Liisa Ladouceur

It comes from the Latin — De mortuis nihil nisi bonum — our habit to speak no evil of the dead. Even unpleasant human beings, in death they enjoy a modicum of respect —in funeral services, in formal obituaries. I suppose it’s a matter of timing. Except for the vilest amongst us, in time we are all remembered more for our virtues than our sins. One day, when it’s my turn, I shall be grateful for this.

But I’ve always found it much easier to speak of the dead than of the living. To write about them, at least. I have often listed “dead things” amongst my “interests.” And I don’t mean just skulls and archaic words. I also mean people. Fictional characters and historical figures felled by tragic ends, sure. And the real people I once knew.

Mercifully, I have only a few loved ones who have died before me. I think of them often, what was learned from their lives, their deaths, guides and motivates me still. And I have written about them in ways I cannot write about those who are still alive. I know many writers have made a habit, a career even, from revealing intimacies about their families, their friends, their lovers. I could tell you that I don’t share the notion that when you are in a relationship with a writer, you open yourself up to being documented, of having your life shared in public. That I am doing it all out of respect. That’s only partially true. The real truth is, I am not so brave.

It’s one of the reasons I don’t think I am a great poet. Because I am not brave enough to fully reveal the truth of my emotions, and especially things that involve others. I often feel guilty about this, of not writing poems about for and/or about my mother while she is still alive, for example. I once did a series of poems I called the Sideshow Sonnets, in which I paid tribute to my favourite people by re-imagining them as sideshow freaks. Only a few were recognizable, the others composite sketches. Like so much of what I do, cloaked. A few years back, I even stopped my own journalling. In part, because so much was too difficult to look at on the page, but also because I spend a lot of time imagining my own death, and I worry about what private thoughts might be read after I’m gone. I did write an honest poem about this, called There Are Things About Me You Wouldn’t Like. Then I burned it.

These days, I think alot about dead people. Not so much ones who are physically dead, but those who are just gone. And I’ve started writing their obituaries. Because I find it interesting to chart a story from the end to the beginning. And because I want to say only the best things about them.

“Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.” — Lao Tzu.

Why are all the women weeping?

People love the wax stamp “trick.” Perhaps it’s the fire. At book signings this year I have sometimes whipped out my personal wax seal and, with the aid of a match and a stick of coloured beewax/resin, added a stamp to the personalization process. It’s been a big hit, but it surprises me how many people have never seen one before. To me, it’s a Goth correspondence staple.

I got my first wax seal almost 20 years ago: the letter L, made of brass. I used it the same way kings and popes and layfolk have done for centuries: to seal letters. It’s not a necessary tactic today for secrecy of course, what with private mail and lickable glues. But it’s pretty. It adds a touch of magic, of surprise. And Goth Points. Sadly, it’s become more and more difficult over the years to buy the sealing wax here in Toronto. Suppliers of art supplies and fancy stationary now carry only wedding-themed kits, or have stopped stocking it altogether. A sign of the times, I suppose, as actual letter writing has become archaic, a “lost art” in need of reviving at social clubs (I’m guessing by the kind of hipsters who got tired of knitting classes), or so I keep reading about in the lifestyle pages of newspapers.  I know that in much of East Asia, personal or family seals are still in use. And of course, they occasionally authenticate legal documents and such. But it seems the wax seal is now mostly medieval relic.

But I want to bring it back! There is a simple pleasure to be had in personalizing correspondence, I feel. Long ago now, the Canadian singer Jane Siberry once told me that to carefully address a letter, or piece of mail, was a true expression of love. Agree. First impressions and all that. It’s why I spend the money to buy real ribbon for wrapping gifts, rather than use the plastic stuff. I also like to give people more than they expect, and I can assure you that sending a card with your initial, or other symbol representative of your personality, stamped onto the envelope, will delight your recipient. And should they inquire about it, you may wish to toss out some of these tidbits I’ve gleaned from wiki and such:

The study of seals is known as sigillography.

When the pope dies it is the first duty of the Cardinal to obtain possession of the papal signet, and to see that it is broken up.

The bodies of dead French queens  have been found buried with their seals.

In the olde tymes, black wax was made partially from Lampblack, soot collected from oil lamps. White ones contained lead.

Sadly, should you decide to follow my lead on this, unless you live in Paris surrounded by fancy papeteries, you will likely need to order your wax and stamps from the internet. I do recommend Nostalgic Impressions for wide selection of quality products, including the fun Skull & Crossbones kit I’ve been using.

Happy letter writing. Or sad letter writing, as you wish. Signed….

