A society made up of individuals who were all capable of original thought would probably be unendurable.
H. L. Mencken


A good and kind soul recently directed me to dream analysis. I was forced to explain that. as a self defence mechanism, my brain wipes these dreams from my memories upon waking. Much better that way, let's me face the world without walking the streets screaming like a banshee.

Love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence.
H. L. Mencken

What is appropriate for New Year's, contemplating the past year or dreaming of the new year? I guess it depends if you're a ponderer or a dreamer. I guess I'm a dreamer, but my dreams tend to shift easily into nightmares.

The more easily 2005 is forgotten, the better I think we'll all be. The year started off with Abu Ghraib, and the rights abuses spread right to the US mainland. The magnitude of the dishonesty with which led to the invasion of Iraq is now so common that everyone has forgotten about WMD's.

Chalabi, the second man hailed by the US government as the saviour of the Iraqi people has been rejected. Apparently the man who has the administrator, hand picked by the Bush crew, hasn't even won enough seats to be a representative in the congress in the new, improved Iraq.

I'm betting in the next few months we'll see some changes to the rules to allow Chalabi to be in the government.

Looking forward to 2006 isn't much help either. However my disappointment I'm sure will shift from the White house and capitol hill to the Vox Populi. If people aren't already in the streets in protest, I'm not sure what will provoke them. Years ago in my youth I read Daniel Goldhagen's book "Hitler's Willing Executioners" and thought to myself that human psyche had evolved that we could never let that happen again. I'm afraid I was wrong. The circumstances are set for a repeat of massive human rights violations in the western world. We are prepared for the suspension of Habeas Corpus, unless the Padilla situation is resolved. We are prepared to accept executive decisions regarding suspension of constitutional rights. We are prepared to accept 24/7 sureveillance of our comings and goings.

A newspaper is a device for making the ignorant more ignorant and the crazy crazier.
H. L. Mencken

My mood is darkening these days. Perhaps it's the schedule of the weird, perhaps it's this insconsistent weather, maybe it's the brand of coffee I'm drinking, who is to tell?


Secure here in the bunker I'm contemplating what music to listen to, some cuban folk music might be appropriate, ah, there's the thing. Ibrahim Ferrer who left us only a few short months ago, leaving the world a darker place for his absence.

perhaps it's the stready stream of bad news on the civil liberties front, 2006 is going to be a watershed year, people can either start demanding accountability for these ongoing rights violations emanating from the halls of power, or we as a people can roll over and take it. Whatever happens, 2007 is going to be what we make of it.


Perhaps a vacation is in order, it's been almost two years since my last respite from the day to day drudgery.

Injustice is relatively easy to bear; what stings is justice.
H. L. Mencken


I guess I should have seen this coming. Lawyers for Padilla et al are now seeking to have their cases thrown out because of this illegal surveillance. Unfortunately this does not cheer me, rather it makes me think that the law will be changed.

Each week, little by little chips are falling away from whatever freedoms we have left. And once again by and large we remain silent on the matter.

I should have seen this coming from the muted reaction to the torture allegations out of Abu Ghraib earlier this year. Perhaps it's because people still, stupidly, believe that this is just happening to a few arab malcontents, I don't know how to break it to you Bucko, it's happening to more than just a few eyrabs, it's happening to organizations like PETA and apparently a native school up north.

What we have to be careful of, very careful, is that this chipping away will not stop until the whole structure collapses.

If these court cases are dismissed, blame will be put on the messengers, and the process it will not be placed in the lap of the people who committed, and those who ordered this illegal spying.

For crying out loud people, GET MAD.

It is inaccurate to say that I hate everything. I am strongly in favor of common sense, common honesty, and common decency. This makes me forever ineligible for public office.
H. L. Mencken

In the almost 30 years since FISA was passed, of the 19,000 warrant applications, only 4 (FOUR!) have been rejected. Yet the President of the United States found this court was too ponderous to bother with and illegaly ordered wiretaps of US citizens.

News like the above depresses me immensely. Especially when there is no protesting in the streets, no calls for immediate impeachment, no barricades set up in front of the White House demanding resignations. I'm not so much disappointed in Bush and crew as I am disappointed in the voters of the US for not standing up to this obscenity.

If he gets away with this, the door is opened to all sorts of abuse of civil rights. Rights are fragile things, once taken away it's almost impossible to regain them. It's nearly impossible to take away a right, but in the west we seem to be tripping over ourselves to hand them away.

Of ill omens

The past 4 and a half years have been peppered with pretty words and phrases of respect for the Islamic faith from the white house. To cynics like myself I always thought those words were empty, in the words of Sun Tzu, "hold your friends close and your enemies closer", as loath as I am to assume that any member of the white house reads chinese philosophy, it would that's what they were doing.

It's now become known that the US government was monitoring Mosques for increased radiation. They were also monitoring community centres, and business, all of which were on American soil. Once again, this was being done without a warrant.

The more I think about this, the more I think the timing of this revelation was not a coincidence. It's well known that if you want to bury a story, you bury it in the middle of a bigger story, or on the weekend. There is no bigger weekend than Christmas. By the time the Vox Populi go back to reading the newspapers this story will be so old that a new sexier story will have taken it's place, perhaps something involving Paris Hilton and Michael Jackson.

Shadow on the wall

The choir of the apocalypse is singing this morning, and I couldn't be more terrified. This season always fills me with unease, I'm isolated from society because I don't celebrate the yuletide. People continue to wish me a merry christmas, despite the fact that I don't celebrate the season. They mean well, and I don't intend to sound irritated but it happens anyway.

The growing civil rights violations in the states have me increasingly concerned, word comes now that mosques have been under increased monitoring for radiation levels. I'm not surprised that these things have happened, what concerns me is that it's become public knowledge, paired with the complete lack of indignation. Perhaps it's the season, and people don't want to get involve in politics at this time of year.

Where is the outrage, that's a question I seem to ask myself more and more with each passing year. Every year, bit by bit, the world is becoming increasingly like the roman empire, and year after year there is no indignation at the eroding liberties we've enjoyed. I never thought I would regard privacy as a liberty, but it becomes more difficult to maintain relationships with people that are not public knowledge.

I'm a private person, always have been. My back story is noone's business, my future story is another matter. All of my actions now and in the future are logged catalogued and referenced to profile me.

The War Prayer
by Mark Twain

It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory which stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which moved every listener. It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety's sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.

Sunday morning came -- next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams -- visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender! Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an organ burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation



*God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest! Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!*

Then came the "long" prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset; help them to crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory --

An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the preacher's side and stood there waiting. With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued with his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, "Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord our God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!"

The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside -- which the startled minister did -- and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said:

"I come from the Throne -- bearing a message from Almighty God!" The words smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. "He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such shall be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import -- that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of -- except he pause and think.

"God's servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two -- one uttered, the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him Who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this -- keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon a neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain upon your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse upon some neighbor's crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.

"You have heard your servant's prayer -- the uttered part of it. I am commissioned of God to put into words the other part of it -- that part which the pastor -- and also you in your hearts -- fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard these words: 'Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!' That is sufficient. the *whole* of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory--*must* follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!

"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle -- be Thou near them! With them -- in spirit -- we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it -- for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.

(*After a pause.*) "Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits!"

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.


Twain apparently dictated it around 1904-05; it was rejected by his publisher, and was found after his death among his unpublished manuscripts. It was first published in 1923 in Albert Bigelow Paine's anthology, Europe and Elsewhere.

