The garden in early June 2023

Photographs taken early June 2023. 

Poundbury, The Village, and the 15 Minute City

On television, a few days before the coronation of King Charles III, there was a programme on Charles's idea of a model village, Poundbury, in the south of England. This community was designed by Charles in the 1980s to highlight his concept of the perfect community; for instance, everything is within walking distance and cars are restricted or banned. These are all fairly commonplace ideas today but, when imposed by someone who has more privileges than any of us, it is a bit galling: it is the limited and privileged vision of someone who has had it all and now thinks he can impose his vision on other people, for their betterment. I was repelled by Poundbury, it seemed to me to be a place of social control made acceptable with the inhabitants' consent; they like living in this place or they'd live somewhere else. It's a community for the managerial class. There are rules and regulations for everything, enforced by a town council, and reinforced with the peer pressure of a homogeneous population. 

       This programme on Poundbury immediately reminded me of The Village, the setting for most of the episodes of The Prisoner television series broadcast in 1967-1968; this was a very popular programme, disturbing, dystopian, and Orwellian, starring Patrick McGoohan. The Village is a place for containing people who know too much regarding British intelligence; they have been warehoused in The Village, put out to a benevolent pasture, kept alive and in a comfortable prison life, but without bars, without cells; if you behave and accept life in The Village you will do well there. Meanwhile, someone like Number Six, played by Patrick McGoohan (none of the inhabitants of The Village have names, they are referred to by a number), is tolerated and even indulged. What the authorities ostensibly want from Number Six is to know why he quit his job at MI5 or MI6. But this is really beside the point, the mission of his captors is to break him down, make him lose his own thoughts, make him into a number, make him believe the concept of reality they want him to believe, as happened to Winston Smith in Orwell's 1984. 

    The other comparison with Poundbury is the 15 Minute City, another form of potential social control that seems, on the surface, to be benign and even a lovely place to live one day. However, this is an example of urban planning gone wrong, it suggests that the best community is one in which all of the necessities of life -- grocery stores, pharmacies, places of work, schools -- are easily reached within a fifteen minute walk or bicycle ride. It almost sounds good except that many of us have always lived in a place where everything is available within a fifteen minute walk; but we didn't talk about it or try to make it something it isn't, it was the organic expression of city life, the way we live, and for many people it still is. 

    Where I live everything is within walking distance, it always has been; that is city life, that is living in a community that is part of a neighbourhood that is part of a borough that is part of a city. No one feels contained by where they live, it is nothing special; when it becomes something "special", needlessly part of a new urban planning idea, then it takes on other qualities; there is a dark, shadow side to all of this happiness and convenience that is imposed on us. Post-Covid many people are working from home, and some people have quit their jobs because they no longer want to work in an office, or live in the city where their workplace is located. Urban planning is trying to re-invent the wheel, and it is coming out square and not round; if you oppose their idea of the future city you are some kind of conspiracy nut, but that is just their way of dealing with anyone who disagrees with them. An extension of the 15 Minute City is the fenced off gated communities already existing in the United States, with a guard at the entrance. You walk everywhere and if you have a mobility problem you will get around on a golf cart, but there are consequences to living in the 15 Minute Gated City, or The Village . . . 

    Do we really want to live in this type of place? There will be no room here for the exceptional, the eccentric, the rebellious, the odd ball who lets his grass grow long and his ramshackle house unpainted. Whether it is Poundbury or The Village or the 15 Minute City these are places for the unimaginative managerial class, the values of this class will control all of us. And, no doubt, fences will be put up around those other unfortunate communities, the homeless (now referred to as the "unhoused") who inhabit parts of many North American cities. No, they are not "unhoused", they are homeless with all of the pathos, suffering, and terrible insecurity this word suggests; to be "unhoused" is an antiseptic word that denies the emotional meaning of living on the street. 

