18. 03. 2009.

...after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone...remain poised a long time

I went to the supermarche today, to buy groceries for the next few or so days, as I do every couple of days. As always, I parked my car in the colossal parking lot, locked the door and slowly strolled towards the entrance in my own particular Kerouac-esque way - hands in pockets, head bent, with a lot on my mind. While making my way towards the entrance, I came across a woman who had just completed the task that awaited me. Plastic bags in hand, she opened her boot right in front of me to put the plethora of recently bought goods into it. And hit me with the most unbearable, the most insufferable scent I could ever imagine. The scent of fabricated coconut and vanilla. Basically, a very, very bad car freshener. I was so affronted by this scent that I raised my head and sped my pace to a light gallop, just to get away from it as soon as humanly possible.

I don't know what it is - perhaps the fact that spring is upon us folks in the northern hemisphere - but my sense of scent has heightened of late. Because all day I've been thinking about that scent (ugh!), as well as others, both pleasant and unpleasant, that I've experienced lately. About a group of pubescent boys waiting at the tram stop whose cheap, supermarche parfum was too overwhelming for me, so overwhelming I had to move away. About the intoxicating aroma of vanilla (proper vanilla) and raspberry muffins filling my kitchen. About the foul stench of urine in dark courtyards that I passed on my way to French lessons. About the scent of freshly mown grass that is beginning to fill the neighbourhood.

Funny thing scent is. A totally underrated sense. And yet, what would we do without it? How would we know if the milk has gone sour? Or whether we left the gas on? Or whether our meal tastes good and as it "should"? Because as Wikipedia says "Olfaction, taste and trigeminal receptors together contribute to flavor. The human tongue can distinguish only among five distinct qualities of taste, while the nose can distinguish among hundreds of substances, even in minute quantities." There's nothing worse for me than having a cold and not being able to taste my food as my nose is closed tight.

But more than the fact that scent can protect us from menacing situations or aids our sense of taste, it can take us to places in our past so embedded in our subconscious that we are totally unaware of them - unless we inhale. For example, for me, the scent of burning beechwood takes me straight back to my grandma's house in Gorski Kotar. Nothing can transport me back there like that smell. I can clearly see her with her black kerchief wrapped around her head, her hand under her chin, sitting in her armchair, looking upon the mountains and forests out of her window. I can see the plastic table cloth upon the table, with the strong black coffee and plain slice of bread atop it, the fire ever burning, all-year round, for besides being a fireplace it was also used as a stove. This banal, insignificant scent reminds me of our conversations, of our walks around the woods and valleys, of her formidable soup which no one it seems can replicate, of her sweet disposition, of how much I miss her.

But no one can express what scent means than the incomparable Proust, who truly put it on the map with his humble madeleine and tea. I'll leave you with an extract of that passage from "Remembrance of things past". Always breath in as deep as you can, with both lungs - well, at least when there are pleasant scents surrounding you...

And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the meantime, without tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks' windows, that their image had dissociated itself from those Combray days to take its place among others more recent; perhaps because of those memories, so long abandoned and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was scattered; the shapes of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry, so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds, were either obliterated or had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my consciousness. But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, taste and smell alone, more fragile but more enduring, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, remain poised a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unflinchingly, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.

And as soon as I had recognized the taste of the piece of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-blossom which my aunt used to give me (although I did not yet know and must long postpone the discovery of why this memory made me so happy) immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her room was, rose up like a stage set to attach itself to the little pavilion opening on to the garden which had been built out behind it for my parents (the isolated segment which until that moment had been all that I could see); and with the house the town, from morning to night and in all weathers, the Square where I used to be sent before lunch, the streets along which I used to run errands, the country roads we took when it was fine. And as in the game wherein the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water and steeping in it little pieces of paper which until then are without character or form, but, the moment they become wet, stretch and twist and take on colour and distinctive shape, become flowers or houses or people, solid and recognizable, so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann's park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and its surroundings, taking shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea.

14. 03. 2009.

I believe I can fly

I often take a walk with the kiddies through Old Culinec. Old Culinec is a picturesque little suburb adjacent to ours with lots of cottages and farms and very little traffic. It's a wonderful place, a place where the kiddies can see chickens, ducks, turkeys, even cows up close and where we can all breath in some fresh air.