The story is in response to a particular war, namely the Philippine-American War of 1899-1902, which Twain opposed. See Jim Zwick's page "Mark Twain on the Philippines" for more of Twain's writings on the subject.

Transcribed by Steven Orso (snorso@facstaff.wisc.edu)

The strange mind of the visionary

The season of yule is nearly upon us. 3 more days until the x-mas season, and I couldn't be more terrified.

Hideous storms are upon us, this isn't a nice, pleasant rain, this is some kind of weird, destructive washing of the earth. This is a good night for contemplating what the norse called "ragnarok".

As the schedule of the weird continues to take it's toll on my increasingly fragile constitution my dreams are becoming weirder and weirder. If you dear reader, think what I write on this journal is disturbing, you should share the images that wake me up screaming.

Last night was a combination of cocaine, clowns, and high speed cars. There were screaming senior citizens, and flames licking out everywhere. I'm not one for Jungian analysis of my dreams, but surely this can't be a good sign.

my ghost likes to travel

The schedule of the weird is taking it's toll on my delicate psyche. The simplest of things have become complicated, for instance, when should I open the drapes?

Turning on CNN this morning, the footage is dominated by a plane having landing gear problems in Boston. When the live footage shows the plane, safely but awkwardly landing you could hear the disappointment in the voice of the anchor, she wanted a crash or at least some flames. A telling comment through the narrative, she said that erratic plane landing are to television news in the twenty first century, what car chases were in the nineties.

of bullots and ballots

The twisting in the moral wind going on in the United States is becoming more and more complicated with each passing day.

There is now a lot of finger pointing going on directed at past Democrats who have signed similiar orders. Of particular interest is Jamie Gorelick, Deputy Attorney General, who said in 1994 that the President "has inherent authority to conduct warrantless searches for foreign intelligence purposes."

The ethical dance that is going on is making me believe more and more that it's going to be revealed soon that a few of these wiretaps are going to be revealed as politically motivated.

For the longest time, many people have thought of me as paranoid, and perhaps they were right. As time passes, I'm finding myself more and more, not paranoid, but justifiably cautious.

I think we may be seeing the end of the era of fear, either that, or we're at the beginning of something new, something even more frightening than before. Once the polls come in, if Americans decide that they don't mind illegal wiretaps in the interest of "security" we may find ourselves irrevocably on a path to the dark side that can't be detoured.

The Red Light Flashed Beware!

Watching Bush performing his linguistic gymnastics last night brought to mind Churchill last night, if only in his dissimiliarity to the great orator. Churchill, the great union buster of yore, in one of the most powerful speeches of the twentieth century, reminded people that they shall "fight on the beaches...". As a child of parents who survived the blitz I learned from an early age just how important those motivating words were to my parents, and to the people of England during those dark days.

Last nights speech was a pale shadow of that great speech. He reminded more of a used car salesman pleading with a customer to "trust him" than he was of a wartime leader trying to rally to the cause.

Yet it was right to remove Saddam Hussein from power. He was given an ultimatum, and he made his choice for war. And the result of that war was to rid the world of a murderous dictator who menaced his people, invaded his neighbors, and declared America to be his enemy.

He declared America to be his enemy because due to a blockade which prevented medecine from being imported into his country, food from being imported, hell even ambulances were prevented from being shipped, over a quarter million Iraqi children died between 1992 and 2003.

September 11th, 2001 required us to take every emerging threat to our country seriously, and it shattered the illusion that terrorists attack us only after we provoke them. On that day, we were not in Iraq, we were not in Afghanistan, but the terrorists attacked us anyway -- and killed nearly 3,000 men, women, and children in our own country.

I repeat something I said yesterday, Saddam Hussein was the first Arab leader to condemn the attacks on 9/11, issuing his condemnation before the third plane hit the pentagon. It's irony that Bush uses the word illusion in this passage. It was Bush/Cheney et al who created, through parsed sentences and dodgy wordsmithing, the illusion that Iraq was involved in 9/11.

We are approaching a New Year, and there are certain things all Americans can expect to see. We will see more sacrifice -- from our military, their families, and the Iraqi people.

Of all the gaul, asking the iraqi people to sacrifice more. Over the past 33 months the US has killed between 30,000 and 100,000 thousand Iraqis.

I know that some of my decisions have led to terrible loss -- and not one of those decisions has been taken lightly. I know this war is controversial -- yet being your president requires doing what I believe is right and accepting the consequences.

He talks about accepting the consequences, but he doesn't say how. Will he resign if the casualties increase? Will he send his own daughters over there? How will he accept the consequences? Will he surrender himself to the world court to stand trial for war crimes?

I don't think a president of the US has been as masterful at squandering good will as the current one has. At every step after 9/11, he has betrayed sentiments of support from allies and opponents alike. In the weeks after 9/11 almost every country in the world had expressed support for the United States (little know fun fact, what was the first Arab country to denounce the attacks on the WTC? Iraq)

In recent days, Bush has managed to alienate even his most ardent supporters, with the revelations that the NSA has been spying on American citizens. This doesn't come as a surprise to me, given my background, what does come as a surprise, is that he's now admitted it.

he's managed to spin it, so the people who made the revelations are the bad guys, but the libertarians in the US are now questioning if Bush is the right man for the job.

The next few days and weeks are going to be interesting. If the people who have backed Bush previously, now cave in Bush could be in serious trouble. This would be judicial hijacking, the star chamber created in the seventies to approve domestic wiretaps has been neutered. If only one case of politically motivated surveillance is hinted at, it will be the end of this whole administration. I'm not sure how indepth this investigation will go, but the possibility of corruption, under the guise of national security will erode and moral authority the bushites have claim to.

The goblins between my ears have been working overtime, which means I'm a nervous wreck. The coffee is especially strong this morning which on a taste level I'm enjoying, it means however that I'm even more jittery than normal.

Riots have broken out in Australia as well. These ones are driven by louts who feel compelled to push their racist yobbo views on everyone. As any regular reader of this column will attest, I have about as much patience for racism, as a kitten has for italian opera.

Bigorty seems to be one of these irrational things that people will try desperately to rationalize, like greed. It's also something that is taught. For every yahoo running around in Australia right now throwing a brick or bottle there should be two very ashamed parents.

Watching the leader's debate last night on television didn't make me feel much better about the world. Watching Stephen Harper twist in the wind, again trying to justify his homophobia I wanted to reach through the television screen to smack him. Having parliament twist and coil last spring over the issue of same sex marriage marriage was enough, he's pinched a page from the quebec seperatists and announced that another vote will be held. It's not democracy to keep having votes until you get the result you want. Admit it Stephen, you lost the vote and same sex marriage is here to stay. Society has evolved and you've been left behind.

It's not often that you meet people who not only admit their eccentric, but thrive on their eccentricity. When I do meet such people I like to keep close ties to them. These are the people who are the most honest. Conformity is easy but also dishonest. Downplaying one's own personality in order to gain acceptance from one's peers is sadly , very common and also remarkably dishonest. I've never tried to fit in, I've got my own thing going, people can either accept it or walk away. When I do meet people who embrace the things that make them different, I know I've met someone who is being honest with themselves and others.

