Death By Chocolate -- A Saint Valentine's Day Massacre

Today is a lovers' paradise -- an excuse to "come out" and openly declare your passion -- nay, lust! -- for chocolate.

Your current secret paramour...Milk chocolate? Dutch chocolate? Swiss chocolate? Dark chocolate? No matter. And never mind the purists who point out that milk chocolate isn't really chocolate. (Just talk to the folks in Britain about their Cadbury bars versus the hitherto but now settled conflict with the EU's definition.) The point is, if you love chocolate, I hope you have indulged.

My favourite treats come from Leonidas -- a Belgian company that flies their wares into Montreal and other cities every week. The cards inside Leonidas boxes suggest you eat your goodies within 7 days -- there's real buttercream in many of their fabled centres. My personal passport to heaven is buttercream in dark chocolate. But, I certainly would not sneer at anything of the praline variety, either.

Okay, to be completely honest, I'll eat most of the chocolates out there -- just so long as they're fresh.

In keeping with this devilishly wonderful concept, the management at the venerable apartment house where I live, dropped off small wrapped cellophane bags, festooned in ribbons and hearts, filled with sweets. They enclosed a tiny pink card thanking us all for supporting their various efforts to keep century-old pipes from bursting etc.

A lovely gesture.

Happy Valentine's Day.

 

Flashpoint to Freedom?

 Oh, but what a time it is! I have been glued to events in the Middle East, watching and waiting with the rest of the world.

Brave people fighting for the end of a dictatorship, wanting to taste the waters of a new Nile. How and when it will come about -- if it truly can come about -- is written on the wind, and no one really knows which way that wind will blow.

I was thinking about a children's story I wrote several years ago, and am posting it now.

I hope some editor or agent out there reads it and likes it. (It's actually drawn from a proposed series of stories -- one animal, one child, one historical event in each, throughout history.)

In any case, when Aten's Goat made the rounds in New York in the 1990s, it garnered positive comments despite the rejection letters, and that was encouraging. But, writers can't eat encouragement any more than starving people can subsist solely on dreams of freedom; writers need contracts and books!

One thing strikes me as I revisit my story -- Hosni Mubarak needs to save face, retain dignity, leave office without shame, or so the culture strongly insists. I get that. I also get that it's very hard for despots to let go after thirty years of rule.

But, I also know that killing and torturing one's own people in order to control them is antithetical to my particular Pharaoh. When a famine comes to his ancient Egypt, he worries about his people because he is their royal god -- and he worries that his forefathers, not his people, are laughing at him.

Quite wisely, the Pharaoh in my story points out that if the people die, he will have no one left to rule.

Maybe he doesn't really care about "the people" but he is, at least, shrewd enough to see the obvious.

My question now is -- just how wise is modern-day Hosni Mubarak?

Here's my picture book text -- I hope you enjoy it.

ATEN’S GOAT         

          Long ago in Egypt when the Nile River sparkled and the Sphinx still had a nose, a man named Halem lived with his grandson, Aten, in a fine house near the Pharaoh’s palace.

          Halem was the Royal Soothsayer to the mighty Pharaoh. Whenever the Pharaoh was worried, it was Halem’s job to look for signs of good or evil in the heavens and in all of nature and explain what they meant.

          When the Pharaoh wondered if the water of the Nile was too low, Halem would read the stars and answer, “The Nile will rise again in one day and one night.”

          Sometimes the Pharaoh cried, “The Nile floods the land too quickly! Will it drown us?”

          Halem examined earthworms. If they were swollen, he'd reply, “Great Pharaoh, the Nile's water will return to normal in two days. It will not drown us.”

          There were moonlit nights when the Pharaoh couldn’t sleep. He would send for Halem.

          “Tell me!” the Pharaoh commanded. “Will Egypt’s enemies defeat us?”

          And Halem would sacrifice a ram or goat and study its intestines for important clues.

          “You must not fight for three days,” Halem would answer. “Avoid them tomorrow.”

          Halem’s advice calmed the Pharaoh. He would return to his stone bed and soft cushions and dream of his ancestors sleeping with eyes open, still and quiet within their tombs.    

          Sometimes Halem made a mistake, but the Pharaoh did not punish him because his mistakes numbered less than five in a whole year.

          One year, the Pharaoh was so pleased with Halem that he gave him a gift of fifteen hundred goats and sheep.

          “You honor me, Great Pharaoh,” Halem bowed low. “And honor is reward enough. In turn, I shall give the herds to the Royal Palace and your family.”

          The Pharaoh was indeed impressed. “Thank you, Halem. But I insist you take at least one of the flock as a symbol of my gratitude.”

          Halem chose a small goat with black ears to bring home to his grandson, Aten. The little she-goat would make a perfect friend.

          Aten was delighted. Every day, he sat beneath the laurel trees, in the shade of ripe figs. He drew pictures while his little goat, Set-Set, nibbled the grass and shook her long white coat in the sunshine.

          One morning, after Set-Set had eaten a golden orange, she began to sing. “I am a little goat of Egypt,” she sang. “Aten's goat. His only goat.” And then she jumped and tossed her head.

          “You can sing!” Aten exclaimed. “You are a magic goat!”

          Set-Set bleated, “Maa! Maa!” And tossed her head once more.

After a lunch of olives, cheese and pomegranates, the pair waited patiently for Halem’s return from the Pharaoh’s palace.

          Aten loved afternoons with his grandfather! They sat together in the sun-lit garden and drew pictures while Set-Set nibbled the grass nearby.

          One day, as Halem lifted Aten onto his lap, he smiled so deeply that Aten was able to count all the lines in Halem’s cheeks. Then he counted the brown freckles on Halem’s hands.

          “Why do you have so many lines and freckles?” Aten asked.

          “The lines come to everyone who seeks wisdom,” Halem explained. “Each freckle represents one wise thought.”

          “But you have many more lines than freckles,” Aten said.

          “Yes,” laughed Halem. “The search for wisdom never ends. You may have to look in a thousand places before you discover one single wise thought.”

          “Are you wise because you read the stars and sacrifice goats and rams, Grandfather?”

          “I am wise because the Pharaoh thinks I am,” Halem laughed.

          “Will you ever sacrifice Set-Set, Grandfather?”

