man's tears--he was fascist
Before it was cool
'Cause now it's so expected
Just accept it that power is cruel
So he'll apply for reinstatement
Using new reincarnation rules
'Cause he's the only man, most certainly
Who could claim to have learned from history

Hitler cries himself to sleep, alone in Brazil, no one calls
How must it feel to be the biggest loser of them all?

One man's tears--salt water salutes the final trip
A thousand naughty Nazis
A fraülein with a bullwhip
A lullaby of Über Alles
A shaking upper lip
It's all become a Whitehall farce
That's how we tear our fears apart
But you shouldn't take it straight to heart
So the rest of us can get some sleep tonight
-John Wesley Harding (Wesley Stace)

Birthday buddy

Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

- Stevie Smith (1902-1971)

While I was getting up this morning and preparing to take younger daughter to school, they were burying my half-brother five time zones away. They found his body almost two months ago, and the inquest must have finally wrapped up.

In the years that I thought my father was dead, I had visions of him lost, drunk, and alone. When the video for "Joey" by Concrete Blonde came out, I could hardly bear to watch it. It turned out that my father landed on his feet. My half-brother, alas, kept on falling:
My half-brother's birthday is on Saturday. It's the same day as mine.

A review of the audio book version of Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded by Simon Winchester

Some time around 8:30 on the morning of May 18, 1980, I was reading in bed, it being the Sunday morning of the Victoria Day long weekend. Victoria Day is a big deal in Victoria, for obvious reasons, but most of the big events take place on the Monday, so I was mildly surprised to hear what I thought was the twenty-one gun salute down at the Inner Harbour. It sounded like a steady series of explosions: Boom...boom...boom.... I didn't count them, but remembered thinking it was an odd time to be having them; such a ceremony usually took place on the hour, a bit later in the morning. It was only when the news came through from Seattle that I realized that what I'd been hearing was the catastrophic eruption of Mount Saint Helen --- two hundred miles away. Some of my Esquimalt neighbours reported the same thing; others didn't hear a thing, but noticed their windows rattling.

On August 27th, 1883, where the western tip of Java nearly meets the southern tip of Sumatra, the volcano Krakatoa finally blew itself apart, and people as far as 3000 miles away heard what they thought were cannons. Since Morse code and undersea cables were a recent innovation, the news spread quickly. At least 32,000 people had died in the monstrous tsunamis and other horrors generated by this natural disaster, the first catastrophe to be so quickly and widely reported, as well as so deeply studied.

Those coming to Krakatoa: The Day the World Exploded and expecting a grisly account of the disaster itself may be disappointed. Simon Winchester begins with the leisurely and detailed objective of placing the event in every context imaginable: historic, economic, geologic, sociological, political, meteorologic.... It's a long journey indeed before he gets down to a meticulous retelling of the events leading up to and those resulting from the series of terrifying blasts in the Sunda Strait.

While it's true the story is especially gripping at that point, I found the roundabout journey compelling as well. This may be because I was listening to the audio version of the book, read clearly and pleasantly by Winchester himself. I enjoyed his dry humour and his multifaceted approach.

I have a bone to pick with him, however. In passing, he mentions the 1980 eruption of Mount Saint Helen, comparing it with the unbelievable cacophony of Krakatoa a century earlier and stating that in Mount St Helen's case, the blast was not heard beyond the immediate surrounding mountain range. Evidently, Mr Winchester did not speak to anyone in Victoria, British Columbia....

For those hungry for the angst and agony of Krakatoa's death throes, you might seek out the 2006 BBC docu-drama on the subject Krakatoa: The Last Days, starring Olivia Williams and Rupert Penry-Jones, which I believe features interviews with Simon Winchester himself. I haven't seen this film, which is unavailable in Canada, but some lengthy excerpts are available at YouTube:

Show tune shush

I'm not a violent person. I have committed acts of violence in my heart, but I beg forgiveness. Or, perhaps you want to join in the virtual bloodbath? Tell me, have you ever been to say, a concert, a show, or a movie where someone wants to have a chat? Let's have a show of blood-stained hands. Hmmn. Quite a few. (And you people to the right, this is pretend blood, okay?) Now,how about when someone wants to sing along with a performance you've paid good money to see?