The sun has burst through the interminable fog finally, two days of sun, casting light on the devastation below. Sequestered here in the bunker, I'm able to survey what has gone on. Venturing outside is a possibility, the name sake of this journal has been calling to me. I haven't "strolled the lagoon" in ages, weeks perhaps.

The lagoon itself is a strange and perhaps fitting paradox for this journal. It is one of the most beautiful sites in Vancouver. It's also the location of a sexual predator who in the past 18 months has attacked several women. How did something that was designed, and cultivated for beauty, by the actions of one man become a destination for fear?

The guys got disco on the radio

Some disturbing news from the bunker this morning. The drapes opened and there were visions of chaos breaking from both directions. From the west came dump trucks carrying large amounts of building materials. From the east came the gibbering of several lunatics. One man was singing the Hallejuiah chorus while he moved his belongings in a shopping cart. This duality of the holy with the wretched was far too much to bear before the coffee was finished, the drapes were immediately pulled shut.

The schedule of the weird has continued this week and I'm still not sure which way is up and down. The damnable fog keeps appearing and disappearing, you know things are bad when the weather is taunting you.

As the feeds burn this morning the news is dominated by the news of balloting in Iraq. CNN has managed to round up a whole bunch of people in Baghdad who are pleased that the US has invaded. One has to wonder how truly representative these vox populi are. I'm not sure I'd be eager to welcome people who had by their own admission killed at least 30,000 people. Lancet magazine puts the estimate at almost 100,000.

I believe our moment our civilisation died was the instant we intellectualized brutality. I'm not exactly at what point that happened but it will be recorded in history along with the moment Nero fiddled while Rome burned, not an actual historical moment but an allegory.

In the news, over conference tables, and in meetings in houses of parliament across the western world we have intellectualized torture, and brutality. Our leaders have discussed allowing planes to refuel on our territory that we know carry people on their way to be tortured.

Countries in Eastern Europe, basking in their new "freedoms" gained only in the last 15 years have allowed dark prisons to be built that carry out this torture.

A few short years ago, the idea of western governments using torture to conduct foreign policy would have been ridiculous. However it's happening now, and the outrage is muted. Where is the debate in the coffee shops, where is the marching in the streets?

so what the hell is a stick anyway?

The fog is back, and my mood has darkened with it's return. Peering out the window last night I could swear I could hear the baying of wolves just across the street. Then again, my imagination has always been a bit on the overactive side.

The twisting in my brain has taken a very disturbing turn of late. Perhaps it's all the talk of torture on the 6:00 newshour. It's tough enjoying my noodles when the talk emanating from the television revolves around testicular eloctrocution. These are strange days we live in. The debate in the realpolitik has desecended to the merits of torture. At this very moment, two people are talking about the merits and drawbacks of torture over a non fat cappucino.

Where is the outrage these days? Have we resigned ourselves to giving in to the darkside completely, in order to protect ourselves?

Years ago, in conversation after the towers came crashing down, when the mood was "send the troops" I mentioned to someone that I had a horrible feeling we were on the wrong side of history this time. That feeling is reinforced every time I open a newspaper.

I knew things were going wrong when my childhood memories had to answer to stockholders. The disney company, which owns the rights to Winnie the Pooh, have decided to tinker with story. Christopher Robin has been given his walking papers, replaced by a "tomboyish six year old girl".

I'm not sure the idea of of Winnie the Pooh hanging out with a peppermint pattie wannabe is a good idea. Having plumbed the depths of hollywood creativity, knowing how Hollywood loves stereotypes, it's only a matter of time before this new bastardized creation devolves into a three stooges rip off with this new unnamed tomboy character smacking Tigger.

As anyone who has known me for more than ten minutes will attest, I'm not one for getting weepy about childhood memories. However, I'm starting to get a little irritated with the ongoing revision of historical stories. I keep hearing rumours that Beatrix Potter is going to be "updated and modernized".

To Hollywood, I say this "leave my memories alone you bastards".

Days like this...

Been spending the morning watching Donald Rumsfeld do a linguistic limbo around the issue of torture. While Condoleeza Rice is toodling around Europe saying "we absolutely do not torture". The White house is seeking an exemption from the rules against torture for the CIA. Rumsfeld for reasons that baffle me, seems to be the point man for the press on this issue.

Cornering him in a hallway, the press was badgering the man. Rumsfeld is a man who does not like it when he's not in control of the situation. Watching him duck and weave the reporters was not unlike watching a drunk man fight with an imaginary goose.

I am secure

My apologies, a weird schedule of late has thrown your dear authour's schedule akimbo. Day is night, night is day, and the damn fog is back.

I'm hearing about airplanes sliding off the runway this evening, when did mass transit become a thrill ride?

Stories like that make me feel more comfortable huddled here in the bunker. Short of an asteroid crashing in on the building, I'm reasonably safe here. As long the emergency kit is well stocked, I'm secure.

It's been a day of funeral music here in the bunker, not sure why, the day started with Requiem, I then moved on to Wagner. Sometimes a day of dirges and funeral marches is what I need to get motivated.

Days off were brief this week, but I think that's due to the schedule of the weird that I'm currently working. Only one real day off, one 24 hour period of no work.

Some pain, some shame

Been thinking about man's inhumanity today. As the US dwells on whether to execute a man in California, there are calls to publicly beat a man who has moved in only a few blocks away from the bunker.

When do we learn compassion? Is it as a child and the lesson is forgotten when reaching adulthood? Is it something we're taught as an ideal, but not practicable? Everyone knows that greed is bad, yet it's the very engine that drives our economy and culture.

So, having said that, is cruelty what drives our justice system? I speak in a western "we" including most of Europe, North and South America. We spend little to no effort rehabilitating people. We're more concerned with incarceration and punishment.

I can see for miles

A time change here in the bunker, I'm working the overnight shift tonight, starting at 11:15. I don't think I've pulled an allnighter in almost 12 years. There is one thing that's certain, I'm going to need new shoes, I've had extraordinary leg pain for the past two days, which I'm blaming on poor cobbling. One cannot possibly focus on anything but the fear when one is in extraordinary pain.

A tad angry this morning, so The Who is playing on the music box. I'm not sure why I'm angry. Perhaps, it's the headlines. Iran is apparently of the verge of nuclear weapons. Maybe it's the photographs of planes used to transport people to US torture centres refueling at canadian airports. Maybe it's the suddenly empty apartment after having a visitor for a week.

There's an old Public Image Limited song, Rise, in which the chorus repeats over and over on top of a violent guitar chord "anger is an energy". I need to harness this anger in a positive direction. Get something done. Perhaps it's the right time, there's an election going on, and I'm in a conundrum who to vote for, this is the first federal election since '93 that I'm not working on anyone's campaign. It's not because I wasn't approached, it's because I'm so very tired these days.

I'm in that weird phase before an awakening, before the spiritual coffee kicks in, to steal a line from my introduction.

Nietzche once said the only cause worth fighting for is a lost cause, all others are merely effects.

my years of social involvement have tended to follow those lines, I've always found it, at the same time, frustrating and satisfying to get involved with the lost cause, rather than jumping on the bandwagon. East Timor, in the nineties, same sex rights in the eighties. These both seem like givens now, but not always. It was hard for the longest time to even get people to be interested in what hemisphere East Timor was in. Same sex rights, for young teenager, and then a serviceman in the canadian armed forces was a recipe for a beating.

