Thursday, January 31, 2013

ANArKH & Le Grand Voyage des Cloches de Notre Dame

Villedieu-les-Poeles - the new bells being readied for the convoy

As I write this, if all has gone as planned, the convoy transporting the new bells for Notre Dame Cathedral's 850th birthday celebration of history, art and spirituality, will have arrived at Porte Maillot in Paris.  From there to be escorted by the Prefecture and police de Paris down the Avenue de la Grande Armee, Place de L'Etoile, Champs Elysees, Place de la Concorde, quai des Tuileries, quai Francois Mitterand, quai de Gesvres, Pont d'Arcole traveling at 10 km/h.  The bells will arrive in front of the Cathedral at approximately 4:30.

Les camions (the trucks) carrying the nine bells, left this morning from the Cornille-Havard foundry in Normandy where eight of them: Gabriel, Denis, Anne-Genevieve, Marcel, Etienne, Benoit-Joseph, Maurice and Jean Marie were constructed. The bourdon bell named Marie (in the 1st truck) was made at the Eijsbouts Foundry in the Netherlands.  The combined weight of the two trucks is 95,982 tonnes.  There were many discussions regarding which bridges to cross!


Eric Thiermann "The Media Impact Group"

And following those trucks as part of the convoy will be Eric Thiermann & Aleksandra Wolska, friends from Santa Cruz California who arrived with their cameras to crash with us on Tuesday night, the 11th hour! We have been working feverishly for 6 weeks to secure the authorizations & filming permissions so they could join the motorcade and film the unveiling of the new bells. They have made a documentary called "The Heart of a Bell" and were hoping for additional footage on the "birth of a bell".  I've been writing e-mails, wheedling french friends to make phone calls, and breaking out in cold sweats with no definitive word arriving from the foundry. Then, Voila! on Wed. afternoon, the e-mail came in from "Emmanuelle Boisseau" the liaison at Notre Dome (and in french hunchback is "bossu"-coincidence???), granting access and a place in the convoy. It's actually easier than getting a "carte vitale"!

I knew there was something special about Emmanuelle!  Somehow I believed she would come through for us. Then I read that only the bourdon bell and centre piece, Emmanuel, which was cast in 1686 and weighs 13 tons, was spared and replaced in the South Tower in 1802 on the orders of Emperor Napoleon I. Widely considered the most remarkable in Europe, it rang for the coronation of kings and to mark the end of the two world wars – It's thought its unique sound comes from the gold and silver jewellery donated by wealthy parishioners of the time which were added to the molten metal.

Notre-Dame cathedral had 20 bells before the French Revolution (1789): 8 bells in the North Tower, 2 bourdon bells (Marie and Emmanuel) in the South Tower, 7 bells in the spire, and 3 bells in the north transept. The bells were all dismantled and melted in 1791-1792.

                                                                                                                                          
Emmanuel - Bourdon Bell - 1681



















On February 2nd, the bells will be consecrated by Cardinal Vingt-Trois, the Archbishop of Paris. The blessing of a bell is not traditionally like other blessings and is referred to as a "baptism". Thus they are given names, like people. They speak with a voice.

"You ain't got no call to be afeared of the bells...if you follow righteousness" - The Nine Tailors


ANArKH &  Esmeralda
I've been interested in bells ever since reading "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" and seeing the 1939 film version, which is not particularly true to Hugo's novel, but made me sob nonetheless. I would sneak up into the bell tower of our little Long Grove country church which was just down the road, next to my Grandma Ruth's house.  This is where I first discovered "bats in the belfry" on dusky summer nights. It was spooky in there with the beady eyed bats darting in and out of the bell tower, delicately prancing with their sinfully soundless sonar. I was sure they were all related to Dracula and shape-shifting behind my back.

"Bats in the Belfry" sounds like a phrase from Ye Olde Englande, but in fact it comes from the USA and is not especially old, dating from the start of the 20th c. This piece is from the Ohio newspaper:
 Long Grove, Ill. church up the road
The Newark Daily Advocate, October 1900:
To his hundreds of friends and acquaintances in Newark, these purile [sic] and senseless attacks on Hon. John W. Cassingham are akin to the vaporings of the fellow with a large flock of bats in his belfry."
Ambrose Bierce, also American, used the term in a piece for Cosmopolitan Magazine, in July 1907, describing it as a new curiosity:
"He was especially charmed with the phrase 'bats in the belfry', and would indubitably substitute it for 'possessed of a devil', the Scriptural diagnosis of insanity." Indubitably, I fancied I might go insane myself or deaf from the bell ringing like Quasimodo.
Wonderful creatures really--those bats--mammals that can fly. It gives them a liminal being status in some cultures like Tonga where they are sacred and considered the manifestation of a separable soul. For the Cherokees and Apaches, the bat is a trickster spirit, but they are lucky in Poland and for the Chinese, a symbol of longevity and happiness.