I sat next to a sweet lady when I went to see the Dance Theatre of Harlem some years ago. Part of the programme included scenes from Sylvia. I don't have the DTH's version at hand, but here's the Royal Ballet:The lady recognised the music and started in: "Dit-dit, dit-dit, dit-dit, dit-dit, dit-dit, DIT DIT..." She did seem to clue in to my appalled demeanour, but seemed gently puzzled. I don't really think she knew she was doing it.

Do you think this might be the problem? That people genuinely are unaware that they're singing along (the couple who were delighted that they knew several tunes in Tchaikovsky's Sixth Symphony), or banging out the rhythm on the back of your seat with their feet (that guy behind me who liked "Fat and Greasy" at Ain't Misbehaving):'Cause they sure seemed annoyed when I asked them to stop, as if I were the rude one, or some sort of spoil-sport.

So last night, the Resident Fan Boy, younger daughter and I went to Show Tune Showdown. As I blogged about it last year, it's a fundraiser for one of our local gay-lesbian-transgendered-and-some-straights choir (this one is called "Tone Cluster") and is something like those show-biz competition shows like So You Think You Can Dance, so there are three 4-person teams from community or university musical theatre groups performing numbers from Broadway shows. We had a lovely time last year and a rather less lovely time this year. Because, guess what? This guy was chatting in the row behind us. I think he managed to contain himself during the actual musical numbers, although he had a very loud laugh, but he prattled through the introductory bits, and during the adjudications, he would make emphatic agreement noises: "Mmm-hmmm." "Yeah." "Uh-huh." Gosh, I wanted to smack him.

We gather that Show Tune Showdown will not be on next year, but is on for 2013. We're not sure why. The guy talked over it.

Seeing as I'm cold anyway...

I'm chilled. Cold rain all today, that turned into snow and I haven't the courage to check what it's doing now, although we're heading out to the theatre in a few minutes. I've been writing Easter letters today, then trying to come up with a quick post.

All I can think of is a song I first heard back in the days when MuchMusic (Canada's then-superior version of MTV) had "Peace and Love" videos all day on Christmas. It's on my iPod now and is one I never fast-forward through when it comes up on shuffle. There's a clearer version of this at YouTube, but there's a vastly irritating mini-commercial at the beginning, so I'm going with this one (and I'm not sure about the lyrics):
Rickie Lee Jones Satellite by Celtiemama
Satellites - Ricki Lee Jones

Well, we were born forever
We are twinned in a fugitive mind
Friends should stay together and
Light the world with the fugitive guide

So you keep talking in many languages
Telling us the way you feel
Got up fighting in the road you're on
Get up, you're a walking satellite

I just saw you walking
Ice was reading fortunes in the moonlight
Things he could not tell you
You'll never read more than you will tonight

So you keep talking in many languages
Telling us the way you feel
Got up fighting in the road you're on
Get up, you're a walking satellite

Ah, Satellite!

We were born forever
Tunneled into the fugitive night
Friends must stay together
Code the world with the fugitive light
Oh, I just saw you walking
Ice was reading fortunes by the moonlight
Casting runes on the rooftops and alleyways (baby)
You'll never read more than you will tonight

So you keep talking in many languages
Telling us the way you feel
Don't stop, fighting in the road you're on
Don't quit, you're a walking satellite

Ah! Satellites!

Every, every minute?

Being tired (again), I quickly checked my folders for photos taken in Aprils past and remembered that I got this digital camera for my birthday four years ago. I was terrified, but realized that the only way to get over the terror was to get out and start snapping. So I spent half an hour or so wandering along the banks of the Rideau River. It being April in Hades, I mostly went for branches in themes of grey and beige. Like so:



However, for some reason, I felt compelled to snap the little shopping district in our neighbourhood as I made my way home that Sunday afternoon. I thought it was a boring shot when I looked at it later, even made a half-hearted attempt to delete it.