Why do I bring this up now? I'm in the process of trying to find my latest passion. A place to devote my energies. My problem? There is so much injustice in the world right now, the whole damn thing seems like a lost cause. The homeless situation in Vancouver is probably the one that calls to me the most. It's a problem that's socially awkward. It's one that people have been trying to deal with for centuries, I haven't seen any original thinking on this issue, in well over 100 years. The right's solution, find these lazy yobboes jobs. The left's solution, throw money at the problem. Neither solution is the right one.

So, this leaves me. What is the right solution, on what side do I throw my energies?
Wherein lies my passion? This will be the pondering over the new year's season. Come January a cause, unknown to me at this point will be unveiled in a moment of clarity.

The Wind Lyrics (Cat Stevens)




Cat Stevens - The Wind Lyrics

I listen to the wind
To the wind of my soul
Where I�ll end up well I think,
Only God really knows
I�ve sat upon the setting sun
But never, never never never
I never wanted water once
No, never, never, never

I listen to my words but
They fall far below
I let my music take me where
My heart wants to go
I swam upon the devil�s lake
But never, never never never
I�ll never make the same mistake
No, never, never, never

my agony is your triumph

Things are eerily calm in the bunker, the awaited snowstorm never happened. Listening to Bowie on the music box this morning I'm having a moment of clarity, emotional clarity. They don't come often, but when they do there is a calm that washes over me much like the feeling you get when you figure out a murder mystery.

The unfortunate part of this is that this emotional clarity requires me to cut myself off from some people I've only recently made the acquaintance of. In my past I've had the misfortune of being involved with a person who was quite cruel to me. I vowed at the end of that relationships not to allow myself to be put in that position again.

So before things get carried away, or I make any sort of emotional investment I'm walking away now. Relationships are said to be risks, maybe I'm gun shy, who knows, but I'm not getting burned again.

The past 31/2 years have been extremely therapeutic for me, having spent most of my twenties and early thirties involved in relationships, I've been enjoying a certain emotional solitude. I've truly discovered my own voice in the past 3 years, a voice which has been quiet since my teens. Recent events, difficult as they may have been have helped me to achieve the state of emotional "zen" I'm at right now.

There are aspects of my personality which are quite unpleasant, in order to enjoy a relationship I must submerge those aspects of myself, for the convenience of my partner. However submerging those aspects kill a part of me. For a long time I've had to "play dumb" in order to not be intimidating. This is what I've been told anyway, well fuck that. I like Haydn, I like ragtime music, I like the poems of TS eliot, I can read Dante, and enjoy him. I read Chomsky, Aristotle and Plato and take away things from it. I like the films of Wim Wenders. That being said, I also like batman, I hate sports, most pop music, and I don't watch sitcoms. I enjoy watching the legislature, and I spend hours a day reading foreign newspapers. This is who I am, my days of putting those things under wraps are over.

there are two kinds of limbo, a good one, and one that requires liquor

I have in the bowels of the music collection a variety of albums of novelty music. One of my favourites is "The Twist with Ray Anthony and his bookends" put out in 1956. You cannot have a bad day when you're playing the Bunny Hop Twist.

However, I've discovered that some people don't appreciate the twist before they've had their coffee. In fact I have someone glaring at me right now who feels that my pre-dawn taste in music is not only annoying, but downright disturbing.

My attempts to explain myself are falling on deaf ears. The music has changed to Grieg, Now that's depressing music, best for funerals and moments of deep contemplation when good feelings will be a distraction.

Excitable boy they all said

An uneasy calm in the bunker this morning. The coffee is brewing, the cigarettes are on fire but things seem to be on the verge of....something.

Spending the day wandering around the city on foot yesterday, today heading over to the island for the day I'm reconnecting with the city I call home. This often happens when showing the place to people who are visiting. Especially when one is visiting from a place that is notoriously flat.

An evening spent drinking fine scotch, and smoking cigars from forbidden countries, talking about the world, and generally all global problems were solved with increasing ease as the liquor took more and more effect.

Normally dressing is an easy process for me, jeans and t-shirts, however when one is travelling with a companion of the opposite sex, even one who carries a pistol to work on a daily basis, suddenly all of my choices come into question. I've been made aware in the past ten minutes of the horror of wearing white socks in December, who knew, apparently everyone except me.

hypnotizin' boogie

The spinning and twisting has started early this year, the always hilarious, christmas tree, holiday tree debate has begun in earnest. Every year at this time, I become even more irritable than my natural state. Every year I try to avoid the christian rituals, and every year I'm told that Christmas isn't about Christianity anymore, oh yes it is. By December 26 I'm so tired of having Christianity shoved down my throat, I'm ready to throttle the infant jesus in his swaddling clothes.

Woke up this morning in the throes of an unpleasant nightmare, a rare thing for me, my life is a waking nightmare, so it's rare that my subconcsious can come up with anything that can surprise me.


The ungodly fog has given way to an unpleasant damp. This is the problem with November in Vancouver, it's a remarkably unpleasant month. By the time December rolls around I'm ready to start making out with a pistol, playing Puccini and draping myself in silk.

However, like clockwork the first of december rolls around and everything turns out to be allright. This years physical exertion orgasm will take place around mid january. The ice climbing extravaganza was cancelled last year, due to...you guessed it....fog.


A spot of classic rock on the music box this morning, nostalgia overcame and I put on the travelling wilburys. Something about the dark mystic weather this morning required Roy Orbison's voice, a man taken from us much too young.

The week has an optimistic air, an old friend arrives into the vicinity today. Someone I haven't seen in a few years. She's been a good friend, however she continues to attempt to draw me back into a lifestyle I left years ago, a life of high pay, adventure, and a complete moral vacuum.

RUN!

Well, we have an election due on January 23. Watching the political dance last night on the news I have to wonder what the results will be. My prediction, I'll predict seats as we get closer, is the Liberals with a slim majority, the NDP picking up 5-6 seats, the bloc remaining the same, and the Tories the big losers losing a big chunk of seats. Harper will resign shortly afterwards.

The tories have set this up to be a particularily nasty campaign, which I think will leave a bad taste in a lot of people mouths, especially over the holiday season. As we approach the holiday season, more and more people will be questioning the timing of this collapse.

I said it before, I'll say it again, Harper should have waited until February. When Gomery II comes out mid february, Harper would have had an election victory handed to him. Having spent his capitol now, he's going to lose, and when Gomery II does come out, the collective public reaction will be "meh".

The first snow of the season last night, it was a freaking winter wonderland I tell you. Vancouver always reacts badly to snow and last night was no exception. Walking the streets at midnight, I witnessed 3 near collisions. People were fleeing the downtown core as if giant lizards were attacking. Maybe they were, I haven't read the local news yet. These days, nothing surprises me.

I've had the honour of knowing several people in uniform over the years, and the picture above must surely make them nauseous. Having sent over 2000 young men and women to an early demise, for blatantly false reasons, continuing to deceive, then for all intents and purposes accusing those who would question him of treason, the sight of this man in a uniform must surely cause intestinal distress.

Almost all wars in human history have started for political purposes, back to the siege of Troy. However, I don't recall reading about a war that from start to finish has had the reek of politics that this war has. It started because it was a winnable war against an old foe, who continued to thumb his nose at the US. It's ending in a civil war with a puppet government being established that denies large sections of the population representation.

This war, this new Mikado government will lead to strife, violence, bloodshed, tears for decades to come. Western empires, since 1918 have divvied up the middle east, much the way a parent establishes ground rules for children. After awhile, resentment builds up which leads to an explosion of rebellion.

