Tangentially related...

I'm a little surprised at the momentary flap the chattering classes are in re: Mother Theresa's letters. You'd think there was something new revealed in their contents. Hardly: first of all, their contents have been common knowledge among Catholics for some time (I first encountered them here). Secondly, the Dark Night of the Soul and the Absent God are in fact hallowed institutions within the Catholic scheme of things, and have been for centuries.

Preoccupation with this woman's tenacious service, despite the sudden and irreversible truncation of her ecstasies, strikes me as a uniquely Protestant American fixation. There is no shortage of African, South American and Asian Christians who know exactly why she did what she did, and was who she was. In fact, there are probably any number of people in North America who know, too: we're just not in the habit of listening to them.

Here's me in the corner, searching for my religion

I was asked if I would teach Sunday school. I explained to the minister that I didn't really believe in God, but I couldn't live as though I didn't believe in him. I found life intolerable without God, so I lived as though I believed in God. I asked him, "Is that enough for you?" -- Madeleine L'Engle in an interview, re-citing a moment from her Crosswicks Journals.

I'm too tentative a creature to articulate my own religious convictions, such as they are, with ML's clarity. My fall-back position in these matters is to wave my fiction and say, "Here's my statement of faith." But lately I've been having trouble moving ahead with my fiction -- I feel somewhat stranded between fictional outposts. Perhaps a few forays into the realm of memory and impression might yield a way forward in my fictive journeys.

First stop: the church.

Six Years Ago

I finally went for a walk, around the corner and north of town, to look at the cornfield. My neighbor was hosting a birthday party for her granddaughter -- balloons, a few streamers. There were five or six kids at her house. They were lining up on her porch, taking turns trying to drop wooden clothespins into a mason jar. The music of children's shouts and laughter.

I got to the field and looked over the nearly golden sea. The sun was setting and it was getting cool. A half-ton truck came slowly around the corner and crept toward me. The driver's window was rolled down. He was a man in his 60s, a farmer. We nodded to each other.

"You see the news today?" he asked.

"Yes I did."

He put the truck in park, but left the motor idling. He was looking at the field, too.

"Quite the thing," he said. And it was.

Madeleine L'Engle, RIP

Madeleine L'Engle has died at the age of 88. I remain fond of the Time Quintet and The Crosswicks Journals; when I first read them, I felt like I'd been given permission to breathe. Our first daughter was named after her.

Post Script, Sept 17: I'm gratified to see the New Yorker has finally made this profile of Madeleine L'Engle available on-line. It isn't quite the hagiography that other profiles have been, and it's certainly not the hagiography that L'Engle herself was prone to write. But neither is it the character assassination that some of L'Engle's readers make it out to be. In fact, I think it brings forward the sort of background detail that makes her fiction more compelling than it appears at first (uninformed) glance. I'm thinking particularly of A Live Coal In The Sea.

Also: a salute from Laurel Snyder. "To compare L'Engle's universe to the stuff cluttering the post-Harry Potter marketplace is to compare a unicorn to a goat with one horn sawed off" -- nice! Via KtB.

On The Platter

I have friends who are absolutely bonkers over Richard Thompson -- his music, that is. I'd get CDs for my birthday (always welcome) and give them a spin, but I never quite caught his appeal. There was no denying the man's musical virtuosity: he's one of those rare singer-songwriters who'll move the song to either side of the 12th fret, and I can't think of anyone else who bends a note to quite the same degree (well ... Robbie Robertson, but what's he done for us lately?). But the man's vocal delivery frequently dipped below cool into a little too cool.

And who could blame him? Half his songs explore the inner lives of freaks and geeks who are bent on alienating everyone within spitting range. What person in his right mind wants to get close to, for instance, the young, angry, befuddled, would-be Casanova who's taken all his erotic leads from porno ("Read About Love")?

Then I saw him perform on stage -- just the man and his guitar. Thompson is a guy who loves an audience, and he knows how to keep them listening. His songs, even the sad ones, were a lark, and he usually acknowledged the raucous applause he received with, "Ah, but you're a wacky bunch!" This throw-away flaming of Kenny G. pretty much captures the mischief I experienced.

