Imagine a nightmare from which you could not awaken...

For each of the last three years, I have commemorated the anniversary of the attacks on America's World Trade Center and Pentagon with my thoughts on the day itself and what has happened since. Each year, I ponder the horror experienced by the passengers and crew of those ill-fated commercial aircraft as they counted down the minutes to their end; or that of the workers who awoke one sunny Tuesday morning and migrated to their offices in those towers in their customary manner, only to find themselves either fleeing an inferno by leaping to their deaths, or praying to whatever deity they wished to pray before the floor collapsed beneath their feet, sending them hurtling downward with tonnes upon tonnes of debris. I ponder the horror experienced by those passers-by, running frantically through the streets of lower Manhattan as those two colossal columns - like the arms of a god plunging its fists into the vast blue sky - came crashing to the earth; or that of the loved ones and other citizens listening through their television sets or radios, wondering if their particular friends or family are still alive, wondering what will happen next. I remember, also, the attacks coming to an end, which brings us to another dubious anniversary.

Imagine yourself in New York or Washington, D. C. on that fateful day in 2001, or in Oklahoma City in the spring of 1995, or in Bali in 2002, or Madrid in 2004, or London in 2005, or in any other nightmarish situation you wish to fathom. Now, imagine this nightmare continuing every day for five years, and you will know what it means to live in Iraq in 2008. Every day, for five years, its citizens have awoke to war, have carried out their daily duties in war, have fallen asleep to the sounds and sights and smells of war. Every day, for five years, those lucky enough to see today have seen death, heard death, smelled death, tasted death, felt death, wondering if their time was looming. Every day, we have been told by the invaders - or, as they prefer, "liberators" - that this perpetual state of chaos is for their benefit; that it is necessary to cleanse the world of evil-doers; that anything less will lend credence to these evil-doers who seek to plunge the planet into everlasting peril.

Every day, for five years, the citizens of this nation have experienced a peril the likes of which you and I will likely never see. As we take our loved ones for granted, they wonder whether they will ever see theirs again. As we complain about the cost of our fuel, they wonder how many hours they will spend in line today for just a few drops. As we complain, they struggle to survive. As we watch the sanitized accounts from our correspondents before switching the channel to more comfortable programming, they continue to struggle amidst the chaos.

On this, the anniversary of the day our bombs began destroying their lives, we continue to go about our lives, as laboratory rats in this monstrous maze, while our overlords make off like bandits at the expense of the well-being and dignity of the people we were supposed to be "liberating". It is we who are in need of liberation: from the lies, from the empty promises, from the clutches of our slave masters, who feed us such sound bytes as "the surge is working" and "support our troops". For whom is this "surge" working? How do we throw our support behind these men and women in uniform? By sending them off to kill and die? This was has victimized more than the million-or-so dead Iraqi people; more than the millions who have been displaced, who are grieving: it has victimized the men and women - mostly children, younger than me - who have been lost forever, who are forced to take the lives of their sisters and brothers overseas; it has victimized the families and friends of these individuals, who, if unlucky, will neither see these smiling faces again nor hold their warm bodies near, or, if lucky, will not see the same person they witnessed leaving for duty; it has victimized good, honest, caring people who, like loyal citizens, have rallied to the flag without any thought towards the connotations affixed to such an act. In short, it has victimized us all.

Upon completion of this piece, I will, most likely, fetch myself a snack from the kitchen cupboard, then resume my studies before catching the train downtown and onward to my meditation session, during which time, I will proceed to evict my inner worries through my breath and be eternally grateful for the situation in which I reside. Sounds charming, does it not? It is. As I write this, I wonder how I dare feel gratitude to the divine for the favourable hand I've been dealt while so many of my sisters and brothers suffer. This situation, though I happened to be born into it, is not the result of chance, of some "divine will", for if such were the case, there would be no hope for us at all. I can accept what has been, and what is, but I cannot succumb to the notion that this must be, for doing so would be akin to plunging a dagger through my beating heart. I do not want to have to resort to such an act; I'm not willing to surrender just yet. I am hopeful, faithful reader, you feel the same way.

The question is, what do we do? How do we stop this madness that has us all in its death grip? How do we reach an entire nation of people and break them free of their shackles: of worry, of self-doubt, of apathy, of mass consumption and the heavy hand of misinformation? Slowly, but surely, our words may reach them, but as these wheels turn, more people kill and more people die. Whether or not we are aware, the blood that spills is on our hands. Lady MacBeth could not ignore it forever, nor, try as she might, could she wash it away; neither will we. So long as we turn a blind eye to the raping, pillaging and plundering of the home of our neigbour, we are forever culpable. Our ignorance will not save us; shall we stand around, shrugging our shoulders, waiting for our prison warden to tell us why, when that great shit pipe through which all our worries are transported from our collective consciousness finally gives way, spewing our long-forgotten mess into our own backyard?

