Many years ago I lived in England in the Forest of Dean on the Welsh border for six months. I visited the Gloucester Cathedral many times and befriended a couple of students of the Cathedral school. I don’t believe either of them are members of this choir, but I don’t think it beyond the realm of possibility that they were witness to this beautiful performance by the local choir:
Here are the lyrics:
In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, in the bleak midwinter, long ago.
Our God, heaven cannot hold him, nor earth sustain; heaven and earth shall flee away when he comes to reign. In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed the Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.
Angels and archangels may have gathered there, Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air; but his mother only, in her maiden bliss, worshiped the beloved with a kiss.
What can I give him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb; if I were a Wise Man, I would do my part; yet what I can I give him: give my heart.
I’m going to start with an apology: Once upon a time I resolved to write on this blog regularly, making a point to have at least one entry a month, come what may. That was a pretty easy thing to commit to when I had a couple hundred readers a day –many of them personal acquaintances– but my most recent post from three months ago now has had 168,597 readers to date, and I found myself paralyzed by a feeling of inadequacy. I’ve been retweeted and reblogged and followed on Facebook to the point where I know what I write next will be read by a thousand people expecting at least a few minutes of entertainment and possibly something worth thinking upon deeply and making their own. I’ve found myself gun shy: What can I possibly say next to all of those people who are going to read this blog one more time? What would hold your attention and give you value for your visit?
As a rule, I don’t mention my friends by name on this blog. I do so now after careful deliberation. Let me back up for a moment and give some context to what I hope is going to be a worthwhile read: I have had the great good fortune to know a man for the last twelve years who I believe will one day make a positive mark on the collective human experience. I look forward to the day when I can say with pride I knew him in his youth. After my late grandfather, I strongly suspect Matt Cimone is the finest man I’ve ever known. When I find myself confronted with an ethical or moral dilemma, I ask myself, “What would Matt Cimone do?” I rarely follow that course, but it’s an interesting question to pose for the sake of finding one’s bearings.
I could give any number of examples of why I’m fortunate to know this man, but for the sake of brevity I’ll say he was a United Nations Goodwill Ambassador in his mid-20s; he’s founded his own charitable organization that uses the micro-credit model to empower entrepreneurs in third world countries, and he’s dedicated his life to being the change he wants to see in the world, a humanitarian who speaks openly and often about how we can all contribute in our own small way to a better future.
A year and a half ago, Matt Cimone asked me to go on a road trip with him to see the very last space shuttle launch. With deep reluctance I had to decline: I’d just quit my job, and I had to commit all my efforts to finding my next step. I watched Matt pile into a car with several friends and drive to Florida to join a million spectators as Atlantis hurled itself towards the heavens. In his usual above and beyond approach, he decided to create a short documentary about his experience on a hand-held digital camcorder. But that initial vision has since grown.
“There are a hundred films about the shuttle technology, but we are more interested in the people inspired by human space flight; those like us who always stood in wonder of the night sky.” Matt told me. “It began as a simple video about our trip. I thought we could put it online. Thankfully one of the five who came with us was my friend Paul Muzzin, founder of Riptide Studios. Paul is a filmmaker, and his expertise breathed new life into the film.”
“I’ve known Matt for almost 2 decades and I saw his passion for this trip,” Paul said. “His story is compelling, and I believe will resonate with an audience. While something shot on a handicamDigital SLR and put on YouTube would have still been from the heart, I believe that with some work this documentary could have a place in festivals and theatrical exhibition. I have also been a fan of the space program and always wanted to see a launch myself. In a sense, between directing this film and seeing the shuttle, I was fulfilling two dreams.”
Space exploration has always fascinated Matt, and witnessing the last shuttle launch was a catalyst for him. Human spaceflight brings out the dreams and aspirations of people from every walk of life, and so both he and Paul started interviewing people: Witnesses of the last launch, NASA spokespeople, fans of science fiction –both Matt and Paul are huge Trekkies, and Wil Wheaton even agreed to do an interview—even the astronauts themselves. The duo asked them what they thought, what they dreamed about.
Matt calls the story Chasing Atlantis, and from the humble beginnings of a road trip video of five friends to see the shuttle launch, it is evolving into a professionally shot, edited, and scored feature-length documentary about space exploration, ambition, and the freedom to imagine a future where the best that we hope we can be is given voice.