          “Set-Set is your friend, Aten. Set-Set is not meant for sacrifice,” And then Aten and Halem went for a walk under the laurel trees and in the shade of ripe figs.

          Set-Set ran beside them, chasing the wandering bees and shaking her coat in the sunshine.

          When Aten and Set-Set had lived through eight plantings of wheat and barley, a famine came to Egypt. At first no one really knew it was there except for Halem. Sitting on a stone bench one morning, he looked into the sky and saw tiny red particles hovering in the sun’s rays. Yet no wind stirred the earth.

          Halem went at once to the Pharaoh’s palace.

          “A famine begins, Great Pharaoh,” Halem said. “Fill all the wheat granaries. Fill the water urns, too. For the famine comes.”

          And so the famine crept along the green valleys of the Nile and all the waters evaporated. Every green plant turned brown. The figs and dates shrivelled up. Frogs and turtles hid under bleached pebbles in empty ponds and eventually died. All the birds flew away. And the rams and goats were eaten so quickly that soon none remained, except for Set-Set.

          “We must hide Set-Set,” Halem told Aten. “Take her down into the wine cave and guard her.”

          Aten found a cool corner in the cave near the house. He sat with Set-Set on a soft pallet. Thin and hungry like Aten, Set-Set sang anyway. “I am a little goat of Egypt. Aten’s goat. His only goat.”

          Hunger made the children’s eyes grow large. So the Pharaoh opened the wheat granaries and the people of Egypt ate. Water in huge urns splashed into everyone’s cups until the last drop was  gone.

          The Pharaoh summoned Halem to the Palace. “How much longer will the famine last?” he asked.

          “I will count the number of teeth in the old men’s smiles,” Halem said.

          “Will you not examine the insides of a ram?” asked the Pharaoh.

          “There are no rams left, Great One. I will count the teeth, instead.”      

          When Halem had finished counting, he told the Pharaoh, “The famine will last another year. The old men’s smiles will fade.”

          So the Pharaoh ordered the caravans to bring water and food from the city of Byblos where there was no famine.

          “How long will it take before the caravans return?” asked the Pharaoh.

          Halem looked at the sky. Red dust marked the moon’s face like pox.

          “I cannot be certain, Mighty Pharaoh. There are sandstorms in the desert now. They will cut men’s eyes and blind the camels.”

          The Pharaoh grew angry. “You cannot be certain? That is a poor answer! Why do you not examine the intestines of a goat?”

          “The goats are gone,” Halem said.

          “And your grandson’s goat?” the Pharaoh demanded. “Has it died, too?”

          “She is too sick to be of any use, Great One. She is almost dried up,” Halem answered.

          “If the people die,” the Pharaoh shouted, “I will have no one to rule!”

          When the Pharaoh returned to his stone bed and soft cushions, he dreamt of his ancestors sleeping with eyes open, laughing at him.

          That night Aten found Halem looking at the stars.

          “What do the stars say?” asked Aten.

          “They say the Pharaoh comes to our house. He comes for Set-Set.”

          “But he can’t!” Aten wept.

          “If we try to stop him, we will surely die,” Halem answered.

          Halem was right. The Pharaoh arrived with trumpeters and guards. His face was dark.

          “I must take this last goat of Egypt,” the Pharaoh explained. “If I sacrifice her to the gods, surely they will pity us and end this famine.”

          The guards carried Set-Set from the cave. She was so weak that when she cried, “Maa! Maa!” only Aten’s heart could hear her.

          The next morning the people of Egypt gathered to witness Set-Set’s sacrifice at the Temple. The old men came, leaning on sticks. Hungry babies drooped in their mothers’ arms, and all eyes of Egypt looked for a sign of  hope.

          Aten stood in front of the crowd, shivering because he was frightened.

          “Since this goat belongs to the Royal Soothsayer’s house, he shall conduct the sacrifice,” the Pharaoh commanded.

          And so with a trembling hand, Halem lifted his knife up towards the sun, ready to strike Set-Set. All eyes watched Halem’s arm.

          Suddenly Aten shouted, “No, no! Stop!” And he ran so quickly no one could catch him.

          He raced up the stairs to the altar and threw himself across Set-Set. Halem’s blade stopped but a hair’s breadth from Aten’s neck.

          “Please, don’t kill my goat!” Aten begged the Pharaoh. “Sacrifice me instead.  The gods might like that even more!”

          The crowd rumbled. Aten was offending the Pharaoh!

          The Pharaoh was greatly surprised. “You would exchange your life for a small goat?”

          Aten nodded slowly. He stroked Set-Set’s head. “She’s my friend.”

          Just then, Set-Set sang out. “I am a little goat of Egypt. Aten’s goat. His only goat.”

          Halem dropped his knife in astonishment. The Pharaoh sat down hard on his golden chair and stared at Set-Set. No one spoke!

          Finally, the Pharaoh declared, “As I spare the boy and save his goat, so shall the gods spare Egypt.”

          Suddenly, the sound of trumpets filled the air. Temple messengers hurried toward the Pharaoh.

          “Great One,” they announced, “the caravans are only a few hours away. They are carrying bread, cheese, olives, figs and heavy water skins. There will be food and drink for everyone tonight!”

          The crowd remained quiet, unable to believe such good news. Then Set-Set cried, “Maa-maa!”

          Aten laughed. The Pharaoh looked pleased.

          And the old men smiled though they had no teeth.

All Rights Reserved Carol Krenz 2011

The Eye of the Storm

Groundhog Day, and if any groundhog knows what's good for him, he'll be staying put in his den and keeping his nose warm.

It's early -- maybe 5 am EST and as I sit in my city in the north, feeling the stirrings of a snowstorm readying to shriek into town, I count my blessings because Montreal has been mostly spared a harsh winter.

Meanwhile, the United States is in the throes of blizzard conditions; Chicago is being walloped (I hope Rahm Emanuel is safe and warm in the bosom of his, er, family. Go, Rahm, go!!) 

The massive winter storm, stretching nearly the length and breadth of the US is moving upward and eastward.

Meanwhile, Yasi, the category 5 cyclone, is making landfall in Queensland Australia.

A day when Mother Nature declares her intention to howl. Is she, I wonder, calling us to rethink what's happening to the melting Arctic ice? That's what meterologists are saying. I believe them.

