Every year is getting shorter

"And then one day you find
Ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run
You missed the starting gun"

Time, Pink Floyd

I have decided to blog on Pink Floyd inspired by my brother's comment on this post. I was thinking about the quote he put there and it got stuck in my head. The Dark Side of the Moon is the first Pink Floyd album I listened to back to back and it is still my favourite one.

I put Time on the blog when Richard Wright died. As it says on the Wikipedia entry, the song is a Memento mori (something I sometimes blog about) and I am in a mood to think about such things because July is almost gone and I have barely seen it. August is starting tomorrow and August often gives me melancholia (as mentioned here). But is started earlier this year, in this July month that was so busy and which I could barely feel because I got so busy. The last few days, I have been listening to The Dark Side of the Moon over and over again and this song in particular, looking at the sunset, wondering where the year has gone. I find the last lyrics particularly poignant:

"Every year is getting shorter
Never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to nought
Or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desparation is the English way
The time is gone
The song is over
Thought I'd something more to say "

I don't hang on in quiet desperation because that is not quite me (I guess I am not English), but I do think if I do all the things I want to do in a year, or even a day. Funny how a song one listened countless times still find new meaning when one reaches a certain maturity. I was a teenager and just loved the music and barely understood the lyrics. I mean, I understood English enough to know what they meant, but not quite what it was about. So I know I put the song here before, but I will put it here again nevertheless, to share my mood. There might be a hint of cruelty in this, but take it as a catharsis.

"Ils" sont de retour

Appris sur le blogue de Patrick Lagacé: Julie Couillard a un blogue/site elle aussi. J'imagine que c'était inévitable, mais franchement elle aurait pu se retenir un peu. Après tout, aà part avoir couché avec des crapules, qu'est-ce qu'elle a fait pour être célèbre? Et son ex, l'idiot du village beauceron devenu député, qui en a un aussi, encore une fois on ne peut pas l'éviter, mais je ne peux pas m'empêcher d'être découragé. Pas que je crois que je blogue de façon particulièrement profonde, mais Ah oui, Bernier a écrit un texte imprégné de mauvaise foi et de démagogie en réplique à André Pratte sur l'élimination du recensement. Parce que c'est écrit et que ça a vraisemblablement été révisé par un autre que lui, le texte de Bernier est n'est pas rempli de plénoasmes et les bafouillements, mais ça ne l'empêche pas d'utiliser tous les sophismes du livre: argument à la popularité, homme de paille, démagogie, etc. Je parlerais de malhonnêteté intellectuelle, mais pour ça il lui faudrait un intellect.

Italy on my mind (again)

It happens from time to time, I get a longing for a specific place. Maybe it is because my brothers are away travelling and I envy them even though I was on holidays recently and will be again relatively soon. Anyway, from time to time I want to see Italy again and now is one of those times. Maybe it because I am reading The Talented Mr Ripley, which is mainly set there. And I have a confession to make: so far I prefer the movie to Patricia Highsmith's novel.

I haven't been for ten years and I feel like I saw too little of the country. And I want to improve my Italian. I know too little and want to become trilingual before I die. Of course, I would not be as useful to my wife in Italy as I am in French speaking countries, but the little I know could help us get by and I can learn more there than here.

À mon frère et ma belle-soeur visitant Vancouver

Je crois que je peux le dire ici: ma famille voyage ces temps-ci. Après le cadet qui est présentement à Paris, mon autre petit frère et sa femme vont se retrouver à Vancouver (ou Vancuuuuuuuver). Je leur souhaite bon voyage. Je profite également de l'occasion pour faire une confession: j'ai préféré Vancouver à Paris.

Great unknown line number 8

It seems that this themed series is slowly building into a little online list of aphorisms of honourable size since I first started it. Who knows, maybe I could make my own dictionary of aphorisms with my name on it. Anyway, this line is the one I always give when somebody asks me if I dance:

-Never when I'm sober.

Which is both accurate and funny.

