As a journalist, I am accustomed to receiving angry mail and such after an article is published. Another thing I’m accustomed to is how often the mail comes from people who have not read the article. What people often do is look at the headline or title and react. Or perhaps they skim the opening lines or a paragraph or two. I suspect this is what happened to poor Professor Bruce Gilley with his “The Case for Colonialism.” I’m a bit late with this, but I finally got around to reading it and am linking it here. If you read the whole thing, you will see there is nothing remotely racist/insensitive/every-other-name-you-can-imagine to be found about it. You might not agree with it all (or at all), but you’d be hard-pressed after reading it to understand the madness that followed its publication.
…from Ivy Compton-Burnett:
People have no chance to grow up. A lifetime is not long enough.
Certainly true for me.
A couple of follow-ups to my poem, posted here: first, on my other website, I posted one of my uncle’s poems in honour of what would have been his 99th birthday, and second, my friend George Grosman sent me a demo of his song ‘Paris in the Rain’. It is beautiful, but unfortunately, I cannot figure out how to upload it here. However, I have linked to his website (see above) – go have a look!
Today is Yom HaShoah in Israel – Holocaust Memorial Day. I can’t think of a better day to post this recording of Bergen-Belsen survivors singing ‘Hatikva.’ (Of course, any day would be the right day to post this.)
It is National Poetry Month – for the occasion, I wrote this poem. It isn’t very good – it doesn’t even rhyme. But it’s mine.
I once lived in Paris
In an apartment with four other girls and four thousand cockroaches
My mother sent me letters about getting married
And books about getting married
And – in her tiny, precise script – advice about getting married
Advice hard come by; decades of marriage and few flowers behind her
She sent me articles about things that would kill me:
Date rape drugs
And certain vegetables
And taking strangers’ suitcases across borders
And unpasteurized cheese, of which I ate beaucoup with butter and baguette
Fears saved up from a lifetime of hurt, only occasionally dulled by her beloved Old Fashioneds
I was dating, if you could call it that
And studying French poetry and such
At the Sorbonne
I read about roses and profiting from my youth
Allons voir si la rose and cueilliez vostre Jeunesse
A sort of French, Gather ye rosebuds while ye may
Until a man who looked like the lead singer from A-ha
Fell in love with me and bought me roses
We saw ‘Goodfellas’ together
I laughed at the lowlifes
He was horrified by my laughter
He loved me so much I was sure I would shrivel up and crumble
I sometimes look at his Facebook page
Half dreading I will see
“I’m so glad that girl wouldn’t marry me”
But I never do
I just see his big, splashy paintings, violet and red streaks like petals
And still the lead singer from A-ha, crinkle-eyed and bearded now
I became a journalist and wrote articles
about a German Shepherd who raised tiny baby kittens as her own
and about women over 40 getting pregnant at the sperm bank
gathering their rosebuds in a panic
which is something a friend of mine did and something I never contemplated
As I am old-fashioned
Readers of this blog, or anyone who knows me, won’t be surprised that I am recommending a book called “The Inner Life of Cats.” It was written by Thomas McNamee and if you are an animal lover or a friend to the felines, you will enjoy it. I particularly appreciated that the author, like me, seems enamoured of Rome and her various cat colonies. (Some links here to my photographs of Rome’s cats, as well as other cats.)
But what I loved most about — or perhaps needed from — the book was McNamee’s opening up about the grief he felt when his beloved cat, Augusta, died. I sobbed reading some of it. Those of you who followed my old website might remember when my senior cats died (within six months of each other). What I appreciated about McNamee’s writing is that he was able to express what the loss did to him in a way I never could. I wrote a sort of detached piece here about trying to scatter Orloff’s and Pushkin’s ashes – I made sure it was written in a way that was almost a travelogue, with little snippets of humour, because I feared the waterfall of tears that would ensue if I were honest about the depths of my grief. (I still have their ashes, fyi.)