As a reminiscence of calmer, brighter days, when the heartbeat was palpable beneath the vest, quietly marking delight in the universe, and love for the divine possibilities of urban life, I offer a poem -- a favourite of mine -- written way back in 1802. Before the official start of the Industrial Revolution. Before man overran the planet in population explosions.

Despite the challenges of modern life, I continue to draw hope and inspiration by looking backward to something recognizable even today. There will always be pots of flowers propped on street corners, evening terraces humming in fragrant conversation and breezes, balconies overlooking sleepy rivers -- so long as we tend to them.

Composed Upon Westminster Bridge  September 3, 1802

by William Wordsworth

Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning; silent , bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky,

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did the sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Baron Julian Fellowes? For shame, for shame!!

My dear Baron,

It is with the utmost dismay I write you this day. I was always amused by you -- after all, you have written exceedingly well when you've put your mind to it.

I must say, I thoroughly enjoyed the rancor and jaundiced view of the relationships of your "upstairs downstairs" people in Gosford Park for Robert Altman.

Whereas Upstairs Downstairs for PBS wears a rosy glow and a rather benign face, your Gosford makes mincemeat of the former's staff and aristocracy. In your capable hands, the curtain of the genteel is stripped away to reveal tawdry behaviour below stairs and wicked fangs above stairs.

In truth, the reality of the Bellamys at Eaton Square flirts with a wonderful naïveté and tremendous heart even when it metes out harsh events and painful extremes. As such, it sits at the pinnacle of excellence for Masterpiece Theatre; its indelible characters, however altruistic at times, remain long after we've viewed Gosford Park, or The Young Victoria for that matter.

But, despite longevity problems, and apart from discussions of self-delusional egos, your work has always beckoned me with a sense of discovery. I do so like new takes on old ideas.

Tonight, however, I retract my high-minded view of your talent. Tonight, alas, you fell off that pedestal of writerly worthiness and had best consider a tour of your country estates and a quiet life of sheep herding and drinking port. For you are guilty, dear Baron, of literary theft and for this sin, there can be no forgiveness.

I have been following PBS' latest Masterpiece Classic, your creation, Downton Abbey. It's a respite to my day, a lovely touch of British soap, best taken with a sponge cake and plenty of treacle.

Granted it isn't stellar, but in the wasteland of television, it is, to be fair, a few grades above Hoarders, Jersey Shore and American Idol.

Unfortunately, tonight's episode dealt with Dowager Countess Violet Grantham's 'crise de coeur' when it was suggested to her that perhaps she ought to let a certain Mr. Molseley win top prize at the flower show for his beautiful roses. After all, dear Violet...you do know that the judges are never impartial when it comes to awarding you that very same prize each and every season?

And so, in a lovely touch of plot padding, we, the audience, were treated to the softer side of the crusty old bag -- for, yes, in keeping with this week's theme -- change -- she finally did something brave and wonderful. She was handed the judge's decision on a piece of paper proclaiming her inevitable victory, whereupon she neatly ignored it and announced Mr. Moseley as the winner.

A big hooray from young viewers (whom I do not think watch PBS at all) and a royal raspberry from all of us who have not only seen Mrs. Miniver at least a dozen times, but well remember it.


In Mrs. Miniver, it is Lady Beldon (Dame May Whitty) who is asked by Mrs. Miniver (Greer Garson) to set aside her selfish grasp on annual rose awards and let the best rose win -- that, being the beautiful hybrid, named after Mrs. Miniver, bred by one very humble stationmaster, Mr.Ballard -- with the same result. Crusty biddy shows softer side.


Baron Fellowes, I must send you a cleaning bill, for my Spode teacup and saucer fell to the Chinese rug and despite immediate ministrations, it remains stained. As does your good reputation.


I hate the presumption that I am brain dead. Did you honestly think you could get away with this?

I loathe the idea of plagiarism, and certainly what you did was as close to it as you'll ever get.

If it's come to the point when you are now casting about, despite any assistance from Shelagh Stephenson, for fresh ideas, you have only to call on me and I shall at least keep you on the straight and narrow.


Now do be a good chap and lose the haughty assumption that only a select few are as widely read, and widely in tune with retro cinema as you.
I say this because after much thought and head scratching, I cannot come up with any other reasonable explanation as to why you tried to get away with this.
Nor will I accept that you did so unaware, that you suffered brain fog, that the dog wrote it, or the cat.


In fact, the only thing I will accept is an apology.

DRUG WITHDRAWAL -- When The Writing Stops

I've been away tending to sick eyes -- infections and cuts and all kinds of "gah!" conditions that forced me to wear a weak, old prescription pair of glasses.
Reading and writing scooted away -- indeed, light hitting my eyes was for a time, unbearable.

I am about to try my new contacts this weekend and see how it goes. In the meantime, I have been well aware of the sensation that leaves me drained, itchy, skittish, irritable and depressed -- writing withdrawal.

I have no idea how other people react to weeks without creating words, but I can tell you in my case, it's all tied to the condition of the psyche. For me, the three demons -- fear, dread, and anxiety --  find a good nesting place in the void, slowly and determinedly eating away at any resolve, direction, self-confidence I have. They bore holes into my creative thought processes.

Writing is a drug -- my drug of choice. And while writing may seem similar to bike riding, with the old adage about how you never really forget how to do it, I find it painful on the re-entry.

Things pop into my head like:

What was I thinking when I said I could write?
Will I ever find my way back to the land of Oz?
If I look at some of my manuscript lying fallow, will I read with horror and discover I never had any talent at all? 
I better not look at my work...

The more I think about these self-destructive thought processes, the worse it gets. I wonder...do other writers feel this way? And, my hunch is yes...yes, they do.


The thing is this -- the entire act of writing is a very solitary affair involving a mind and a blank screen or sheet of paper. And the very act of putting words on that blank universe is a task undertaken by the writer willfully.
Now, what kind of crazy person would even put him or herself in such a position to begin with?


Well, that's just it -- you do have to be some kind of particularly crazy sort of person, if you want to write.
And, you have to understand at the get-go that other normals in the corporate, 9-5 world, may look squinty-eyed at you and pity you, and decide you are wholly delusional.


Writers really need to hang out in one way or another with other writers or artists because theirs is a world which lies at the polar opposite of the mainstream.


