End of the month...

...but beginning of the week. I don't know what to think of it. There are moments like this, sometimes, I think I have a topic to blog about, or muse about, I feel I have one, even, but cannot quite grasp it. So what to think of this?

I don't like February much, or Monday for that matter. March is starting tomorrow. I like March better, if only for St-Patrick's Day. But it is a treacherous month, it can be springtime or just as cold as winter at its worst. But it is still dull February for a little bit and it agonises on a Monday. I guess it could be a sort of Blue Monday, but it is already getting lighter later outside and it does not feel that bad.

Pas de relâche

C'est le début de la Semaine de Relâche au Québec (j'en ai assez peu conscience ici), c'était la Relâche en Angleterre la semaine dernière (ils font ça en général la dernière semaine de février). Depuis que j'ai quitté le merveilleux monde de l'éducation (sans regret), je ne la vis plus. Ce qui ne me dérange pas du tout ici, pas pour la Relâche d'hiver en tout cas. Pour la Relâche d'automne c'est différent, je prendrais bien une semaine de vacances à marcher dans les bois.

Cela dit, février comme mars sont plutôt gris ici (la photo à gauche a été prise en février 2008, lequel était semblable à celui que l'on a présentement) et sans neige que faire lors de la Relâche? Je me le demande. Je ne tiens pas à ouvrir une page de nostalgie, mais enfant on avait pleins de trucs pour nous rendre actifs, je me rappelle surtout du patinage. Je me verrais bien refaire du patin à glace, mais pas au point de m'ennuyer d'une semaine de congé un mois pareil. Je préfère prendre mes vacances à un autre moment.

Fighting Sunday melancholia

My readers know that I find Sundays boring sometimes. I mean they often make me feel melancholic, moreso at the the last Sunday of a month like this one and when on top of that the day is rainy. But today so far I managed to fight the feeling pretty good, via various means:

-I read a fair deal, mainly Cut Short by Leigh Russell (who has been reading this blog for quite a while now, it was about time I start reading her). Nothing like crime fiction to forget about boredom, especially on a rainy Sunday. It is also good to have time to read (I will go back to it straight after I blog this).  I don't read nearly enough these days.
-I watched a bit of I Claudius on Youtube, which is nice to rediscover. I love British soaps when they are set in Ancient Rome and are murderous enough.
-Have a big hearty breakfast with peanut butter (Skippy as I cannot find Kraft here). Food melancholia is often the worst kind of melancholia, so it is nice to have something that is akin to what I find at home.

It appears that I blog lists these days. And that my posts are a bit trivial.

Mettre à jour le blogroll

Il était temps que je renouvelle mon blogroll. J'y ai ajouté Sur un Boeing Bleu de Mer ainsi que le blogue du Prof Solitaire. Pour une raison qui m'échappe et malheureusement, je n'ai pas réussi à mettre Au bord du Léman. J'espère pouvoir corriger ce problème bientôt. Dans tous les cas, le blogroll prend donc de l'ampleur et il se francise un peu et par ricochet ce blogue également.

Things I learned as an expat

I was reading this post again and it made me think about my journey as an expat and things I learned rom it, things that I did not mention in my first post. (Just an observation: some posts feed other ones). So here are some things I learned in my years living as an expat:

-You start hanging around with other foreigners before hanging around with locals. This was my experience anyway: the Italians first (and to a lesser extend the Greeks) and then the French people.
-There is no Québec diaspora. Which saddens me a bit. I could hang around various communities, but never my own. I guess it is because we do not have a big enough population to create a diaspora, especially here. We are scattered all around the map when we live abroad.
-Spending time with French people has more to do with language than culture. I never felt French with them, but I tremendously enjoy speaking French with native speakers when I can.
-You are rarely exotic when you live abroad. You are foreign, but rarely exotic.Which is better, in a way, because when they think you are exotic locals treat you like a platypus in a zoo: something weird and funny. Exotism is for tourists. Immigrants are foreign. That said, it might be different for Quebeckers living in France.
-Exotism is not something you will experience for long as an expat either. The country you move in quickly ceases to be exotic, no matter how hard was the cultural shock at first.