    And what of the arts, spirituality, free thinkers, anarchists or nihilists, odd balls and misfits, the angry, the grieving, or the ecstatic; what if you let your place deteriorate, will you be isolated by peer pressure or a council investigation? This is not a place of barking dogs, crowded streets, the smell of someone's cooking, living cheek to jowl with your neighbours so you can hear them fighting, laughing, talking, humanity as lived by the poor, the artist class, the thinkers, or the way things were in the past that many immigrants to North America experienced; immigrants produced ambitious people who worked hard to make money and move up the social ladder, and they even improved society with jobs and philanthropy; this is not included or suggested, or can even exist in a place like Poundbury or The Village, there is nothing suggesting social mobility, creativity, or freedom of thought in those places; they are retirement living, places of stasis. 

    A recent newspaper article on Glasgow has a subtitle, "Scotland's biggest city is a brawny celebration of industry, ingenuity and individualism", things not found in Poundbury, the Village, or the 15 Minute City. Montreal is a city of neighbourhoods, each distinctive, just as New York City is a city of boroughs, all different and unique -- Manhattan, the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, and Staten Island -- just their names resonate with qualities of distinctiveness, ambition, vibrancy, and life. There is a totalitarian feeling to Poundbury, a place that is a reflection of King Charles's concept of an ideal society; but what does he know about how average people live or what they aspire to? It's a good thing he is only a king and has no real power, and being king he will be limited in what he is allowed to say about the future of society. 

    Be seeing you.

A crow visits the bird bath

In the garden, always a visitor, or is it a resident? A crow visits the bird bath and spends some time preening and having time out from his crow's life.

"Limited" by Carl Sandburg

 

A 1955 photograph of the CPR's prestigious train,
  "The Canadian"; seen here pulling out of Windsor Station

That's me on the left, my mother on the right, arriving in Banff
on The Canadian, 1962
 

My father, 1940s, on a Canadian Pacific train

My father on a business trip, on a train

Limited

Carl Sandburg

I am riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains of the nation.Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air go fifteen all-steel coachesholding a thousand people.(All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men and women laughing in thediners and sleepers shall pass into ashes.)I ask a man in the smoker where he going and he answers: "Omaha."

Stopping at Montreal West train station

Sometimes I'll go for a walk and, mid-way, I'll be at the Montreal West train station (it's only for commuters now and run by the City of Montreal) and I'll stop and sit on a bench by the tracks for a few minutes. The sound of trains on the tracks, the smell of creosote, a train passing in the distance, these are things most Canadians used to be nostalgic about; it's not that the railways are in decline, they're busier than ever, they're making more money now than ever, it's just that urbanized Canadians don't have much to do with the railways now that travel by train has declined and fewer people work for our railways. Many members of my family worked for the Canadian Pacific Railway, it was a kind of tradition. 

We visit the children's section at Mount Royal Cemetery

 Photographs taken in the children's section of Mount Royal Cemetery.

This is the headstone of my mother's brother, my uncle, Willie Parker;
much loved by his family who were devastated by his passing in 1914

Thinking of Keitha K. MacIntosh

Eleven years ago I heard of the passing of Keitha K. MacIntosh; she was a poet, author of short stories, a publisher, a professor of English at Vanier College, and someone who encouraged Montreal writers, including myself. She was also a good friend; we first met at Sir George Williams University around 1972 when we were enrolled in Richard Sommer's creative writing class; later, I did poetry readings for her class at Vanier College and visited her when she lived in a trailer adjacent to her future home in a 200 year old log cabin. We corresponded for years, and in 1979 I bought property near Trout River not far from Keitha's home in Dewettville. Here (below) is a photograph of her headstone in the Ormstown cemetery, courtesy of the "find a grave" website. 