All art is based on acts of blind faith. And the funny thing is, without this kind of art invading the solidity of the workaday world, there would be nothing to entertain us, or stimulate us. There'd be no jokes, no drama, no splashes of colour and whimsy; certainly, there would be no fantasy worlds in which to escape. And no civilization has ever endured without all manner of flights of the fantastical -- be it architecture or the realms of the spiritual.


Knowing this, I, once again, wobbly as a a newborn, giddy as a schoolgirl with an age-old crush, take my seat in front of my personal dream spinner, hit my acceleration pedal and push off from the dingy curb.


When it comes to writing and to the sound of words, I am an addict and shall remain so to my last breath.

The New Year -- On a Note of Hope

Granted, the concept of a Waterford crystal ball dropping in Times Square is widely observed and thought to be the be-all and end-all to our state of mind, mood and year -- but, it's not everyone's cup of tea or even everyone's idea of  a new year.
For Jews, the year is 5771 and it was celebrated in September 2010; for the Chinese, this year is about the rabbit -- but not until February 3rd.


Now, the Year of the Rabbit sounds wonderful.


It's considered a lucky year -- rabbits are in favour of the arts and all things beautiful. They are non-confrontational, nest-building, endowed with quiet reassurance, calm and thoughtful nurturing. They are communicators, peaceable, teachers, negotiators. Rabbits like privacy. Rabbits take care of home and hearth, and care about women and children. Rabbits are, on the whole, approachable and friendly -- but, famously introverted.

(I'll bet you've already forgotten about Times Square and that ball.)

Regardless of how you woke up today, January 1, 2011, chances are the Gregorian calendar rules your technology, so in essence, we are all on a clean slate, a fresh abacus, a new page.

Happy New Year -- Now Go Be A Cwazy Wabbit!




  Carol's Annual Wisdom and Guidelines For Writers


1) You cannot keep saying you are a writer if you don't write.


2) Bad writing can improve. Good writing can get better. Best writing is a question of taste, but it will never sink to bad writing regardless of who passes judgment.


3) Successful writing doesn't always mean good writing.


4) Never write what you know. Always write what you need to know or want to know or suspect you know.


5) There are no tricky 'how-to' rules to writing. Not one. Except that you must hold an audience and write comprehensively.

6) Never confuse talking down to your readership (by spoon feeding them too much information) with assuming your readership knows the world you have created as intimately as you do. They don't. Let them in, little by little. Make 'em beg for more.


7) Read good writers. Avoid reading bad writers. Steal from good writers. Like, what? Like techniques, or structure, or their ability to paint in broad strokes with a wider vocabulary than you possess.
Absorb good writers' assuredness. They have every reason to write confidently because they write well. Make that your goal, too.


8) Obey the rules about crossing the street: STOP, LOOK, LISTEN.
Good writing comes from keen observers who question everything, wonder at what might have been or could be, and who pay strict attention to the tiniest details.
Then, they bring those details to their writing. 
Smells, tastes, sounds, colour.
 - Lazy writing equals blah: "He bought her flowers"
 - Lively writing equals interest: "He bought her purple wildflowers because she lived year round in jeans in the Village and he figured they'd look perfect on her windowsill."


9) Don't confuse inner editor with inner critic. The former is your best friend who helps you elevate first drafts to final drafts; the latter is your enemy. You must kill him or her.


10) BE FEARLESS. The "mouse that roared" is achieved because you take risks, you wade right in, you learn to ignore disapproving voices, you find strength in the impact of one well chosen word rather than five. You write from the heart not the head, and you write with honesty.


Happy New Year, yes. Happy Writing, even if it kills you, absolutely!

COLIN FIRTH -- Please Talk Dirty To Me Again

I just reviewed THE KING'S SPEECH -- my money is on this film to take most of the Oscars.

You can read it at Rover Arts - (roverarts.com) -- the link is on this page, below. Let me know what you think -- have you seen this film, yet? You must!

Things I did not say in that review:

I LOVE COLIN FIRTH. What I find so remarkable about this man (apart from the obvious, I-want-to-run-my-hands-through-his-hair-and-commit-unspeakable-acts of-savage-love-on-his-person) is his ability to rise in the acting firmament as a romantic lead and then veer in any direction as a character actor. 

From Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice and Mark Darcy (ha-ha--we all got it) in Bridget Jones's Diary, to my strong favourite, the character in Love Actually who falls in love with a Portuguese woman and learns the language well enough to finesse his way into her heart and her family's, to a complete about face in last year's Oscar-worthy performance in A Single Man, as a grieving homosexual, replete with stylish Charles Nelson Reilly eyeglasses à la director Tom Ford's artful take on the 1960s.

Did I mention I loved him as the brooding, enigmatic Vermeer in Girl With A Pearl Earring? Did I mention I love whatever he does and that he probably knows it? Did I mention that I'm onto him...he prefers not to smile (but what dimples!) and more often than not presents the promise of something yet to come; a dark, mysterious personality who speaks in smooth modulated tones, stingy with his smiles, as though they represent a naked, caught-off-guard facet of his personality. Or, maybe, he just doesn't think much of his smile. Ah, yes, the wonders of thespian applications.


I didn't mention in my review that if you want to hear Firth's take on unutterably dirty swear words, you'll get a thorough review of them, in TKS -- mind you, as George VI, but, hey, you close your eyes and imagine what you want, right?

I didn't mention that Colin Firth not only tackled the painful stammer of George VI in a masterful way, but actually raised his voice timbre to match the king's. I noted his manner of walking, as well.
Firth really became that monarch and that's the difference between play acting at something, and actually inhabiting a character.
I drank in every pulse at his temple, every throb along the jaw, and I always sink comfortably into all that passionate expression simmering beneath the surface of his eyes.

I didn't mention how much I love Marcelle waves in hair -- Helena Bonham Carter's hair, to be exact. Nor did I point out how very much Claire Bloom submerged her own persona into that of Queen Mary's.
I scarcely recognized Anthony Andrews -- remember him as Sebastian in Brideshead Revisited?
Geoffrey Rush is brilliant as Lionel Logue.

There is rich detail in this film. A veritable feast. One ironic twist comes at the end. As King George delivers the momentous speech to rally his subjects toward vanquishing Germany, the swell of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony, second movement, surges upward with great poignancy.

But enough. Let's just say, I saw the film twice and had a bollocksy good time.