I had hoped to conclude on a more positive note before becoming side-tracked with talk of bursting shit pipes. I had hoped to instill, small as it might seem, a glimmer of hope. I believe are masters to be correct when they declare this war in the name of "freedom", though I doubt they had any idea their rhetoric would one day be turned against them. We are all at "war", not against those who send us off to kill one another and reap the material rewards, but against the evil feasting on their souls; we seek "freedom" from said evil. This war of ours cannot, must not, and will not be fought with bayonets and bullets, but rather with wisdom, compassion, sincerity, truth and love. The slave masters are but slaves themselves, forever bound by their desire for a larger kingdom, but, I ask, what good is a castle that is empty?

These people speak of "freedom", yet they, themselves, are not free, nor will they ever be, so long as they continue to chase that which is finite. They speak of "God", yet will forever trod the path to nowhere, so long as they trod the path to the finite, for "God" is infinite, "God" is life, "God" is love. They speak of "redemption", yet their souls will forever be lost, so long as they contine this pursuit. How happy are you to be King while in constant worry over your Kingdom? How happy are you to be King while in constant worry over who may wish to usurp your throne? Is your throne worth all the misery, all the bloodshed wrought by your hands? Will your throne be awaiting you tomorrow?

A most dubious anniversary this is indeed. Here's to the hope that we need not commemorate a sixth.

The Patron Saint of PAR-TAY!

Today is St. Patrick's Day, and I awake feeling uneasy. For the past week, I've seen advertisements laden with leprechauns, shamrocks and pots of gold coins; and heard the rumble of my peers as they laid out their plans for imbibing. I can't say I'm up on the story of St. Patrick, so I cannot begin with a history lesson; all I can do is deliver my history lesson, one leading me to wonder what many of us are led to believe about the Irish.

I awoke to the sound of my brother's alarm clock, set to blast the sound of "shock jocks" and "new rock" at seven o'clock each morning. Today, this particular morning show broadcasted live from the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Dublin, Ireland. They had on their show, as their guest, one of the heads of the Jamieson distillery, purveyors of whiskey, and inquired as to how the company manages to create such exceptional spirits. 'Twas all well and good, this lesson on concocting a renowned beverage. Perhaps I wasn't paying attention to the entire broadcast as it found its way from my brother's radio through the air vent into my primary auditory cortex, but all I recall hearing were tales of drunkenness, with not so much as lip service to why we commemorate St. Patrick on this day.

I don't recall receiving any sort of history lesson in school beyond the legend of St. Patrick ridding the island of snakes. (Personally, I think snakes get a bum rap; they're no different from any other animal aiming to defend itself from a perceived threat.) All I remember is being instructed to wear green clothing, swallow pints of green lager, and affix a button to my shirt that reads "Fuck me, I'm Irish!" I must now ask: am I looking too much into this, or is there something dwelling beneath the surface of St. Patrick's Day? Why are many of my peers making plans to get trashed on a Monday evening? Because it's the "Irish" thing to do?

Why not spend some time reading a bit of the story of St. Patrick instead? Perhaps it'll act as fodder for the inebriated banter we will exchange with our comrades this evening. (I'm one to talk: I'll probably end up glossing over the entry put forth by our friends at Wikipedia.) To me, it seems we've been conditioned to respond to the coming of the seventeenth of March by salivating over alcohol or donning green-coloured threads. (The Protestants of Ireland prefer orange - does this mean they make no claims to St. Patrick? If the Catholic Pope decides who is canonized, it makes sense.) I suppose, so long as we consume and consume and leave no time for thought, everything will be fine, and that I should simply keep my fool mouth shut over this. All I know is, I don't suppose this Patrick became a saint by drinking his friends under the table, nor did anyone else receiving canonization, so what's up with the drinking?

What do we think of the Irish, anyway? Why does the addition of spirits make a cup of coffee "Irish"? Why do we celebrate this day by drinking ourselves into a stupor? Has this day become yet another excuse to intoxicate ourselves with excess? Do we want to know what it means to be Irish, or are we content to run our green, booze-soaked paint rollers over this group of people? I hope my assertions are off the mark, for it means this day means more, to us non-Irish folk, than going to the pub. I know I can't generalize this to everyone, but, given the advertising and attitudes to which I've come in contact in advance of today, and our tendency to lump all "others" into convenient categories, there seems to exist a collective view of Irish folk as silly-looking, funny-talking drunkards, an image fostered by alcohol merchants in a ploy to persuade us into buying more of their product.

I don't know how much truth there is to what I've just said, so I will open the floor to any and all comers who wish to correct me.

Here's to being alive.