D'autres recherches qui mènent à ce blogue

Sitemeter (quelque part à votre droite) me fait faire découvrir des choses fascinantes sur le lectorat qui s'aventure ici au hasard des recherches sur Google (ou occasionnellement sur Bing). Alors j'ai décidé de refaire une mise en abyme et de bloguer sur ce blogue. Ce billet est plus précisément un nouveau sur les recherches qui mènent ici:

-"Chanson du Carnaval Souvenir de Chicoutimi" sur Google mène ici. Les billets sur le Carnaval-Souvenir sont particulièrement populaires ces temps-ci de l'année, je reçois beaucoup de visiteurs à le recherche d'information sur le défunt Carnaval. Comme quoi je ne suis pas le seul nostalgique.
-"Omertà" sur Google.com.ph (donc les Philippines) mène ici.
-Googlez Yamachiche et vous finirez par trouver ce billet.
-Et parlant de Yamachiche, j'ai reçu un visiteur de Yamachiche qui est venu sur ce billet en cherchant sur Google Images. Il y a donc des amateurs de furets à Yamachiche.

The world in a train journey

Something that strikes me from time to time and struck me this week: I live far, far from home. This week on the train, among the inspectors who sold me my ticket were some British guys, an Indian guy or two, a black girl from the West Indies (I think, for all I know she might be from London), who makes me feel quite old as she is a good ten years younger than I am (I mean she is the first ticket inspector whom I met who is younger than me) and a South African guy who is always quite friendly, especially when there is someone from the Southern Hemisphere among the passengers. It just feels a bit surreal, a guy from Chicoutimi being in England and seeing all those people, and sharing one thing with them.

Question existentielle (37)

Une question à portée sociologique:

-Somme-nous devenus trop sophistiqués?

My "lazy" English

I had my acting class last night. I will not blog too much about it, promise. Well, anyway I had it and it was, as usual, great. It will be very centered around voice work, which I find a bit sad as I love the physicality of acting, but I do need to work on my voice and well, my accent. I blogged about my accent before. I read a poem twice, the first time was so-so, the second time was great. But I do sound foreign. My teacher said that I had a very good but "lazy" English. It was a back handed compliment, I think. She asked if I spoke French at home (I very rarely do). Anyway, I need to eliminate some parts of my accent, at least for the stage (or, in that case, for recording): the "th" which I pronounce "d" like all Quebeckers, for instance. I could get away with it before as I was playing a Russian character, but this time I will have to play a native English speaker (wish I could play an alienated guy from Chicoutimi). So I need to get something more akin to an English accent, which I never managed to get in more than ten years here. My teacher said that I can easily correct my diction in two months. Interesting challenge, getting rid of my lazy English.

Le bout du monde

"Ici l'eau est profonde
C'est l'eau du bout du monde
Qui se laisse coiffer
Par le gel enneigé"

C'était un des couplets de la chanson-thème du défunt Carnaval-Souvenir de Chicoutimi, sur lequel j'ai déjà blogué ici.  On ne retrouve nulle part sur internet les paroles de la chanson, sauf sur le billet que j'ai écrit en 2009 et ici. Je fais donc dans la préservation d'antiquités et du patrimoine folklorique québécois. C'est quand même dommage qu'une chanson entraînante comme celle-ci et pas dénuée de poésie soit maintenant perdue, ou presque. Mais je m'en rappelle des paroles.

Elle m'est restée en tête parce qu'il fut un temps où le Carnaval-Souvenir était vraiment un gros évènement à Chicoutimi, avant que l'abruti à la mairie ne fasse sombrer sa ville dans l'insignifiance et le ridicule. (Ironique qu'un homme qui glorifie un catholicisme d'un autre âge ait décapité un festival qui célébrait notre passé et nous le faisait connaître.) Mais c'est aussi parce que j'ai toujours eu cette vision du Saguenay en général et de Chicoutimi en particulier (en en très particulier du rond-point où j'ai grandi) de bout du monde. J'ai grandi et j'avais vraiment l'impression de vivre au bout du monde, dans un coin certes développé mais perdu, un îlot de civilisation (c'était avant que Jean Tremblay soit maire) coupé du reste de la civilisation. Quand j'y retourne, j'ai encore un peu cette impression.

Acting again tomorrow

I will most likely not blog tomorrow, as it is the first class of my new acting course. I don't want this blog to be centered around it, I want to to be about various experiences, but this experience is worth blogging about, especially after I have been eagerly waiting for it for so long. I miss everything about acting. I guess I am really hooked. I have been sent links to plays we might perform. Somehow, I think the teacher think I might play His Return by Percival Wilde. I might be wrong and I haven't read the other ones. But I am eager to get started. And I am already thinking about the next step after this. I have no real acting ambitions, not anymore, but I do have dreams that might become projects.

Juste quand je m'ennuyais de St-Hubert...