Now I look at this ordinary scene and feel a bit spooked. It's difficult to make out in this photo, but just next door to the barber shop (you can see the old-fashioned barber's pole), there was a hardware store (see where the wheelbarrow is?) that had been there for many years, and next door to that, a rather more recent organic food store, where I bought "eco-cleaners" and the Resident Fan Boy got all our meat. A few weeks ago, the managers at the hardware store decided to have a spring sale event and in preparation for that weekend, stocked up the store with barbecue equipment, including several bags of self-starting charcoal.

That afternoon, younger daughter and I were heading out to take in a movie and found the traffic snarled and re-routed around a three-alarm fire. We retreated home and watched Twitter while the fire was upgraded to a five-alarm, and finally a six-alarm. Word went out for the neighbourhood to seal doors and windows due to the toxic nature of the blaze. (Well, it was a hardware store --- you can imagine...) When it was over, many hours later, the hardware store and the organic food store were gone, along with several apartments above the shops. The barber shop, another long-time neighbourhood institution, was so badly damaged that it is unlikely to re-open. No one hurt or killed, thank goodness, although a seniors' home nearby had to be evacuated. However, eight people lost their home and possessions, and three businesses were destroyed, with the other shops on the block damaged and even today, still using generators for power.

Stumbling upon this snap four years later, I'm reminded of that line from Our Town when a young girl, newly dead, is about to travel back to be a witness to a day in her life. When she asks about a special day, the so-called "Stage Manager" advises against it: "Pick an ordinary day, it will seem important enough."

Missing lives

Younger daughter likes the National War Museum. I'm not sure why, but during school breaks and holidays, it's something else to add to the list of things to get us out of the house. This past March break, I was ready when we approached one of the guides to get our hands stamped for entry:
"I'm here to see the Missing Lives exhibit."
"The what?"
"The Missing Lives exhibit about the Balkans; I saw it on the web site..."
Hurriedly, she checked with someone else, then told us to head straight, then turn left. When I got there, I understood her confusion. It was a small row of photos down a side hall. I suppressed my disappointment, then went to have what I'd thought would be a quick look.

Each photo had names beside it, sometimes just one, sometimes several. The people in the pictures were the relatives of those names, just a few of the thousands who disappeared when Yugoslavia disintegrated into a morass of civil war and mass murder in the 1990s. This exhibit, which is only making one Canadian stop, is based on the work of British photographer Nick Danzinger and Canadian writer Rory MacLean. They published a book last year, but the exhibit I saw concentrated on fifteen families caught in the nightmare of not knowing for years, even decades, what really happened to sons, daughters, sisters, brothers, husbands, mothers....

I do remember when the first stories of what went on in the former Yugoslavia first reached the newspapers. What was hard to grasp was, in so many instances, people were being beaten, raped, and murdered by neighbours after years of living side by side. Of the fifteen stories represented at the War Museum, the one that haunts me is that of a girl who was only a toddler at the time. They tied her father to a chair in his living room and shot him, starting with his legs. Then they turned to his wife, a woman they had known for years and said: "You did not expect us to be the ones to kill you. We are happy to surprise you."

Their one surviving child, spared because her aunt had taken her away before the murders, is now a young woman and was photographed by Danzinger during a recent visit to family home where these horrors took place. The neighbours can be seen peering at her from the house next door.

I mentioned a few months back that I had received a couple of books for Christmas that have poems for each day. The poems often have a spooky resonance with what is actually going in my life. This poem came up the week I went to the museum. It's written by Goran Simic who came to Canada with the help of PEN Canada in 1996, becoming a resident writer-in-exile at Massey College at the University of Toronto:

The Sarajevo wind
leafs through the newspapers
that are glued by blood to the street;
I pass with a loaf of bread under my arm.

