"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?"

Another calendar year is at an end, the Year of our Lord 2007, the seventh of the Wolfowitz doctrine. Another year of tragedy and ill will is now history, to be replaced by yet another, and another, and another. Despite the hype surrounding another national election in the United States, and the hope people have for a world without George W. Bush as President, I fear the coming year 2008 will bring us more of the same.

I'm sick of politics. I used to find the partisan fanfare entertaining, but now it's simply nauseating. I have trouble bringing myself to read politically charged essays, even from the Left. I'm tired of this shit - forgive me, for I don't mean to kick sand in the faces of passionate political writers who care about the well-being of all of us and aim to bring the truth to the surface; I've grown weary from trying to tread water in this vast sea of apathy. Why not let myself drown before my muscles give way and I'm no longer faced with a choice? Is the effort worth it? Does anyone listen to our collective cry?

Two of my neighbours, one on either side of me, were arrested - one for murder, the other for I don't know what - in a ten-day span while I watched. A month ago, three people were murdered in a twelve-hour span on my street. "Victims, as well as victimizers", I once read: if you've resigned yourself to snuffing out the life of another, you yourself are a victim, too. Very few people want to discuss this; I suppose portraying these people as something other than is much easier and, more importantly, instrumental in convincing ourselves we would never commit such an act.

Right.

I just returned from the bathroom. Staring at the pee-stained bowl reminded me of us: our pristine existence is only so because we conveniently flush our mess down the pipe and forget all about it. I, for one, choose not to flush my toilet so often (a) to save water, and (b) to stew for a while in the putrid cesspool I've created. Addiction, crime, poverty, war - these are not problems whisked away upon the turn of a lever, or the push of a remote control. Sooner or later, we who have tried to shelter ourselves from it will have to stare it in the face; the more we delay the inevitable, the worse off we'll be when it hits us in the face like a sack of hammers.

I'm sick of it all because, for those of us living the full-fledged lie, these issues are nothing more than a string of items in a conversation piece during our nightly rituals of immersion in excess. Benazir Bhutto is dead. Jacob Zuma is head of the ANC. Hugo Chavez it at it again, as is Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. We speak of these people like we do our favourite Hollywood starlets: what moves will they make next in the grand game of Risk? I'm tired of hearing about them; I'd much rather read of the lives of the playing pieces, for they have lives attached to them, too. I'm tired of hearing them - us - being relegated to statistics: forty people die in this attack; two thousand some-odd people died this month as a result of fighting in this war-torn country, up X percent from last month. Is this all these lives are worth? Did they not have families, friends, colleagues, loved ones?

I'm sick of hearing about the end of the world. I thought I had heard the end of it after the clock struck midnight on 1 January 2000. Then "Nine Eleven" happened. Now, we're approaching 2012, the year, we are assured, the world is supposed to end. I have news for these people: the world has already come to an end. For the Iraqis, the world came to an end, while the survivors are forced to live in Hell on Earth. For the First Nations, the world came to an end, while the surviving lineage is forced to live under the auspices of its new pale-faced rulers. For the Roman and Greek civilizations, the world came to an end. I can continue ad nauseam, but you get the idea. Who are we comfortable White folk to hem and haw over the pending apocalypse? How many apocalypses have we wrought upon other peoples? If anything, our demise will be our own fault for lack of opening our eyes to the truth, for lack of standing up to the purveyors of fear and loathing, for lack of giving a fuck.