À mon frère visitant Paris

Mon plus jeune frère est en vacances à Paris. Je ne sais pas s'il me lit présentement, il doit se foutre de ce blogue comme de sa première chemise, mais je tenais à le souligner, un peu parce que la France est maintenant l'une de nos plus importantes destinations de voyages. Je suis curieux de connaître les impressions qu'il aura eues de Paris, parce que c'est une ville qui m'a toujours laissé un peu tiède.

A castle by the door

During our last trip in the Lake District, we barely saw the town of Penrith. We were practically passing by, waiting for the bus to Keswick and we did not see much of, but the little we saw was really worth it. Indeed, we saw its castle the moment we step out of the train station (which was partially constructed with stones from said castle). That was quite an impressive first contact with Cumbria and it made me regret a moment that we were just passing by. It changed when I saw the other towns and villages we visited and I quickly forgot about Penrith. However, since we had an hour or two to kill until we got the bus to Keswick, we decided to have a look at the castle. This is where I took those pictures.

I am a medievalist by education, so a medieval castle, wherever it is and in whichever state it is, always gets me excited like a child. And I am not specialised in medieval architecture, but nobody can stay indifferent towards these buildings. I used to see Windsor Castle from the outside every day, but that was different. There is something about old, ruined, uninhabited castles, those that have been hurt but have never moved with time like this one. They are deserted but for the odd tourist and local visitor, yet they are full of character and so atmospheric. From its history one can imagine all sorts of stories. It is a shame that ghosts most likely don't exist, because castles like this deserve to be haunted.

I envy the citizens of Penrith, especially the children who can grow up so close to such a place, and can go around and play. They literally have a castle by the door. I said that I love castles because I am a medievalist. It is not quite true. I was from an early age fascinated by medieval time and by ghost stories. One of my babysitters, a real Mary Poppins (I mentioned her before), used to sing me the this song about a haunted medieval castle, one of the many things she did that gave me an appetite for fairy tales and ghost stories, and of course medieval time. I can remember me asking her "Claire, what's a medieval castle?" and her showing me in a dictionary a picture. My brothers and I used to play a haunted castle game based on this song especially when summer was not quite warm or sunny enough to feel like summer, like it is these days here. Well, I have pictures of a medieval castle here now, they can tell me if it looks as good as they imagined it.

Pas de commentaires en français

Une simple remarque que je viens de faire: je n'ai pas eu de commentaires sur un billet en français depuis ma douzième question existentielle. C'est un peu dommage, parce que j'essayais d'écrire des billets en français peut-être pas profonds mais plein de nostalgie, laquelle à part être ma marque de commerce a le don de faire parler les gens. Parfois je me demande si ce blogue ne s'anglicise pas imperceptiblement. Son lectorat est sans doute plus anglophone. Cela dit, même si c'est un hasard, c'est tout de même singulier, ces billets français toujours vides. Je parie que celui-ci va changer les choses.

A (nostalgic) great unknown line

I say nostalgic, but it is maybe more melancholic. Anyway, it is a great line my wife told me today, simple but kind of profound, so I decided with her permission to put it here:

-It's not super fun being an adult sometimes.

This is a line that even those who are not as fond of their own childhood as I am can relate to, especially when times are incertain, or simply moving too fast to appreciate them.

Une constatation à propos du maïs

Ce billet risque d'être d'une trivialité affligeante, vous serez prévenus. On a mangé des épis de blé d'Inde ce soir avec notre repas, ma femme croyant que j'adore le blé d'Inde. Or, bien que je m'ennuie des épluchettes, du bouilli, de tous ces petits rituels gastronomiques qui marquent la fin de l'été (on est déjà fin juillet après tout) et l'automne qui vient, ce passage du temps marqué par le blé d'Inde donc, et tous ces petits rituels qui me manquent, force est de constater que le blé d'Inde, ça pogne dans les dents, comme le chantait François Pérusse. J'en ai fait l'expérience une fois de plus ce soir. Je préfère et de loin le maïs en crème.

