The library of lost interests

Here are two boxes of Krishnamurti books, destroyed when our basement flooded.

When our basement flooded two years ago I lost books, literary papers, archives, old family photographs, manuscripts, and old diaries. Losing these things was strangely liberating, I didn't really care as much as I thought I would. I had already begun discarding books; years before the flood I began downsizing my library; I kept poetry and books on poetics, biographies of poets, books on poets’ work, books of interviews with poets, and some other books that still meant something to me. But fiction was easy to discard, except for a few novels--Moby Dick, The Great Gatsby, novels by Margaret Laurence, and other Canadian novelists--most of the rest were discarded.

Years ago I read all of Henry Miller's books, some were purchased second hand, some new, some remaindered, and some from antiquarian book stores. I read books that Miller recommended, for instance, the diaries and novels of Anais Nin and I heard her speak at Sir George Williams University; I read Blaise Cendrar and other writers that Miller knew. Read Henry Miller's The Books in My Life (1952); I am pretty sure that I discovered J. Krishnamurti because of Miller's essay on him in this book. I remember late one day, taking a city bus home, and meeting Louis Dudek on the same bus; he had planned to publish something by Henry Miller but decided against it; he writes, somewhere, that the big influence on his writing was Matthew Arnold and Henry Miller. He liked Miller’s conversational style of writing and that Miller was intelligent but not academic.

Also, I must have read all of the novels of Jack Kerouac, and then I moved on to other Beat writers, Corso, Burroughs, Michael McClure, Ferlinghetti, and Diane di Prima. It used to be that when I would read someone whose books I liked I read all of their work, their novels, poems, essays, letters, books on their writing, and biographies. And I’ll read the books they recommend or books that influenced them. 

I began reading Jack Kerouac in the fall of 1969, around the time I heard Allen Ginsberg read his poems at Sir George Williams University where I was a student; by then, Kerouac had fallen into obscurity, he drank his way into oblivion, and then he died; by then the public had moved on from the Beatniks to the Hippies and left Kerouac behind. Back then, in 1969, I found it difficult to find Kerouac's books; today, they're in the remaining bookstores that we have. But now I have no real interest in Kerouac or Allen Ginsberg. As bpNichol said to me, when he read his work at the college where I was teaching, Kerouac is for when you are young, when you get older you want something more substantial. I'm no longer interested in reading Kerouac's novels but I kept his poetry, I still like Kerouac's poetry.                                 

I remember the evening of 21 October 1969, a dark and rainy evening, I was downtown on McKay Street when I heard that Kerouac had died. But death was good for his reputation as a writer, over the following years and decades his popularity has grown and his unpublished manuscripts have been published; books on Kerouac, biographies and memoirs, have also been published. 

Back in the late 1960s there were still people around who had known Kerouac from his visits to Montreal. A professor and friend, it was Scotty Gardiner at SGWU, told me that he expected Kerouac to come for supper at a friend's home but Kerouac never arrived. It was the usual story of a drunk Jack Kerouac disappointing people and not caring, he could be belligerent and argumentative when drunk. Ginsberg also read in Montreal, in November 1969, and from where I was sitting I could see George Bowering in the first row with Peter Orlovsky. The years passed and Ginsberg returned to read in Montreal (I can't find documentation for this visit) but Ginsberg's readings were no longer important cultural events, it was golden oldies, and people demonstrated against Ginsberg's advocacy for adult men having sex with young boys. Ginsberg discredited himself advocating for this issue, he was not ahead of his time, he was out of touch with society, its norms, and values. Here is something ironic: a few days ago I read that when Ginsberg was young, he lived for a while with William Burroughs, and when he moved out he complained to Burroughs that he didn't want to have sex with some old man... Actually, Ginsberg said a lot worse about Burroughs' private anatomy than I will repeat. Ken Norris writes in a poem that, when he was young, poets were our heroes, and they were. A friend, Trevor Carolan, wrote on Ginsberg in Giving Up Poetry: With Allen Ginsberg At Hollyhock (Banff Centre Press, 2001). Ginsberg, like Kerouac, is a writer of one's youth, not one’s older years. 