About a year ago, while we were walking there we came across a baby bird in the middle of the road. It wasn't moving so we assumed it was dead. To our surprise, when we approached it, we realised it wasn't dead at all, rather, seemingly unable to fly. It wasn't even walking, it was just sitting there lifeless, one could almost say resigned to its fate - that it would be stuck there forever, never to be able to fly, most probably to be run over by the next car. Now, being the person I am, I couldn't just leave it there. I thought, what are we going to do? So I picked it up and threw it into the air, literally threw it into the air. And lo and behold, it flew. It flew right up to the nearest tree. And what a beautiful sight it was, watching it fly, striving to what its destiny really was - to fly, to live, to be.

That's exactly how I felt when I first talked to Doodeaux about a month ago and how I always feel when I talk with or email him. This is a man that once said "I think people are going to write wonderful songs for you, with specifically you in mind." Or "your wings are like the heavens." I cried when I read that in his email. Who wouldn't? I'm crying writing it now...

It's funny how silly and banal our first encounter was. But boy, what did it lead to. He approached me at choir and started some small talk with me. How are ya? What ya up to? Blah, blah. Anything but deep and meaningful or life changing, just small talk. But then the conversation took a turn:

"So, Knitting Songbird, what do you do in life?"
"Well, I work at 'The Firm', but it's not really what I want to do."
"What is it you want to do?"
"This is a bit embarrassing, at my age and having the evidently dream job I have, but what I want to do more than anything is sing."
"Sing?"
(I laugh) "Yeah, sing."
And with absolutely no qualms he says "Then we have to record you."

And that was that. Doodeaux gave me wings where other people have tried to clip them, to prevent me from flying, to keep me caged rather than do what I truly believe my destiny is: to fly, to live, to be. God bless him.

04. 03. 2009.

All your life you were only waiting for this moment to arise

Well, well you might be asking, what has our Knitting Songbird been up to these past few weeks? I don't know where to start with that question. Lots, and I truly mean, LOTS has been going on. From being sick (again and again - three times this year!) to going to Venice (will do a post soon, promise!!!) to proofreading a chapter that hubby has been writing for an EU book on climate change to this:

http://www.myspace.com/blackmary1

I'm not going to comment on the songs, I'd like you to do that, except to say that to me they are perfect imperfection - or perhaps, imperfect perfection??? You tell me! - and that I had an absolute and utter ball in the studio, as I think we all did. Thanks so, so much to Doodeaux, Ritosa and Danka, the dream team, for making it all happen. They're just amazing, most especially Doodeaux who is such an uplifting, inspirational person. His words of encouragement still ring in my ears and bring tears to my eyes.

And thank you to the people who inspired me to go in this direction in the first place, in order of acquaintance - Ross, for reminding me how much I love music, Eva, for her heart and soul, and Baldo, who "uncovered" my voice.

And last, but definitely not least, thank you to all my family and friends. Wouldn't be here, there or anywhere without them.

Just to let you know, next on the list of planned songs to record are "Blackbird" and "Who knows where the time goes" which I will do with a guitarist called Igor. Unfortunately, he had an operation recently and is still in hospital recouperating. But hey, I've waited this long, will be patient for a little while longer, non?

Well, now it's time to dust off these broken wings and learn to fly.

12. 02. 2009.

Hir trust hir doubt, like raine and heat in Skies, Gently thundring, she lightning to mine eies.

I am awash with tears and emotion. Today the universe spoke to me. And I like what I heard. It spoke of new plans, of new horizons, of stepping stones.

See, I went to a concert held by Sting and Edin Karamazov tonight. And while there, on my own, listening to Sting sing Dowland, the Beatles, Vaughan-Williams and others, and Edin accompany him maginificently on his lute, I heard words that I had not heard before, the coming together of two worlds - the old and the new, the classical and the modern, the contemporary voice and the ancient didgeridoo.

There is another component to this story. I made a friend recently, a friend who I believe can open up new horizons for me, both musically and spiritually. That is, if, as he says, I believe and take the journey that the universe is beckoning I take, one step at a time. I hope I can. I believe I can.

10. 02. 2009.

There is a flower...I think he has tamed me...

I have a rose in my garden
unlike any other.
And although it may not
seem extraordinary
to others
to me it is.