The Power of One

I am going to miss American diplomat Richard Holbrooke -- I think the world is noticeably diminished now that he's gone. Too soon. Much too soon.

I was peripherally aware of his work through the years in a general sort of way, but always of the opinion that he was a diplomat of substance and tremendous personal integrity.


And then I discovered the Power of One and shortly after that, I really paid attention to his words and deeds. We were of similar minds.


You know how you grow up hearing ancient axioms like "the pen is mightier than the sword" and that one person can change the world? And you know how frustrated you feel when you see evil out there and you want to make it stop but feel your words will fall on deaf ears or that your donation of a measly buck to a cause will be of no use because what's needed is an ocean of money-- not a teaspoon, and no one else is contributing, so what's the point?


That feeling of frustration and anger worked overtime on me in late 1993.

I had been in a lather -- a serious one -- since 1992 when the Bosnian War got underway. As months wore on, stories of madness, violence and mass rapes dominated the news along with the words "ethnic cleansing." News of concentration camps was reported. The Serbs were going after all the Muslims in Bosnia-Herzegovina and their political and military actions were spearheaded in Sarajevo and elsewhere by fiendish sicko, Dr. Radovan Karadzic. 
I feel pretty much the same about Karadzic as I do about the Nazi Dr. Mengele. Karadzic was a psychiatrist. Guess he had some inkling into the depths of shame and self-loathing 20,000 women would experience during rape and afterward. He really knew how to get his jollies.

I never understood why the rest of Europe turned a blind eye to what was happening only miles away from the nearest wine bar and hot plate of pasta.
And where was the UN?
And where were the millions of available Muslims in the world to save their brethren from this ethnic cleansing?

I was being deliberately naive because I didn't want to think the world had learned nothing since World War II and Hitler's near-eradication of the world's Jews.
I didn't want to think that when people said "Never Again" it was ever going to be more than a symbolic reminder.

I certainly didn't want to think that most of the world's Muslim community didn't care about Muslims of the former Yugoslavia because they were "too western" and therefore not really good-quality Muslims.

And then one evening as Christmas approached, CNN did a story out of Sarajevo. They interviewed a woman standing on the balcony of her apartment. 

I was struck by many things at the same time. 

In the first place, her apartment building looked just like all the other apartments built in the 1970s in most North American cities. A slab of concrete, a high-rise, with standard issue sliding windows etc. Hers, however, was riddled with bullet holes.
The next thing that struck me was the obvious similarity between Sarajevo and Montreal. We are officially "sister cities" and as I gazed at the rooftops and remembered with fondness, the recent Olympic Games held in Sarajevo, I was overcome with an incredible sense of disbelief. How on earth could all this be happening, right in the glare of the lights of the CNN cameras?

Finally, what brought me to tears was the woman herself. She was wearing fashionable red-framed eyeglasses and watering potted vegetables on her balcony as she spoke to reporters. She said she had no lights, no heat, little food, and no hot water. She said this had been going on for two years. Soap itself was scarce. I think she was a professor, I am not sure, but definitely a well-educated professional. Anyhow, as she spoke, her voice took on a tinge of bitter sarcasm. Staring into the camera she said in a calm voice that the people in the west didn't care about her or anyone in Sarajevo or Bosnia. She spoke in such matter-of-fact tones that I felt my blood run cold.
"I care," I yelled at the screen. "Goddammit to Hell, I care!"

Days later, as I sat in warm tub of bath water, holding a fragrant bar of soap I had received as a holiday gift, I began to shake and cry. Suddenly, I started chanting names: Sarajevo, Mostar, Tusla, Srebrenica, Auschwitz, Treblinka, Belsen...and then, I knew what I had to do.

The Power of One.


I sat down and wrote a strong op-ed piece for the Montreal Gazette. I said that towns in Bosnia were not meant to live in the annals of history in the same way the Nazi camps did. And yet, and yet, why was I chanting them with the same horror? I accused the world. We had always used the excuse of so-called ignorance when it came to knowing what was happening in the Nazi concentration camps. But, what was our excuse now?
I implored people to take action. I accused the UN of being a broken promise in the East River. I said I had heard that woman on her balcony and I was not impervious to her pleas.
I challenged readers and journalists to rally, to go with me and march on the UN if necessary, if our own governments refused to act.
And, I exhorted people to rise to their better  natures. We are, I said, made of Gandhi and Joan of Arc. I just knew that people had to be more good than bad and indifferent.


Sensing I might have tapped into a zeitgeist of some kind, I rented a PO Box because I had a feeling I might receive mail.


The story ran in the Gazette, and was then picked up by the wire services and appeared out west, and the Calgary editor smartly placed the piece alongside a picture of the Sarajevo marketplace which had just been bombed.


Do you know how many letters I received? More than 1,200. 

Ordinary people wrote, local and far away. School teachers had their children write to me, draw pictures. I got some mail from Holocaust survivors and some mail from Nazis -- why the Nazis were upset, well, I guess it's because I had mentioned how names lived in infamy when they had no business doing that. I even got mail from prisoners who wanted to send money. Everyone was touched, everyone was angry, everyone wanted to help. 
And that's when the Bosnia Help Committee and other organizations contacted me and then I was able to direct people and donations etc. to the right places in Washington and Ottawa.


Through all of this Richard Holbrooke was actively pursuing positive and decisive action. What a horrible, horrible failure we made of things with the UN who were not mandated to shoot and fight, and who ended up running for their lives out of Szrebrenica while men were rounded up and major assassinations and crimes against humanity rained down.


Nevertheless, Holbrooke, cobbled together the Dayton Accord and finally, the war stopped. He was tough and determined. I was grateful for that.


In 2008, he returned to Bosnia and said he was reminded of his Jewish grandfather who had had to surrender his worldly possessions to the Nazis and run for his life. Holbrooke supposed one didn't have to be Jewish to imagine the kind of anguish and horror of the Bosnian War.
I realized he and I thought about the same things.


On a personal note, I have to say, that each and every letter I received as a result of my editorial made me cry. Strangers spoke so eloquently. I was moved more than I can say by the outpouring, and proud of Canadians and thankful for them touching me and making me feel less alone, as I had, apparently, done for them.


Of all the writing I have ever accomplished, that one small editorial and its ripple effect has to be the finest use of my "pen" to date.


I remember hugging those letters (which I still have locked away) and saying out loud, "If I were to die now, it would be all right. I finally did something good. Something to be proud of."