Passing through summer

It is a new and strange thing for me to work during summertime. So far it has been easier than expected, partially because, as I was hoping (and I am sorry for everyone taking a , the weather has not been too nice. Not too hot to be unbearable, except when I started, and not too sunny to make me regret that I was sitting at a desk. We had plenty of rain, but sadly no storm.

That said, being busy like this means that July is almost over and I barely saw any of it, except during our short (bit idyllic) holiday at the beginning of the month. And it is strange for me, as I have always considered time within the frame of a school year: holidays during the whole summer, working year starting in September, being busy during cold months and less active during the hot ones, etc. I don't know how much I will enjoy it three months from now, but it is certainly an interesting experience.

Maisons suspendues

Je ne fais que reporter des nouvelles anecdotiques "locales" (enfin, québécoises) ces temps-ci, mais bref. J'ai lu cet article sur une maison construite dans un arbre. Un peu plus sur le sujet ici. Je n'ai jamais eu de maison dans les arbres enfant, mais c'est une des choses dont l'on rêve à un moment ou à un autre. Je me demande si des gens parmi mon lectorat ont déjà eu une maison suspendue. L'idée est séduisante, mais il faut un arbre assez grand, donc j'imagine que c'est une idée assez difficile à transformer en réalité. Il n'y avait certainement pas d'arbres.

Une question qui me vient comme ça: comment se fait-il que je n'ai jamais pensé à donner à mon personnage de Dungeons & Dragons, lequel est un ranger (ou rôdeur en français) version deuxième édition, une maison suspendue dans les arbres, au milieu d'une forêt? Ca aurait été une excellente idée, étant donné sa profession et son habitat de prédilection.

Je blogue beaucoup sur les arbres récemment. C'était ça ou bloguer sur Maxime Bernier et je n'avais pas la tête à bloguer sur l'idiot du village beauceron. Ca arrivera bien assez tôt, alors autant bloguer sur un sujet trivial.

An old (yet new) great unknown line

I quoted this line before on this blog, but I think it is so good that it deserves the recognition from my "great unknown lines" series. The context and details are here. The line is from my sister-in-law. Here it is:

"It is never too early for smoked salmon."

Pure wisdom.

Nouvelles des framboises du Québec

Une brève de Cyberpresse qui a capté mon attention: les producteurs de framboises québécoises l'ont trouvé difficile cette année à cause de la canicule et des orages de juillet. Outre que je trouve chanceux les Québécois qui ont pu profiter de vrais orages, cette nouvelle me rappelle que je ne cueille plus de framboises depuis des années. La dernière fois, c'était en 2003, je crois. J'ai sans doute déjà blogué là-dessus, mais nous allions chaque année en cueillir chez mon oncle, mes frères et moi. Il avait pleins de plants de framboises, deux allées complètes, pour une raison quelconque ça ne l'intéressait pas de les manger, il préférait la culture. PJ n'aimait pas manger les framboises non plus, mais la cueillette il adorait. Je dois me faire vieux, je rêve d'avoir mon propre potager, ou mon propre verger...

An evening with the Bard

I often say to my wife that last summer was the summer of sea life for us, as we visited two aquariums and we went whale watching. This summer is our "theatre summer", as so far we have seen three plays, more than we had in the last five years. So yesterday, we went to see Romeo and Juliet in an outdoor setting. We had to bring a picnic and we sat on our recently bought picnic mat quite close to the stage. It was not the most comfortable experience, we had pins and needles and had to share our space with ants, but it was a unique experience. The tale of the two lovers of Verona is not my favourite play of Shakespeare (Hamlet is, if you are curious), but it is still a brilliant dramatic work. Some observations on the evening:

-I miss the stage. Yes, I said this before and recently, but I can't help it. Every time we see a play, I will both admire and envy the actors. I am considering getting back on the stage, finding an amateur troup I could but there is the language barrier: I never played in English and no matter what it will never be as natural to me as my own mothertongue. I can eliminate my Quebec accent when I play in French, but the out there accent I have when I speak English would be utterly unconvincing for iambic pentameter. However, I could play roles in contemporary dramas and I guess that for an English audience I could easily pass as an American with a bit of practice.