Earlier today, I thought to say "Fuck you!" to my studies, for I was in the mood to write. I'm glad I did. Sorry, Textbook; I'll have time to read you before the final exam, but you just don't invigorate me like a piece of literature or a session at the keyboard does. I must thank you, Textbook, for assigning nomenclature to the various psychological phenomena piquing my interest these past few months and years, but there is much I'd rather be doing than absorbing your contents in an effort to validate my existence. I realize now I'll never measure up to any career choice I make, nor will I ever excel at amassing capital, so why should I expect a life in empirical research to be any different? Besides, why waste away studying how society breaks us down psychologically, when I would much rather combat it?

Here's to being alive.

For our mothers, daughters, sisters, friends...

One hundred years ago, on this very day, 15,000 women took to the streets of New York City to demand better working conditions, the anniversary of which then came to be known as "International Women's Day". I must say, this day is bittersweet, as it is a shame women still need to march to be treated as human beings, though at the same time encouraging to see the sheer will and determination of people, women and men alike, to see an end to oppression of all forms.

I wish I could provide a more insightful piece, but alas, I do not know what it means to live life as a female of the species, so I hope you will forgive my inadvertently ignorant statements, should you happen to notice any - I am hopeful you will also bring them to my attention. All I can do is share my experience - as a boy, then a man - in relation to women.

I suppose the best place to begin is at my point of entry into this world twenty-eight years ago, almost to the day: after carrying me in her womb for nine months and providing me nourishment and comfort, she endured countless hours of grueling labour to grant me life on my own. Since that time, she supplied me the nourishment, shelter and compassion I required. She stood by as I stood on my feet for the first time. She worked herself to the bone to ensure my siblings and I were properly fed and had everything we needed. She washed our clothes, kept our home and acted as our chauffeur, all the while holding job after job after job. Only in my adult years did I begin to appreciate the sacrifices she made for her family, nearly being driven mad in the process (here, I nearly wrote "nearly driving herself mad" before quickly recanting, for it was not she who facilitated this "near-madness", but those of us around her). I am eternally grateful for all my mother has done; I marched today, in part, for her.

As a boy, I primarily hung around other boys, and quickly learned how our female counterparts were viewed. Talk of "Boy, what I would give to fuck so-and-so" and "That stupid bitch/hoe" and "Stop being such a pussy!" hung in the air like mustard gas: one could not help being intoxicated by them, and intoxicated I was, frequently spending Saturday nights watching pornography and denigrating women with my male chums. In an effort to try to "be one of the boys", I succumbed to this chicanery. Perhaps that's why I was so afraid to approach girls in my youth: my male comrades had instilled in me the notion that women were things to fuck, and should be approached accordingly. Only in my adult years do I see the error in my ways. If only I didn't allow myself to fall into that trap... but then how do these boys construe women in this manner? Hormones? Media portrayal? "Wisdom" from the elder males? Competition amongst one another over who gets "the prize"? All of the above, and more? I marched today, in part, for the men I know who consume pornography, who frequent the strip clubs, who are bombarded by advertisements featuring scantily-clad women of "ideal" proportion, each of whom capable of violence - physical, psychological, sexual - towards women, myself included.

As for the day's events, I was thoroughly moved by the speeches and performances at the rally, and by the dedication of the attendees, who marched through the snowy, blustery, bitterly cold streets of downtown Toronto this Saturday afternoon. Of course, the Trotskyist Leagues (all sixty of them) were out in full force; I asked representatives of two of them why there are so many, and why they allow political and philosophical differences to drive wedges between them, and how they expect a revolution to happen if each believes it is right and the rest wrong. During the course of the day, I couldn't help but ponder, after so many years immersed in "masculinity", how much easier I feel I can relate to women: my dearest friend is a woman, and I am more comfortable relating to my mother than my father.

The march concluded with a fair, which included an information session, workshop, and live music: the time for rubbing of elbows was now at hand, meaning time for me to take my leave. I wanted to stay and chat with people, but I have a hard time doing so. I couldn't help feeling alone and let down; did I really belong here? Perhaps because I felt such a high at the rally and during the march, I allowed myself to feel this way. No matter, though; I'm glad I made the effort to show my support for the women in the world: for my mother; for my sister; for my aunts and cousins; for my friends; for the workers and caregivers, mothers and daughters, sisters and friends, who continue to live under patriarchal rule, who yearn for the day when they can finally stand on equal footing with their male counterparts, when we men finally view them as they ought to be viewed: as human beings.

The strength of Man has been lauded since time immemorial, though it pales in comparison to the strength of Woman, for all She has endured.

2008/03/09: As promised, I have included some photographs I snapped yesterday, for your viewing pleasure. I apologize to those whose names have escaped my fragile, marijuana-plagued memory.


These ladies referred to themselves as the Singing Grannies. They were a treat to watch.


These ladies chronicled the timeline of historic events, beginning with the march of 8 March 1908.


These ladies performed a beautiful rendition of Bread and Roses.


What's a march without a rhythm?


The citizens take to the streets.










Some live music to cap off the festivities.