Et je ne parle pas de ce Saint Hubert là, mais plutôt bien sûr de celui-ci. Enfin, j'apprends qu'il sert des repas trop salés. Stupéfaction, horreur, je ne m'y attendais pas (et vous?). Je me fous un peu des autres: Mikes je n'y vais plus, Pacini j'en pense tout le mal qu'on peut en penser et je ne suis jamais allé dans La Cage aux Sports, parce que pour moi c'est l'archétype du restaurant quétaine. Je la surnomme d'ailleurs La Cage aux Porcs.

Croyez-le ou non, je n'ai pas mangé du St-Hubert depuis 2007! C'était à Dorval en attendant mon vol de correspondance vers Chicoutimi (plus jamais!). L'ennui c'est que c'est le restaurant qui accomode extrêmement mal les végétariens et je mange rarement seul. Il n'y a rien de bien original dans la cuisine de St-Hubert, mais si la cuisine n'est pas typiquement québécoise, la chaîne de restaurants elle l'est. Au moins le sel là bas goûte quelque chose (contrairement à la lasagne en carton de Pacini). Enfin bref, je vais essayer d'y retourner à mon prochain retour au Québec. Je peux me permettre de prendre trop de sel une fois par année.

A black cat for good luck

When I was waiting for the train on my journey home, I saw a black cat in the grass next to the station, he was staring at me with his green eyes, it was borderline hypnotic. I remember this cat, I see him from time to time, always in the same bit of grass. It is the same cat, I think, which I saw after my interview, waiting for the train. He was a bit more shy then, hiding further away in the long grass(maybe he just wanted to enjoy the shade). Now it was different, he was staring at me in right next to the platform. I think he knew I was finding him adorable. I want one at home, a real one, not merely on a piece of paper. I love all kinds of cats, but black ones have such devilish elegance. The one we had in the house in Liverpool was black. If I have one, I will call him Mephisto.

Anyway, when I saw this cat for the first time, it was after the interview where I got my job. So seeing him tonight made me feel cheerful after a rough weekend and an exhausting Monday. So I am glad I saw it. I think whatever people say about black cats, they give me good luck. In any case, I am lucky just to see them. I wish I could have stroked this one.

This picture was taken in Brittany and I was wondering when I could find a good excuse to publish it here. This post was just as good as any.

Un air d'opérette

Mon modeste mais toujours grandissant lectorat sait que je viens de Chicoutimi. Il fut un temps où on avait un Carnaval Souvenir et également, au cours de ce carnaval, la présentation d'une opérette, laquelle était la plupart du temps une oeuvre d'Offenbach. J'ai blogué là dessus une fois, pour ceux qui sont curieux. La première que j'ai vue était Orphée aux Enfers en 1988 et la dernière, en 2003, était La Périchole. Le contraste était saisissant: alors que l'audience était enthousiaste avec Orphée, l'audience de La Périchole l'avait acueillie avec une indifférence polie et les rires étaient discrets et parsemés (on riait d'un bout à l'autre en 1988). C'était triste, parce que je crois que la troupe y avait mis autant de coeur et d'énergie. Enfin, je pense beaucoup à cette époque révolue des opérettes du Carnaval-Souvenir, "le carnaval du bout du monde", alors j'ai pensé mettre ici une air d'Orphée aux Enfers, chanté par Natalie Dessay (qui d'autre?).

Need warming up exercises

I am about to start the week more tired than I ended the last one, for various reasons. The weekend did very little to me. I cannot wait for the acting class to start on Wednesday. I badly need it, for my sanity's sake. I think I mentioned once the warming up exercises we do at the beginning of every class. I think I should do them every evening, after every day of work, good or bad, as it calms me down and fills me up with energy. I don't do sport or much physicala ctivity apart from walking, but these warming up exercises are something totally out there, they have an almost spiritual effect (and I rarely use that word).

Question existentielle (36)

Elle m'est venue je ne sais pas trop pourquoi:

-Quel nom donneriez-vous à un ouragan?