For me, Long Grove Church was like my own mini Cathedral and I felt akin to Quasimodo, "apart", emotionally disfigured, if not physically so. One of Victor Hugo's important themes was that a person should not be judged by their looks or appearances. But the heart of his novel is really the Cathedral itself, and all the major events take place in or atop the Cathedral. One could go on for pages and pages analyzing Hugo's novel (and people do), but for me what stands out most dramatically is the theme of fate and destiny.  In the preface Hugo laid out his theme of cultural evolution.  He wrote:
ANArKH

"A few years ago, while visiting or, rather, rummaging about Notre-Dame, the author of this book found, in an obscure nook of one of the towers, the following word, engraved by hand upon the wall:--

~ΑΝΑΓΚΗ~

These Greek capitals, black with age, and quite deeply graven in the stone, with I know not what signs peculiar to Gothic calligraphy imprinted upon their forms and upon their attitudes, as though with the purpose of revealing that it had been a hand of the Middle Ages which had inscribed them there, and especially the fatal and melancholy meaning contained in them, struck the author deeply.

He questioned himself; he sought to divine who could have been that soul in torment which had not been willing to quit this world without leaving this stigma of crime or unhappiness upon the brow of the ancient church.

Afterwards, the wall was whitewashed or scraped down, I know not which, and the inscription disappeared. For it is thus that people have been in the habit of proceeding with the marvelous churches of the Middle Ages for the last two hundred years. Mutilations come to them from every quarter, from within as well as from without. The priest whitewashes them, the archdeacon scrapes them down; then the populace arrives and demolishes them.

Thus, with the exception of the fragile memory which the author of this book here consecrates to it, there remains to-day nothing whatever of the mysterious word engraved within the gloomy tower of Notre-Dame,--nothing of the destiny which it so sadly summed up. The man who wrote that word upon the wall disappeared from the midst of the generations of man many centuries ago; the word, in its turn, has been effaced from the wall of the church; the church will, perhaps, itself soon disappear from the face of the earth.

It is upon this word that this book is founded."

March, 1831.

~extracted from the preface of The Hunchback of the Notre-Dame by Victor Hugo.

In Chapter IV, it is revealed that the word means "FATE".

William Blake - Hecate or "The Three Fates"


The clock struck midnight and I just received these photos from Aleks and Eric:  BRAVO!









They have arrived (with Bells on)

FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS (No Man is an Island)


No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.


















Tuesday, January 1, 2013

FUNIFICATION, FLANEUR & "Fat People are Hard to Kidnap"

                                           

Festival international de la bande dessinée d'Angoulême - 2012


1.  FUNIFICATION  (From the Urban Dictionary)
     The process of going between boredom and having a blast.
      Mark: I'm so bored!
      Tom: I think you need some funification.
  
2.  FLANEUR or Flâneur
      Stroller, loiterer, dawdler, saunterer, lounger


Our last guests have climbed onto the silver bird and flown back to San Francisco, leaving behind a perfumed jet trail of intoxicating holiday memories laced with exotic teas, scent of bergamot, truffle potato chips, pomegranate vinegar from Oliviers (as addictive as crack cocaine) & mucho conversations late into the night. Kevin's plum wine, "Charme de Charras", vintage 2012, fabriquées par lui-même (made by himself) was a big hit. He plucked the plums from the fallen limbs of  one of the orchard's most generous plum trees, split in two by a hellish Mars wind. The big blue barrel percolated and fermented away in the kitchen all summer while my Irish alchemist blended and tested.  It's buoyant, light & organic-- thrilling to sip the ruby red plum sunlight from winter goblets.  My "persimmon" butter did not fare as well, but that's another story, sub-heading:  Know they fruits!