“Initially I only dared to think we’d make it this far.” Matt said. “When we combined the initial concept with what Paul envisioned we could accomplish with his production company behind us, doors started to open. We asked if we could conduct interviews, and people said yes. Suddenly we were doing something bigger and better. I would have never thought I’d be sitting across from future ISS commander Chris Hadfield or cast members from Star Trek when we first started planning all of this…well…I hoped, but I thought it would be a long shot.”
The common thread through all those interviewed is that the end of the shuttle program is just the turning of a page in the story of human ambition, of human discovery, of human aspiration and that regardless of if your dream is to go to space, or make a film, we all must chase the “Atlantis” in our own lives.
I’ve written a great deal about my mother’s father, Murray Anderson, on this blog, but very little about my father’s father, Philip Micks. Philip passed away before I got a chance to know him, and I can probably count the number of two-minute anecdotes I have about him on one hand. That said, every Christmas I get a reminder of the man I never knew, and it never fails to paint a picture.
My unknown grandfather’s favourite piece of Christmas music was a 1949 recording by Harry Stewart. Stewart was a radio and night club comedian whose shtick was built around well-meaning stereotypes; he found a lot of success with the character Yogi Yorgesson, a Swedish Hindu mystic who eventually devolved into an excuse to mispronounce words in a thick Scandinavian accent and tell ‘aw shucks’ stories about life as a suburban paterfamilias in late-40s, early-50s America.
Stewart sold a million records of Yogi Yorgesson’s attempts at Christmas Carols, and I’m told one particular song was my late grandfather’s personal favourite. It always bring a smile to my face, and as it is little-known Christmas song today I thought I would share it with you:
Oh, I yust go nuts at Christmas,
On that yolly holiday,
I’ll go in the red –like a knucklehead–
Cause I squander all my pay!
Oh, I yust go nuts at Christmas,
Shopping sure drives me berserk.
On the day before I rush in a store
Like a poor bewildered jerk.
I look at nightgowns for my wife, Dose black ones trimmed in red. But, I won’t know her size, and so, She’ll get a carpet sweeper instead!
Oh, I yust go nuts at Christmas,
Ven each kid hangs up his sock.
It’s a time for kids to flip der lids, While der papa goes in hock.
On da night before Christmas, It’s still in the house. My family is sleeping, So I’m quiet like a mouse. I look at my vatch, and midnight is near: I tink I’ll sneak out for a cold glass of beer. Down at the corner the crowd is so merry, I end up by drinking about twelve Tom & Yerry…
I get to bed late, and yee whiz how I’m sleeping, Ven on to my bed dose darn kids dey come leaping!
Dey sit on my face, and day yump on my belly, And I’m quivering all over, like a bowl full of yelly. Dey scream Merry Christmas, and my poor vife and me, Ve stumble downstairs, and she lights up da tree…
My head is exploding. My mouth tastes like a pickle. I step on a skate, and fall on a tricycle.
Yust befor Christmas dinner, I relax to a point, Den relatives start svarming all over da yoint! On Christmas I hug and I kiss my vife’s mother… Da rest of da year, err… ve don’t speak to each other.
After dinner, my aunt, and my vife’s Uncle Louie, Get into a argument; dere both awful screwy. Den all of my vife’s family say Louie is right, And my goofy relations, dey yoin in da fight.
Back in da corner, da radio is playing, And over da racket Gabriel Heatter is saying, “Peace on Earth everybody, and good vill toward men…” And yust at dat moment, someone slugs Uncle Ben. Dey all run outside vhooping for da neighbours will hear, Oh, I’m so glad Merry Christmas comes just once a year…
Oh, I yust go nuts at Christmas,
but I still have lots of fun!
Yust the same as you,
I enyoy it too…
Merry Christmas everyone one!
- – -
Merry Christmas, everyone. My very best to you and yours this Holiday Season.
I came across this song three or four weeks back, and I can’t get it out of my head. I find myself listening to it on repeat for hours at a time, and so I thought I’d share it. I know nothing about the artist. I know nothing about the message. There’s just something about it that I can’t ignore. It’s like a landslide, relentless, inevitable, that holds my rapt attention. Here are the lyrics:
The Tallest Man On Earth
Walk The Line
Well it’s the season of thunder, And the season of rain. All the little angels are growing wings of pain.
And I see no point in asking. There’s no point of return. When I steal those rings, well I know I’ll have to burn.
He said you bring me down, oh child. He said you bring me down, oh child.
And I will fly through the lightning. When the thunder will strike. All tomorrow’s parties will dance before my eyes.