Cultural oblivion

This post is a follow up to that one, and pretty much a rambling post. I am reading One Hand Clapping at the moment, about to finish it actually. It is taking me too long and I should have read it in a weekend. It is nevertheless a thoroughly enjoyable read, very funny yet very bitter. It is this bitterness that got me thinking. The story, set in Brittain of the sixties (but it could almost be today) is about a used car salesman who has little instruction but a photographic memory, which allows him to win a thousand pounds on a TV quizz then a lot of money through betting. Wealthy, he is still unable to appreciate life and modern consumerism make him suicidal. Like for A Clockwork Orange, I have been wondering if the novel was not prophetic: books are not read anymore, great artists are now just names for quizz shows questions, songs are now just stuff for aspiring pop stars in talent shows, education is often devalued, we get lots of wealth, but losing culture. Maybe we are already in a cultural wasteland. I remember how much I felt contented rediscovering stage performances last summer, how much I thought I had missed something for so long, something simple and genuine. I am glad I can at least appreciate it still, I wonder if the stage, like librairies and bookstores, is not in danger of disappearing. Through the laugh I got reading One Hand Clapping, I cannot help but shiver with dread.

Fin de semaine en vinaigre

Je déteste des jours comme celui que je viens de passer: pluvieux, mauvaise nouvelle par la poste (rien de tragique, mais assez emmerdant pour me gâcher ma journée), la température qui ne s'améliore pas, les tâches ménagères à faire, un chocolat chaud dégueulasse dans un café local (comble d'ironie acheté pour me remonter le moral), la température toujours aussi misérable et la désagréable impression que je couve quelque chose (encore une fois, ne vous inquiétez pas trop je sais pertinemment que c'est de l'hypocondrie). Ah oui, et vous ai-je dit qu'il a plu sans cesse? Je suis en général assez peu affecté par la pluie, même ici, mais il y a des jours comme ça où j'ai l'impression que tout me nargue.

Secular? Yeah, right!

"To hell with order, ecclesiastical and civil. To hell with miracles. Miracles? But miracles subverted order, did they not? Nonsense, no: they confirmed it: they kept the people on their knees."
Anthony Burgess, M/F

I quoted it before, and for the same topic. Maybe it is because I blogged about a similar topic in French recently, I don't know. I was just checking about the school I used to work for two years ago, something I do from time to time about old working places, and they labelled themselves as secular. I would have choked myself in my drink had I been drinking. Secular? What a joke! Sure it was not an obscurantist, religious fundamentalist school, but in all honesty there was nothing secular about it. I am not writing this to settle old scores, heck the people I didn't like there don't read this blog and if they ever do, I cannot care less. I had some happy moments there, but I also have many reasons to be bitter about it. I guess I am still bitter and this is why I get irritated when I read something like this.

I mean, how many states schools in this country (and maybe in mine) label themselves as "secular" yet have prayers in assembly? Is there something even remotely secular about it? It didn't give the pupils much of a religious culture, mind you, but that's not the point: when prayer and worship is encouraged, when a vicar o the Church of England can show up and has constitutional right to give speech to the kids, you cannot label your school secular.

Tiens, c'est la pleine lune ce soir

"C'était, dans la nuit brune,
Sur le clocher jauni,
La lune
Comme un point sur un i.

Lune, quel esprit sombre
Promène au bout d'un fil,
Dans l'ombre,
Ta face et ton profil ?"

Je me permets de citer une autre fois le poème de Musset. Et je saisis cette occasion pour mettre une photo prise en même temps que celle-ci. Je suis un peu fatigué de bloguer sur des controverses, alors j'ai pensé écrire un billet sur la lune pour faire changement et parce que j'aime le poème de Musset.

Opening the voice

"I think one of the greatest fears of the actor is that of not being interesting. This really need never be a fear because everyone is interesting in that he is himself. When you get to the point which says "This is me, it will change, and perhaps improve, but this is me at this moment", then the voice will become open."

I know, I quoted these words of wisdom from Cicely Berry before, but it is on my mind a lot. I quote a lot these days, as if I need words until I find my voice. I am cryptic, yet not exactly subtle. In less than a week, my acting course is starting again. I feel like I have been hibernating since the beginning of January. So now I am waking up and hopefully the voice will open.