Tonight, many of us will forget our cares and ring in the new Year of our Lord 2008. We will gossip with friends, flirt with strangers and keep the world's ills "out there" where they belong. Perhaps it is too much to ask, but, as you're counting down the final seconds of another calendar year, try to imagine how a person in the throes of a drug addiction is celebrating, or a child in a war-ravaged nation, or an inmate behind the prison bars. I know how badly you want to believe everything is okay. I know you're convinced this is the case, and that my words are poppycock. Return to your blissful coma, if you must, but don't act surprised when you're rudely awakened when your drain pipe backwashes into your living room and drenches your stuff in the fetid sewage you chose to ignore.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to be among you, to not plague my mind with such thoughts as these, to spend the week in the cubicle and hit the bar or night club on the weekend on a quest for tail, to buy the sports car and the Italian leather couches and the forty-two-inch plasma screen television with five hundred channels. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to lead the "normal" life, to have the wife and children, to put the down payment on the house and slave away for the mortgage (as I write this, my mortgage is being finalized - the irony is not lost on me), to host the dinner parties and ensure everything is prim and proper so as to avoid my guests frowning upon my lack of pomp and decorum. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to drown away my sorrows in material bliss. Upon first glance, life would seem a lot easier, but then, I figure, I would just as easily find something else, something more trivial, about which to complain.

I apologize for not sharing something more positive. No matter how many hours I've spent receiving spiritual guidance, I have to return to the world of negativity; I have to return to the notion that my life is an illusion, that everything around me - this computer, this furniture, these walls - is a lie.

Happy New Year, everyone.

...and on the 25th day of December, Capital rested, though not for very long.

Today, we non-Orthodox Christians* mark the birth of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus the Christ, by exchanging material wares and gorging ourselves silly until we're fat and docile. Today marks the end of weeks of complaining, arguing, worrying, scrambling, and trampling over one another and the beginning of our habituation to the aforementioned wares, the fruit of the toil of our kinfolk.

As I stare at a four-and-a-half-inch replica of the Crucifixion of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus the Christ, I curse myself for neglecting to bring my copy of the King James Bible with me, for I wanted to share, with all of you, select passages all too forgotten in the vast, lonely sea of mass consumerism. Alas, I will have to wait until my return from this evening's family dinner in wine country to share them with you.

Blessings to all, especially the down-trodden - come to think of it, despite our ability to temporarily drown our sorrows in all things temporal, we're all among the down-trodden, slaves to that great machine we call "the economy", regardless of the particular income bracket in which we happen to reside: being closer to the top only means being deluded that much more.

Some anticipate the return of this Lord and Saviour of ours, Jesus the Christ, without paying any mind the notion that he (or she, for all we know) never actually left, for he lives through his message, so long as we bother to lend it an ear.

I'll see you again this evening.

* For the record, I was raised Greek Orthodox, but, since I've been alive, we've observed 25 December as the date of birth of the Christ Jesus, and not 7 January, observed by the remainder of Orthodox Christians.

Update - 12/26/07 00:56: Behold the holiday cheer I promised earlier today (bold mine). We can discuss the unfair portrayal of women and goats, if you like, but that's not the point I wish to raise right now.

Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust. For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the publicans the same? And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more than others? do not even the publicans so? - St. Matthew 5:43-47

And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward. But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to the Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly. - St. Matthew 6:5-6

Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. - St. Matthew 6:19-20

Then Jesus said unto his disciples, Verily I say unto you, That a rich man shall hardly enter into the kingdom of heaven. And again, I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God. - St. Matthew 19:23-24

When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory: And before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats: And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left. Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me. Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when we saw thee an hungered, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee? Or when we saw thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee? And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. Then shall he say unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels: For I was an hungered, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not. Then shall they also answer to him, Lord, when saw we thee an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee? Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me. And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal. - St. Matthew 25:31-46

And he taught, saying unto them, Is it not written, My house shall be called of all nations the house of prayer? but ye have made it a den of thieves. - St. Mark 11:17

The Royal Road to the Unconscious

Last night, I dreamed I was sitting in some sort of restaurant or banquet hall. At the next table sat a father, balding and clad in a black leather jacket, and his seemingly awkward son. We each had toy pistols and were firing suction darts at one another, for whatever reason. After a few rounds, the young man misfired, and his father proceeded to belittle him in front of everyone. I decided to walk over to see what was the matter, hoping not to rouse suspicion before quickly drawing my pistol and planting one between Pop's eyes. To my surprise, the old man dodged the oncoming projectile, though, perhaps, I had not intended to hit him after all. He returned with a stinging glare, and I countered by telling him he loves his son. Upon hearing my words, he began to weep.