-Watching a play outdoor is an experience in itself, worth in itself the price of the admission ticket. There was a minimalistic stage, no décor to speak of, but the surroundings were enough to feel in another place.

-Being in such a setting made the actors rely more on interactions with the public and old saltimbanque type of entertainment. Playing takes all its meaning here. It is sometimes unsettling, but it is theatre at its roots and highly enjoyable.

-I can never help but find it funny that the quintessential British playwriter wrote a story, a tragedy no less, set in exotic Verona. I wonder what it would be to hear the characters with Italian accents.

-Shakespeare is such a powerful dramatist. I mean, it might sound like a cliché, but he is such a powerful dramatist nevertheless and it still struck me tonight. His text literally lifts the actors, the setting, everything. You can be on a small, bare stage and have limited acting skills, Shakespeare will still make the play work in itself.

-I think no matter what, I will always picture the play with the look and actors of Zeffirelli's version. And I have difficulties seeing any other actress than Olivia Hussey in the role of Juliet.

Taxidermie

Cette photo a été prise au Keswick Museum, un petit musée plein de vieilleries et de bizarreries intéressantes qui me faisait penser un peu aux musées régionaux qu'on nous faisait visiter durant notre enfance. Cela dit, ce musée battait la plupart d'entre eux. Mais c'est le cas de la plupart des lieux publics et touristiques du Lake District: ils exploitent à leur plus haut potentiel les attraits régionaux, plus que partout où j'ai été. Dans le Keswick Museum, il y avait notamment plusieurs animaux empaillés: un renard, un blaireau, des rapaces de toutes sortes, des canards, des hérissons, des furets et j'en passe. J'en ai donc photographié quelques uns, dont cet aigle (je crois que c'est un aigle, je me trompe peut-être), avec dans ses serres un lapin (ou un lièvre?). C'était de loin l'animal empaillé ayant l'apparence la plus dramatique, le prédateur avec sa proie, avec en arrière-plan un décor qui nous fait croire que l'on est en pleine nature.

J'éprouve une certaine fascination pour la taxidermie. J'ai grandi dans une maison où il y avait une peau d'ours noir et une tête de chevreuil empaillées, produits de la chasse de mon père. Ils étaient devenus nos compagnons de jeux (surtout la peau d'ours noir) et ils ont développé chez moi une certaine fascination pour la vie animale. J'étais aussi fasciné quand nous visitions chaque année à l'école primaire une exposition d'animaux empaillés exotiques (à Place du Royaume je crois). Ma femme trouve cela cruel, mais selon ce que j'ai lu du sujet au musée, d'habitude on n'empaille pas d'animaux morts de la chasse, surtout pas lorsqu'il s'agit d'espèces menacées, et la taxidermie telle qu'elle est pratiquée maintenant a aussi une dimension environnementale et éthique. Elle a également très souvent une valeur éducative, comme c'était le cas ici.

Melancholia and post-mortem cruelty

My wife and I went for another evening walk. It was later in the evening and much darker. We stopped at a local café for a drink, then carried on. I still had that feeling that we will not stay here for all that long. I am going to miss the town, some of it at least, but not all of it. Seeing all the people on the main street going clubbing, young and old, I felt like an outsider, belonging to neither age. People go clubbing everywhere on Friday night, but it just seems more strange and unnecessary in a small town, like it is somewhat fake.

We walked to my former working place. Not the school, the company that is now bankrupted. Losing that job gave us a lot of anxieties, so I was glad they paid for it, even though I think they did not suffer enough. I say "they", yet many employees probably suffered a lot more than they deserved by staying there. I am of course refering to the bosses when I say "they". Certainly, "they" didn't suffer enough, didn't get humiliated enough, even though they went down pathetically. Looking at the abandoned place, I had a strong feeling of schadenfreude. We came here because of that lousy job which I lost too soon, when we didn't have time to even get settled. Yet, they are the ones who went down first and left town. I felt that I survived them, if that makes sense. And it gave me a lot of pleasure tonight.