Le misérable dévot ignare du Saguenay

On sait ici que j'exècre profondément le maire Jean Tremblay de Saguenay, que j'ai déjà traité de misérable petit potentat. Ce qu'il est. Il est également un catholique ignare et bigot qui fait honte à sa région et à sa ville, sa ville qui a longtemps été et est encore un peu la mienne. Maintenant, le Québec au complet a pu le voir sous ce jour, alors qu'il a été débouté par la Cour dans sa stupide croisade pour imposer la prière à l'hôtel de ville (je jugement à lire ici). J'ai bien aimé la chronique et plus encore le billet de Patrick Lagacé au sujet de la controverse. Je me fous un peu de la prière à l'hôtel de ville, même si je la trouve un brin irritante et ridicule (on a besoin de Dieu pour diriger?). Mais quand elle prend des teintes exaltées, elle m'agace profondément. Le maire a le droit de croire en Dieu, il a même le droit de croire qu'il sait ce que Dieu pense, même sa foi n'est supportée par aucun fait. Il n'a pas le droit, cependant, de circonscrire sa fonction de maire à la promotion du catholicisme, pas plus qu'il n'a le droit d'imposer sa foi à la sphère publique ou de faire du prosélytisme à travers elle. En ce sens, il a trahi à ses devoirs les plus élémentaires et même à l'éthique. Bien sûr, il y a des tatas qui vont embarquer dans sa croisade. C'est décourageant. Cela dit, je tiens ici à dire que les Bleuets ne sont pas tous des ignares et que les poisons du catholicisme façon Grande Noirceur n'ont pas empoisonnés tous les esprits. J'aime profondément ma région, je suis un Bleuet du plus profond de mes racines. Chicoutimi mérite mieux que cela.

The cat of Downing Street

This is the kind of news that give me a cheap excuse to put a picture of a cat (took it during our last trip in Brittany). I am a cat lover as my readership knows. I have also an irrational fear of rats. So when I learned that Downing Street had a new feline tenant to hunt down the rats (or so the rumour says), I was enthusiastic. It is not out of pure spite for rats, as I know I should not be so afraid of them (blame it on this movie). I think it is an eco-friendly way to tackle a real problem. Having a hunter doing what is in his nature to do is the best to deal with pest. And what hunters cats are! This is something I find amazing about them: how can such a beautiful creature, such cuddly one as well (when they want!), can be such a ruthless killer? People might find it cruel, but I think that it is better and more humane than poisoning the rodents. And you can stroke a cat before and after the kill, something you cannot do with cyanid. So I think we should all welcome Larry the cat. I like David Cameron a little bit better now. A little bit...

"À fini noyer"

Bon, je ne sais pas si c'est le temps d'acheter des piscines ici, mais j'ai retrouvé sur Youtube ces Deux minutes du peuple de François Pérusse, sur l'achat des piscines Je crois qu'on les retrouve dans son Album Pirate (lequel cas ce serait franchement ironique qu'on le retrouve sur Youtube), je ne suis pas sûr. Je ne sais pas quel temps il fait au Québec, mais ici c'est gris et monotone et j'ai pensé que ça requinquerait mes lecteurs si février est monotone chez eux. Il y a dans cette capsule humoristique (ainsi qu'on appelle ça) parmi les calembours les plus tordants que j'aie entendu. Mon préféré est sans doute "À fini noyer," "Mes condoléances". J'en ai mal au ventre rien que d'y penser.

Montreal, my village

I usually hate, hate, hate the BRIT Awards, I had a sour taste about it since I watched a glimpse of it back in 2007 and there was Russel Brand hosting (he was a pathetic excuse of an host and I have contempt for him as a celebrity). I don't like these kinds of ceremonies in general. But this year, Arcade Fire won the International Album award and some other one I cannot remember (this is how much I am up to date with contemporary music) and well, they are from Montreal. So I allowed myself a burst of wanton patriotism and shouted and cheered a good bit. I have a confession to make right now: I haven't even listened to their music and I didn't know they were from Montreal before tonight. I am not even sure I even like their music, or the little of it I heard tonight anyway. Tomorrow I probably won't even listen to them. But this is how blindly, stupidly patriotic I am sometimes when it comes to my village.

Because Montreal is my village. I was born in Quebec City, its nemesis city, I grew up in Chicoutimi, I spent a relatively short time of my life in Montreal comparatively (about six years of my adult life), yet I consider it my place. During my first year in England, I was often introduced as "the guy from Montreal". Because I was and because I am still, to the core, through and through. Yes, I come from the inhabited North of Quebec, I have this accent I never lost when I speak French, but this is the case of many Montrealers. It is there that I feel home. So tonight I couldn't help but feel homesick and in the same time stupidly proud.

And the picture at your right was taken on the Plateau Mont-Royal during my last trip in Montreal, last year in April. Right now it is much snowier.

Question existentielle (35)

Une vraie question philosophique celle-là:

-Quoi écrire?