Our flooded basement:

Flooded basement, July 2023

Avonmore Avenue, June 2023

 

The renaming of Avonmore Avenue (it was previously called Milan Street) occurred on 7 May 1912:

La résolution du Conseil municipal de Montréal, à l'effet de changer le nom de la rue Milan en celui d'avenue Avonmore, donne l'origine de ce nom: «mot de la langue celtique qui signifie grande rivière». Toutefois, cette voie est très éloignée d'une grande rivière… 

                                                (from City of Montreal website) 

Previously, I've posted some photographs of the streetcar tracks still visible at the bottom of Avonmore Avenue, now where the tracks are is a lane and some of it is blocked off as people have extended their backyards. Avonmore is perpendicular to both Clanranald and Earnscliffe; Clanranald Avenue is on the west side and Earnscliffe Avenue is on the east side of Avonmore. My mother had many memories, one day she mentioned that when she lived on Avonmore a man followed her home, she phoned her father who was the captain at fire Station/Caserne 46 on Somerled Avenue, and he told her to stay in her apartment and lock the door, then he phoned the police. Another memory was of a woman who was killed by a streetcar that ran passed the Avonmore apartment building. Again, she phoned her father; we didn't see a lot of her father but he was often referred to by her. Finding these streetcar tracks was like being an archaeologist, it was to find a remnant of the past that was part of one's family history; you find the tracks and you say, "Aha! this is what she was talking about!" The tracks are still there, I doubt anyone will ever bother to remove them.

I always thought my parents lived at 5514 Avonmore Avenue but today, looking up addresses on Lovell's Montreal Street Directory, I see that they lived next door at 5515 Avonmore Avenue, apartment # 4. 

I also see that my cousin, Bob Morrissey, and his wife lived at 5485 Avonmore Avenue, apartment # 15, in 1967-68; Bob is the son of my Uncle Herb and Auntie Dorothy who lived next door to us on Oxford Avenue in the mid-1950s.

The old streetcar tracks are here; BTW, that's my brother and his wife in the centre
of the photograph, inspecting the old streetcar tracks and talking with someone who lives nearby.

1950s tram no.1932, line 50 on Girouard Avenue

Between Clanranald Avenue and Earnscliffe Avenue. The Northbound would turn right
on Queen Mary Road and head east. Sections of the track visible from Avonmore.

Avonmore Avenue, afternoon, 06 January 2015, facing where
Avonmore meets Clanranald Avenue

Avonmore Avenue, afternoon, 06 January 2015, facing where the old tracks are located



 

"Intruder" by Glen Sorestad

 

2013

The red fox lolled on the manicured green
of our back condo lawn like any domestic dog –

warm autumn afternoon, newly mown grass
tickling its nose, a fox-nap imminent,

but only if those loud villains looming above
in the shaggy blue spruce would spare their vitriol.

An unruly mob of crows, freshly summoned,
hurled dark invective at the unwanted visitor.

The black gang deemed this their territory,
now under egregious trespass from the sleek sneak,

the protesters alerting all within hearing of their
unmistakable umbrage with the bushy-tailed rogue.

As the clamor reached its acme, the fox rose,
languidly stretched its length, and strolled off

and away in apparent unconcern, from the dark
rancor, now lapsed into sudden, satisfied silence.

Christmas Day 2023

 Plus 5C, like a fall day, priceless!

"the measure of a man . . ."

 

the measure of a man

are in his acts

of generosity, kindness,

and compassion--no other

measure exists, not accolades,

not wealth, not achievements;

only in what kindness

a man or woman

shows fellow humans,

animals, and the natural

world do we measure 

the value and meaning

of a person's life.

Christmas at St. Ignatius Church

Christmas at St. Ignatius of Loyola Church on West Broadway Avenue.

 

After the snowfall

Photographs taken on 06 December 2023.

First big snowfall of December

Today, heavy wet snow that sticks to the snow shovel, it takes some of us two shifts to get rid of this snow; begin at 7:30, take a rest, finish later this morning; but milder weather is forecast for later this week. It’s a monochromatic world out there, gone the flowers of summer, gone the garden of 2023.

Photographs taken on 4 December 2023. 

Yesterday's snow storm

The weather forecast kept changing before the first real snow storm of 2023 occurred. I was outside shoveling snow--it's all exercise, it's all a way to be outside in the fresh air--. A neighbour called over, "Be careful", she was referring to having a heart attack while shoveling snow; I know of two people who died of heart attacks while shoveling snow; it's heavy wet snow, so don't overdo it, be careful. In fact, be doubly careful because the hospitals are full of people and several people have died in ER rooms waiting to see a doctor, and others were sent home where they died a few hours later. They say our hospitals are collapsing, what they mean is that our hospitals can't deal with all of the unwell people needing care. The message is just don't get sick. That's Canada in 2023. It will get worse but I am not optimistic; the present government has done so much damage that I doubt we will recover for decades.