Indeed, I had proven that each and every one of us is imbued with great power and resolve, and that it only takes one act, one book, one idea, one incredible sense of drive and determination to help change the world.

Something to think about as we all gather around hearth and home this holiday.

I would love to know where that lady on the balcony is these days. I would love to wish her a continued good life filled with hot water, soap and electricity -- things we take for granted far too easily. I hope she has changed her view of ordinary people in the west. 


Finally, and not the least of this post, my sincerest condolences to the Holbrooke family -- and my deepest gratitude to a great man.

Days That Will Live In Infamy

I don't know why the beginning of December is fiendish. Perhaps an astrologist has an explanation or maybe a numerologist. All I know is it's getting awfully crowded in these, the days of infamy.

On December 6th, twenty-one years ago, a young man, named Marc Lépine, walked into Montreal's École Polytechnique, an engineering school, and killed fourteen women, all of whom were the best and brightest of students, because he decided he hated women. He hated feminists. He hated that he had not succeeded in love.
He killed himself when he was done. The incident remains the largest case of mass murder in Canada.

On December 7th, 1941 Japanese forces bombed the US Naval Base at Pearl Harbor -- reasons too numerous to mention, except to note that the Japanese were already engaged in conquering China and Korea and wanted more in the Pacific rim. Crippling the US would have been a way to buy more time to carry out their plans, or so they thought. It doesn't matter now because the long reach of history explains over decades the whys and wherefores of what led up to Japan's political aspirations and what befell the entire world through the war years ending in 1945 and post war. Suffice it to say the Pearl Harbor attack, unexpected and shocking on a Sunday morning, spelled death for 2,402 military personnel and wounded 1,282.
Within hours, Adolf Hitler declared war on the United States, as well.

On December 8th, 1980, a disenfranchised man, Mark David Chapman, shot and killed former Beatle, John Lennon. He was forty years old.
Chapman killed Lennon because he wanted to be a somebody everyone would remember.
On Wednesday, it'll be thirty years since Lennon's last breath. The world will take notice and pay tribute. Did Chapman win?


All in all, a very busy week.

This year, it is different for me. I am marking the events with a blog entry. When I have finished, I will have finished. News blackouts unless a new disaster strikes.


 I have lived through the following:


Assassination of John F. Kennedy, 
Martin Luther King, Jr., Robert Kennedy, Malcolm X.
The Manson murders
The Jonestown massacre -Jim Jones
The morning the Space Shuttle Challenger blew up
Waco Siege - death of David Koresh and Branch Davidians
Death of John Kennedy Jr.
Death of Diana Princess of Wales
Oklahoma City Bombing - Timothy McVeigh
September 11, 2001
Space Shuttle Colombia destroyed on re-entry


and that's certainly not all, but it is enough.


Why am I relating this?


I've given thought over the years to my days of weeping and breast beating, the abject grief and shock, the rage, the total physical displacement of what seemed like my orbit, my axis -- falling, shifting horribly in the pit of my stomach. Grief will always knock me flat.


But I have learned something. It's what actor Sidney Poitier once said -- when he was young he thought he could and would change the world. When he grew older, he realized the only thing he could change was himself.
"Be the change you want to see," said Gandhi.


Not easy. But, one thing I know for sure -- if you are sane and you want to stay that way, you have to choose sanity every waking moment. God knows there are plenty of crazy people on this planet, and plenty of events we cannot control. So, I say a silent prayer, keep a small place of remembrance in my heart and move onward. Ever onward.


Banting and Best, the Gutenberg press, the moonwalk, Louis Pasteur, Victor Borge -- a world bursting with miracles and mirth. They, and a million other wonders deserve my attention.
As Lennon put it, "In my life, I've loved them all."

Reindeer and Stew

Holiday Mug from Pier I Imports  $8 CDN.

The snow arrived Monday. It was simply a matter of time. It didn't fall in big fluffy flakes. It came in a powder, blowing and squalling with insignificant accumulation, as if to say, "I'm here now, I am not planning to melt, and I will grow fierce and icy and make your driving hell." And it continues into the night. Eventually, the centimetres will add up, finally convincing disbelievers that winter tires really are necessary. That rasp hitting those ears? It's not cousin Freddy playing with the garden hose again. It's frostbite.

Time for the boots and gloves and voluminous coats. Time for the fashion-forward scarves, hats and mufflers; the half-hands and furry leg warmers, many of which will scream hot red, pink, purple, yellow, gray and winter white.

If it's one thing Canadians do well, it's winter with an attitude, a kind of western capitalist denial that spring blooms are locked up for six months in hothouses.


When Canadians travelled to the U.S.S.R in 1972 for the now-famous series of Canada-Russia hockey games, it was unquestionably easy to spot them in the audience. A sea of drab, mirthless Communists sat like black pebbles in a rock garden riotously overtaken by florid cheeks, smiling faces and colourful parkas and toques. I am quite sure those Russians were startled and envious.


I watched the snow from my window today and counted my blessings. I am often reminded how little things make a difference. I was feeling blah last week, so I bought the Pier I mug above. It's a sweet happy mug, with great lines, wonderful cheeriness, and a rim that is neither too thick to be sloppy nor too thin to be mistaken for fine china.


A simple mug lifted my spirits. Not that a million dollars in the bank wouldn't do the same, but since that doesn't seem to be handy at the moment, I'll happily take my mug and consider what my whimsical reindeer and I might do together. We are the purveyors of dreams.


Another blessing -- I have so many! is the circle of grandmothers on my shoulders. I had three grandmothers -- my maternal great-grandmother, Celia, whom I called Grandma Kaufmann -- I lived with her for a few notable years -- my maternal grandmother, Edythe, whom I called Grandma Edie, and my paternal grandmother, Rebecca (Rivka), whom I called Grandma Becky.

Today, as the snow fell, I thought of Grandma Becky and her wonderful chicken stew.

She called it "russeleh" -- which is my made-up spelling for a word I think is akin to Romanian, but then, again, it could be some kind of Yiddish, or even possibly, a Grandma Becky word alone.


The stew is simple. As Grandma always said, "First, you need an onion."
(In fact, she used to hit me with a wooden spoon whenever I wondered what I should use to cook a dish, if it wasn't dessert. "What, are you crazy?" she'd  wave the spoon, "you use an onion! How can you ask?")