Call me Ishmael

"Call me Ishmael. Some years ago — never mind how long precisely — having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. "

Well, not quite like it, but I was always looking for an excuse to quote the beginning of Moby Dick, and I found it today. They found the ship who inspired Herman Melville to write his most famous novel. I first read his novel at the very young age of eleven, after watching the movie adaptation, which got me obsessed about whales and sea adventures (well, I was before, but it brought it to a peak). I then read it a few years later in cégep, then bought it in English and I haven't read it since. This recent bit of news reminded me that I should.

Un "lecteur" épisodique?

Bon, il y a quelqu'un qui s'est aventuré sur ce blogue encore une fois en recherchant sur Google "Brigitte Paquette nue". Les recherches mènent maintenant à ce billet. Je commence à trouver cela franchement gênant. La connection est de Beauceville, selon Sitemeter, mais je me garderai de faire des plaisanteries vaseuses sur les gens du coin (après tout, il n'a peut-être même pas voté pour Maxime Bernier). Enfin, je crois que ça doit être la même personne, puisque c'est exactement la même recherche. Je ne sais pas pourquoi, mais je me sens vaguement coupable.

Longing for Liverpool

I was reminded of this by my wife tonight: it has been two years today since I have been to Liverpool. Well, not quite, as we were between Liverpool and Manchester at that exact day, for the birthday of a former housemate and friend, but last time I was in Liverpool was about two years ago. Strange, I heard the name today at work and I felt the longing, but did not make the connection to the time that passed.

So this night two years ago, we celebrated my friend's birthday and strangely enough drank relatively little. Then on the 15th I spent the day walking around the city. I blogged about it, if you are curious. Now from time to time, I feel the need to reconnect to Liverpool, to keep in touch with what I lived there and what I left. It is the trivial details I miss: going up a hill to work, down from it back from work, stopping at a pub to try a local ale, the gin and tonic my housemate was making, the wind, the rain... Yes, I mentioned all this before. And even earlier on, when this blog was still young. I discovered that I miss it tonight. I need to go on another Odyssey.

Il me faut plus de gargouilles

Cette photo a été prise en Bretagne lors de notre dernier voyage, dans le petit village "médiéval" dont j'ai déjà parlé ici. La gargouille sur la photo n'est pas authentiquement médiévale, je ne suis pas bien sûr qu'on puisse vraiment la considérer gargouille non plus.

Je ne sais pas trop pourquoi j'aime les gargouilles. Bon, en fait oui je sais: parce que j'aime leur côté monstrueux et sinistre. Il n'en faut pas plus. À la maison, mes deux frères et moi nous collectionnions les gargouilles, celles qu'on achète dans les boutiques pseudo-médiévales. Nous en avons de toutes les tailles et de toutes les formes: des chats ailés, des démons grimaçants, des griffons, bref de tout. À Chicoutimi elles encombrent ma chambre, avec les autres bibelots. Ici, je n'en ai qu'une. J'aimerais en avoir plus, même si déjà les rangées de la bibliothèque sont surchargées et qu'il n'y a pas de surface pour mettre quoi que ce soit. Mon drame, c'est que je n'ai plus d'espace de rangement, même Nimble est à l'étroit. Alors pour rapatrier (ou plutôt expatrier) les gargouilles... Au moins je peux en avoir en photo sur le blogue.

The twang

I blogged a lot about my accent in my posts in French. I thought doing one post about it in English, or more precisely, about my accent when I speak in English. Because it is a strange one. I can get a proper Italian accent it seems, even though I know very little Italian, but I could never get a proper British accent after spending more than ten years of my life in England. Some people think I am American, except of course Americans. Some people think I'm French, which is strange as I do not have a French accent. I don't have the strong accent many Quebeckers have when they speak English, yet I did not absorb the accent of a native.

I wish I had done so. But instead, I get that thing from nowhere. People thought I was German, Greek, Italian, whatever. Only a few people people hearing me thought I was actually Canadian, fewer thought I was Quebecker (except, well of course when I am in Québec). A kid in the school I used to work in identified me as a Canadian because "you speak like an American but you got that twang that is not American". So I have a twang when I speak English. And this is a twang that is from nowhere. I don't think it is a Canadian twang, whatever that is (the kid got it right but I think it was pure blind luck): I learned English watching American TV, like many people I guess. I tried to mimic that kind of English, taking a bit of stuff from here along the way (mainly vocabulary). The twang I have is a construction, it is artificial. Maybe it is another sign of being an expat...

Question existentielle (34)

Une question à laquelle j'ai pensé en écrivant mon billet d'hier:

-Peut-on avoir des températures trop clémentes?

