The Man, The Music

Leonard Cohen is a Canadian icon, legend, hero…

If you’ve never heard of him (what!!??) you’ve certainly heard his music.  Everybody and their mother has done a cover of his song “Hallelujah”  and/or “Suzanne.”  (“Suzanne takes you down, to her place by the river…” - I’m singing as I type.)

Some of my personal favourites?  “Hey, That’s No Way To Say Goodbye,” “Lullaby,” “Dance Me to the End of Love”…  I could go on and on – I’ll stop.

Back to Mr. Cohen.  I would list his many awards and honours but they can be found by a simple Google search.  They are many – and his fans are legion. 

If this man were to call me on the phone (I wish) and ask me to marry him (added bonus), I’d say yes in a heartbeat.  I have loved him for many, many years.  How can you not love a man with such poetry in his soul?

His latest album Old Ideas was released in January 2012. 

At the age of 77, Leonard Cohen is still at the top of his game. 

For those of you who have yet to listen to the album, here’s one of the songs.  I chose “Crazy To Love You.”  (Of course, I did.  Not only do I love the song, I relate to the line, “…crazy has places to hide in…”)  

Enjoy.

Crazy To Love You

Had to go crazy to love you

Had to go down to the pit

Had to do time in the tower

Begging my crazy to quit

Had to go crazy to love you

You who were never the one

Whom I chased through the souvenir heartache

Her braids and her blouse all undone

Sometimes I’d head for the highway

I’m old and the mirrors don’t lie

But crazy has places to hide in

That are deeper than any goodbye

Had to go crazy to love you

Had to let everything fall

Had to be people I hated

Had to be no one at all

I’m tired of choosing desire

I’ve been saved by a blessed fatigue

The gates of commitment unwired

And nobody trying to leave

Sometimes I'd head for the highway

I'm old and the mirrors don't lie

But crazy has places to hide in

That are deeper than any goodbye

Had to go crazy to love you

You who were never the one

Whom I chased through the souvenir heartache

Her braids and her blouse all undone

Photo credit: http://www.leonardcohen.com/ca

The Secret Place

I’m the sort of person whose mind will drift off – any time and just about anywhere. This can also be referred to as zoning out or going to one’s happy place. It can also occur at inappropriate or inopportune moments.

Recent examples? The other day while brushing my teeth I suddenly realized I’d been doing so for an awfully long time. Where had I gone? “Inside myself.” And at yesterday’s pool class the instructions for an exercise were: “Stretch both arms forward, slowly pull them back behind you and turn palms inward.” I eventually came to and noticed I was the only one in the class with my arms still stretched forward – and that the instructor was watching me with a grin on his face.

Is this habit of mine indicative of some sort of mental aberration? Perhaps. But if so, I don’t mind at all. On occasion, I’m also capable of withdrawing inside myself with some rather negative thoughts. I much prefer the visits to my happy place.

Imagine my delight when I came across this poem last week written by Canadian poet and author Dennis Lee. I am not alone! I’ll go out on a limb here and suggest that Mr. Lee joins me in wishing everyone possessed the ability to visit such a place.

So, if you catch me with a faint smile on my face and a somewhat distant gaze in my eyes, do not disturb. And do not worry. I’m just experiencing a pleasant time out. I’ll be back.


The Secret Place - Dennis Lee

There's a place I go, inside myself,
Where nobody else can be,
And none of my friends can tell it's there -
Nobody knows but me.

It's hard to explain the way it feels
Or even where I go.
It isn't a place in time or space,
But once I'm there, I know.

It's tiny, it's shiny, it can't be seen,
But it's big as the sky at night . . .
I try to explain and it hurts my brain,
But once I'm there, it's right.

There's a place I know inside myself,
And it's neither big nor small,
And whenever I go, it feels as though
I never left at all.

Late Fragment

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.

Raymond Carver


I came across this beautiful poem just last night – and it had a profound effect as to how I view the world right now.

I do feel myself beloved on earth. I needn’t wait until the end of my life to look back and realize this. I’m aware of it now – and have always been aware of it.

During this crazy economic time – with its accompanying fears, sense of panic and loss – take a moment to remind yourself what is important in life.

If you measure your life in terms of possessions and the accumulation of wealth, then, yes, you may have suffered (or will suffer) a terrible loss. You are vulnerable.

If you measure your life in terms of love given, received and felt (if you can call yourself beloved on earth) then stock market fluctuations and a recession and/or depression cannot touch that precious sense of security. You may still experience a frightening financial loss but you will not endure that loss on your own.