Does anyone wish to play Freud?

The Same Old Story

Female candidates in Kenya endure physical, psychological abuse

Excerpt:

Political violence is nothing new in Kenya but the recent violence has been almost exclusively directed at women.

So far 255 cases of assault have been reported without a single arrest being made.

The case of Alice Onduto, who was shot outside her sister's house earlier this month, is the most extreme example but as Linet Miriti, the director of Unifem's regional office in East Africa, explains the attacks have taken varying forms.

"Many of the attacks that are targeted at women go beyond just physical attacks into sexual attacks and this is both physical and psychological.

"Lots of women are being attacked psychologically where they get text messages that degrade them sexually, where they get text messages that target their femininity and womanhood. And we've also had cases of physical sexual assaults against women," she says.

My thoughts:

What is there to say, really? Shall we gasp in horror while turning a blind eye to our own misogyny?

Toronto the Lonely

Foreword: Suffice to say, I share Ms. Gostick's sentiments. It never ceases to amaze me how, in a city of nearly three million inhabitants, one can feel so dreadfully alone. - G.

Season's grimace
Our frenzied festivities try to make up for a year of being kindness misers
By Sheila Gostick, NOW Magazine

"Toronto is a frightfully lonely place. I find people very inhospitable at times.” So spake the recently deceased, Toronto-raised Lois Maxwell, who won fame as Miss Moneypenny in 14 James Bond movies.

Rather gentle (or genteel) of her to soften the truth with that "at times." Maybe just from January to December.

It occurred to me out on the street today that if people in this mean town learned to be kind, they'd be less miserable.

I still maintain that the real reason for the eradication of community bars in Parkdale was the sight they presented that was unbearable to overworking upscalers.

Poor people out at night drinking and sharing and dancing and laughing and shooting pool, with no careers or computers to rush off to. Have-nots having what money can't buy, especially in this town: fun.

'Tis the season of fake cheer, and even though my old haunts (at least we know we're ghosts) are gone, I felt the traditional pull exerted by the first big snowstorm that happened to fall on a Saturday night. Interesting how we'd all feel that pull and how it was nature that would bring us out to play.

Another no-money pleasure denied the new drive-down, not-dressed-for-it invaders, but one that we, without e-mail assistance, all decided to pursue to the end of the road.

There, a stranger and I simultaneously exclaim, "Isn't this great?!" And sure enough, the snow has brought everyone out of their rooms and hiding places to revel together. There are men on canes and crutches who couldn't resist venturing into a whiteout to get to a jukebox.

No sooner do I drop my snow crust on the floor of the pub than a shot of tequila is presented me by a mysterious young man.

I look around. The tables are full of drinks. No matter how big the crowd, the tables are never full of drinks. It's this lad. He's making month-early Christmas and New Year's together for everyone who comes in.

The snow got well and truly toasted thanks to the generosity of a stranger boy.

Santa is the lie that made me doubt the existence of God. I always feel sorry for immigrants to Toronto who grew up without Santa, in places where sharing is a matter of course. How hard it must be to learn to be mean, to realize that here one can eat a meal in front of a starving person without the slightest compunction.

Selfishness is not condemned, but commended. Whatever we have is ours, and anything left over we waste or hoard. Christmas is a frenzied attempt to compensate for a year of being miserly with the everyday kindnesses and hospitality so desperately needed in this frightfully lonely place.

My musician buddy passed through last year when ice was on the ground, and we went to a party where the people for whom he played for hours, the people who said "I love you, man" and called him "bro" would not spare him a sip of their private beer.

"Can I sleep on your floor?" he asked his biggest fan. "No, not tonight." If you can't help somebody now, then when?

Last week he was here playing, and when he got paid he turned to me and my other kind buddy and said, "Look what we got."

"I like how he put that," said buddy two, who likewise shares. Kind is the only kind worth knowing, but about as easy to find as cheap rent in the mean-streak GTA.

Something is wrong when 'might makes right'.