A circle of friends

In two weeks time, I will start my acting class again. It will be about time: I am counting the days. I noticed tonight that I did not get in contact with any of my acting acquaintances (I call them acquaintances as they are not friends yet) since our dinner in January. I tried to call one of them tonight, the guy who played the father of my "fiancée" in A Marriage Proposal. I didn't get through. Oh well, it is difficult to stop being a hermit. Acting provides me with the only proper social life I have.

I find it a bit sad, we gather once and we promise to meet again, to have another evening like this, that we should do it more often, etc. Then nothing happens. It is a difficult thing to develop, friendship, it can also be even harder to maintain. I haven't made friends easily since my students years and I don't think I ever made friends among my colleagues, at any job I had, even the ones I loved. Back in Liverpool, I got along well with some housemate, I developed friendship with them, but with my colleagues, never. Nothing lasting anyway: during my last school job I had very good reports with my colleagues and I left on very good terms with them, but we never met once after I left. My social circle, I make it around like minded people, people who share the same enthusiasm about something. In a way, I never ceased to be a student at heart.

Il fait trop doux

Contrairement à bien des Québécois, j'aime l'hiver. L'hiver me manque. Or, depuis le début de février, il fait plutôt doux. Je veux dire très doux. On a l'impression d'être au printemps. Trop. Je me méfie des températures trop douces quand le temps de l'année ne devrait pas s'y prêter. Il est vrai que l'Angleterre n'est pas le Québec, mais elle n'a jamais été connue pour avoir une température clémente en février. Le temps clément, ça a tendance à nous retomber sur la gueule d'une façon ou d'une autre: on se prend une tempête de verglas (j'ai expérimenté), ou alors l'hiver revient sur le tard. Je suis désespérément fataliste quand il est question de température.

The Dragonfly flies again

The English version of this post below, or shall I say, in French with English words...

Je tiens à ploguer The Dragonfly of Chicoutimi encore une fois: le Théâtre PàP le jouera ces temps-ci à Montréal, ainsi qu'ils me l'ont gentiment appris en commentant dans ce billet. Je prie mon lectorat québécois de faire l'impossible pour aller le voir sur les planches.
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So I am shamelessly plugging again The Dragonfly of Chicoutimi. As I have been gently informed by the Théâtre PàP on this post, they are doing the play. Unfortunately, I cannot be in Montreal. But if there are some of you who are in Montreal, I urge you to watch it. It is simply a masterpeace and it has to be seen on stage (which I haven't, to my great shame). And don't worry: it's in French, but the words are English.

The comfort of old clothes

I was trying to put some order in my wardrobe when something struck me (it is often in trivial moments when trivial things strike me): I don't have recent clothes. My youngest jumper is a year and a half old, most of my jumpers have between five and ten years of age and my favourite clothes are the oldest. I thought about my recent post on old things and I just discovered something: I am utterly unfashionable and couldn't care less.  It reminds me of an observation of Anthony Burgess:

"Women thrive on novelty and are easy meat for the commerce of fashion. Men prefer old pipes and torn jackets."

Maybe I am just an ordinary man, or an old-fashioned one.

Retrouver le "là"

Retour sur un sujet qui me préoccupe. Récemment, j'ai pu parler avec des Québécois (ce qui arrive dans le cadre de mon travail). Une constatation qui m'a rassuré: j'ai encore l'accent. Une seconde constatation plus intéressante: je prononce le "là" à la fin de mes phrases. Peut-être que j'exagérais un peu, inconsciemment, mon accent du terroir saguenéen. Cela dit, je crois que c'est un réflexe qui me revient, si jamais il était disparu. Dans tous les cas, je me sens rassuré de voir que je n'ai pas perdu contact avec mes racines.

The path to cultural wasteland?

I learned on Leigh Russel's blog that Waterstone's are going to close many stores. This is not good news. I have been recently to Waterstone's and, although I was disappointed by the choice available, it is still one of the few big book chains in this country (the only one?) and the few places nearby where I can actually find books I can buy, not only bestsellers and genuinely discover some works from time to time.

But the future seems even gloomier: some 100 public libraries are going to be closed. So books, good and bad, will be more difficult to find and less affordable too. We are going right to a cultural wasteland if we are not careful. So even though my bookshelves are crammed, I will buy more books and will support as much as I can my local library. And I will read a lot.

Réveil matinal

Il y a des jours où je ne comprends pas mon cycles circadiens. Ce matin, je me réveille à 6:30! C'est au moins une heure avant mon heure de réveil normal en semaine. Et on est samedi! Je me suis couché avant minuit, assez fatigué pour m'endormir aussitôt. Puis ce matin je me réveille soudainement à 6:30. Je ne comprends tout simplement pas.