I have decided I hate year-end Top 10 lists. As I mentioned around this time last year, it used to be part of my job to make them. But now I don’t even enjoy reading them. Not only because other people’s picks so rarely lead me to anything new and wondrous, but because the whole exercise seems so far away from how I experience music, film and culture these days. It’s not about the new release. The hot tip. More and more, old things are my new discoveries. And why 10 anyway? Truth is, I can’t recall the last time 10 records rocked my world in a given year. I expect I am not alone in this. At the same time we are voraciously consuming/discarding art and entertainment at high-speed, how much of what you hear/see is changing your life? Because that’s what I’m after: a thought-provoking, life-altering experience.  I want to feel that I am witness to something extraordinary. I want to be shocked. I want to be roused, aroused. I want you to make me cry. And if that seems unfair to the musicians just starting out who I inevitably walk out on 10 minutes into their set out of boredom, well….I’m sorry. But if you’re not going to be as good as the best I’ve already seen/heard in my life, why am I leaving the house? I think I may start walking out on films too (I’ve only done that once, a free screening of Van Helsing.). I’ve always felt fine abandoning a book mid-read if it’s not engaging me. Life’s too short.

OK, all that said, as the year comes to its close, once again I can’t not talk about what has thrilled me. It’s as much a way for me to preserve my memories as anything, like the mixed tapes I used to make of my favourite songs at the end of summer. And, like everyone who makes these lists I suspect, it is my hope that someone will follow a lead here and discover something that becomes their favourite of the year too. Even if it’s next year.  And so without further….. a few of my favourite things, circa 2011.

THE MUSIC

Truthfully, I spent most of the year working on a TV series about the history of Heavy Metal, so the record with the most spins on my iTunes is Def Leppard’s Pryomania, from 1983. But of the new releases, I was most pleased to hear Gothfather Peter Murphy return to form with Ninth. (Why he signed with Nettwerk though is beyond me.) Zola Jesus didn’t let me down with her haunting, howling Conatus, and there’s some pretty neat stuff for the rivetheads on OhGr’s unDevelopped. It’s not always an easy listen, but the latest minimal experiment from my dear friend Akumu, Between Worlds, remains as nightmarish as anything out there.  At the very top of my music pile are two albums I adored for similar reasons: the soundtrack to my life is generally comprised of sad songs. Fall-down-weeping, can’t-get-out-of-bed sad songs. But sometimes I want sad songs I can dance to. The Handsome Furs’ Sound Kapital and Lykke Li’s Wounded Rhymes provided the kind of melancholic (synth)pop that hit my sweet spot, not a weak track in the lot.  “Sadness is a blessing/Sadness is a curse/Sadness, you’re my boyfriend/Sadness, I’m your girl” sings Li. Indeed.

THE BOOKS

After finally finishing my own book this year, I had a moment to read for pleasure. And the most pleasurable read I had was Enter, Night, by Michael Rowe. I’ve known Rowe for years as a journalist and editor of the Queer Fear anthologies. This first novel of his — a vampire story that, with its weave of Wendigo and Jesuits into its horror, is true Canadian Gothic — is the best book about the undead I’ve read in a long time. I’ll be shocked if it doesn’t pick up many awards. My favourite collection of poetry came from Susan Musgrave, whose book Origami Dove literally took my breath away; I often had to put it down after just a line. The working title for my new poems is lifted from it. In non-fiction (which I read most), I’ve already mentioned Natasha Scharf’s excellent Worldwide Gothic. I also devoured You are a Not a Gadget by Jaron Lanier; I find it amusing I discovered a book about the flaws of digital culture/web 2.0 at the old school public library. And as part of many months of research into the Devil for my next film project, W. Scott Poole’s Satan in America proved invaluable. Right now, my nose is (finally!) deep into Alex Ross’s 2007 magnum opus The Rest is Noise, a history of classical/avant guard musics of the 20th century.

THE SHOWS

I said I wanted to be amazed. Well, nothing was more amazing than the world premiere of Amon Tobin’s ISAM  show at Montreal’s Metropolis club, part of Mutek, my favourite Canadian music festival. I could blather on about its cutting edge 3-D visuals but you really should just watch the sample below. I loved it so much  I went again in Toronto later in the year, where I overheard an amazed woman say “I feel like someone who has just seen TV for the first time. This is something that has never been done before.” An extended applause for everyone behind the scenes who put the show together. After that, nothing else could compare, although I had much fun at Devo’s free show as part of NXNE, seeing Alice Cooper play a casino and watching DFA 1979 “do it!” again at Lollapalooza. Peter Murphy in Buffalo, particularly his medley of “Strange Kind of Love” with “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” while locking eyes with a swooning girl in the front row (not me), was goth points x 100. As for the new kids on the block, Esben and the Witch at Wrongbar and Myths at Electric Eclectics festival were worth leaving the house for.

THE FILMS

I watch alot of docs, and can tell you two that made me cry in the theatre: Werner Herzog’s death row examination Into the Abyss and Sigur Ros’ live concert film Inni. Two totally different pictures, equally masterful. For sure the best thing I saw all year was Melancholia. Catch it before the apocalypse. (Which, as I type this, some say is precisely one year away.)