Your faithful scribe is once again in the grip of the fear. I wish I could look backwards or forwards for solace, but both directions in time contain horrible, horrible things. A friend recently had a baby, while discussing the best time to meet this baby, I've come to the conclusion that any introduction to me should also contain the words "this is Chris, things aren't nearly as bad as he says", they are, however the weak and the innocent shouldn't be exposed to the hideousness of the truth.

The truth is not like a sore with a bandage to be removed, one swift pull can lead to a damaging shock that will lead to insanity and meaningless gibbering. I'm always torn when I see those jabbering weirdos wandering the streets, as to whether they are actually suffering a mental ailment, or perhaps they've read one too many newspapers and the truth became evident to them.

Reading the news the past few days, one can't help but wonder if the divinities are wreaking vengeance on the "land of the free". Hurricanes and tropical storms so common that they've run out of names, Andrew Card, Bush's right hand (brain?) is caught in a plane mishap. The locked door at the press conference, the seemingly endless pile of indictments that are crushing the white house staff.

A rare glimpse of the sun this morning, the bunker is bathed in a warm, almost soothing glow, ordinarily this would make someone feel good, it makes me feel uneasy.

The second night of the weekly sports orgasm is tonight, and things are going from bad to worse. I met a grown man who goes by the name of "Smitty" the other day, and the unfortunate thing is, he seemed proud of himself.

Been contemplating Poe lately, the weather of earlier in the week was ideal for a re-read of "the raven". What sort of mind creates the horror that lives with us a hundred years later. Shelley's was drug induced so it doesn't count. What sort of horrors lurked in the brain of Poe. Was it overwhelming guilt, was it a social dysfunction?

I don't wonder about the modern masters of horror, Craven, DePalma, Carpenter, their motivation is money. However Poe didn't make any money, his thoughts of horror were strictly personal confessions.

THE VALLEY OF UNREST
by Edgar Allan Poe
1831

Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sunlight lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless-
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye-
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave:–from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:–from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.

THE END

The fog has finally lifted, and the grim task of calculating the aftermath can begin. Being able to finally see the horizon clearly is a relief. However, sometimes having one's vision impaired means you can't see the danger coming. That's how I'm feeling today.

Watching the newsfeeds burn this morning, one story grabs my eye. Paul Hellyer, who was minister of defence under Trudeau, has called for a committee to be struck that would examine how the canadian government would deal with extraterrestrials should they land. He also believes that extraterrestrials have already arrived, and are among us. As if I didn't have enough to worry about already, now you're throwing aliens in the mix. And people wonder why I'm tired all the time.

A disrupted day off today, I loathe staggered days off, I never quite relax as much as I should. The reality is, I need the two days off in a row to properly decompress, otherwise my agitation doesn't fade properly. The weekly sports orgasm is taking place in town on Sunday which means the neighbourhood will be filled with overweight, middle aged men reliving their past glories as obnoxious bachelors. Not realizing that paunches, grey hair, and wrinkles are not that attractive they will attempt to slap and tickle their way into any bed they can find. Alas, no women are safe.

swept away

The ungodly fog is in it's sixth day, and it's starting to drive me just a little bit bonkers. Children are disappearing in the mouths of dogs, I can hear the screams of the damned just over the horizon. I keep waiting for a ship to appear on dry land with a cursed crew beckoning me on board.

Sitting at the windows of the bunker, cigarettes on fire, I keep looking to the distance for some hope, but there is none. The forecast calls for rain later in the day, perhaps that will be the break that is needed.

The weekend promises to be a bad one, a grand excuse for drinkers and testosterone freaks from around the country to converge at one location to participate in some grand homoerotic bonding ritual that involves, too much alcohol, bodily injury, random yelling, misogynist and racist comments. Scanning the papers yesterday, a celebrity guest invited will be something called the booze Brothers, a tribute to a fake musical act, in which one of the members dies of a drug overdose.

The weekend will end with another display of testosterone, this time in Ottawa, where Stephen Harper has promised to bring down the government. I've noticed something about Harper. He does better in the polls when noone sees him. Once out on the hustings the man's astonishing lack of charisma becomes apparent. Combine that with hateful ideas, and he appeals neither to those looking to the superficial, or to those with an intellectual depth beyond that of the kiddie pool.

Harper's an intelligent man, but with a complete absence of any charisma. He may have been effective as a strategist, or perhaps writing manifestos. As a leader, he's out of his league. Setting up this Yuletide election he's wasting the political capitol that will come from Gomery II in February. By the time the second Gomery report comes out, Martin will have won two elections since the initial revelations, he will have no choice but to quit as leader.

well kiss me today, and slap me yesterday!

The fog has lifted slightly, oh so slightly. I can see across the street, but not down the block. I'm convinced that when it does lift the chaos will be unveiled. I'm not sure what the implications, if any, of this malevolent cloud cover are but it can't be good.

Listening to a little Muddy Waters on the music box this morning, he's setting a suitably gloomy mood for day 5 of this evil weather which has permeated the city.

A day off today, not sure what I'm going to do with myself, I'm still contemplating the floor, and wondering when I should be cleaning it. The floor in the bunker is quite badly damaged from years of abuse, and restoring it will be a task that will test my soul. I'm not good with power tools, I tend to go, well, a little nuts. This job will require many hours with powerful sanders, I foresee things going badly, bloody knuckles and wild laughter from behind safety goggles.

In travelling through the recent posts on this blog, it's apparent to me how much of a difference having an inspiration can make. The academic stuff is strict interpretation, however anything creative is dull, lifeless. For that, I apologize faithful readers. Disjointed efforts abound in recent weeks, a lack of focus.

When one has a muse, that inspiration should be kept to one's self, I've learned. Having a muse that does not want to be a muse, and requests to be released from that obligation, I had no option but to respect that request. Societal pressures and social graces, require that a person not wanting to be the object of ones affection should have their wishes respected.

However, in respecting the muse, I have lost that creative spark, it will return dear readers, hopefully soon. In past years, I've found replacements for an anthromorphic muse, an idea, a cause. As my quest for that replacement carries on, I fear for you dear readers that this journal will be a dull journey much like the photo above.

It occurs as I proof read this that perhaps this reads as a guilt trip, it's not, it's merely an internal observation. One of my failings as a person, I'm entirely too honest about my affections, about my emotions. Emotional outbursts are far too rare for me, and when they occur, I feel it necessary to share them. However, I must be conscious of the fact that the emotional peak I'm experiencing is not shared, and perhaps makes the object of my affections uncomfortable. In an age where one third to one half of the women in north america are victims of stalking at one point in their lives, I must be aware that unwanted affections, while well intentioned may be perceived as a threat, especially by those with unfortunate histories.

Stepping back, while difficult, is necessary. It's sometimes difficult to convince someone that you have the best of intentions. One can hope that with time, perhaps amends can be made. To my muse, should she ever read this, I'm sorry for ever making you uncomfortable, that was the last thing I wanted to do, my lack of respect for your feelings and considerations was cruel on my part. Should you ever choose to talk to me again, and I hope you do, I understand that will be on your initiative, not mine.

I'd rather have a full bottle in front of me, than a full frontal lobotomy

Day 4 of this sinister fog. Not sure when it's going to end, last night, sitting in the bunker, I saw dogs with glowing red eyes running off into the wilderness carrying screaming children in their teeth. Things are definitely awry.