And I will scream like an eagle, When i fly above your house, Just to bring salvation to peasants and their wives.
He said you bring me down, oh child. He said you bring me down, oh child. I ain’t gonna walk the line!
Well I see Jesus and Judas, Making love now of course, And all the Roman emperors hanging up their whores.
And I see no point in landing. I see no need to learn. From the day we’re lifted we know we’ll have to burn.
He said you bring me down, oh child. He said you bring me down, oh child. I ain’t gonna walk the line!
I said, “Please, don’t shoot me down.” I said, “Please, don’t shoot me down.” Oh! I said, “Please, don’t shoot me down.” I said, “Please, don’t shoot me down.” Oh! I ain’t gonna walk the line!
I feel the arrows and bullets, They are combing my hair, And all my feathers falling so slowly from the air.
And from the speed of my body, Earth will pile up my bones, From my little skull –Oh!– just a little whisper comes
He said, Oh! Bring me down, oh child. He said you bring me down oh child… I ain’t gonna walk the line… Oh… Oooh…
- – -
Again, I have no analysis, no frame of reference. I’m mesmerized by the thought of sitting around a campfire with this fellow with his acoustic guitar. I smell pine trees, and there’s a lake somewhere nearby, with the gentle murmur of waves lapping against canoes grounded in the sand. I can’t explain why, but it’s just a gorgeous mental image that I can’t quite shake. I hope you enjoy it.
From time to time, I come across something on the internet that just compels me to share it here on Faceintheblue.
Today’s discovery is about as unlikely a scenario as I could imagine. There’s a British hip hop comedian whose stage name is Professor Elemental. His approach to music –which he calls ‘chap hop’– is to envision hip hop artists as Victorian-era British aristocrats.
Another British comedian, Mr. B the Gentleman Rhymer, also works in chap hop, and so Professor Elemental has decided to write a diss song in the grand tradition of Tupac’s Hit’Em Up, which was directed at Biggie Smalls and the East Coast rap movement of the early 90s. The result is surprisingly toe-tapping.
I’ve put the lyrics after the video, if anyone is interested.
I have a lifelong relationship with Robert Service’s The Cremation of Sam McGee. It was one of my mother’s favourite bedtime stories because it was short. I most often requested a book called The Golden Eagle: It was fascinating, beautifully illustrated, and it took about forty-five minutes to get through. When my mother didn’t want to commit that kind of time to putting my sister and I to bed, though, she could always get me to agree to a reading of this poem.
I remember it was the first time I ever heard of Tennessee, and so my mother would have to explain it was someplace very warm –though not tropical– many hours’ drive to the south of our quiet street in Toronto. Then she would have to explain that the Dawson Trail was on the far side of Canada from where I lay, tucked in under my covers. It was desperately cold there, but more than eighty years ago thousands of people came from all over the world to search for gold.
This poem was my introduction to the idea of cremation. It was my first ghost story. It was the first time I heard of dog sleds, or ships trapped in the ice and abandoned. It might even have been the first story I ever heard where someone died.
I can think of many times this poem and I have crossed paths. When I was in grade five or six they would send me down to the grade one and two classroom to help the younger students with their reading assignments. The Cremation of Sam McGee was in their story books, and I remember reading it many times aloud to them, explaining what was happening along the way, just as my mother had for me. A story is always better with the context, I find.
Years later I remember a woman I was dating spotting a copy of it on my bookshelf and saying she knew the whole thing by heart. I was so pleased with this declaration that I asked her to recite it, and there followed one of the funniest and most awkward conversations I have ever had without being able to laugh aloud:
“There are strange things done… Um… Line?”
“In the midnight sun.”
“There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who… Uh… Line?”
“Moil.”
“Moil? That can’t be right.”
“It’s like toil.”
“Okay… By the men who moil for gold. The arctic trails have seen strange tales… Shoot… Line?”
This went on for much longer than you would believe possible. She really thought she had it, because she had given a speech about it in school many years before. To be fair, I shouldn’t have put her on the spot like that. She didn’t want to give up, and she didn’t want me to let her off the hook. We never made it as far as Sam McGee’s death, and that’s the last I’ll say about that.
I have recently finished Pierre Berton’s excellent book, Klondike, but I was disappointed that Robert Service was only mentioned twice in passing, and never in the context of his poetry outside of the end notes for the revised edition. There were tantalizing mentions of Lake Lebarge and steamships trapped in the ice, of dog teams and many queer tales that did indeed make my blood run cold, but it turns out Service missed the gold rush itself, so Berton rightfully did not include much about the man or his work in his otherwise exhaustive and thorough record of the last great gold rush.