The river carries the corpse of a woman.
As I run across the bridge
With my canisters of water,
I notice her wristwatch still in place.

Someone lobs a child's shoe
into the furnace. Family photographs spill
from the back of a garbage truck;
They carry inscriptions:
Love from...love from...love

There's no way of describing these things,
not really. Each night I wake
and stand by the window to watch my neighbour
who stands by the window to watch the dark.

(- The Sorrow of Sarajevo, Goran Simic, translated by David Harsent)

You can see some of the photos I saw in this interview with Nick Danzinger. The story to which I referred earlier is about three minutes in:

Facebook fable

Boy, you can get into trouble on the internet. I therefore tell the following tale with fear and trembling.

First off, what's been happening in Japan has been horrific. In my pre-mummy life, dimly remembered as it is, I was an ESL teacher and a fair few of my students were Japanese. Their faces flashed before me as I sat horror-struck in front of my computer watching events unfold and trying to remember which ones were from northern Japan.

The real conundrum, for me, began with letters to the editor and various Facebook postings pointing out how much more powerful the earthquake that hit Japan was than that which rocked Haiti. Then came links to articles pointing out that if you donated to various help associations, the money might well be diverted to other causes because Japan hadn't actually requested financial assistance. The underlying suggestion seemed to be that this was sneaky of said organizations.

Now, I feel that Japan is in great distress, just as Haiti is (still) in great distress. Japan, however, is a First World nation. This doesn't mean that they are not in dire peril, or that they in any way deserve to suffer. My guess though, is that in a year and half's time, a large portion of their population will not be living in tents, nor dying of cholera. Nor, do I think, will their women and children be vulnerable to sexual assault on a nightly basis. Which appears to be the situation in Haiti right now, with no real let-up in sight.

So, I decided, after some thought, to state in my Facebook status, simply that I making woefully inadequate donations to two organizations I trust: Unicef and Doctors Without Borders and marking them "Wherever the need is greatest".

Clearly, I should have just shut up and made the donations. A couple of friends marked the status with "Like" and then I heard from a long-time and treasured friend, who is a practising Jew and has, over the past few months, become rather more vocal on pro-Israeli issues. The latest upset has been on the subject of the massacre of the Fogel family on the West Bank. My friend and many members of her community were posting items decrying what they felt was the suppression of the story by the world press.

The problem with my Facebook status was apparently my support of Doctors Without Borders. Doctor Without Borders certainly has borders, she briskly informed me, saying they had a record of shutting out Israeli surgeons. A quick google brought up a letter from MSF/DWB about the incident, which occurred last summer in connection with a tanker explosion in the eastern Congo. I responded, cautiously, that I knew little about this controversy but included the link. Within minutes, she had sent me a link to an article from an Israeli journalist. I think I would have just left it at that, but a few minutes later, she sent another link to another article in a different publication. By the same journalist. In fact, it was essentially the same article with added details about MSF/DWB surgeons objecting to Israeli music in the operating room.

Oh dear. This friend is a valued one. I have been a guest in her home, and most importantly, she has been a gracious and kind supporter of younger daughter. Feeling a little sick, I deleted the whole post. When I told the Resident Fan Boy about it, he went into his anti-Facebook rant, complete with pacing. I distanced myself from him for a couple of days too. Eventually, the friendly messages from Vancouver resumed. Eventually, I spoke to my husband again. I will continue to support both Unicef and Doctors Without Borders, but in a New Testament fashion. In secret. I can't afford to lose friends.

Tu creasti Domine

As we saw the first of our buses drift into view, the Resident Fan Boy said, "The day is going well!"
"Hush!" I admonished him. "The Festival Gods will hear you!"

