Yesterday was Ivaan's birthday. If he'd lived, he would have been 82. This year, he celebrated his birthday in style. First of all, I guess he must have arranged for the timely delivery of a new sofa to my place, because I've been without a sofa for well over a year and truthfully, I'm getting a little tired of perching on a dining room chair, or watching my guests look around anxiously for somewhere to put themselves. But honestly, you can't renovate an entire place with a sofa right in the middle of things, so I gave my existing sofa to my nephew Angus (who was in the middle of renovating an entire apartment with his bare hands) and I made the best of things. Anyway, I was studying full time and writing my thesis, so I really didn't get too stressed about it. I ordered a new sofa and knew I'd have to wait for ages till it arrived.
I suddenly got a phone call a couple of days ago to say my sofa would be delivered the following day, and that was just great, because I knew I'd be at home to accept the delivery. I worried that the presence of a large navy blue leather sofa might overwhelm my minimalist space, but so far I think it's great.
But that's not all. Yesterday I was sitting here writing an email to someone when an incoming email caught my attention. It was from a poet in the States called Dante Di Stefano. He's also a professor at SUNY-Binghamton University, and I know him slightly because he was immensely kind to me when I encountered an insurmountable obstacle while writing my thesis. Got a problem? Ask a poet to help you get it sorted. They're in the habit of grappling with insurmountable obstacles.
I was intrigued: what could he possibly be writing to a lowly grad student about? In my fantasy life, I am the sort of person who regularly receives emails from celebrated poets, so this was just too good to be true. I hastened to open his email.
Now, I recommend you sit down, and I offer up my new sofa for that purpose, because Dante Di Stefano was asking me to contribute a scholarly essay of several thousand words to an anthology that is to be published in 2027, entitled Paterson Aria, in tribute to the life in poetry of the subject of my Master's thesis, Maria Mazziotti Gillan.
I'd like to say I waited a decent interval before replying, but in truth it was about one hot minute. No one has ever invited me to write a scholarly essay on anything, but in my (pretty active) fantasy life I'm confident I write a fabulous scholarly essay. In fact, I was already mulling over titles. I was torn between screaming and emailing my Emotional Support Thesis Supervisor to share the news with him. Then I went outside and practically ran to the Beltline Trail so I could walk in nature, inhale this gorgeous news, and then exhale so I could get my swollen head through the door when I got home.
This morning, news that Canadian poet and U of T alumna Anne Carson had been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature hit the airwaves. She was in Reykjavik when she got the phone call. Back in the days when I was able to travel outside Canada, I was frequently in Reykjavik, so that's one degree of separation.
As usual, Ivaan is full of surprises, and his death has not halted the arrival of astonishing events in my life to make me wonder what, if anything, is the meaning of this sojourn here on earth. I had a private nickname for Ivaan: Pellegrino. It's the Italian word for pilgrim. He always seemed like a traveller on earth, not here for a long time but just passing through. On this Canadian Thanksgiving weekend, I have Pellegrino to thank for his many lessons in how to appreciate the present moment.
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