Anyway, the book set my mind to work once more upon the poem and its setting, so I’ve decided to put it up on the blog, along with a wonderful reading of it by the late but immortal Johnny Cash (although he does use the word toil instead of moil). Enjoy!
Tonight is the end of something very special. Tonight will see the last episode of Lost. This blog has never had too much to do with television, and a series finale is no place to start, but I did want to make my small contribution to the cultural zeitgeist to commemorate the (oh God but I hope it’s satsifying) conclusion of a show that has made such an indelible mark on the world of entertainment.
Lost is one of those very special shows, like The Sopranos, The Wire, or the reimagined Battlestar Galactica, that never talked down to its audience. It was meant to be big. It was meant to be nuanced. It rewarded the rabid fan’s attention, even at the cost of alienating the casual viewer. It had a big cast, each with their own tangled viewpoints and relationships. It had shifted alliances, power politics, mysteries, secrets. Everyone was flawed. People made tough choices. There was drama, action, romance, comedy.
Certainly there are places where it has stumbled, but on the whole it was watchable, entertaining, engaging. What more do you want from television? It had a stellar cast, fantastic writers, high production values (with the exception of its 1990s era CG), and a series of overarching plotlines that meant there was always something to hold your interest, even if you didn’t give two damns about the love triangle de jure, or saw red whenever your question of pressing interest was answered with a still more tantalizing question (a habit they haven’t broken loose of even in the run up to the penultimate finale).
While cruising around the internet this morning I came across two YouTube videos that really spoke to me. Way back in the first season, I thought Lost was going to be a modern-day take on Gilligan’s Island. I was of course pleased and intrigued when mere survival on a deserted island was considered too dull a canvas for the story the creators wished to tell. Still, the Gilligan’s Island assumption never completely left my mind. Apparently, some very creative people felt the same way.
I present to you two alternative opening credits for Lost –made by fans– as they would have appeared if Lost had been produced in the 1960s. All credit goes to their creators, whose YouTube usernames are samskipsam and thekinderscore. I’m embedding their work on my blog not to take a share in their artistic glory, but to give their work a broader audience.
Not bad, eh?
And now that I’ve made mention of Gilligan’s Island, I might as well put up its theme too, for both comparisson and also to honour what is truly one of the great theme songs of the golden age of television. I set out to make sure I’d find a version that included ‘The Professor and Maryanne’, because it always struck me as ridiculous they didn’t get top billing in the first season. Who made the coconut radio? Who bared her midriff to the fullest extent network television would allow? That’s right: The Professor and Maryanne. You have to give credit where it’s due, people.
Anyway, in searching for that far superior theme, I came across this fan-made rendition, and I haven’t been able to stop laughing for a while now. These are the same kind of people who made the two videos above, so to honour their work I’d prefer to link to them, rather than the original:
Let that sink in for a moment. That’s right. Today is the day you tell your Mom how much you care.
In truth every day is Mother’s Day, but today, her birthday, and Christmas are the only three days of the year where you are expected to show your love and appreciation for the lifetime of good things your mother has done for you. Have you made the call yet? Is there a card in the mail, or flowers on their way to her doorstep? Can you stop by for a visit?
Think of all the things your mother has done for you, from your birth right up until this moment. You have a debt to her that can never be repaid, only acknowledged, and today is the day that you let her know how much you appreciate everything she’s done for you.
My mother’s name is Paulette, and I would lay some claim to her being the best mother in the world. She raised my sister and I to know right from wrong. She supports us in everything we do. She’s always there to offer advice or encouragement. She’s a sounding board for our worries, and she’s always on our side when we’re in trouble. I know that doesn’t make her unique, but it does make her remarkable, and today is a day to celebrate everything she’s done for us.
For twenty-seven years now, her children have been her life. She carried us each for nine months, and then delivered us into a world she has done her very best to make safe for us. When we were sick, she took care of us. When we were hungry, she fed us. When we needed to learn, she taught us. She worried over us even when we did not see the dangers, and she loved us even when we tried her patience. Her cross words guided us to be better, and her kind words fall upon our heads like gentle manna from Heaven. Society makes a point of celebrating its artists, and my mother is an artist of incredible talent and dedication: Her medium is her children. She has moulded and sculpted us into human beings, and that’s a life-long commitment that she entered into gladly.