I picked up Live From Austin, TX, and wasn't at all sure what to expect. It's markedly different from my single-concert experience: he has a band backing him up, for one thing. He also reins in his more impish impulses, and delivers a very polished and professional performance. The "cool" factor is back, but I don't mind. In fact, I can almost see why he has fans who follow him around on tour. Almost.

Janiva Magness, on the other hand, is a very different performer. I've raved about her before, and played Do I Move You? at the cafe for three months running. Blues Ain't Pretty is pulling me deeper into the cult of Janiva. I can't muster the emotional distance to describe Magness's style, unless I summon Thompson as a counterpoint: when Magness sings, there is no distinction between the singer and the song. That makes for quite a heady experience, particularly when combined with guitar stylings that seem soaked in beer and cigarette smoke (courtesy of Kid Ramos and Kirk Fletcher). I love it, and very much hope to see the woman perform live.

Richard Thompson's site is here. Janiva Magness's site is here. And this is her MySpace page.

Paying For Technology

After the passenger window got replaced, after all those freakishly square shards of glass had been vacuumed up, after all the stuff -- maps, Archie Digests, Harry Potter CDs, serviettes, Chickadee magazines -- was back in its proper spot, we were left with the impression that nothing had been stolen. Even my sunglasses were still there, forcing me to finally admit they were scuffed and stylistically passé beyond redemption. If we could just overlook the inconvenience and expense of replacing the broken window, we could almost laugh about it.

Weeks later we figured out what was missing: the iPod, and that useless widget that fits into the cigarette-lighter.

My wife was saddened -- it had been my gift to her, and she made extensive use of its comforts during business trips away from the family. There was no question it would have to be replaced, but I'd become jaded enough toward the brand that I wasn't beyond considering the competition. I couldn't help noticing an alternative that sold for $200 less than my wife's former iPod, and offered as many features as the iPod that sold for $100 more. A difference of $300 is not insignificant, but I had to admit it didn't quite have the iPod's sex appeal -- also not insignificant. I ran it by my wife, who shrugged and said, "As long as it has the music, I'm fine with it."

It does, plus a few things the iPod did not have, including videos of our daughters. And it's a great deal friendlier toward Linux users than Apple is. Hoo, boy -- I very quickly learned how easy it is to bork-up an iPod. Apple's customer service techs ("Geniuses," they call 'em) are, on the face of it, a forgiving bunch. The guy who served me hooked up the device to his computer, cocked an eyebrow and said, "Curious: the software seems to have been tampered with. I'll just restore that for you..." He did, and threw in a few bonus tracks to boot. Bon Jovi, Toto, one or two songs from Flashdance -- even Milli Vanilli. He certainly knew how to hurt a guy. Just one more reason to go non-Apple for round II.

So far, I'm happier for the change; we'll see what my wife makes of it when she attends a conference in Chicago in a couple of weeks. She's too busy (and far too practical) to care, but rumor is there's a new iPod model coming down the pike. Will it wow like the phone did? Frankly I'm too busy and practical to care.

Other music-technology links: can Rick Rubin save big music? My take: he's got an uncanny ear for what people want to hear, but it remains to be seen if he's got a similarly revolutionary approach to its tech-delivery.

iPhone? ho-hum. Ubuntu phone? Hm. I'd like a closer look, please.

The Winnipeg Neighborhood

There were parts of the old neighborhood that had changed significantly. An elementary school that had been located around the corner from my family's house was razed and its enormous yard rezoned for further suburban development. That added a few new streets, and a few dozen houses.

Commercially speaking, it was a case of the more things change, the more they stay the same. The mall where I first bought pizza by the slice and hung out with my mates was gone; in its place was a "Power Center" -- a parking lot hemmed in by the usual franchises and outlets. The automotive parts shop that kept my motorbike running was now a very flashy fitness center. A privately owned family restaurant where a number of my friends got their first job built a larger, swankier-looking restaurant -- right beside the old one, which was empty and looking for a renter. A little further down the main drag we passed a former Pizza Hut that now housed a dentist's office.