This passage from McNamee’s book reflects far more accurately my experience:
It will tear a hole in your life. Her love was unconditional. When you stayed away too long, she didn’t sulk when you came home, she welcomed you with gladness. She was so innocent. So naive. No human being ever loved you with the purity of her love. Did you tell her things you never told anyone else? Did she purr just because you were there — because you existed? His stuff is going to be all over your house. What are you going to do with his bed? His toys? You’re going to listen and listen for the bup-bup-bup of his paws on the floor as he comes trotting to greet you, and you won’t hear it. You’re not going to be able to sleep. You’re going to eat too much, or not enough. You’re going to wonder if there’s something wrong with you. A lot of people stay home just so they won’t have to hear people say, “Come on, it was only a cat.” Somebody’s going to tell you to get a kitten, and you’re going to think, No! No kitten could possibly replace her.
Oh Lord, how I remember the silly people who said that to me — it was only a cat. What idiots. Why didn’t I just tell them to f**k off?
This next passage also rings true:
Augusta’s death paralyzed me for two months at least, and I’m not ashamed of that. Excessiveness is in the eye of the judge, and in this matter only I can judge. I did find myself defending myself sometimes, sometimes against myself, more often against someone mystified, whose mystification as time passed shaded into annoyance, or just distance. You are as alone as you have ever been. You hoard your grief. You stay home. Friends ask you out to dinner, you find a lie for declining. Work? You can’t focus on anything, except this one thing. In the loss is the life you shared, Wiman says. Now you’re supposed to see the joy and the light in it, somehow to be in that life. How is that supposed to be possible? The fucking cat is dead.
And this – the hours of guilt I have experienced thinking about Orloff and Pushkin, the times I wasn’t patient with them, the times I left them with sitters, and above all, their deaths — did I wait too long? Did I not give them enough time – did they still want to live in spite of their illness or pain?:
“I could have loved you better,” I sang the Tom Paxton song back through time to Augusta. “Didn’t mean to be unkind/You know it was the last thing on my mind.” Maybe not the last thing, but bad enough. I wasn’t paying attention, Augusta. How did you feel when we went away? I didn’t even think. You were glad to see us when we returned, which was enough to fool ourselves into believing it must have been all right. You were only a cat. We didn’t mean to be unkind. She loved us anyway. What choice did she have? Who else was she going to love? Augusta had love inborn. She had to do something with it.
McNamee and his wife did eventually get another cat. I have yet to do so. I tell people that it is because we travel so much, et cetera, but in reality, I don’t know that I want to feel that kind of love — and therefore the inevitable loss that will follow down the line — again. Oh, I imagine that one day there will be another cat in my life, in my heart, but for now, I am sticking to working with the street ferals in Toronto and enjoying books about cats. So glad I found “The Inner Life of Cats.”
Today is the fourth of anniversary of my mother’s passing. She loved this hymn, as do I. Fitting for Easter, as well. I love the Alan Jackson version (don’t know if mum did).
Piero della Francesca’s restored ‘Resurrection’ is ready for public consumption, to our great benefit and in time for Easter.
The fresco described by Giorgio Vasari, the father of modern art history, as the Renaissance pioneer’s “most beautiful” artwork and hailed by British novelist Aldous Huxley in 1925 in the essay “The most beautiful painting in the world”, is a symbol of Sansepolcro. Indeed gunnery officer Anthony Clarke in 1944 famously decided at the last minute not to bombard the town because he remembered about the masterpiece he would otherwise have risked destroying.
The long restoration work was carried out by Florence’s Opificio delle Pietre Dure, one of Italy’s most well-known restoration laboratories, and the art superintendency of Arezzo and Siena, with a 100,000 euro donation from Buitoni manager Aldo Osti.
This is worth another trip to Italy.
See below a kitty at Paris’ Montmartre Cemetery. Photo taken by me about a month ago. I loved how kitty just needed a sip and found some water (it had been raining a fair bit) that had collected in someone’s grave. Cats gotta cat. I took many more photos of the colony at the cemetery, which I will post later — have already posted some at my National Geographic page. (Regular readers of this blog will remember the cats of Rome’s Protestant Cemetery here, here and here.)