By now, many of you are aware of the story of the sixteen-year-old girl - dubbed the "hijab teen" by our friends at the Toronto Sun - who was murdered by her father in their suburban home for the crime of not conforming to his construal. Naturally, in the wake of a heinous crime perpetrated by an "other", some of us in the mob, who would have not given a shit about this girl otherwise, have drawn the knives out, painting an entire people with the same brush, demanding to know why we let people like these into our country.

This is a story of a domineering father who snuffed out his daughter's life because she refused to allow him control over it. This is a story of child abuse, a crime committed by parents of any and all ethnic and religious backgrounds. Why don't we pigeon-hole all Christians when Dad beats his children into submission to assert his place as head of the household? Or when the White man has himself a few shots of scotch to cap off a long day at the office, then smacks his child's head against the hard porcelain toilet bowl? How about the White man from British Columbia who killed young women and fed their remains to pigs? Should we be wary of all White men from British Columbia?

Why, then, do we feel the need to pick on an entire people, rather than focus on a man's need for power over his child? Is it because we need another reason to justify our aggression against them? Who are we to condemn the murder of a child, then turn around and condone the systematic murder of thousands upon thousands of children? What about the children, our children, we send off to the killing fields, all the while reassuring them that they're doing their duty to their country? What about the children we murdered when we conquered the land on which we live today? Perhaps we should be barred from this country?

I've seen this passage used time and time again, but I find it befitting for this discussion:

And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? - Matthew 7:3

I realize this is a Christian passage, but, given the circumstances, perhaps a Christian passage is needed to awaken the masses. How many children did we allow to be slain in the name of the Christ Jesus? How many children continue to be slain in the name of the Christ Jesus? Are we anyone to condemn this man for his heinous act when we live with the belief that "might makes right"? That people, especially women and children, are to be treated as possessions? This young lady did not die because of some verse in the Qur'an - by the way, have you read the shit the Bible says about women? How does that not make your blood boil, if this did? - but rather because of some patriarchal belief that the man of the household knows what's best for the rest of us, even if he has to use violent means to prove it.

I hope, one day, this young lady, take from us far too soon for no good reason at all, will be allowed to rest in peace. Given our Islamophobia and the need by our media to fan its flames, I highly doubt she will anytime soon.

"Letter From God"

Dan Le Sac vs. Scroobius Pip - Letter from God



In other news, I learned this morning that someone may have been murdered outside the building adjacent to the one in which I live. I'll say more on this later.

12/10 - I learned today that this murder occurred about two weeks ago up the road; a father of five was found slain in his apartment. The reason the police made an appearance Saturday morning was to arrest my neighbour in the building next door, who is the alleged perpetrator. Boy, am I glad we have so many officers of the law to apprehend assailants after people have had their lives stolen from them and their loved ones.

Late Night Introspection

Be forewarned: I am about to present another introspective piece, which means more complaining about where my life is going and what I'm doing with it. I realize people tire of my sob stories - Lord knows how often I've been told to stop feeling sorry for myself - but, I assure you, I will end this entry on a positive note (that is my hope, at least).

Now, where was I? Ah, yes: my roller coaster of self-gratifying and self-defeating cognition. I like to envision myself saving the world: me, walking the Earth, King James Bible in tow, engaging the cattle rancher in Alberta, the potato farmer in Prince Edward Island, the wine maker in Ontario, highlighting to them what the institution through whom they seek personal salvation obstructs from view; me, much like the Christ Jesus, marching into the Church and removing the blindfold from the collective eyes of the flock; me, helping restore their faith in themselves to know what is good and pure.

Sometimes, I can be full of myself, I know. Perhaps I do this in defense of my low self-opinion. Who am I to take on the world when I can't even talk to people? Who am I fooling with the rhetoric I use, but myself? Why should anyone listen to anything I have to say? First of all, I can't say it properly; second, what do I know about what happens in this world, or what needs to be done about it? Do I even deserve a place in this world if I'm no help to anyone?