Last night, watching the Antique Roadshow on PBS, I was reminded of Keitha who was an avid collector of antiques, mainly antique bottles. She told me that she used to find these bottles in the ruins of houses and other buildings that had been abandoned. She and her family and friends explored many of these homesteads in South Western Quebec until the supply of bottles ran out. This reminds me that Artie Gold also collected antique bottles, some of which I inherited after Artie died in 2007; Keitha also published, in her poetry magazine Montreal Poems, some of Artie's early poems. And then I thought of the weeks preceding hearing the news of Keitha's death; I hadn't thought of Keitha for years but I had a curious experience, just before I heard of her death I was filled with memories of Keitha, not just one or two memories but a flood of memories, mostly of things she said about her mother and father, and her husband Archie. Even I was surprised by how much I remembered!

It was at this time, in 2012,  when I was "rampant with memory" about Keitha, a phrase Margaret Laurence uses in one of her books, that I received news of her passing. I have always remembered the past, perhaps more than most people, and, of course, I have written about it, the early death of a parent does that to a person, grief does that, every memory is precious because it is all that we have left of the person, so close to us, that died. Memory is a part of our DNA, years ago I read Henry Miller's Remember to Remember, C.G. Jung's Memories, Dreams, Reflections, and Jack Kerouac's novels and poetry, "Memory Babe" said Jack Kerouac. 

Before hearing of Keitha's passing, I must have spent ten years trying to write "A Poet's Journey", an essay based on remembering the past and on becoming a poet; and it was Keitha who I was thinking of when I began that essay but it developed into a life of its own and became a personal memoir; writing, editing, remembering, and then it's ten years later but the essay has found its own voice and content. 

Keitha had a Celtic background as I do, and for the Celts memory, the ancestors, family history, and spirit are all important. You might not set out to record the lives of your ancestors, you just do it, as you breathe or have lunch or sleep. It's what we do, it's a natural thing to do, one foot is always in the past and the ancestors are never far from thought. It was a natural event to remember Keitha in the time preceding her death; it was as though she was paying me a last visit before moving to the great unknown.   

Memory is like a dream or a poem, what you remember is subjective and may say more about you than you realize. Two people have the same experience and remember it in different ways, one positive, one negative. Sometimes the memories of siblings conflict, and at those times siblings seem to come from different families. And then, after remembering Keitha in 2012, I thought of Louis Dudek and, again, long forgotten memories returned to me, riding a city bus with him, sitting with him in his office, that particular memory changed my life and I have written about it elsewhere; and I thought of another old friend, George Johnston, what a kind and generous person he was.  

But how much can memory be trusted? I stand behind the veracity of all of my memories but when other people who shared experiences with me give their version of certain events, sometimes they contradict what I remember, sometimes I don't recognize anything they remember, sometimes they add to and enlarge my memories, sometimes we have false memories. But even a false memory has some truth about it, just don't base your life on a false memory; sometimes memories are like poems or dreams. Without memory everyone would be immediately forgotten after they die, as though they never existed, this is something all poets know and our books and poems are a pause in the inevitable act of forgetting. 

Mordecai Richler at Mount Royal Cemetery

Sometimes I visit the graves of Montreal writers and statesmen, politicians and businessmen, when I visit Mount Royal Cemetery; these are the people who made Montreal a once great city. Here are some photos of Mordecai Richler's grave.

2012

2015

May, 2023

16 May 2010, thirteen years ago

 

It was thirteen years ago, mid-May 2010, and I spent most of the month in Vancouver, doing research at the UBC library, staying at the residence on the UBC campus, visiting with CZ's family and hanging out with CZ. Here is the old apple tree in our backyard in Montreal; whatever there was of a garden can't be seen here, it was on the periphery of the garden but it was there, and spring had arrived in Montreal. It was 16 May 2010.

Watching birds on a spring day

The main thing with a bird bath is to put in clean water everyday, no one (including birds) wants to sit in dirty or shallow water, or drink dirty water. Changing the water will take you all of three or four minutes and is worth the effort. The birds will thank you, too.