Old things and places

Tonight, when I was browsing through our holiday photos, I found this picture. It was taken in a town during our last trip to Brittany, back in August. I usually don't put on the blog pictures that are out of season, but I had to publish this one. I cannot remember the name of the place. It looks like it was taken in another time: if there weren't the wires it would look like a medieval place. I am no specialist of history of architecture, but I believe some of the buildings are from the time the time period and the town is known around for having kept or reproduced a lot of its old architecture. Walking around, I felt like in another millennium. This is something I love about this continent, the fact that there are such things as old buildings, old churches, old windmills, things that seem to have been forgotten by time.

I am old fashioned in this way. I love old things and sometimes I wish I could have century old furniture, or something that looked like it. I love old worn out clothes, old books, old tea cups. It is ironic as I am a slave to technology and cannot imagine myself without modern comfort. Modernity is essential to me in so many ways, yet I enjoy rustic stuff, rustic places.Not so much because of comfort (although there is nothing more comfortable than old worn out clothes) but because of aesthetic reasons: aged things and places are often beautiful.

L'hiver passe...

...ou prend vigueur. Vous connaissez peut-être ce dicton, qui dit que l'on sait combien de temps l'hiver durera selon la température à la Chandeleur. Ici, il fait doux comme si c'était le printemps et ce, depuis hier. Je sais que la situation est différente en Amérique, y compris au Québec. C'est dans ces moments-là que je prends pleinement conscience de vivre dans un autre pays.

Finding time and discipline to read

Something struck me today, as it strikes me from time to time: I barely have time or energy to read anymore. Which is a shame. I have decided to start One Hand Clapping as I need to read more Anthony Burgess and because I wanted to read more serious, "profound" stuff. It is a delicious satire about consumerism and a viciously bitter picture of a society which culture is disintegrating and I want to blog about it and its subject, but I am reading it at a snail's pace. And I am ashamed about this. I read a few pages when I commute and during weekends, but the evenings I am usually absorbed by other things, house chores and my own exhaustion. It is the kind of novel that can be read within a week. it took me a weekend to read A Clockwork Orange when I was a teenager. I should take that long for One Hand Clapping.

It is not the only book which I read slowly. Last year was a shameful time for me reading wise. Maybe it is because I work. I just hope I am not getting acultured like the people depicted in the book. I miss academia, I want my brain to be active doing something else than work related stuff. Until I start acting again, reading is pretty much the only mental exercise that keep my brain alive and human (and here is another hint at A Clockwork Orange for those who read it). So I want to discipline myself and read more. I used to be an intellectual, after all.

La Chandeleur (et un peu de Brassens)

C'est la Chandeleur aujourd'hui, que j'ai décidé de souligner un peu ce soir. Je n'ai pas encore allumé de bougie, mais j'ai fait des crêpes comme dessert. Elles étaient même réussies, ce qui est quand même un peu miraculeux. J'aime bien cette fête un peu oubliée (du moins au Québec, je ne me rappelle même pas en avoir entendu parler dans mes cours de catéchèse), justement parce que la souligner n'est pas bien difficile. Cela dit, quand à ce que la fête représente pour moi, à peu près rien, sauf des crêpes mangées avec des amis français qui la célébraient généreusement pendant mes études. Il y a aussi la chanson Mélanie de Georges Brassens, qui la mentionne ("la Saint-Barthélémy des cierges, c'est le jour de la Chandeleur"), mêlant le très vulgaire et l'érudition religieuse avec virtuosité. Juste pour cela, et parce qu'on n'a jamais assez de Brassens, je mets la chanson ici:

Quoting (again) The Dragonfly of Chicoutimi

"I travel a lot
I see a lot of things
very different from what we are used to see here
of course
when we travel we see different things
that's quite sure
but I have the feeling to tell it to repeat it
why
I don't really know
maybe saying it I just want to make a contact
to keep in touch as we say"

This is at the very beginning of the play, it's incipit as we say, immediately followed (of course) by this quote I already put here. Sometimes I wonder if this play was not written for me... I just hope I will get the skills to play it one day.

Ah tiens, février!

C'est février aujourd'hui, au cas où personne ne l'aurait remarqué. Moi à peine. Ca m'arrive souvent d'oublier l'arrivée de février. Le mois est surtout connu pour une fête que j'aime moyennement. Sinon, c'est loin d'ici le printemps...