It's interesting living in an emotional vacuum, life is neither highs nor lows but a constant level passing. Some people describe their lives as a roller coaster, I think mine is more like the log plume. Things go along quietly, admiring the trees and the animatronic Elk, then Whammo, crashing to earth in a splash, accompanied by screams of terror.

Listening to Mancini on the music box this morning, feel like I should be wearing the fedora and trench coat, or perhaps a smoking jacket. Things are cool here in the bunker, despite the eerie weather outside. Fog is a useful weapon in armed combat, if one has the knowledge of the terrain, a sneak attack can be launched wiping out an opponent. One wonders if that's what we're in for.

Seeking counsel from the weather wizards provides no consolation, this pall is supposed to last to tomorrow afternoon. There are rumours of a sun making it's appearance. I'm not sure I'll be able to deal with the sun this week. I'm running behind on movies to see, my newly purchased copies of sunset boulevard, and Mr. Smith goes to washington are sitting on the shelf. Capra, although a maudlin interepreter of the world was a brilliant emotional puppet player, his films suck you in. Billy Wilder on the other hand, was a brutal man, with all the emotional subtlety of a jackhammer. When one needs a laugh, some like it hot fits the bill.

I can't remember the last time I laughed out loud in a genuine surprised fashion, I've smirked, giggled, and grinned, but out loud laugh, that's been awhile.

Give me a ship, and a star to sail her by

This fog is getting creepy, third day in a row. Perhaps it was too much Poe in my youth, perhaps it's just my natural uneasiness, but when I can't see across the street, I get a little weirded out. Even the birds are quiet in this fog.

Thinking further about the US as the new Roman Empire, I'm pondering the hilarious escapades of GWB at the press conference yesterday. Watching him trying to bolt from the conference only to have a run in with a locked door aside from being hilarious on a Jerry Lewis level was telling, the man doesn't like to be made uncomfortable, much like royalty of the past, he pays lip service to being a servant of the people, but when it gets awkward, it's time to leave.

One of the flaws with the US system, there's no legally mandated accountability, should a US president choose, he does not have to answer any question he doesn't want to, from anyone. If a president chooses not to have a press conference, there's no press conference. Short of a summons to appear before the house, which would be unlikely with a house controlled by the same party as the president, it's conceivable that in my lifetime we will have an invisible president in the white house. Once elected, barricading himself in the White House never to be seen.

There's a time only truth buys
In the early small hours of the morning
When you brushed the sleep from my eyes
And told me stories
Electricity
The day scrapes the sidewalk
Sugar turns to salt
Talk is cheap
A half-remembered glance from a dirty window
I want to take a little walk
In the cool night air and see
Which way the wind blows

There's another side to the city
A life within a life unknown
Like blood in the veins of a body it flows
Down the alley nobody knows
Checkpoint charlie
Eyes from a garbage can
Reveal the man
Is on his toes
I want to take a little walk
In the cool night air and see
Which way the wind blows

I want to take a little walk
In the cool night air and see
Which way the wind blows

She gives a sky feeling to the night
Waiting 'til you weaken for a moment
She'll buy the diamonds
If you'll buy the pearls
For the moment
Electricity
The night lights a candle
Love turns to fire
I want to take a little walk
In the cool night air and see
Which way the wind blows

There's another time to the city
A time within a time undone
You can untie a knot
You can break a deal
You can sell what you bought
A cut will heal
A bone will mend
A road will bend
Street light blinding
Headlight shining
Take a little walk
In the cool night air and see
Which way the wind blows

(c) 1987

coming up from the slime

FOG

THE fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Carl Sandburg


Giving some more thought to the differences between progressives and conservatives,is the difference in thinking on the creation of the universe. Progressives, for the most part, believe in the evolution theory of creation, conservatives, for the most part believe in the new euphemism, intelligent design.

One of the biggest ironies of all this, on both sides, is that the each side in this arguement, is actually working to undermine their own theory. Conservatives, believing in intelligent design, are actually working on the principle of the strongest of the fittest, that an economic cycle will protect those best able to protect themselves. They don't believe in social assistance, and tend to believe in capital punishment. Progressives on the other hand, advocates of evolutionary thinking tend to want to undermine that evolution, helping animals that are nearly extinct, and believing in a compassionate bycle of economics.

Thinking about this before the sun comes up makes me need a nap already.

I've been giving some thought to why the progressive movement has failed to capture the minds of the population of the United States. Most of the western world has embraced the progressive movement. Looking at the gay rights movement in the past 15 years, it would have been absurd to think that gay marriage would be a common thing in my lifetime. In 1988, a member of parliament observed that half of all women were abused by their spouses or common law partners, she was responded with laughter by the other members of the house. Recycling was something hippies did.

Even pre 9/11 the United States was slow in embracing progressive thought, look at the way the word Liberal is used as an insult. I can understand the shift post 9/11, war makes everyone paranoid. The United States is rapidly becoming this island of backward thinking compared to the rest of the west. The inherent contradiction in this, is that the US thinks of itself as the exporter of ideas.

There's a sinister fog rolling into the city this morning, I'm not sure but I think I can hear dogs howling in the distance. This doesn't bode well on voting day. I'm leery of the results tonight, not sure how they'll go. Sullivan's an unpleasant man, and I'm not sure Green has what it takes to be mayor. A lot of wonderful pie in the eye ideas, but no practical discussion of how to implement them. Coming back to my point about the failure of the progressive movement, this is why the movement, while making progress seems to stall, they're very good at undoing stuff, that's easy, but not so good at implementing new policies.

As good a day as they get yesterday. Was provoked into giving some thought into what we are, as a species yesterday. We have, essentially 3 instincts, one is to survive, that's a wide on that includes eating, shelter etc. The second is to procreate, with men, it's to create as diverse a gene pool as possible, the third is to protect the offspring. Everything else we do is a product of evolution, and a result of societal change. Stripped down though, that's what we are.

So essentially, who we are before we become parents is who we want to be, and after birth, we become who we really are. It's a common occurence for young people in their twenties to go on voyages of self discovery, commonly to Europe. Sadly these voyages "to find the real me" are not the real person, but rather, the ideal person, the person they want to be.

Parenthood strips that away however, and we find a lot of what determines our personality, is genetics, we discover that we're more like our parents than we want to admit.

Health issues are wearing on your faithful scribe this morning. Two blackouts in the past 26 hours. My hope is they will stop.

Perhaps it's my brain telling me to stop working. An absence of passion in my life has thrust me for the past week into a world devoid of emotion, Mankind is designed to be a balance of left and right brain thinking, and I've been solely devoted to the right brain for the past while. Careful to evade any emotional provocation due to my fragile state, I appear to be suffering a form of withdrawal. I guess as with any case of withdrawal, I'll eventually get over it. Hopefully life will be better afterwards. I'm not optimistic however.

Thinking a lot about right and left brain thinking the past few days. Been listening to Glenn Gould the past few evenings, a socially awkward man, nearly to the point of autism, who played piano like an angel sent to earth with a heavy overcoat and gloves. His right and left brain were competely seperate from each other. Sometimes I envy that. It would have made my life a lot easier if my hemispheres could act independent of each other instead of having to interact, would have made me a much better writer.

The past couples of weeks have been an emotional detox for me. Like any addict, the detox I'm sure will be appreciated once the agony is over, right now it sucks, and I didn't want it to happen in the first place. If I start proselityzing someone come to the bunker and shoot me in the forehead.