Charme de Charras Vintage 2012 - World Tarot card, Arnell Ando

One of the highlights of our time together was a Murder Mystery Night:  "Brie, The Bullet and the Black Cat," hosted by friend Jodie in Boex.  Her lovely stone house turned into  the official residence of  the Deputy Mayor of Casablanca, Hughes Le Grandbutte (ably played by Mike, decked out in red cumberbund and medals, wife Edith in diamonds and pearls).   I was Countess Bugov (phoney Russian countess, really a circus acrobat), Kevin, Kirk Ramsden III, dissipated American running Rick's cafe, a womanizer with a flask of whiskey at his side and broken hearts strewn around the bar room floor.
Countess Bugov
Kirk Ramsden III
Our Ca. friends Kate & Bobby morphed into Ingrid Pith, Danish art dealer and Monsieur Oily-Carte, booking agent for the Moulin Bleu nightclub in Paris. Kate made her hat confection from Kev's straw hat and one of my scarves--she's got some milliner's genes--the hat was so elegant.

Ingrid & Oily-Carte
But the true star of the evening had to be Jodie's son Chris, as Otto Von Pinkelwurst - a Gestapo Officer, fanatical and possibly stark raving mad.  Doesn't understand why he is in Africa rather than a senior staff post in Berlin. He's pictured here with Pierre Payanski - 24 year old half-Russian poet. Anti-fascist with a bad leg, played limpingly well by Jodie's son-in-law, John.
Pierre & Otto
Six hours of crazy, chaotic, capital fun trying to figure out who's a murderer among 10 likely suspects between courses & libations.  I still don't really know who stole the brie or why there was brie, but I do know the murder victim (The Black Cat) was a Mime Artist and everyone knows they have to go. At one point I started to believe I really was a  Countess until someone pointed out that my Russian accent was sounding suspiciously Allemandesque. 


I kept pinching myself to see if I was dreaming.  And maybe I was... how likely is it that Americans would be attending a British murder mystery night at Christmas in a Bermudian artist's house in a rural village in France? 


More likely than one might imagine since 2013 has been officially dubbed our year of "FUNIFICATION".  Each year Kevin and I pick a theme for the year ahead.  We've had some pretty dreary Worker Ant themes in the past, like "EXECUTION" (not related to capital punishment), "COMPLETION", or just plain "WORK". So perhaps France's Socialist society has been sprinkling communal fairy dust upon us, turning us from ants into merry grasshoppers.  

I don't think the French really go in for Bonnes résolutions du Nouvel An.  At least when I asked a couple of french friends if they would be a) going on a diet or b) learning to speak English? they just blinked and offered me some more vin chaud.

But they do know how to have fun, especially in neighboring Angouleme, the Cartoon Capital of France!  

 Kate & Hergé - Adventures of Tin Tin)
Let's go find some Fun!
This stone is slippery...



Clic Clic Clic








I never get tired of the surprise of finding a cartoon or a mural on a remparts wall, high up under a cornice or hidden down a winding alley way.  One has to be a Flâneur to discover the subversive graphics and stealthy drawings tucked away.  Flanerie, which dates back to the 16th or 17th c., once had a connotation of wasting time, but in the 19th c. Honore de Balzac described it as "the gastronomy of the eye".  St. Beauve wrote that to Flaner is "the very opposite of doing nothing" and to Victor Fournel writing in "Ce qu'on voit dans les rues de Paris" (What One Sees in the Streets of Paris, 1867), there was nothing lazy in flanerie.  It was a moving photograph of urban experience. 




Of course, there are mindless flâneurs and intelligent flâneurs.  I like Charles Baudelaire's memorable portrait of a flaneur as the "artist-poet of the modern metropolis", first published in Le Figaro in 1863, he said, in part:


"...For the perfect flâneur, for the passionate spectator, it is an immense joy to set up house in the heart of the multitude, amid the ebb and flow of movement, in the midst of the fugitive and the infinite. To be away from home and yet to feel oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the centre of the world, and yet to remain hidden from the world... the lover of pictures who lives in a magical society of dreams painted on canvas... Or we might liken him to a mirror as vast as the crowd itself; or to a kaleidoscope gifted with consciousness, responding to each one of its movements and reproducing the multiplicity of life and the flickering grace of all the elements of life."




Rudy & the Rhino

Gastronomical eyes at BD Festival 2012


Come to the 40th International BD Festival in


Bonne Année my faithful flaneurs, friends & blog readers!
You'll have to stay tuned for "Fat People are Hard to Kidnap" & the Saintonge where "The Churches are too beautiful"-- too much funification and flaneuring has made me very sleepy.