Most middle-class reasonably urban Canadian children eventually participate in a Kiwanis Music Festival. It's been a landmark of the middle-class, town-dwelling Canadian childhood since the middle of the last century. The Resident Fan Boy was entered with his school band, I competed as a member of my school choirs, plus my elementary school specialized in Scottish Country Dancing. Elder daughter is another school band KMF participant, and younger daughter experienced it with her elementary school choir. Today, though, younger daughter charted new territory for the family. She was entered in the Solo Female Vocalist Section: 14 and under.

See, it's one thing being judged as a group, it's quite another being judged individually. It's yet another thing being the parent of an about-to-adjudicated offspring, especially if that offspring dwells somewhere out on the autism spectrum. I spent the long bus ride over to Saint Timothy's Presbyterian Church in Alta Vista trying desperately not to think of everything that could go wrong, battling back thoughts such as: "Will she remember to acknowledge her accompanist?" "Will she talk during other solos?" and worst of all, "If she makes a mistake, will she stop and want to go back to the beginning?"

We got there early. Very early. The Resident Fan Boy is a Virgo, after all. He checked out the format with the adjudicators, who showed up about ten minutes after we did, then tried to relay an idea of what would happen to younger daughter. She slid further into the pew and covered her ears. My heart sinking, I watched the other contestants arrive with their families. The singers were easy to pick out; each one was clutching a plastic water bottle. Great, I thought. We didn't bring a drink for her. We're ba-a-a-ad parents...

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, one of the adjudicators rose to greet the knots of families, accompanists and soloists, all clustered to the back rows of the church, not daring to sit ahead of the adjudication desks. "You're so quiet!" she laughed. No one laughed back.

There were eight singers, all to sing "The Birds" (music by Eleanor Daley; lyrics by Hilaire Belloc). Daughter would be the last to sing. I tried to relax my hunched shoulders and focus on each girl. They all looked older than younger daughter who is one month from fifteen herself. Some were dressed in cocktail party-type dresses, some dressed as if for a job interview. Some sang in wavering voices; others sounded like opera singers. Some emoted, others glanced nervously from side to side. When younger daughter finally slipped up to the front with her accompanist, I realized that I had been sitting in the same position, without daring to move, for over half an hour.

And she sang, just as she's been rehearsing it for the past month. A little more softly than she should have been, but beautifully on key and directly to the adjudicators. I wish you could have heard her. When she finished, she made a graceful sweep of her hand toward her accompanist, then bowed with a smile and unhesitatingly took her seat in the row of soloists to await the adjudication. I could see her zoning out a little, while the adjudicator spoke, but she was quiet with just a hint of stimming. I could see the other contestants glancing discreetly at her.

At a Kiwinis Music Festival Event, it is customary to rank the top three. The three girls chosen were pretty well who we'd thought they'd be and theirs were only scores announced: 87 and two 86's. All the others got participation certificates and the notes the adjudicator had jotted down while they sang. We greeted younger daughter warmly and went over the comments which were constructive and encouraging: more engagement, more dynamics, "a lovely soprano sound", words well projected with good consonants, "very good preparation -- a very sincere and musical performance". Her voice teacher will be pleased. Her score? Does it matter? (Okay, it was 83.)

We were forbidden to record or take pictures, but I pressed the button on my iPod -- and the Festival Gods gave me a good recording....of the piano, so I am justly served. I do wish you could have heard her, because I'm her mother and not impartial.

The Resident Fan Boy says he has an ear-worm and can hear the song constantly. Unfortunately, it's his voice he hears singing it. I have an ear-worm too, but I've been hearing my daughter's "lovely soprano sound" in my mind's ear all day. There are worse things to be stuck with.

When April was too cruel

A couple of years ago, I took some snaps of how spring burst relentlessly into Hades, rather like a bullet hitting a soft target. Events rather overwhelmed me that year, so going back this evening, I rediscovered a couple that I thought were not bad and will post them here as placeholders. The first I call "Blood Will Out", and the second I've entitled "Out of Bounds. I'm afraid I've given the impression I'm not that fond of April in Hades.

Okay.

I'm not.