Mount Royal (two)

The gates leading into Mount Royal Cemetery.

Mount Royal (one)

The Motel Raphael

I drove passed the Motel Raphael for years. The Motel Raphael, located just off the St. Jacques exit on highway 20... When I was a child, sitting beside my mother in our 1961 Pontiac as we returned from my future step-father's apartment in the West Island, we drove by the Motel Raphael. I remember on those occasions sitting beside Mother, singing "Me and My Shadow" in the darkness, on our way home to Oxford Avenue in N.D.G. When I lived in Huntingdon we'd pass the Motel Raphael on the way to the Mercier Bridge and arrive home an hour later; I'm glad those days of commuting are over. Later Artie Gold lived at the Motel Raphael, no money, screwed out of the trust money his father had left for him, the social services agency placed him at the motel; eventually the trust was discovered and Artie moved to the Westmore Apartments on Sherbrooke Street West, where he lived until February 2007. I've heard of others, hard on their luck, living at the Motel Raphael. Now it has a new name, bought by a chain, perhaps it's King's Inn... but stay happy, you need never be homeless, there is always the Motel Raphael (it will always be the Motel Raphael to some of us) where you can live. Yes, I've thought of living there myself. I even priced a room a few years ago. It's a short walk up the hill to a 24 hour MacDonald's, to Picasso's Restaurant if they ever reopen, Super C for inexpensive groceries, and then turn left on Cavendish, walk through the underpass, and a block later you're at the corner of Sherbrooke and a number 105 bus waiting to take you downtown, back to civilization in about twenty minutes. Hurrah for the Motel Raphael! We need never be homeless!

March 1st, 2009

My mother driving her car, 1965

It’s March 1^st today, my mother’s 93^rd birthday. I expect more people of my generation have parents living into their nineties; I suspect it was an exception until now. When my mother turned 80, I thought she was old; when she was 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, I thought she was really old. But 90, 91, 92, 93 seems beyond old, beyond age. Others born on March 1^st who have been important to me, in different ways, are the big band leader Glenn Miller whose music was a favourite of my father, and I both like the music and feel a closeness to my father when listening to this music, and the poet Robert Lowell. Both are Pisces, as my mother is a Pisces.

My great grandmother, Mary Callaghan, was also born on this day, on March 1^st,1845; she died in 1906, on April 27, my birthday. Mary Callaghan’s father also died on April 27, but in 1905. We are bound to our ancestors in many ways; one way is by synchronistic dates, by meaningful coincidence, by cosmic coincidence. Some dates seem fated and deprived, others are blessed and joyous; some dates have astrological importance and others, still, are historical. Some dates, births and deaths, repeat themselves over many generations of family members—to me, this coincidence of dates has always suggested a greater design to existence.

We are a lineage of generations, a line of people who played, variously, leading roles, or bit parts, in each others’ lives. We exchange roles with each other in our many incarnations—in this life you be the mother and I’ll be your son; you be the daughter and I’ll be your father; you be the grandson and I’ll be your grandmother. Our lives are an enactment of archetypal relationships, each demanding a compassionate awareness of life’s transience and finitude, if we are ever to be free of the turning wheel of endings and beginnings.

The lives we have lived, previous lives, like lives to come in the future, seem inestimable, and inexhaustible; indeed, they are a metaphor for the life we are presently living. This present incarnation, this latest dramatic depiction of existence, seems in itself like a series of incarnations, as we move from childhood to middle life to old age. In this life we experience archetypal roles and relationships—they give a grandeur to existence—in them we find a depth and meaningfulness to life’s journey, the movement from birth to death to birth to death, again and again. I know that we must eventually die to each life, including the events of this life, to complete the cycle, to be done with existence.