Bon Soir, Bisous
























































Monday, December 31, 2012

A MORNING OFFERING - Remembering John & Lisa


John O' Donohue - Jan. 1956 - Jan. 2008

A Morning Offering


I bless the night that nourished my heart
To set the ghosts of longing free
Into the flow and figure of dream
That went to harvest from the dark
Bread for the hunger no one sees.


All that is eternal in me
Welcome the wonder of this day,
The field of brightness it creates
Offering time for each thing
To arise and illuminate.


I place on the altar of dawn:
The quiet loyalty of breath,
The tent of thought where I shelter,
Wave of desire I am shore to
And all beauty drawn to the eye.


May my mind come alive today
To the invisible geography
That invites me to new frontiers,
To break the dead shell of yesterdays,
To risk being disturbed and changed.


May I have the courage today
To live the life that I would love,
To postpone my dream no longer
But do at last what I came here for
And waste my heart on fear no more.

~ John O'Donohue ~
 from
                                                          "To Bless the Space Between Us"


John - Connemara

A Blessing for Absence

May you know that absence is full of tender presence
and that nothing is ever lost or forgotten.
May the absences in your life be full of eternal echo
May you sense around you the secret Elsewhere which holds
the presences that have left your life.
May you be generous in your embrace of loss.
May the sore of your grief turn into a well of seamless presence.
May your compassion reach out to the ones we never hear
from and may you have the courage to speak out for the
excluded ones.
May you become the gracious and passionate subject of your own life.
May you not disrespect your mystery through brittle words or false belonging.
May you be embraced by God in whom dawn and twilight
are one and may your longing inhabit its deepest dreams
within the shelter of the Great Belonging. (Eternal Echoes 275)

                                                     John O'Donohue



For Lisa

Child, Daughter 

Your death murdered me
 
I became a stone of grief
flat, gray, cast into a deep well
a weeping stone like the one the druids
placed on the altar at Skye
my life the sound of a well gone dry.

How could it be that an old French woman
from a duck farm in Lucage,
could reach into that well
after so many years, find that stone
and warm it in her hands?

Child, daughter

maybe I can bury you here now
in this new country of grief unleashed,
take your body from that snowy, treeless
patch in Minnesota and place it in a field
of eternal sunflowers that match your golden hair. 




You've always had the power to heal yourself --"...close your eyes and tap your heels together three times.  And think to yourself, there's no place like home."

Glinda, Good Witch of the North

I awoke from a dream on December 8th, the anniversary of Lisa's death, and I remembered that she always had to have her special deck of cards in her hands from the age of 6 months; she kept them with her always-- in the hospital, in the operating room. through radiation; she had them with her when she died in my bed.  She was buried with them.  An old soul--dear Lisa, you've gone home.  Here are your ruby slippers, my little Angel and a card to keep you company:








Tarot de Paris - J. Philip Thomas, All is Sounded




Heart weeps
Head tries to help heart
Head tells heart how it is, again:
You will lose the ones you love.
They will all go. But even the earth
will go someday.

Heart feels better, then
But the words of  head do not remain long
in the ears of heart.
Heart is so new to this.
I want them back, says Heart.
Head is all heart has.
Help head.  Help heart.

Lydia Davis




Angel - Montparnasse



"nothing is ever lost or forgotten."




 


Thursday, December 6, 2012

OH, LA VACHE! French COWS demand the right to wed




Marguerite La Normande, President of "Oh La Vache"

 
 ANTIMATTER

On the other side of the mirror there's an inverse world,
where the insane go sane; where bones climb out of the 
earth and recede to the first slime of love.
And in the evening the sun is just rising.
Lovers cry because they are a day younger, and soon
childhood robs them of their pleasure.
In such a world there is much sadness which, of course,
is joy.    
                      --Russell Edson

Living in France is sort of like watching a French (or Italian) film:  rien ne se passe et tout se passe --
nothing happens & everything happens. 


 

I braved the blustery clouds & cycled to O'Sullivans in Feuillade yesterday for my ritual noisette. Haven't been back there since the sunflowers croaked.  They're all plowed under now and the fields have a "strafed" look.  I know that can't be the right word since the definition is:  attack repeatedly with bombs or machine-gun fire from low-flying aircraft: military aircraft strafed the village.

The origin of strafe is worth noting:  early 20th century, humorous adaptation of the German First World War catchphrase Gott strafe England 'may God punish England'.  Those Germans, always with the humor! 