Commentary: on the Epic of Gilgamesh

 

Part of the attraction of the Epic of Gilgamesh, at least for me, is that this is mankind's oldest literary work; the tablets containing the story of Gilgamesh were written approximately 4,000 years ago. Despite this, the text has a contemporary quality not necessarily found in other ancient texts. It is the story of a man's journey to self-knowledge and inner peace; of course, this "heroes' journey" is not exceptional in describing the journey, it is the traditional journey from unself-consciousness to being conscious of one's life; in its simplicity, directness, and its archetype of inner discovery, we can relate to Gilgamesh.

            In the Epic of Gilgamesh we can see ourselves, but to do so we might delete cultural referents and concentrate on the man who is Gilgamesh, a man who is us. We are contemporary people, living at least four thousand years after Gilgamesh lived or was invented, whether he is an invention, a fictional being, or an historical character; we can relate to his journey for it is also our journey, not embellished by belief or gods or being saved by someone else, and in this Gilgamesh, portrayed in mankind's oldest text, is contemporary. He is relevant at both ends of linear time -- alpha and omega, beginning and ending, A to Z, the apparent beginning and the end of the age in which we live -- we can identify with someone from the beginning of time. Ironic, isn't it? But it speaks to the enduring authenticity of the Epic of Gilgamesh.

            There is also the story itself, and what a contemporary story it is as Gilgamesh searches for the meaning of life, the ultimate meaning, the meaning that explains the purpose of life, that explains the purpose of his life. The meaning of life is to understand life better, to be a conscious person, to make sense of life, perhaps to even find some peace in life. Gilgamesh is an archetype for the person who searches for meaning; that's how I read his adventure, his story, his journey. This is one of the ways in which people today can learn from this epic, it is thoroughly contemporary even with its inclusion of gods and experiences impossible for people today to relate to except as literature, myth, and dream content. But at an archetypal and psychological level Gilgamesh and his story open a level of understanding of existence that is valuable for a contemporary audience. 

            Gilgamesh predates Homer's Odyssey and Iliad which date from 1,000 B.C. There is an oral tradition that helped preserve Homer's work but this doesn't seem to apply to the Epic of Gilgamesh, it is a written text. This reminds me of Grimm's fairy tales, collected by the Grimm brothers in the early half of the 19th Century; but research maintains that the stories collected by the Grimm brothers originated as far back as 4,000 years B.C. and I have also read that they are as old as 20,000 years, predating even Gilgamesh. They are archetypal and ageless, beyond time itself, as are all myths that work on a psychological level: don't take them literally but as a way to understand the eternal enigma of human existence.

            Gilgamesh seems to have missed out on an oral tradition as is found in both Homer and the Grimm fairy tales, but we have a written text for Gilgamesh. We know of the Epic of Gilgamesh only because cuneiform tablets containing the text of this literary work were discovered in the mid-1800s and later translated into English, this was fortuitous because even today very few people can actually read these tablets or speak the ancient language in which they are written. It is also a synchronistic discovery, Gilgamesh was discovered just when his story needed to be discovered. But is it possible that the Epic of Gilgamesh is older than 2,000 BC?  

            Another point is that the biblical story of the flood, coming after Gilgamesh was written, is also found in the Gilgamesh epic; apparently, whoever wrote the Book of Genesis, in which the flood story is included, knew or had heard of the Gilgamesh version of the flood. The biblical version of the flood is more or less a direct copy of that which is found in Gilgamesh. Was the Gilgamesh version of this story transmitted orally to the authors of the Old Testament?

            I am old fashioned, I believe in a didactic aspect to what I read; I like to learn things from what I read, especially things appertaining and contributing to my understanding of life. Whether it is F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby or Melville's Moby Dick, or the Epic of Gilgamesh, I am always aware of content and narrative, symbol and archetype that help me better understand both my own life and the life of others. Never underestimate this transcendent aspect of reading.