Despite the fact
that some of its petals are shrivelling,
some fallen,
its stem is bent and arched over,
there are leaves missing,
despite all this,
I love my rose
above all others.

I have had this rose
for almost 17 years.
I have watched it grow,
change with the seasons,
wither, die, to be born again,
year after year.

I sometimes forget to water it,
sometimes to put a glass dome over it
at night,
sometimes let the sheep graze at it
a little.
But each time I allow this to happen
I do my best
to repair the damage,
to nurse it back to health.

I have seen many roses in my time,
many, many roses,
all beautiful,
perhaps more beautiful than mine,
but I love my rose above all others
for it is unique.
It is unique
because it is I,
I,
who tamed it.
And he who tamed
me.

07. 02. 2009.

The lark ascending

My watch conked out yesterday. The battery went flat. And I've been living a timewarped existence ever since. I'm very attached to my watch. Despite the fact that I have a clock in my kitchen, on my computer and mobile, have a church nearby that chimes the hour, I find comfort in knowing that the exact time is, almost literally, at my fingertips.

I'm a little obsessive with knowing what time it is at any given moment. I like to know when it's time to wake up. When it's time to take my babe for a walk. When it's time to prepare lunch. When it's time for my son to come home from school. When it's time to pick up my daughter from kindie. When it's time to go out. When it's time to go to bed. And without my watch, I have been a little lost.

Funny thing time is. Constantly moving forward, relentlessly, at breakneck speed. The minutes, hours, days, months and years, going, going, then gone. Jeremy Irons said “We all have our time machines. Some take us back, they're called memories. Some take us forward, they're called dreams.” I've been thinking quite intensely about both lately, but perhaps a bit more about the former. Just like my friend Ross, I have been thinking about two years in the past in particular - 1988 and 1989.

1988 was a significant year for me as it was my last year of school. And in the words of Dickens, it was the best of times and the worst of times. The best of times because I made some wonderful, lifelong friends and had some magical moments with them which I shall cherish all my life. It was also a kind of age of innocence - a worryfree existence with almost no responsibilities whatsoever, except for school. Which is why it was the worst of times. Because, as anyone who has completed school knows, your last year is your best, and worst - the unrelenting pressure and stress to get the best grades you can, finally finding out what you got for all your drudgery and then deciding what the hell you're going to do with the rest of your life. Not a pleasant experience. Oh yeah, that and unrequited love.

But 1989, now that was a very good year. If pressed, I would have to say my best so far. My first year at university. After having gone to Catholic schools all my life, the last 8 years of which were all-girls Catholic schools, I was now amidst Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Atheist, Vegan, Leftwing, Rightwing, Chickenwing people, as well as others of innumerable persuasions, cultures and beliefs. I was, in short, finally in the real world after having been confined in the parish closures for so long. It was, in effect, the year my voice broke, when the girl in me started turning into a woman. My eyes began opening wide, the parachute in my head that was wrapped up so long started to unravel, my ears began to hear sounds unheard before and my heart seemed to pump harder and faster than ever. And again, I met some amazing people, some of whom have remained my dearest friends.

And then I started thinking - what happened in the world during those two years? What other significant events occured outside my microcosmos? Here's a list that I found on Wiki:

The bicentenary of the settlement of Australia
Demonstrations in the then Czechoslovakia, Estonia, Hungary and other Eastern European countries begin
Poland legalises "Solidarity" and they win their first elections in Poland after 42 years of communism
Nato celebrates its 40th anniversary
Students protest in Tianamen Square
The Berlin Wall falls down
The Velvet Revolution takes place in the then Czeckoslovakia
Laurence Olivier, Diana Vreeland, Irving Berlin, Bette Davis, Samuel Beckett and Enzo Ferrari pass away
Seinfeld premieres on TV :)

Interesting that the dark walls of communism were falling in Eastern Europe the same year that the dark walls of my former life were falling around me, crumbling at my feet, leaving me with a beautiful vista, a vista of what life really was and what it could be. I saw the lark ascending. How I sometimes wish that time could stop its neverending grind and stand still for just a moment, so that I could watch it soar and sing again.

04. 02. 2009.