I'll spare you more of my self-loathing and get to the point of my writing this piece, which is thus:

It dawned on me this evening - as it has so many times before, but seems to escape me - that this isn't about me, but about us. When trying to combat my negative self-construal, I grasp at reasons to make myself seem "special", and in the process, I tend to ignore the fact that we are all special, each and every one, to our friends, our neighbours, our siblings, our parents, our children. I realize I have work to do in the region of the world I was placed, as there are folks here who need my love and support; the same can be said for all of you. I realize no iconic figure will lead us to victory, but rather the collective power of the love in the hearts of the many, so why waste my time yearning to be the next Christ Jesus?

I hope I still feel this way tomorrow. I know I have to do what I can while I'm here, including facing the Devil within me whom I allow to impede my force of good, to keep me from being with God. I know we all face this struggle, and need a helping hand from time to time. Before you, I make this vow: so long as I have love in my heart, and I am loved, I shall summon the strength within this love to pull myself out of bed each morning and face the evil plaguing us, though I cannot guarantee I will not let it get the better of me. Should I succumb to the Devil within, please know I did not do so without a fight.

I bid you all good evening, and wish you peace.

p.s. When you have an hour to spare, please watch this film.

Photoblogging - Part III

Shades of the past?

We're all on the losing team, every one of us.

1983-2007

The sporting world is abuzz with word of the tragic death of one Sean Taylor, Free Safety for the Washington Redskins of the National Football League, shot dead in his home by an intruder. His number 21 can be seen on the helmet of every player in the league, in tribute to him. His teammates and coaches flew to Florida to be alongside his loved ones as they laid him to rest. His fans honoured his memory during their match on Sunday, carrying signs and placards, wearing replicas of his game jersey. Most importantly, his eighteen-month-old daughter will now grow up not knowing her father.

Lost in the fanfare are the thousands upon thousands of young men and women whose lives were cut short violently. There are no televised tributes to them; only footnotes in the newspaper. There will likely be no spotlight on the four youths involved in the death of Mr. Taylor, ranging in age from sixteen to twenty years old. Hell, they're still children. They are just as much victims as they are victimizers, but don't dare suggest this to a punitive-minded society. Had Sean Taylor not been fortunate enough to be selected to make his living in the National Football League - an opportunity granted to so few, despite so many who aim to get there - there would be no nation-wide sympathy for him, either; he would be just another Black face on our evening news broadcast passing through our collective conscious.

I don't mean to take anything away from this young man; I only wish to put it into perspective. Sean Taylor was a father, a partner, a son, a comrade, a friend. The nearly four thousand American soldiers killed in Iraq, they were also daughters and sons, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, friends. The nearly one million people killed in Iraq since the 2003 invasion and subsequent occupation, they were also daughters and sons, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, friends. The thousands of people murdered each year within America's borders, and scores of people who, neglected and abused, meet a premature end. Are these losses any less tragic because they were not famous? We're killing each other! This madness must stop! For us young adults, into what kind of world are we bringing our children? Must we repeat the same survival lessons because we cannot be bothered to change the conditions in which these dangers we face are fostered? How many people must we incarcerate until we figure out, for each one, three will take his place? How many more Sean Taylors, or Darrent Williams, or Jordan Manners, or Jane Crebas until we finally realize the solution we have tried for generations does not address the problem?

Or will we not sell enough newspapers without our martyrs? Or home security systems to keep the undesirables at bay? Or closed-circuit television and metal detectors for the high schools? Or guns and ammunition - or Guns and Ammo magazines - for that matter? I once came across a line used by a "conservative", calling the peace sign the "Footprint of the American Chicken", telling "liberals" to wake up to our "heavy-artillery reality". This gentleman (I presume this was written by a man) failed to realize the problems inherent in our "heavy-artillery reality", problems we "liberals" recognize and aim to eliminate by altering our reality, for, had it not been for this "heavy-artillery reality", Sean Taylor would still be with us, and his daughter would not have to learn, through her mother and his family and friends, who her father was.

This is for all who have lost a loved one before her/his time.