In this existence of ours, Fate plays as much a part as free will. I was a soldier in World War One wearing a green khaki uniform, and going over the lip of a muddy trench, bayonet drawn, willing to kill or be killed, for the greater glory, for poetry and God and King, for family and death. That was in 1916, the year Mother was born in Montreal’s St. Henry neighbourhood. A few years ago, when I was driving her one Saturday morning along Notre Dame Street to Central Station downtown, on her way to Toronto to spend Christmas or Easter with my brother and his family, we passed Irene Street and Mother suddenly announced, “I was born on that street!” She always had a mind for remembering the past.

Train Station in Montreal West

In winter, from St. Philip's Anglican Church across the street. .

(Above) looking east, to downtown Montreal.


(Below) looking west...

Lachine in winter, near the canal...

Lachine in late fall, near the canal...

Where The Molsons Are Buried

The doors to the Molson mausoleum, decorated with bare breasted angels, have now been removed as they had severely deteriorated over the years. These angels are, truly, an affirmation of life in the midst of death, even though someone doesn't know that angels are male and not female; anyhow, p,laying along with the eroticism these particular female angels are more abundantly endowed than one would expect. Perhaps there is an interesting story behind their creation.

Nature on Mount Royal

Home of Lovell's Montreal Directory, Old Montreal

St. Michael's Church, more upstairs photos

St. Michael's Church, Mile End, Montreal

More photos taken at St. Michael's...

Artie Gold, two years later

"Language, without the monkey of historical reality clinging to its back, is poetry!!" --Artie Gold 

(Artie's handwriting and design on a piece of plastic)

____________________________________________

It was on this day two years ago, February 14, 2007, that Artie Gold died. I often go for walks and pass the apartment building on Sherbrooke Street West where he lived. At night, from the street, I can look up at his windows and see that new people have painted and decorated his old place. Not long ago I entered the building, the inside door unlocked when one of the tenants was entering. I went up to the second floor where Artie’s apartment was located; there was no aura of Artie left, it had long departed; the books of poetry Artie wrote and our memories of him are all that we have left.

What memories do we have? Artie was someone who talked, rather than listened. He was an intelligent man, one of those people who seem to have been born knowing something about many things. He had charisma and a terrific sense of humour. He could be kind but he also managed to alienate many of his friends. A few old friends looked after him in his final years as he was not well and left his home only infrequently; I think of Endre Farkas, Luci King-Edwards, and Jill Torres in particular as friends who did much for Artie. I apologize for omitting the names of any others who helped him. I also visited, bought groceries, T-shirts, sole inserts, and other things he needed; and CZ and I had coffee with him at different restaurants. He often phoned. He saw few people and he allowed even fewer to enter his apartment. Artie was not someone to whom one could be indifferent. Some of us who knew him for many years thought he was fated to die young, but he managed to live sixty years and exactly one month. Once Artie showed me a book by the American poet Larry Eigner with the author’s name, where it had been written in pencil inside the book, erased but still visible. The printing was a scrawl as a result of Eigner’s cerebral palsy. Looking at Eigner’s photograph at the back of his The World And Its Streets, Places (Santa Barbara, Black Sparrow, 1977), I noticed the similarity of how Artie looked with Eigner’s appearance. Both men, at age fifty—Eigner in 1977 and Artie in 1997—are balding but still attractive men, both were dedicated to poetry despite their physical health. Artie Gold was one of our most talented poets. His bad health was partly self-inflicted, and partly the result of childhood health problems. He came from a fairly well off family in Outremont, a neighbourhood in Montreal which is mixed socially but is also very upper middle-class. His father was a businessman who made trips to China as far back as the early 1970s. Artie suffered greatly in his life, due both to his emotional and physical condition. We will not see his like again, for no one would want to live his life and few would put up with what he endured, not even Artie Gold by the end.

Thomas D'Arcy McGee

A sunny day at the cemetery...

McGee's burial place is first on the right above.

McGee's mausoleum is third from the left. The photograph below is included as part of a sunny winter day at Notre Dame de Cote des Neiges Cemetery here in Montreal.