I think la willowy jolie jeune fille, Nathalie, who works at the Cafe (and is generally completely disinterested in me or my noisette needs), must have missed me.  She put an extra milk dollop flourish into my cup and the coffee was hot instead of lukewarm!  I take it business has been slow. Special tip for coffee addicts:  if you order the noisette instead of the cafe creme, it's about half the price, though admittedly half the size.

And speaking of Germans, one from Strasbourg came in while I was ever so slowly sipping my noisette; he asked about the route to Poitiers, which is about 3 hours drive north of O'Sullivans.  No problem, except that Monsieur was pedaling his velo/bike and it was 3:30 in the afternoon; pas de camping equipment nor any clue as to how to get to the bike path which would be his steady companion for the next 25 hours.  His french was reasonably good, but Nathalie just kept rolling her eyes and saying Ohhh La La, and making that little snort that the french do so well.  He was undaunted & took off into a stiff headwind. It started raining.

*The Desert of the Tartars from Museo Dei Tarocchi -- Morena Poltronieri 




                                              
For some reason, the pelting rain, the chill wind, the man from Strasbourg, and the last wisp of my cafe, made me long to be in the Roxie Theater in the Mission in San Francisco watching Valerio Furlini's Italian classic, "The Desert of the Tartars", filmed in the mid 70's.  This gem is packed with European actors.  I remember a few of them because who could forget Max Van Sydow or Vittorio Gassman as the Colonel or Jacques Perrin??!!

It was partially filmed in Iran's Kerman Province where the Bam Fortress, the world's largest adobe structure used to be before it was destroyed by the 2003 earthquake.  I can almost feel the warmth of the Persian sun on my back, the soft, pink bricks of sun dried earth and straw. 

Bam Citadel 500 B.C. - Before

After

"The seed of our destruction will blossom in the desert, the alexin of our cure grows by a mountain rock, and our lives are haunted by a Georgia slattern, because a London cutpurse went unhung. Each moment is the fruit of forty thousand years. The minute-winning days, like flies, buzz home to death, and every moment is a window on all time."

“O lost,
And by the wind grieved,
Ghost,
Come back again.”        Thomas Wolfe - Look Homeward Angel

It's a war movie with no action scenes  Perrin, as a young naive Lieutenant wanting to make his mark, has been assigned to the Fortress at the edge of an archetypal "Empire".  Gradually he meets the other soldiers who have retreated into faux ceremonies and drills, empty routines, as they all wait for an enemy they fear, but have never seen.  Gassman's Colonel is a monolith--untouchable, melancholic. The fear is so pervasive, yet undefined, that any deviation from military procedure is grounds for death.   There is waiting and more waiting which reminds me of "Waiting:  A Novel", by the Chinese writer, Ha Jin, but that's for another blog.

The waiting is punctuated by a few strange occurrences.  A white Tartar horse is spotted. An officer with a strong set of binoculars sees strange lights in the distance.  Months pass into years, the characters grow old, the endless repetition of the days grinds away at them until finally the fortress is abandoned.  "a meditation on suppressed emotion, the futility of war, the physiological effects of continuous fear and tension…" Joachim Boaz.

And if you have ever had to wait in the Prefecture's office in Angouleme for renewal of your Carte de Sejour, you'll know exactly what "The Desert of the Tartars" is trying to illustrate (minus the White Horse).




ok, ok, what about the cows getting married?   Well, while Francois Hollande has been waffling on the same sex marriage issue, the 3.5 million French dairy cows have been busy lobbying their official organization representing both France's dairy and beef herds, demanding that the draft legislation dubbed "mariage pour tous" or "Marriage for everyone" be taken literally & extended to allow cows to tie the knot. I read in a "Survive France Network" piece by Johnny Summerton, that they are hoping Holland will soon put an end to his "aimless mastication".

J'accuse

*"The Desert of the Tartars"  XX - Il Guidizio (The JUDGEMENT), I photographed at the Museo dei Tarocchi in Riolo (Bologna, Italy).  An earthly paradise.  You can visit there too!  www.museodeitarocchi.it

p.s.
I will be reading the cards at the Marche Noel in La Charrue near Brantome on Friday night and all day Sunday at Abjat-sur-Bandiat outside of Piegut.  La Charrue's event supports the "Twilight" doggie retirement home & Abjat's fete will provide funds for the Bansang Hospital. Tis the season to be jolly (and generous)...