Auprès de mon arbre

"J'ai plaqué mon chêne
Comme un saligaud
Mon copain le chêne
Mon alter ego
On était du même bois
Un peu rustique un peu brut
Dont on fait n'importe quoi
Sauf naturellement les flûtes
J'ai maint'nant des frênes
Des arbres de judée
Tous de bonne graine
De haute futaie
Mais toi, tu manques à l'appel
Ma vieille branche de campagne
Mon seul arbre de Noël
Mon mât de cocagne"

Auprès de mon arbre, Georges Brassens

Je n'ai pas publié beaucoup de photos du Lake District, j'ai trouvé cette excuse pour en publier une autre. Ce soir, je ne sais pas trop pourquoi, j'ai écouté beaucoup de Georges Brassens, des airs connus et des airs moins connus. Je vais essayer de bloguer sur les airs moins connus dans un avenir proche. Pour l'instant, j'ai décidé de mettre ici Auprès de mon arbre. D'abord parce que ça me donne l'excuse pour publier ici cette photo d'arbre (duh!), ensuite parce que j'ai déjà "eu" un arbre.

Enfin, façon de parler. Mes frères et moi on avait des arbres "attitrés" par mon père, pas des chênes mais des pommetiers, ce qui est un peu plus modeste. Trois en tout, donc, je disais "mon arbre" comme s'il était vraiment à moi. Il a pris de l'âge et est mort brisé par le vent durant l'été 1995. C'est précis à ce point-là dans ma tête, je me rappelle même de l'année. C'est dire l'affection que je lui portais. Je ne sais pas encore pourquoi. J'ai d'excellents souvenirs du pommetier, des nombreux après-midis ensoleillés passés à lire à son ombre surtout, d'avril à octobre. Il était superbe en fleurs au printemps. Lorsqu'il est mort, mon père l'a remplacé par des pommiers. Ils nous ont fait passer de bons moments aussi, surtout lors de la cueillette, mais ce ne sera jamais la même chose.

Maintenant, je n'ai plus d'arbre attitré ici, je n'en ai plus eu depuis cet été de 1995 en fait. J'ai presque "une mansarde pour tout logement", comme le dit le reste de la chanson, mais pour combien de temps encore? La chanson parle bonheur qu'on obtient de la simplicité et de la modestie, mais qu'on perd avec la richesse et le statut social. Je ne suis pas beaucoup plus riche qu'il y a quinze ans (non sérieusement), mais ma vie a certainement gagné en complexité (et parfois complications). Enfin, la chanson l'illustre mieux que moi:

Seeing ghosts (sort of)

Yesterday, when I was walking back home, I saw some of my former students. Nothing special so far, it happened before. I said I saw some former students, but to be more precise they saw me. What I saw was a bunch of teenagers, and one of the girls in the small group shouted: "Oh my God! It's that French teacher!" Don't know if that was a good thing or not. She then said "Hello sir!" in a polite yet not quite friendly way. Without their school uniforms, I don't really recognise them. I don't remember her, or any of the other teens that were at that street corner. They just look like kids. It is not from a distant past, yet my last teaching job is as blurry as if it was in another lifetime. Maybe I am really over it.

That is one problem I still have as long as I live here, as my former workplace was local: I see my former students, even when I don't remember them. I will be always labelled here as "that French teacher". Even when they don't say a thing, there is always the glance they have at me that tells me they recognise me, noticed my presence. Anonymity here is very relative. There are more awkward moments, but still, I will not miss this particular aspect of life here when we finally decide to leave this town. It sometimes feels like seeing yesterday's ghosts, if that makes sense. In a way, I am also a ghost to them.

Question existentielle (12)

Je me la demande des soirs comme ce soir:

-Pourquoi est-ce que je me sens énergique le jeudi soir quand j'ai ma semaine dans le corps, mais jamais le lundi matin quand j'ai eu deux jours pour me reposer?