There was a disturbance in the calm last night at the bunker. There were rumours of snow. The temperature has dropped substantially in the past few days, and in my delicate state I'm inclined to believe just about anything. I moved back to Vancouver nearly 4 1/2 years ago to get away from snow.

Alas waking up this morning those rumours of apocalypse turned out to be false. Anyone who has been through a first snowfall in Vancouver will understand why I felt the need to dust off and oil the rifles. This city panics, freaks out, goes bonkers, wigs out, goes crazy. As Canadians we do not do our reputations any favours. Having grown up in Ottawa I'm used to snow, I don't like it but I'm used to it.

A recovering cokehead has been elected to be the leader of the PQ, this can't be a good thing. Parizeau, the last leader who led the PQ through a referendum, let alcohol cloud his judgement which led to the infamous "money and the ethnic vote" line, which I felt was useful in portraying the inherent racism of the sovereignty movement.

Personally and socially, things are shaky. I'm in a state of calm right now, nothing terribly good, nothing terribly bad going on. I have a feeling that could change at any moment, and not for the better. Listening to "Bitches Brew" last night on the music box, combined with an apocalyptic weather forecast, led to tremendous sense of unease as I pondered the bowl of oranges on the counter. There's an almost subliminal which made things very eerie last night after work. Pondering the apocalypse, combined with Jazz/Rock fusion does not make for an easy nights sleep.

when the going gets weird, the weird get violent

Had lunch yesterday with a friend who is off to Australia this morning for 6 weeks. We got into a discussion of film making. I was reminded of a scene from Terry Gilliam's "The Fisher King". Robin Williams plays a homeless man with psychological problems, he has a crush of Amanda Plummer's character. The scene I have in mind, she walks in to Grand Central Station, the instant she crosses the threshold, all the people in the station, start dancing, glitter balls lower from the ceiling, and the entire building for the few moments it takes Amanda Plummer to walk across the mezzanine, becomes a magical, wonderful place. I love that scene, to me, that's what filmmaking is about, bringing magic to the world, even if it's just for a few seconds.

I'm uneasy this morning, I have a crawling across my scene, which I'm assuming is foreboding of something awful about to happen. Then again, I may just have allergies. We're on the verge of one of the most confusing election calls I've ever participated in. Not entirely certain what the opposition is up to, because it's a plan that's certain to backfire. History has shown us that rural canadians do not like to vote in the winter, especially around Christmas. The right, which has it's traditional base in rural Canada appears to be ready to force an non confidence motion. Urban Canadians, tending to skew Liberal and New Democrat, will most certainly be the one voting in higher percentages, leaving a battered and wounded opposition. Gomery II will come out in February, and the opposition will have no political capitol with it. Harper's being petulant, and in 7 weeks he'll be paying a price.

It's not a certain thing whether I'll be working in this election or not. I don't believe I will, AW seems to be disenchanted with the process which I don't flaw him for. The crazed loons in the suburbs are not a particular appealing voter bloc to me.

Strange Times in Vancouver

John Cale's spinning on the music box this AM, distracting me...can't concentrate.



Strange Times In Casablanca

Strange times in Casablanca when people pull down their shades
And its easy enough for us to look at each other and wonder why
We were to blame
Blame comes remorselessly transfixed
Like the sound of slamming doors
And doors have doors have doors have doors have doors
Like companions have pets they sleep in each other's mattresses
Like maggots in despair
And bleed in each other's nests and make a mess of each other's snares
Strange times in Casablanca
Strange times
They make some striking couples
They make some frustration of the call
And only those who are satisfied by friendship would even pay
Attention to it all
It comes like mail or telegrams
It comes expectant as a widow in heat as a widow in the searing heat
And that contentment of depression that delivers most of the time
But cannot help the styling of the horns in the shape of gargoyle
Broken prints savage fingers
Undertaken catamaran
Strange times in Casablanca
We've turned our back on it once before
And we can hear from across the waters what damage it will cause us
And you can smash once more
And they can smash once more
But I don't think anybody wants to smash anymore

Things are going badly in the bunker this morning, the paper was delivered, wet. The first attempt at doing the crossword puzzle ended in expletives. I feel there's nothing to do, but wait until the coffee finishes and just stare out the window.

Back to work yesterday after a 3 day holiday. Going back to work after an absence, even a short one of 3 days, can be a disturbing experience, shocking to the inner psyche. Things are no different to your correspondent.

Apparently the riots in France have started again. I've started receiving word that the events that led to the initial rioting were indeed not as straightforward as the french Gendarmes would have had us believe.

In fact, it now appears that indeed what the youth have been saying all along about these kids being chased onto a construction site, may have been a more accurate description. A video is circulating, a description of which was read to your faithful scribe, describes eyewitness testimony from adults, and other uninterested parties verifying the youth's story.

As I get older my cynicsm towards official accounts becomes more pronounced. This is the opposite of most people, who tend to, as they get older, become more trusting of official accounts, and less trusting of youth.

I'm grateful for one fact, the riots appear to be contained to Europe. I'm not sure how I would react if they moved here, if I would participate, close the curtains to the bunker and peer out the window, or run and hide, carrying a large flashlight, and a sidearm.

Zip a dee doo dah, zip a dee day

Went for a long walk in the rain last night. Whenever I've needed to clear my head of distractions, or put things into perspective, I've gone for a walk in the rain. First, there are very few people out, second those that are, tend to be moving very fast. In a warped way it's like moving in slow motion. If one is prepared with the proper gear, one can do it without risking of getting cold and wet. I spent most of yesterday in the rain. The first part of the day standing motionless, the second part walking around the namesake of this online journal.

November 12, traditionally has been a day of taking stock for me. I go through a lot of emotions on November 11, and November 12, they suddenly all shut down, and I'm left with the lingering effects of those emotions. So I usually wake up on this day, and go through a checklist of things I have to do, or take care of.

This year is no different. I've spent the past few months, as you know dear readers, shedding myself of certain friends, who have not truly been friends. That's a process that will continue. I've also got to start bringing back some people I may have inadvertantly pushed away with my honesty. Sometimes, too much honesty may be a bad thing. I have an ability to compartmentalize things in my life, and I don't realize that not everyone has that ability.

Came across some recordings the other day of some soldiers who fought in the battle Khe Sanh. It's always tough to listen to these recordings, most histories that I read are recorded by professionals who sanitize and look at the big picture. Isolating an historic event into it's individual experiences turns a grand event into in an small personal tragedy or victory.

I remember reading a book years ago about a man during world war II of Japanese ancestry who served with an American unit in Italy. This man had to put up with constant abuse and insults from his fellow soldiers. At one point, during an offensive he was preparing to throw a grenade, when a piece of shrapnel severed the arm with which he was holding the grenade. To save his fellow soldiers in the 1 or 2 seconds he had to spare, with his remaining arm, he picked up the severed arm holding the grenade with the pin removed and threw that piece of himself at the enemy. These are the stories that make up war. A historian describing that battle, would probably not mention that story. It would be a strategic study of troop movements, with a chart beside a map listing casualties.

Lou Reed's spinning on the music box this morning, I've always loved Lou, the epitome of cool. The renegade poet appeals to this tortured soul.

November 11, 1918

My muse has been absent for a week from my life, every day is like a screwdriver through my heart.