So, you slice a big onion, and some potatoes and lots of carrots.
Then you pour a "spoon" of oil into a stew pot, add your onions and cook until tender. Then, you add pieces of chicken. I use breasts and thighs, boneless.
You brown a little, then add your carrots and potatoes. I usually put the vegetables on the bottom and the chicken on the top.

Seasoning? Another story.
Salt, pepper, garlic, onion powder, sweet paprika. And the magic ingredient.
Now, my sister and I have discussed this at length because the secret ingredient is cinnamon and my sister thinks it's not really true -- it's just that one day Grandma probably used it by mistake owing to bad vision, or on purpose when she was all out of paprika. I like to think the cinnamon was deliberate. Either way, I use it and it's delicious and since she was Romanian, it seems totally reasonable to me that she'd use a spice like that.
I say this, even though Grandma was not averse to dumping a teaspoonful of jam into my coffee when she was out of sugar.... (By the way, I was taught that an ellipsis of three dots always ends with a period if no words follow.)

Anyhow, the real secret to this stew is the water you add -- just a little. You watch carefully as the water disappears into the potatoes and carrots, add a little more, until the veggies are tender. And, then you let the pot start to dry out so that the onions and carrots caramelize. You add a little more water, wait and watch until it glistens with oil, and you are done.
On a day like today, a humble "russeleh" fills the house with that homey warmth only found in tales of the "old country" when the snow was unforgiving, the sky was black with crows and bleak, but you had one another, you had a bowl of love to nourish your spirit.


I explained all of this to my gentile reindeer and I have to say, he liked the story. Tomorrow, as the snow continues, I shall tell him another.

No, No, NA-NO -- A "new" Broadway Hit!

Friday dawns in a streak of icy roads (not good) and the promise of holiday ambiance (good) for the weekend.

A frantic week, marked by interruptions, apartment intrusions, doctor appointments, and all 'round general madness as the "man" in my life tried to unravel a contract he's working on, to see where and when he's leaving town.
Writing has been in fits and starts -- and so, it is, as far as I am concerned, NO-NO NA-NO. I took down my widget, as there is no point in seeing me move up to ten thousand words. That being said, I am very grateful for the lovely push this gave me -- and I will continue to post that one section in SFD of the book about Anna's journey to her debut recital in Berlin, as soon as I can!

After all, I can't just leave things dangling!

Today I will be writing, baking some shortbread, and plotting activities for next week. With "the Man" (Maybe I should call him Mr. Big -- my shortbread and other goodies do that to him -- ) gone all week, it will be quiet here. Writing and eating and sleeping etc. when I want to sounds good. So does the thought of a movie break.


I was so looking forward to the opening of THE KING'S SPEECH today, but I guess it's not going to happen for a couple of weeks.
I adore Colin Firth and period movies hold a fascination for me.

Speaking of period movies, I am working on an essay for LESSONS I LEARNED FROM MY MOTHER -- hope to receive more submissions! -- and it deals with teenage angst, feelings of ingratitude, and how my mother made me feel spoiled at a pivotal Dr. Zhivago moment.

Hope my American cousins are having a lovely Thanksgiving weekend!

Before I forget, my play on words has to do with the Broadway show, No, No, Nanette -- it debuted in the 1920s and there was a revival in the '70s.
The most well-known song from the show is "Tea For Two."


And speaking of tea...maybe scones would be a tasty addition to today. I love to make them using white chocolate and dried cranberries.

I have grandiose dreams of baking. That's because I still haven't eaten breakfast!

TURNING CORNERS - Monsters Out From Under The Bed

 So, where have I been? Right here. Trying to work. Lots of distractions- like they're filming right in front of my apartment -- Coppola's production of On The Road - Jack Kerouac. The interior courtyard was packed with spiffy coupes and whitewalls and all kinds of 1940s and '50s automobiles. Totally cool.

And then there was a lengthy "what is that thingum called, actually, and what's the name of the church and shoot, did I spell that right" The thingum was the octagonal domed roof of a famous church in Florence...the landmark you see in all the photos. I needed to know more because that shape is used as the roof for the solarium in the Garber home.

Then there was a tussle with the Hydro electric bill and why the power company decided I owed them a late fee. Two dollars -- and unreasonably so. But, bureaucrats are like that. They want me to write a letter and mail it to complain. Take it to the Supreme Court if necessary, but, no, they "can't override the computer error" because after all, they are...bureaucrats.

I took time out to read all the various posts of my fellow Nanos who will be reaching 50,000 in a matter of hours. Pffft! It was a gift to me , this reading. A good break. I am hoping to maybe squeeze up to 30,000 if I write fast and if no hair balls, hairy men, or hairy situations get in my way.

I spent a lovely hour talking to my mother about Toots Shor -- I caught the documentary on him and was blown away by the nostalgic look at New York in its heyday -- the 1940s and '50s. Toots was quite a guy. It was another world then. Film stars, DiMaggio, politicians, mobsters, heavy belters like Jackie Gleason -- all and sundry rubbing up together at the huge bar. Riveting.

My mother and I also talked about something very near and dear to me -- her famous homemade macaroni and cheese casserole with the toasted bread crumbs and the tomato-kissed cheddar sauce. She gave me the recipe. I got fat just listening, and am planning to make this sucker on the very first day of a heavy snowfall.

All in all, my procrastination period was thoroughly enjoyable. And now, it is back to the book. I am starting to get excited again.

I was thinking to myself that I ought to change my blog title to read NANO I'M NOT, but decided against it.

 I am now ready to burn rubber, I have written a part of the chapter that seemed at times impossible to do, especially because I know what happens next and the reader doesn't, and I had to find a way to allow Anna to glom onto some sense of youthful optimism or hope.

I said I would post my drafts for one section -- the events leading Anna to her debut recital and its immediate aftermath. And, so, here is the next rough-draft installment.

THE SCARF DANCE Copyright Carol Krenz 2010

Monday evenings at home on the Bellevue Strasse were, in Anna’s estimation, as bland and easy to digest as the blanc mange puddings she ate as a child. Papa chaired department meetings at the university until nine and afterward, dined with colleagues. This meant his seat was now occupied by her cat, Tybalt, who regarded Papa with as much wariness and disdain as any Montague. He therefore delighted at every opportunity to curl up on the brocade upholstery where he freely licked his paws and shed inordinate amounts of white hair.