My sister and I are adults now in our own right, but our accomplishments are hers, because she made us the people that we are. Although we may be separated by hundreds of kilometers, she is always with us. The bond between mother and child is stronger than anything else in nature, and my sister and I are blessed that our relationship with our mother is so full of goodness and love. Some people clash with their parents as they mature, but no rift has ever formed between us that has not been bridged thanks to her kindness, her selflessness, and her love.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. We love you very much. I’ll be at the finish line of your marathon next weekend with a bouquet of flowers!
- – -
For my other readers, just in case my words have failed to move you to call your own mothers on this very special day, I’ve got a message for you from that champion of all that is right and proper, Mr. T.
I can assure you, he’d pity the fool who doesn’t treat his mother right, although what he does to this music video is a completely different story…
Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there, wherever you are in the world. To all their children, call home and show you care. Cheers!
One of the true joys of the internet is when you find something you weren’t looking for, and then pursue it down the rabbit hole of the world wide web until you end up someplace you never thought you’d be. In that moment, new worlds open up to you, and you look around with fresh eyes to enjoy what you’ve found for its own merits, without anyone telling you what to look for. Often it’s a fleeting contact, picked up and discarded in a matter of hours, but sometimes it’s more than that. Sometimes you’re lucky enough to strike something rich and deep, so that you can go back and seek it out again and again, and each new discovery adds to your experience and enjoyment. That’s how I feel about the work of John G. Rives.
I first came across him while tooling around TED.com. Rives –it rhymes with ‘weaves’ if anyone is struggling with it– is a professional wordsmith. He can make the contents of the dictionary dance on the head of a pin in a ballet worthy of Baryshnikov. He makes a living as a poet and a public speaker, and I understand he also makes pop-up books for adults. To hear this man speak is to know what the English language is capable of.
Before I heap still further praise upon his head, I’d like you to indulge me for three minutes and watch this YouTube clip from his appearance on Def Poetry Jam. If you fail to be impressed, leave a nasty comment and never deign to visit my blog again.
Pretty amazing stuff, right? I’ve shown this to half a dozen people over the last year or two, and they’ve all been blown away. A good friend of mine who dabbles in hip hop went so far as to deprecate his own work after seeing this, but I told him that’s not fair. Rives is something to aspire to, but you should never try to compare the work of artists. Imagine if Monet gave up his water lilies because he thought they would never compete with Manet’s seascapes?
Rives’ website, http://www.shopliftwindchimes.com, is well worth a look, although it’s not often updated. You can also find Rives all over the web. The TED conference has invited him a couple of times. He’s also toured pretty extensively. The next time he comes through Toronto, you can bet I’ll be in the audience. Read the rest of this entry »
I was raised on the Oldies. When you’re growing up, you listen to what your parents listen to, and my folks spent the 80s listening to the 50s through to the early 70s (and even then, the later stuff was strictly in my father’s company). Until the Fourth Grade I used to wonder why the Beatles didn’t put out new albums. Anyway, I love classic rock, and YouTube is a tremendous tool for tracking down the old hits.
I came across this clip a couple of years ago, and it’s become a firm favourite. Roy Orbison was one of the original world-wide musical sensations, back when the division between Country and Rock and Roll and Pop were still indistinct. He actually headlined for the Beatles for the opening half of their first American tour, then, after Beatlesmania took the word by storm, he graciously gave them the top of the marquee.
I think most people know the song Pretty Woman, but what makes this clip special is the introduction: He’s in Japan, and he’s being introduced by two Japanese women who obviously speak only very rudimentary English. You can just feel from their staccato delivery that they’ve memorized and rehearsed their lines phonetically at great length prior to the show, and Roy’s gallant, “I would gladly play, anytime, for two such pretty women,” can’t help but bring a smile to my face every time I hear it. Enjoy!
This lazy Sunday will see me nursing my first sunburn of 2013 reading Robert Graves' Count Belisarius. Great so far! #HistoricalFiction13 hours ago
Took the #Toronto Harbour Cruise (came with the bus tour): You can no longer see the Royal York Hotel from the water at all. Condo curtain! 1 day ago
I'm riding the double-decker tour bus around #Toronto . I'm from here, but I'm still learning a lot, and it's a beautiful day for it! 1 day ago
A guy missed his cue on Frank Sinatra and got the DJ to start over. He literally is doing it his way. #Karaoke (2nd attempt is pretty solid) 2 days ago
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