Today is November 11, 87 years ago today one of the most gruesome, brutal wars ended. It's amazing to think about how much this war has changed the face of modern warfare, the first use of planes, the first use of chemical weapons, the first time civilians were targetted by military forces.

It was called the "war to end all wars". I only wish that had been true. We are still sending our youngest to die on foreign soil. In recent years we've expanded that to include more and more women. I'm not sure that's progress. We live in a social structure that says that allowing women to be just as brutalized as men is progressive.

This is a tough day for me, it's a day when we contemplate our inhumanity. Events the past few years have revitalized slightly interest in this day, I guess that's a good thing. More and more children are contemplating what this day means.

This day provokes a lot of emotions for me. On a personal level, I'm reminded of sacrifice, I'm reminded of things that I should never have seen. Things I wish I had never seen. Last week I was on a bent about racism. I have seen where bigotry leads, it leads to babies being torn apart with farm instruments. It leads to pregnant women having their womb cut out with a shovel. It leads to men and women having their bodies hacked apart and cannibalized. That's the ultimate end of hate. People who make innocent jokes, or harmless steretypes to me are taking that first step down a very dark road. You can dislike someone because of an idea or choice, that's a whole different arguement, and to be honest oppression of freedom of speech does not generate the same visceral level of hatred. If you hate someone for what they are, their sex, their sexuality, their race, you hate them at their core.

When you talk to me, don't ever start a sentence, "I'm not a racist, but...." because you are.

In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Istanbul was Constantinople

A completely unproductive day yesterday. It was one of those days that started out with grandiose schemes, but fell apart as the day went on. I'm sitting here this morning contemplating the rain, with a heavy heart. The hue of grey in the air this morning seems particularily heavy, this does not bode well for tomorrow.

A professional colleague of several years was injured in Jordan yesterday, just received the e-mail from his wife. I'm not sure how to process this information quite yet. I'm also not quite sure of the extent of his injuries.

Rememberance day is tomorrow, this is always an agonizing day for me. The only day on the christian calendar that provokes any sort of emotional reaction. I go through a lot of emotions on November 11. Pride seems into my heart as I see the men in their uniforms and I remember their sacrifice, but then anger and disappointment as every year the crowds diminish slightly more. This anger then turns to frustration, when I realize that the nature of conflict now is to minimize the effects of the damage on our society. Aside from one group of smuggled photographs we haven't seen the flag draped coffins coming back from the war in the gulf. If we aren't allowed to confront the tragedy of war, how can we commemorate it, and deal with it.

War is a nasty piece of work. People losing arms, internal organs, eyes, being burned, that's not pretty, it doesn't happen with a wilhelm scream and someone falling to the side, pining for little suzie at home. It's gruesome, ugly, and sad, the more people realize that, the more the sacrifices of young men and women in the past will be realized.

In an attempt to keep my mood up until tomorrow, the nutty boys are spinning on the music box this morning, Ska always cheers me up, gets the feet tapping.

Blue canary in the alley by the lightswitch

I'm thumbing through the King James translation of the New Testament this morning, the theme song to the Mary Tyler Moore show is stuck in my head, it's been there for a couple of day, and that surely has to be one of the signs of the apocalypse.

Jerry Harrison and the casual gods are spinning on the music box this morning, trying to drive that accursed theme song out of my head.

Thinking a lot about the news this morning, Trying to digest what's going on in the civic elections south of the border, a democrat turned republican wins in a landslide and the republicans see it as a resounding victory, a robot turned politician has been delivered a massive slap to the face by the voters.

France appears to be mellowing, thank heavens, and a news story that seems destined to become an adult film in a matter of minutes, two cheerleaders were arrested for having sex in a bathroom.

I'm pondering a massive pile of books this AM and wondering if I'm ever going to get them organized into any sense that will be useful.

Cleaning is always best with Scott Joplin I've found, his rags are timeless bippity bop music.

The gremlins that toil within my imagination have been at work again. I've been thinking a lot about what's going on in France. Watching the blinking box yesterday, the American news felt it more important to mention that 4700 cars had been burned than to mention that an elderly woman had been tackled to the ground and lit afire.

I'm not sure about you loyal readers, but I would be more upset if Nana were turned into a marshmallow roast than if my sedan were damaged. Then again, as many have pointed out, I'm a little odd.

Jack Layton cut the strings yesterday, laying the groundwork for an election. The conservatives have an interesting predicament. Their poll numbers go up, when their leader is invisible. During the past summer's BBQ circuit, Stephen Harper looked so uncomfortable, so out of place, that people reacted in a completely natural way, they ran screaming for the exits. However, in the house, the spotlight is diffused and shared with others, and people breathe a bit easier. If indeed we do have a yuletide visit to the polls, the Liberals will win, and win a majority government. What that means for Harper, I'm not sure, but by Victoria day (memorial day, my American friends), we'll have a new Tory leader.

I've changed the download times for the feeds to midnight, it was too damaging to my shaky constitution to watch them come in during the coffee intake. I'm not sure if waking up and having the wires already in place is necessarily going to help my psyche, but, it's like taking a swim in a chilly pool, best to jump right in and go into shock immediately than doing it in increments.

Keeping a close eye on the weather wizard these days, I'm looking forward to apparently standing in the rain for hours on end on Friday. Ordinarily I like the rain, but I have to insist on moving around. Standing awkwardly, in uncomfortable clothes while the rain drips off the tip of my nose is not going to be good for my constitution.

Groceries

I'm certainly not doing anything to help my unease these days with my choice of reading material. I'm reading a biography of John Wilkes Booth, the man who nearly 150 years ago assasinated Abraham Lincoln. The book is an examination of how an "ordinary" sensitive man of the arts could snap and commit an act of horrific violence.

One of the differences in Canadian and American history, we have almost no violence in our history, with the exception of D'arcy McGee, whose assasination most historians agree was probably a mistaken identity, or Pierre Laporte, assasinated during the October crisis, we have almost no violent outbursts in domestic history. I feel it necessary to put a caveat there before I start getting e-mails about Sun Peaks, Kahnestake, and the Winnipeg riots. We have no violence in our history directed at politicians.

Turning my thoughts outward again, the bunker is bathed in sunlight this morning, a pleasant change from the gloom of the past few weeks. Looking at the weather wizard, it seems destined not to last through the day however. How does the old saw go, "red skies at morning, sailors take warning"?

Stealing a page from Rumpole of the Bailey my thoughts are with my muse. I'm in a weird state where my muse is untouchable to me. While frustrating, it's allowing me to meditate on certain emotions that I haven't been able to meditate on for awhile. My thoughts are usually so logical, rigid, and devoid of emotion that I've become comfortable with that line of thinking. Every so often, someone enters my life who rips open a door that releases a flood of emotions that my perspective on almost everything changes. Politics, art, society, history (general and personal) are seen through a different prism. It's necessary to change the prism through which we see the world, otherwise our interpretations become rigid, and inflexible.

It's far too easy to see the news feeds as mere facts cycling through a machine to be displayed in grey and white on a monitor. Once that emotional door has been opened, and the prism changes the view, it suddenly becomes quite a bit different. The heart, normally covered with a crusty shell, suddenly starts pounding, shaking off the remnants of that shell, again becoming flesh and sinew. Ordinarily my heart is something in the grocery store, wrapped in plastic, prompting no emotional reaction whatsoever. However, laid bare on a slaughterhouse floor, it becomes a sad reminder of a wasted life.