Postoje svijetovi drugaciji od ovog (There exist worlds different to this one)

That's what the posters and billboards for one of the latest Croatian theatrical productions claim. And every time I see that phrase, it sort of captures my mind's eye and imagination. And I have to say, I agree with it. We don't have to be where we are at any particular moment - we can travel if we let our mind and heart take us places.

Every time I want to exit the place I'm at at the moment, I put some music on. Nothing can trasport me like music. If I feel like going to Austria, I simply put Mozart or Schubert on and I can visualise the ever snow-capped Alps, the winding streets of Vienna's "ring" and "gurtel", the gurgling Danube and Mur Rivers. If I feel like going to Italy, I put on Vivaldi or Paganini and I can see Venice's Canale Grande or Piaza San Marco, the Duomo in Florence, the Fontana di Trevi in Rome. If I feel like going to Spain, I listen to Paco de Lucia and am in the centre of Madrid at 11pm amid a teeming crowd of people the likes of I have never seen.

But at the moment, it seems that both my friend Davor and I are in a "we want to go to France and we want to go now" kind of mood. But then again, when aren't we??? Dreaming of coffee at La Cigale, sitting on a rock at Pointe du Rez, watching the waves at Quiberon, walking through the streets of Dinan, driving from Nantes to Paris listening to Radio Nostalgie, walking through the Luxemburg Gardens. These thoughts constantly go through our minds.

So while on my way to French today, to transport myself to France, at least a bit, I listened to the soundtrack of "Moulin Rouge". And it was bizaare how many of the songs, to me, captured a different aspect of our trip. So I thought I'd share a few of the tracks and the thoughts they provoke in me with you.

Nature Boy
Now, for some strange reason, this song reminds me of Pointe du Rez and Quiberon. I guess the title of the song provokes thoughts of nature in me. I also love the lyrics of the song. I can't be sure, but I get the feeling that Bowie based them on The Little Prince. Will have to look and see about that:

There was a boy
A very strange enchanted boy
They say he wandered very far, very far
Over land and sea
A little shy and sad of eye
But very wise was he

And then one day
A magic day he passed my way
And while we spoke of many things
Fools and kings
This he said to me
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
Is just to love and be loved in return"


I particularly love the last phrase: "The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return". I think that's all that the Almighty One, Mother Nature, expects of us - to love her and her love us in return. And I can tell ya, I sure love her Quiberon and Pointe du Rez.

Because we can
This song definitely reminds me of Davor and I entering Paris after having driven from the tranquil and charming Nantes and Chenonceau. It was quite a shock to our systems: the concrete, asphalt, smog, greyness of the city. That, and the complete and utter madness of it all, where the traffic was chock-a-block and we were in a race to get the rent-a-car back on time. So the rhythm and mayhem of this song take me back to that rather low point of our trip.

Sparkling Diamonds
This song conjures up memories of La Cigale - the glitziest, most glamorous cafe I've ever visited and probably ever will visit. This is the kind of place that in its heyday, being across the road to the opera, I imagine girls would get up on tables and start belting out arias, while men would drink champagne out of their shoes. And here were little ol' me and Davor, in this venerated place, having breakfast. I still can't believe it, simply incroyable...

One day I'll fly away
When I close my eyes and listen to this song, I see myself at the top of the Montparnasse Tower. Now, the Montparnasse Tower is one of the ugliest manmade monstrosities I have ever set eyes on. But the view from the top looking over all of Paris - the myriad of lights, the Eiffel Tower sparkling on the hour, the bateaux mouches slowly making their way over the Seine - was, in a word, breathtaking, something I'll never forget. And although this is a bit morbid, but if I were (God forbid!) ever to consider ending it all, I'd have to say that freefalling from the top through the city of lights would be the way to go.

Complainte de la Butte
Although we didn't fit it into our visit, this song brings Montmartre to mind, or should I say, old bohemian Montmartre - with its accordian playing street performers, its narrow, winding streets, where you can feel the melancholy of some of its former residents, like Satie, Edith Piaf, Van Gogh. I'm kinda glad we didn't go there, it's lost a lot of its old spirit and instead of being the centre of bohemia is now a shrine to tourist shops.

I'll leave you with my favourite song from the soundtrack, Nature Boy. Here's hoping Davor and I can listen to it in Pointe du Rez or some other nice place in France sometime soon...