The dentist's office caught my wife's imagination. "That's Winnipeg right there," she said. "There's no telling what people will do with the buildings that are available to them. I mean, a dentist's office? The roof is still red, for Pete's sake!"

There is a certain degree of cognitive dissonance at play in commercial Winnipeg. Commercial Winnipeg has precious few neighborhoods, but it stretches through the entire city in very distinct arteries. As a consequence, the commercial life-cycles tend to be short-lived and the storefronts often shabby. Contrast this to Ottawa, a city of similar size, but with distinct commercial neighborhoods where a person can spend a few pleasant hours strolling.

When Carol Shields' Republic of Love received a rave in the NYTBR, Winnipeggers were duly proud. But when the reviewer concluded the piece by saying she wanted to take the next flight to Winnipeg to see these magical locations, even those of us who loved the city had to snicker. Shields consciously made use of existing locales, but if this person ever did catch that flight she was sure to have been shocked by what she saw. Winnipeg has a penchant for malls (due in no small part to the extremes in weather), but frequently struggles to come up with common spaces that are as vibrant and inviting as the tiny pockets portrayed by Ms. Shields.

But enough of my yakking. This is the storefront of my former employer (blogged about here):
The businesses on either side aren't much to look at; the drugstore-grill I mentioned has been re-tooled into a cheque-cashing joint and a Halal meat market, and a used-clothing store has taken residence to the east. I think the National Typewriter building is indicative of the challenge that Winnipeg faces on a massive scale. Here we have a pre-Depression era business building, more solidly constructed with an acute eye toward aesthetics than anything built in the last 50 years -- yet it languishes.
Here is another detail shot of the gables holding up what must now be a very leaky roof.
The stained glass detailing is simple and elegant. Unfortunately, what was once an apartment for a family is now in ruins, holding nothing but trash. There goes the neighborhood.

A little further east is the University of Winnipeg, which government man Lloyd Axworthy has taken under his wing as his next uber-project. The entirety of the U of W's green space is gone, and a massive redevelopment is under way. The university is uniquely located: literally next door to the city's bus depot. Also within easy access: the Salvation Army, the YMCA, the Hudson's Bay and the arena formerly known as Eatons. Just how Axworthy's development scheme will actually contribute to the neighborhood remains to be seen. I certainly wish it success, but can't help being somewhat skeptical. Winnipeg has seen its share of grand developments that missed crucial little details.

The tendency is for Winnipeg politicians to think big and act bigger -- hence big projects like The Forks. But there are also places where attention is being paid to smaller details, and where success has potentially deeper roots. The Old Market is one such, a neighborhood of turn-of-the-century multi-floor warehouses that are now home to studios, theaters, fashion designers, junkies, prostitutes and roll-up-yer-sleeves religious communities. Police headquarters are also right there, and with a little common sense the place can be safely navigated by foot or by car.

The Old Market also houses my new favorite bike shop: Natural Cycle.
The Emma Goldman Society has an office on the second floor, and the entire building is run via collectivist principles. Lay down a loonie and help yourself to a tire:

The bicycles for sale and for rent are chiefly scavenged mods (or, more accurately, vice versa), though NC also sells Dutch monsters, and isn't afraid of constructing its own models from scratch.
Here's a particularly flashy mod:
My last day of our visit, I talked with a friend over breakfast. I said that Winnipeg struck me as being similar to the village I was currently living in: some of our citizens are doing very well for themselves, most are working hard to get by, the mortgage rates are low enough that an artist can afford to starve here, and there is also a significant segment of the populace that is in trouble and is causing trouble. But everyone is used to getting into their cars to get what they want, and this has had its effect on the commercial neighborhood, and I think weakens the overall fabric of the community. If community ethics is the art of compromise, then I think the questions are: how best to counter this gasoline-fueled impulse? And how best to work with it?