Without Papa to interrupt, Anna usually chattered excitedly to Mama and Mimi; but she was silent now, caught in a daydream.

“Annaleh? You feel all right?”

“Yes, Mama. I’m just tired.”

“You are working too hard, maybe?”

 “No. The hard work begins tomorrow.”

“Well, get a good night’s sleep. Don’t practice too late.”

Rachel Garber pushed her girth away from the table and retired to her room to write her nightly letter to her sister, Sarah.

Mimi lingered over her tea and asked about Liszt. “Is that what you start tomorrow? Has the Kapellmeister narrowed it down, yet?”

“He says he is still deliberating over three of the Rhapsodies.”

“Well, good luck. And listen to your mother. Get some sleep.” Mimi, who was working meticulously on the embroidery repair of monogrammed linens, left for the sewing room.

Alone in the airy green salon on the main floor, Anna sat at the Bechstein grand, closed her eyes and envisioned herself playing Chopin’s Nocturnes. How unfair Papa was – this piano was meant for Chopin. Her fingers caressed the ebony lyre of the music rack and the gleaming lacquer on the fall. Impulsively, she jumped up and laid her cheek on the cool lid, stretching her arms wide to embrace it. If she loved one thing more than anything else, it was this piano.

It had taken both Frau Gruber and Frau Steiner to convince Papa that an upright was insufficient to her talents and requirements. When he had finally relented, and taken the time necessary to ensure the new grand was properly delivered and tuned, she knew he was pleased with his decision and for a time told herself it was because he agreed with her teachers’ assessments.

But when he mentioned the Bechstein in conversations, it was to boast about how his professional achievements had made such luxuries possible. He never praised the young virtuoso who brought this miracle of artisanship to life.

And yet, according to the Kapellmeister, Papa was thrilled for her and wanted her to make her debut. Papa was a complicated puzzle and no matter how many times she tried to arrange his pieces together, they did not fit.

He entered the salon at eleven and was startled to find her waiting for him. “Anna, up so late? What has happened?”

“Nothing, Papa. I just don’t feel sleepy. How was your evening?”

“The same, Anna, the same as always. Arguments about special endowments and how they should be spent.” His tone was flat, his mind, obviously preoccupied. He did not even look at her, he was striding, like a sailor drawn to a siren’s song, towards the glass doors that opened onto the solarium, lush and inviting beneath its octagonal domed roof.

Papa was a handsome figure in black, wrapping a leather apron about his waist, swinging a copper watering can and a hose as he strolled the tiled paths of his exotic garden. Gas light, in stark relief against the night, suffused the flowering trees and plants in a faint phosphorous yellow. Was he actually humming to himself, or was it the hissing of the lamps she heard?

In the dark, lying against the warmth of her pillow, she closed her eyes, pressed her face into it, and recalled the scent of Ariel’s cheeks. His eyes and lips came to her and she kissed them, kissed every inch of his face, sinking deeply into a fantasy. When she could stand no more, she shifted onto her back and stretched her arms toward the ceiling as if to welcome him, to gather him to her bosom. She whispered his name repeatedly until tears trickled into her mouth and ears.

Finally, she reached under her nightgown and allowed her left hand to touch her naked skin. How smooth and taut her belly was, how soft her left breast, how--! Nausea rose in her throat when she neared her right breast, tracing its diminutive outline, her fingers hovering, as if repulsed, before coming to rest on the unnatural whorls of flesh above her nipple. From there, her hand edged upward to the misshapen craters digging into her chest as though it had been scooped out by a blunt instrument. Higher still, she was finally touching the ropey ridge of twisted scar tissue that ran from the top of her shoulder down the length of her withered arm. Its presence was so unnerving, like discovering a mutation wherein human flesh had become a pebbled braided coxcomb.

 More flesh was missing under her armpit.

What the boiling oil had not destroyed, the doctors had, cutting away every trace of gangrene caused by debris that had worked its way into her wounds during the fitful carriage ride home.

Her scalded body was spattered with angry red and purple stains echoing every splash that had doused her, starting at the side of her neck, and finishing just above her wrist. Of particular cruelty, purple streaks shaped like the pointed beaks of carrion birds slashed at her breast and covered her nipple.

She rolled onto her stomach and sobbed into her pillow, trying to muffle her grief.

Passionate love –  gut-wrenching, heart-stopping, intoxicating love was what she longed for, but how would she ever truly know it? She was ugly, so ugly that could not look at herself. Mimi had bathed her since the age of five, and when Mimi was not around, she washed herself hurriedly and in darkness.

God was laughing at her.

Mama said she had a beautiful complexion, Mimi said her long chestnut hair had streaks of sunshine running through it and that her figure was like a young filly’s with a marvelous rump at no extra charge. But Papa had stopped kissing her years ago, and that had to mean something. Oh, yes, God was laughing at her! Papa, who had once adored her, and fussed over her, had completely withdrawn. Maybe this concert would bring his love back. Maybe that was the key to winning his affection once more.

Her piteous sobs continued until she exhausted herself  and found herself drifting in and out of the morning’s hoarfrost and Ariel’s kiss. It seemed so long ago.

Then, she heard a voice. It was Mama’s.

She sat bolt upright and dangled her legs over the bed, listening. A small word whispered at her –  bashert – destiny. Mama’s favourite word.

It was bashert she had gone to Wannsee, bashert she walked into that kitchen with the large pot on the stove, bashert she tiptoed up to touch its blue rooster handle. Yes, bashert she toppled it and was burned and bashert the doctors insisted she play the piano to save her ligaments and muscles.

Mama had said, “not for nothing” to her on more occasions than she could count. Mama even insisted she get over her fear of the kitchen by rolling dough flat and cutting it into cookie shapes for baking. No boiling oil, only the smell of butter, vanilla and cinnamon. Mama had always said “from bad comes good, you’ll see.”

And so, Ariel had come. And maybe he genuinely liked her. Maybe she could learn to trust him and let him love her – if he really wanted to. Maybe. But, what if he did not love her at all? She was not going to try to win him or try to pretend she was beautiful when inside she felt so ugly. No, she would not do it.

 If Ariel truly loved her, he would say so in time. And whatever happened after that – well, it was bashert.