I grew up in a family that knew its share of loss and that had very little money for any sort of luxuries. Perhaps I will return to that sort of life. And that’s okay. I was happy and loved. I always will be.

First Day of Spring (& Stuff)

And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
"A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

My Lost Youth (excerpt)
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow



Yes, it’s the first day of spring after a particularly long snow-laden winter - and my thoughts are already turning to summer. Strange that. Very premature.

I think I’d best pause and appreciate all the spring season has to offer before dreaming of the warmth and freedom of those summer months.

And I’ll start with the fact that despite the still existing mounds of snow, I can finally see pavement, brown patches of grass and the basement hasn’t flooded with all that melting snow and recent rainfall.

Hallelujah!

Which is also an appropriate exclamatory remark with Easter fast approaching. (And what’s up with this early Easter date???)

The above “summer” photo (yeah, I’ve meandered back to musing about summer) is of my eldest. Years ago. He is a devoted fisherman of the “catch and release” variety. With him is Bailey – a sweetheart of a dog who is no longer with us. And that is mist rising off the lake – not a photo flaw.

I think of Longfellow’s poem whenever I look at this picture.

I love that phrase, "A boy's will is the wind's will…”

Time to end this post. I’ve gone off on far too many tangents. (Count ‘em – spring, summer, Easter, fishing, dogs, poetry…) Refreshing to do – perhaps not so easy to follow along.

(Does a post have to have a specific point? Are there rules?)

Good Advice (thank you)

go for long walks,

indulge in hot baths,

question your assumptions,

be kind to yourself,

live for the moment,

loosen up, scream,

curse the world,

count your blessings,

just let go

just be.



Carol Shields

Of Tomatoes and My Psyche

"I'll try, God knows I'll try
but if anyone watches me I'll scream
because maybe I'm handling a tomato wrong,
how can I know if I'm handling a tomato wrong?"



The above lines are from Gwendolyn MacEwen’s poem Memoirs of a Mad Cook. If you read them, you’ll have gained some insight as to my approach to cooking and food preparation.

(You can read the poem in its entirety here. Note – there’s a typo in the first line with this link.)

I think of these particular lines every single time I cut up a tomato. Unbelievable. And I read this poem back in the 70’s. When I was younger, I actually did wonder if I was handling a tomato incorrectly. Years (and many tomatoes) later, I don’t really care but I still remember those lines. Actually, to be honest, I do sort of care if someone is watching me.

Funny how some things stay with us despite the passage of time. And not so funny how some things seem to have disappeared. I’d be far better off remembering names (and certain words) than MacEwan’s “tomato” poem.

I’m now wondering if this poem might be responsible for my aversion and “madness” regarding kitchen duty. I was very impressionable way back when.

But how marvelous to have a literary excuse for my culinary limitations!

Yes, Poetry Too...

When reading a poem, I no longer have to analyze its imagery, symbolism, etc. I might choose to but I can also read poetry simply for pleasure. And it’s great to read a poem without being told by a professor that you got the meaning all wrong. That always slayed me. How can you get the meaning wrong? Perhaps the poet meant something else but once the poem’s out there for human consumption, it’s fair game as to interpretation.

While I still read poems in their entirety, occasionally I choose excerpts that strike a chord with me and write them down. (And with no professor looking over my shoulder saying, “Why that particular verse?”) Sometimes I even “cut and paste” with the various lines and stanzas. I can do that now. I’m a big girl. I just did it with The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot. (See below.) I haven’t destroyed the poem — I’ve used it. There are certain lines and stanzas I’m able to relate to far more now than when I was (young) and in university.

Example:

“There will be time, there will be time…

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet…”

I don’t think T. S. Eliot intended these lines to be “used” when having to attend a business/social function with the hubby, but I do. I “prepare my face” — my polite, interested, party face — for these occasions.

If you like poetry, check out some of the poems you studied in school. You may be pleasantly surprised as to the meaning they have for you now. If you’re brave and/or interested check out the (mangled?) poem below. And keep in mind — while it may seem a somewhat depressing poem to you, it doesn’t strike me that way. I relate to it — in my middle-aged “coffee spoons” and “teacups” life.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock



T. S. Eliot



Let us go then, you and I,

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.



There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.



In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.



And indeed there will be time

To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.



For I have known them all already, known them all:--

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?



And I have known the eyes already, known them all--

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?



Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head…brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.



And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,


And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the

floor--

And this, and so much more?--

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

"That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all."



I grow old…I grow old…



Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.



I do not think that they will sing to me.



I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.



We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.